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It doesn't hit you all at once. It never does.
You've been hiding for weeks. Not physically, of course (because no one can really hide from Natasha Romanoff), but mentally, you've been hiding the part of yourself that's needed to show itself the most. Long days of pushing through meetings, smiling when you don't feel like it, and remembering to take care of yourself (mostly) tend to leave you depleted by the end of it, much too tired to do anything but come home and try not to look like you're falling apart.
Natasha notices, of course. She's always in tune with your emotions, even the ones you don't want to admit to yourself. The typically clumsy dance of friend-to-roommate-to-caregiver didn't feel awkward with her, even if each step made you shyer. "You've been carrying everything on your own for too long, little love," you remember her saying in that voice that almost brought you to your knees with how very small it made you feel. "Let me be strong for you."
That conversation echoes in your head as you let yourself into your shared apartment, snow crunching under your boots. Your fingers are cold as they fumble with the keys and you remember, with a silent huff of frustration, how you'd left your gloves behind this morning. At least you'd remembered your coat this time, but the ache in your belly reminds you that you'd also left your lunch in the fridge, and by the time your lunch break rolled around, it didn't feel worth it to grab anything.
It's this line of thinking, the one that thinks an act of kindness towards yourself has to be earned or convenient, that betrays you. The apartment is warm, and your mind won't stop flashing to how nice it would feel to curl up on the sofa with your blankie and your weighted teddy bear and your mama right beside you.
In fact, it seems you've manifested that part. Natasha's suddenly leaning against the kitchen doorway, standing with her arms folded like she'd been there waiting for you to get home.
"Milaya," she murmurs, and you can feel that knot of anxiety in your belly unclench to something a little less tight. The warmth in her voice feels like a sunbeam through a sheet of ice, and you unconsciously relax your shoulders just a fraction.
"Hi," you manage, voice smaller than you want it to be. She tilts her head at that, eyes scanning you like she's mentally filing something away for later. She watches as you drop your keys in the little dish by the door, hang your coat on the hook, shake the last few snowflakes from your hair. Your attention suddenly shifts to the ache in your tummy, and you make a beeline for the fridge.
You've been thinking about it all day: a nice, cold bottle of raspberry lemonade, poured in your favorite pink cup. The sweet drink is everything you need to settle your mind after this long, cold, stressful day. You've been thinking all day about how yummy it will taste, and it's like a bubble popping in your chest when you open the fridge door to find your beloved drink not on its usual shelf.
"Um." You clear your throat and spin around, trying to keep your voice from wavering. You don't need to cry, not in front of Natasha and not at all when you don't have the time to regress. You swallow and try again. "Are we out of lemonade?"
"I haven't had time to run to the store, but—" Natasha sounds apologetic, and of course it isn't her fault, but you can't help the flash of upset that crosses your face.
"It's okay," you reassure quickly, turning away so she doesn't see the way your eyes shine. "No big deal."
"Sweetheart."
You almost start crying. It's like music to your ears and at the same time too much to handle, too heavy against the delicate balance of staying grown-up without falling apart. You blink fast so she won't see your composure waver.
"Maybe you should sit down for a second," Natasha suggests, taking a couple of steps towards you. She's gentle, always gentle with you, but something about the way she immediately clocks your need to be guided hits your brain at the wrong angle. Suddenly, your eyes are filled and your bottom lip is trembling and you can feel an unpleasant warmth in your cheeks that has nothing to do with coming in from the snow.
"No." The crack in your voice surprises you, but once it's out, you can't help the tears that flow down your cheeks. You shut the refrigerator door, so hard it makes you flinch because you didn't mean to slam it that hard and the noise hurt your ears and the way Natasha is looking at you, with only concern and never judgement in her expression, snaps something inside you.
"I want my lemonade." There's less attitude and more heartbroken disbelief that your special drink isn't even in the fridge. Your back hits the counter and you slide down against the cabinets, your hands coming up to fist in your hair like it'll keep you from floating away. The tears are moving hot down your cheeks and you're embarrassed to be seen falling apart, but all of the shame in your chest fizzles the moment Natasha kneels down on the kitchen floor in front of you.
"Hey, look at me," she breaths, light as a fox in the snow on your oversensitive little ears. "Look at me, detka." Her hands come up to rest on your wrists, and your hands unclench from your hair like magic. Her green eyes are like a magnet dragging your gaze to hers, and even through your tears, you can see that she's slipped into her own role.
"Mama," you hiccup through your tears, little arms coming out to wrap around her neck. She must have expected it, because she's prepared to scoop you into her arms right away, cradling your head against her shoulder while you snuffle and whimper into her neck. She bounces you gently, shushing you without an ounce of impatience in her voice.
"Mama's here, sweetheart," she coos into your ear, holding you securely on her hip as she carries you out of the kitchen. You bury your face in her hair, little hands gripping her sweater like she'll poof away if you let go. Your eyes are squeezed shut but you can tell she's bringing you to the living room, where a tiny part of your brain remembers you stashed your blankie in the ottoman.
"Mama, b'ankie," you sniffle, eyes filling with fresh tears at the thought of having to look for it all by yourself. You hiccup into her neck, ready to start sobbing again when suddenly, Mama wraps something warm and soft around the both of you. Your eyes pop open and you gasp at the sight of your blankie, fresh from the dryer and smelling just like safety and comfort and home.
"You've been pushing too hard again, little love," she murmurs, adjusting you in her lap so she can start loosening your icky work clothes. Your chest already feels so much lighter as you look around and realize: she's completely planned for this. Your softest baby pajamas are folded nicely on the coffee table, right next to the portable baby wipe warmer and a little snack plate. Your eyes don't stay on any one thing for long, because your little brain can only think about how much you want your Mama close. You let her cradle you in her lap, propped up on a soft pillow while she gently undresses you.
"That's it, little one," she says softly, smiling when a warm wipe under your chin makes you wrinkle your nose. "Just relax and let Mama take care of you." Pretty soon, you're all bundled up in pajamas that feel like a constant hug, giggling as Mama tickles your toes through your socks.
"Think you could try a bite to eat for me? Hm?" She's speaking rhetorically, because you're much too small by now to do anything but babble and smile and kick your little feet in content. The part of you that came home from work, already dreading another night of hiding away, has faded so much that you can't even remember what you were crying about. Your face lights up as Mama brings a green grape to your lips, cut in half because your safety is always her top priority. You let her feed you a selection of cheese cubes and little crackers shaped like fishies, and she murmurs soft praise every time you take another bite. "That's it, baby, I knew you could do it. Such a good girl letting Mama feed you."
Your tummy is finally starting to feel full and you're letting out a big stretch when Mama grabs something else off the coffee table. She holds up your special pink sippy cup, filled with something that's sure to be yummy. "Drink, sweetheart," she says gently, and as you bring the spout of the cup to your lips, your whole face lights up. Raspberry lemonade!
"My drink, Mama!" you gasp, looking at her like she hung the very moon and stars in the sky. A smile curves across her lips and she leans down to kiss your forehead, cradling you even closer.
"Mama was trying to tell you, sweetheart, I poured you the last of it," she says gently, rubbing your tummy as you keep drinking. "It's alright, sweet girl. You had a long day, hm?"
You don't answer with words, because of course she knows that part without you saying so, but you nuzzle your face into her neck. You feel the smile that spreads across her face as she adjusts to hug you against her properly, rocking just a bit to continue lulling you into that soft headspace. She reaches behind the couch, and you suddenly feel a weight in your lap. You look down to see your favorite stuffed bear, the one you always reach for when you're feeling this tiny. Of course Mama knew you would want him!
"Mama loves you," she whispers into your ear, tucking the bear against your chest. Your head falls on her shoulder, gravity knowing best who you need most when your brain needs a break. And as the evening fades into night, you're the safest place you could be in your Mama's arms, cradled and cared for and so, so very loved every moment.