Chapter Text
Natasha
Natasha barely had time to braid her red hair anymore but managed to do so today. Two small braids starting on each side of her scalp, meeting in the middle to accompany ringlets of waves that fell past her shoulders.
These days, Natasha dedicates all her free time to Rebecca, her small 5-year-old daughter. The same girl who helped Natasha decide between wearing the maroon blazer and the purple one today. Of course, she chose purple. The only other contending color option that stood a chance would be pink sparkles—screw maroon.
The shiny black heels came down from the top shelf of the closet this morning, still fitting the same way they did 6.5 years ago when Bruce Banner, scientist, brainiac, and ex-Avenger, proposed marriage in the back of a small library. He'd planned the proposal that almost made her cry happy tears 6.5 years ago, planning the surprise in one of the most intimate locations while Natasha sat on the floor reading the poetry of a Russian legend, Anna Akhmatova’s ‘When I Write Poems.’ It worked. She hadn't been expecting him to be waiting with a bouquet of ponies in hand, patiently looking up at her from one knee while she read his folded poem shoved in Anna’s book.
“Yes,” she had told him that day, meeting Bruce on the ground of the library in a hug that nearly toppled them both, agreeing to spend forever with the man of her dreams.
But libraries weren't just fun places to leisurely pass the time or to find her diamond ring. Natasha now worked as a writer. She stayed far away from gossip, preferring to work privately from home and stick to facts. Though a retired assassin for hire and ex-avenger, she decided she could still do good in her community and bring people to justice by documenting the happenings within the small corner of the world. From home and garden to sports- yes, sports. She enjoyed a bit of healthy competition and punches that merrited yellow cards and players to spend time in a penalty box. Hockey was quickly becoming her favorite.
Natasha Romanoff was successful, and today, she was to be interviewed about her new monthly column, which will be published in a popular local magazine that everyone was reading.
Natasha checks her reflection in the mirror of the small dressing room backstage belonging to one of New York’s smaller talk shows.
The worst part of the questionnaire was that she'd have to at least acknowledge her personal life.
What would she say? Why did it matter? People couldn't mind their business when it came to ex-heroes. The other day, Bruce had a stalker from the campus he taught at following him home.
“Ten minutes, Miss Romanoff!” an attendee calls out to Natasha, who remains looking at her reflection.
She eyes him in the doorway and nods, “Thank you.”
“Oh! One more thing; your family is here.”
Family. Right. She'd reminded Bruce about the filmed interview. He'd promised to sit behind the cameraman for moral support. And it appears he followed through on his promise.
“If my little one,’ Rebecca, ‘is causing trouble.”
Natasha’s remark is cut off.
“No trouble!” he smiles, “She’s adorable. Your sister was holding her when I let them in.”
“Sister?” Natasha questions in confusion.
He stammers, adjusted wide-framed glasses too large for his face and an obnoxious plaid tie. “Yelena? Is she not your—?”
“She is. She's here?”
He nods.
Natasha swallows. Of course, Yelena weaseled her way into the studio—nosy brat. One problem; that would likely also mean two others had weaseled as well. Where one went, the others followed.
She hates to ask, bending her fingers backward on the vanity countertop, “Was there anyone who maybe, accompanied Yelena?”
He inhales, chest puffed and frozen. He mumbles, “Well. Yeah. Um.”
Natasha bites her cheek, “My parents.”
“We should get you to the stage, Miss Romanoff.”
She follows him with a soft smile.
Natasha and Bruce had found a nice two-story home in suburban bliss. Simple. Clean. Quiet.
Quiet until Melina Vostokoff and Alexei Shoshtakov moved across the ocean from Russia to New York- right across the street.
Yelena Belova. The blonde, second best friend only behind Clinton Francis Barton; retired S.H.I.E.L.D agent, now worked for local law enforcement. Yelena might still be finding herself, but moving in with Alexei and Melina only meant the revolving door at Bruce and Natasha’s place swung faster. There was no more quiet. Not since the circus moved into town.
And then there was Jennifer Walters. Cousin of Bruce. She must've had their house set as ‘home’ in her Apple Maps. The lawyer was over almost just as much.
Almost. Thank God Cousin Ched still lived in L.A. Or Natasha would've been arrested for a stabbing years ago.
“Natasha Romanoff,” the smiling hostess stepped from the stage to greet her with a handshake, “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Natasha was grateful.
“I met the family.”
She releases one controlled nervous laugh, “I’m sorry. Let’s hope they don't cause too much trouble.”
“Nonsense! Its so nice to see how much they love you.”
“Natasha!” she knows that voice. “Natasha!” he's calling again.
“Shh!” Bruce is trying his best, sitting beside the cameraman and shushing Alexei who is waving toward Natasha.
“Oh boy,” Natasha shoves a hand in her pocket, waving back to stop Alexei from continuing to do so.
“Mommy!” the curly-haired brunette in Bruce’s lap calls, munching on animal crackers.
Natasha blows her a kiss and then follows the hostess to her sofa for the stage interview.
As the lights turn up, a man begins a countdown;
“We are on in 7, 6-.”
“She didn't wave at me,” Yelena pouts loudly sitting next to Bruce and crossing her arms mid sulk, “It is like I’m not here.”
Natasha glares, making direct eye contact with Yelena, thus the camera itself.
“3, 2…”
“AcHOOOO!” Alexei sneezes loudly.
“Alexei!” Melina shifts to the left, “You spit on bag.”
“What?!”
“I can't bring you places.” Melina shakes her head.
Alexei leans toward her, “I can't bring YOU places.”
“Shhh!” Bruce tries again to silence the duo behind him.
“Dedushka spit, daddy,” Rebecca announces, as though she needed to narrate.
Natasha shields the side of her face, fingers on her temple with her palm on her cheeks that are turning an embarrassing shade of red.