Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Let me go.

It’s okay.

He’d felt her warm breath lightly tickle his newly shaven chin and he gripped her warm hand tightly; the familiar roughness of her gun callouses ever prominent on her slender fingers. He’d hugged her only minutes before, basking in the familiar feeling of home and utter safety in each other. He’d smelled her vanilla shampoo, his nose nestled in the crook between her neck and shoulder as they embraced, hands tangled in her blonde tips.

She’d been alive.

But Natasha was dead. She wasn’t out kicking ass, adding in sharp-tongued quips and wisecracks. She was lying in a growing pool of red, at the bottom of a mountain on another planet. Dead.

Dead like Barney.

Dead like Coulson.

Dead.

“Dad?”

He blinked and for one painful grief-addled moment, his mind conjured a redhead, giving him a concerned look hidden by a quip, ‘You sleeping on the job, Hawkeye?’

“Dad.”

He blinked Natasha away despite the fact he desperately wanted to hold onto her image, Lila, with her warm brown eyes identical to Laura’s stared back, a worried frown pulling at her lips, “Yeah, honey?”

“Can you teach me how to fight?”

Dad Clint kicked in, banishing the grief as the instincts took over.

“Lila,” he said sternly, tone chiding, “You know your mom would never let me. She’d kill me.”

“Dad, I wanna know how to protect myself,” her voice took on that stubborn lilt Clint could swear she’d learned from her aunt, it sounded exactly like when Natasha suggested a suicide run for herself so Clint could escort 4 injured S.H.I.E.L.D. agents plus a bleeding Coulson out of enemy territory. And Clint knew already he was going to be in deep shit with Laura later.

“Lila-”

“You won’t always be there to protect me, Dad. You can’t be at my shoulder forever,” his daughter had probably learnt ’10 of the most effective ways to call Clint on his bullshit’ from Natasha too. How was Natasha still micromanaging his life from death?

“Plus,” her voice softened, eyes pleading, not the puppy eyes, please not the puppy eyes, “Auntie Nat,” her voice caught, “She said she’d teach me when I was older.”

His next words caught in his throat. Auntie Nat. She’d laid down her fucking life for him, for Laura, for his kids, for half the fucking universe. And yet her purpose still lived on, stabbing him in the chest wherever he went. To see a toddler running towards their parents giggling, a couple tenderly holding hands, a group of friends chatting and laughing loudly. People she’d sacrificed her life, her identity that she’d fought tooth and nail for her entire life, for.

“Please, Dad.”

He folded, like always.

Like he folded every time he played a game of cards with Nat.

Like he folded every time his substantial willpower went to battle with hers.

Like he folded when her hand slipped out of his so she could plummet to her death.

“Okay. Okay, honey,” he lifted a hand to raggedly brush a hand through Lila’s hair, the repetitive motion grounding.

He got to 8 seconds of calm until he picked up a flash of red, not his hallucinogenic imagination putting in red hair in place of brown but a lock of brown hair dyed red.

He halted.

“Lila?” He picked out the strand, hiding the shaking of his hands and the guilt that erupted from his chest with the stoic professionalism of a retired spy.

“Oh, that,” she gently tugged away from him, fingers curling that strand mindlessly but with a little reverence, “It’s for Auntie Nat. Something to remember her by.”

“Oh, yeah? I think it’s sweet of you, honey,” his voice was still raw and her nonplussed expression was more than enough to tell him he was being utterly unconvincing at his facade of recovering and moving on.

They stood on the steps of the front porch for a little longer, the sunset bathing them in soft, soothing orange and pink hues, respectively lost in thought.

“I’m gonna head in, Dad. Mom wants me to watch Nate,” she kissed his cheek gently, squeezing his arm, “Thank you for saying yes.”

“Anytime, sweetie,” he let her slip off, the unspoken words in his mouth like stubborn ice blocks refusing to melt.

His sniper’s gaze wandered across the landscape of the farm, the wheat fields lit golden by the sinking sun and moving to and fro gently in the breeze. Everything Nat had stood for. Everything Nat had tried to protect. Home. Family. Love.

Love is for children.

The mantra had some credit, he thought cynically.

Lila strove to remember her daily, taking care of Nate, learning to fight and with that dyed red lock.

Cooper never went anywhere without the drawing of a knight and dragon Nat had drawn for a 6-year-old Cooper.

Nate proudly told everyone he met about who he’d been named after.

Clint reached for the necklace in his back pocket where he hadn’t taken it out of since he’d put it there after receiving it in the mail in a blank envelope that morning.

Silvery with a tiny, delicate arrow pendant that winked as it caught the sunlight, it was miniscule in his rough, calloused archer hands that had seen years of combat. Fragile.

But just as bright as the day he’d given it to Natasha over a decade ago with a bright cheerful smile and a sappy quip. The necklace that had represented their partnership and friendship. That small, fragile piece of jewellery was the only thing he had left of his best friend, apart from clothes where her scent was quickly fading from and photos.

He fastened it around his neck with none of the self-consciousness one would expect when one wore their own symbol. Physically, it was weightless but it felt like a old blanket, filling a little bit of the empty, aching void Natasha had left.

Love is for children

But like Natasha was so fond of telling him, he could still be a child.

Chapter Text

She still got up at sunrise like clockwork every day, a habit ingrained into every girl in the Red Room.

“Why are you up, it’s sooooo early!” 6-year-old Yelena pouted at Natasha who was sat up on her bed, knees tucked up.

“Go back to sleep, Lena,” Natasha replied, American accent slipping slightly in the early morning.

“Not without you,” she whined back.

She finally understood why Natasha had gotten up at sunrise every morning they spent together in Ohio.

Yelena stayed in bed for 10 more minutes, phone in hand as she hunted through her emails for any new missions her contact had found for her. You’ll get backache, Melina's voice still tutted in the back of her mind every time.

No new missions. Useless. It was about time she got a new contractor anyway.

Fanny leapt onto the bed a few seconds later, tail thumping on the mattress and tongue lolling out as usual to cover her in morning kisses, the early morning routine that they’d gotten used to whenever Yelena wasn’t on a mission.

She was giving Fanny a few minutes of belly rubs absentmindedly when she noted the date.

Sun, 25th Dec

Christmas. Ah, that must be why Melina had called her during her mission last week.

A sunken feeling in her stomach began to blossom as her mind back pedalled to the last Christmas she’d had, in 2017.

“I’m beginning to suspect you like my safehouses,” Natasha sauntered through the front door, a smug smirk on her cherry red lips.

She did not jump as she turned to glare at her sister, “Bah. They’re shit. No insurance. Don’t accept dogs.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, “Yet this is the third time I’ve caught you in my safehouse.”

“Why spend money and time setting up my own when I can steal big sister’s?” Yelena shot back; tongue stuck out at her.

“Real mature,” Natasha echoed her own words, chuckling.

“Why are you here? You said you were in Poland with Captain America? Did you bring him with you? If you’re going to be that sloppy, sestra, you should take him to Mama’s so Alexei will finally shut up,” Yelena taunted with an unimpressed look.

Natasha scoffed in reply, “I am not sloppy. And no, I didn’t bring Steve, he doesn’t have enough spy material in him.”

Yelena sniffed, “Shame.”

“So, what are you doing, Lena, apart from vandalising my safehouses?” She pointed that last remark towards the clear pen marker that was scribbled on the bright purple wallpaper next to the fireplace. Her enhanced eyesight picked up Russian names. Maybe from Yelena’s memory?

“It improves your interior design anyway, the blue and purple is shit,” Yelena went back to cleaning her knives, turning her back to the door since Natasha was here.

“I’ll have you know that this,” she gestured around them to the shocking purple curtains and lavender purple rug in front of the fireplace, “grandeur is definitely not my work. It’s Clint’s.”

She finally understood that reference after meeting Clint Barton herself. That man was an enigma, she didn’t understand how he’d survived for so long. And he wore an inane, completely unnecessary amount of purple.

“The house renovator?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, “No, my partner, Lenotschka.”

“Exactly,” Yelena turned, returning her knives to their individual sheaths, smirking triumphantly.

“Get dressed,” Natasha tossed a jacket at her, presumably aimed at her face, “We’re leaving in 10.”

She caught it and turned it over. It was a plaid coat, yellows and greens in the pattern, sophisticated enough that it didn’t appear childish and simple enough that Yelena didn’t hate it on sight.

“What are we doing?” Yelena called at her disappearing sister’s back, who was retreating to the bathroom.

Natasha didn’t reply. Obviously. Classic big sister move.

Yelena walked out of the bedroom exactly a minute after 10. Natasha gave her a critical look from where she’d she’d slouched on the sofa and kicked her platform boots on the coffee table.

“Seems I won’t need to give you a lecture on fashion,” Natasha got to her feet, flaunting her motorcycle keys in one hand, “Let’s go.”

Natasha was just as reckless on the motorcycle as she’d been 6 months ago in Budapest but dodged incoming cars and skidded around tight corners with surprising aptitude. Or perhaps the years’ worth of motorcycle chases that came entitled with espionage had rubbed off on her despite her 5-year hiatus.

“Did your renovator husband teach you how to drive?” she spoke into Natasha’s ear as she ducked under a bus driver’s side mirror.

Natasha didn’t reply but kicked her foot as they skidded to a halt in the car park of a nearby park.

Judging by Barton’s piss poor driving skills last week on the motorcycle, she was inclined to think it was the other way around.

“What’s this?” Yelena questioned as Natasha stepped forward towards the park entrance confidently.

Her sister threw a nonchalant glance backward towards her, expression both worried and amused.

“It’s a park, Lena,” she said dryly.

“Yes but,” Yelena waved in between them, “This. You’re fugitives with Captain America. You’re meant to be in Poland. Why are you here?”

“Cause I wanted to spend time with you, the Widow who’s been sleeping in my apartment for the past month, on Christmas Day,” Natasha walked back over to her, green eyes soft in understanding, “It’s just us, Lenotschka. Just us. No Red Room. No Dreykov. No mission. Just us.”

“Really?” Yelena looked up at her sister despite the fact they were practically the same height, both really fucking tiny.

Natasha nodded in confirmation, a smile on her lips.

“Okay,” Yelena strode towards the park entrance with more boldness in her tone than she felt, “Keep up, sestra. Or are you getting old?”

“Never. I could still dump you on your ass any day, Lena,” Natasha laughed, following with a warm smile on her face.

Yelena smiled back and for a moment, despite Natasha’s dyed blond hair and Yelena’s painted blue nails, it felt like Ohio again.

It was real to me, too.

It felt real.

They strolled through the park, bickering all the way and eventually settled in a comfortable rhythm of analysing the people they could see. Yelena let out an undignified snort when Natasha identified a young couple and said ‘They won’t last another week. She’s too pretty and he’s too fat.’

Yelena silently, in her head, admired how Natasha kept her cool in the whiteness of the forest, how she didn’t react to how similar it looked to the Red Room training grounds in winter. The only thing that grounded her was Natasha’s low lilting tone recalling amusing anecdotes: some about Ohio, some about Clint Barton and his family and some about the Avengers.

“Oh!” Natasha's hand caught Yelena’s arm and directed her attention towards a little cafe in the centre of the park where two little girls had just received waffles from the kind old man in charge of the café and their mother was berating one for dripping chocolate sauce all over their clothes in rapid German.

“Clint took me there once. We had a 24-hour leave after a mission and he insisted we get waffles. He wouldn’t survive without sugar for a day,” she said with a nostalgic smile and Yelena’s heart clenched. She wished, for one foolish, childish second that Natasha talked about her with that much love and affection folded into words.

She wasn’t to know that Natasha had told Clint about her fiery little sister who refused to sleep without her and teased her mercilessly when they were older.

“Come on, Lena.”

A couple of minutes later, both of them had hot chocolates and steaming waffles, settled on a less icy bench after a small squabble over which bench to sit as all of them were frozen solid and covered in little ice crystals. Yelena's waffles were double chocolate and strawberries while Natasha had chocolate and banana. She watched Natasha bite into hers first, even though she’d watched the man make theirs herself, she still couldn’t completely shake off the paranoia that she could be poisoned.

Cautiously, she took a small nibble of hers. A burst of sweetness settled on her tongue like a small explosion. The fresh sweet tang of the strawberries and the sweetness of the chocolate made a nice mix and she took another bite, bigger this time, eager to retain the taste.

She looked up once she was halfway through to see Natasha’s fond smile as she sipped her hot chocolate.

“Drink it as well,” she pointed her chin at Yelena’s neglected hot chocolate, “It’s not as good as hot chocolate with vodka but its good.”

“Nothing’s better than vodka,” Yelena answered petulantly.

She simply rolled her eyes.

Natasha was right, as always, the hot chocolate was good, rich and almost scalding hot but warm and Yelena took a few seconds to have as much hot chocolate as she dared before returning to the waffles which were quickly cooling in the frigid air.

Once both of them had polished off a second waffle each, Yelena appraised the clearing where the café stood, committing it to memory.

Yelena was suddenly surprised by a gloved hand wiping off chocolate sauce from her mouth. She tensed automatically and Natasha moved her hand away easily without showing any discomfort or notice.

She shrugged casually when Yelena gave her a questioning look, “Can’t have my sister looking like an embarrassment. We’re hanging out together after all.”

They took a different route out of the clearing, this time much quieter and isolated than the one they took to the café. It was clear the path had been undisturbed since snowfall too and Yelena stared at the icy expanse in front of them and tried her best to keep moving. Don’t let the red build up. One step at a time, Yelena reminded herself.

She still flinched at every crunch of their footsteps in the snow.

10 minutes after they left the cafe clearing, a phone rang. Natasha excused herself, burner phone out, leaving Yelena with her thoughts.

“Hey, Birdbrain, what’s wrong this time? Don’t tell me-“

Yelena silently watched her sister talk with her friend, smiling throughout and laughing at a joke the other person made.

The previous thoughts she’d had in the car park rose up in her mind again as Natasha said into the phone teasingly, “I really can’t leave you alone for 2 seconds, can I?”

Why was she here?

Natasha had all her Avenger friends, even though she was a fugitive and it was hard work hiding a load of people who were trained spies, Yelena knew that from experience after spending the past few months settling freed Widows into Natasha’s worldwide web of safehouses. And Captain America, the black Bird guy and that witch were definitely not spy material. Why had Natasha left them behind to see her?

Oh sure, they were sisters but only sisters created out of a fake mission in Ohio to get S.H.I.E.L.D. intel. She and every other Widow were sisters. Natasha and she were no different. Without Ohio, Natasha would simply be the Black Widow, the one the instructors would constantly compare them to and sing praises of. Yelena would just be another Widow to Natasha.

At the last second, she saw a projectile in the air, heading towards her. Shit. Natasha. Yelena turned rapidly to look for her and for her troubles, she got smacked in the face with something cold and wet.

Once she’d wiped it out of her face, she saw Natasha’s grinning face, lips curled in amusement and green eyes crinkled.

“сука,” she glared at her sister, with no heat behind her tone, already bending down to gather snow to launch back. (Bitch)

They weaved between the tall pine trees, Natasha darted in and out of sight and Yelena followed, occasionally getting a hit on an errant limb. Natasha pelted her with snowballs by running circles around her which Yelena eventually caught onto, much to her irritation.

She halted in the middle of a small clearing, pausing to listen for Natasha’s footsteps. A small rustle there to the left of her about 4m 0140°. Give or take 5 degrees. Yelena grinned despite herself and on a countdown of 3 launched herself at that shrub, never mind the pines, to latch onto the Black Widow caught by surprise.

Yelena shoved snow at Natasha’s bare neck, Natasha returned that in kind with snow kicked up by their scuffle making its way into her warm layers.

They laughed and played in the snow as if they were two sisters in Ohio again and no one who knew them would recognise them, two deadly assassins playing like children.

Panting and huffing, their pale complexions from childhoods spent in the Red Room were coloured red and they sat opposite each other in the snow, each armed with snow balls, Yelena creating some more even as they had a stare off.

“признай это, я выиграла, сестра.” (Admit it, I’ve won, sister.)

“Над моими ножами,” Yelena hissed back. (Over my knives)

Both Widows launched themselves at each other, the exact parallel of how they met in Budapest, apart from the fact the spar was playful, in intention, much more so than last time.

Exhausted and thoroughly covered in wet snow, they sat on the same bench with extra large hot chocolates in the cafe clearing again, which the old man had handed over with a knowing, mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

“I won,” Yelena said, once her insides felt more reminiscent of a human being than the icicle once more.

“You wish,” Natasha snorted as she stretched out her fingers where she was finally regaining some feeling.

“I did. Definitely,” Yelena replied stubbornly, “Who called ‘quits’, first?”

“Me, so we didn’t both freeze our asses off in a German park,” Natasha raised a pointed eyebrow at her.

“Bah, the Red Room trained us better than that. They trained you better than that, черная вдова.” (Black Widow)

“No, I pulled us out because that’s what big sisters do,” Natasha replied, neatly covering up her visceral flinch when Yelena used her Russian codename.

Yelena stared back, wide-eyed. It was the first time she ever remembered Natasha saying that outright, that she was Yelena's big sister.

Her sister’s green eyes, hardened from years of experience Yelena could never match, stared back with a firm, unshakable countenance that must match Captain America.

“The Western world has made you soft, sestra,” Yelena whispered with a hint of a smirk in her tone.

“No. It’s given me Ohio,” Natasha replied with a soft smile, “Clint, who can barely walk two feet in his apartment without tripping. Coulson who signals like a conscientious old lady on the road. Hardass Maria Hill with a marshmallow heart. The Avengers. Snarky headstrong genius Tony. Equally headstrong and stubbornly good Steve. A second Ohio. But they will never replace you, sestra.”

“It was real to you?” Yelena asked, voice barely a voice above whisper but her words still seemed to carry in the quiet clearing.

“конечно, сестра. It was real to me too.” (Of course, sister.)

A tear slowly made its way down her cheek and it was eagerly snuffled up by Fanny’s wet tongue as she whined, sensing her owner’s distress and batted her head against her chest repeatedly. Yelena put her arms around the pup and for a moment, she breathed and all her grief for Natasha poured out. Fanny didn’t seem to mind the tears, simply licking her hand and staying still.

“Bet you’re going to fall down first!” a 10-year-old blue-haired Natasha grinned at her, no masks, no facades, just Natasha.

“No, you will!”

“Get. Away. From. My. Sister,” Yelena looked over her shoulder to see Natasha in all her blue-haired glory marching towards the gang of boys who all simply smirked.

“Aw, so does little bitty Lena need her big sister to save her?” one of the boys mocked, looking over Yelena.

She stared up fearfully but reached out a hand behind. Natasha’s hand clasped it and squeezed tightly.

“Move. Or I’ll make you move,” Natasha stared face to face into the boys’, free first clenched and a fearsome glower on her face.

The ringleader of the boys snorted disdainful, “I’d like to see you try.”

Smack.

The boy went sprawling backwards, nose bursting with blood and bent in the wrong shape. The other boys stared in shock from their leader to Natasha, eyes comically wide.

“Come on, Lena. Let’s go home. Mama made pancakes.”

Natasha turned on her heel without another look back, pulling Yelena along.

“So are we gonna talk like grown ups?” Natasha’s familiar voice rang out in the apartment. Americanised.

Yelena inwardly snorted even as she grabbed her gun. Her sister was American. Embarrassing.

She pivoted and sidestepped into view through the doorframe leading into the kitchen, gun up, finger on the trigger, just like she was trained.

Natasha came into view at the same second like a mirror, down to how she was holding her gun. She looked exactly like she looked on the news, leather jacket, red hair tied back.

She smirked, “Is that what we are?”

“You can’t just steal a guy’s car!” Natasha said, voice as brimming with disapproval as Melina's had when Yelena and Natasha ran into the house, soaking because they’d played outside in the rain.

Yelena rolled her eyes. Soft. How disappointed the Red Room must be in their star pupil.

“So you want me to go back and unsteal it?” She said, voice dripping with the sheer ridiculousness of the idea as she leapt into the passenger seat.

Natasha rolled her eyes in reply as she swung herself into the driver’s seat.

“Danke,” she took the waffles from the same old man that had served her and Natasha waffles. (Thank you, in German)

Fanny put her paws on Yelena’s knees, sniffing the waffles with interest.

“Down, Fanny,” she said firmly, “A week with Barton’s dog and this is what you are?”

Fanny obeyed, eyes big and brown and pleading.

“Wo ist deine Schwester?” the old man asked with a kind smile at Fanny’s antics. (Where is your sister?)

“Sie starb,” Yelena said shortly, "Frohe Weihnachten.” (She died. Merry Christmas.)

She led Fanny out of the cafe, carefully balancing her waffles and the leash in each hand, forcing her emotions back down her throat.

Her eyes rested on the bench that, for her, exactly a year ago, she’d sat on with Natasha and she’d wiped off chocolate sauce from her lips.

If she squinted, she could see Natasha smiling at her invitingly.

Pain only makes you stronger.

She walked over to the bench, let go of Fanny’s leash knowing the pup wouldn’t wander off and bit into the waffles. Double chocolate and strawberries. It tasted the same, a mixture of fresh and sweet.

She watched Fanny play with some young children whose family had settled on another bench, leaping into the air and snapping up the softly falling snow.

Her eyes rested on the young red-haired girl who had found a stick to throw for Fanny and Fanny raced after it, barking excitedly.

The falling snow settled on her lap and she flicked it off, it was powdery and fresh enough to scatter all over her coat.

Powder. She shuddered, trying not to recall the feeling of being reduced to powder when the Blip occurred.

That girl was real. Fanny was real. The waffles were real. She was real.

It was real to me, too.

Ohio was real too.

Chapter Text

Unconsciously, he’d expected something more to returning to the future. Or more accurately, returning from an alternate timeline.

But there was nothing. He was there, looking at Peggy who smiled at him through her tears encouragingly and then he wasn’t.

The lakeside and the lake itself had been surprisingly untouched by the battle. The same waves lapped the lakeshore gently. The same birds sung their sweet songs overhead. The same trees still stood tall, as they would 100 years from now. But scars of the battle, that for everyone here was only days ago while decades ago for Steve, were still visible. Debris was scattered across the other side of the lakeside that he could see; a fine layer of ash coated tree trunks and he could see the ruins of the Compound.

It was strange to know that he’d lived an entire lifetime in a single moment.

The weight of the shield in his hand never seemed heavier as he set it down against the bench, he lowered himself on. It was no longer a reminder of what Howard Stark had given him, not the symbol of Captain America; to him, it'd become a symbol of hardship and loss.

Tony had used his repulsors to reflect off the shield, countless times over the years in Avengers missions. Once, they’d been fighting giant lizards, on the Memorial Day for the Battle of New York a year later in Houston and Tony’s repulsor beam bouncing off his shield had vaporised half of the creatures.

Natasha had wielded the shield with equal, if not more, deadliness, with a surprising amount of brute strength which he’d learnt the hard way when she started training him, infused with her effortless grace.

He had kept it throughout his entire lifetime, a daily reminder of the two fallen Avengers, a sobering representation of the strong team they once were. Their sacrifices reflecting harshly how much hardship a hero had to endure.

He was brought out of his recollections by a shout of ‘Steve!’ behind him, Sam and Bucky’s voices. They’d seen him. His two closest friends, after so long. Bucky, who’d been with him till the end of the line. Sam, who’d stood by his shoulder ever since Steve ran past him at the park near the Washington Monument. Natasha was the one missing piece of the picture.

Funnily enough, he’d never told Peggy much about Natasha. When he’d flung himself back into the past, her death had been so recent, so raw, an open wound for him, and he’d refused to have that loss stitched and healed mentally because he feared that moving on would result in him losing the memory of his best friend.

Natasha, brilliance, mystery and sheer bloody-mindedness rolled into one. He’d never expected her to become one of his closest friends when they first met on the Helicarrier.

Steve Rogers, fresh out of the ice, saw a petite redhead who carried herself with ease and dripped confidence like Peggy. He’d thought, not a woman to cross. Her ambiguous statements and general air of mystery had aggravated him at first, at the start of their friendship but he gradually began to accept it. And despite being intensely private, Natasha had been the one person willing to show him around New York, dragging him to the store to find him a favourite cereal brand, taking him to her preferred spots and limitlessly patient with his hopelessness at technology and modern life in general.

Natasha had put up with a lot with him, Steve thought as Bucky and Sam’s footsteps came closer. Time, he reflected, that debt was repaid and he lived up to her name. Finally live up to everything she’d fought for and kept together with her bare hands during the Snap.

He felt slow, hesitant footsteps come up behind him and round the bench Steve had sat on.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam inhaled sharply but instantly recognised him, “Cap?”

Steve looked up, Sam looked like himself as always, stupid of him to think he’d look any different, it had only been seconds for Sam, and smiled gently with all the joy of seeing his old friend after decades.

“Hi, Sam.”

Autumn 2024

Steve couldn’t get out of the house anymore without someone, usually Sam or Bucky, at his side. People tended to come to see him now, Sam and Bucky every few days, Pepper and Morgan every few months, Bruce was a little more spontaneous through they called regularly while Clint and his family came every month without fail.

He’d never had the occasion to get particularly close with Clint’s kids beforehand but his own experience with his own kids gave him some element of mastery of his role as uncle. Nate, the youngest, loved any story about the Avengers or his dad and his Auntie Nat. Lila was quiet and kind reminding him of Natasha with her sparky headstrong nature. Then there was Cooper, who definitely took after Clint with some of his mother’s gentler traits.

Steve relished every visit, every familiar face that visited even though it emphasised who was absent amongst those people.

Days went by with alarming regularity until 2 years after his return to this timeline, he began to struggle to move. Old age, he’d thought dryly, he thought he’d escape it with his serum.

But eventually, he was reduced to sitting in his armchair or lying-in bed, only able to move for short periods of time or low energy activities. He sat and watched the news, sketched whenever a memory hit him, often of Natasha or Tony and cooked whenever he could conjure the energy for it. His repertoire, first explored by Nat and next by Laura, who had picked up the mantle by leaving a recipe whenever she visited, wasn’t particularly expansive or interesting but he could do a mean spagbol which everyone approved of.

Spring 2025

He opened his eyes, lead filling his limbs as he forced himself to sit up. The curtains were drawn open, as usual and just how he liked it, so sunlight spilled in. Usually, he would stand in front of the window or sit nowadays to look at the sky and enjoy the peace. But today his eyes were drawn to a different image.

Legs thrown across each other nonchalantly and clad in a leather jacket and leggings, sat Natasha Romanoff on his armchair, looking for all in the world like she owned the place.

“Well,” she drawled, a smirk on her lips, and stretched leisurely, “Look whose finally up.”

“Nat?” he whispered, breathless at the sight of her.

She spread her arms out, fully smirking now, “Who else would sit in your room and wait for you to wake up? You really take your beauty sleep seriously, Rogers.”

He swung his legs out of bed with more strength he’d collectively had in the past year to stagger across the room to stand in front of Natasha.

From the damn half-smile lingering on her red lips to the ankle boots she liked to wear, it was unmistakably her. Copper curls were loose in a myriad of colour to frame her face and her green eyes glinted with their usual mirth.

She looked up at him, eyebrow arched in true Natasha Romanoff fashion, “If you’re gonna stand and stare all day, Rogers, I’m going to go fix myself a cup of coffee.”

Before she even had to chance to move towards the door, Steve didn’t care whether this was a damn dream or hallucination of old age, he enveloped her in a tight hug and to his delight, she was solid and warm. He felt her arms go around him without hesitation and he indulged in the fact Nat was here. He didn’t care how; he didn’t care if he’d wake up to find it was just a dream but he hasn’t seen her for nearly a century. He’d missed her.

They drew apart enough so they could see each other’s face and she smiled at him softly though her tone held a hint of mischief, “I told you not to take my teasing to heart, Rogers. But what’d you do: of course, you take it in the most literal sense.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t have my second-in-command to counsel, did I?” he replied, smiling back widely, so wide he thought he was going to tear his face apart with his happiness.

“Granted, I know you’re lost without me,” she shot back.

“I don’t think I missed your wit,” he grumbled good-naturedly but he still grinned, nothing could take away his joy from seeing her, not even if Thanos busted down the door, “Sam and Buck equate to you pretty well.”

She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, not a hair out of place, “Equate? It should be ‘they could never match up to you’. Didn’t you learn how to charm a lady in the 40s, Rogers?”

“Buck’s the charmer,” Steve said sheepishly in explanation.

“Yeah, I guess James is a pretty damn good flirt.”

“James?” Steve spluttered.

“That’s his name, isn’t it?” She deadpanned in reply.

“Yeah, well, only his Ma calls him that.”

“I refuse to call the Winter Soldier Bucky,” she toed the door open, “Now enough with your Clint impression, let’s go get breakfast.”

He shut his mouth and decided not to ask why spluttering in shock was a Clint trait. As they went down the stairs, he did consider that being Natasha’s partner for nearly 20 years would mean you’re always on the back foot. God knows he always felt like that when he was her partner at S.H.I.E.L.D. Or at any point in the time he’d known her.

He did the eggs and bacon while Nat sliced fresh fruit and after a few minutes of bantering over the pitiful state of his fridge, he ventured to ask, “How are you here, Nat?”

He turned to slide one of his nicely done eggs and crisp bacon onto a plate just in time to see her shrug, “How the hell would I know? If I wanted to, I would’ve been waiting for you eating Sam’s banana bread and drinking coffee than sitting in your bedroom while Sleeping Beauty awaits her morning kiss.”

Steve snagged a piece of said banana bread as he turned to crack another egg. Sam had left an entire bus load of banana bread after his last visit, an original Wilson family recipe he and Bucky were taking full advantage of.

“Yeah but. How are you here? You’re-”

“Dead, yes I know. Cracked my head open on Vormir,” she said bluntly.

He winced; Nat had always been so unapologetically brusque with her speech.

“But are you really going to question it when we’ve met talking raccoons and walking trees as well as fight for the universe against a giant purple asshole?” He was glad she wasn’t looking at him at the moment for he was 100% sure she was giving him one of her patented unimpressed looks.

He wisely decided not to answer as he slid a fried egg onto her plate, pleased his hands had not betrayed him to old age yet. Natasha, meanwhile, had made a colourful display of fruits all cut with extreme precision: strawberries, kiwi, apricots and pears all arranged them on a plate. He brought the plates of crispy bacon and fried eggs to the table along with Sam’s banana bread.

“Not bad for two Avengers,” she commented amusedly, her gaze sweeping over the food laid out on the table with a critical eye.

“Well, Peggy would never have married me if I wasn’t willing to learn how to cook,” they both sat down and he smiled fondly in memory, “I have an expansive repertoire of a Victoria sponge cake and scones. Whatever takes your fancy.”

“I’m glad Peggy kept you in line,” she replied and then grinned slyly, “Though no doubt you enjoyed it.”

Steve stared back at her, determined not to blush though his ears were turning red.

She smirked as she picked up the glass of juice, “I thought getting married would at least make you a little bit less ‘Captain Virtuous’.”

He resumed eating hastily, determined ignoring Natasha’s piercing gaze and subsequent laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, Nat. I understand now why Clint felt like you were his work wife,” he muttered under his breath.

Her eyes softened a little at the mention of her best friend.

“They miss you, you know,” he continued, trying and failing to keep his voice casual, “Lila dyed her hair red. Nate can’t go a visit without asking for an Auntie Nat story. Cooper wants to do everything you did and go wherever you went. Laura makes your hot chocolate blend for me. Clint-” he couldn’t drag himself to keep going.

There were no words to describe the pain Clint went through and was still processing though the first few months had been the hardest. He still talked about Natasha fondly to his kids but everyone could see the sheer agony behind his expression.

“I wish I could see them,” Natasha stared into her plate, biting her lip, dragging her fork in the air listlessly, as lost and pained as her partner often looked at the vaguest mention of her.

Steve's eyes widened as he realised something and he called out, “Hey, FRIDAY, when did Clint say he’ll be here by?”

“10 o’clock, Captain,” the smooth voiced AI answered.

An excited grin spread across his old wrinkled features. There were only a few minutes to 10. But that expression fell when he turned back to Natasha.

Her head was bent, fork now laid on the table beside her plate and her voice was only a whisper, “I can’t see Clint, Steve. Or any of them.”

“Why not?” He persisted, frowning, “It’s only five minutes more.”

“Steve,” she got up, a mere shadow of her former self, and took the few steps around the table towards him, stopping a metre away.

She lifted her arms to gesture at herself, “You know I’m not real. I’m just a figment of your imagination.”

“No, you’re not,” he replied stubbornly, standing up to stand opposite her, “You’re real. I hugged you and you were warm, solid. Real.”

Natasha shook her head, smiling a sad, hollow smile that seemed to reach inside him to tear the joy of the entire morning into shreds, “Let me go, Steve. It’s okay. You can let go of me.”

“But you’re real,” he stepped towards her but she moved back, unshed tears shimmering in her green eyes, “Don’t say that. How did you cut the fruits? How did you eat?”

“I didn’t,” and it was true, Steve glanced at the untouched plate and similarly full glass of juice.

“But,” he stepped again to touch her, to prove she was real and corporeal but Natasha sidestepped him easily.

“I’m not real.”

He lunged at her and stumbled. The floor came up towards him and he cursed, bracing for impact but it never came.

He blinked his eyes open. 4 sets of eyes stared at him.

“Why were you sleeping on the sofa, Uncle Steve? Were you naughty like Daddy?” Nate asked, his eyes round with curiosity and a Clint-like grin on his face.

“Are you alright?” Lila’s warm dark brown eyes bore into his worriedly.

“Give him some space,” Laura’s soft voice cut through the children’s unending questions of curiosity, like a lighthouse in the dark and Steve smiled up at the woman weakly with gratitude, for admittedly he’d started to get a headache.

“How are you? We found you sleeping on the sofa when we came in and FRIDAY says you fell but you’re not hurt,” her brows were furrowed and she carefully fed him a few sips of water which alleviated his dizziness greatly.

“I’m okay. I- someone caught me. I fell and,” his words caught up in his throat as he realised what had happened.

She hadn’t been real.

Yet she’d caught him.

“Someone?” Laura coaxed gently.

“Yes,” he stopped. It would sound so foolish; it was obvious now. He had been so caught up, so happy seeing her again that, after the first minutes of endless question, he’d pushed it aside, believed in the desperate fantasy for enjoying her company once more. But it could never last. And she’d tried to tell him and he didn’t listen. Just like how he’d ignored her when she said there was still a way to save the Dusted.

“How is he- hey! You’re awake, how are you feeling?” Clint walked in through the doorway, “Laura, I brought in the bags.”

“Good. I can leave the pair of you here without supervision for a few minutes, right?”

Steve said earnestly, “We’ll try our best, ma’am,” at the same time Clint said, “I resent that implication.”

Laura arched an eyebrow.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Clint said resigned, bowing under the power of his wife’s disapproval.

As soon as Laura left, Clint turned on Steve, “Dude, ‘we’ll try our best?’ She’s not asking us to trek through the Himalayas.”

“Hey, I learned in 60 years of marriage not to say no to a woman,” Steve defended.

The archer gave him an offended look before plonking himself lackadaisically onto an armchair.

“So why were you on the couch? Fully tucked in and whatnot.”

Steve’s first instinct was to immediately explain but he caught himself. Not because Clint wouldn’t believe him because they’d met aliens and time travelled and seen all sorts of people with powers they would’ve thought impossible, especially in recent years but because there was no way he could explain Natasha without hurting him. Clint was only just starting to smile freely again and joke like he was used to.

So he lied feebly, “I was tired.”

Clint's brow furrowed, much like his wife, “Already? What, did you run laps around the garden?”

He shrugged.

The other retired avenger’s expression looked even more incredulous but let it pass though he kept a closer eye on Steve throughout the entire visit.

Autumn 2025

“Steve.”

He frowned, trying to open his eyes. It was so hard to do even that now. That voice sounded familiar, sounded like someone he knew, someone close to him, but the hazy drug-like power of dreams kept pulling him back.

“Steve. Open your damn eyes.”

He forced his eyes open and it felt like surfacing from a deep dive, as if he’d been in another state of being entirely. He blinked owlishly up at the face peering down at him.

Natasha stared back, her emerald eyes half-exasperated and half concerned.

“Nat?” he croaked, “Why are- why are you here?”

“To wake you up, dumbass. You’ve been sleeping too long.”

He frowned again, trying to peer at the window to work out what time it was but his head refused to detach from the pillow and his vision swam.

“It’s 4 in the afternoon,” her voice was definitely concerned now.

“Oh,” he struggled fruitlessly in a losing battle to prop himself up and warm, delicate hands as strong as steel pulled him up gently, “Sorry. I promised Buck I wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, be glad it’s me and not him,” she teased with a smile tugging at her lips, “Though you should always be glad to see me. What a welcoming committee, Rogers.”

“Sorry, I would spruce up the room a bit but I was sleeping and you came out of the blue,” he managed to formulate a response in return, feeling more like himself as he fell into the familiar rhythm of banter with his best friend. He ignored the voice in his head that reminded him she was only an illusion of his addled mind.

“My deepest apologies,” she answered dryly but her expression turned serious and she turned towards the door of his bedroom, “You haven’t eaten for nearly a day. Let me go get you some of Laura’s apple pie.”

“I’m fine, Nat. I don’t need it.”

She spun around, something fiery in her eyes, “Steve, you will eat. You haven’t eaten since Sam and Bucky came yesterday morning and even that was barely a breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, “You sound like Nate. Request denied.”

She returned with a tray, a small slice of Laura's infamous apple pie, a glass of Bucky’s fruit smoothie which were Barton favourites and a cookie from the batch Morgan had made a few days ago.

Her expression was ready for battle, her lips pursed in a tight line and her emerald eyes glinted with characteristic hardness.

“Nat,” he said in a useless attempt to sway her.

“Option 1,” she continued, ignoring his plea, “You eat the cookie- that’s non-negotiable, a substantial amount of the pie and half the glass. Option 2, I force you to have the entire cookie, pie and juice. It’s up to you.”

He sighed, grudgingly giving in, he didn’t think he had enough energy to argue against her. She sat on the armchair she had sat on when she last appeared, watching him eat the pie with hawkish watchfulness.

Steve set down the cutlery with as much care he could manage with shaking hands once he’d finished eating the pie, “I’ll have the cookie and the juice if you can let me go outside.”

“No. It’s too cold,” Natasha replied immediately, her firm tone brooking no argument but Steve was not known for backing down.

“I’ll eat another cookie,” he persisted.

She gave him a withering look he probably deserved for trying to bribe her with his own health, “I’ve known you for over 10 years, Steve. I know you better than that.”

“Well then you know I don’t break my promises,” he countered.

That gave her pause.

“Fine,” she took the tray off his bed and placed it on the windowsill, “I’m only doing this cause you’re going to eat 2 cookies.”

He decided it was wise to keep silent.

Getting down the stairs was even worse than any beating Steve had received. His legs quivered beneath him, as shaky as a new-born foal, and he clutched onto the railing as tightly as his shaking hands could. Natasha guided him down a step at a time, throwing jibes at him to keep him motivated, as always nudging him into action.

Winter 2012

“C’mon, Rogers, you’ve got to be able to put up a better fight than that,” he groaned as he pulled himself off the mat, Romanoff had managed to smack the breath out of him with one punch.

“You know, one would think you’re the super soldier out of the two of us,” Steve faced her again; she was bouncing like a spring on the balls of her feet, smirking, no sign of hurry from the punch he’d landed on her side.

“I would too. Now, show me some of that famous Captain America brawl of yours,” her bright emerald eyes twinkled with mirth, “By now, you should’ve realised I hit as hard as you.”

“You think?” He readied himself, bringing up his taped hands, watching her movements carefully to see when and where would be best for him to strike.

“Ah, so you aren’t slow. Good for you, you’re faster than Barton,” she halted to a standstill, beckoning with a sharp grin.

He didn’t even have time to think about the comment about being slow much less conjure up a counter as he lashed out.

“I’d love it if you stopped blacking out on me, Rogers.”

His hands twitched to brush against smooth leather, a warm quilt tucked around him like a baby; in his swimming vision, he could make out bright red bent over the sofa.

“You got your wish, you’re roughly 10 steps away from outside. If you black out again, I’m hauling your ass straight back into bed,” she approached him, snapping her fingers in front of his face, “Eyes on me, soldier.”

“Must’ve- fell asleep,” he slurred, reaching up to grab one of her copper red curls hanging tantalisingly in front of his nose.

It fell between his weak fingertips as silky as water.

She shook her head.

“You dropped straight into my arms, dumbass,” her voice lacked her usual bite.

“Yeah, well, you- you owe me- one Nat. I- hauled you outta the fort,” he blinked sluggishly as 20 Nats stared worriedly at him.

“Well, who saved whose ass when you lost your motorbike in Hell’s Kitchen?” the multiple Natashas seemed to condense into one, whose petite hands were hauling him up to his feet and arranged a coat over his thin shoulders.

“I always know- know I can count on you ‘tasha,” he gripped her forearm weakly, his entire bodyweight leaning against her.

“Uh huh,” she moved slowly through the hallway to the open front door, ambient light filtered into the unlit hallway.

“Oh, that’s why it’s cold,” he tried to step forward himself, towards the door but her strong grasp of his bicep stopped him, “Nat, I’m not- not, not an invalid.”

“Keep telling yourself that Rogers,” she ignored the shoes, the rocking chairs on the porch were barely two stops from the front door and she doubted Steve could manage the gymnastics of balancing on one foot.

Steve’s vision sharpened into stunning clarity as cold crisp autumn air hit him at full blast when they stepped over the threshold. Natasha positioned herself to shield him from the cold, lowering him carefully into the seat and piling a mountain of blankets and quilts on top of him.

He was too busy enjoying fresh air to take much notice of what she was doing. It had been months since he’d stepped a foot out of his house, months under the watchful surveillance of his well-meaning friends. The changing of seasons had transformed the surrounding scenery into a blur of oranges and golds and only his hardiest plants still stood upright, buffeted by the harsh icy winds.

The evergreen pine trees that encircled the perimeter of his garden were meanwhile flourishing with every shade of green from the light green of new life to the vivid emerald like Nat’s eyes.

Nat!

His attention snapped to look around him for the flash of red. She couldn’t have disappeared already. His momentary panic was relieved when she stepped through the door, a plate of cookies and a thermos in hand, looking faintly amused.

“Enjoying yourself?” she set down the plate of cookies and thermos to rearrange the blankets, brought right up to his chin but leaving one arm free which she handed the thermos.

“It’s nice.”

“Drink the tea,” she commanded sternly when he tried to subtly set it down, her eyebrows pinched together.

“Yes, ma’am,” his shivering hands didn’t obey him however, shaking too hard for him to even think of taking a sip and eventually her hands rested on top of his to guide the thermos to his lips.

Natasha then took a step back and crossed her arms, glowering at him with a remarkably familiar ice, “I hauled your ass outside, risking the wrath of at least 10 people, so pay up.”

He grinned lopsided at the redhead, “Does that mean I finally get to see a stare off between the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier?”

“Eat your cookie, Steve,” she sighed, carefully evading his question and seated herself on the other rocking chair.

He’d have to remember to ask one of them about that.

They sat in companionable silence; Steve warded against the chill by the enviable number of blankets he’d acquired over the years while Natasha sipped the tea, refusing a blanket however many times he offered it.

“You hate the cold, Nat,” Steve said finally, after spending the better part of an hour watching her stare into the distant treeline.

“I’m a Russian, Steve. The cold doesn’t bother me,” she deadpanned still gazing at the glimmering lights dancing beneath the nearest pine tree.

“Yeah, but you hate it,” he pointed out, “You complained to me when we were thousands of feet up in the air about how cold it was.”

He could only see half her face but he watched a smile grace her lips, “I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. R & D were thinking of me being halfway to space in my catsuit when they designed it.”

“How thoughtless of them,” he said dryly as he set down the cookie he’d been half-heartedly nibbling on.

“Cookie, Rogers,” he picked it up again, slightly sheepish, he’d tried to fool himself into believing she wasn’t watching.

Steve let the chocolate chip melt on his tongue as he watched his friend. Her skin was smooth and clear of any blemishes or wrinkles and her expression was relaxed as was her flawless posture but he could read some tension in her. Perks of being friends with super spies for a decade.

“There’s worse ways to go,” he quoted softly.

Her head snapped around, warning in her tone, “Steve-”

“Everyone’s trying to ignore it, Tasha but you could at least acknowledge it. I’m not going to live till Christmas,” he settled the cookie down again, blue eyes wide and earnest, “C’mon, you were always the one to brush past the niceties.”

“Yes, you’re dying,” she cut through his ramble, straight to the point as always, “But you could at least try. Eat. Drink. Wake up. Don’t do reckless things like sit in the cold,” her tone rose in pitch and fervour, lobbying back sharp words, “Steve Rogers never just gave up.”

“Where else am I going to get a view like this though, Nat? The trees, the autumn leaves, the sun. The fireflies. When else? I might never see Morgan’s birthday in a month. I might not even wake up tomorrow!” his voice broke, hands reaching out to grasp her, to try and make her understand, understand how he lived knowing his death took a step closer every day.

She grasped his cold hands, meeting his shattered gaze with emerald eyes like a sun-bathed forest in summer, warmth and light radiating like a hearth in winter.

“I know,” Natasha whispered softly, heartbreakingly, “I’m sorry, Steve. I know.”

Bucky and Sam landed the Quinjet roughly in the field behind Steve’s house, cursing its remoteness. FRIDAY opened the back door for them and they ran through the kitchen, fearing the sight of their frail friend collapsed on the cold stone floor somewhere.

The open door drew Bucky’s eye and he tore through the front door to see Steve leaning back on his rocking chair, smothered in blankets from his sitting room, a soft smile on his wrinkled face.

Chapter Text

“Hey.”

Tony didn’t need to be a damn empath to feel Clint’s pain. His features were lined with anguish and Tony found himself looking away when Clint’s listless gaze moved up.

“We’re going down to the lakeside. Just us,” he said while staring studiously at the desk Natasha hadn’t left alone for more than a day, still cluttered with her things.

“’kay,” the other man muttered back.

Tony hesitated.

What do you say to a man whose heart is broken?

Natasha’s loss was the worst thing he’d ever experienced and he’d spent the majority of the 13 years he’d known her quarrelling with her. Had he even said anything nice to her in the past 5 years? What was his last word to her? Probably something catty. It made him sick to the stomach whenever he thought about Natasha’s broken body at the bottom of a mountain on another goddamn planet.

He left Clint to his mourning and made his way out of the Compound. It struck him how large and empty the place was without anyone. The Compound was built for a team and dozens of more staff but Natasha had been practically alone in here these past 5 years. He swallowed back his self-flagellation.

Making his way down the winding path towards the lakeside, he could already see Bruce’s large backside turned towards the lake. Thor stood next to him, Mjolnir still gripped tightly in one hand as if he let go it would soar off and never come back. Steve sat facing away from the lake, head in his hands, the great Captain America finally crumbling.

Tony couldn’t find it in himself to join the pity party.

He turned away into the surrounding woods, leaves crunching under his feet, unaware that Natasha had frequented this path over the past few years. He wandered a little while until he came to a halt at the lakeside again, a little way off from where the team was assembling.

Gazing out across the undisturbed surface of the lake, a serene blue, a smile touched his lips at the memory of what Natasha had said to him when she’d joined him to see the construction of the Compound one day.

“I left F.R.I.D.A.Y. notes on where to improve your security system,” Tony jumped to turn and see Natasha just a metre behind him.

“Fuck- don’t do that to me, Romanoff!” he calmed himself and glowered back at her smug smirk, “I’m gonna put a bell around your neck one day, I swear, and it’ll play Back in Black when you come within 5m of me.”

“It’s cute you think you could attach it to me in the first place,” she stepped up beside him to watch the other side of the lake where the A was being attached to the side of the nearly finished Compound.

“We’ll be able to move in by the end of March once all the tech’s been installed. God knows I can’t deal with Maximoff and the bird guy romping around the training room at the Tower.”

“It looks good, Tony,” she said quietly, “You did a surprisingly competent job.”

He held up his hand, “I’m gonna stop at ‘It looks good, Tony’. Mind if you can repeat that so I can turn it into your new ringtone?”

“I take it back,” she replied with a good-natured smirk, “I realise I’m thanking the wrong person.”

“Hey, hey, I wouldn’t go that far!” He complained as she turned to walk back towards the treeline.

“I can count at least 3 other people who did more legwork. Let’s see Maria, Pepper, your lawyer team at Stark Industries,” she continued as he followed her back towards where the Quinjet was parked.

“Okay but that ‘A’ was my idea,” Tony protested.

Natasha paused and nodded her head thoughtfully, “If you say so. I would be expecting it to be in red and yellow if it was your idea though.”

“Damn, that’s actually a good idea,” he fell in step with her, “I was actually going to put a mural of my face on the roof so we would see it everything time we were called out for a mission as moral support.”

“More like moral discomfiture.”

Steps behind him made him spin round on the spot, hand already reaching to activate his suit, only to find Rhodey there.

“Go be with them,” Rhodey jerked his chin towards the group of men sitting silently at the pier, now joined by Clint, looking resolute.

“I,” Tony looked at the team, forever incomplete now Nata- she was gone.

“They need you, Tones. They need a leader,” Rhodey said quietly but his voice was as steady as ever, “She’s gone but the Avengers are still here and you’ve still got a job to do. The job she died for.”

“Yeah,” he agreed but his feet stayed stuck to one place.

Leading had never been his role. That had always been someone else, however much he strutted around in his Iron Man suit, buoyed by billions and his father’s name. It had been Steve’s but with Ultron, it had slowly become Natasha’s, a mantle she’d shouldered for the five long years of the Snap. A burden she should have never carried alone.

“I’ve got work to do,” he straightened up.

Tony dodged yet another laser/energy? blast from the Chitauri or whatever they were weapons, which he would have loved to break apart to fiddle with were he not very literally fighting for the Universe. He rewarded the creatures for their efforts with a blast straight from his arc reactor and jetted up to get a better view of the battlefield, flying past a barely recognisable Wilson covered head to toe with soot.

The place was chaos and seemed never ending with the broken scraps of the Compound scattered all over the nearby area as well as the charred carcasses of Thanos’ battleships littering the ground. The Avengers and Co. were barely visible in the black swathe of Outriders and Chitauri and creatures-that-Tony-had-no-idea-were yet somehow, miraculously, they were holding the line.

Thor’s crackles of lightening were probably visible from miles away as were Steve’s and he could see occasional blasts of arc reactor energy from Pepper and Rhodey. The Wakandan and Asgardian army were swallowing up enemies in orderly yet deadly formation. He saw a lone pair of the Dora Milaje obliterate a dozen creatures in the span of a few seconds and for a second thought their red uniforms was red hair.

He wondered if Natasha in another life had been a Dora Milaje.

Here she was, the Black Widow living on through her fellow scary badass women of the Dora Milaje, frighteningly powerful Wanda who was flattening hundreds at a time with heaps of metal held aloft by her powers, Danvers burning her way through space whales and ships.

And to think she’d once been the beautiful though still intimidating personal assistant ‘Natalie Rushman from Legal’.

He burnt some more Chitauri to crisp as they tried to gun him down with some sort of ground cannon and eyed a space whale, identical to the ones he’d faced over ten years ago in New York.

“I don’t see how that’s a party,” ringed in his ears, Natasha from 11 years ago alive in his memory as plain as day as he sent the whale sprawling to the ground with a well calculated blast.

For you, Nat.

Whatever it takes.