Chapter Text
Emma Barton had always admired Natasha Romanoff. How could she not? Natasha had been a constant presence in her life for as long as she could remember.
She was more than just her father’s best friend, she was family. The woman who slipped seamlessly into their home, as much a part of it as the worn-out couch in the living room or the smell of coffee in the mornings.
She had been there for birthdays, holidays, training sessions in the backyard, and quiet moments of reassurance when Clint was away on missions.
For most of her childhood, Emma adored her the way a kid idolizes a hero. Natasha was invincible, untouchable. A warrior with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. But she was also warm in a way people rarely saw. Not with everyone. Just with the Bartons. Just with them.
But at sixteen, something shifted. Slowly, then all at once.
At first, it was small things. Harmless.
The flutter in her chest when Natasha smiled at her from across the room.
The way she found herself waiting for the redhead to show up on weekends, heart skipping a beat at the sound of her voice through the door.
The warmth in her stomach when Natasha praised her during training, fingers brushing lightly over her wrist to correct her stance.
It was subtle. Like a shift in the air, a tiny crack in the surface of something Emma hadn’t realized was whole until it was already starting to break.
But then came that summer afternoon, sticky with heat, when Natasha pulled off her jacket and trained in just a tank top, her skin glistening under the sun.
Emma had caught herself staring, just for a second. But that second stretched out, longer than it should have.
She looked away quickly, face burning, hoping no one noticed. But that image stuck with her, playing over and over like a loop she couldn’t break.
It confused her.
She didn’t understand why it felt so wrong, but it did.
So many times she tried to push it down, tell herself she was just admiring Natasha’s strength, her confidence.
But then, one evening in the backyard, when Natasha helped her with a complicated maneuver on the pull-up bar, Emma’s mind short-circuited. The way Natasha’s muscles flexed beneath scarred skin, the quiet, commanding warmth in her voice when she corrected Emma’s posture.
And that was when it hit her. She wasn’t just admiring Natasha. She was feeling something else entirely.
Emma tried to hide it. But the way Natasha’s body moved, so fluid, controlled, lethal in its grace.
Emma couldn’t stop noticing.
The way her voice commanded attention, even in the simplest of phrases, made Emma’s heart race.
Natasha’s laugh, rare and real, like it was a secret she only shared with them, wrapped itself around Emma’s chest like a quiet storm.
There was nothing ordinary about it. Nothing that fit into the safe space Emma had carved out for her.
She caught herself staring too long, letting her gaze linger a little too much. The warmth in her chest spread, and her pulse quickened every time Natasha stood a little too close.
It wasn’t admiration anymore. It wasn’t just a hero-worshipping crush. It was something dangerous.
She was crossing a line.
And then there was the quiet, growing discomfort when Natasha wasn’t looking at her at all.
The way she looked past Emma sometimes, as if she were already seeing her differently, or maybe, Emma was seeing her differently. The lingering tension between them that no one else but her seemed to notice.
One evening, as the sun began to set, Emma found herself in the kitchen with Natasha, alone. Clint and Laura were in the backyard, but it was quiet here, the soft hum of the fridge the only sound. Natasha was preparing coffee, humming softly to herself, the comforting rhythm of her movements as familiar to Emma as her own breath. Emma, however, was anything but comfortable.
The space between them felt too tight, too intimate. The warmth of Natasha’s presence, as always, wrapped around Emma like a soft blanket. But tonight, the air seemed thick with something Emma couldn’t explain.
She watched Natasha, noticing the way she moved, the simple elegance of every action. Natasha reached for the milk, and as her hand brushed against Emma’s, the touch sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. She quickly pulled her hand away, eyes widening just a little.
Natasha, unaware of the turmoil brewing inside Emma, smiled and nudged her lightly with her elbow.
"You okay, kid?" she asked, her voice warm, full of the affectionate concern she always showed Emma. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Emma’s heart beat harder in her chest. She forced a smile, trying to act natural, trying to ignore how her breath had hitched.
"Yeah, just thinking," she mumbled, avoiding Natasha’s gaze.
Natasha didn’t seem to notice the sudden tension, her expression still soft and maternal. "Well, you’re not allowed to overthink, Emma," she said with a laugh, filling the cup with coffee. "You’re too young for that."
Emma’s smile faltered, and her chest tightened. She could feel the weight of those words like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Too young. She wasn’t a kid anymore. And that was the problem.
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Emma tried to convince herself it was just admiration. But it wasn’t.
She dated boys her age, laughed at their jokes, went along with it all, but none of them made her feel the way Natasha did. None of them made her stomach flutter with just a glance, her breath catch in her throat when Natasha’s gaze met hers for a split second too long. None of them had her heart stuttering when their hands brushed accidentally, or left her aching with a longing she couldn’t name.
And every time Natasha ruffled her hair, called her “kid” with that familiar warmth, Emma felt a pang in her chest.
Kid. It sounded so simple, but it felt so far from the truth. Emma wasn’t a kid anymore. She was a girl caught between who she had been, and who she was becoming, a person she didn’t even recognize.
And Natasha, for all her deadly skills and sharp instincts, didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just refused to see it.
Either way, Emma couldn’t escape it. The shame, the guilt, the unspoken tension. It burned. And when Emma turned eighteen, she knew she had to make a choice.
She left.
College abroad was supposed to be her escape. A way to outrun the feelings she couldn’t control, the longing that felt like it would swallow her whole.
She just hadn’t expected it to follow her.