Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room where he stays is colorful and warm. A rushed nursery, put together out of nowhere from a hospital room at the Triskelion where Natalia usually operates, but full of everything a small child could need: toys, a cushioned carpet on the floor with a racetrack design, and many animal drawings on the walls. Despite all the stimulation, Pyotr doesn’t seem to care much, preferring to play with his Superman plush toy and sometimes look out the window. He really loves looking out the window.

He is a quiet child, despite everything, and the nurses adore him. He never complains when the doctors check him, nor does he cry or get restless. He simply stays calm and smiles, showing off all his pearly baby teeth when they praise him for being a good boy.

To everyone’s surprise, he seems to understand quite well what’s happening around him, despite not being able to speak or babble. He doesn’t walk either (which is concerning for a child his age); he only crawls a bit when he wants to get somewhere (usually the window) and naturally raises his arms to be picked up whenever he sees a familiar face.

Phil Coulson is the one who found him a couple of months ago: a three-year-old baby locked in a cement room at a dismantled Hydra base. It was Clint Barton’s idea to make the little nursery while they figure out what to do with Pyotr. So, they take care of him, fill him with stimulation and affection, and feed him until he reaches a healthy weight. In the process, they also grow attached to him.

Then they run a DNA test, and things get incredibly complicated.

"Hasn't she moved yet?" Phil asks softly, his hands sweaty and a slight twitch in his leg as he finds Clint standing protectively in front of the nursery door, arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the small window in the door.

Clint simply presses his lips together and shakes his head. He had to cross his arms to keep his hand from hovering over the doorknob. It also took a significant part of his SHIELD training to stop himself from going in, hugging Natalia, and taking her to safety, miles away from this place, to a family farm where people who cared about her would be waiting. Or not even that—just getting her out of that room might be enough!

But the thing is...

She had made so much progress over the past year and a half. Finally, after her defection and those terrible months in Budapest (months that would haunt Clint for years), Natalia had been getting better. She had even earned her SHIELD agent license and started going on missions at the same level as Clint, and she was also the best aunt for his child that he could have ever imagined.

Really. From the moment he was sent to hunt her down until now, it had been a long journey. And now this, whatever it was (good or bad), was a step in a completely uncertain direction (whether it was the right one or not, Clint still didn’t know).

Natalia Romanova is sitting on the soft nursery floor of Pyotr’s room, her back pressed against the wall and her knees drawn to her chest as she stares at the only child in the SHIELD base. Pyotr, for his part, sits innocently a few meters away from her, playing with his favorite stuffed toy and sometimes looking out the window, completely unaware of the wreck of a woman in front of him.

Neither speaks, and Pyotr doesn’t seem to care about her presence or her distressed, fixed gaze. Their green and brown eyes meet from time to time, of course, and Natalia shudders in her own skin every time it happens. Pyotr’s childish features make her want to cry, searching (and sometimes finding) the similarities that bind them together, beyond blood and tragedy.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova had been abandoned by her parents at almost the same age Pyotr is now. He, on the other hand, was even younger and more unprepared. It's partly why Natalia is afraid to ask and hasn’t done so. However, she knows (and imagines, though she also desperately hopes to be wrong) that Pyotr must be covered in scars under his clothes. She wonders if any of them match hers, if they experimented on him as they did on her. Then she wonders what they were after, what their goal was: Why did they have to create a baby and use him in such an inhumane way? And why was she used too?

Why did they have to use her (her body, her soul) and her child?

Natalia sighs shakily, resting her chin on her knees. Pyotr seems to finally find her interesting at that precise moment because he gurgles and then crawls on his chubby hands and knees toward her.

Natalia freezes, her breath stuck in her throat, and a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her fragile chest. God, it only took a small child approaching her, and now the Black Widow is a mess. She can almost hear Madame B’s disappointed growl behind her, and that only makes her shudder more as the child finally sits a few centimeters away.

Pyotr giggles a little—he must find something funny, the little rascal—because then he reaches out with wide-eyed wonder.

Natalia breathes a little easier as she recognizes what she thinks caught his attention. After all, Cooper liked her hair too. Even Coop always tugged on it with his sticky baby fingers, and Natalia let him every time. Finding some familiarity in the boy’s actions, Natalia leaned in slowly and cautiously, letting some of her red, wavy strands fall in front of Pyotr.

The boy laughed even more, delighted, clutching a few strands between his fingers and then pulling hard.

"Yes, yes, it’s red," Natalia murmured, half amused and completely terrified, grimacing at Pyotr’s laughter and tugs. "My hair is red. Do you like it?"

Pyotr just let out a childish squeal. Natalia took that as a yes. Then, slowly, she took his tiny hand and gently made him release her hair. Once she was free, she studied Pyotr’s brown eyes and his wavy brown hair. His small nose, chubby cheeks, and adorable ears. Then she looked at his hands, small but larger than Natalia would like. Then his little feet, his legs, and the Lion King shirt they had gotten him.

Her son was three years old.

God, her son.

She had a son.

A little boy who laughs and loves to watch the sunlight stream through the window. A boy who was stolen from her, a boy she never knew existed until now: A boy who was taken from her, robbing her of the chance to carry him in her womb, care for him for nine months, and cradle him in her arms when he took his first breath. A wonderful, completely amazing child that she could barely look in the eyes without bursting into tears or feeling her heart shatter on the spot.

Natalia sighed, stroking Pyotr’s soft knuckles (she hadn’t even been able to name him or give him her last name yet).

Then he smiled, too innocent despite everything.

"How have they not taken your heart, Malen'koye solnyshko?" Natalia whispered, genuinely astonished and heartbroken.

Then she reached out, tucking one of the boy’s curls behind his ear. At least he had inherited that from her: wavy hair.

Chapter Text

"The bomb is in position. We have one minute to deactivate it and save the civilians trapped inside," Clint announced into his earpiece, sweating nervously, his back pressed against the wall as he watched the bomb in the middle of the room. "Think you can do it, Agent?" Clint asked in his most serious voice to the child in his arms, who, as if understanding, raised both hands to press them against the man’s face.

Clint chuckled, taking it as a yes before running toward the center of the room where the toy truck they were supposed to save was, along with a pillow simulating the bomb. Pyotr quickly got on his knees when Clint put him on the floor, crawling toward the pillow before grabbing his Superman plush and starting to hit the pillow with it. The man laughed behind him, causing the child to pause and look at him curiously while also laughing.

"You're right, bud," Clint chuckled, squatting before wiping a small tear from his eye. "This was a job for Superman!"

Pyotr just laughed and threw the plush at the man, causing Clint to gasp dramatically. "Traitor, we’re on the same team!"

Pyotr laughed harder, losing his balance and falling backward. Smiling affectionately, Clint quickly helped him sit up again, watching as Pyotr immediately got distracted and started crawling toward another toy. After a lot of hard work over the past few months, the boy had finally started using all the toys at his disposal, not just one. Sure, he still looked out the window whenever he could, and Superman was definitely his favorite, but progress was still progress.

Natalia watched silently from the other side of the room, her legs crossed and her back against the wall. It had been a week since they did Pyotr’s DNA test. A whole week since Natalia found out she had a son. A week since she started coming to the daycare every day, just to watch Pyotr play.

When Clint was sure Pyotr was entertained enough to play on his own, he slowly walked over to his friend, sitting next to her and bumping her shoulder as he did. Neither of them said anything for a moment, just watching the child move around the room, letting out small screams and babbles.

"You're good with him," Natalia finally commented, her hands restless and her gaze slightly glassy.

Clint looked at her in surprise. Then, smiling softly, he said, "Well, I’ve got a little one at home. Of course I’ve got experience."

Natalia nodded, though both knew something deeper was troubling her. Clint didn’t push, always knowing how to listen and learn from silence as much as from conversation. Natalia appreciated that about him as much as everything else. So, in silence, but with the sound of Pyotr’s gurgles in the background, Natalia slowly allowed herself to lean her head on Clint’s shoulder.

It had been a tiring week; she wasn’t sleeping well anymore (too many nightmares, too many memories) and didn’t know what to do with herself every time she was in the same room as her son. Not that she knew what to do before, but now it was more complicated, especially because the extension of her essence, her beating and bleeding heart, was outside her body, out of her chest. Pyotr, despite not being born of her and only seeming to share her genes, felt like a nerve torn from her, now crawling free outside her ribs.

And Natalia was simply afraid of what that meant.

If her heart was out there, and Pyotr held it in his baby fingers, how could she protect him (protect herself)? After all...

"I can’t even look him in the eyes," she admitted in a low voice.

Clint didn’t respond, just wrapped his arm around Natalia’s shoulders and pulled her closer. Pyotr, on the other side of the room, kept playing, laughing and babbling, indifferent to his mother’s torment.

"Baby steps, Natalia," Clint whispered against her hair. "Baby steps."

It was probably an hour later, or maybe just a few minutes, when the daycare door opened with a soft click. Pyotr, who had been staring out the window with great concentration, suddenly turned with curious eyes before starting to shout and wiggle, trying to get the attention of the figure who had entered.

Maria Hill froze at the sight of Pyotr’s excitement for her, and then at her two agents watching her curiously. Natalia, probably a week ago, would’ve laughed softly at the sheer discomfort Fury’s right hand showed just by being under everyone’s gaze. Now, she just stared at her with wide, owl-like green eyes.

After a moment, Hill squared her shoulders and cleared her throat, looking at Barton and Romanova.

"Fury sent me," she explained awkwardly, almost cringing at the excited squeal Pyotr let out at the sound of her soft, velvety voice. Hill blinked, quickly glancing at the child (almost longing to approach him, Natalia would’ve noticed if she’d been more aware). "Romanova, we wanted you to know that SHIELD has hired the pediatrician who’s been seeing Pyotr, and he won’t have a problem teaching you the basics like–"

"You can hold him," Natalia interrupted lazily, her voice hoarse and tired after not speaking during the entire time she’d rested on Clint’s shoulder.

Hill blinked, completely frozen. Natalia almost smiled; after all, it wasn’t common to see her superior so off guard. Any other day, she would’ve bragged about it to Clint, but it was probably unfair, considering that the woman before her (like most level 7 agents) had been caring for her son these past months.

After a moment of disbelief on Maria’s part (where Pyotr’s insistent cries filled the room), the woman finally nodded sharply, turning on her heel in a very military fashion and crossing the room in three strides. Once in front of the child, she knelt slowly, offering him a small smile. Pyotr immediately extended his arms, a huge smile on his chubby face, making excited sounds.

Maria let out a small huff at that and quickly began cooing at him before finally lifting him into her arms. "Hey, Pyotr. Hey. Were you playing? Yes, yes, I missed you too, sweetheart." The boy in question began squealing, trying to pinch the woman’s cheeks with his hands as he always did. Hill allowed it, closing her eyes as Pyotr explored her face. "The nurses told me you’ve been standing more, that’s great, boy." she cooed softly, rubbing the boy’s thin back. At that, Pyotr seemed to magically relax, and all his boundless child energy vanished as he rested his head on Maria’s shoulder. The woman in question smiled softly, holding him close before standing up and looking at the other two in the room. "Good job tiring him out, Barton," she praised, returning to her “Hardass Hill” voice with ease.

Clint, who had watched the entire sequence in silence with wide eyes, nodded dumbly. "Huh, sure... I mean, yes, ma’am."

Hill ignored him, walking with the child in her arms before standing in front of the two again.

"Dr. Parker will see you both whenever you want, Romanova," Hill affirmed, her voice softer than she’d ever used with her. Natalia looked at her, just looked at her. Something in Maria softened. "SHIELD will provide everything you need for him. Really, anything. Also, when you’re ready, we can talk about maybe sending him to child therapy and about making his documents and how you could enroll him in school. Until then, we have this," she gestured to the daycare, slightly embarrassed, "but we hope it’s enough for now. Whenever you want to take him with you, just say the word, and we’ll make sure you have a place. We’re with you every step of the way, Natalia."

The widow stared at her. Tormented green eyes meeting soft blue ones. Meanwhile, Pyotr was dozing on Maria’s shoulder, playing with his clumsy fingers on the small shiny badge on Hill’s uniform. Natalia longed (perhaps jealously, or maybe not) to be able to talk to him and touch him like the woman had done so easily. Would the day come when her son would be excited to see her? Would the day come when she wouldn’t tear up every time she looked at him?

"Did Fury send you to say all that?" she joked hoarsely, pressing closer to Clint.

Maria smiled. More Maria than Hill in the face of the vulnerability of the whole situation. "Something like that. But I mean it, Romanova. We’re here for you and for Pyotr."

Natalia nodded slowly.

No one had ever been there for her like that.

Chapter Text

It didn’t have any windows.

The room where Pyotr was created, and where he spent the first three years of his life, didn’t have any windows: it was made of gray cement, rundown, and as cold as winter, with only a slightly rotted wooden crib and a mattress full of moisture. Suddenly, the graphic descriptions of Pyotr's condition when he arrived made more sense: His body covered in rashes, weakened, and extremely thin and frail. There was nothing else in that room, aside from the crib, a hospital stretcher where they experimented on him, and finally, the monitors that tracked his vital signs.

A small, cold, lifeless room, hidden in an abandoned HYDRA base. That’s where her son had spent years, her small, vulnerable son. Her son, in a cold room, with even colder people, where they experimented on him, where they didn’t care for him as they should have, where they later abandoned him for days before Coulson found him. Her son, the son whose existence she had discovered only so recently.

Natalia swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she scrolled through Agent Coulson’s report on the discovery of Pyotr. She sighed shakily, crumpling the paper folder in her hands. Sitting a few feet away from Pyotr, who was making small sounds with his mouth and playing with a toy truck. Suddenly, her son’s love for windows, for the sunlight filtering through the curtains, made so much more sense after reading the report.

She took a deep breath, setting the folder aside and focusing her attention on her son, who had come over to offer her one of his toys, a small soldier (probably made in the nineties, or maybe the late eighties) that Coulson had given him a couple of weeks ago. Natalia smiled at him, accepting the small offering. Pyotr immediately seemed pleased and quickly returned to where he had been to continue dragging the toy truck across the floor.

Natalia looked at the little soldier in her hand, then at Pyotr. The boy had a strange mental age, according to the reports. His motor system had only started functioning properly some time after he arrived at SHIELD. Before that, his hands couldn’t hold objects for long, and his body was too weak to crawl.

Of course, it only took a few hard months for the boy to reach a healthy weight and start strengthening his limbs. After all, according to the nurses, he had only recently started standing. The boy had improved a lot (just like her, that optimistic part of herself that strangely sounded like Clint reminded her) and Natalia was so terrified of not being able to help him.

God.

Natalia watched her son, with chubby cheeks, brimming with health, and a special glow that could only come from the love SHIELD had given him without hesitation or asking for anything in return.

Natalia looked at the little soldier in her hand and squeezed it tightly. 

When she arrived, her hair was still wet, soaking the back and shoulders of her SHIELD uniform. Not that it mattered much; the important thing was that she was late to Pediatrics. It had taken a long talk from Clint and Coulson to convince Natalia to accompany Pyotr to one of his routine visits to the doctor.

Even though the boy was as healthy as he could be, SHIELD had hired Doctor Parker, whom Natalia would meet today. He was a pediatric expert who had been treating Pyotr and would continue to do so until Natalia decided otherwise (Coulson insisted he should remain Pyotr's primary doctor for as long as necessary, but Natalia wasn’t quite sure yet). Doctor Parker, unlike the other doctors there, was a pediatrician, a child specialist, a type of doctor SHIELD hadn’t needed before on their bases. Pyotr’s complicated arrival had changed that, and Maria Hill had personally hired Parker, granting him level 1 access.

He wasn’t an agent, that much was clear, and he didn’t even have all the details of Pyotr’s case, but in a particular way, the man was as much a part of the organization as the others. And today, Natalia would meet him—the doctor who had been treating her son since day one, the doctor that Nick Fury insisted on hiring when it became clear how special the boy’s case was.

And she was running late.

God, but no one could blame her. Before knowing about Pyotr, of course she had been aware of his existence. But the personal nature of the case had made her not want to meet him or read the files and reports.

Which was ironic, because since discovering he was hers—her son—she hadn’t stopped reading the “Orphan” project folder, which contained all the information gathered on Pyotr and the reasons they had experimented on him. The file was certainly somewhat empty, but one thing was clear: they didn’t have good intentions.

Natalia had read the file forty-seven times in the last two weeks, forty-eight today. And each time, it could only end in one of two ways: locking herself in her room and sinking into her bed to cry all night, or pounding a punching bag for hours in the base’s gym. Today it had been the latter option, which had caused her to lose track of time, and now, well, she was damn late.

Natalia took a deep breath as she finally spotted Parker’s office and jogged to the door, blatantly ignoring the four high-ranking agents stationed throughout the hallways, probably waiting for orders in case something triggered her and they had to intervene to restrain her.

Ah, it had been a while since they’d had to do that.

But they were right. Not even she knew how she would react once she saw Doctor Parker examining her son.

She let out a small sigh and finally opened the door. Inside, she found Commander Hill’s blue eyes, who, arms crossed, stood protectively behind a slim man with a square face but contradictorily soft features. Doctor Parker, she quickly identified him.

The man, who was reviewing some papers while Pyotr sat obediently still on the examination table, had dark, short hair with some gray at the temples, and a barely visible, poorly trimmed beard. His brown eyes, flecked with green, and a pair of black-framed glasses rested on his nose.

His posture was strategically open and friendly, probably so as not to scare children, if Natalia had to guess, and he had that kind of toothy smile that made you want to smile back.

“Romanova.” Hill nodded in her direction, uncrossing her arms once she was sure Natalia wasn’t scrutinizing every inch of the doctor. “This is Doctor Parker. Parker, Natalia Romanova.”

Parker smiled politely, adjusting his glasses, which had gone crooked, and then placing the papers between his arm and his side as he extended his hand.

“Natalia, it’s nice to meet you. By the way, you can just call me Ben if that makes you more comfortable. People call me ‘doctor’ every day anyway, so it would be a nice change of pace.” Parker, Ben Parker, chuckled before blinking when Natalia didn’t take his hand. “You don’t like contact, that’s okay.” Ben smiled, this time more hesitantly, as he lowered his hand, but quickly composed himself when Pyotr let out a small squeal upon seeing his mother. “Ah, you’ve got a very energetic little one. And healthy! Each week, he seems to improve a little more, something to celebrate.”

Natalia nodded slowly, cautiously approaching the examination table. With a quick glance, she made sure Pyotr was exactly the same as he had been that morning. She knew, of course, that Hill wouldn’t allow the doctor to harm him in any way, but damn it, white coats and the smell of disinfectant still made her nervous.

Once she saw that Pyotr was content and completely safe, she allowed herself to breathe.

"Do you want to learn how to brush his teeth?" Parker, Ben, asked as he put on latex gloves.

"His teeth-?" Natalia repeated with incredulity and confusion. "Excuse me?"

Ben laughed, slipping a small thimble onto his index finger. "You see, Pyotr suffered terrible neglect, and his growth, both mental and physical, is somewhat delayed," he said matter-of-factly, putting a bit of toothpaste on the plastic thimble that Natalia now noticed had small bristles. "So, this little rascal needs help with some things, like brushing his teeth. Right, little guy?" Pyotr squealed at that, making the doctor laugh.

"And why...?"

"The plan is for you to take him with you at some point, Romanova," explained Hill, who had stayed on the sidelines until then. "I know you'll appreciate some tips or having Doctor Parker teach you a few things about taking care of a child."

Of course, Natalia would appreciate it, but at that moment, the mere idea of taking care of Pyotr alone in an apartment made her feel dizzy and nauseous.

And, God, maybe she should’ve stayed in the gym until her knuckles were raw, because she really wanted to throw up now.

Ben smiled, pleased, before approaching the child with a friendly grin. "Hey, Peter, can you say ‘Ahh’?"

The little boy smiled before opening his mouth. "Ahh."

"... Pyotr."

"Hmm?" Parker murmured distractedly, starting to brush the boy’s teeth. First the bottom ones, then the left and right sides, and finally the top. "You need to do it like this, gently. I know it seems like you'll trigger his gag reflex, but you won’t, I promise, and..."

"His name is Pyotr," Natalia murmured, a bitter taste in her throat and her eyes welling up. She hadn’t chosen that name. 

She hadn’t chosen that name and now some man —a doctor— is putting his finger in the mouth of her son.

Ben blinked, pausing his movements before continuing. "Sorry. It’s just that, uhm... The pronunciation is hard for me," he murmured, embarrassed.  

Natasha frowned, huffing. "It is for most Americans," she replied curtly, her gaze fixed on the doctor’s large hands (gentle, so skilled that Natasha couldn’t believe they belonged to a man) in her son’s mouth.  

God, her son.  

Natasha remembers her younger self, thirteen or fourteen, watching the handful of Widows assigned to have a baby. She thought it was cruel back then, that it could be the cruelest thing the Room had ever done. But when the graduations started, when Natasha realized she herself would never bring anything into this world but destruction and misery (never life, never anything precious, maybe even pure), well, she didn’t know what was more unfair. That, or... Everything.

"Open your mouth, Natalia." they told her.  

No, she had wanted to say every time. So many, so many times she wanted to say no, stand her ground and scream, kick, and punch until she was heard.  

Not that she was ever that brave.  

"Yes... Swallow it all. We don’t want them to find out, do we?" they whispered, stroking her abused lips with their fingertips.  

No.  

Pyotr smiled when the doctor handed him one of the latex gloves, inflated with air and a silly face drawn on it. His hand was no longer in her son’s mouth, but now Natalia felt hundreds of phantom hands over her lips.  

No.

(Please, no).

"I think I’ll go."  

"Natalia," Hill tried, stepping forward.  

Natalia stepped back. "Don’t give them orders," she murmured, gesturing vaguely at Hill’s ear, where she knew there must be an earpiece the commander could use to communicate with the agents outside. "I’ll just go. I can’t— I really can’t... I’m sorry."

Ben blinked, looking distressed as he glanced from Pyotr to Natalia.

"I’m the one who sorry." the man muttered.

Natalia breathed shakily, shaking her head repeatedly as she walked toward the door, her legs like jelly. "Thank you for taking care of my son."

Chapter Text

“Coulson, the extraction team will be here shortly.” The voice of some agent, probably in charge, sounded in his earpiece, and Phil had indeed heard it, but he felt like he was underwater as he stared at the door he had just opened in that old HYDRA base they had dismantled. “Coulson? Hawkeye is heading to your location, please get out quickly.”

Phil simply turned off his earpiece. He knew the exact number of minutes and seconds remaining before the quinjet would land; he didn’t need reminders. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he swallowed hard and stepped into the dark room, approaching the rotting cradle.

He had heard crying. The kind of crying you don’t expect—or desperately pray not to hear—on this type of mission. So, when he leaned over the cradle and saw a small child crying, covered in rashes and far too thin and weak, suffice it to say that Coulson’s heart sank to his feet.

“Sir!” Clint appeared in the doorway a moment later, covered in soot and injuries, looking agitated as he gestured for them to leave. “We need to get out of here, now!”

Coulson exhaled shakily, extending his arms to pick up the small figure, holding it gently. Once the child was secure in his arms (though still softly crying), he turned to his subordinate. “Clint,” he murmured, not quite sure how to continue.

“Oh, shit,” Clint said, opening and closing his mouth several times before removing his jacket and placing it over the trembling little body. “Let’s get out of here.” He looked seriously at his superior before glancing vaguely around the room. He felt the urge to vomit.

There wasn’t a single spot where sunlight could filter through. The room was filled with machines and chemicals, and on a desk, there was a pile of papers that looked like evidence. Knowing he had little time, Clint lunged for the papers before running with his superior toward the extraction point.

The child kept crying. And neither of them could have imagined what that boy would mean in just a few months.

Phil smiled, running his fingers through the brown wavy hair and smiling again, unable to help himself. Pyotr simply kept playing, moving toy soldiers and babbling sounds that were starting to resemble words.

Maria stood with her arms crossed, her forehead furrowed with concern. “We should have kept it a secret a bit longer.”

“Don’t say that.” Phil quickly looked up, glaring at Maria with annoyance and a bit of anger. “Natalia deserved to know she had a child, and she still deserves to decide what to do.”

“She ran away, Phil. Pyotr was fine, and she ran away anyway.”

“We knew doctors were a trigger for her—it was always a possibility. And if we look at it, she reacted much better than we expected.” Phil defended her, picking up one of the toys in front of the boy and standing it beside the figures Pyotr was using.

“This is affecting her mental health. We should’ve prepared her psychologically. SHIELD always had the means to provide her with therapy, and still...”

“She went to therapy. She improved. It was her decision, together with her psychologist, to pause it for now, Maria. You know that better than anyone—you’re the one who approved the paperwork.” Phil pointed at her, frowning. Pyotr gurgled next to him. “And besides, no one is born ready to be a parent.”

“No one is born having their choice to become a parent taken away, either,” Maria shot back immediately, her tone sharp and cold, fueled by her deep hatred of the Red Room.

Phil understood her.

He also understood Natalia (or at least he believed he did) and knew that woman was anything but weak, anything but cowardly.

“Let’s give her a chance. Let’s give her time. She needs to choose what she wants, and we’ve already told her we’ll support her in everything.” Phil finally sighed, running his fingers once more over Pyotr’s head. “That means not making decisions for her, even if we think it’s for the best.”

“... Sometimes I wish I could just take all her pain away, all that trauma.” Maria crossed her arms, vulnerable as she looked at the floor, then at Pyotr, and finally at Phil. “I wish neither she or her son had to go through what they did. I just... I just—”

“I know,” Phil interrupted softly, his voice velvety. “Me too.”

“So, I guess it didn’t go very well.” Coulson smiled sheepishly, his arms awkwardly crossed over his chest before deciding to let them hang by his sides.

He had given Natalia an hour to hide before finally deciding to go after her, knowing Fury would take matters into his own hands otherwise. It was always better to have a familiar, less intimidating face, he’d said as he began strolling through the Triskelion halls.

“Get out of here, Phil,” Natalia murmured, her voice breaking and muffled by her arms covering her face. Curiously, she didn’t sound any less intimidating because of it—the Widow always found a way to be dangerous, even at her lowest.

Phil sighed, grateful the gym was empty. He sat next to Natalia on the floor, then gently asked, “Do you remember how you were when you first arrived here?”

“Phil.” Her voice was sharp, bordering on threatening, yet somehow dancing on the line of pleading and crying.

“You were angry, scared. No one but Agent Barton could get close to you.” Phil reminisced nostalgically, a little amused and perhaps even a bit sad as he recalled how Natalia was in the beginning, just over a year ago. “You hit before you asked questions, and you’d withdraw at the simplest things.” He glanced at her with warm eyes, pointing to his cheek where Natalia, after a particularly bad mission, had once struck him with bloodied knuckles and knocked him out cold. Phil had been the laughingstock of Level Eight for months after that—the Widow, not even an agent back then, had floored him with one punch.

At least Natalia had had the decency to apologize afterward.

“Phil, what are you—?” Natalia started, finally lifting her head from its hiding place and looking at her superior with tear-filled eyes. Never crying—she was too stubborn, too proud (and perhaps too sensitive) to cry in front of him.

“What I mean is, you’re not the same person who Clint brought here." Phil smiled, honest, warm, almost affectionate, if Natalia dared to admit it. “Neither are we. You know we’re with you every step of the way. But your son needs you, Natalia. What do you want to do about that?”

Natalia’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “I can’t even look him in the face...” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t even take him to the doctor without having flashbacks. Who’s to say I won’t hurt him someday? My hands weren’t made to care, to love, Phil. What am I supposed to do? God, what will I do when he reaches out to me, like he does to Clint or Hill, and wants me to hold him?”

Phil looked at her sadly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, comforting and almost paternal. “Why don’t we start by going to see him now? And learn along the way?”

“You make it sound easy,” she complained in a sob, rubbing her eyes insistently.

“It won’t be,” Phil admitted. “If you choose to care for him, it’ll be a long and complicated road. There’ll be stumbles, and I’m sure you’ll feel like you’re not worthy of him because I know you, Natalia. But it’ll be worth it. For him, for Pyotr.”

Natalia nodded, still wiping her face with her hands, and then froze when Phil opened his arms. Only for a moment, though, before she finally melted into the embrace.

“Thank you, Phil.”

Chapter Text

"You're not allowed to look at me like that, young man," Natalia said with as much sternness as she could muster, staring at the child seated in front of her.

Pyotr maintained a pout, gazing at her with his wide, chocolate-brown eyes and a pleading expression. "Gaah!" he exclaimed petulantly.

God, the attitude this boy was showing lately.

"Look," Natalia shifted uncomfortably under the boy's gaze but tried to stay firm. "I know you're tired, but we have to do this together. The nurses and Parker said it's necessary." Pyotr kept staring at her, his lower lip trembling, and Natalia, so utterly weak, just sighed. "Alright, alright. One last time, then, and we keep playing? Do we have a deal?" Pyotr seemed to consider it for a moment before letting out a huff. Natalia took that as a yes. "Good boy."

Natalia smiled as she positioned herself behind the child, taking his chubby little hands. Then, Pyotr, using Natalia's hands as leverage, stood up. Once steady, he began taking clumsy steps, hand-in-hand with his mother, who walked behind him, offering reassurance and the promise that he wouldn't fall. Together, they walked across the nursery, completing five full laps.

Pyotr's legs, though still weak, were gradually gaining strength. Even Parker predicted that he would be walking on his own before the month ended—assuming, of course, the boy wasn’t too stubborn to keep sitting and playing instead of holding onto something and trying to walk. But then again, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

And Natalia was sure he’d improve, that he’d walk without any problems. It was just a matter of time and perseverance.

When they were halfway through the sixth lap, Pyotr’s pace slowed, and his steps grew more unsteady. Though Natalia couldn’t see his face, she knew the beginnings of another pout were forming.

“Come on, sweetheart. We're almost there,” she encouraged gently.

Pyotr responded with a babble, gripping Natalia’s hands more tightly. But just as he was about to finish his practice, the door creaked open, and both mother and son snapped their heads up. One look at the person who entered was all it took for Pyotr to let out a delighted gurgle before his legs gave out, causing him to land on his bottom.

“Well, would you look at that? You’re almost there!” Clint chuckled as Pyotr squealed and extended his arms. “Hey, boy!” Clint grinned, quickly dropping the paper bag he was carrying and scooping the boy up, covering his cheeks with kisses. Pyotr just laughed, bouncing in Clint’s arms. “So, you’ve been walking with Mom, huh? Good job. Pretty soon, you’ll be running, and no one will be able to stop you, squirt.” Clint spoke cheerfully but then paused when Pyotr’s energy seemed to dwindle. The boy rested his head on Clint’s shoulder, briefly closing his eyes while playing with the buttons on Clint’s uniform. “Oh, you’re tired,” Clint realized with an amused laugh.

Tiring Pyotr out was a feat, especially now that he’d lost his shyness and gained strength. He was like a little whirlwind, even though he couldn’t walk fully yet.

“I managed it,” Natalia smiled, looking at her son with joy before picking up the bag Clint had set down. “Food?” she guessed.

“Nope, sorry. But we could grab lunch if you’d like.”

“Sounds good.” Natalia smiled, setting the bag on a chair.

“Oh no, that’s for you—a little gift from me and Laura,” Clint quickly clarified, patting Pyotr on the back.

Natalia raised an eyebrow, eyeing the bag curiously before picking it up again and opening it slowly. Inside were several books, which she pulled out to examine more closely.

“Parenting books?”

Clint smiled, looking slightly embarrassed. “Those were mine,” he explained softly. “They’re not manuals—there’s no such thing when it comes to kids—but they might help a little. They did for me, at least with the nerves.”

Natalia hummed, flipping through one of the books with a frown. “I don’t think my motherhood is exactly standard, Clint.”

“You’re right, but on the other hand, I think all parents share the same fears about their kids.” Clint shrugged, still holding Pyotr in his arms. “You don’t have to read them if you don’t want to. I just felt like I should give them to you.”

Natalia finally closed the book and nodded, offering her friend a small smile. “Thanks.” She then reached back into the bag and pulled out three more books—another parenting book and two children’s books. “For Pyotr?”

Clint nodded enthusiastically. “Those are from Laura. She says every kid needs books. One’s a story, and the other is about colors, numbers, and animals. You know, you can read them to him and let him look at the pictures and all. It doesn’t seem like it, but listening to an adult read helps a lot with their language development."

Natalia nodded again, this time more softly, as she smiled. She remembered reading bedtime stories to Yelena back in Ohio. She wondered if it would feel the same with Pyotr—though it probably would. When Natalia read to her sister, it was usually with exasperation after Yelena had pestered her for hours to do it.

Natalia always ended up giving in, no matter how much she resisted at first. No matter that, in truth, it had always been her favorite part of the day. “Tell Laura thank you,” she murmured, her heart split between her hands and Clint’s arms.

“Don’t mention it. We’re here for you, Nat,” Clint assured her.

Natalia hummed and, unable to help herself, smiled contentedly. “I know.” Perhaps it was the first time she admitted it.

But Natalia wasn’t alone anymore. And looking at her son, she didn’t think she ever would be again.

Natalia frowned, glaring at her superior in irritation. “With all due respect, sir…”

“It’s already decided. It’s out of my hands, Agent,” Phil quickly wiped his hands, looking at his subordinate with regret as he rubbed his face. “You need to go shopping—for yourself and Pyotr.”

“Sir,” Natalia repeated, her hands clasped behind her back and her jaw tight. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to go out in my current, unstable… state of mind. Especially if my son will be there.”

“Don’t be so formal, and just take Commander Hill or Agent Morse with you.”

“… What about Barton?”

“He’s back in Iowa with his wife and baby,” Phil explained, slumping in his chair. “Cooper caught a cold, and he requested leave to be there. You know that.”

“... Why are Hill and Morse my only options?”

“You’re right. I hate to admit it, but it’s risky to let you go alone to a crowded civilian area. Since Barton is unavailable, Hill and Morse are the best choices to subdue you if necessary,” Phil explained flatly, as though reading from a manual. His displeasure at the situation was evident, given the need to acknowledge that his subordinate required agents capable of restraining her, ready for the worst-case scenario.

Natalia sighed, clearly annoyed. But she finally nodded. “I’ll take Hill and Morse together with me, if that’s not a problem.”

“Of course not. I’ll inform them.” Natalia gave a curt nod before turning and walking toward the exit. “And Natalia, nothing bad will happen. I trust you’ll handle it well.”

Natalia paused in the doorway for a moment, hesitating. “Thank you, Phil,” she whispered softly before leaving.

"Any time, Natalia."

Chapter Text

Freedom is like an arrow (at least it was for her).

It shoots forward, propelled by the force of its own will, unchained from the bow, and, even if the wind tries, it never stops. It is a deep yearning, a giant desire to reach that destiny of free will that once seemed almost impossible (or a fairy tale, or maybe a lie). But it isn’t. And when it arrives, it strikes hard, leaving permanent marks on the white target, silent witness to its daring journey.  

And despite everything— despite the pain, the lies, the violence, and the turbulent path, it is always worth drawing the bow and releasing the arrow. It will always be worth it.  

Although, to be fair, Natalia wasn’t literally struck by an arrow. In fact, Clint hadn’t even been able to shoot her when they stood face to face. He simply couldn’t— not even after everything. Not after months of chasing her, after the bloodstained path the Widow had left behind, and even after all of it, Clint didn’t do it. He didn’t even consider it.  

Instead, he made the saddest expression she had ever seen on his face and reached out his hand.  

It was the worst decision he could have made, but Natalia was so alone, so wounded, that she would be eternally grateful for it.  

Even on the nights filled with nightmares, even though she no longer shivers in the cold or sleeps chained to a bed... Natalia wonders if she will ever be able to tell all of this to her son.  

For now, though, it is just a passing thought. There was still time, and her Malen’koye solnyshko was still too young for such things.  

The Widow stood awkwardly next to the nurse, who held Pyotr in her arms while gesturing and explaining the contents of the maternity bag she and the other nurses had put together for Natalia.  

"We’ve packed it with everything you might need for this outing—diapers, spare clothes, toys, a small first-aid kit. Everything you can imagine."  

Natalia shifted in place, her eyes fixed on the bag. "I don’t know how to thank you, Meyer…" she finally confessed.  

"Oh, please. It’s nothing. And I told you it’s Stephanie." The woman smiled, adjusting Pyotr in her arms. "The director said we had to give you some preparation for when you go out in the field with the little rascal, and we thought the bag would be the easiest and most practical way to help."  

Natalia smiled slightly, watching as Pyotr tugged at the nurse’s hair, laughing. Stephanie gently dissuaded him with the ease that comes from practice, guiding his little hand to caress her cheek instead of pulling her hair.  

"Thank you, really."  

Stephanie didn’t get the chance to respond before the door opened with a dull sound. Maria Hill stood tall in her usual military posture, looking slightly uneasy under their gazes—at least until Pyotr let out a delighted squeal and reached out for her.  

"Woah!" The nurse laughed at the child's excitement, quickly stepping toward the door so Maria could hold him. "He’s always so friendly and cheerful, huh?"  

"Hey there, boy." the Commander murmured, holding Pyotr as she tried (unsuccessfully) to hide the affection she felt for him. Pyotr immediately began exploring Maria’s face, giggling and babbling in his childish language.  

"Were you like that too?" Stephanie asked once she was back beside Natalia.  

"Hmm?" Natalia looked at her, slightly lost. She had been distracted watching the Commander and the ease with which Pyotr seemed to orbit toward her. Then again, if she thought about it, Pyotr was always like that with adults he liked or simply found fascinating.  

"Were you as energetic and friendly as he is?"  

Nat frowned, glancing at her son again, who was now tugging at one of Hill’s ears while laughing innocently—almost mischievously. The little rascal. Then she remembered the Red Room, how small all the girls were, the rules they lived under, and all the atrocities she had to endure (and commit) just to survive.  

Natalia had never made friends, had never thrown herself into anyone’s arms the way Pyotr did. She couldn’t. How could she? Any tiny display of weakness or humanity, any crack in the marble, was enough to get her killed.  

"I was always more solitary," she finally admitted, though a part of her twisted at the memory of Ohio.  

Stephanie hummed in satisfaction, closing the bag and handing it to Natalia. "Then it must be his own thing."  

"He has a lot of things of his own— more than he inherited from me," Natalia admitted as she took the bag, not entirely sure why, but feeling the need to say it. There was something about that fact that made her proud.  

She knew, of course, that Pyotr resembled her. Not just physically, but also in the small gestures and actions that, somehow, ended up being identical to hers. Being a spy of her caliber, it was easy to notice that he was hers. And yet, the fact that her son could act like a normal child despite everything… it did something to the bleeding heart she carried between her ribs.  

Pyotr had that effect on her, making her feel more human and vulnerable.  

She was still deciding whether that was necessarily a bad thing.  

But then she said her goodbyes to Stephanie and approached the Commander, walking alongside her through the hallways while Hill made Pyotr laugh by speaking to him in a silly, playful tone. And seeing him like that—young, innocent, hers—she thought, How could anything that child did (or made her feel) ever be wrong?

Barbara "Bobbi" Morse is a strange woman to Natalia.  

She isn’t exactly a threat, though she could be—and Natalia had definitely categorized her as one on the first day. But the point is that, at least now, she doesn’t consider her to be.  

She is Clint’s friend, which earns her several points, and she is an extraordinary liar as well as an incredibly capable spy. Natalia easily admits that she is one of the few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she actually admires. Though, of course, she isn’t about to admit that anytime soon. They weren’t that close.  

But what makes her strange in Natalia’s eyes is that, in the year she has been here, Bobbi has made a great effort to be kind— even though Natalia knows she doesn’t entirely like her.  

She knows, of course, that it’s because of the absurd number of assassinations she carries on her shoulders, and that, despite her successful deprogramming, Natalia could easily bring down an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D. given enough time to infiltrate and gain the trust of higher-ups.  

Bobbi is clearly aware of this as well and remains cautious.  

And yet, there is one factor that has softened her considerably (although of course, not completely) over the last month: Natalia’s son.  

"Can I hold him?" Bobbi didn’t even blink at her lack of rank etiquette and stretched her arms toward Hill, who was still holding Pyotr. They hadn’t even entered the mall when the blonde appeared in their meeting spot, smiling broadly.  

Hill didn’t seem particularly surprised that Morse hadn’t greeted anyone or even acknowledged anyone else but the child. She simply cast a quick glance at Natalia, waiting for an answer as if she had the final say in the matter.  

Natalia, knowing that Pyotr had gained quite a reputation among the agents who had cared for or visited him over the past months, simply nodded, trusting that he would be in good hands with Morse. She just hoped Clint was right about her being good with kids, because if she wasn’t, Natalia had no problem taking care of Morse if she made Pyotr cry.

The Commander obediently handed over the kid, who was immediately showered with kisses. Pyotr giggled, delighted by the affection, and Bobbi cradled him with a warmth and enthusiasm Natalia had never seen in her before.  

Even Hill seemed a little surprised, though she quickly recovered and led the way into the mall, trusting the others two to follow her. Which was kind of funny, because she seemed to have this confidence that people would always follow her, for war or maybe this, for shopping (even if unofficially, this was also like a mission for Hill).

"This is going to be a fun afternoon, isn’t it, Romanova?" Bobbi winked before following Hill, settling Pyotr comfortably on her hip.

And Natalia could only hope it would be—because despite Bobbi’s friendly tone, she could see the lie written all over her face. "I’m tolerating this only because it’s an order from above and because your son is adorable. Oh! And also because Clint keeps insisting that there’s something good in you."

Ah, It was going to be a long day. But at least, at hearing her son’s laughter just a few steps ahead she knew he was enjoying being somewhere other than the infirmary. She wondered if she could ask Hill for permission to take him out more often. Kids deserved to play outside, in the nature— to climb trees, catch bugs, scrape their knees until they bled, and have their mother come to patch them up.  

You know, that kind of things, the things that make childhood something to treasure as an adult

Chapter Text

"You're being hard on her." It's Hill's distracted murmur as she pulls a few garments from the rack and holds them up. Bobbi only raises an eyebrow, Pyotr still perched on her hip and babbling over her shoulder while attentively taking in the place. He's adorable.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She finally replies, accepting it when Maria adds a few more miniature clothes to the pile resting on her free arm. The Deputy Director is methodical, buying only what's essential and substantial, and still, Bobbi snorts when she sees dinosaur or superhero prints on the shirts.

Maria confronts her then, crossing her arms and nodding her head toward something. Not far from them, just a few meters away and still in view, Natalia walks through the aisles of the children's clothing store with surprising confidence for someone who hasn't dared to take a single piece off a rack. Natalia is good at hiding, especially her feelings, but the other two spies see through her anyway. At least, as much as Natalia allows them to.

"She's trying. Shouldn't that be enough?" Hill asks, and it feels like a punch to the stomach. With a sigh, Bobbi sets the pile of clothes down and adjusts Pyotr, who smiles adorably at her.

Ever since Clint brought him, her ex-husband had been frantic. It took a lot for Bobbi to calm him down after he returned from that mission with Coulson, and even more to drag him to his therapist. As a father, Clint has softened over the years, and the things, the missions he used to do with steady hands and an impassive face, have started to affect him more. Whether it's the neglect of an innocent child, or a former Russian assassin with no options left. Bobbi doesn't blame him; in fact, she thinks she admires him a little.

Clint has always worn his humanity close. Normally, that kind of thing gets you killed in their line of work, but somehow, he managed to do the opposite. And here was the proof: the child in her arms and the woman pacing silently around the miniature sneakers display a few feet away.

Hill is still watching her, arms crossed, blue eyes unreadable. Bobbi could try to read her, guess what answer she wants and give it to her, but what's the point? She doesn't want to lie to her superior. She doesn’t think she could get away with it, not for long.

"I still doubt her loyalty. To us. To Shield." Bobbi murmurs, hugging the boy tighter as he begins to play with the chains around her neck. Pyotr is such a good kid, quiet, but happy, simple.

Hill's gaze softens, flickers of Maria shining through where the hard, strict deputy director should be. Then her hand extends to gently run through Pyotr's wavy hair. It's incredible how much he resembles his mother, and yet how different they are, in both appearance and personality.

"Natalia has done nothing but prove her commitment since she arrived. It’s been a turbulent road, but it’s led us here, Bobbi." She gestures for emphasis. "Natalia, trusting us with her son. His protection. Hers. Despite everything that’s happened and what the Red Room left behind. She had every reason not to trust us. And we gave her the option, we let her walk away if she wanted. But she’s here. She’s choosing us. She’s trusting us." Maria sighs, chuckling when Pyotr grows tired of the head-patting and begins to squirm in Bobbi’s arms. "That seems like enough proof to me."

Bobbi nods but doesn’t say anything. Not yet. Her mind moves faster than she can form words, and still everything feels slow, thick.

"It’s not that I want to be right," she finally says, more to herself than to Maria. "It’s just that if I’m wrong... if we’re all wrong... what happens to him?" She tilts her head toward Pyotr, who’s now absentmindedly looking around. "This kid didn’t choose any of us."

Maria doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she steps toward the rack, picks up a small wool jacket and examines it.

"Then let’s not be wrong," she replies softly. "Let’s stand by her. Watch her, of course. But also... let’s help her. We can’t expect Natalia to become something she never was if we don’t give her the space to grow."

Bobbi lets out a dry laugh.

"That sounded very maternal coming from you."

Hill gives the faintest smile. "I’m sleeping less. I’m getting soft."

"And does Fury know?"

"If you tell him, I’ll wipe you from every Shield. database."

"That sounds more like my Commander." They both smile, barely, and when they glance back, Natalia is holding a small shoebox in her hands. She seems to be internally debating whether that counts as making a decision. "... Do you think she’ll manage?" Bobbi asks quietly this time, without cynicism. Just doubt. Just exhaustion.

"I think she already has," Hill replies. "And sometimes, that’s all you can ask for."

The instant Bobbi sets him down and his feet touch the floor, Pyotr runs.

No warning. Just a tiny, sharp, joyful giggle that cuts through the air like crystal chimes. The mall corridor opens before him like a whole universe of stimuli, lights, sounds, toys in display windows, a bright green dinosaur plush in a store a few feet away.

He squeals, a babble that sounds like a mix of English and Russian, as if that were his secret way of sharing what he loves.

Maria reacts first, trying to catch up. Bobbi is a second behind. Natalia, on the other hand, doesn’t run.

She doesn’t need to.

She knows. She’s seen him do this at daycare and knows the scene by heart.

Pyotr trips on an uneven bit of flooring, a loose corner of a rug, and falls flat. Arms forward, scraped knees. The thud is dull. The sound is small and the fall isn’t even that bad. But for a three-year-old with a hypersensitive nervous system from years of neglect, it’s the end of the world.

He cries. He cries like the earth just opened beneath him.

Bobbi tenses, her body alert. She glances at Natalia. She expects the explosion. Expects the coldness. Expects the assassin from the reports to leave the kid on the ground, or freeze, or flee. Expects the machine to break.

But there’s no machine.

Natalia walks. Her steps are slow, measured, controlled, and she puts down the shoebox she had picked up. She doesn’t run—she walks with the silent grace of someone who learned to move without making a sound.

And then it happens.

She kneels. Holds out her arms. Her fingers tremble, just slightly.

"Pyotr…" Her voice is barely a whisper. "Sweetheart. I’m here."

The boy trembles and throws himself into her arms as if the world would end if he didn’t. Natalia wraps him up. She doesn’t pick him up right away. She doesn’t rush. She simply holds him.

Pyotr sobs, face buried against his mother’s coat.

Natalia doesn’t deny the pain. She never does.

"I know," she says, her voice nearly inaudible. "Oh, I know, malysh… but pain only makes you stronger, Malen'koye solnyshko."

Bobbi feels something crack inside her.

It’s a small break, silent, but deep.

And for an instant—just one—she no longer sees the Black Widow. She doesn’t see the classified file, or the corpses, or the red alerts. She sees a woman who was never raised to be a mother, who was stripped of the very possibility of choice. She sees a little girl who never had someone to cry to, someone to run to, someone she could fall in front of without fear.

And she sees her there. With a child in her arms. Saying words that were probably once used to harden her. But now she says them gently. As if reinventing their meaning just for him.

Maria, next to Bobbi, gives a faint smile. Proud. A little melancholic.

"Do you see it now?" she says, without looking at Bobbi.

Bobbi swallows hard. For the first time in years, she has nothing to say.

Natalia is still there, rocking her son. She doesn’t care that people are watching. She doesn’t care about hidden scrutiny. She doesn’t care about the judgment in other people’s eyes. She cares about Pyotr. Just him. Just his crying, his scraped knees, his tears.

And Bobbi finally understands.

She understands why Clint held out his hand to her.

She understands why Maria stayed.

She understands why Nick trusts her.

She understands why that boy, with his offbeat laughter and dirty Superman plush, can be the anchor of a woman who was trained never to have roots.

She finally sees her. Not the Black Widow, but Natalia.

The Shield agent.

The mother.

The broken girl.

The woman who, against all odds, is choosing to love.