Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“Nat? I’m home,” you call, stepping in the front door of your small, cozy home. It’s a damp, rainy day outside and you wipe your sneakers on the doormat then take them off, setting them aside. 

“Sweetheart?” you call out again, taking off your coat and hanging it up. You’re slightly puzzled. You know Natasha is home, she had a rare day off from training and Avengers duty. You’ve been gone at work all day, but had gotten an occasional text from your girlfriend throughout the day. 

When there’s still no answer, you curiously make your way through the house, past the empty sitting room and down the hall to the master bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, but the room is dark, so you can’t see whether Natasha is in there. 

Once you enter and push open the curtains to let in some of the early evening sun, your girlfriend’s whereabouts become clear. 

Natasha is curled up on the bed, covered in what looks like every blanket you own. You can hear soft snores coming from her, and you approach her with a small smile. 

“Hey, sleepyhead,” you say softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and brushing a hand over her hair. But then the smile on your face turns to a frown when you get a better look at your girlfriend. 

Her nose is shining a flushed, irritated pink, and the bed around her is littered with crumpled tissues. She’s also pale, with spots of color running high on her cheekbones that look suspiciously like a fever, and the auburn baby hairs at her hairline are stuck to her forehead damply. 

“Oh, honey,” you pout, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Natasha’s cheek, which wakes her up. Her eyes flutter open, red-rimmed and bleary with exhaustion. 

Natasha blinks, disoriented, and pushes herself up on shaky arms. “Hey,” she says in a low, hoarse voice, and immediately coughs into her elbow. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. You’re home already?” 

“Yeah, baby,” you say gently, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” 

Natasha’s cheeks darken slightly. “I’m not sick,” she says, pushing herself more upright and coughing again. She sniffles, clearly congested. “Just tired.” 

“Tasha…” you sigh, grabbing the tissue box off the nightstand and handing it to her. She doesn’t move to take it. “Are you really going to be stubborn about this? You look like death warmed up.” You frown, crossing your arms. 

“I’m fine.” Natasha moves to get out of bed, but she’s weak enough that you’re able to stop her with a firm hand on her shoulder. 

“You are not fine, baby.” You make sure to keep your voice gentle and patient. Although it’s not the first time Natasha’s been sick since you got together, you’re more than aware of how hard it is for her to admit when she’s not feeling well. You reach up to touch the back of your hand to her cheek, frowning when you feel the warmth there. “You’ve got a fever, Nat. C’mon, sweetheart – it’s just us. Let me take care of you. Please.” 

Natasha’s shoulders slump and she deflates a little, leaning back against the pillows with a small sigh, that’s followed by another cough. “I thought I’d be better when you got home,” she admits quietly, not meeting your eyes.

You smile softly, scooting closer to her and kissing her forehead. “I know you like to think you’re superhuman, but you still can’t defeat a cold by sheer force of will, babe.” 

“Ugh. It’s just so…” Natasha brushes a hand through her hair, frowning. “I hate being like this.” 

“I know,” you pout sympathetically, running a hand up and down her arm. Natasha relaxes some, melting into your touch. “I wish you weren’t sick either. But this just means you get to have me waiting on you hand and foot for a few days,” you grin cheekily. 

Natasha groans. “I hate being waited on,” she complains, then turns away to sneeze. 

“Bless you, and I know you do,” you say, handing over a tissue with a wry grin. “But I’m gonna take care of you anyway, baby. Now, do you want to start with tea, soup, or both?” 

Natasha peeks up at you over her tissue, eyes watery and hopeful. “Borscht?” 

You chuckle softly and lean forward, pressing your lips to both her cheeks. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’ll make borscht. An extra big pot, so we have plenty for the next few days, ‘kay?” 

“Okay.” The promise of Natasha’s favorite soup earns you a small smile. She sniffles a little, rubbing at her pink nose adorably. “Thanks. Sorry I’m…you know,” she grimaces slightly, the tips of her ears going red. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, and I love taking care of you.” You plant a soft kiss on her lips, not particularly worried about germs. “I’ve got you.” 

Natasha smiles up at you, and your heart fills with warmth. The fact that you’re the only one who Natsha will let see her like this – sick, weak, vulnerable – means the world to you. And you’re determined to nurse her back to health. 

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