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Chapter Text

Natasha sighs as the summer breeze hits her as she exits the station on 50^th street and dreadfully begins making her way through Hell’s Kitchen. It's a little past nine in the evening, two hours later than the time she’d promised her boyfriend she would be at his place, and mentally, she's already concocting yet another apology for her tardiness. But what else is new, she thinks as she makes a left onto the street of his apartment building and quickly steps to the side to dodge a delivery man on a bike. To be fair, this, a trip to her boyfriend’s, isn’t always something she dreaded – far from it. Once upon a time, she had been deeply smitten with Matt Murdock and his quick as a whip wit and seemingly heightened perceptiveness. Matt is a lawyer who is charming and exudes the type of intelligence that all her past flames had sorely lacked. When they’d first met, he felt exactly like the breath of fresh air she’d needed, but truly, if she was being honest, the best part about Matt was that he wasn’t clingy or possessive and didn’t demand more of her time than she had to give. But in the past few months, she’s found that their relationship has taken a backseat to her career. And it’s not even that her hours at work have been more harrowing than usual. As the editor of the international section of Stark Daily, she’s come a long way in trusting her team enough to delegate. And while she can’t put a finger on what it is entirely, she knows something between her and Matt has shifted so much so that spending two extra hours at work has become more appealing to her than spending it with her boyfriend.

Putting aside the thoughts that have been occupying a good portion of her mental real estate for longer than she cares to admit, Natasha stops at the door of his building and opens her purse to retrieve the keys. Letting herself in, she makes her way up to his floor and as her hand reaches for the knob on his apartment door, she stops it midair when she hears music coming from inside. She listens carefully, and though she was dreading having to apologize to him for being late yet again, the corners of her mouth turn up as she recognizes the melody to the song he’d played the first time he’d invited her for dinner at his place. And for the first time in a while, she feels a wave of guilt flow over her for putting her work over their relationship. Today, she decides, she actually means her upcoming apology.

“Matt?” she calls out as she opens the door. The foyer lights are off, but she can see the illumination at the end of the hall from the kitchen lights coming from the left. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. He’s hardly one to wait in the kitchen. “Matt, you here?” she says a little more loudly, but not over the music as she makes her way further into his apartment. “I’m really sorry,” she begins to say, but her apology quickly dies at the sight in front of her.

“Natasha!” Matt gasps in surprise, halfway through a thrust into a slender blonde bent over the kitchen island. He looks at her in horror, stepping away from the woman who also looks her way, and Natasha recognizes her as the receptionist from his practice. “God, I…”

“On second thought,” she says, raising a finger at him. “I’m not sorry after all.”

“Can’t get enough of me in the office, you have to come to my home too?” Tony asks as he opens the door to his brownstone to find Natasha at his front steps, his dark hair slightly less unkept than when he’s out in public. She rolls her eyes and pushes past him. “Are you rude to every person that employs you or is that just reserved for me?”

“You don’t employ me,” Natasha counters. “Your wife does.”

Tony shrugs as he moves to close the door behind him. “You say potato… Look, whatever.” He turns to face her and holds his hands up. “All I’m saying is if people at the Daily found out that you were here at this hour, they might get… ideas.”  

Natasha scoffs at the eyebrow wiggle he sends her way. “I’d rather have someone shock the living shit out of me and then stab me to death with a butter knife than that happen, Stark.”  

“You’re morbid, Red,” he says in that tone of voice Natasha has come to recognize over the years as him trying to brush her words off while still harboring some minute, albeit genuine fear that she might push through with it. He cocks his head to the side as he appraises her now icy bob. “Or former Red.”

“Are we done here?” she asks, losing her patience. “I’d really like to talk to your wife.”

“In the nursery,” he answers, pointing to the top of the staircase, but she’s already making her way up. “Love you too!”

As she reaches the top of the stairs, Natasha finds the door to the nursery slightly ajar, and gently pushes it open with her index finger. Inside, she finds Pepper sitting on the lounge chair in the corner, her strawberry blonde hair tied up in a bun as she feeds her daughter, Maria, in her arms from a bottle. The slight creak from the door opening causes her friend to look up, the light from the hall making the nursery lit only by a few lamps a little brighter, and a worried expression paints her face as she takes in Natasha’s appearance. “What happened?”  

While Natasha considers herself a master at hiding her feelings from just about anyone, she knows Pepper is one of the handful of people who can see right through her masks. That’s what made them great friends ever since they became roommates their freshman year of college, so instead of lying in futility, she sighs. “I just wanted to hold my goddaughter for a bit.” Pepper gives her a small smile, standing from her chair as she waves her further into the room. At that, she shrugs her purse off her shoulder, leaving it in a heap by the side of the room as Pepper hands her the baby and the bottle. “Hi, baby girl,” she coos as she puts the bottle back to Maria’s lips. Pepper motions for her to take the seat she had vacated, and she does just that, watching intently as little Maria makes short work of what’s left in her bottle. “The last time I saw her was only two weeks ago. How is she so much bigger already?”

“She outgrows a new onesie every hour,” Pepper says with a slight chuckle. “At least the ones she doesn’t spit up on, of course. I’m beginning to think she’s doing it on purpose.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like the ones she spits up on,” Natasha defends, smiling down at Maria in her arms, moving the empty bottle out of the way to position the little girl against her shoulder to burp her. “Only the best for my best girl.”  

“Or maybe she’s just being obnoxiously picky like her godmother,” Pepper teases as Natasha sticks her tongue out at her.

“We’re meticulous,” Natasha declares, “there’s a difference. And that’s not a bad thing, you should know.”

“I do,” Pepper agrees. She lets Natasha have a moment with Maria, watching carefully as one of her very best friends becomes entranced by the mere presence of her daughter. She does not let the moment last very long though as her worry takes over. It’s not always that Natasha makes it to her home at this time of night. “Nat,” she begins, but Natasha doesn’t let her finish.

“I’m okay, Pep,” she assures, taking a deep breath. There’s plenty she wants to say, but she’s run out of will tonight to really say it, so she settles for, “saves me from doing something I should have done a long time ago, really.”

“But do I need to cause him unfathomable pain?” Pepper asks so seriously that Natasha would be worried if she didn’t know the woman so well. “Because I know a guy.”  

Natasha rolls her eyes at her friend’s ridiculousness but is grateful that she just knows what’s wrong without having to know the full story. “Not even worth your time.” She stands to put a now sleeping Maria in her crib before looking back at Pepper with an eyebrow raised. “But do you really know a guy?”

Pepper just winks, and Natasha decides that there are some things she’s better off not knowing.   

Despite the long night she had, Natasha decides to start her day early come morning. She’s in her office by seven, a double espresso from her favorite coffee shop down the block already halfway done as she powers through most of the final drafts her staff have submitted for review. By nine, and just as other people have started to fill the office, she’s approved and submitted all the final articles for print for the next issue. She’s in the middle of making quick edits on articles of her own when she hears a voice ask, “I’m not late, am I?” Natasha looks up to see two obnoxiously large flower arrangements obscuring her view of her, if tone of voice was anything to go by, obviously confused and shocked assistant, Darcy. 

“No,” Natasha says amusedly. “But you could try a little harder to mask your disbelief at the fact that I’m here on time.” She sees Darcy give her a one-armed shrug as the woman turns to set the arrangements down on the coffee table she has to the right of her spacious office. Using the pen in her hand, Natasha points to the tall vases. “But also, is there a reason you decided to decorate my office with things you know I don’t like?”

Darcy shoots her a look of disbelief. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I know you know I hate flowers,” she clarifies, “which is why I’m asking why you thought to bring me the largest arrangements you could find.”

“It’s cute that you think I like you that much,” Darcy retorts in a tone that would probably offend anyone else, but she and Natasha have built a rapport over the years that her boss knows she’s just being Darcy. “And that I didn’t try to trash it the second I saw all of them at the reception.”

“All of them?” Natasha questions, standing from her seat behind the desk and coming to stand in front of her. “There’s more?”

“At least six more,” Darcy confirms, causing her boss to blanch. “The receptionists were getting testy because they were occupying their space, so I tried moving them by the trash area but then the custodians were giving me the evil eye so they’re all going to have to stay here until the end of the day.” She reaches into her bag to retrieve an envelope before handing it to Natasha. “This is the only thing that came with them. I’ll be back with the rest.”

Natasha thanks Darcy, grateful that she doesn’t pry further into who could possibly have sent them and opens the envelope as soon as the woman is out of sight. Inside, a plain white card reads:

Natasha,

I’m sorry, that’s not how I wanted you to find out about me and Karen.
I never meant to hurt you and I wish you’d give me a chance to explain.

Please call me back.

  Matt

“Did you ask your receptionist to write that for you?” she deadpans, throwing the card and the envelope in the trash.

Once Darcy was done moving all the arrangements to her office, to say that her office looked like a goddamned greenhouse was the understatement of the year. Her assistant’s estimate of six more arrangements was ten in actuality, and the seating area she has in her office was now lost under all the blooms that now threatened to fill her once pristine and minimalistic space. While she hates flowers, at this very moment, she's perhaps more piqued by the fact that after nearly two years of dating, Matt seemed to miss that detail she’s always been very vocal about. And, despite being surrounded by all the colorful petals and vibrant leaves, she feels the anger she was waiting to rear its ugly head last night start to boil deep within her.

“So, when you gave all the guys the speech about how flowers are such a copout, was that all a lie?” Natasha’s fingers pause over her keyboard as she halts her reply to an email to see Steve Rogers, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against her office door with a smile on his face.

Steve, a talented graphic designer and an even better artist, is the layout director for the entire paper. He and Tony were childhood friends, and when Steve returned from serving two tours in the army, Tony was more than willing to provide him with work. Natasha was just starting out as a freelance journalist for the paper when he was hired and they become friends almost instantly. She quickly learned that Steve was a hard worker who didn't care for the office politics that came with every corporation, even one owned by one of his good friends, and Natasha respected that deeply. As she got to know him further, she realized just how much he wore his heart of his sleeve, how candidly honest he was, and just how fundamentally good he was as a person, and she decided not only that she liked that about him, but also that she needed more of people like him in her life. Steve was also a good listener, and despite the fact that she hated talking about herself or revealing too much, Natasha was pleasantly surprised with how much she loved talking to him.

It doesn't hurt that he's not bad to look at either. In fact, in terms of how easy he is on the eyes, Natasha's sure he could probably cure blindness if that's at all possible. What, with all six-foot-whatever of him, with muscles smooth yet defined by years spent in the army that she sometimes catches herself admiring at the gym as they flex and ripple under his shirt when they do get around to sparring together for fun. As Pepper, her very proper and very married best friend phrases it, Steve’s body is the stuff female wet dreams are made of. The luscious blonde locks he always has combed neatly and his always, always well-groomed beard, and his bone structure that was surely chiseled by a sculptor are all just added bonuses, because what really get people who don’t know Steve Rogers, if she does say so herself, are his eyes. Two bright, but yet somehow still deep, orbs of blue that can melt the coldest of hearts with their kindness. Maybe she should be embarrassed by the amount of detail she has to describe Steve and his beauty, but she's pretty sure that any woman that comes within a mile of him catalogs his features the same way anyway. She may have been in a relationship for most of the time she's known him, but she's still a warm-blooded human being with eyes that could very much appreciate the vision that this man is. Just as they're doing right now, as he leans against her office door in black slacks and a crisp white button down that's rolled up past his elbows and clinging to his upper arms deliciously.

“They are,” she replies, looking at the vases that have been the cause of her ire for the past few hours. “Among all these vases, which one exudes the most ‘I’m sorry I fucked my receptionist’ to you?”

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he moves to close the door behind him. Natasha watches as anger flashes in his eyes , followed by something a little softer she can't quite catch, and she immediately regrets her choice of words. “I’m sorry, Nat.”

Natasha just shrugs from her seat behind her desk. “Eh, what’s the saying? Let bygones be bygones or some shit like that?” She points to the large takeout bag she just now notices he’s brought with him. “You gonna share or just brag?”

“Darcy said you skipped lunch,” he explains, walking toward her desk to set the paper bag down. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual when we go to that Thai place down the block.”

“Pad Thai with shrimp?” she asks hopefully, only now realizing how hungry she’s gotten.

He nods before adding, “extra lime and peanuts.” He moves to open the bag, but her hand on his wrist stops him.

“Come have a seat in my greenhouse,” she says as she points to her seating area.

They have lunch together amongst all the flowers she’s been hating on all day, and Natasha finds that this is the first time she actually does not mind them. The conversation between the two of them flows freely, starting with the reason he’d come to her office in the first place (to offer her first dibs on more space for her section after Life and Style had come up an article short) and moving, inevitably, to her and Matt. Suddenly, all the words she’d been itching to tell Pepper when she went to visit her yesterday, but refrained from doing so for some reason, just started to flow. So she talks, letting him know that out of nowhere, all the interest she had in Matt that was so abundant in the beginning was just gone, and that despite what she’d walked in on yesterday, she was, surprisingly, fine. No hate, no anger, maybe a touch of sadness at the time she’d invested in the relationship that could have been spent elsewhere, but aside from that, nothing. And Steve just listens, nodding every now and then in understanding about something she says, offering his input when asked. Their conversation was nothing but cathartic, and for the first time in a while, Natasha feels a weight she hadn’t even known she’d been carrying lift off of her.  

“So what does make you happy, Natasha Romanoff?” Steve asks, his gaze fixated on the leather of his shoes, once she declares she’s done talking and beating the dead horse that was her relationship with Matt Murdock. “What do you truly live for?”

Natasha sits stunned for a second, his question catching her off guard. “Hmm,” she says as she contemplates her answer. “I don’t know,” she finally settles.

“Don’t know, or too afraid to want it?”

“You secretly a shrink, Rogers?” Natasha asks, a delicate brow raised at him.

“Hardly,” he answers. “My friend, Sam, is though. And he’s been helping me… deal.” He looks up at her from under the ridiculously long fan that is his eyelashes and sees her eyebrow raised in question again, but he waives her inquiry off. “He asked me the same question, and I’m really at a point where I don’t know.” He sits up straighter and shrugs. “For years, I thought it was serving my country, and I still love this country profoundly, but after everything?” Natasha nods in understanding at this, knowing the story all too well. “And then I thought it was Sharon, but you know how that ended.”

This time, it's Natasha’s turn to feel anger at his words at the mention of his ex and as memories of what she did to him resurfaces, but she pushes the feeling away just as he did a while ago. “I thought it was being successful,” she begins. “Making it in Manhattan as a journalist, being able to return even a fraction of the favor that Nick and Melinda did for me growing up…” she pauses, swallowing a ball that’s suddenly formed at her throat at the mention of the two people who’d practically raised her. “And it wasn’t Matt, either, so I guess we’re on the same boat.”

“Well aren’t we tragic?” he asks as he places the now empty cartons of food back in the bag and looks at his watch to find they’d taken almost an hour and a half for lunch. “And on that note, I should get back to my job before the boss finds out I’ve taken an extended break.” He stands up from his seat and offers her a hand before making his way to her door.

“You mean the boss whose only objective is to raid the fridge in the common room when he does make it here every other month?”

“I meant Pepper,” he says, turning around to face her just as he’s made it to her door. “You know she runs a tight ship even on leave.” She nods in agreement, and just before he turns to leave again asks, “we still on for sparring after work tomorrow?”

“You bet,” she says, and after exchanging smiles, he leaves.

With Steve gone, Natasha lets her eyes wander to the clock on her wall and sees that he was right when he said they’d taken nearly an hour and a half for lunch. It's past two in the afternoon, and the summer sun is shining brightly from her windows. She contemplates going back to work, but her determination to plow through all her unanswered emails is gone and so is her concentration. Keeping in mind that she’d gone in two hours early this morning, and the fact that despite what Steve said, Pepper wouldn’t really mind her taking off and in fact would praise her for doing so given the amount of over time she’d done in the past, she decides she’s had enough and reaches for her purse.

“Taking the rest of the day off, Darce,” she says as she locks up and looks at the woman with chocolate brown waves sitting in a desk just outside her office. “You should too.”

Darcy gives her a thumbs up. “Aye aye, boss!”

She doesn’t have a particular destination in mind as she trudges up Central Park West. It isn’t until she unconsciously makes a right onto sixty-sixth and finds herself surrounded by greenery does she realize she’s in the park. She stops walking when she finds an empty bench in front of the Great Lawn and decides that it’s a good a spot as any. Though it’s the middle of the day, the park is filled with the usual crowd of people. Some lie on the grass in an attempt to get a last-minute tan before fall begins. Two men kick a soccer ball back and forth. A young couple steals a few kisses from where they sit under a tree. Natasha’s thoughts are lost in the usual hustle and bustle of the park, and it isn’t until a woman pushing a crying child in a stroller sits next to her that she’s broken out of her reverie.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” the woman says, looking a little haggard as she fumbles with the zipper of her large purse and pulls out a first aid kit. The little boy in the stroller weeps from the pain of his scraped knee. The mother quickly applies an antiseptic and a bandage to the scrape before kissing the boy’s forehead and wiping away his tears. She lifts the boy up and out of the stroller and sends him off to play with a group of kids a few feet away.

“Sorry about the wailing,” the woman says apologetically, looking at Natasha for the first time since she sat down on the same bench. She puts the kit back in her bag and drops it into the back compartment of the stroller.

“Not a problem,” Natasha replies, pointing her chin in the direction of the woman’s bag. “They could use your skills in a crisis intervention center.” The woman laughs.

“I’m a mother,” the woman states. “I am a crisis intervention center.” They share a slight chuckle before a companionable silence envelops them. They both turn in the direction of the woman’s son, his sandy blonde hair glistening in the sun as he sits on the grass playing with two other children. “You’ve got kids of your own?”

“No.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you as much,” the woman says, looking at her son with so much love and reverence that it makes Natasha feel as if she’s intruding on a private moment. “They’ll drive you up a wall every single day. Some days you’ll wish you stayed celibate. But when you see what caring and compassionate people they’ve become, my, it’s the best feeling in the world.”

“I’m sure,” Natasha says sincerely.   

When you see what caring and compassionate people they’ve become, my, it’s the best feeling in the world. Natasha doesn’t know what to make of the words as the woman stands and leaves her to her thoughts once again, but they echo in her mind just the same. She’s never pictured herself nurturing someone, not even at the height of her relationship with Matt. As she had told Steve at lunch, for as long as she could remember, she always believed that the best thing she could ever do was make a life for herself – build a career, be able to support herself, buy a home, give back to those who’d given her so much. And so far, living by that belief has gotten her to where she is now, and it was by no means a bad place. But then, why couldn’t she answer Steve’s question? What does make her happy? Does she really not know, or is she just afraid to want it? Her sight falls unbidden back to the mother who’d sat next to her, now on the grass with her son and a few other mothers, and she finds herself just observing, watching, smiling.

No, she’s not afraid, she decides.

When she’s decided she’s had enough of the sun and the park, she goes to the one place she knows she must go first: to Pepper’s. As she exits the cab in front of her best friend’s home and rings the bell at the front door, she knows that there’s no turning back. Her heart and her mind are set. This is what she wants. The door opens, and she’s relieved that it’s Pepper carrying Maria in her arms, surprised to see her back so soon.

She lets the words leave her mouth. “I want to be a mom.”

Chapter Text

Natasha looks on patiently as Pepper paces behind the bar in her living room, clearly trying to gather her wits. Immediately after she’d expressed her newfound desire at her front door, Pepper had ushered her inside, quickly putting Maria down for a nap, before asking Natasha to elaborate. “Okay, let me get this straight,” Pepper says, finally finding her voice as she reaches for the decanter holding Tony’s favorite scotch. “Yesterday,” she begins, pouring the amber liquid into two crystal tumblers, “you went to go see Matt, found him with his receptionist, and somehow within half a day of that… you’ve decided you want to be a mom?”   

“That’s an accurate retelling of yesterday’s events, yes,” Natasha says with a curt nod from her seat on the couch. “Are you allowed to drink that while breastfeeding?”

Pepper looks at her incredulously. “I think the universe will forgive me if I pump and dump just this once.” Natasha knows that perplexed isn’t a state Pepper ever finds herself in anymore – being married to Tony Stark has surely made sure of that. But as she watches Pepper walk toward her, handing her the other tumbler on her way, and set herself on the other side of the couch, she realizes that at this very moment, perplexed is exactly how her friend must be feeling as she tries to process the news. Pepper props her elbow on the arm and lets two slender fingers rest on her temple. “And this is all because you ran into a nice lady with a beautiful baby boy?”

“That’s a bit of an oversimplification,” Natasha says defensively. She sits up a little straighter and sets her drink down on the coffee table.

“Oh?”

“I know it may sound crazy,” she reasons, tucking her feet beneath her as she moves to get a better view of Pepper. “But yesterday was just the fog finally lifting for me. Pep, I know deep in my bones that this is what I’ve always wanted.”

Pepper’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It appears that you and I may have completely different understandings of how long ‘always’ is.”

“Well don’t hide your disapproval on my account,” Natasha retorts, her face clearly portraying her dismay at Pepper’s tone.  

Pepper gives her a nearly offended expression as she turns to look her right in the eye. “You know I don’t doubt what you’re capable of,” she says. “But, Nat, this is sudden. And right after Matt?” She lets out a sigh, her expression now softer and conciliatory. “Look, I just want to make sure that this isn’t a knee-jerk reaction and that you’re not diving into something this huge head first and with your eyes closed. I hardly think that he should be a benchmark of when you should give up on finding or waiting for the right person to do this with.”  

“I’m not giving up,” Natasha says firmly. “I was with Matt for almost two years and a serial dater before that.” Pepper nods her awareness of the matter. “But I have never felt as strongly for those men as I do about wanting to become a mom. If the right man comes, he comes, but I’m done trying to wait for my happiness to come from them when I know exactly where to find it.” This time, it’s Natasha’s turn to look her friend right in the eye. “Like you said, you know what I’m capable of doing when I throw my all into something. I can love and raise a loving, compassionate child and give them the world. I can be a good mom, Pepper. I know I can.” 

Natasha gives her a moment, and eventually, Pepper nods. “Okay then,” she says, a proud smile coming to form on her lips as she reaches for one of the many tablets her husband has lying around the house. “Time to do our research.”  

“Alright, alright,” Steve says, lowering his gloves after dodging Natasha’s last series of punches. “I yield. Time for a water break.”  

Natasha slowly removes her headguard, revealing the shortened blonde locks that she’d put in a low ponytail tousled underneath. “I have to say, I expected more from a former serviceman, Rogers,” she teases breathlessly as she makes her way off the mat and to him.

“Former being the keyword,” he answers as he hands her a cool bottle of water from the fridge against the gym’s wall. “And we’ve been at this for two hours.”   

Natasha smirks, opening the cap as she watches him finish his own bottle in three big gulps. “Are you seriously-”  

“You guys are really intense in there!”

They turn toward the intruding voice to find a petite brunette standing behind them, both hands on her hips and a big smile on her face. Steve is the first to speak. “Yeah, well,” he begins, and as Natasha appraises the distracting neon material of the woman’s workout clothes, she recognizes her as Kristen from the paper’s statistics department. “Natasha here might’ve been an assassin in a previous life.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Kristen says, batting her eyelashes at him. “I doubt she’s any match for you.”

Natasha has to bite the inside of her cheek to contain her laughter at the suggestiveness dripping from Kristen’s tone. Next to her, Steve begins to disagree. “What? No-”

“Steve’s taught me everything I know,” Natasha interjects a little too enthusiastically. Steve shoots her a confused look.

Without even glancing Natasha’s way, Kristen’s smile widens. “I’ll bet. Maybe you could teach me some of your moves sometime?”

“Oh, well,” Steve says, a hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. “It’s always so busy here at the Daily… My schedule’s hard to predict.”

“But if you do find time,” Kristen says, flipping her hair to one side. “You know where to find me.” Still smiling, she finally looks Natasha’s way before looking back up at Steve. “Have a good night, guys.”

“Yeah, you too,” Steve says as he watches her walk out of the gym.

“Oh, well,” Natasha says from behind him, lowering her voice and adapting his Brooklyn accent. “It’s always so busy here at the Daily, you know? My schedule’s hard to predict.”

Steve sends a withering look her way. “You’re terrible.”

“But Steve,” she says, stressing every vowel as she adapts a high-pitched tone. “Can’t you teach me all your moves?”

Steve smirks. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Natasha stalks forward, her hips swaying just slightly before she stops in front of him to trail her index finger up the length of his sternum. Her voice is low, seductive. “Is that so?”

He surprises her by suddenly pulling her close, his lips coming to her ear. “Baby, you have no idea.”

Her heart races as his warm breath sweeps against her ear, though she blames it on the fact that her body hasn’t recovered from their exhaustive workout. She bursts out in laughter.  

“Let me know when you get that out of your system,” he says dryly, letting her go. He takes a seat on the bench and begins to unwrap the safety tape from his hands.

“Oh, come on, Rogers.” She’s still laughing as she sits next to him. “You know,” she says, bumping her shoulder with his, “if you ask her out, she’d probably say yes.”

Steve rolls his eyes at the fake expression of shock she puts on. “That’s why I don’t ask.”

“Too shy or too scared?”

“Too busy,” he counters quickly. Natasha looks at him challengingly, and he sighs. “Nat.”

“Why not?” Natasha presses, angling to get a better look at him. “I’m not saying you should ride off into the sunset with her. Just take her for a ride. Baby steps.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at that. “Isn’t that suggestion some sort of betrayal to womankind?”

She shrugs. “Not if it’s between two consenting adults who know they’re just taking each other for a ride.”  

“Can we stop with this whole ‘ride’ analogy?” he asks. “Besides, I was serious when I said my schedule’s about to get hard to predict. Tony and Pepper are starting an art gallery downtown and they’ve asked me to help curate.”

“Steve, that’s great!” Natasha says excitedly. She frowns, however, when she realizes his expression doesn’t mirror her own. “I mean, it’s great, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s just…” he says, and she waits for him to continue. His words linger between them before he shakes his head. “Nothing, never mind.”  

“Rogers,” she says, her tone letting him know that she isn’t backing down on this.   

He sighs. “I’ve just been creatively blocked lately,” he admits, running a hand through his damp hair to push back the few strands that have fallen down his forehead. “I have a million and one works in progress at home and I just… I just can’t find the inspiration or the will to finish them. And now, Tony wants me to travel to help pick pieces for the gallery and I know how much this project means to him and Pepper. I just don’t want to let them down, you know?”

“Hey,” Natasha says, setting a hand on his knee. “Tony and Pepper asked you because they trust you. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have asked.” He sighs once again, and she feels the tension in his posture loosen just a little at her words. “And as for you being blocked? Well, that’s the beauty of living in New York City. Believe me, it’s one of the most magical things about this place. There’s no shortage of inspiration.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Steve says, looking at her before letting out a chuckle. “Anyway, that’s enough brooding for one night. On a happier note, what are you doing this weekend?”

“That depends,” she says. “What do you have in mind?”

“You remember my friend Bucky from the army, right?” She nods. “Well, he’s in a band now.” Steve laughs as she tries to contain the amusement on her face. “Yeah, I know. But in any case, he and his band are playing a bar in Brooklyn and while their music is questionable at best, the drinks aren’t halfway bad.”

“Sold,” she says, but quickly catches herself. “Shit, I can’t. I forgot I’m visiting Melinda and I won’t be back till Sunday night.”

Steve snaps his fingers at the missed opportunity. “Another time, then.”

“Definitely,” she confirms. “Drinks on me when I get back.”

"Deal."

Natasha looks down at her phone when the song she’s playing is interrupted by a ping of a new email. She slides her finger over the notification to see a note and an attachment from Pepper:

Here’s the second batch. Important portions are highlighted, and my notes are on the margins. See you Tuesday!

She smiles, of course Pepper Potts would be on top of her newfound mission even while caring for a newborn, keeping her impulsive husband in check, and running a multimillion dollar enterprise. She types out a quick thank you before sliding her phone back in her pocket to continue watching all the similarly built houses pass from the window of her cab. While Upstate New York probably isn’t on top of most people’s weekend getaway lists, Natasha makes an effort to come back as often as her schedule allows. For as much as she’s fallen in love with Manhattan, Westchester will forever hold a special place in her heart. She may not call it home anymore, hasn’t really in years, but it’s still where one of the most important people in her life chooses to dwell – her godmother, Melinda May.

Her family, particularly her parents, aren’t a topic she’s particularly fond of discussing in great detail. And it’s not because she harbors resentment toward them; she doesn’t, not a single ounce. She just wishes, however, that she had more of her own memories of them instead of having to learn about them through Melinda. Her mother was an Air Force pilot who’d fallen in love with her father, an aspiring Russian poet, while overseas. Melinda, her mother’s best friend and wingman, had witnessed their romance blossom when they were stationed at the Ramstein airbase in Germany. Melinda had always said that her parents’ romance was the whirlwind, love at first sight kind. They had met, fallen in love, married, and found out they were having Natasha all within three months. But her father had demons that even his love for her mother could not conquer. Somewhere along the way, he began drinking himself to oblivion every single night, and after her mother had given him an ultimatum, he decided to leave and never look back.

Natasha has vague memories of the first three years of her life. She has absolutely no recollection of her father, and faintly, she remembers her mother singing her to sleep some nights. Melinda reminds her frequently that her mother loved her so, and if not for that one fateful night when her mother’s plane was ambushed and shot to the ground during a night mission, she would no doubt be reminding Natasha that herself at every opportunity. Melinda had been named Natasha’s guardian in her mother’s will, and it was a job that Melinda took without hesitation. Soon after they’d buried her best friend, she quickly retired from the Air Force and settled down in the suburbs of Westchester where she raised Natasha as her own and gave her a stable upbringing. And for that, Natasha is forever grateful. 

Her reverie is broken by the vehicle halting to a stop. She hands the driver her fare, thanking him as she steps onto the curb and sees her childhood home for the first time in months. Compared to the other homes on the block, the one she’d grown up in isn’t extravagant in comparison. It’s a modest raised ranch with two stories, light oak colored sidings, and simple double hung windows, but it was more than enough for her and Melinda. She makes her over, climbing up the stairs leading to the porch, and just as she makes it to the very top, the front door opens.

“There’s my girl,” Melinda says, opening her arms for an embrace.

Natasha takes in the hand towel Melinda has draped over her shoulder and the paint splatters covering her coveralls and knows immediately that there’s another DIY project happening inside. She smiles, walking right into Melinda’s arms and inhaling the smell of her familiar perfume. “So good to be back,” she admits.

“Glad to have you back,” Melinda says, squeezing her tighter. “If only for a weekend every now and then.”

Natasha pulls away, her expression sheepish. “You know I do my best to make it here as often as I can.”

“I’m only joking,” Melinda says. “Can’t a woman make a joke around here anymore?”

“Not when it’s half meant,” Natasha counters.

“Not my problem if the joke hits too close to home,” Melinda continues to tease. “Now come on in. I have a lasagna in the kitchen that’s just about ready to cut into.”

They spend the day catching up on the past eight weeks since they’ve last seen each other (even if they speak on the phone constantly) and just as any mother would, Melinda inevitably tries to get the latest scoop on her relationship with Matt. Knowing that there’s no use in even trying to lie, Natasha spills the beans, and after much reasoning, convinces Melinda that there’s no need to actually pay Matt a visit to show him some of the stuff she’d learned while in the Air Force. She may be retired, she argues, but that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten her training. As is tradition when Natasha comes home to visit, after dinner they sit on the porch swing, looking through the plethora of photo albums Melinda had made to document her childhood.

“I remember this one,” Melinda says, pointing to a picture of a nine-year-old Natasha in a frilly white tutu. “Your first performance as Odette. Nick had to take the red-eye from Hungary just to catch you in this one, lest you refuse to forgive him for missing it.” Below the picture of her dressed as Odette is a picture surely taken after her recital. In it, she holds a bouquet of Lilies while Melinda and Nick stand on either side of her. Nick Fury is another one of her mother’s good friends who also took it upon himself to look after her when her mother passed away. Up until she graduated college, he would stop by to check in on her and Melinda every time he was on leave from the Air Force. He still does occasionally, and the three of them bond over beer and pizza from their favorite place downtown.  

“He swears he got in just as the curtains opened,” Natasha recalls fondly. “How is Nick doing?”

“Same old General Fury,” Melinda says, the night’s breeze blowing a few strands of her jet-black hair away from her face. “Still making airmen quake in their boots.”

“I’ll bet.” Natasha puts down the album in her hands and reaches for another one. Flipping it open, she finds a picture of her and Melinda on the first day they moved into the house. She runs a finger over it with a smile.

“You know,” Melinda begins, “you’ve been here for hours and you still haven’t told me what’s bothering you.”

“Who said something was bothering me? Can’t I just come visit whenever I please?”

“Natasha, honey,” Melinda admonishes with a chuckle. “You know I love you, but you couldn’t lie to me then, and you sure as hell can’t lie to me now. You might as well just spill.”

Natasha smiles, rueful that she even tried to keep something from Melinda. After her discussion with Pepper the other day, she left her best friend’s home with her plan already formed. Her heart was already completely in it, but somehow, as she sits on the porch swing of her childhood home with Melinda, the woman who’d raised her and had given her everything, a shadow of doubt begins to form. “What made you decide to raise me?” Melinda shoots her a pointed look. “Relax, I know you love me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And given the chance to do it all over again, you would.”

“So why are we even having this discussion?” Melinda asks quietly.

“Because I also know that you could have refused to be my guardian regardless of what was written in my mother’s will,” Natasha points out. “So why didn’t you?” 

Silence floats between them until Melinda sighs. “I was watching you the day your mom’s plane got ambushed.” She stands, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders tighter over herself as she moves to stand by the railing. Natasha’s eyes follow her. “Years of being her wingman and that was the one mission we didn’t fly together.” Her words come out in a soft whisper that Natasha almost does not catch it. “When I got the call about her…” She turns to face Natasha, her expression pensive. “I didn’t refuse to be your guardian because doing so never even crossed my mind. That, to me, was never an option.” Melinda moves to stand in front of her, bending down to capture both of her hands in hers. “I could give you a million reasons that came to mind at that moment as to why I should raise you,” she says, her brown eyes staring into Natasha’s vivid green ones. “But I’d rather give you the reason why I did. And that’s because I knew in my heart of hearts that I wanted to.” She raises a hand to cup Natasha’s cheek, and with a smile says, “I wanted you.”      

“Thank you,” she says softly, gratefully. Melinda rises, leaving a soft kiss on her temple as she reclaims her seat right next to her and wraps an arm around her. Natasha lets her head fall to her shoulder and they stay that way, swinging in the darkness of the night.

“Why the sudden interrogation?” Melinda asks after a while, before jokingly adding, “thinking about making me a grandma sometime soon?”

Natasha lifts her head off of her shoulder and looks at her. “Actually…”

“No way,” Melinda says, shock evident in her voice. “You sure-”

“Don’t worry,” Natasha interrupts. “Pepper already made sure I wasn’t just doing this on a whim.” Melinda visually relaxes at the mention of Pepper. She loves the woman, has ever since she met her when Natasha moved into her first college dorm. “She’s been helping me consider my options.”

“Are you adopting, then?” Melinda asks.

“I considered it,” Natasha says. “And I think it’s still a really wonderful option. But I want to try for the whole experience, so I’m leaning towards a donor.” A hint of excitement colors her tone as she goes on. “I inquired at a sperm bank the other day and Pepper’s been helping me sift through the credentials and traits of the candidates.”

“You’ve really put thought into this,” Melinda observes.

“I have,” Natasha says. “I really want this, and I know that I can do this.”  

“I know you can.” Melinda’s smile is wide and beaming. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

Her talk with Pepper had told her as much, but coming from Melinda, it somehow meant so much more. “I learned from the best,” Natasha says, exchanging knowing looks with Melinda. “Anyway, you should see all the ‘resumes’ for these donors. They all make them seem like complete specimens.”  

“We could use a little height in the family,” Melinda jokes. “But just remember, hon, how tall they become and where they end up going to school? That isn’t nearly as important as how good they end up being,” she pauses, poking a finger gently to Natasha’s chest, “in here.”

Natasha just nods, taking in her words.

It would be a lie to say that Melinda’s words have not occupied Natasha’s thoughts from the second she uttered them. That night, as they both retired to bed, Natasha found that sleep was hard to come by. As she lay in the darkness of her childhood bedroom, Melinda’s words echoed loudly in her mind. They still do, now that she’s back in Manhattan and back at work, and the more she dwells on them, the more unsure she seems to become of her plan. Whatever confidence she had about going with a donor was suddenly erased when Melinda had unknowingly revealed a large hole in what she thought was a bulletproof plan.

Ever since she and Pepper had gotten the list of possible samples from the sperm bank, they’d perused and put into consideration every single physical trait and credential listed on each donor’s profile. Height, weight, eye color, body type, occupation, school attended – you name it, and she and Pepper had already weighed the pros and cons of it. But never have they stopped to consider character. Or, as Melinda put it, how good her child’s heart would turn out to be. Really, in this grand plan of hers, there isn’t an absolute way to find out. The thought worries her. She tries to rationalize it by supposing it all has to do with the upbringing. She knows she would never allow herself to raise a child who’s nothing less than a decent, compassionate human being first. But being able to know for certain that the other half of her child shares the same values? The thought to her seems far too enticing. She sighs, her head spinning.

Next to her keyboard, her phone lights up with a new message. She leans down to read it. “Happy hour?” Steve’s text reads. She smiles at his perfect timing. “PLEASE,” she types. “Meet you down in 5.” He replies with a thumbs-up emoji, and she shoves her phone in her purse as she begins to shut down for the day.

Dalton’s down on Bleecker Street is a favorite among the people who have been at Stark Daily for quite some time. The pub is quaint, and the space is limited, but it does stock some of the best liquor in town on its shelves. And if only for that, the commute from the office to the Lower East Side is purposely overlooked. Steve and Natasha sit toward the back, in the booth they usually occupy when they come to unwind with Tony and Pepper and a handful of people they’ve become great friends with over the years.

“Oh, how was your mom’s?” Steve asks after they talk shop for a bit and he tells her about how Bucky’s gig went. The last of the sun’s rays shine faintly through the window behind him as it begins to set, giving his hair the sandy tint that’s harder to spot now that he’s let his hair grow out.

Natasha bites her lip, contemplating whether or not to share her master plan with him. Is this something she really wants to share with someone who isn’t Pepper or Melinda? She’s not certain, and a part of her, albeit a tiny portion, is scared of the judgement he might pass. She holds back. “Oh, you know,” she begins, “it was filled with an indecent amount of food, hugs, and scolds for not visiting more often.”

He laughs. “Sounds like a typical day with a mom to me.”  

Natasha agrees. “What about you? When are you flying out to start scouting for gallery pieces?”

“About that,” he says, placing his beer down in front of him. “I’m not.”

“Rogers,” she says incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not ready, Nat.” The defeat coupled with uncertainty in his voice tugs at her heartstrings. “Nothing’s moving me right now.”

“Maybe not right now,” she says. “Steve, you’ll get back into the swing of things.”

“I don’t know-”

“What if I go museum hopping with you around the city?” She feels a tinge of regret the second the offer leaves her mouth. Between her job and wanting to become a mom, certainly she wouldn’t have time to be prancing around the city. But the hope that fills Steve’s face quickly washes it away.

“You’d do that?” he asks hopefully.

“Of course.”   

He smiles, but it quickly turns into a sigh. “Tony needs a decision by next week,” he explains. He shakes his head and sighs. “Even if we did go to every single museum in every borough, there’s no guarantee it’ll spark something.” His gaze turns to the ground. “I really can’t. There’s too much riding on this. Tony and Pepper deserve better.”  

Natasha’s mouth opens as if to argue, but she can’t seem to find the words. She’s confounded because one look at his office at the Daily and there’s no denying the man’s talent. He could capture even the most minute detail of anything he decides to draw, sometimes just from memory. She's also witnessed just how keen his eye is when it comes to spotting and selecting works of art. Much like Tony and Pepper have, she’s purchased a few pieces he’s raved about for her apartment, and on the rare occasion that she does invite people over, they never fail to become talking points. And while she knows that he makes a good living from being the paper’s layout director, she always feels as if his talents are wasted in that job.

But, on the other hand, she also understands. If there is anything years of being his friend and co-worker has taught her about him, it’s that in anything he sets out to do, he always devotes a hundred and fifty percent of himself to it. Never nothing less, and sometimes, even more. Having a major hand in a Stark gallery could bring him endless recognition and accolades, but she knows that those do not mean a thing to him if he knows he can’t give his all and stay true to who he is. Because Steve Rogers is the epitome of integrity. Steve Rogers is a good man.  

Lightning strikes her.

At least, that’s what it feels like as it suddenly becomes so damn clear to her. Steve Rogers is a good man. He’s one of the best humans she’s ever had the pleasure of knowing. And before she can think twice about it, or before she can even stop herself, she blurts out, “I’m going to be a mom.”

“Natasha,” Steve gasps, his eyes wide and filled with horror. For a second, she’s truly scared that she’s misjudged their friendship, that maybe thinking about all her options has truly made her crazy. “Tell me you didn’t spar with me when-”

His gaze falls to her stomach and she follows it. “No, no,” she interrupts, realizing now how her words could have caused a misunderstanding. She lets out a soft laugh relief. “I’m not pregnant.”        

“Oh,” he says, sighing but quickly tensing up once more. “So, you and Murdock-”

“Don’t even go there, Rogers,” she says, killing his thought and inquiry right then and there. He looks at her to go on. “I’m doing this on my own.” 

“Well, I think that’s great,” he says. His tone is filled with so much sincerity that it makes her feel ridiculous for even fearing for a second that he would ever judge her. It was such a Steve thing to do to be worried about whether or not he’d sparred with a pregnant woman than be shocked that the said woman wanted to get pregnant. But that’s exactly the point.

Natasha downs what’s left of her drink. “God, you’re going to think I’m crazy,” she says more to herself than anyone else. He begins to disagree with her, but she places a hand on his arm to stop him. “I’ve decided to have a baby,” she says firmly, feeling almost liberated that she’s finally uttered the words to him. “And I’ve been going through endless profiles of donors who all seem wonderful on paper.” Steve’s expression is both confused and curious, but she goes on. “But I don’t know these men. I don’t know if they’re good.” She looks up at him for what feels like the first time today. “But I know you…”

“Natasha-”

Go for broke, Romanoff. “Steve, will you be my donor?”  

Chapter Text

Steve knows he’s heard of suspended animation. After all, he is friends with Tony Stark, the explainer-in-chief of all things science fiction. If he remembers correctly, Tony had said it has something to do with freezing the body just enough that important functions like breathing still remained. And while the concept could come in handy for preserving things and saving lives in the future, technology hasn’t reached a point where that’s become a possibility just yet. Basically, in suspended animation, you would not actually be dead, just frozen.

Kind of like he is right now.

If the strain on his eyes is anything to go by, he knows that they’re wide as saucers and that his mouth is slightly agape. He also knows that he heard Natasha’s question. He’s not slow – years of serving in the army has made him quick with his mind and his feet – having to avoid EMPs, missiles, and gunfire does that to a person. But alas, here he is, in his favorite pub without the threat of any of the aforementioned, still not entirely comprehending what he was just asked. His training might have prepared him to react instantly when a grenade is thrown his way, but knowing what the hell to do when a friend of yours decides to ask you for something you’ve never in a million years thought you’d be asked for? He doubts even the United States Army could come up with a protocol for that.

He must have been in his suspended state for longer than he realizes as he hears Natasha speak again. “You know what,” she says as she begins to reach for her purse. “I really should not have said anything-”

For as frozen as he’s been for the past minute, his hand is quick to grab her arm to stop her from leaving. “Natasha.” He watches as her eyes meet his and seeing the embarrassment in hers almost instantly snaps him out of his trance. “I’m sorry, you just caught me off guard.”

“I haven’t exactly had practice with the question,” she says sardonically.

He knows her ploy well. Working with her side by side has taught him that she tends to revert to sarcasm as she prepares to put on a mask, but before he can really decide what to do, the words slip out. “Can you… let’s just… let’s talk about this.”

Natasha’s face is a mix of surprise and disbelief, but she sits back down anyway. Steve watches as she takes a breath to steady herself, and just like that, she regains her composure. “I want to be a mom.” Her voice is firm, sure. “A single mom. Melinda practically raised me on her own, so I know I can do this.” She looks up at him and he nods, signaling her to continue. “I’ve been weighing my options from adoption to fostering, and while I think that those could really give me the opportunity to change someone’s life for the better, I really would like to try to have the experience of carrying my own child first. And, well, since I’m flying solo on this, a donor is the only way to do that.”   

Steve’s tone is cautious. “And the ones you’ve been looking at aren’t any… good?”

Natasha gives off a soft laugh. “Like I said, the donor profiles at the sperm bank all make it seem like I’m about to grow a cross between the next Hollywood star and Stephen Hawking.”

“That sounds like a good thing,” Steve interjects, the corners of his lips turning up slightly as he cocks his head to the side. “At least for the kid.”

“It’s not a bad deal,” she agrees, leaning back against the booth’s leather cushion. “But none of that matters if they’re not any good on the inside.” She sighs. “All the donor profiles tell me is what my child could potentially look like and how healthy they’ll presumably be. None of which are factors that determine whether or not they’ll do the right thing when nobody’s watching.”  

“I understand,” Steve says. “But I have a hard time imagining a child with you as a mother would ever turn out to be a bad person.”

A ghost of a grin makes its way to her lips as she looks at her hands in her lap. “I know it sounds crazy,” she pauses to grimace, “or maybe not. This can’t be by far the craziest thing I’ve said in the past half hour.” They both laugh at that. “But, I guess selfishly, I just want the assurance that I did my damn best to give my child the best possible chance. Plus, let’s face it, Rogers,” she says, gesturing towards him with a playful smirk. “Even if it were just the physical traits I was after, you’re probably still the best choice.”  

“Are you admitting to ogling, Romanoff?” he asks jokingly. She gives him a one-shouldered shrug, and he can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. He almost gets caught in the playful bubble that’s suddenly enclosed them, but the reality of the matter quickly sinks in. “Natasha…” he breathes, running a hand through his face. “I’m…” he hesitates, but eventually sighs. “I’m not sure I’m as good as you think I am.”

“I don’t need you to jump in front of a bullet for me to know you’re a good man, Steve,” Natasha says, not missing a beat. Her voice is soft, yet still full of conviction. “Grand gestures of selflessness don’t mean much to me in determining how good a person really is. In front of the right audience those can be staged or brought down to obligation. But smaller, consistent acts of kindness?” She shrugs. “Those are just part of a person. They don’t even think twice about doing them because it’s just part of their fabric. And I see that in you. Every day.”

He’s silent for a moment as he ruminates her words and gathers his thoughts. “I…” he begins after a while, still clearly at war with himself. Nonetheless, his words surprise the both of them. “How does the process work?”

Natasha’s look of surprise returns for a brief second, her expression mirroring his own. She leans forward and turns to the side to get a better look at him. “The clinic is in midtown,” she says. “And it’s one of the best accredited practices in the state for both screening and obtaining donors. If you agree, you would come in, give them your sample, they run tests, and if everything comes out well, I come in for the insemination.”

“So…” he trails. “I go in, they hand me a cup, and I just…” He looks at her, his hands gesturing forward, as he silently begs for her to comprehend what he’s alluding to.

“Yes,” she says rather quickly. “They provide you with a variety of mediums to assist you in producing a sample.”

“Christ.” He runs a hand through his face. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice beginning to crack with laughter. “I don’t want you to think that I’m mocking you, but, how are you saying this with a straight face?”

“I’m curled up in a ball of embarrassment on the inside!” she admits, hardly containing her own laughter. “But given what I’m asking of you, I hardly think I have the right to be queasy about it.”

He looks at her pointedly, and she joins him in a fit of laughter.  Their laughter eventually dies down, and he sighs. “And then?”

“‘And then’ what?” she asks back, confused. 

“After all this,” he says, signaling between the both of them. “We’re just two friends who happen to share a child together?”

“Oh, I don’t expect anything after that,” she clarifies. “I would have a lawyer draw up papers before we begin stating I don’t expect anything in return. No financial support, no parenting rights, nothing. We could even do a confidentiality agreement about the donation if you’d like. Really, you’d only be helping me out with part A.”

Her words sound simple enough to his ears. And as much as her proposition had taken him by surprise when she’d brought it up, somehow, it didn’t seem all that weird now that she had laid out the terms. Still, he hardly thinks that this is a decision he should take lightly. He looks up at her. “Can I sleep on it?”

“Of course,” she says. “Take all the time you need.” She looks like she’s fighting disbelief yet again. “I know I’m asking a lot, I do,” she admits. “But that’s because for the longest time, I’ve been living life not really knowing what I want and it’s refreshing to just finally know.” She reaches for her purse again, and with that in hand, she looks back at him. “And given the ambush, I know that it seems like I’m asking this on a whim, but please trust that I wouldn’t ask just anyone.” She goes on even as he seems surprised at her revelation. “I hope this does not come out as patronizing, because God, I don’t mean it at all that way, but you’re the only person I would trust to ask of this. So… just think about it, okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says, reaching into her purse to pull out a few bills. He begins to wave her money away, but she refuses and puts them down on the table. “I promised drinks on me, remember?” She slides out of the booth to stand and slings the strap of her purse over her shoulder. She turns away from their booth but stops to look back at him. “Hey,” she says, catching his attention. “If your answer is no, we’ll forget this conversation ever happened. We’ll go back to sparring and drinking and having lunch in my office. And, I’ll still go museum hopping with you.”

He does not know how it’s possible, but that’s probably the most surprising thing she’s said all night. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirms and smiles. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Nat.”

“I don’t know, Buck, it just seems too good to be true.” Steve says as he nails another piece of acoustic foam to the wall. He’s just finished telling Bucky the details of Natasha’s request, and while he’s glad he’s finally said them out loud to someone else, he finds that he’s still as conflicted as ever. After Natasha had left him at Dalton’s last night, he decided to stay a while longer to deal with his thoughts with a fresh glass of scotch. The terms Natasha had laid out seemed simple enough. At least that’s what he thought, but was it really? This hardly seemed like the type of favor that would not go wayward. Assist your friend with her baby-making undertaking and things go back to normal once it’s accomplished – it was a plot surely made for the next hit comedy. By the time he was done with his drink, the resolution he was seeking still had not arrived and he conceded to doing exactly what he told Natasha he was going to do – sleep on it.  But by morning, and by the end of the workday, when the clarity he so desperately wanted was still MIA, he knew this was something he couldn’t decide on his own. So he made the trip down to Brooklyn, only to find his best friend in the middle of soundproofing his basement. “This is crazy, right?”

From where he’s kneeling on the ground sorting through a pile of nails and screws, Bucky shrugs. “Gotta admire the woman for going after what she wants.”     

“Excuse me,” Steve says, looking over his shoulder as he nails another piece of the foam to the wall. “Did you glaze over the majority of what I just said?”

“It seems to me that the only crazy person in this scenario is you, pal.” Bucky stands, tucking a loose tendril of hair that has fallen out of his bun behind his ear before he hands Steve a handful of nails. “You and I both know that you already had your answer last night. Otherwise, you would have left a Steve-shaped hole in the window of that bar. So just cut the crap already and let’s get to what this is really about.”

“Well since you’re such an expert,” Steve mocks. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “She’s not Sharon, you idiot.”   

And there it is. Steve knows he’s right. No, Natasha isn’t Sharon. Because if she was, she wouldn’t be explicitly honest about what she wanted out of him. Instead, she would just be planning to deceive him. He sighs. Deep down, just as every other damn person in his life points out, he knows that he has to let it go. Two years have passed since things between him and Sharon came crashing down. She’s moved on long ago; he should, too. But moving on is a lot harder when you’re the one left at the altar.

Sharon Carter had been the love of his life. So much so that Steve could not recall ever feeling the same way about anyone the way he did about her. They had met one evening when Bucky had dragged him out for a bar crawl when they returned home from their first tour with the army. Dive bars had never really been his scene, so he had been a wallflower, content with just sitting at the bar with his drink as he watched Bucky dance with every single girl he could convince. But before he could even finish his beer, the bartender had placed a fresh one in front of him complements of a blonde at the other end. He looked up, and surely, there she was. Her smile was dazzling and the rich navy of the top she wore brought out the warmth in her golden brown eyes. He went over to thank her, and before he knew it, he was bewitched by her charm. They ditched the bar (and Bucky) for a coffee shop that night, and by the time they’d parted ways with their numbers in each other’s phones, the sun was already up and shining brightly overhead.

In hindsight, he realizes that maybe he had been way too impulsive then. But that was the effect Sharon had on him; she brought out the side of him that wasn’t always cautious and put together. She encouraged him to be spontaneous and carefree, and he loved her for it. He loved her so much that it did not matter that they had only known each other for three months and that he was about to leave for another tour. He was certain that they would beat the odds, so he got down on one knee and proposed. She said yes, crying happy tears as she promised to wait for him and claimed she wanted to get married the second he got back home. She had planned the wedding while he was overseas, and the plans and details of it all occupied most of their conversations while he was away. But when the time came, and he finally stood in his black tux in front of all their friends and family, Sharon’s words when she finally made it down the aisle to him nearly broke him apart. She couldn’t go through with it. She was pregnant, but it wasn’t his.

“Look, I don’t mean to open up a can of worms, okay?” Bucky says contritely. “But Natasha’s not trying to con you into marrying her and raising a child that isn’t yours.” Steve winces slightly as Bucky voices the reality of what could possibly have been his life. “Actually, what she’s asking is pretty damn simple. It even comes with a set of instructions and an ironclad agreement.”

“But that’s just it,” Steve argues. “Is it that damn simple? How the hell am I supposed to know that helping her out with this isn’t going to backfire on me somehow?”

“How do you know that about anything you do in life?” Bucky challenges. “You don’t have to say yes,” he points out. “All I’m saying is, if you value your friendship with Natasha the way you say you do, you’ll do her a solid and say no because you really don’t want to and not because you think she’ll somehow turn into your ex-fiancée.”

Steve looks at his friend shocked, letting his words sink in. 

“Yeah, I’m more than a pretty face,” Bucky says, throwing a screw his way. “Now get back to work, or you aren’t getting your half of the pizza.”  

His apartment is silent save for the sound of graphite scratching against paper as he sits on his couch mindlessly sketching. While his conversation with Bucky had brought up many valuable and important points to consider, he finds that he needs a little peace and quiet if only for a while before he can truly make a decision. His sketching is interrupted by the sound of a knock on his door. He stands from his couch, setting the pencil and sketchpad down on his coffee table as he tries to rack his brain for a memory of someone letting him know they were coming over, but he comes up short. Confused, he presses a palm to the door, his eye looking through the peephole in the middle, and smiles as he works to get the locks undone.

“Hey, big brother,” a voice greets once he opens the door.

“Wanda,” Steve says elatedly, gathering her into a hug. “How have you been, kiddo?”

Wanda rolls her eyes at his choice of nickname even as she hugs him back. “Great,” she says, pulling away. “My internship ran late so mom commanded me to come here instead of taking the subway.”

“I’m glad she did,” he says, ushering her inside as he closes the door behind him. He glances at the clock on his wall on his way back to the living room and frowns when he realizes that it’s already past ten. His sister may be twenty-one and on summer break from university, but that does not mean he does not still worry about her being out so late. “What kind of company makes their interns work this late?”

“Oh, hush,” she says, putting her hands on her hips as she takes in his concerned face. “I was the one who volunteered to work late. Dr. Banner and Dr. Ross are working on a new prototype for an improved dark matter detector and I really, really wanted to stay to help with the new configuration.”

“One day you’re going to realize that you’re the only Physics major in the family, right?” he teases. Wanda rolls his eyes at him again as he falls back into big brother mode. “Have you eaten? I don’t have much in the fridge, but I could order Chinese if you want.”

She shakes her head. “I’m good. Luckily for me, my bosses are proponents of being well fed.”  

“How about a hot chocolate then?”

“With mini marshmallows?” she inquires, her eyes lighting up at the thought.

“A lot of mini marshmallows,” he corrects.

“Yes!” she squeals. “Hold that thought though. I’m dying to shower.”

“How about this,” he says. “I’ll go make us some hot chocolate while you go shower. Sound good to you?”

“You’re the best,” Wanda says, hugging him and leaving a kiss on his cheek as she moves past him and to his bathroom.

He shakes his head fondly at his sister’s antics as he makes his way over to the kitchen to start making their drinks. Wanda has been a bright light in his life ever since he was thirteen and his parents had adopted her. His mother always dreamt of having a big family, and when achieving it the conventional way was not an option, she thought that it was something she’d lost out on. Then came a beautiful baby girl who was left on the steps of the church the Rogers’ were a part of, and his mother knew that it was their destiny to raise this baby girl.

He remembers vividly the first time his parents had brought Wanda home. Adopting her had been a long and harrowing process, but his parents had made it work. She was only a few months old, a tiny pink bundle that wailed from the basinet that once belonged to him as an infant. Until then he had been an only child whose only exposure to younger children had been with Bucky’s siblings, but even so, his interactions with them had been short and limited. He felt a tad uneasy about their new addition at first, but one look at her bright green eyes coupled with one little coo as her tiny hand wrapped around his one finger were all it took for him to know that he would never let anything happen to this girl for as long as he lived. This was also what he would go on to promise his father on his death bed years later. He and Wanda had only been eighteen and five when cancer had taken their father away from them, but since then, he had doubled as both the man of the house and a father figure to his sister.

He’s just about ready to add the marshmallows to the two mugs he’s put out when Wanda comes back, her hair twisted up in a towel and her slender frame drowning in one of his shirts. He smiles. “Did you come out of a lamp to offer me three wishes?” he asks as he lifts the steaming mugs of hot chocolate and begins making his way to the living room.

“Grow up,” Wanda says, parking herself on the couch. He hands her a mug, and she takes a sip. “Don’t tell mom,” she says with a sigh, “but your hot chocolate is better than hers.”

“You’re only saying that because I put more marshmallows than she will ever let you have,” he replies. He takes a seat on the shorter leg of his L-shaped couch as Wanda snuggles up to his side. “So, tell me, how have you been?”

He listens as Wanda begins to catch him up on what she’s been up to. She’ll be a college senior in the Fall, and he can’t help but feel as if time has flown by. It feels like just yesterday when he and his mom had driven her to campus, helping haul all her belongings to her tiny dorm. He recalls taking in the bustling surroundings of her university as he carried boxes to and from their car, thinking about how different Wanda’s college experience would be compared to his. The university she had chosen to attend had been large and located in a beautiful college town in Connecticut. It was a radically different environment from the one he had when he and Bucky had attended West Point where their living quarters had been barracks instead of dorms. And while Wanda’s university was only really a train ride away from New York, he and his mother had still been terrified of the idea of having Wanda live away from them. However, hearing his sister gush about how much she loves college life and the friendships she’s formed has helped ease some of those fears. 

“No one special then?” he asks as Wanda finishes telling him about the group of friends she’s made in college that have stuck with her for the past three years. Sometime during their conversation, Wanda had moved to rest her head on his lap with her body sprawled out on the other end of the couch.

Wanda lifts her chin to look up at him. “That depends. Are you asking as a big brother?”

“Always as a big brother,” he states. “And by that, I mean, please leave out the details that might make me drive up to Connecticut in the middle of the night.”

“Do you want me to die alone?” she deadpans. He shrugs jokingly and she elbows him gently in the stomach. “But, no. No one special right now. At least not special enough to actually commit. What about you?”

He shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Still?” she asks incredulously as she moves to sit up. He nods. “Really? Don’t you miss it, though?”

“Miss what?” he asks.

“Just the connection, I guess.” He shoots her a warning glance, but she just rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.” She stands up, stretching her hands above her head. “I meant, I may not have someone I want to commit to at the moment, but it’s still nice just to have someone you can be real with even if your heart’s not up for grabs.” She starts making her way to the hallway leading up to his guest room, but she stops to look back at him with a sneer. “But, hey, you could go for the other kind too if you’re tired of using your right hand all the time…”  

He grabs the throw pillow next to him, hurling it in her direction. “You’re a pain!” he calls out.

“You love me!” Wanda calls back, and he hears the door of his guest bedroom shut.

Alone once again, he reaches for his sketchpad. Except this time, his mind is no longer quiet as he continues the sketch he abandoned when he was interrupted. His thoughts wander back to Natasha and the favor she’s asking of him and what Bucky had said earlier in the day. His best friend hadn’t been wrong. Saying no to Natasha because he was afraid she’d pull a Sharon on him wasn’t fair to her. And admittedly, that’s what he was really afraid of more than anything. But, for as much as his distrust in people has grown since things with Sharon ended, Natasha has been the one person he could always depend on. She always spoke her mind even when it wasn’t something he wanted to hear, and he knows that deep down, she’s one of the handful of people left that he trusts. And as Bucky had pointed out, she wasn’t concealing any of the terms of what she was asking for. She had laid everything out at Dalton’s last night, and if he agreed, everything would be written in black and white.

He also considers his sister’s words and the concept she’d brought up of being able to have a connection with someone without laying your entire heart on the line. He’d be lying if he said it doesn’t appeal to him. Hell, he probably would have moved on long ago if he didn’t have to gamble with his heart all over again. He’s only human after all, and of course he misses having an intimate connection with someone. But he knows he isn’t ready. He’s not prepared to give his heart to anyone, and he knows it isn’t fair to be with someone – physical or otherwise – and deny them access to your heart.

Unless you tell them explicitly from the start.

And unless you lay down the terms in black and white.

His hand stops sketching. He looks down at the pad and appraises the latest work he’s absentmindedly finished, and it’s like all the puzzle pieces have suddenly come together.

And just like that, he has his answer.

His heart is racing as he makes his way out of his office and across the floor to Natasha’s with a Manila envelope in his fingers. In theory, he knows she’s probably not busy. It’s noon, about the usual time they both go out for lunch on any given day, but the anxiety pulsing through his veins makes him ask Darcy anyway.

“If it were Sitwell from finance, I’d say get lost,” Darcy says in her usual snarky tone. “But you?” She gestures to Natasha’s door. “You could go right in. Boss lady’s never too busy for you.”

“Thanks, Darce,” he says, laughing at the woman’s shenanigans as he moves past her desk to stand in front of Natasha’s door. He knocks and waits for her voice to say come in. “Hi.”  

From her seat behind her desk, she smiles. “Hi.”

“Can we talk?” he asks, standing awkwardly at her door.

“Of course.”

He shuts the door behind him and walks further into her office all while watching her facial expression. There’s a soft smile on her lips, though her face does not give away enough for him gauge how she’s feeling. He wonders if she can feel the sudden wave of awkwardness that’s caught him, or if that’s just his nerves getting to him. He stops just in front of her desk and clears his throat. “I…” he begins, gently lifting the hand with the envelope to hand it to her. “I have something for you.”  

She takes the envelope from him and he watches as she opens it and pulls out the sketch he had worked on last night that he’s drawn from memory. Her eyes scan the paper, and he watches as a plethora of emotions fill her eyes as she takes in the drawing of her sitting in the leather chair she has in her apartment that’s resting up against one of her floor to ceiling windows that gives a breathtaking view of New York. In her arms she carries a baby wrapped in a bundle, and at the bottom of the page the words read: you’ll make a great mom. She looks up at him, seeking confirmation. “Really?”

He nods, and with a squeal, she jumps out of her seat to come around her desk to wrap both her arms around his neck. He hugs her back. “I do have a favor to ask in return, though.”  

“You name it, you got it,” she says firmly, pulling away from him slightly as her hands drop to his shoulders.

“Don’t be so sure,” he says under his breath, but she catches it anyway. His hand comes to rest on his nape as she steps away from him to look at him questioningly. He takes a deep breath. “I know you’re not interested in love,” he starts. Her eyes grow wide with what he can only assume are conclusions starting to build in her mind, but he gestures with one hand for her to stop. “I’m not either. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll ever get to a point where I’d be again.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “What are you saying, Rogers?”  

“I don’t really trust a lot of people all that much these days,” he says, looking down as he begins to pace back and forth. “But…” as he goes on, his hands start to emphasize every word. “I don’t really want to feel disconnected anymore, and I would like to get my feet wet without there being any real casualties. And maybe if it were anyone else I’d be ashamed to ask this, but you’re you and I’m me and I trust you and I hope you trust me like you say you do, and if there’s any two people that could handle this, it’s probably us...” He sighs and stops a few inches away from her. “You wanted me to be your donor and you explained how the whole thing works, but between what you want, and what I want… I guess what I’m saying is, what if we skip the clinic and take matters into our own hands?”

His question is followed by complete and utter silence.

He expects her to run, scream, cuss him out, maybe even laugh at his suggestion. But instead, she’s silent. He finally looks up from the ground to glance her way. Her expression is pensive, and he winces. “You think I’m a pig.”  

“I think…” she says, walking, stalking towards him. Her hands come back to rest against his shoulders as she rises on the tips of her toes, leaning in so her mouth is level with his ear. Her voice is but a whisper. “I’m going to have a lot of fun finally finding out how hard you can make me scratch my nails against your back.”

His breath gets caught in his throat. “You’ve thought about that?”

She looks up at him from under her eyelashes. “What else do you think runs through my mind every time you pin me down in the ring?” Her words are almost a challenge, egging him on to find out. He closes his eyes. Fuck. “We’ll have fun getting the rust off of you, Rogers.”

His restraint collapses like a house of cards. And in an instant, his hands are on her hips as he pushes her against the nearest wall. He hears her gasp as he presses a kiss to the side of her mouth, purposely missing her lips by a mere millimeter. “I never said I was rusty.”  

She smiles.

Chapter Text

“I still can’t believe you’ve never been here,” Natasha says as she and Steve make their way through the sidewalk adjacent the chrome edifice of the Museum of Modern Art. It’s Saturday afternoon, and just as she’d promised, she had accompanied him to various museums and galleries in the city throughout the week. It was on their fourth gallery visit where she learned that despite living in Manhattan for the past three years, he’s never stepped foot in this museum. “Seriously, Rogers, what kind of Manhattanite are you?” 

“Hey, I may live here now, but I’m a Brooklyn boy through and through.” He exaggerates his Brooklyn accent purposely, and she laughs. “Besides, going to these things alone isn’t very fun.”

“You couldn’t drag anyone here?” she asks skeptically, and he shakes his head. “Really? Not even-” She stops herself, but luckily, Steve gets where she’s going.

“Nah,” he says, “museums weren’t Sharon’s thing, and it isn’t really Bucky’s either.”

“I guess today’s your lucky day then,” she says, pulling on the glass doors of the entrance. The cool air of the air conditioner sweeps across her face as she walks in, and she couldn’t be more grateful for the reprieve from the summer heat. “Starry Night never gets old to me.”

A look of surprise crosses his features. “A van Gogh fan, huh?”

“A ‘fan’ might be a stretch,” she says. “When I was younger, Melinda used to dress me in these pajamas that had the painting on the front and I remember being so fascinated by all the swirls and the shades of blue. I guess that’s why I have an affinity for it.”

“It’s a beautiful painting,” he says with a grin. They reach the ticket counter, and as she goes to grab her wallet from her purse, he puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Steve.” She says his name almost like an admonishment. “We’ve had this conversation.” 

“We have,” he agrees, “but you’re already taking time out of your life to accompany me on this creativity seeking mission. The least I can do is get the tickets.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but she catches herself again as her mind drifts back to the events of this morning when they made their deal official. To say that it had been a little awkward when they both sat in front of each other, pens in their hands and their respective lawyers by their sides, would be putting it lightly. But that’s to be expected when the terms of your unconventional arrangement are being pored over and negotiated by two professionals. She wonders briefly if their lawyers have ever negotiated such a deal, if they’ve ever presented their respective client’s STD tests – both clean – before outlining every single detail in a contract that constitutes a deal such as the one she and Steve have made. She knows the terms like the back of her hand: they would have sex with the intent to conceive, and if they’re successful, Steve would be freed of any financial or parental obligation. With the deal in consideration, it’s not like she’s not getting anything in return for accompanying him on these trips, but she shakes the thought off. She offered to be his museum hopping buddy before this agreement of theirs was even an idea, and she meant it when she said that she would still do it even if he’d refused her request.

“Fine,” she concedes. “Next time we’re going to a free one.”

They spend their afternoon perusing the various exhibits, and though she’s been here countless times, she finds that she’s enjoying this time the most. Steve is such an art buff, and the fact that he’s never even been here before makes his knowledge about the pieces that much more impressive. He’s standing in front of a painting on a wall a few feet from where she’s leaning against the railing, and she watches curiously as he takes in the work before him. Everything is new and novel to him and she can’t help but revel at his expressions especially when something interests him more than the others. From where she’s standing, she can only see his profile, but based on the number of times he’s done this as they’ve gone from one museum to another, she can already tell that his eyebrows are furrowed as he tries to make sense of the artist’s style.

She pushes off the railing and moves to stand next to him. “See something you like?”

He smiles, his eyes still trained on the painting. “Even if I did, the chances of them letting me show this in a gallery are about one in a million. Tony Stark’s name be damned.”

She chuckles, knowing full well that Tony would try to throw his name around if it meant getting something he wanted. She takes in the painting for herself, ignoring the placard at the bottom as she examines the distinct style of the brush strokes on the canvas. “Monet?” 

“Oui,” he says in his best French accent before adding, “his take on water lilies.” He points at the texture on the canvas. “See how it looks like they’re layered? It took him years to build up the paint to make it look like this. He has an entire collection of paintings in this style, but the rest are in the Louvre.” He moves to look at her. “Have you ever been?” 

“Once,” she says. “You?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “If there isn’t a military base in the country, it’s a safe bet that I’ve never stepped foot in it.”

She does not miss the tinge of regret in his voice as they begin to walk to the next exhibit. “It’s a good thing you’ll be traveling with Tony then.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but I’m not really looking forward to being on a plane with him for eight hours.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think anyone on that flight is.”

One of the best things that has come out of this arrangement of theirs is that Steve has agreed to officially help Tony and Pepper curate pieces for their upcoming gallery. And with this new project, comes the opportunity for him to travel the world to find some of the most unique pieces of art for what Pepper envisions to be the next big thing to happen to the New York art scene. Their first trip is to Florence in ten days, and this is why they’ve been doubling up on museum and gallery hopping.

Steve opens the pamphlet he took from the information booth at the entrance. “Looks like we’re coming up on the van Gogh exhibit next.”

“That’s great,” she says, “but I do have to run to the ladies’ room quickly. Meet you there?”

He nods, and she looks up for a sign to direct her to the bathrooms. She finds it hanging on one of the building’s pillars and begins to follow it. But just as the door comes into her sight, a voice stops her.

“Natasha?”

She turns, recognizing the voice. “Matt.”

“How have you been?” he asks. His sunglasses are over his eyes and he’s dressed a bit too formally for a Saturday afternoon at a museum, but she figures that he’s probably coming from a meeting with a client. “Did you get the flowers? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

Her blood boils at his audacity, but before she can give him a snide reply, she feels a pair of arms wrap around her waist from behind. “There you are,” she hears Steve say as he bends down to leave a kiss on the skin of her shoulder left exposed by her sundress. “I was wondering where you wandered off to.”

She turns in his arms, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Sorry,” she says a little too sweetly. “You were just so engrossed in the painting. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You know I’d rather be engrossed in you.” His eyes are smoldering, and though she knows he’s just putting on a show, she finds herself impressed. She opens her mouth to make an overly flirtatious comment in return, but before she can get it out, his hand cups her chin, raising it as he leans down to press his lips to hers. It’s a little too ardent given their location, but the way he’d transitioned so seamlessly into this little act of his makes her stomach flutter. The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts them, and Steve pulls away to look over her shoulder. “Matt,” he greets, moving to extend a hand to him. “Sorry, didn’t quite see you there.”

“Steve,” Matt says, taking his hand reluctantly. Natasha notices the muscles of his forehead straining in disbelief as he looks between the two of them. He straightens his shoulders before nodding at Steve. “I didn’t realize you two have become a thing.”   

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “I guess I have you to thank for that. Thanks for screwing up the best thing to ever happen to you so she could become the best thing to ever happen to me.” The grin on his face is smug. “Have a nice day.”

She watches as Matt stands there stunned before Steve leads her out of the exhibit, through the halls of the museum, and out the door. As they stand in the sidewalk, the sun just about ready to set, Steve sighs. “Sorry, I know that was a bit much-”

She puts a hand to his lips, silencing him. Her eyebrows raise in question. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks once they walk into her apartment.

“Sure.”

She’s motions for him to follow her into the kitchen and suddenly, she’s very aware of the fact that a wave of awkwardness has washed over them. The sexual tension that was threatening to bubble over between them in the museum (hell, since the day he proposed this arrangement to her in her office, if she’s being brutally honest), feels like it’s been doused with cold water. She stops in front of her fridge and turns to him with a wince. “I only have beer and vodka.”  

He smiles, not looking the least bit surprised. “Beer’s fine.”

She opens her fridge, grabs two beers, and makes her way over to the living room. He follows, and she hands him a bottle. “Sit,” she insists, before reaching for the remote on her coffee table to press the button for her blinds. The blinds begin to part to reveal the bright lights of New York’s skyline. She lives on the fiftieth floor, and the view is incredible. She takes her place right next to him, twisting off the cap of her beer to take a sip. “So…”    

“So…” he echoes, taking a sip of her own.

Her eyes roam around her home, and she realizes that it’s exactly how she’d left it this morning. It’s not a mess, per se – her living room is relatively tidy, due mostly in part to the fact that she’s barely been home this week, though she does notice a few articles of clothing that she probably should have put away. Usually, she wouldn’t mind Steve seeing her apartment this way; he’s been here plenty of times in the past that he practically knows his way around. But this isn’t like those times. And that, she recognizes, is why she’s suddenly so uncomfortable. Tonight, he’s not here to split a pizza and a six pack with her after a hard day at work. No, tonight they have more on their agenda, but she’s done nothing to prepare. No candles, no chilled bottle of champagne. Nothing. It hits her that everything feels very transactional. “Shit,” she mutters, before looking at him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve… It’s just a little…”

“Weird?” he offers. If he was offended at all by her lack of preparation, the amused smile on his face does well to hide it.

She sighs. “You feel it too, huh?”   

“A little,” he admits, before shrugging. “But that’s to be expected. This isn’t exactly… conventional?”

“Oh, God.” She groans at the awkwardness of it all, her head falling against the back of her couch. Frustration consumes her – she wanted this, literally asked for this, and while he may have altered her original terms, it’s not like she showed much resistance to the plan. She racks her brain for a quick fix, sitting up suddenly to reach for the remote on her coffee table once more when an idea comes to mind. “I got it,” she says, pressing on a button. The lights in her living room dim as she stands. “I have candles,” she says, looking at him. “And music? I can get a playlist going-”

“Natasha,” he interrupts her. She looks down at him, the expression on his face so disarming that she feels herself relax. “We don’t need all the bells and whistles.”    

“I know,” she says, looking down with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m usually better at this. It’s just I want this to be really good for you. How I feel doesn’t even matter-”

He surprises her by standing and pulling her to him. “I don’t ever want you hear you say that,” he warns. His voice grows low and husky as he lifts her chin. “This isn’t just about me coming.” And as if his words couldn’t get any hotter, he adds, “I want you to come with me.”

The rawness of his words reignites the fire of her desires. Suddenly, she’s overcome with how much she wants to feel his skin, to feel him. A smirk appears on her lips as she pushes him backward with enough force to get him moving. He steps back, the back of his knees hitting the edge of her recliner, and he allows her to push him down onto it. She doesn’t waste time, planting a knee on either side of his lap as she straddles him, hiking the hem of her dress up before she crashes her lips against his. If she thought their kiss at the museum had made her weak in the knees, it doesn’t even come close to how she feels now. This kiss is hungrier, dirtier, full of promises of what’s to come, and the heat between her legs becomes hard to ignore. Goosebumps prickle her skin as his hands caress the skin on the side of her thighs, trailing up the curve of her ass, before settling on her hips. She pulls away, her lungs burning for air. “I want this off,” she breaths, pushing at the hem of his navy shirt.

“Is this how this is going to go?” He leans forward, reaching a hand back to pull his shirt up and off of himself before throwing it unceremoniously to the floor. “Us just telling each other exactly what we want?”

“Ideally,” she says, praying that she’s not outwardly drooling right now because all the times she imagined what he might look like without a shirt on? None of the images in her head could have prepared her for actually seeing him shirtless for the first time. His chest is gorgeous, sculpted to perfection, and the planes of his stomach are smooth yet defined. And under the lights coming through her window, his skin is absolutely flawless. His arms have never been a mystery, just the way his shirts cling to his biceps every single day at the office is enough to tell her that much like the rest of him, they’re perfect. But now, she wonders what it would feel like to touch his bare skin without an offending garment in her way, so she decides to find out. With her eyes trained on his face, she trails her hands slowly up his arms then down his chest. His lips part slightly, his gaze growing wild and frenzied. She smirks. “Eager, Rogers?”

He pulls her closer, trapping her in his arms as he grinds her down onto him. She gasps, feeling him hard and straining in his pants against the thin material of her panties. He takes a special interest in her neck, leaving open mouthed kisses on her already heated skin. “Three years, Nat,” he says, working to untie the knot at the back of her neck holding her dress up. The front of her dress falls forward, and he groans when he finds that she’s braless. She works to rid herself of her dress and mewls when he runs the pads of his thumbs across her nipples. “I haven’t been this close to anyone in three years.”    

“Fuck,” she curses, the slickness between her thighs becoming unbearable, though she recognizes that the fact that no one’s touched him this way in years should be considered a crime against humanity.

He smiles against her neck, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as his fingers begin to roll. “Can you come like this, Nat?” he asks before tugging gently. Her eyes fall shut, a sharp breath escaping her lips at the pressure and at learning that he’s a dirty talker. “I think you can.”   

“Steve.” His name is a plea, and when he bends down to capture a nipple in his mouth, she nearly screams out in pleasure. She cups his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Please.”   

“Tell me what you want, Nat.” His oceanic eyes have darkened to a near navy, the desire in his orbs making her ravenous. 

She leans down. “I want you in my mouth,” she whispers in his ear, “but I need to feel you inside me more.”

He groans, guiding her hands down to the button of his jeans. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Absolutely nothing, she realizes.

With deft fingers, she undoes the button of his jeans, sliding the zipper down as she rises a little higher on her knees to allow him to push it down his hips along with his underwear. She looks down at his erection, already standing at full salute, and she licks her lips as she takes in the head, already shining. She gathers the wetness in her palm, wrapping her hand around his shaft as she begins to pump. “Fuck, Nat,” he says, sounding intoxicated already. Shivers run down her spine and she can feel herself getting even wetter, but even though she’s as wound up as she is, she can’t bring herself to stop. He’s hot and thick in her hand and the sounds she’s eliciting from him is so damn addictive. “Nat,” he stutters. “Natasha.” He places a hand over hers, halting her motions. She looks up at him to see him panting, his eyes blown wide. “If you don’t stop, this will be over faster than either of us wants it to be.” 

She lets go of him, letting him pull her in for a kiss. His hand reaches between them, past the elastic of her underwear, and he groans. She’s soaked, she knows, and she mewls into their kiss when his fingers brush up against her slick folds. “Inside me,” she says, pulling away. “Now.” He obliges, and together they work to rid her of the last remaining barrier between them. She takes hold of his hard length again, guiding him to her entrance, before she sinks down onto him.

She gasps. They both do.

Because this is heaven. Hell. Sin.

God, this man.

It’s deliriously delectable, the way he’s stretching her, that it’s hard to breathe. She rests her forehead against his, her nails digging into the skin of his biceps as he bottoms out. He cups her cheeks in his hands. “You okay?”

“God, yes,” she whimpers, brushing her lips against his again because she can’t help it. She dares to begin moving her hips, causing them both to cry out. Her walls flutter, the muscles of her thighs burning. Without any barriers between them, she can feel all of him – every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his length inside of her. The pleasure coursing through her is rapturous, only made better when he begins to buck his hips up just as she slams her hips down. “Ah!”

“Feels so good,” he says, keeping up the rhythm that has her clenching her teeth. 

She can only manage a nod, looking down between them to find the mesmerizing sight of him disappearing inside her. She’s never felt so full before that she’s already close to her crest, the heat coiling low in her stomach, driving her wild. If she could just get that extra push. “Steve.” 

“Ssh,” he whispers, but before she can beg, his hand reaches between them, down to where they’re joined to find her bundle of nerves. He circles it tightly, repeating the motion over and over again as he continues to slam into her. “I’ve got you,” he says, hitting that spot within her that has her seeing stars. His thrusts grow erratic beneath her. “Come for me, Nat.”

Her entire body dissolves into pleasure with his command. She goes limp in his arms, her walls tightening around him as her head falls to his shoulder. With one final thrust, he stills, a groan slipping through his lips as he empties his release inside of her.

They stay like that, trying to catch their breath. She smiles. “This may be your best idea yet, Rogers.”

Beneath her, he laughs.

Natasha knows that it takes a lot to stun Pepper Potts into complete silence. She recalls the time one of Tony’s experiments in the robotics division of Stark Industries blew up in his face while she had been pregnant with Maria. Tony had to be airlifted to the hospital so surgeons could extract the debris and shrapnel from his chest, and she remembers Pepper taking it in stride then, listening calmly to the doctors as they explained her husband’s condition and their plan to save him. Pepper didn’t panic, calmly making choices that would be in the best interest of her husband, all while ordering Happy, her right-hand man, to assign someone to literally put out the fire in Tony’s lab. The point is, she knows Pepper’s threshold for incredulousness is unparalleled, and while she hardly thinks that revealing to her best friend the details of the deal she had made with Steve is more shocking than finding out your husband nearly killed himself because he thought he could make a suit of armor that could fly, apparently, she was wrong. Across from her in the café two blocks away from the Daily, Pepper sits in front of her, silent and wide eyed.     

“I know you’re my boss and all,” she says, looking at her watch, “but my lunch break is ending soon.”

If looks could kill, she knows she'd be dead as Pepper sends a glare her way. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that on me while I’m halfway through my pasta and expect me to process it like this,” she says, snapping her fingers in front of her.

“Is this really the craziest thing someone’s ever told you?” she asks sarcastically.

“I expect crazy from my husband,” Pepper says, her voice rising. “But from you? This is crazy even for you. And I was with you through all four years of college.”

“Will you keep it down?” She looks around the café, making sure people haven’t zeroed in on them as Pepper whisper-yells at her. “We’re just two friends helping each other out.”

“You’re two friends making a baby together,” Pepper emphasizes.

“And that’s why we made sure to have a contract drawn up before anything happened,” she argues. “This way, no one gets blindsided and left with responsibilities they don’t want. He gets what he wants, and I get what I want. It’s a win-win.”

“And this baseball game you’re going to,” Pepper points out. “Is this outing factored into the contract you guys signed?” 

“No,” she says, “but that’s the point. We’re still friends who do things friends do, except now, there are extracurricular stuff.” She takes a sip of her drink before shrugging. “Besides, they’re free box tickets. It’d be a shame to let them go to waste.”

The first thing that popped up in her inbox this morning was an email from an executive thanking her for the article she had written about his humanitarian work overseas, and as a thank you, he had attached two tickets to the Yankees versus Dodgers game tonight. She didn’t care much for baseball, but when she went over to Steve’s office that morning to ask if he wanted to grab their morning coffee together, she saw that he had already thrown himself into his work, his shoulders tense and his face set in a scowl. She could tell something was wrong immediately, and suddenly, her invitation for coffee was replaced with one to make use of the tickets she just received. She knows he loves the Dodgers, even if they haven’t actually been a Brooklyn team since the 1950’s, and his mood instantly lifted with her invitation. However, by the time lunch came around and he didn’t make it to her office, she realized that whatever it was that was bothering him must be serious, and she decided instead to call Pepper.

“Just be careful, okay?” Pepper warns with a sigh. “Contracts are great, but they don’t always cover everything.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table so she can prop her chin on her clasped hands. “So…” she trails, an eyebrow raising suggestively. “How is he?”

She smirks. It’s been over a week since their first time together, and since then they’ve tested the integrity of practically every surface in her apartment. Last night they’d been too eager to get their hands on each other that he ended up taking her right up against her apartment door, still clothed. She bites her lip, remembering how easy it had been for him to hoist her up against the door like she weighed nothing.

She mimics her eyes rolling to the back of her head, and Pepper squeals, asking for more details.

“Are you kidding me?” Steve shouts from his seat, hands up in the air as he witnesses the umpire signal that the player is out. “His foot clearly made it to the plate first!”

She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to hide her amusement. Steve is possibly the most even keeled person she knows and watching him get so overworked over a game is downright hilarious. She’s glad, however, that his sour mood from this morning seems to have dissipated. By the time she made it back to the office after her lunch with Pepper, Steve’s office door had been closed shut. She took a peek through the glass panel on the side of his door to see that he was inside still working on something on his computer and decided to give him some space to cool off. But, as they made their way over to the stadium in the Bronx, and it seemed like he was still bothered, she grew worried. Now though, in the bottom of the seventh inning with the Dodgers up by three runs, he seems to have forgotten about what was bothering him.

“What?” he asks, looking at her, and she realizes that she’s been staring at him.

“Nothing,” she says, a smile on her lips. He looks like he’s about to challenge her when they hear a commotion behind them. They both turn to the back to see a man down on one knee, proposing to a woman in tears. The woman says yes, and as the couple goes in for a kiss, the crowd cheers. They turn back to face the field as she shakes her head. “Such a cliché.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, pointing a thumb behind them. “Everyone loves a good Jumbotron proposal.”

“Not this girl,” she states. “Getting proposed to in public might actually be my biggest nightmare.”

“Why, are you not a fan of making a commotion?” he asks, leaning towards her. “Because I think we could definitely upstage that couple over there.”

She scoffs. “Are you always this competitive?”

He replies by taking her lips in his own, his hand coming to the back of her head to pull her in closer as he deepens the kiss. His tongue teases the seam of her lips, asking for entrance, and she grants it. She knows that they’re crossing the line to indecency in a public setting, but she can’t bring herself to care. He pulls away after what feels like an eternity, his face still close to hers. “Yes,” he says, “I’m always this competitive.”   

The smile on his face is smug and a tad mischievous, but she absolutely loves it. This man is too charming and way too devilishly handsome for his own good. “God, Rogers. It’s like you’re not even real sometimes.”

“I think that kiss may have gone straight to your head,” he teases.

“Definitely not to my head,” she says lowly. She runs her fingers through the hair of his neatly trimmed beard. “I mean, look at you,” she gushes. “You’re what they had in mind when they thought of the perfect specimen.”

The playful expression on his face dissolves, and in an instant, she regrets her words. But before she can apologize for her blunder, the announcer screams over the speakers and the crowd goes wild as a player hits the ball out of the park. They both turn their attention back to the game, clapping with the rest of the fans.

They remain for the rest of the game, trying to make conversation to shake off the awkwardness that has enveloped them. Steve tries to brush off the incident, but as they make their way out of the stadium and into a cab, she can tell that the atmosphere between them has shifted.

“Mr. Rogers.”

They’re halfway through the lobby of his building when a voice brings them to a halt. Steve looks back at the man standing behind the concierge desk and then back at her before reaching for the keys in his pocket. “Do me a favor,” he says, placing the keys in her hand. He leans in close. “When I get up there, I don’t want to find a single stitch of clothing on you.”

The intensity in his eyes coupled with the low but almost promising tone in his voice causes her to inhale sharply, but she somehow finds the wherewithal to nod. She turns, making her way into the already waiting elevator and presses the button for his floor. As the elevator begins to ascend, she lets the breath she’s been holding out, though she’s not sure if it’s from his words just now or her own at the stadium a while ago. Mentally, she scolds herself. How could she have been so stupid as to let her desires take over so much that she couldn’t catch what her words implied? To anyone else, her words are compliments. But to a man she was asking for help with this endeavor of hers, it sounded an awful lot like she only wanted him for his looks.

Her thoughts are cut off by the ding of the elevator, and she gets off to make a right towards his unit. She lets herself in, hanging his keys on one of the hooks against the wall, and begins to make her way further into his home. His place is ridiculously immaculate, it always is, and she wonders for the first time if it’s because of his training in the army or because he’s naturally organized. She lingers by the living room, not quite knowing what to do, but then remembers his request and begins heading to his bedroom. The door is cracked open ever so slightly, and with the palm of her hand, she pushes it open. She’s never been to this part of his home, and understandably so. She’s never had a reason to be until now, and she finds that it’s just as tidy as the rest of his place. Her eyes scan the room – it’s simple, with pale blue walls and chestnut colored furniture. His bed, flanked by a nightstand filled with various things on each side, is up against the window that spans the entirety of his headboard while the dark gray of the duvet contrasts starkly against the white of his sheets. To the left, a bureau rests against the wall next to a pair of doors she assumes leads to his closet.

She has this raging urge to snoop, but instead, her hands get to work on undressing. Once she’s down to nothing, she realizes that she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. She could lay on the bed alluringly, but that somehow does not feel right now, so she settles for pulling the duvet back and climbing into the left side of his bed and settling underneath the sheets. She does not have to wait long, though, as she hears the front door open and footsteps coming down the hall. He appears at the doorway, and the first thing she notices is that the hard lines that were on his face this morning are back. He steps foot into the room, closing the door behind him, and begins to unbutton his shirt before tossing it into the hamper. Her hands itch to touch his flawless skin, but she finds that she overwhelmingly wants to know what’s wrong with him more. She frowns, recognizing that she doesn’t know how to read him. She’s never seen him this bothered by anything in the years she’s known him, so she’s not sure if it’s what’s been bothering him all day or her comments a while ago. And because she’s not sure what it is exactly, she decides to make amends for the thing she’s sure struck him the wrong way. She sits up, letting the comforter fall as she makes her way over to him. She’s completely bare, as he requested, but she can’t bring herself to care right now as she comes to cup his face in her hands. His eyes close on contact. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she says, her thumbs grazing his cheekbones.   

He opens his eyes, and secretly, she wonders if she’ll ever find a better shade of blue. But his expression is still hard to read, so she goes on. “A while ago,” she clarifies. “What I said about you being the perfect specimen. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded-”

He cuts her off with a kiss. It’s chaste, but her skin still tingles just the same as his hands come to rest on the bare skin of her waist. He pulls away, his forehead leaning against hers. “I know.”

“Then what-”

He sighs. “Can I just lose myself in you right now?”

Her heart swells at the vulnerability in his voice. While she wants desperately to know what it is that has him bothered, she’s suddenly incredibly aware of the heat pooling between her legs. She nods, but as she turns towards his bed, he wraps a hand around her wrist to pull her to him. He kisses the skin just where her neck meets her ear, before he lets his lips trail down to her pulse, to her collarbone. Her voice is somewhere between a plead and a warning. “Steve.”

He shakes his head, his lips trailing downward until finally, he lowers himself onto his knees. He presses a kiss just below her navel. “I’m calling the shots tonight, Romanoff.”

She quite nearly whimpers. He’s so close to where she’s been aching since he made his favor known at the lobby that just the feel of his breath skating across her skin is enough to make her stomach clench. She looks down at him to witness the mischievous glint in his eyes as he leans in to press a kiss to her stripe of auburn hair. “Fuck.”  

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, amusement coloring his tone as he looks up at her again.

She opens her mouth to speak, but instead of words, a gasp escapes as he runs the pad of his thumb over the seam of her folds. The sensation causes her knees to go weak, and she tangles her hand in his hair to steady herself. He lets out a groan, and she knows it’s because he can feel her practically dripping. Her voice is shaky. “What?”

“I always loved the red.” He kisses her, right there, and she can’t help but twist her fingers in his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp hard, to anchor herself. He moves lower, his tongue replacing his thumb and replicating the movement as he laps at her slit from the bottom all the way to the top where he flicks his tongue against her bundle of nerves.

She cries out, and he repeats the movement, his tongue pressing hard enough that it’s tantalizing. Her breathing gets heavier, her head spinning, and her hold on his hair gets tighter and tighter, but that only seems to spur him on. He switches pace, his mouth concentrating on her clit, alternating between sucking and licking, and she feels her knees buckle. He grabs her hips, steadying her, and as she looks down, the sight below her elicits a curse from her lips. He’s looking up at her, a frenzied expression on his face. She’s never seen such an erotic sight – Steve, down on his knees, his face glistening with her arousal. It’s almost enough to make her come apart, but apparently, he has other ideas. He pushes two fingers into her tight heat, curling them, and as they work in tandem with his lips, she can no longer help but buck her hips into him as her eyes close. She’s practically grinding on his face, but she doesn’t care. The heat in her veins is boiling, consuming, and she’s right at the edge. His fingers pump in once, twice, before a strangled cry leaves her lips and fireworks go off behind her closed eyes.

Her mind’s still hazy when she feels him rise from his knees. He doesn’t give her much time to catch her breath as his arms encircle her and she rests all her weight against him, her legs nothing but logs beneath her. He kisses her, and she tastes herself on his lips, and despite just flying off the edge mere seconds ago, she can feel herself ache for more. “Still with me?” he asks.  

She manages a nod, finally opening her eyes to see him smiling down at her. She smiles back, but he’s already turning her around and maneuvering her towards his bed. They get to the side, and he surprises her by pushing a hand gently between her shoulder blades instead of letting her get up. Her torso is flat on the bed with her feet still touching the ground, and she moans, realizing what he wants.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” he says, and she can hear the tell-tale sound of his zipper coming undone and his pants hitting the floor.

“About?” she manages, though it comes out heavy. She rests her cheek against the softness of his duvet, trying to catch her breath, but it’s hard when her walls are already throbbing at the possibilities.

“About optimal positions,” he begins, and she feels him stand between her legs, his hands settling on her hips to push her up a little higher. “This one…” he trails off, and she gasps as he runs the head of his hard length against her folds, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “has some of the best reviews and outcomes.”

“Steve,” she cries out. She catalogues the fact that he took the time out to do some research, but clearly, she has more pressing needs. “Stop teasing.”

He leaves a kiss on her nape and leans away from her, but before she can complain about the loss of contact, he sinks into her from behind, slowly, inch by magnificent inch, as her walls tighten around him. He bottoms out, and her mouth opens in a silent gasp, forming a perfect O. She can practically hear the restraint he’s exercising in his groan as his hands press against her hips. “Good, baby?”

“Fuck, yes.” It comes out as a growl, but she can’t help it. He’s so incredibly deep in her this way that she swears she’s feeling him in new places. He begins to pull out – slowly, almost ridiculously, torturously so – and stops just short of all the way, before sinking right back into her, filling her to the tilt. “Oh, God,” she cries out, balling the material of the duvet in her hands. “Faster.”   

He sets a rhythm that’s nearly punishing, making her knuckles grow white and her vision blur. He feels so good inside of her that she doesn’t even care if she’s being too loud or if his neighbors overhear. He seems to feel the same way, judging by the plethora of expletives he lets slip from his lips. His hands on her hips tighten even more, and she’s sure they’ll be marks tomorrow. But it’s so, so delicious, how he swivels his hips ever so slightly before plunging back into the depths of her. Her walls flutter with every punch of his hips, and she knows she won’t last.

“Close, Nat,” he says, out of breath and seemingly reading her mind. She rasps her response out, letting him know she’s right there with him, and she just listens. To his labored breaths, to his groans, and to the sound of flesh meeting flesh. His hand reaches in front of her, circling a finger over her bundle of nerves repeatedly. She cries out, her body trembling as she tightens around him, the Earth feeling like it’s stuttering on its axis. Behind her, he goes still, spilling his warmth inside of her as he comes undone.

They somehow find a way to both make it into the bed and under the covers. She sighs, sated but content with his arm around her and her head on his bare chest. For a moment, she just lies there, letting her body cool down. They’re both silent, a sharp contrast from the way they were minutes ago, and she looks up at him, noticing the worry on his face from earlier today has made a return. “Steve,” she calls out softly, causing him to look down at her. “Talk to me.”

He stares up at the ceiling, and for a moment, she thinks that she’s probably not the person he wants to talk to about this, but he sighs. “When I proposed to Sharon, we decided to buy a house in Brooklyn. It’s beautiful, and it’s only a few blocks away from my ma’s.” He shifts to his side, resting an elbow on the mattress so he can prop his head on a closed fist. She moves her head to the side to look at him. “After the whole wedding debacle, she told me that she thought it meant more to me than it did to her, so she let me buy her share out. I couldn’t bring myself to live in it alone, so it’s been empty ever since.” His free hand moves to the flat planes of her stomach, his finger mindlessly drawing shapes against her skin. “Anyway, this morning she called me because she heard from a friend that it was still empty and asked me if she could buy it back. She’s expecting her second child soon and it’s apparently perfect for her family. I said I’d think about it, and she left her first offer downstairs. That’s what the concierge had for me.”

“Do you still miss her?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and she’s surprised by how quickly his answer comes. “I stopped missing her long ago.”

“But it’s enough to sour your whole day,” she states. It’s not a question as much as it is an observation, and she bites her lip, hoping she hasn’t crossed some boundary.

“Not my whole day,” he says. “I had a great time with you. Thank you for that.” He grins at her, and she gives him one right back. “But I suppose I do still mourn the loss of the life I envisioned. You spend so much of your life picturing it exactly the way you want it, only for it to be pulled from underneath you. And I guess that’s what selling the house back to Sharon feels like. Like I’m never going to have it.”  

“I get it,” she says, nodding in understanding. “But Melinda always used to tell me that life usually unfolds in a way that you might not expect, but ultimately end up loving.”  

“She sounds like a smart woman,” he notes. “What about you? Is this how you envisioned your life would pan out?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You mean, did I envision ending up in my friend’s bed, completely naked, with him suggesting I put a pillow under my ass to help his swimmers reach their destination?”

He smirks. “The Internet. So helpful.”

“Apparently,” she says suggestively. “But no, this isn’t how I pictured my life exactly. But at the same time, I never really had a clear picture of it to begin with.” He looks at her confusedly, so she goes on. “I’ve always known what I wanted to do,” she says. “Go to college, become a journalist, be successful. But in terms of a family? I’ve never met anyone who’s made me want to envision a life with them.” She shrugs. “So maybe this is exactly how my family is meant to come to be.”

“Well, I hope you get exactly what you want then,” he says, bringing his hand up to her face as he caresses her cheek with the back of his fingers.

She sighs, shifting to her side to mirror his position. “If I did my math right, this may be my last shot this month.”

“I think we did it,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss her temple.

She closes her eyes. “I hope so.”   

Thirteen days later, she’s still carrying that hope.

Steve’s been in Italy with Tony for as many days, and as she wakes up the morning of the day he’s supposed to arrive back in the States, she feels excitement bubble inside of her. Her period, which is usually like clockwork, is two days late and she swears her breasts have never been so sore. She smiles, swinging her legs over the side of her bed before making her way to her bathroom. She bends down, opening the doors below her sink to pull out a pregnancy test.

She takes the test, and because she’s too anxious to wait the whole three minutes it takes to show her the results, she decides to kill time by showering instead. She lets the hot water relax the muscles of her back that have gone stiff in her sleep, and for a moment, she just lets herself picture it. Picture what it would be like to have a child growing inside of her. Her hand drifts down to her belly, just below her navel where her child will soon be nestled. She sighs, knowing that this is an experience she would forever cherish.

But as she snaps out of her daydream, her head peering down at the floor of her shower where the water flows to the drain, she sees it. In the mix of the white suds from her body wash is the unmistakable stain of red in the water.

Her heart crumbles, and she knows that she doesn’t have to look at the stick resting on her sink to know what it says.   

Chapter Text

“Rogers, are you even listening to me?”

Steve looks up from his phone to find Tony looking at him questioningly. “What?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You’ve been checking your phone like a mad person since we landed,” he points out. “Actually, scratch that, since we left the hotel this morning. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Sorry, what were you saying before?”

“Not important.” Tony’s questioning look turns into one of curiosity. “Wait a minute,” he says with a glint in his eyes. “Have you got a lady friend you’ve neglected to tell me about?”

He shakes his head at the suggestive eyebrow wiggle Tony gives him. “No.”

Tony groans in frustration. “Then what has you so fidgety? Because let’s face it, Rogers, aside from when we’re looking at funky art only you and Pepper really understand, you’ve been distracted.” He looks at him pointedly. “You know I hate being ignored. So, what is it?”

Internally, he winces. He really ought to give Tony more credit sometimes. The man can be insufferable and full of himself most days (as has been the case their entire trip), but he is perceptive. And it’s true, he has been distracted the past two weeks they’ve been in Italy going from city to city to collect pieces for the gallery. On the surface, he chalks it up to being in a country he’s never been to before and the fact that this was his first trip outside the States since retiring from the Army. But deep down, he knows a lot of it has to do with Natasha and being separated from her for so long. And that’s not to say they’ve never gone this long without seeing each other. After all, she is the editor of the International section of the Daily, and with that, comes a plethora of assignments abroad for interviews and research for her articles.

But this is the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since they’ve entered into their arrangement.

He knows his separation anxiety shouldn’t be this profound. Their deal doesn’t allow for anything other than what’s been written down in black ink, and for that he’s grateful, because he’s just not ready to start anything up right now, but he also can’t escape the wonderful feeling of finally being able to have a connection with someone after so long without fear of it blowing up in his face. Outside of the sex – which, admittedly, might be the best he’s ever had – he and Natasha just understand each other on a level he has never experienced with anyone else before. Sure, the fact that they’re being intimate in the most physical way possible factors into it, but it’s not just that. With Natasha, he’s been able to open up about things that have been difficult to even say in the company of Bucky, Tony, or Sam – people he’s known and trusted practically all his life.

And it’s not like they’ve been completely devoid of contact his entire trip, either. Over the past two weeks, he’s been sending her pictures of some of the work he and Tony have collected while she’s been keeping him in the loop about the latest office gossip at the Daily. But last night, just as he was getting ready to go to bed, she’d shared that she was late and that she was experiencing symptoms that might indicate that their little experiment had worked. She told him that she would take a test in the morning and let him know. This, he surmises, is why as Tony points out, he’s been so restless. It’s well past eleven in the morning now, and she should be in the office already, and yet, still no message. Today is also the Daily’s weekly section meeting and he hopes that she just got caught up in it so much so that she hasn’t found the time to tell him the news, but he still can’t help the worry that’s been filling him since they landed.

Not that he can tell Tony that, though. So instead, he sighs. “It’s nothing, Tony.”

“Whatever,” Tony says dismissively as the car comes to a stop. “You know you don’t have to go to work today, right?”

He shrugs, a hand already on the latch to open the door. “The work I left behind isn’t going to do itself.”

With a goodbye, he gets out of the car and into the building. As the elevator makes it to their floor, he makes a beeline for his office to store his carry-on luggage before locking it back up to make his way over to Natasha’s. He has a fist raised ready to knock when a voice stops him. “You’re not going to find her in there.”

He turns to find Darcy leaning over her desk a few feet away with a knowing look on her face. He walks over to her. “Is she still in the section meeting?”

Darcy scoffs. “That shit show ended an hour ago,” she says. “Sitwell got Boss Lady so worked up she had to go to the gym.”

“Do you think she’s still there?”

“Probably,” Darcy says with a shrug. He turns towards the direction of the elevator, but Darcy calls out to him again. “No offense, but I wouldn’t bother her if I were you. She looked just about ready to murder someone on her way out.”

“None taken,” he says, “but I think I’ll take my chances.” Darcy mutters something about it being his funeral, but he’s already making his way to the elevator and pressing the button for the gym four floors down.

Considering that it’s almost noon and everyone has probably gone on break, he finds that the gym is surprisingly empty once he walks through the doors. His eyes scan the room, looking for Natasha, but all he comes across are a handful of other employees sweating away their respective lunch breaks on the machines. His eyebrows furrow, but just as he’s about to turn back around, an idea comes to mind. He makes his way further into the gym, past the hallway leading to the lockers, and through a set of glass doors that lead to the boxing ring.

The ring is empty, but the sound of leather knocking against leather catches his attention. He turns to the right, and there, close to the glass windows is Natasha, earphones in and her hair up in a ponytail as her fists strike the punching bag in front of her. Sweat drips from her shoulders, an indication that she’s been here since she’d left the meeting, and though her back is to him, the tension in her stance and the far swing of the bag as she puts all her weight behind each punch is enough to tell him that Darcy was wrong. This isn’t about Sitwell at all, but he doesn’t need Natasha to tell him what he already knows. The worry that he was keeping at bay in the car floods him, and his heart sinks.

He walks over to her slowly, and once she’s within arm’s reach, he places a hand on her shoulder. Surprised, she whips around at the touch. “Nat,” he says, and the first thing he notices is the disappointment heavy in her green eyes. But before he can let the apologies slip through his lips, she blinks the emotion away, replacing it so quickly with a cold stare akin to apathy that if he hadn’t been so certain of what he saw, he might think that it was his mind playing tricks on him. But he knows it isn’t, and the fact that she’s putting on a brave face right now breaks his heart even more. She pulls an earphone out from an ear, letting it dangle over her shoulder as she begins to take off her gloves. “Natasha-”

“Six years,” she interrupts him.

He stands there in confusion. “What?”

“Six years,” she repeats, her eyes still focused on her hands as she works to remove the tape. “That’s how long it took Tony and Pepper before they had Maria.” He sighs, knowing full well the struggles the couple had. “I was there through every negative test she took. And then through both miscarriages.” Her voice cracks, and she throws her gloves on the floor. “God, I should have known!”

She punches the bag with her bare fist in frustration, causing him to step forward to ensnare her arms in one of his own from behind to prevent her from hurting herself. His other hand reaches out to steady the swinging bag. “Hey,” he whispers when he feels her resisting, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she volleys back, breaking away from his hold. She turns to face him, and though it pains him to see how much this hurts her, he’s glad that the mask she attempted to put on is gone as she lets the pain and disappointment color her features. “It’s not okay.”

“Yes, it is-”

“I’m supposed to know better. Be rational… That’s what makes me so damn good at my job,” she argues. “I don’t let my emotions bleed into how I report the facts because that’s doing a disservice to every person that reads the paper.” She gestures aimlessly as she shakes her head. “But with this? I let myself become so fucking whimsical! Maybe… Maybe this is for the best.” Her gaze turns to the ground, her voice growing soft, defeated. “Maybe I was wrong... Maybe I can’t be a good mother.”  

“Natasha.” His voice is firm as he interrupts her for the first time. “Look at me,” he says, but she keeps her eyes on the ground. He steps closer to her, testing the waters between them. He does not want to overstep her boundaries, but he also has this nagging urge to touch her, though he’s not sure she’s ready for that. But if there’s one thing he does know, it’s that he won’t let her doubt herself this way. “Look at me,” he says again instead, and finally, she does. “You’re going to be a wonderful mother.” He looks deeply into her eyes as he adds, “I wouldn’t have said yes to this arrangement if I thought otherwise.”

Her face fills with anguish. “Why does this hurt so badly?”

To hell with boundaries, he decides as he takes her in his arms and sighs in relief when she goes willingly, burying her face in his chest as a sob rocks her body. His hold on her tightens and he leans down to kiss the top of her head, the sweet scent of her lavender shampoo that he’s become so familiar with in the past month filling his senses. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I was so stupid,” she laments, her voice muffled by his shirt. “I was so stupid for thinking it’d happen just like that.”

“Please don’t say that,” he tells her, running a hand up and down her back soothingly. “We all become wishful when we want something so badly. That makes you human, not unfit to be a mother.” His hands cup her cheeks, and she looks up at him, her face flushed and damp with tears. His thumbs wipe them away. “We’ll keep trying, okay?”

She pulls away from his embrace to cover her face with her hands. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks worriedly.   

“I didn’t even think about what would happen if it didn’t work,” she states with a sigh. “God!” she exclaims in frustration. “I didn’t even think to ask you-”

“Hey,” he soothes, taking her back into his arms. He makes sure that she’s looking at him when he says, “I’m not giving up until we get you what you want.”

“You don’t have to,” she holds. “It’s not in our contract. And even if it were, I wouldn’t-”

He puts a hand over her mouth to silence her. “I want to,” he says. “Okay?” She holds his gaze so stubbornly that he actually thinks she might fight him on this, but eventually, she nods, nestling her head in the crook of his neck. “Plus, it’s not like my job is that hard.” His voice fills with mischief. “And from what I hear, I think you think I’m doing a pretty good job.”

He feels her scoff against the skin of his neck. “You’re full of it,” she says, and though he can’t see her, he knows she’s rolling her eyes.

“Isn’t that the point?” he teases. She leans back in his embrace, raising an eyebrow at him in warning. He relents. “I’m kidding.” He lets go of her and bends down to pick up one of the gloves she’d thrown to the ground. “Besides,” he says, handing her the blob of leather. “I’m just glad I don’t have to throw Sitwell up against a wall. Darcy mentioned he pissed you off at the section meeting this morning.”

“Hardly,” she says, walking over to the bench where she’d left her gym bag to stow her equipment. “And don’t bother because Thor probably beat you to it. Sitwell was trying to get a section to let him cut their budget and made the mistake of trying to bully Sports. Well, he bullied Science first, and you know how protective Thor is of that department.”

He looks at her sharply. “You mean how protective he is of Jane?” Natasha smirks, and as they begin to make their way out, he stops after a few steps. “What are you doing after?”

“Taking a shower,” she deadpans, pointing to her gym attire. “I mean, I could go back up like this, but I don’t know how well our co-workers are going to receive this.”

He ignores her sarcasm. “After work, I mean.”

“Drowning my sorrows in leftover Chinese and a Bolshoi documentary?”

“Wrong,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re coming over.”

“I don’t know if you know this,” she begins, “but I’m kind of out of commission for the next week.”

He rolls his eyes. “Believe it or not, I am capable of keeping it in my pants.”

“You know,” she says, stepping closer to him as she dons her most resolute look, “just because you let me cry all over you, does not mean you can boss me around.” He stands his ground, offering her a look that’s just as steadfast. She sighs. “Fine.”

“I’ll meet you back upstairs,” he says with a smile. She nods, walking past the hall of lockers to where the showers are. Once she’s out of earshot, he pulls out his phone, surfing through his contacts before he finds the name he’s looking for. He puts the phone up to his ear. “Hey, can you help me out with something?”

The first thing that greets them when he opens the door to his apartment after the work day is the smell of sweet spices in the air. “Oh my god,” Natasha exclaims from behind him, “it smells like heaven in here.”

A smile makes it across his face as he parks his carry-on luggage against the wall. “Follow me,” he says. He leads her further into his home and into his kitchen to find a slow cooker sitting on the counter. He lifts the lid, setting it down as he motions for her to lean in closer to get a whiff of the delicious aroma.

Her voice fills with excitement. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Only if you think it’s chicken paprikash.”

Her eyes light up at his confirmation, but then confusion etches across her face. “You just landed,” she points out. “Who got this pot started?”

“It takes a while to build depth in the flavor of the sauce,” he explains as he rummages through his kitchen drawers for a spoon and turns back to her when he finds one. “I asked my sister Wanda to pick up a few things and get it started on her way home from her internship.” He dips the spoon into the sauce and lifts it for her to taste. “Careful, it’s hot.”

She blows on the spoon to cool the sauce down before she tastes it. Her eyes close. “Oh my god.”

“Good, huh?” he says proudly.

“Good enough for me to overlook the fact that you had to burden your poor sister,” she teases, but it’s light-hearted as she adds, “but it’s even better than the one from that one place on the Upper East Side.”

“The secret is to use really good smoked paprika,” he explains. “Don’t cheap out and use the regular kind that comes in the plastic bottle.”

She looks at him amusedly. “You never said you could cook.” 

“You never asked,” he counters, before nodding towards his living room. “Go make yourself comfortable. This should be done in five minutes.”   

They have dinner on his couch while filling each other in about things they forgot to mention over text in the past two weeks. She shares her ideas for upcoming articles, while he tells her about all of Tony’s antics in historical sights and ancient museums that almost got them kicked out. She laughs, telling him how he should have expected that from the start and that she’s surprised they hadn’t actually gotten kicked out of any of places they visited. He agrees.

“That was incredible,” she says once she’s done with her meal. She puts her plate down on the coffee table and groans. “I think I ate way too much. No, actually, I know I ate way too much.”  

“Spirits lifted, though?” he asks with a smile, taking a cue from her as he sets his plate down next to hers.

“Spirits absolutely lifted,” she assures. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he replies, a soft smile on his lips.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not for dinner. Well, for that, too. But not just for that. For everything. For this afternoon at the gym and-”  

“Anytime, Nat,” he repeats, not even letting her finish her statement. She nods, and with another smile, he collects their dishes and brings it over to the kitchen sink. He hears her follow suit, and as he turns the tap on to let the water flow, she perches on the counter next to the sink with her glass of wine in tow.

“When did you learn to cook?” she asks as he puts soap on the sponge.

“A little after my dad passed away,” he says as he works to scrub away the remnants of their meal. “He was always in charge of making the savory portion of our meals since my mom was the baker. When he passed, I guess I sort of just took on both the responsibility and his recipes. He made paprikash after we found out Wanda is of Sokovian descent. He wanted her to be able to learn about her culture and he believed food was a good way to do that.” He shrugs. “It’s usually our go-to dish when we feel his absence a little more than usual, and I know that you love it, too, so I thought it might help you feel better today.” 

She puts a hand on his arm, causing him to look at her. “It did,” she says, her eyes bright and sincere. She smiles, and he smiles back at her, holding her gaze for a moment before she lets go and he turns his attention back to the dishes. “So, tell me,” she says, taking a sip of her wine before shifting in place on the counter. “What kind of pick-up line can you concoct from being a captain in the Army, a talented artist, and a damn good cook?”

“Former captain,” he corrects. “And mentioning rank to impress a girl was always more Bucky’s thing than it was mine.”

“Does that mean you’ve done it then?” she asks.

He looks at her to see her looking at the ground, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Are you asking if I’ve ever mentioned my rank to impress a girl or if I’ve done it to impress a girl recently?”

She’s silent for a moment, her eyes trained on the ground. “Sounds like a good way to pick up some Italian siren,” she says eventually before shrugging. “Not that you shouldn’t.”

She tries to frame her words with a teasing tone, but he sees right through it. He shuts the tap off, placing the last dish on the rack before he dries his hands on a dish towel. He moves to stand between her legs. “Natasha,” he says, and as her eyes meet his reluctantly, he sees all the doubt and betrayal swimming in her pools of green and he just knows, with every single bone in his body, that he’s never wanted to inflict pain on Matt Murdock more than he does at this moment for making her feel this way. “When you said that I was the only person you’d trust to ask of this, did you mean that?”       

“Of course,” she says almost instantly as her gaze returns to the ground. “Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business. This is my third glass-”

He tucks a finger under her chin, gently tilting her head back to assure that she’s looking right at him. “Then trust me when I say that it’s just you, Nat,” he affirms. “Just you. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He holds her gaze until she gives him a single nod, and watches as something else entirely fills her eyes that he can’t quite place. He thinks it might be relief, but before he can really give it more thought, she leans in, brushing her lips against his. She tastes of wine, and just Natasha, and though the kiss is chaste, it already has his senses on overdrive. For a while, it remains that way, almost like all they need is the proximity. And that’s what it is, really, just the need to be this close to each other again after spending two weeks apart when they had spent almost every waking hour together in the days prior.

It’s enough, until it isn’t.

His hands tangle in her hair, cupping the back of her head as he pulls her closer to him. She moans into their kiss, and he feels her hands roam around his chest as he teases her bottom lip with his tongue. She parts her lips slightly, granting his tongue entrance as their kiss grows hungrier and needier with every passing second. Her hands travel lower, down to the buckle of his belt, and he catches them, intertwining it with his own. He pulls away, resting her forehead against hers as he tries desperately to pump air into his burning lungs. “You shouldn’t be starting things you can’t finish,” he says, a playful smile on his face.

She smirks, pushing him away to hop off the counter. She’s back in his arms before he can blink, her lips on his once more as she pushes him towards the kitchen island until his back hits the ledge. “Believe me, captain,” she whispers and he just about trembles. She trails kisses down his jaw and to his neck, her hands working on the buckle of his belt before she pushes his zipper down. “I intend to see this through.”

He’s about to argue, but then she’s sinking to her knees, and all the words he had on the tip of his tongue are just about forgotten.

The first streaks of morning sunshine slip through the small space between the curtains, waking him from his slumber. He rolls over, wincing as his shoulder pops back from laying on it all night as his hand extends out to his bedside table in search of his phone. He reads the glowing white digits on his home screen – it’s six on a Sunday morning in October, and while it may be considered early for some people, it’s pretty late for his standards. His eyes travel down to the slew of notifications filling the rest of his screen, and his thumb immediately slides over the unlock bar when he sees one from Natasha.

“They don’t do coffee well here,” the message reads. “I think I might die.” He smiles, she’s been in London for the past two days working on interviewing a few parliament members for an article she’s writing, and he can only imagine how miserable she must be without her daily dose of preferred caffeine. “Tea’s not so bad. It might even calm your dramatics,” he types back. She sends him the eye rolling emoji and he chuckles, moving onto clearing the rest of his notifications. He’s halfway through reading an update on an injured player from the Dodgers when a banner slides down from the top of his screen, signaling a new email. When he sees who it’s from he sighs, his thumb working to drag it down.

I know I said no rush the first time I called, but I really hope you’re giving it some thought.
Maybe we can grab coffee sometime to talk it out in person?
Let me know.

-Sharon

He sighs once more. It’s been weeks since Sharon first called him about buying the house back in Brooklyn, and though he’d told her he’d think about it, he hasn’t really given it much thought until now. Between travelling and his project with Natasha, whether or not he wants to sell what he once thought was one of his prized possessions back to his ex-fiancée has been far from his mind, and that’s perhaps why he’s found himself in a better mental and emotional state recently. As he’s discussed with Sam in their sessions together, he does not harbor any anger or ill will towards Sharon, but he does find it impossible to think about her without venturing into their past – a place that he, quite frankly, would rather not relive ever again. He runs a hand over his face, trying to rub away the sleep that’s long gone now that his thoughts are swirling in his mind. They become paralyzing for a brief moment, but he decides that he won’t let it. He forces himself to rise from the comfort of his bed to make his way over to his shower, hoping clarity will come to him then.

An idea comes to mind once he’s finished getting ready for the day and he stumbles upon one of his larger sketching pads to see the work he’s finished. He grabs the pad, rips out the finished pieces carefully before placing it in his canvas-sized leather carrying case, and sets out into the Manhattan heat. The C train from the Meatpacking District to Brooklyn is virtually empty, the way it always is so early on a weekend morning, and the fact that it’s a luxury to be alone in a New York train car does not escape him. The train goes through three more stops before he steps out, letting his mind and feet go on autopilot as he walks up the stairs to exit the station and up into the familiar sidewalk. He trudges up the few blocks he knows so well, before the large neon sign of Sarah’s Confectionery comes to sight. He stops just in front of the locked glass door, ringing the bell and waving to the woman arranging pastries behind the counter. A large smile spreads across the woman’s face as she sets the tray down on the adjacent counter before hurriedly coming to open the door. 

“Well isn’t this a wonderful surprise?” Sarah Rogers says, her sandy blonde hair that he’d inherited held back by a bandana and her apron full of flour as she wraps her arms around him. “It’s so good to see you, baby.” 

“You say that like I don’t come to visit once a week,” he teases, letting go of her.

She frowns. “You know I’m always happy to see you and your sister.” She looks at the case he has tucked under his arm and raises an eyebrow at it in question. “Have you got something for me?” 

“I do, actually,” he says, a touch of excitement coloring his tone as he moves into the bakery. Behind him, Sarah shuts the doors once more before coming to stand next to him. He unzips his case and pulls out the pages he’d stored in it and lays each one down on a table. He turns to her. “I finally finished the pieces I promised you for the wall,” he says, pointing to the spacious yet bare wall on the left side of the bakery.

Sarah’s eyes take in the intricate work laid out in front of her. He’d drawn five of her bakery’s specialties, showcasing their best ingredients and making them look even more mouthwatering than they already are. On the far right, the sixth and final picture is a portrait of her holding a cake stand with her infamous fudge cake that perfectly captures the warmth of her eyes and the brightness of her personality. “Oh, Steve,” she says, her hands coming to cover her mouth. “These are absolutely stunning!”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I just wanted it to be good enough to put on your wall.”

“You could sign your name on a napkin and you know I’d put it up there,” she says, her voice filling with excitement. “I cannot wait for the customers to see these! Oh, they’re going to love it. The first thing I’m doing when I’m done here today is going out to have these framed. I want them up on the wall ASAP.” She turns to him, cupping one of his cheeks in her hands lovingly. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, ma,” he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders before pulling her to him to leave a kiss on her temple.

Sarah looks at the watch on her wrist. “I have an hour before I have to open and before things get crazy in here,” she states. “Go have a seat. I have a fresh batch of cookies that I want you to try while you tell me about your trip.” 

“This is coming from the woman who didn’t used to let us have sweets until after we had a real meal,” he calls out to her retreating form.

Sarah looks over her shoulder. “I did my job. Now that you and your sister are both all grown, I can get to the fun, irresponsible part where I get to feed you cookies anytime I want.” 

He spends the next half hour both praising the new smores chocolate chip cookie Sarah concocted and telling her how his trip with Tony had gone. He tells her about finally crossing off Ponte Vecchio from the list of landmarks he’s always wanted to visit, how much he loved the massive collection of Renaissance art Florence has, and just the rich history of Italy in general, and it’s not until Sarah takes his hand in hers as it lies idly on the table in front of them does he realize that he’s been happily gushing.

“It’s so good to see you happy,” she says, the crow’s feet on the side of her eyes becoming more prominent as a little smile crosses her face.

He mirrors her little smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“What do you mean, ‘you guess’?” Sarah asks, suddenly not entirely convinced with his smile. She runs her thumb across the skin on the back of his hand. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, waving off her concern.

She cocks her head to the side, arching a delicate eyebrow. “Steven Grant, are you lying to me?”

The look in her eyes is one he knows well. It’s the one she puts on when she’s not buying the story he’s trying to sell. It hadn’t worked when he was a kid, and he shouldn’t be surprised that it isn’t working now. He sighs, and before he knows it, he’s telling her the details about Sharon and her offer to buy the house.

“Absolutely not,” she says, her voice rising an octave once he finishes telling her all the details. “Absolutely not. The nerve on that woman!”

“Ma,” he says, laying a soothing hand on her arm. He sighs. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” She turns to him, her eyes serious. “Steven, you’re not selling her that house, are you? Tell me you aren’t.” 

He sighs once more, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Sarah asks incredulously as she gets up from her seat. Her hands settle on the back of the chair she’s just vacated. “She’s the one who went back on her promises,” she points out. “She hurt you, and somehow she just expects you to give her this, too?” She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why would you even consider her offer?”

“Maybe I don’t want to live in that house anymore,” he says honestly, and a weight feels like it’s lifted from his chest from saying the words out loud for the first time. “The guy who bought that house, the one who got left at the altar, that guy wanted family and stability with the woman he loved. He didn’t get that.” He shrugs. “I think maybe someone else walked out of that church that day.” 

“You see,” Sarah begins, shaking her head in grief. “This is why I’m so incredibly angry at her.”

“Ma,” he repeats, standing from his seat. He takes her in his embrace, and she wraps her arms around him tightly. “Forgive and forget, right?” he says into her hair. “You taught me that.”

“I know I did,” she says, looking up at him. “And I am so proud of you for thinking of it that way because it means I raised a good man.” She cups his face in her hands, forcing him to look at the same crystal blue eyes he has. “But baby, just because you didn’t get the life you wanted with her, does not mean you won’t ever get it with someone else.” She sighs. “Just think about it, okay?”

He nods.

By the time nine a.m. rolls around, he bids Sarah goodbye to make way for the legion of customers about to storm the bakery for their weekend sweets. He contemplates going directly back to his apartment for a workout, but his mother’s words pierce through his heart like a hot knife through butter. And before he knows it, he’s crossing the street, passing his childhood home as he walks the two blocks it takes to get to the house that’s become a source of grief for him recently. He stops just as he gets to the edge of the sidewalk leading to the home, taking in how barren it looks compared to the rest of the houses on the street.

He does not dare enter, though he does not have to because he knows the inside like the back of his hand. He can imagine strolling its halls, going from room to room. It’s nothing extravagant, just a quaint three-bedroom home with two stories and light oak floors and a spacious backyard. He used to picture how perfect the home would be for him and Sharon and the children they would eventually have. He used to imagine coming home after a long day at work only to be greeted by the sound of children running to come greet him. He would pick them up and carry them to the kitchen where he would find Sharon, a glass of her favorite merlot in her hand, as she stirs something over the stove. They would have dinner together as a family, tuck their children into bed together, before they spend the rest of the night unwinding on the deck in the backyard under the Brooklyn stars. At least, that’s how he used to see it.

Now, as he stares at the structure he once yearned to call home, all he can see are the wooden sidings, their rich color now faded from being left untreated for so long. There are no sounds, no children.

His vision is empty. 

“Still think that painting is ugly?”

From between her legs, he looks up at her, an impish look on his face as he sees a smile spread across hers. “It is ugly,” she begins to argue, but it’s replaced by a sharp intake of breath as he licks a line up her slick heat. “Fuck.”

“What’s that now?” he asks, his hands spreading her legs open wider as his teeth grazes the delicate skin on the inside of her thigh. She whimpers, and he watches as she strains against the silk of his tie tethering her hands to the headboard of her bed. After work this evening, they visited a little gallery tucked away in Harlem where he found an eccentric painting that he wanted to pick up for the gallery. What he thought was fun and different was apparently less than pleasing to the eye to her, and he’d joked that if she didn’t take her assessment back, he’d have to tie her down and convince her. Well, she had called his bluff, and the second they made it back to her apartment and their clothes were thrown carelessly to the floor, he went to work on tying her wrists with the tie he had selected for their section meeting this morning. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure what surprised him the most – the fact that Natasha apparently has fantasies of being tied up, or that she trusts him enough to do this to her. But then again, trust seems to run abundantly between them since that night he made her dinner at his apartment, and he’s having way too much fun watching her squirm right now to really question it.

“Rogers,” she breathes out when he licks up her center once more, purposely ignoring the one place he knows she’s aching the most. He turns his attention back to teasing her thighs and she chuckles. “God, you can be such a little shit sometimes.” 

“Sassing me doesn’t really help your case right now, Romanoff.” His warm breath sweeps across her already heated and sensitive center, making her toes curl into the material of her comforter. He sinks two fingers inside of her and he groans as his name falls from her lips in the form of a strangled cry. “So wet, Nat.”

“Steve.” She whines his name like a plea, her voice dripping with desperation. He finally decides to take mercy on her and begins to pump his fingers. Her breathing picks up, a muffled moan slipping through her lips with every push and pull of his digits in her tight heat, and he looks up to see her biting her lip, her eyes shut tight. He reaches up towards her face with his free hand, gently pulling her lip away from her teeth.

“Want to hear you,” he demands as his tongue and fingers begin to work simultaneously. She obliges, crying out both in ecstasy and frustration as his tongue swipes kittenishly against her sex. With the way her legs are trembling, he knows how close she is. In the short time he’s gotten to know her body, he’s learned just the tempo to set to push her to the edge and have her falling within minutes. And while he’s gotten a kick out of teasing her relentlessly, he wants it, wants to push her over that edge just as much as she wants him to take her there. He moves up, his lips finding her swollen bundle of nerves as he begins to suck. Her hips jerk, her spine arching off the mattress as a string of curses fall from her lips. She careens within seconds, and over the sound of her coming undone, he hears the telltale sound of silk stretching as her wrists fight against its restraints, but he ignores it. 

“Steve!” She tries to close her quivering legs, but his hands keep them open, his tongue gently working against her oversensitive flesh as he tries to work her back up to another orgasm right on the heels of her first. “Fuck, Rogers. I can’t. Can’t-”

“One more,” he encourages. “One more, okay?” His thumb takes the place of his tongue, rubbing tight circles over her clit over and over until she shrieks, reaching her crest yet again. He eases up, letting her ride the wave of her orgasm as he kisses his way up her body. His hands work to free her hands from their bonds and once they’re free, he lays on his side next to her, allowing her to catch her breath.

“I think you’re trying to kill me,” she says, turning to him once she gets her breathing relatively down. She has one corner of her mouth turned up in a sated smile, and he can’t help but lean down to press his lips to hers.

“Death by orgasm,” he says with a laugh once they pull away. “I can think of worse ways.” His hand travels down her arm to her hip, giving it a slight tap. “Wanna turn over for me?” She nods, and he sits up as she turns over, getting on her hands and knees. He makes his way over behind her, between her spread out knees. It’s been a little over a week since they started back on their project, and while they’d said to hell with some of the things they had done the first month they attempted this (like the pesky fertility calendar Natasha used to decide which days to have sex that would give them the best chances of conceiving – yeah, they had sex as often as possible now, but not that either of them were complaining), this position that he’d read up on that apparently allows the sperm best passage, is something they kept and stuck to. 

“Hey, Steve,” Natasha calls out, catching his attention. He looks down, his eyes darkening at the sight of her looking over her shoulder, her body on full display for him. The smirk on her lips coupled with the sly look in her green eyes may just be the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. “It’s still an ugly painting.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. She’s quite possibly the most stubborn woman he’s ever met – not that he would have her any other way. His hands reach for her hips, pulling her to him so he can place a hand on the small of her back, pushing her down gently to slope her further. He takes his length in his hand, guiding himself to her as he pushes in slowly. Her moan is quiet yet drawn out, the way it always is when he first pushes into her, and his jaw clenches with the effort it takes to not slam into her as his fingers dig into her skin. She feels so much tighter this way, and he knows how sensitive she gets after just flying off the edge, that he does not want to rush this even if patience isn’t really his virtue.

But it isn’t really hers, either.

“Deeper,” she demands. “Want you deeper.” When he doesn’t comply fast enough for her liking, she tilts her hips back, taking all of him in a single push. They both cry out, and for a second, he just kneels there, lost in his own pleasure as he watches her take his length, her breasts bouncing softly with every movement. She calls out to him, her cheek resting against the mattress and he snaps out of his trance, moving to meet her every thrust. He feels her walls flutter around him, making his quads tighten further with his imminent release. He hadn’t realized just how much getting her off had affected him, and he knows he won’t last, though he won’t go down without her. His thrusts become faster and she whimpers, her legs buckling and nearly giving out beneath her.

“You close?” he manages to ask, swiveling his hips before slamming into her.

“Yes,” she squeaks, her fingers curling into her sheets. “So fucking close.”

His hand reaches across her belly and down to the folds of her sex. It only takes a brush of his fingers against the oversensitive nub before she mewls, her body shaking as she catapults into her orgasm. Behind her, that does it for him, the pressure at the base of his spine becoming too much to bare. He thrusts into her one final time before he stills, groaning his release deep inside of her.

A moment passes before he pulls out, eliciting a little whimper from her as his length brushes against her sensitive flesh. She all but sags forward, and he helps her maneuver her spent body to lay against the pillows, making sure to place one under her hips. He stands to make his way over to her bathroom to clean up, and when he returns he settles next to her, bringing a warm washcloth between her legs. He watches her, her blonde hair is disheveled, and her eyes are dazed and glassy, but she looks so damn radiant that he can’t help the way his heart expands in his chest. “Thank you,” she says as she smiles at him.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, putting the towel down on her nightstand. They’re silent as they both try to calm their pulses as they lie against her mountain of pillows.  

“Can I tell you something?” she asks, her head turned towards him as she breaks the silence. He nods. “I want nothing more than to be pregnant, believe me, but I am going to miss you when I am.” 

“That’s the oxytocin talking,” he jokes, a teasing look on his face. She lets out a chuckle and he puts a hand over the one she has on her belly. “It’s not like I’m going to be appalled by you once you are. You’ll still have me.”

“Not this way though,” she says quietly, almost like an admission.

He tilts his head to the side. “I’ll always be your lunch buddy. And maybe your sparring partner again when it’s safe.”

“Yeah,” she says with a small smile on her lips. He swings his legs over the side of her bed, reaching down for his boxers when he feels her hand on his arm. He looks back at her, and that emotion he can’t seem to identify is back again. “Do you want to stay?”

He looks down at the hand she has on his arm and then back up at her. His voice is low and cautious. “That’s not in our contract.”

“Neither was making me dinner after a bad day,” she counters softly before shrugging. “We both know what we are and what we aren’t, right?”

He lets her words linger between them for a moment. She isn’t wrong – they’ve always been incredibly honest with each other from the very beginning about what they wanted out of each other and staying the night wasn’t going to change any of that. So, he nods. “Right.”

She smiles, and he moves back into bed with her and under the warmth of her comforter. She settles on her side as he pulls her to him, spooning her closer. “Goodnight,” she whispers.

“Goodnight,” he says, draping an arm tightly around her.

He rubs a hand through his eyes, hoping to steady his tripping vision as he watches Natasha pace back and forth from where he’s sitting on her living room couch. It’s two days past the twenty eighth day of her cycle, and her period is once again late. “Nat, you’re going to give me whiplash if you keep doing that,” he says, standing to steady her. “Just take it already.”

She grimaces, worry filling her voice. “What if it says no?”

“What if it says yes?” he challenges, a small smile on his lips. “We’ll have to know sometime.”

She sighs, not looking entirely convinced. “You’ll stay, right?”

“I’ll be right here,” he assures before nodding towards her bathroom. “Go.”

She nods, making her way to her bathroom and leaving him alone. He busies himself with scanning the new painting she now has up on her wall. After losing a bet with him over a game of pool, she was forced to put the painting they were arguing over at the gallery down in Harlem in her apartment until Tony and Pepper’s gallery is ready to open. He smiles, remembering how piqued she was when she lost that bet and was forced to watch him mount the painting to her wall.

“It’s still ugly,” she says, coming back into the room. She puts the stick and her phone down on the coffee table before taking a seat right next to him. “I set an alarm for ten minutes.”

“It’s going to say yes, Nat,” he says, laying a reassuring hand on her knee.

They sit in anxious silence, waiting for her phone to ring. When it does, they both look at each other, and he sees the uncertainty in her eyes. “Want me to check?” he offers. She nods, but as he leans forward to reach for the stick, she stops him. “What?”

“I peed on that,” she points out, wincing. “I mean, the part I peed on is covered with a cap, but you don’t have to touch it if it grosses you out.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a little too late for us to be grossed out by each other, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Go on.” He reaches for the stick, bringing it eye level. “Well?” she asks, holding in a breath.

A huge smile spreads across his face. “It’s positive.”

“It is?” she asks, shock evident both in her voice and features. He flips the stick to show her the large plus sign that’s impossible to miss. “It is!” she exclaims, launching herself into his arms.

He laughs at her outburst, catching her and wrapping his arms tightly around her. She lets out a laugh of absolute joy as she hugs him back, and in his chest, he swears his heart grows three sizes. “You’re going to make a great mom, Nat.”

She pulls away from him, resting her hands on his shoulders. “And you’re-” she begins, and then pauses. She shakes her head. “Thank you.”

He takes her back into his arms. “No problem,” he says, kissing the top of her head. And while he’s filled with pure, unadulterated joy for her, it suddenly hits him, and he feels his stomach sink.

Their contract is done, and so is the role he has to play in her life, it seems.

Chapter Text

Natasha’s eyes fall closed as she brings two fingers up to rub circles on her temple. As if meetings weren’t already a big waste of time, Sitwell had called for another one in the middle of the week, citing a budget problem that he wanted to resolve with the editors of every section. Maybe if you stopped spending it on fancy dinners for the finance department we wouldn’t have this problem, she thinks to herself as she tries desperately to drown out the sound of Sitwell’s squeaky voice as he berates the head of another section. A wave of uneasiness spreads through her, making her stomach flip, and she takes a deep breath in an attempt to quell the feeling. She exhales, and just as her eyes open, she sees her phone’s screen light up with a text from where it rests on the table in front of her.

“You okay?” the message reads. She looks up to see Steve staring at her from across the table, concern evident in his features, and she quickly reverts her attention back to her phone as she types out, “I’m fine.”  

“Am I boring you, Romanoff?” Sitwell says from behind her. She swivels her chair to face him, and the smile on his face is the fakest she’s ever seen. “I apologize that Local Affair’s budget is not of interest to you. Should we venture into International’s to see what we can cut instead?”

Ire burns deep in her veins. “Sitwell, if you want to cut my budget, then do it. We all know you’ve been dying to.” She’s surprised by how calm and steady her voice is considering she’s feeling anything but. “But when Pepper comes back and asks why there’s a shortage in the content of the section that brings this paper the most revenue, you better be damn sure you have a good answer.” She glares at him, willing him to challenge her, but his mouth presses into a thin line. She scoffs. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she says, gathering her belongings before standing from her seat. “I have better things to do with my time.”

She disregards the scowl Sitwell sends her way as she calmly walks out of the conference room, but as soon as the door closes behind her, she’s hit with a wave of nausea that has her running to the bathroom and into a stall as fast as her stilettos permit her. She kneels to the ground, keeping her face a respectable distance from the porcelain bowl, before she hurls what’s left of her breakfast. The room is still spinning when she’s done, and she sighs, yearning for the time when keeping her food down wasn’t such an arduous task.  

A knock on the stall’s door grounds her back to reality. “Natasha, you okay in there?”

“I’ll be right out!” she shouts back, rising to her feet to press down on the flush. She opens the door to find Darcy standing there with a worried look on her face, but before her assistant can say anything, she holds her hand up and walks over to the sink to wash her hands and rinse her mouth. Through the reflection in the mirror in front of her, she sees Darcy check the rest of the stalls before locking the bathroom door.

“Are you sick?” Darcy asks, cutting straight to the point. “Because I can go run down to the pharmacy to get you something. I didn’t want to say anything, but you’ve been throwing up a lot recently-”

“Darcy, I’m fine,” she interrupts and then sighs. The only people who know she’s expecting are Steve, Melinda, Pepper, and Tony, she assumes, but only on the account of him being married to Pepper. She does not want to tell people that don’t have to know until she absolutely has to, but she does feel bad about throwing away the coffee Darcy makes her every morning as soon as she walks out of her office. But this is Darcy, she tells herself, and she trusts this woman with her life. “I’m more than fine, actually,” she says, and then smiles. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.” Her revelation brings Darcy to a pause, and she watches as her assistant’s face runs the gamut of emotions. “Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, my god!” Darcy’s smile lights up her features. “You’re really pregnant?”

She can’t help but laugh at Darcy’s disbelief. “Yes.”

Darcy squeals. “Then what are you waiting for? Let’s hug it out, lady!” She laughs, walking into Darcy’s awaiting arms and giving her a small squeeze, but Darcy suddenly pulls away, keeping her hands on her arms. “Wait, who’s the father?” Her eyes widen for a split second, but before she can formulate an answer, Darcy shakes her head. “Actually, don’t answer that. I’m happy and curious, but you’re still my boss and it’s still an HR violation. And really, none of my business.” Darcy puts her hands together. “Whatever, who cares. We’re going to have a little boss baby! Yay!”

She raises an eyebrow in question. “We?”

“You, me, we. Same difference. I can’t wait to parade that baby around the office when it comes!” Darcy says. “Anyway, I’m going to go make myself useful and read up on remedies for morning sickness and a substitute for your morning coffee-”

“Darce,” she says, putting a hand on her arm to slow her down. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but keep it on the down low, okay? I’m waiting for the right time to tell people.”  

“Got it,” Darcy says, miming zipping her lips. “I’ll be at my desk researching.”

She shakes her head in amusement as Darcy unlocks the door and makes her way out of the bathroom. She glances at the mirror one more time, and deciding that she looks presentable, she follows. As she begins the short walk back to her office, she notices that the uneasy feeling in her stomach still lingers, but not as strongly as it did in the meeting, and her attention falls on how heavy and lethargic her body feels. It’s been four weeks since she found out she was pregnant, and she’s felt like this every single day since. She sighs, deciding to focus instead on putting one foot in front of the other. Her eyebrows knit in confusion, however, when she sees her office door slightly ajar. She pushes it open, and the first thing that comes to sight is Steve’s back as he stands in the middle of the room. She keeps her voice soft. “Hi.”

He turns at the sound of her voice. “Hey,” he greets softly before smiling. “That was quite a performance you gave in there. I almost stood up and clapped.”

She smirks, closing the door behind her before walking over to the front of her desk to lean against the edge. “I’m running a little low on patience today.”

“Just today?” he teases, and she sticks her tongue out at him. He laughs, and she gestures for him to take a seat on one of the two seats in front of her desk. “Dramatic emergency meetings aside, though,” he says, sitting on the one closer to her. “How are you feeling?”

She contemplates her answer to his question for a moment. On one hand, she’s dying to tell him all the gory details about how sore and tired and gross she feels all the time. The past four weeks have been nothing but an emotional and physical rollercoaster for her with all the added hormones her body’s producing, that right now, she wants nothing more than to curl up in his arms and bury her face in the soft material of his blue button-up. But she tells herself that that’s the hormones talking, and these details she wants desperately to tell him aren’t details you tell your friend – even if that said friend happens to be the father of your child. So instead of giving him the answer she wants to give, she refrains and turns to an old staple – sarcasm. “Like a million bucks.”

He chuckles at the face of agony she makes. “I’m guessing that’s a no on lunch today, then.”

She sighs. She’s been saying no to his lunch invitations a lot recently and that’s really put a damper on the time they spend together. She wonders, though, if that’s been the primer that’s helped them ease back into being just lunch buddies again while ignoring the fact that they were sharing a bed for two months. It hasn’t been awkward between them, per se, but it’s not like they spend as much time together as they used to, either. For the first two weeks since finding out she was pregnant, he was travelling with Tony, and even when he made it home, it dawned on them that her pregnancy meant that they could not do the things they usually did together – no more going out for morning coffee, no more sparring at the gym, and no more drinks at Dalton’s. Even museum hopping has been difficult with her lack of energy lately, leaving lunch as the only possible activity they could do together, and while they have tried to do that, their outings have been few and far in between because of her morning sickness. Inwardly, she scoffs, because she’ll be damned if that isn’t a misnomer. Because morning sickness? Well, it isn’t exclusive to the mornings at all.  

“Believe me, I would love to, but everything smells terrible right now, and even when something smells okay, my body just downright refuses to accept it.” She shakes her head. “It’ll be like you went to lunch all on your own anyway.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”  

“It’s okay,” he says, his eyes filling with understanding until it’s replaced with the concern she saw this morning when she caught him looking at her during their meeting. He moves closer to the edge of his seat, clasping and then unclasping his fingers together in his lap. “But you’re okay, right? Is it a problem that you haven’t been able to keep anything down recently?”

“I’m okay,” she reassures with a small smile. “Pepper said that as long as I eat something, even if it’s just crackers and water right now, I should be fine. Unfortunately for the hurling, though, I’m stuck with it until about the twelfth week.”

He nods. “Four more weeks then.”

“Yeah,” she nods in agreement before cocking her head to the side in confusion. “How’d you know that?”

“Uh…” He shifts in his seat, a sheepish expression forming on his face as his hand comes out in front of him. “Well you were a little over four weeks when you took the test,” he reminds her. “That was more than three weeks ago, making you about eight weeks right now, so you’re about four weeks short of finishing the first trimester?”

“Right,” she confirms, exaggerating every letter as she says it. “I think I read that somewhere in one of the millions of pregnancy books Pepper passed onto me.” She bites her lip, she’s itching to ask how he knows so much about pregnancy math and trimesters, but she decides to keep the question to herself. “I guess I’m halfway through this fight with puking then. Lucky me.”

“I’m sure it’ll be worth it.” His voice is quiet as he looks to the ground. “Anyway,” he says, rising from his seat. “I guess I’ll see you later then.” She nods at him, watching as he turns and steps towards her door while she goes to make her way over to the chair behind her desk. “Oh,” he says suddenly, and when she whips around, she finds him leaning against her door. “Are you coming to Dalton’s tonight for Coulson’s retirement party? I know you can’t drink and all, but we can do a rematch if you’re still mad about losing to me at pool.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s tonight?” He nods, and she lets an expletive slip from her lips. “I completely forgot about that and scheduled my doctor’s appointment for after work today.”   

“I’m sure Coulson will understand,” he says, and then his eyebrows furrow. “You’re seeing a doctor? I thought you said everything is all right?”

“Oh, it is,” she says immediately. “At least I think it is, which is why I’m going today to make sure. It’s my first prenatal checkup. Pepper’s taking me to meet her doctor.”

“Oh,” he says, lingering by her door. “Well, that’s great then.” He smiles at her, but she notices how it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, there’s a flicker of something in them, but he blinks it away before she can address it.

“Steve,” she calls out before she can even think twice about it.  He looks at her, that little smile still on his lips, and for a second, a part of her wonders if that emotion he blinked away was disappointment that she hadn’t told him about her appointment. The uncertainty overwhelms her. “Nothing,” she says instead. “Enjoy your lunch.”

He gives her a single nod. “I’ll see you around,” he tells her, closing the door behind him.

She stares at her closed door for a moment before she sighs. “See you.”  

“Natasha, you’re going to leave a dent on that exam table.”  

She shakes her head, snapping out of the trance she’s seemingly fallen into, before looking at Pepper who’s standing a few feet away from her and pointing at her hands that are clutching the edge of the table. She did not even realize she was holding onto it, much less that her knuckles were growing white, until Pepper pointed it out. “Sorry,” she mutters, letting go to smooth her hands down the material of her pencil skirt instead as she works to calm her nerves. She’s usually not one to get anxious at health appointments, but she can’t seem to shake off her nerves as they wait for the doctor to enter.

Pepper walks over to her and places a hand on top of the one she has on her knee. “Everything is going to be okay,” she all but promises. “Dr. Cho is one of the best obstetricians in the East coast, probably the world. You’re in good hands.”

She has a quip ready at the tip of her tongue, but before she can let it slip, the door opens and a woman in a white lab coat walks in. She appraises her – she looks incredibly young to be as accomplished as Pepper says she is, but she trusts that her best friend knows what she’s talking about. The doctor smiles warmly at her, and she notes how genial her eyes are. “Ms. Romanoff, I’m Doctor Helen Cho.”

“Please,” she says, reaching to shake the doctor’s extended hand. “Call me Natasha.”

Helen smiles. “Then please call me Helen.” She nods, and then watches as Helen turns to Pepper. “Pepper, I didn’t think I’d see you back this soon. How’s little Maria doing?”

“She’s an angel,” Pepper gushes as she goes in to hug the doctor. “But I just wanted to make sure Natasha here was put in the best hands and I know from experience that those are yours.”

“I absolutely try my best,” Helen states, turning away from Pepper to smile at her. “Shall we begin?”

Prenatal appointments, she quickly learns, is composed mainly of getting poked and prodded while information is thrown at you seemingly at a mile a minute. She’s thankful that Helen takes the time to explain why each step is being done and what will be done with the sample being taken, but a part of her still worries that she’ll miss an important part even as Pepper rubs a soothing hand over her arm to assure her that it’s somewhere in the mountain of books now occupying her bedside table. Helen inserts a needle at the inside of her elbow, drawing blood for a screening, and she takes a deep breath, though she’s not sure if it’s because of the needle piercing her skin or because she’s trying to ground herself. I can do this, she chants in her mind. I can do this. She’s sitting back on the bed adjacent the ultrasound machine when she hears Helen ask her if she’d prefer the gel to be warm or cold. Her eyebrows knit in confusion. “Isn’t the gel supposed to be cold?”

Helen laughs. “On its own, yes,” she says, pointing to the two bottles she has by the controls of the machine. “We warm the gel now to avoid shocking expectant mothers, but I’ve gotten a few who don’t particularly enjoy the warmth. So, I’m asking, which would you prefer?”

“Hey, I didn’t get a warmed-up bottle,” Pepper chimes in, a fake bitterness to her tone. “Neither should you.”

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. She turns to Helen. “Cold.”

Helen nods, reaching for the bottle on the left before she returns to her side. “I’m going to need you to lift your blouse up and the top of your skirt down a bit for this,” Helen orders, and she does as she’s told. Despite knowing that the gel is cold, it does not stop her from taking in a sharp breath once it hits her skin. Pepper lets out a hushed chuckle, and she sends a glare to where she’s standing by her head. In front of her, Helen gives her a smile in understanding. “It’ll become bearable once the wand gets moving.” She feels Helen place the wand just where the gel is, moving it around. “There we go,” Helen says, holding the wand steady as she looks to the screen. “There’s your baby.”

She turns towards the screen that was once dark and grainy to see an image in focus. There, just as Helen said it would be, is a little blip no bigger than a coin. “Oh, Nat,” Pepper whispers, but she can’t take her eyes off the screen. “It’s tiny,” she hears herself say, her voice filled with astonishment.  

“It’s about the size of a raspberry right now,” Helen says. “Do you want to see if we can hear the heartbeat? It’s a little early, but every pregnancy is different.” Her eyes widen at that, and the irony does not miss her that her own pulse picks up at Helen’s question. She nods, and Helen reaches over to the panel of controls to push down on a button. She’s about to ask the doctor what she’s doing when she feels the wand still and Helen say, “here we are.”

The inquiries she had in mind fade because she hears it. It starts off like a soft tapping noise, and faintly, she hears Pepper gasp, but she ignores it, focusing on the steady beat as it grows louder and louder, until it’s all she can hear. Lub. Dub. Lub. Dub. Lub. Dub.

She closes her eyes, and all the nerves that were racking her body beforehand are suddenly nowhere to be found. Instead, she feels her heart swell in her chest, filling her with inexplicable love and joy that she just knows she could never feel this way for anyone but the child growing in her womb. She looks up at Pepper, and she finds that both their eyes are filled with tears as she sighs, but for the first time today, it’s in absolute bliss. “This must be heaven.”

Pepper smiles, the hold she has on her hand tightening. “It is.”

“We could give you a recording of this sound clip if you’d like,” Helen offers, a smile also on her face.

She nods. “I would love that.”

Once the procedures are done and Helen has her scheduled for her next appointment, she wraps her coat tighter around her as she and Pepper wait for Happy to bring the car around while the air of the early December night in Manhattan breezes by. In her ear, she has an earphone in, the sound of her baby’s heartbeat replaying over and over. The more she listens to each thud, the harder it is for her to shake off the thought that came unbidden in her mind as Helen wiped the gel off her stomach and left to instruct her staff to email her a copy of the recording. As she sat on the exam table and Pepper gushed over her sonogram, she couldn’t help the feeling that washed over her – as much as she appreciated her best friend accompanying her to her appointment, she couldn’t help but wish that Steve was there with her instead. Even now, as she stands on the sidewalk outside Helen’s office, she finds that her feelings have not changed. She tries to reason with herself by bringing up memories of this morning when Steve was in her office and she wanted to share her true thoughts when he’d asked her how she was doing, but she shakes that off. Right now, she does not care. She wants Steve to hear this recording, wants to share this moment with him, because why not? They’re still friends, as they promised they’d be at the end of it all, and friends share when something good happens to them.  

“Hey Pep,” she says, “I think I’m just going to cab it from here. I forgot that I have something to do.”

Pepper looks at her skeptically. “Are you sure? It’s getting late. Happy and I could just drop you off, it’s not a problem.”  

“I need to get all the way downtown,” she explains. “It’s completely in the opposite direction of your house and mine, and I’d hate to take you away from Maria longer than I already have.” She watches as Pepper begins to dismiss her concerns, but she lays a hand on her arm in reassurance. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Pepper says in defeat. “But you better text me the second you get your butt home, you hear?”

“Yes, mom,” she teases, leaning in to drop a kiss on Pepper’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Pepper rolls her eyes then laughs. “Always.”

She trudges down the block and catches the attention of an empty cab just as it turns the corner. She gets in hurriedly, giving the driver the address to Dalton’s, and shuts the door. It’s a little over seven in the evening now, and as the cab weaves through the Friday night Manhattan traffic, she prays that Steve’s still there with everyone celebrating Coulson’s decorated career. She takes out the lone earphone she has on and presses pause on her phone so she can hear her own thoughts. Inside, she wonders if the recording will sound as magical to him as it does to her, and though she can’t explain why, a part of her truly hopes it does. Lost in her thoughts, she does not even realize the cab pulling up to the street of Dalton’s until it comes to a stop. She hands the driver a few bills, and as she exits the cab, she finds that her heart is thumping in her chest.

Taking a deep breath to steady her pulse, she pushes the glass door at the entrance to the pub and makes her way over to the back where she knows everyone goes when they’re here. She takes note of all the Daily employees as her eyes scan the room in search of Steve’s familiar figure, and she smiles when she finds him by the pool table. She steps forward, her hand clutching the strap of her purse, but then it quickly fades as she truly takes in his surroundings. He’s standing to the side, a cue stick in one hand and his profile to her, while his hand rests on the green felt of the surface of the pool table. But that’s not really what she’s focusing on because that’s not what’s making it hard to breathe right now. No, because right on top of his hand is Kristen’s, her head tipped back as she laughs at something he says.

She swallows as she gets that sinking feeling in her gut and immediately, the terms of their contract come rushing to her mind. It sends ice rushing through her veins, and it’s sobering, incredibly so, and she admonishes herself right there and then for being so utterly foolish. He had signed up to be her donor, and she had signed up to be the warm body he needed to feel connected to the world again. He may have pledged himself to her under their contract, but that was over now, and he was moving on. He does not want to hear the sound of her child’s heartbeat – that’s simply not what donors do – and she was stupid to think that their friendship would somehow make him want to.

“Natasha, you made it!”

She turns towards the sound of Coulson calling out to her, his hand waving her over to the table where he sits with a few other co-workers. She recognizes Darcy, Thor, Jane, and the head of the Health and Wellness section, Stephen Strange. She waves back, ignoring how heavy her chest feels as she plasters the best smile she can muster on her face and makes her way over to them. Coulson stands as she reaches their table, and she opens up her arms to embrace him. “Where am I going to get the latest political scoop now?”

Coulson waves her concern off as he pulls out the chair next to him for her. “Believe me,” he says as they both take a seat. “With the way things are going nowadays, you’ll be glad you’ll have to wait for the morning paper to hear it.” He gestures to the man sitting across from her. “You’ve met Stephen Strange, right?”

“If by met you mean we’ve sat in the same room as Sitwell runs his mouth, then yes,” she quips, extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Natasha.”

“Stephen,” the man greets, shaking her hand. “And yes, I believe that officially makes us brothers and sisters in arms.”

“That makes all of us then,” Thor says from where he sits to her right. He puts down two shot glasses in front of her and fills them with vodka. “Let’s go, Romanoff. One for you for surviving this day, and one for Coulson’s farewell.”

Across from her, she sees Darcy’s eyes widen, but she waves off her concern. “I’m not drinking today, Thor.”

“What?” Jane complains from next to Thor. “Come on, Nat! We all had to do it. Coulson, tell her!”

Coulson gives her a firm expression. “You still owe me from when you got me wasted during last year’s Holiday party.”

“Ugh…” What she told Darcy this morning was true. She did want to wait for the right time to tell people. But tonight, as she sits in the table with these people she’s worked with for years and looks at all their expectant faces, she finds that she does not have it in her to come up with a lame excuse. “Actually,” she begins, a small smile creeping onto her lips as she drops a hand to her belly. “Not to steal your thunder, Coulson, but I’m not drinking because I don’t want to. I’m not drinking because I can’t.”

Silence envelopes their table for a minute, but then it erupts with the sound of squeals and congratulations coming from all ends once they realize what she’s alluding to. Faintly, she hears the sound of chairs being pushed back as people come to wrap her in their arms. She’s sandwiched in a hug with Coulson, Darcy, and Jane when Coulson shakes his head at her. “Twenty years at the Daily and you and Pepper wait till I retire to bring some bundles of joy into the office.”

She laughs, and as they let her go, she shrugs. “Had to give you some motivation to come visit.”

“Do you have pictures?” Jane asks suddenly, a hand on her elbow just as she breaks away from accepting a hug from Thor. “Can we see?”

She reaches for her purse that’s dangling from the back of her chair and rummages through it for the printed copy Helen had given her. She hands it to Jane and Darcy, who return to squealing as they look at the confirmation of the life growing inside of her. It’s when she’s just finished accepting congratulations from Strange and the other people in their table when she hears a voice that stops her in her tracks.

“What’s the pandemonium about?”

She turns around, and Steve’s eyes widen in surprise when he sees her. But before he can say anything, and before she can grab a hold of Darcy, her assistant is already in front of him, handing him the picture of her sonogram. “Look! Boss Lady has a bun in the oven!”   

Her breath gets caught in her throat when Steve takes the small square in his hand, and as his eyes scan the picture in front of him, she swears she feels her world come to a stop. “Oh,” he says, not quite looking like he knows what to make of what he’s seeing. For a split second, she thinks that she sees the corner of his mouth turn up slightly, but she’s also panicking because her impulse decision to tell everyone of her pregnancy tonight seems like it might be backfiring on her. He looks up at her, and just like that night in his apartment after they’d gone to the baseball game, she finds that she can’t quite read the emotion in his eyes. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she says, unable to look away from him. Thankfully, Darcy’s voice comes in loud and booming.

“I’m in the running for godmother, right?”  

The first snow of Winter falls from the sky, and she watches as it coats the streets of Manhattan below her from the window in her walk-in closet. It’s a few days before Christmas, and she’s busy packing for her trip up to Westchester to spend the Holidays with Melinda when she hears the intercom speaker on her wall beep. She throws the sweater she has in her hands into the open luggage resting on the floor and goes over to pick up the phone on her bedside table. “Hello?” 

“Pardon the interruption, Miss Romanoff,” the voice of the person running the front desk tonight says, “but you have a Mr. Rogers down here in the lobby asking to see you.”

She curses in her head. “You can just send him up,” she says after a pause. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

She walks out of her bedroom and into her living room all while inwardly preparing herself. It’s been two weeks since that night at Dalton’s, and her decision to let their co-workers know that she’s expecting has paid dividends, and they’re very encouraging (sometimes, even downright pushy about it) of her working remotely from her home most days to make it easier for her to manage her morning sickness and her lack of energy. She sighs. While morning sickness and lethargy have been plaguing her, she knows that it's only really an excuse on the surface because working from home is really a way for her to avoid having to face Steve. In the past weeks, the only time she’s really been in the same room with him has been when she’s forced to attend the section meetings that she can’t attend through video conferencing, and even on the days she does make it to the office, she’s made a solid effort to avoid both his invitations to go out to lunch and his initiations of small talk. She sighs once more as she hears a knock on her front door, and she quickens her steps as she goes over and dons the best smile she can put on as the door swings open. “Hi.”  

A surprised expression crosses his face. “You dyed your hair back.” 

“Oh, yeah,” she says, running a hand over the hair she had freshly dyed back to red just this afternoon. “It was fun being blonde, but it is a commitment.”

“Well the red always suited you,” he says. The corners of his mouth turn up, and she loathes the way her traitor of a stomach seems to flip at the sight. “Anyway, I’m sorry about the impromptu visit. I tried calling you, but you weren’t picking up.”

“I must have missed it while I was in my closet packing,” she says, opening the door wider for him to come in.  

“Packing, huh?” he says, following her further into her home. “Where are you off to?”

“I’m spending the holidays with Melinda,” she says over her shoulder as she leads him into her kitchen. She stands behind her kitchen island while he lingers on the other side. “I was going to offer you something to drink, but I realize now that the only beverages I keep nowadays are water and ginger ale.”

He chuckles. “Water sounds great.” She nods, turning towards her fridge. Her hand is on the handle when she hears him say, “I haven’t seen you around the office much. Darcy said you’ve been working from home a lot lately.”

“Yeah,” she confirms, pulling on the handle as she reaches in to retrieve a bottle of water. “Pepper said she doesn’t mind, and I get a lot more done here anyway.” She turns back, hands him the bottle, and walks him to her living room. She realizes that he hasn’t said anything yet, and when she looks behind her, she finds his gaze fixed on the mountain of baby items occupying her living room that Pepper had Happy drop off this morning. “Sorry about the mess,” she says, turning back. “I would’ve tidied up a bit if I knew you were dropping by.” She shakes her head. “Did you mention where you were spending the holidays?”  

“Oh, uh…” He clears his throat. “Italy, actually,” he says, taking a sip from the bottle she gave him. “My mom and Wanda have always wanted to go, so I figured now’s a good a time as any to take them.”

“That’s great. Italy’s beautiful,” she states. “I’m sure they’ll love it there.”

He nods. “Natasha-”

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, “I never got to ask what you came here for.”

He lifts his hand up and she notices the small gift bag that dangles from his wrist. “Like I said, I haven’t seen you around the office lately, so I thought I’d drop this off.” He steps forward, offering the bag to her.

“Steve,” she says breathlessly, taking the bag from him. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, I also came to take that painting you hate so much back, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

“Right,” she says, shifting on her feet as her fingers toy with the ribbon on the gift bag. “Pepper mentioned you guys were done curating. The gallery’s opening on New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he confirms, his hands slipping into the pockets of his pants as he looks up at her from under his lashes. “You’re coming to the opening, right?”

“I don’t think Pepper would ever forgive me if I missed it,” she whispers.

“Pepper, right.” Silence floats between them until he points at the wall holding the painting in question. “I’ll get this out of your hair, then.” She nods and watches as he places a hand on either side of the gold frame before lifting it off the hook holding the painting to her wall. The muscles of his back ripple against the material of his dark sweater as he does so, and she looks away, pretending not to notice. When he turns back to her, he has the painting tucked under his arm. “I guess I’ll see myself out.” They walk in silence to her front door, his hand reaching for the knob. He’s a few steps out when she begins to close the door, but he calls out to her. “Nat?”

“Yeah?” she says, holding the door open just wide enough for him to see her head peeking out from behind it.

“I really miss my lunch buddy,” he admits, his blue eyes all but piercing through her own.

Her smile is rueful as she looks down at her feet and then back up at him. “I’m sure there’s no shortage of people to take my place.”

“Yeah,” he says, but then a ghost of a scoff escapes his lips. “Too bad they aren’t you.” He holds her gaze, and for a moment, she feels like she’s paralyzed, unable to look away. Luckily for her, he breaks it first. “Enjoy your holidays, Nat.”

“You too,” she whispers. She does not even bother to watch him walk away as she closes the door to her apartment and makes her way back to her living room. The gift bag he’d given her sways from her wrist as she walks, and she stops to lift the envelope that’s taped to the outside. She pulls the card out and runs her fingers through the neat scrawl of his penmanship:

Nat,

Here’s to hoping he or she ends up just like their wonderful mom.

-Steve

Confused, she reaches into the bag and rummages through all the paper until her fingers brush against something soft and delicate. She grabs a hold of it and pulls the item it up – it’s folded in half, but from the outline of the white material, she can already tell it’s a onesie. She works to unfold the tiny garment, and when she does, her eyes land on all the shades of blue, green, and white, with a touch of yellow here and there as she lets a finger trace one of the swirls in the sky that make up the Starry Night. Her breath catches in her throat as she looks up from the onesie in her hands to her wall in the living room that’s now barren, and then to all the items littering her the room that will soon belong to the life growing inside of her. Suddenly, she finds that it’s difficult to breathe. And, despite being surrounded by reminders that soon her life will be filled with new purpose, she can’t help the loneliness that seems to settle in her bones. She closes her eyes, bringing a hand down to her belly, and sighs. “Or just like you.”

On Christmas Eve, she finds herself on the couch in Melinda’s living room, her feet tucked underneath her and a mug of steaming eggnog between her hands. She wanted to help out in the kitchen to prepare for tomorrow’s festivities, but Melinda, Clint, her childhood friend, and his wife, Laura, had all but refused to let her assert any energy and banished her to the living room to relax.

For as long as she can recall, she and Melinda have spent every Christmas with the Bartons. Clint lived right next door to them, and because it was only her and Melinda, and occasionally Nick for the holidays, Clint’s parents were always quick to invite them over for every holiday. Clint’s parents have since gone to retire in the warmth of Florida, with Clint and Laura now occupying the home next door, but the tradition has shifted to Melinda hosting the holidays.

A smile spreads across her face as she remembers all the trouble she and Clint used to get into as children. Boy, were they a handful. They had grown up together and gone to the same school, and it wasn’t until their freshman year of high school where they met Laura who had recently moved into town. Clint quickly took a liking to Laura, and fast forward fifteen years later, she can proudly say that she’s watched her best friends grow from friends, lovers, husband and wife, and now, parents to three beautiful children who were all sprawled out on the rug in front of the television.

“Learning all the Elmo songs for the future?” a voice asks, and she looks up to see Clint and Laura smiling at her. Laura takes a seat right next to her, while Clint occupies the lounge chair adjacent the couch.

“They’re the only ones who seem to want my company,” she teases, pointing at the three kids who are engrossed with the show they’re watching. “They’re not looking now, but that’s what they told me.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Milk the pregnant card while you can,” he advises, “because next year, you’re going back to the mashed potato duty.”

“Clint.” Laura glares at husband before looking her way. “How far along did you say you were?”

“Eleven weeks tomorrow,” she answers. “Thankfully, the morning sickness decided to leave a week early, though.”

“That’s great,” Laura says. “Mine wasn’t so bad with Lila. But with Cooper and Nathaniel? Forget it. I was in bed till the thirteenth week.”

She makes a face of empathy, but before she can reply, Clint interrupts. “So, your donor. You said he was a friend of yours?”

She watches as Laura shoots her husband a warning look, but she lets her know it’s okay. “Is a friend of mine,” she corrects.

Clint’s voice is skeptical. “And he’s okay with all of this?” Laura says his name in warning, but he just shrugs. “What? I’m just asking,” he stresses. “If you guys are friends and all, isn’t it going to be weird when you have this kid and he’s still in your life? Like, do you just invite him to your kid’s birthday and completely ignore the fact that he’s the dad?”

She wants to spew her retort at him, but she can’t deny the way his words cut through her like a knife, and she’s never been more thankful for how perceptive Laura can be. “They have a contract,” Laura says pointedly. “Natasha says they have it all covered, so stop being so nosy.”

It’s nearly midnight by the time Clint and Laura go home to put their kids to bed with a promise to return in the morning to open presents. She sits in her childhood room, the lamp on her bedside table the only source of light as she gets ready to go to bed, but all she can really think about are Clint’s words in the living room earlier. A gentle tap on her door breaks her reverie, though, and when she looks towards it, she sees Melinda standing by the doorway. She smiles.

Melinda smiles back. “Nick said he’ll video chat us at seven tomorrow.”

“Great,” she says. “I’ll be sure to be up by then.”

“Okay,” Melinda says, pushing off the doorway to come to sit next to her on the bed. She takes her hands in hers. “What’s on your mind, darling?”

A sigh escapes her lips as she leans her head against Melinda’s shoulder, and without an ounce of hesitation, begins to tell her about all the thoughts that have been occupying her mind for the past two weeks from how she felt when Steve was in her office that one day, to her first appointment, to seeing him at Dalton’s with Kristen, about the onesie he had given her for the baby, to Clint’s comment. She shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t foresee how complicated this could get.”

Melinda sighs as she runs a hand comfortingly through her hair. “I have to say, I was skeptical when you told me about this agreement you made. But then I thought, if he’s willing to give you the greatest gift there is, then you two must have a special friendship.” She pauses. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“What’s there to talk about?” She sits up as she shakes her head. “It’s been clear from the start. I got what I wanted, and so did he. I really think it’s my hormones that causing me to think this way.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Melinda says. “You know I love you, and I think you’re a brilliant woman, but sometimes you have this bad habit of looking instead of seeing.”

She looks up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Melinda says, standing before leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” she whispers.

As Melinda closes the door, she tugs on the pull switch on her lamp and watches as the darkness envelopes her room. She settles back against the pillows and pulls the covers up and over herself as she lies on her back and listens to the soft whistle of the wind outside. She sighs. Could Melinda be right when she says that she has the tendency to look, but not actually see? Surely, in her profession, she’s been able to read between the lines – that’s why her articles have always been successful. She’s always been able to take what the person she’s interviewing is saying, take into consideration just how they say the words, and extract from that what they actually mean. But, in the context of her personal life, and when her feelings are involved, could it be true that she has the habit of flying blind? She doesn’t know.

Light fills her room as her phone lights up from her bedside table, and she reaches for it without taking her eyes off her ceiling. Her eyes fall to the screen, and she’s surprised to find that it’s from Steve. “Hope you’re not missing the eggnog too much.” She looks at the time. It’s a little past midnight right now, making it about six in the morning over in Italy. “It’s not nearly as good without the rum…” she types, before adding, “I guess sleeping in still isn’t a thing with you even on vacation?”

She stares at the screen waiting for his reply, but her heart picks up when he decides to call her instead. With a shaky hand, she slides her finger over the bar to pick up. “Hello?”

“Hi,” he says, and it’s ridiculous how he has her heart going a mile a minute with just one word and the sound of his voice. “What are you still doing up?”

“Like I said, my eggnog was rum-less.” She laughs, and on the other end, she hears him let out a small breathy chuckle as well. They’re both silent, and she’s content for just a minute to listen to the sound of him breathing.

“Hey, Nat?” he says after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Can I be honest with you?” he asks.

She sighs. “I thought you were always honest?”

He chuckles at that, and she can imagine him rolling his eyes at her quip. “I am.” She hears him sigh before he whispers, “I hated everything about that night at Dalton’s.” For a second, she finds herself hoping that he’s referring to the night of Coulson’s retirement party and not the night she asked him to be her donor, and she breathes a sigh of relief when he goes on. “I hate that I had to pretend like I wasn’t the first to know,” he says. “I hate that they got to see the sonogram before I did… And I hate that it was Strange that got to take you home.”

A lump forms in her throat at his words, and she closes her eyes as she remembers the events of that night. Everyone wanted her to stay a bit longer, and while normally she would have, being unable to drink really left her with zero incentive to stay. She recalls the wind blowing by as she patiently waited for an empty cab to drive by, and how she felt someone come to stand next to her. She looked up, and saw it was Steve. He had tried to make small talk, all while she tried to avoid the topic of her appointment and the sonogram he had seen. He looked just about ready to bring it up when Strange had walked up, offering to split a cab with her since they lived in the same direction. She was desperate to get away from him then, so she’d accepted, and watched as an emotion akin to hurt flashed through Steve’s eyes. She wasn’t sure then, but his words now all but confirm it. And internally, she wonders if this is what Melinda was talking about.

The admission falls freely from her lips. “I wanted to leave because I didn’t want to watch you with Kristen.”

She hears him mutter something unintelligible, and then the line goes silent. “I think we have a lot to talk about when we get home,” he says after a while.

“I think we do,” she says, and then adds, “it’s as big as a fig.”

“What?” His tone is confused, and she wishes she could reach over to smooth the lines she knows are forming on his forehead.

“The baby,” she clarifies. “The doctor says it’s as big as a fig now.”

He lets out a noise that sounds very much like a gasp. “A little fig,” he says, astonishment bleeding into his tone. “That’s amazing.”

“It is,” she agrees. It’s a wonder, how much lighter her heart feels at this very moment. She sighs. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

“Merry Christmas, Nat.”

Her fingers clutch the cool metal of the railing as she looks down at all the people mingling in their gowns and suits. It’s New Years’ Eve, and it’s the opening of Tony and Pepper’s gallery. The gallery itself is an architectural marvel, a new edifice in the heart of downtown Manhattan that Stark Industries built with the best technology and sustainable materials. While the façade is all chrome and modern, the inside has a warm, elegant feel to it. She stands on the top floor where the entrance lies, overlooking the main gallery below. She’s right next to the grand staircase that starts off narrow and grows wider as it goes further down. The space is wide and pristine, the floor an eggshell marble, while the walls are crisp white and adorned with paintings under track lights. All across the room, shadow boxes are littered on stands with various sculptures and smaller works.

Her eyes scan the room, looking for familiar faces. She sees Pepper, looking as radiant as ever in a blush colored gown, talking to a few guests. Tony stands by the bar, his black velvet suit jacket screams look at me, but not that it surprises her. She looks through the sea of people, recognizing more faces, but it’s not until her eyes land on a familiar figure in a dark navy suit that the corners of her mouth turn up. And, as if sensing her gaze, the figure turns. If she thought her heart was thumping at the mere recognition of him, that is nothing compared to how her heart is beating now that he’s turned around, a smile spreading across his face as he looks up to see her. She smiles back. He looks so devilishly handsome with his hair slicked back and his beard neat as always; But what truly gets her, and what absolutely melts her, is how his navy suit somehow makes his blue eyes seem even bluer from where she’s standing.

She watches as he turns to the person he’s talking to, probably to excuse himself, and as he begins to make his way over to the bottom of the staircase, she picks up the hem of her champagne colored gown that falls off her shoulders to stand at the top. She begins her descent down the stairs, taking it one step at a time, all while keeping her eyes trained on him as he weaves his way through the crowd. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off of hers, either, and she feels that familiar flutter in her stomach as he holds her gaze. His smile widens, making her heart expand in her chest, but before she can return the expression, she feels it – the way her foot lands on nothing, her heel giving in.

A gasp escapes her mouth, and the last thing she sees is his smile being replaced by a look of sheer horror as she falls.  

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe these pieces aren’t from renowned artists.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Steve says, agreeing with the woman as she appraises the painting before them. Pepper had introduced her as Christine Everhart, a reporter from the local news channel covering the opening of the gallery, and he had taken that as code for this-is-a-chance-to-garner-good-PR. He’s not one to be a salesman, but he knows how important this opening is to her, so he puts on his best smile. “This particular one is from a street artist in Amsterdam. We were lucky to secure some of his work. He’s so technically gifted that-”

“I’m sure having an eye for art like you do certainly helps though,” Christine interrupts. He lets out a small chuckle. Contrary to what Bucky thinks about his track record with women over the past years, he’s not dense – he knows exactly why she has a hand on his arm and why she’s looking at him from under her darkened lashes as she talks. Christine is a highly attractive and intelligent woman, and to any other man, she’d be a bombshell with her blonde hair and blue eyes and great figure, but he’s not the least bit interested. Not even now, as she gives him a coy smile. “Pepper said that this gallery would have been a pipe dream without you.”

“Miss Potts is being too kind. The art,” he begins, letting his eyes scan the expanse of the gallery and all the works of art lining the walls as if to emphasize his point as he contemplates his next words. He’s about to turn back to her when a flash of red catches his eye, causing him to look up to where the entrance lies above the grand staircase. He cranes his neck higher, looking up to see Natasha standing by the railing, the smile on her face as her eyes land on him mirroring the one that’s crept onto his own. He turns back to Christine, and his voice is suddenly clipped. “The art here speaks for itself,” he says with a polite smile before gently prying away the hand she has on his arm. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He does not even wait for Christine’s response as he turns away and begins walking towards the base of the staircase. His eyes move up, searching for Natasha once more, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees her at the top of the staircase, looking ethereal in her champagne gown with sleeves that hug her upper arms, showing a tasteful amount of her creamy skin, and a skirt that falls all the way to the floor. He takes in her face – she’s wearing a little more makeup than he’s used to seeing her in, but not so much that it takes away from the shine of her green eyes and the pink flush of her full lips. Her scarlet tresses are pinned up in a bun like a crown atop her head with loose tendrils framing her face, making her look so regal that he just knows he must commit the image to memory.

Her gaze is trained on him as she begins to descend, taking the stairs a step at a time, and his heart tightens in his chest from the intensity of her stare. The smile on her face is electrifying, and as he returns it, he knows that he can’t look away even if he tried. She makes her way further down, and he lengthens his strides as he weaves through the crowd, but not once does he break their stare. The irony is not lost on him that despite being surrounded by works of art in every corner of this gallery, he knows he’s walking towards the best one. The thought makes his smile widen, but it quickly fades because he sees it – the way her stiletto buckles, landing awkwardly on the edge of the next step instead of on the center of it. His lips part in a scream, but it’s silent as he watches her fall down the remainder of the steps.

How he crossed the remaining distance between them to get to her is a blur to him, but he can still hear his heart pounding in his ears when he gets to the bottom of the stairs where she’s trying to sit up. Vaguely, it registers that she’s saying something along the lines of being okay, but it goes right through him. Voices start to come in from either side – Tony and Pepper, and possibly even Darcy – but he tunes out their words as he kneels by Natasha’s side. “Don’t move,” he says, his voice tight. “Tell me what hurts.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats, though it sounds to him like she’s willing it to be the case more than it being the actual truth. “Steve, I’m fine.” She’s motioning to try to get up, so he helps guide her to her feet with one hand on her lower back and another on her shoulder. But as soon as her right foot touches the ground and weight is put on it, a gasp escapes her lips, sending a fresh punch of alarm right to his gut. On instinct, he bends down, hooking an arm under her knees and one behind her back as he lifts her to him. Another gasp escapes Natasha’s lips, and this time, her tone is filled with dread. “Steve.”

He looks down to where her line of sight is, and adrenaline fills his veins as he sees the blood staining the cuff of his dress shirt on the hand he has hooked under her knees. But before he can say anything, Pepper’s voice comes in from behind him. “There’s an ambulance waiting outside.” Indistinctly, he makes out the sound of Darcy and Tony telling people to step away to give them room, but he pays it no mind as he begins to climb the stairs with Natasha securely in his arms. He makes it to the top and down the hall to the main door, and as he exits, he sees two paramedics approaching. He closes the distance between them, and lays Natasha on the stretcher. “She’s twelve weeks pregnant and took a big fall,” he informs them as they wheel her towards the back of the awaiting ambulance.

He’s about to climb into the back where a paramedic is already tending to Natasha, when the other stops him. “I’m sorry, sir, but are you family?”

He pauses, but then Pepper’s voice is suddenly intruding. “Let me, I’ll go with her.”

“Are you family?” the paramedic asks.

“No,” Pepper says. “But-”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you in unless-”

“Listen here buddy,” Darcy begins, but Tony puts a hand on her shoulder as he comes forward. “Listen, my name is Tony Stark. You’re taking this woman to Stark Medical. That sound familiar to you? She doesn’t have family right now, so I suggest you-”

From where he’s standing amidst all the chaos, the words just seem to slip right out. “I’m the father.”

Silence overcomes them, and as he looks at Darcy’s and Tony’s eyes that are blown wide with surprise, and Pepper’s face that’s washed with relief, he wonders if he actually said the words out loud. But then Natasha’s voice comes through the doors of the ambulance that are still wide open. “He is,” she says softly, keeping her eyes on him even as everyone else’s turn to her as she sits upright against the stretcher. “He’s the father.”

Her confirmation is the trump card, and as he’s ushered into the ambulance, he hears a promise from Pepper to be right behind them. The doors close behind him, and he hears the siren go off as they begin to move. The paramedics direct him to take a seat on the bench to the right, and he scoots up to sit by her head. Her head turns towards him, and despite the anxiety coursing through his veins, the little smile on her lips tugs on his heart strings. A million unfathomable outcomes run through his mind, but he does not have the courage to voice them, so instead, he settles for an attempt at humor. “That was quite an entrance you made back there,” he says, his voice low as he tucks a loose tendril of hair behind her ear.

“Had to get your attention somehow,” she teases with a shrug, and the sound he lets out is somewhere between a gasp of disbelief at the absurdity of her joke and a scoff at her ridiculousness. Despite the smirk on her lips, her eyes look uncertain as she adds, “that was quite an act out there, too.”

“Who’s acting?” he says almost instantly. He looks at her, and her eyes fill with – dare he say it, hope – but before he can affirm it, before he can say anything else, his eyes widen as he remembers the bigger cause for concern. “You’re bleeding,” he reminds her, before turning urgently towards the paramedics across from him. “She’s bleeding.”

“It’s just from a gash on her leg,” the paramedic answers. “We’re applying pressure to it now, and they’ll stitch her up after further examination in the ER. Her right ankle is sprained, and her elbow is bruised, but everything else seems okay.”

“And the baby?”

The paramedic shoots him a look of sympathy. “This ambulance isn’t equipped with an ultrasound machine, but that’ll be a priority when we get to the hospital.”

His nerves threaten to get the best of him, but Natasha’s hand is suddenly reaching for his. “It’s okay,” she whispers to him, her thumb rubbing reassuring circles on the back of his hand. He wants to argue that he’s the one that’s supposed to be comforting her right now, but the ambulance comes to a stop and the doors are already opening. He steps down from the vehicle, and as soon as Natasha’s stretcher touches the ground, he watches as surprise and recognition fill her features. “Helen, what are you doing here?”

He turns around to see a woman smiling down at Natasha. She’s wearing a full face of makeup, and underneath her white lab coat, the material of her sequined blouse peeks out. “When you get a personal call from Tony Stark, experience tells you to drop whatever you’re doing and run,” the woman says jokingly as they’re wheeled through the automatic doors of Stark Medical’s ER and into a trauma room where Natasha is swiftly put in a hospital gown. The speed at which they’re being attended to is unparalleled, and for the first time, he finds that he’s thankful that Tony likes to throw his name around. The doctor looks up at him, offering him a hand. “I’m Helen Cho, Natasha’s doctor.”

“Steve Rogers,” he says, shaking her hand. “I’m the father.”

He doesn’t miss the warmth that spreads through him as he says the words for the second time in a span of minutes, and he finds that he’s impressed that Helen does not even bat an eyelash at his claim. He stands to the side as the doctor goes about taking Natasha’s vitals, stitching up the gash on her leg, and wrapping her sprained ankle. Once she’s finished, she wheels an ultrasound machine up to the side of the exam table before she lifts Natasha’s hospital gown up and spreads gel onto her stomach. “Let’s see what’s going on here.”

Helen’s eyes move to the grainy black and white screen, and from where he’s standing with his back against a counter filled with various medical paraphernalia, he finds that his eyes fall to the screen as well. He watches as the grainy image slowly becomes clearer with every movement of the wand against Natasha’s belly. The wand stills, and he’s suddenly filled with absolute awe. While he had seen the sonogram that night at Dalton’s, that image was nothing compared to the one before him now because what had once been just a blip was now unmistakably a baby. He makes out the head, the bridge of its nose, its body curled up, all the little fingers and toes, and it nearly floors him. And then the warm feeling in his chest triples because he hears it, a sound akin to galloping, and his throat tightens when he realizes that he’s listening to the baby’s heartbeat. Their baby’s heartbeat. And now that he’s thought of it as theirs – something both he and Natasha share – he knows he could never go back to thinking of it as anything else. He looks at Natasha, whose head is turned towards him, to see that her eyes are filled with tears, and his blurring vision makes him realize that his are, too.

“Looks like we’ve got a little fighter in there,” Helen says, her voice snapping them both out of their moment. He looks back to the screen as Helen begins to move the wand around again, but then watches as her eyebrows furrow as she zeroes in on something.

“Is something wrong?” Natasha asks worriedly.

He steps closer to the table, coming to stand by Natasha’s head just as Helen presses on a button and zooms in. “I believe so,” she says before pointing to the screen. “This is your cervix. It’s already beginning to open.”

He watches as Natasha’s eyes shoot to the ceiling and her chest heaves as she takes in a deep breath, and he reaches to clasp her hand in his. “Is that going to be a problem?” he asks, squeezing Natasha’s hand as he looks at Helen.

Helen’s voice is cautious. “If her cervix dilates too early she risks not carrying this baby to term.”

“Is that caused by the fall?” Natasha asks, her voice cracking at the end.

“Not necessarily,” Helen says. “The trauma to your body might have hastened it, but it could also be congenital. But we caught it early, and it’s an easy fix. I could do a procedure called a cerclage wherein I go in and stitch the cervix closed. We could do it tonight, if you’d like. It’ll take half an hour, tops.”

“And it’s safe?” he asks before adding, “for both her and the baby?”

“There are risks, as with all procedures when the patient is pregnant,” Helen explains. “But this is the best remedy, and around the twelfth week is about the right time to do it.”

“Do it,” Natasha says instantly, and as he looks down at her to see the fear and desperation in her eyes, he does not dare argue.

“I’ll tell them to prep an OR,” Helen says.

He watches as the doctor exits the room, and as soon as the door closes, he turns back to Natasha whose eyes are trained back to the ceiling. “Nat-”

“The night of Coulson’s retirement party, I came to Dalton’s because I wanted you to hear the heartbeat.” She says it like a confession, her words stinging him as he remembers how the events of that night panned out, and as she turns her head towards him, he sees her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. “So beautiful.”

The tears fall freely as she lets her eyes fall closed. “I can’t lose this baby.”

“Oh, Nat.” Promises and reassurances threaten to slip from his lips as he leans down to pull her to him. She sobs into the crook of his neck, and he wants nothing more than to whisper words of comfort to her, to tell her that it won’t happen, that their baby will make it through this, but the fact of the matter is that he’s just as deep in unfamiliar waters as she is, and he won’t dare promise her something he does not know for sure. Instead, he says the one thing he knows for certain. “We’ll get through this.”

Time passes, and while Helen had said the procedure would take half an hour at most, the seconds since Natasha was wheeled into the operating room feel like an eternity. The smell of something warm and familiar filling his nostrils breaks his trance, and he looks up from the ground to see Tony handing a cup of coffee to him. “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Tony says, taking a seat on the plastic chair next to his. Across from them, Pepper paces the hall. “So…” Tony begins. “You and Red, huh? You’re brave, Rogers.”

He shakes his head. “Not now, Tony.”

Tony sighs as he watches his wife walk up and down the hall. “I’m no good at this pep talk thing. But what I do know is Natasha’s a fighter. She’ll make it through this. They both will.”

“I know,” he whispers. “Natasha… she’s one of the strongest people I know.” He lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “I know she can make it through this. I do. But something in my gut… It’s irrational.” He looks Tony’s way, his voice exasperated. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it,” Tony threatens. “But there’s a reason my home is baby proofed to the nines before Maria can even walk. It’s not rational or practical, but you do it anyway to appease your gut.” Tony shrugs. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not crazy because let’s face it, Rogers, you are. But that feeling in your gut? That’s kinda part of the deal for, like, ever. So… congratulations, Dad.”

Something clicks inside his brain as he digests Tony’s words. Everything from the hurt he felt at not being the first to see the sonogram, to the warm, fuzzy feeling that spread across his being that came from his admission outside the gallery, to the absolute euphoria he felt from hearing the heartbeat earlier, to even the fear and uncertainty that covers him from head to toe now – it all suddenly makes sense. Up until this day, he had never thought of himself as more than just Natasha’s donor. He was a friend helping a friend out with an endeavor she so desperately wanted. But after the events of today and Tony’s words just now, he knows now more than ever that the words he said as he stood outside that ambulance, the same ones he’d uttered to Helen, hold true: he’s a father, and the life growing inside the woman he cares so deeply about, is his child. And now that he’s admitted it to himself, it feels so damn liberating. He smirks as he turns to Tony. “When did you grow up?”

Tony sends a dagger look his way as his lips part with what he can only imagine is a comeback, but before Tony can say the words, Helen walks into the waiting room. He and Tony stand, and from his periphery, he sees Pepper walk briskly up the hall to stand by them. “How is she?”

“Both mom and baby are doing fine,” Helen says, lowering her surgical mask. “The procedure was a success. You can go see them in recovery now, and I’ll be with you shortly to discuss the post-op.”

He hastily thanks Helen, and while normally he’d be more mindful of his manners, he finds that he does not really care much about that right now as he follows Tony and Pepper two floors up. The three of them walk down the bright sterile halls of the recovery wing, and Pepper immediately turns the knob on the door when she sees the plaque with ROMANOFF on the side. “Thank god,” Pepper breathes as they make their way inside to see Natasha sitting up in bed waving at them. He stands by the foot of the bed as Pepper wraps Natasha in her arms. “You scared us.”

“I’m sorry I ruined your gallery opening,” Natasha jokes softly, but immediately apologizes when Pepper sends her a withering look. Her eyes turn to him and she smiles. “Hi.”

He lets out a sigh, and for the first time tonight, relief washes over him. “Hi.”

His feet beneath him itch to move towards her, but before he can act on it, the door swings open as Helen walks in. She nods at the everyone in the room before turning to Natasha. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I don’t have legs,” Natasha says, earning a laugh from the people in the room.

“The anesthesia should wear off in a couple of hours,” Helen promises, before moving to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “I want to discuss the upcoming weeks.” From where he’s standing, he listens intently to what the doctor says. “The procedure was a success,” Helen begins, “when you hit the thirty-seventh week, we’ll go in and take them out as you near your due date. But the next four weeks are going to be crucial. At sixteen weeks, the chances of miscarrying go down to one percent. That’s what we want.” He watches as Natasha nods as she processes Helen’s words, but then it’s replaced with concern as the doctor goes on. “You’ll need to be on bedrest for the first two weeks.”

“I can’t not be at work for that long,” Natasha argues.

“Like hell you can’t,” Pepper says, and he’s grateful that she happens to be one of the few people Natasha actually listens to. “I’ll have IT lock you out of the system if I have to.”

“I’d also prefer if you weren’t alone during this time,” Helen adds. “Time is of the essence here, and the worst thing you could be if something happens is alone.”

“I’ll have them prep the guest room,” Pepper says immediately.

Natasha shakes her head. “Pepper, no.” Pepper glares at her, but she does not back down. “You already have your hands full with Maria. I’ll stay with Melinda.”

“Come on, Red,” Tony says. “Upstate is too far. You should be close to the city and to Helen.”

“You could stay with me,” he says finally, and for the second time that night, he seems to command attention with his words. “My place is close to this hospital, so we can get here quickly if something happens.” He shrugs. “And it’s closer to the Daily, so you won’t have to commute as far when you’re off bed rest.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, her head already shaking in refusal. “You don’t have to. I don’t want to disrupt your life-”

“You’re not disrupting anything,” he says before she can finish. He walks over to her, taking her hand in his. “Stay with me?” he asks, though it sounds more like a plea.

He watches as her resolve slowly breaks down, and then his heart all but jumps in his chest when she gives him a single nod.

The cool air hits the skin of his bare chest as he exits the steaming bathroom in just his sweatpants. To his right, he sees Natasha sitting against the pillows on his bed with her phone to her ear, the expression on her face a cry for help. “Melinda, it just all happened so quickly,” she reasons, adapting the tone of voice every child uses when they know they’re in trouble. He smirks at her and she sends a glare his way as he walks over to his closet in search of a shirt. He pulls open a drawer on his bureau, but inwardly curses when he remembers that he vacated the top half of it this morning for Natasha’s clothes. He bends down, reaching for an old college shirt before pulling it over his head. He makes it back to the bedroom just in time to hear Natasha say, “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to worry you for nothing. Everything’s okay now.” Faintly, he hears the scolding Melinda gives her on the other end of the phone. Natasha sighs. “I know. I promise I will. I love you, too, mom. Bye.”

“You got the mom special, huh?” he teases as he takes a seat on the bed just by her outstretched feet.

“Among other things,” she says with a sigh. “I’m going to have to go big on her birthday and Christmas to make up for not telling her about that little stint at the hospital.”

He scoffs. “Trust me, you could buy them a country and they would still bring up that one time you messed up and use it to win an argument during Thanksgiving dinner.”

“That’s very specific,” she notes, raising an eyebrow at him. “Sounds like you’ve got some experience in the matter.”

“Well…” He grimaces. “Let’s just say a little IED explosion in Kabul might have caused me my spleen and the news that I went under the knife didn’t come from me.”

Natasha’s eyes widen, but then she laughs. “I get it. I didn’t call Melinda because I knew she’d drop everything. When I was in college, I thought she was just prone to overreacting, but I think I understand now.” She sighs as she drops a hand to her belly. “I don’t know what I’d do if he or she ever gets hurt and does not tell me about it.” She shoots him a pointed look. “And the fact that you keep your injuries secret too definitely does not help.”

He looks at the hand she has resting on her belly and then at her. He smirks. “Regretting your decisions?”

“Not even a little bit,” she whispers, holding his gaze.

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a little smile. “All right then,” he says, tapping his hand on her foot before he stands. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

“Where are you going?” A confused expression paints her face as she pushes up on her elbows to sit upright.

“Oh, uh…” He brings a hand up to the back of his neck. “I was going to sleep in the guest room.”

“Steve,” she scolds, her tone incredulous. “No, I’m the guest. I should be-”

“The guestroom doesn’t have a bathroom,” he explains. “I don’t want you to have to walk down the hall in the dark in the middle of the night. At best you’ll aggravate your ankle, at worst you’ll walk into something and hurt yourself.” He watches as the combative look on her face slowly begins to soften before he adds, “and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“The only thing that’ll make me uncomfortable is knowing that I dislodged you in your own home,” she says, looking up at him with those bright green eyes of hers. “Oh.” Her eyes widen, and the look on her face turns into one of realization. “Unless… sleeping next to me makes you uncomfortable?”

“What?” he says, and this time, he’s the one filled with disbelief. “Natasha, no. No.” He shakes his head. “That’s not it. I just didn’t want to assume-”

“We’ve shared a bed before,” she points out, letting her eyes fall to her stomach, “obviously.” They both laugh at that, and she reaches across the comforter to pat the other side of the bed. “Stop being ridiculous, Rogers.”

The mix of her calling him by his last name and the genuine smile on her face seems to break the awkwardness that’s fallen between them, and he realizes that he does not actually want to argue with her. “Okay,” he says, and she moves back onto the pillows as he walks over to the other side of the bed. He switches off the lamp and peels away the comforter. Next to him, Natasha does the same, and as darkness fills the room, she maneuvers herself to lay on her side, her cheek pressed against the pillow as she faces his way. “How are you feeling?” he asks as he mirrors her position.

“A little sore,” she admits as her fingers dance across the material of his sheets, “but I’ll take it.” She looks up at him. “Thank you for doing this. I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, reaching over to cup her cheek and run his thumb along the line of her cheekbone. “I just need you and our baby to be okay.”

Her eyes fall shut, and as she speaks, her tone is hopeful. “Did you like hearing the heartbeat?”

“Loved it,” he corrects. “I could listen to it forever.” Her eyes open at his words, and he watches as she rolls to her back to reach for her phone on the nightstand. “What are you doing?” he asks as she scrolls through her phone. She holds up a finger before laying the phone in the small space between them, and his eyebrows furrow as he looks to the screen to see an audio file. Her finger taps the play button, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence. “Nat-” he says, but then the sound that all but melted him in the trauma room last night fills the room, and the words he was about to say are all but forgotten as he can do nothing but listen.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispers after a while.

His hand reaches to cover hers where it rests just below her phone. “Mesmerizing,” he answers. Despite Helen reassuring them that the procedure was a success, he does not think he’ll ever stop worrying about the woman next to him and the child she carries. But tonight, as they lay side by side, he pushes the feeling to down as he lets the sound of their child’s beating heart lull them to sleep.

“Knock, knock.”

He looks up from editing on his computer to see Darcy standing by his office door. He smiles. “Hey Darce,” he greets, waving her into his office. “How’ve you been?”

“Eh.” Darcy holds her hand out as she does a flipping motion. “Hill’s filling in for Nat right now, and while she’s not doing a bad job, I’m kinda iffy about change in general.” She shakes her head. “Anywho… I was hoping we could talk.”

“Yeah, sure.” He gestures towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Did you want to sit?”

“Nah, I’ll be quick.” She turns around, closing the door behind her. “Look,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear nervously. “I just wanted you to know that I would never tell anyone about what you said.” He looks at her confusedly as he sits back against his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, so she goes on. “You know… about what you said in front of the ambulance about… you know…”

“About me being the father,” he finishes with an amused smile.

“Yeah, that,” she confirms. “I just wasn’t sure who knew, and I wanted to make sure you and Nat know that I wouldn’t ever run around the office telling people like some loudmouth.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I am a loudmouth, but not where Nat’s personal life is concerned. I know she’s very private and I would never violate-”

“Darcy,” he says, stopping the woman from rambling. “I know that, and I’m sure Nat does, too.” He smiles. “Thank you.”

She smiles back at him, and then her eyes fill with concern. “Is she okay, though? Her and the baby?”

He smiles at the mention of Natasha and the baby, though a part of him knows that his happiness is a tad misplaced. Natasha’s been living with him for over a week now, and while he knows that this is just because she can’t be alone in case complications arise, he still can’t shake how wonderful it is to share his home with her. Being on bedrest and being unable to even use her work phone (Pepper had made sure that work was radio silent) has made Natasha antsy, but all else considered, she seems to be recovering well from the procedure. A routine seems to have established itself in the past week, as well – Pepper and Maria come to visit in the morning to keep her company, and after Natasha gives her spiel about not needing to be babysat all damn day, he leaves for work, where he stays until early afternoon until he decides to finish the rest of his work at home to be with her, which really just ends in him catching her up on the latest office chatter as he makes dinner.

And while they’ve seemingly taken to domestic bliss like a fish to water, one predicament remains: he and Natasha are yet to breach the subject of them or what they are exactly. Despite them saying that they had plenty to discuss during the phone conversation they had while he was in Italy and they had laid bare their respective confessions, those seem to have been pushed aside at the moment. The question of what they are and what they mean to each other seems unimportant when the health of both Natasha and their child are still in question. And while he knows the conversation needs to be had, ever since he woke up the morning after she had played their baby’s heartbeat as they fell asleep to find that they had somehow moved into spooning each other in the middle of the night, he finds he’s not willing to bring up something that might throw a monkey wrench into the closeness they’ve just reestablished. One thing he does know for certain, though, is while he and Natasha are a muddy subject at the moment, his love for their child is unwavering and he couldn’t be happier that they’re both doing well.

“She’s doing great,” he confirms. “They both are. Actually,” he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone to scroll through his applications. “Here,” he says, handing her the phone once he finds the one he wants.

Darcy takes his phone in her hand and squeals once she sees the photo he took of Natasha’s last sonogram. “Oh my god! It has fingers and toes and everything!”

“That’s the hope,” he quips, laughing at the glare Darcy sends his way as she hands him back his phone. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back before you know it.”

“Cool, cool,” she says, reaching for the doorknob. She’s halfway out the door when she turns back. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah, Darce?”

“I like you. I always thought you and Boss Lady looked great together.” He smiles at her comment, but as she continues, her tone grows serious. “But make no mistake, if you hurt her, consider yourself banned from the other half of this office floor.”

He raises both hands in front of him in surrender. “I’ll consider myself warned.” Darcy gives him a salute from where she stands by his door, and he laughs as she walks away.

That night, he wakes up to an empty bed and to the glowing digits of his bedside clock indicating that it’s past three in the morning. He lifts his head off the pillow, craning his neck towards the bathroom door in search for the light to signal that Natasha may be in there, but worry immediately fills him when darkness is the only thing he sees. He quickly swings his legs off the side of the bed, grabbing a shirt along the way as his bare feet pad across the wooden floor of his apartment. “Nat?” he calls out once he gets to the end of the hallway, his hands coming up to rub the sleep away from his eyes.

“Over here,” she says, and his head turns in the direction of his living room. A sigh of relief leaves his lips when he sees Natasha sitting on the couch in just his shirt, her feet tucked under her as she holds something between her hands. The light coming through the window from the streetlights outside casts a warm glow on her, making her skin look that much more radiant. He smiles as he approaches her.

“The baby keeping you up?” he asks as he takes a seat next to her.

“Cravings,” she explains, raising the object in her hand for him to see. He recognizes it as the pint of ice cream from his freezer. “Although,” she goes on, “since the baby is causing me to want ice cream at an ungodly hour, then I guess it is the reason I’m up.”

He chuckles at her comment. “I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” he says, pulling her feet into his lap.

She waves off his concerned tone. “I kept tossing and turning and didn’t want to wake you. I swear, it’s like my body isn’t even my own anymore. I’ve never been this hungry in my life.”

“That’s to be expected,” he says, rubbing circles on the pads of her feet with his thumbs. “Fig’s about to go through a growth spurt, though it’s probably already closer to the size of a peach. Its arms are supposed to be in proportion to the rest of its body by the end of the week.” He looks up at her to see that she has the spoon in her hand paused halfway between the pint and her mouth. “What?”

“You’ve been reading?” she asks softly, bringing the spoon to her mouth.

“I just want to know as much as I can,” he says, his tone sheepish. “I know I’m not a doctor, but who knows? Maybe if I read up enough, we’ll be able to catch the signs if something goes wrong.”

He tries to identify the emotions that run through her face, but she’s already smirking before he can. “Well I certainly hope that those are some really good arms,” she says, setting the pint down on the coffee table, “because at the rate I’m going, it looks like I’m going to be spending an eternity at the gym if I ever want to wear any of my old clothes again.”

He rolls his eyes. She’s hardly showing, and any other person not living with her wouldn’t even bet on her being pregnant. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m kidding,” she says. “I’d happily eat anything this baby wants if it means it’s happy and healthy.” She nods towards the pint on the coffee table. “Though I am sorry if you had plans for that pint of ice cream. I just helped myself to whatever was in your freezer.”

“Nat,” he says, turning towards her. “I don’t even like pistachio ice cream.”

Her eyebrows knit in confusion. “Then why do you-”

He cuts her off by shooting her a knowing look. Her mouth presses into a line, and he waits for the retort he knows is already brewing in her mind, but instead, she surprises him by pulling her feet off his lap as she pushes onto her knees. “What-” he begins, but before he can finish his sentence, she’s already slanting her lips over his, her knees resting on the cushions on either side of his as she straddles him. Her hands cup his face, her thumbs caressing the soft hair on his cheeks, and she moans into his lips as he runs his hands up the bare skin of her thighs en route to her waist. He deepens their kiss, his fingers digging into her skin as her hands travel to the back of his neck, twisting at the ends of his hair as she pulls him closer and her tongue licks at the seam of his lips. He parts his lips for her, and for a moment, he just loses himself in the lock of their lips. It feels incredible to have her this close again, and just the taste of her lips is enough to intoxicate him. He’s missed this – missed her – and he kisses her like she’s the first taste of water he’s had after walking through a desert.

Her hands drop to the hem of his shirt, her fists balling up the material as she tries to move it up, but he catches her hands in his. “Nat,” he calls out, breaking their kiss. She ignores him, her hands fighting against his as she moves onto peppering his neck with kisses. “Nat,” he repeats, his hands squeezing down on hers more firmly. “Natasha, we can’t.”

“Why not?” She kisses a line up the side of his face, and he lets out a groan when she nibbles on his earlobe. “Don’t you want me?”

He groans at her words. “You know I want you,” he whispers into her lips, grinding her down on him to let her feel the evidence of just how much he does. She gasps, and he kisses her again. “I’m desperate for you,” he confesses, leaning his forehead on hers. “But we can’t, Nat.” He stares into her hazy eyes. “You’re not healed yet, and I won’t risk hurting you.” And because he can’t help himself, he kisses her once more. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she echoes reluctantly, and he moves them so that she’s sandwiched between him and the back of the couch. She turns over, her back to his front as she rests her head on the crook of his arm. He’s going to regret not moving them back to his bed come morning, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. “Two more weeks,” she whispers.

“Two more weeks,” he affirms, his hand coming to rest on her belly. He smiles, remembering the first time she’d let him feel the small bump a few days ago. It isn’t much just yet, but he can still feel the small curve, and as her hand covers his, her words hold even more importance as he’s reminded of what else is at stake in two weeks’ time. “Sleep, baby,” he whispers as he dusts a kiss to the top of her head. “Both of you.”

He’s on his way out of the Daily’s building when he hears a voice call out to him. “Mr. Rogers, a moment please.”

He turns around to see a tall man in a suit standing behind the front desk waving him over. “Jarvis,” he says, walking back. “I’ve been working here for years. Have I not earned the right to be called Steve yet?”

“I’m afraid old habits are impossible to overcome,” Jarvis says. “I don’t mean to hold you on your way home, but you do have a young woman who’s been waiting for you.”

He looks at Jarvis suspiciously. “Wanda?”

Jarvis shakes his head. “No, definitely not your sister. I would’ve recognized her and sent her right up.” He points towards the seating area to the left of the lobby. “She refused to leave a name, but she’s over there in the white blouse. She mentioned she was an old friend of yours.”

“I guess I’ll go see who it is then,” he says curiously. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

Jarvis nods. “Have a good rest of your day, sir.”

He makes his way over to where Jarvis said the woman was, and when he turns the corner he’s shocked to see who it is sitting in one of the couches waiting for him. The woman looks up at him, her brown eyes meeting his blue ones, and her name leaves his lips before he can decide to turn the other way. “Sharon.”

“Hi, Steve.” Sharon stands, and the first thing that catches his attention is her protruding belly. She had told him that she was expecting her second child the last time they’d spoken about the possibility of her buying back the house from him, but now that he’s seeing evidence of that in the flesh, he’s not quite sure how to feel. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to seem like an ambush.”

“Oh?” he says, his tone coming out a little more challenging than he intended. “Is that why you decided to show up to my workplace unannounced?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, “but I knew if I called in advance you wouldn’t agree to see me. I just want to talk.”

He shakes his head. “Sharon, I have nothing left to say. And quite frankly, I can’t. I have-”

“This won’t take long,” she says, her hand landing on her stomach as if to stress the truth in her words. “Please.”

He looks at the watch on his wrist. The meeting he had gone into the office for today ended early, so he has a little wiggle room before he has to get home to relieve Pepper. “Fine,” he says. “What is it?”

“This is hardly the place to discuss it,” Sharon says, looking at their surroundings.

He follows her gaze, and sure enough, there are a number of bystanders that could easily overhear their conversation. He sighs. “Follow me.” He leads her out of the building and across the street to the small coffee shop. He holds the door open for her, and after grabbing their drinks – a coffee for him and tea for her – goes to sit in the table she’s chosen.

“You look great,” she notes as he pushes the cup of tea towards her. “I never thought you’d ever stop shaving religiously, but the beard suits you.”

“A lot’s changed,” he says with a shrug. “How’s um…”

“Peggy,” she finishes, pulling out her phone to show him the picture of the little girl on her screensaver. “I named her after my aunt Margaret. Even at three, she’s just as bossy and commanding as she is.”

He grins at her words. Her aunt Peggy was a kind yet assertive woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted, and in a lot of ways, Sharon emulated that. He looks at the picture on her phone and then back at her. “She looks just like you.”

“Yeah,” she says fondly. “What about you? Are you seeing someone?”

For a split second, he considers answering her questions, but then he’s reminded of why they’re here in the first place. “Sharon,” he says, “why did you come here?”

“Look,” she begins, “I know you said that you weren’t willing to sell-”

“Sharon-”

“Please,” she says firmly. “Just hear me out.” He sighs, raising an eyebrow at her to continue. “I know you said you weren’t willing to sell, and I understand that. But I also know that the house is still empty, and I would hate for it to go to waste because I didn’t push for it. Plus, you were the one that said that it was perfect to raise children in.”

“I said it was perfect to raise our children in,” he argues. “And has it ever occurred to you that maybe I’m saving it for my family?”

“Yes, it has,” she says. “But Steve, you loved that house. And you’re right, a lot has changed, but if there’s anything left of the man I loved-”

“You mean the man you didn’t love enough to wait for,” he interrupts.

Sharon sighs. “Steve, I will forever be sorry for the way I ended things between us. But,” she says, shaking her head. “I won’t apologize for walking away. I know I waited for the worst possible time, but I couldn’t trap you in a marriage where I couldn’t love you.”

He leans back against the chair. “You were happy when we bought that house, too.”

“I was,” she confirms. “But then you went overseas, and I was decorating the house and I just… it felt like I didn’t share your vision.”

“Then why now?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why do you want the house all of a sudden?”

“Because it’s occurred to me that it wasn’t that I couldn’t envision my life in that house,” she whispers, “it’s that I couldn’t envision my life in that house with you.”

Something about the brutal honesty in her words drains the fight right out of him. He could spew a comeback, and maybe just outright tell her that the answer is still no, but he chooses instead to bite his tongue. And though he can’t quite comprehend why, he finds himself giving her a single nod. “I’ll reconsider it.”

“That’s all I ask,” she says, and he moves up from his chair to leave.

As he walks towards the subway, he waits for the pain of Sharon’s words to sting him. Had she said those words two, three years ago, he knows they would all but cripple him. He had loved her, and he had desperately wanted a life with her, and hearing her say that she wanted the life he wanted for them just with someone else, he doesn’t know if he would be able to handle it then. But now, as he steps onto the subway on his way home, he finds that he doesn’t feel the pain. Instead, his chest feels light, like he can breathe. He’s not fighting with her words, not trying to look for excuses that aren’t there, and surprisingly, he finds that he accepts it, possibly even shares it.

The first place he goes when he gets to his apartment building is the rooftop. Pepper had left ten minutes ago with an emergency errand to run, and Natasha had texted him to let him know that she was going up to get some fresh air. The elevator dings as it reaches the very top, and he steps out and pushes through the doors leading to the little observatory atop his building. The sun is still up, but it’s the dead of Winter and the wind has a bite to it. But despite that, all he can feel is warmth as he catches the sight of Natasha leaning against the railing with her back to him. He walks over to her, and she tenses when he wraps his arms around her from behind, but it quickly fades when she realizes it’s him. “You shouldn’t be up here,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple. He inhales the scent of her hair, and he sighs, the rest of his day already forgotten. “It’s freezing.”

“I’ve been locked up for two weeks,” she points out, watching all the cars pass by the busy streets below. “I’ll go stir crazy if I don’t see beyond the four walls of your apartment.” She turns her neck to look up at him. “I called Helen. Everything’s going as planned, and I’m cleared to go back to work next week.”

“That’s amazing,” he says, dropping a hand to rub her belly over the thick coat she has on. “Good job in there.”

She laughs at his ridiculousness. “She also scheduled me for my sixteenth week check-up. Did you want to come along?”

His hand cups her chin, tilting her face towards his as he leans down to capture her lips. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She smiles at him and turns her eyes back to watching the streets below them. “You know I have a terrace in my apartment, right? You didn’t have to come all the way up here.”

“I like it up here.” He feels her shrug against him. “I like watching the city from high above. It’s just always so busy and vibrant and it reminds me of exactly why I chose to move here in the first place.”

“Is that why your apartment is on the fiftieth floor?”

“Believe me, I’ve been trying to go up higher, but Manhattan real estate is tricky business.” He opens his mouth to suggest something, but she beats him to it. “And before you say it,” she says, “I don’t want Tony’s help. Not this time.”

He grins against her hair. “You really love the city, huh?”

“Look, I know everyone says this city is no place to raise a child,” she laments. “But I feel like they’re just not seeing it. I can’t wait to take this kid through Central Park, to see the lights on Broadway, and to teach him or her when to take the local and when to take the express.” She smirks. “And, well, there’s no shortage of restaurants here to order takeout from since I can’t cook to save my life.”

“No, you can’t.” He laughs as she tries to elbow him. “But you can learn,” he says. “Come on, let’s get dinner started.”

The sound of a pulsing heart fills the room, though instead of it coming from Natasha’s phone like he’s accustomed to, it comes from the ultrasound machine as Helen holds the wand to Natasha’s belly. Despite making it to the sixteenth week without encountering a complication, both he and Natasha have been nervous wrecks all day. “Everything looks great,” Helen says, and relief permeates through him as he hears her give them both a clean bill of health. “Stitches are holding up, and the baby’s growing at the rate we want it to.” She smiles at them both. “Great job, mom and dad.”

He can’t help the wide grin that spreads across his face at Helen’s words. He sneaks a glance at Natasha to see the corners of her mouth turned up as well. “What’s next?” he asks the doctor.

“What’s next is an anatomy scan in four weeks,” Helen answers as she turns to Natasha. “You’ll be at your halfway point by then. And well, from here on out, it’s just a matter of letting the baby do some more growing.”

Natasha looks up at him just as she pushes the hem of her sweater dress back down. “Helen says we could find out the gender by then.”

“Really?” he asks, astonishment in his voice.

Helen nods at him before addressing them both. “Any other questions for me?” He looks at Natasha who shakes her head. “Well then, I will have Kathleen email you both with details of your next appointment.” Helen reaches to shake his hand and give Natasha a hug. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

He helps Natasha off the exam table, and as her feet touch the ground, she looks up to catch him staring. “What?” she asks, amusement on her face.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay,” he says, his hands still on her waist. He smiles. “Do you want to go out to celebrate?”

“I was thinking we could go home,” she suggests, and his heart thuds at the way she refers to his apartment – as home. She shrugs. “To talk.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “To talk?”

“To talk.”

The ride back to his apartment is surprisingly quiet as they sit in the back of the cab with Natasha’s head on his shoulder. Inwardly, he prepares what he wants to say to her. Living together for the past four weeks has made one thing painfully clear to him: he wants more than their contract entails. His mind wanders back to what she said at the rooftop about taking their child to roam the nooks and crannies of Central Park, to experience the city lights. He wants that, he realizes – wants to be there when their child sees the colorful Minton tiles that line the Bathesda arcade or when they see their first Broadway musical. He wants to be there to witness enchantment fill their child’s eyes as they experience the magic of the city just as it does their mother’s every single time she glances at the skyline. He wants to be a father, and he can only hope she’ll let him.

Once they make it back to his apartment, he helps her out of her coat before shrugging off his own and hanging them on the hooks by the door. He follows her into the living room. “Do you want me to make you something?” They had gone to lunch before her appointment, and it’s not all that late, but he knows her appetite has kicked back up since she passed the first trimester. “Nat?” he calls out, realizing that she hasn’t responded. She’s standing in the center of the living room, her eyes suddenly fixated on her hands. He steps closer to her, concern filling him as he rubs his hands up and down her arms. “Are you okay? Do you want to rest?”

“No,” she says, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

“Oh, right. You wanted to talk.”

She shakes her head. “Not right now,” she whispers.

“Then what do you want?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting in confusion. She bites her lip, but before he can press her for an answer, her hand reaches for his. She tugs him backward, walking him towards the hallway and leading him in the direction of his bedroom. She stares at him as she does so, and he swallows as he takes in her pupils that are blown wide and her irises that have darkened to a near emerald. She lets go of his hand as they make it to the threshold of his bedroom. “Natasha,” he breathes, watching her fingers work on the buttons of his shirt. “I thought you wanted to talk-”

She cuts him off by crashing her lips onto his. “You,” she whispers. “I want you.” Her arms come up to circle his neck and she rises on the tips of her toes, her lips on his again before she nibbles on his bottom lip. “I’m desperate for you.”

The rational side of his brain screams at him to resist, to sit her down and tell her everything that’s been running through his head. But between her throwing his own words back at him and all the want he’s been keeping at bay for the past month bubbling up to the surface, he finds his will dwindling. “Fuck it,” he mutters, pulling her face to his. They become nothing but a tangle of hasty hands and trailing lips as they work to rid each other of the barriers separating them, and without breaking their kiss, he shrugs off his button up as she moves the material of his undershirt up and over his head. Her nails scrape against the bare skin of his chest, making him groan, and she pulls him down to her once more, her fingers working on the buckle of his belt and pulling the leather through the loops.

“Eager?” He smirks, but it’s replaced with a sharp intake of breath when she mumbles something along the lines of how he has no idea. Her hands brush against his front as she pushes his pants down to the ground, making his patience and restraint run thin, and he immediately reaches for the hem of her dress to pull it over her. He lets his eyes rake up and down her body, and as she stands before him in only her underwear and tights, he’s powerless to do anything but bring his hands to the curve of her waist. He’s noticed the gradual changes in her body from living with her the past month, but he’s never gotten the chance to actually take it in until now. Her skin is still as smooth as he remembers, but now her breasts are definitely fuller, and the bump of her stomach is much more noticeable. He pulls her closer to him, dropping a kiss to her neck. “God, you’re beautiful.”

She scoffs. “You have to say that.”

He makes sure she’s looking right at him as he utters his next words. “Natasha, you could never be anything but beautiful to me.”

Her eyes soften. “Kiss me,” she orders, and he complies, tucking a finger under her chin to raise her face towards his as he pours everything into the lock of her lips to make her believe his words. She pushes him towards the side of the bed, until the back of his knees sends them falling onto the mattress, and she all but launches herself into his lap. His hands move from her face to her back as he works to unclasp her bra, sliding the straps off her shoulders, and this time, it’s her turn to cup his face as he rids her of the offending garment. “Been wanting this for so long,” she confesses. “You have no idea how many times I came close to jumping you as you came home from your morning run.”

He takes her by surprise by flipping them, her back flat against the mattress as he hovers over her. “And you have no idea how hard it was to not take you right there and then every time I saw you walking around in my shirt,” he tells her, his lips moving down her body, “every time I woke up to you in my arms.” He closes his mouth around her pert nipple, and she gasps as he begins to suck before moving onto the next one.

“Steve,” she whines, her voice dripping with desperation, and he decides to take mercy on her as he moves lower, his knees touching the ground as he hooks his fingers into the band of her tights, pulling her panties along with it as he slides it down her legs. Her knees are bent with her feet touching the mattress, and he groans when he sees her practically dripping. He reaches over to widen her knees, his head leaning closer between her legs as his fingers brush against her folds, eliciting a gasp from her. With a sly smile, he bends down to kiss the inside of her thigh.

“This for me,” he says, his breath skating across her center. He dips a finger at her entrance, making her grasp at the comforter. “Or are you always just this worked up?”

“You,” she pants, her spine arching as his finger begins to pump. “It’s you. Always you.” She props herself up on her elbows, her hand gripping the one he has between her legs firmly. “Please,” she mewls. “We can do that later. But right now, I need you.”

He nods, giving into her plea as he rises to his feet to push his boxers down. He sets his knees on the mattress, his hand pulling on her ankle to bring her closer to him, and she moans when he pushes her knees up to her chest. She looks up at him, her gaze heavy with lust and desire, and he leans down as much as he can without crushing her. They’re both panting, his length lingering right at her entrance, but he powers through the haze in his mind because he has to let her know. “It’s just been you.”

She gasps. “It’s been sixteen weeks.”

“Just you, Nat,” he says, dusting a kiss to her lips. He pulls away, but just far enough that their noses are still touching, and he feels the breath she lets out as he begins to push inside of her. Her only response is to bring her lips back to his, kissing him lazily as he fills her.

“Ah,” she breathes, pulling away when he finally bottoms out.

He intertwines a hand with the one she has resting by the side of her face as he begins to move. “Missed you,” he whispers. “Missed you so damn much.”

“Missed you too,” she tells him, gasping when he pushes back into her all the way.

The rhythm he sets is deep yet languid, and they lose themselves in it, getting reacquainted with each other’s bodies with flattened palms and roaming lips as he pins her beneath him. They’ve been with each other countless times before, but this time feels different – irrevocably so – and he realizes that it’s because this time, they aren’t working towards anything. There isn’t a contract hanging over their heads, or a bad day they’re trying to get the other’s mind off of. No, this time, and perhaps for the first time, they’re lost in each other because they want to.

Pleasure brews at the base of his spine, and she gasps at a particularly delicious snap of his hips. She calls out his name, the hold she has on his hand tightening, and he takes in the way her lips are slightly parted, her eyes mere slits. “I know, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I know.” He reaches between them, down to where they’re joined, and she gasps as his finger circles her bundle of nerves. He quickens the movement of his hips, his thrusts growing erratic as he, too, nears his crest. Her walls tighten around him, and when he hears her let out a screech, he gives in to his own pleasure, groaning as he finishes deep inside her.

He moves off of her quickly, mindful of his weight pushing down on her. She whimpers at the loss of contact, of the loss of his body heat on hers, but then he’s lifting her towards the pillows and pulling her back against his front. His hand drifts down to her stomach, his fingers spraying across her bump. “Boy or girl?”

She drops a hand down to cover his. “I have a feeling it might be a girl.”

All he can see is red when he wakes up the next morning, and he smiles when he inhales the scent of Natasha’s shampoo. He tightens his hold on her, leaving a kiss on the bare skin of her shoulder that’s peeped through the comforter. She stirs at the contact, and he trails kisses along her neck.

“Steve,” she admonishes groggily. “Leave me alone.”

He smirks against her skin. “That’s not the tune you were singing last night.” She turns in his arms, and the glare she sends his way is icy even in the early morning light. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” she concedes, burrowing her face into his chest, “but if you don’t shut up and let me sleep, you won’t be hearing anything for a long time.”

He chuckles, pressing his nose into the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

She sighs. “I guess I could forgive you,” she says. “If you made me waffles.”

He leans away from her, taking in her amused expression. “Smooth.”

“The baby wants waffles,” she reasons with a shrug.

“The baby,” he repeats, shaking his head, “right.” Her bottom lip juts out in a pout, and he sighs. “Fine,” he says, dropping a kiss to her temple. “Call you when they’re ready.”

He picks up his boxers and undershirt, putting them on before he makes his way out of the bedroom and into his kitchen. He rummages through his fridge, grabbing for the butter, milk, and eggs for the batter before closing it shut with his foot. A smile crosses his face, and though he knows he probably looks like an idiot, he lets himself feel giddy as he goes about searching for his mixing bowl and whisk. Today, he decides, he’ll finally let Natasha know that he’s in it for the long run.

He’s halfway through measuring out the milk when he hears a knock on his door, confusion overcoming him as he looks to the clock. It’s a little past eight in the morning, and he isn’t counting on any visitors. He sets the carton down on the counter before he strolls his way to his front door. His hand turns the knob, and surprise fills him when he sees the person standing behind it. “What are you doing here?”

“I just got a call from my broker,” Sharon explains. “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to sell the house.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t have-”

“You sold the house?”

He turns around to see Natasha standing a few feet behind him, her robe wrapped tightly around her. Surprise is evident in her bright green eyes, but he swallows because he recognizes the underlying emotion behind it.

Hurt.

Chapter Text

“Call you when they’re ready.”

A smile spreads across Natasha’s face as Steve shuts the door behind him. She rolls over to the other side of the bed, noticing how much cooler the sheets are against her back, and her smile widens when she realizes that the varying temperatures between the two sides is due to the fact that they’d practically been intertwined in their sleep. She’s never been into cuddling, has never been fond of someone else’s body heat against her own as she slumbers, but with Steve, that seems to have changed. Everything’s changed, she thinks as she raises her hands over her head in an attempt to alleviate the slight strain in her muscles. She lets out a contented sigh – she’s sore, but deliciously so – and she can’t help but bite her lip as memories of last night come flooding back to her.

She does not even know how to begin to describe what last night was like. It wasn’t some magical first time, but it was the first of something between them. She can’t put a finger on it, and can’t quite put it into words either, but something about the way they’d come together felt different and distinct from all the other times they’ve surrendered to one another. Every touch, every kiss, every push and pull of their bodies felt like it was brimming with promise for both of them. And it wasn’t just after she’d all but thrown caution to the wind by postponing their impending conversation the second they’d gotten home from her appointment with Helen, either. Sometime after they had split a pint of ice cream (Rocky Road, the only flavor they could agree on) in bed as they toyed with potential names for the baby, they had somehow ended up locked in each other’s arms again, facing each other as he hooked her leg over his hip and whispered sweet nothings into her lips as he pushed deeply into her. She had felt it, then, too. And despite being all but wrapped up in each other in the last four weeks, it was like she couldn’t get close enough to him.

The feeling is novel to her, and it’s something she hasn’t felt for any other man or lover that’s ever come into her life before, so it both scares and excites her. She’s spent her life being careful and calculated in all aspects, and she’s always been on her guard for the rest of the world. But not with Steve. With him, she doesn't put up any walls. He has proven with his every word and action that she does not need to. And for the first time in her life, the idea of giving all of herself to someone does not make her stomach twist in fear. Another sigh escapes her lips as she looks up at the pristine white of his ceiling. She knows that they can no longer afford to skirt around the topic of them, and quite frankly, she does not want to delay it any longer. Months ago, when they had first gotten into their contract, it was clear to both of them what they wanted out of each other, and they had both been okay with that. But in the last month, as they both navigated through the fear of losing their child, she feels the radical shift they’ve taken into a different territory. She would very much like it if he would be in their child’s life and hers, and she only hopes he feels the same way.  

She sits up in bed, swinging her legs over the side as she stands and grabs her robe from where it’s draped on one of the bedposts. Despite her protestations about Steve cutting her sleep short, she knows that they’re empty. Watching him move about in the kitchen has become one of her favorite sights in the last month, and she wouldn’t want to miss the smell of waffles wafting into the air as he pours the batter into the griddle this time. Cooking is so mindless for him, and it never ceases to amaze her just how adept he is in the kitchen as he goes about whipping up incredible dishes without needing to glance at a recipe book. She’s grown incredibly fond of perching on his kitchen island, watching as he adds a pinch of something into the pot every now and then as he adjusts the flavor profile on his latest creation. They’ve had some of their best conversations as he makes dinner after a long day at work, and while she claims that the kisses she tries to sneak from him between each stir of the ladle in the pot is only so she can get her wine fix, she knows that deep down, it’s just an excuse to have him close to her.  

What the hell has gotten into you, Romanoff. She admonishes herself for daydreaming like a schoolgirl with a crush, but it’s half-hearted as she ties the sash on her robe and moves towards the door. She can smell the beginnings of something delicious as she walks down the length of the hall leading to the living room, but she’s surprised when she sneaks a glance to her left to find the kitchen empty with various ingredients spread out across the counters. “Steve?” she calls out. Her eyebrows furrow when she does not get a response, and she assumes that he might have stepped out to get a missing ingredient or two. She makes her way over to the foyer in search of a sign that he did indeed leave when she catches sight of him standing by the door, his broad frame blocking her view of whatever or whoever it is that’s on the other side. She’s about to make her way back to the kitchen to give him some privacy when she hears an unfamiliar voice say, “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to sell the house.”

A feeling of uneasiness runs through her, making her stomach twist, and she can’t stop the question from spilling out of her mouth. “You sold the house?”

Steve turns at the sound of her voice, his eyes wide with surprise when he finds her standing a few feet away. She imagines her own are too, but she quickly blinks her shock away. “Nat-”

Whatever it is he’s about to say is cut off by the woman in front of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company,” she tells him before turning to her. The smile on her face is warm as she introduces herself. “Hi, I’m Sharon.”

She does not know what compels her to walk towards the door, but before she can give it much thought, she’s already made it next to Steve. “Natasha,” she says, extending her hand to Sharon, and she does not miss the way the woman’s eyes drift to the material of her robe. If she’s drawn any conclusions from her attire and Steve’s, she gives nothing away.

“I’m sorry,” Sharon says. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your morning. I’m an old friend of Steve’s.”

“Oh, no,” she says. “I’m just a friend stopping by for the weekend.” Next to her, she feels Steve’s arm that’s brushing up against her own tense at her lie. Her voice grows quiet as she adds, “I’m the one that didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You weren’t,” Steve says sharply, finally finding his voice. “Natasha-”

“I’ll let you two get back to your conversation,” she tells him, hoping that the smile on her face does not give away the effort she’s exerting to remain collected before she looks at Sharon. “It was nice meeting you.”

Sharon smiles. “Likewise.”

As she turns, she hears Steve call out to her faintly, but she keeps walking in the direction of the hallway. Despite the calm façade she was able to keep just moments ago, her heart is pounding in her chest, and she finds herself bolting for the bathroom when the feeling at the pit of her stomach becomes too much to bear. She lets the water run and she steels herself at the sink, her fingers curling around the cool, white enamel. Her ears are ringing, and she takes a few deep breaths before stepping back out. Her eyes scan the bedroom. She’s not entirely certain of what she wants to do, but out of instinct, she begins to pick up the clothes she was wearing last night, hastily putting them on. She reaches for her oversized purse in the corner before walking into the closet, her hands reaching for the knobs on the bureau where some of her clothes are. She’s in the process of shoving what she can into her bag when she hears Steve’s distraught voice. “What are you doing?”

Her head turns in the direction of the walk-in closet’s door to see him standing by the doorway, his eyes wide once again as he takes in her change of clothes and the bag in her hand. “Darcy called,” she says quickly, keeping her eyes on the ground as she moves to the corner to slip on her shoes. “I’m needed at the Daily for an emergency edit.”

“On a Sunday?” he asks skeptically. “What’re- What… Darcy wouldn’t-”

“It’s for print tomorrow morning.” She moves past him, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she walks back into the room. She can feel him hovering behind her as her eyes search for her phone and wallet, but she does not dare look back. She spots the items by the bedside table and walks over to plunk them in her purse before making a beeline for the door.

“Natasha, please,” she hears him say close behind her. “I know what that looked like-”  

“I’ll come back for the rest of my things,” she cuts in, turning back his way. She’d underestimated how close he’d actually been behind her, and she’s forced to take a step back to put some reasonable distance between them.

“Your things?” He spits the words out and it sounds like they left a bitter taste in his mouth, but she does not stay long enough to see if his expression confirms it as she begins to walk down the hall. He overtakes her though, walking around her in larger strides until he’s blocking her way. “What do you mean you’ll come back for your things?”

“The baby’s fine now,” she says in the steadiest voice she can gather, her eyes trained on the front door to avoid looking into his own. “I don’t have a reason to be here anymore.” She tries to sidestep him, but his reflexes are faster. “Steve.”

“Please, Nat, just give me a second,” he pleads, but his words slip right by her. She can’t bring herself to listen right now, not when the air suddenly feels too thick around her. She tries to get past him one more time, and he reaches for her arms to touch her. The moment his hands make contact, she flinches, and he retracts his hands back like she’s burned him. He gasps. “Natasha.”

She stands there frozen in shock. She hadn’t expected to flinch, not at his touch, and she knows that if she does not get distance between them now, she might break. “Please,” she whispers.  

He steps aside silently, and she swallows the lump in her throat as she begins to walk towards his front door. She has a hand on the knob when she hears his voice, soft and pained, causing her to stop. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Her eyes close at his words. The hurt in his voice tugs at her heartstrings, but she knows that if she turns around, she’ll be done for. And she can’t stay. She can’t. She keeps her back to him. “I can’t,” she says, feeling her voice break, and with the last of her restraint, she turns the knob and walks away.  

The streets of Manhattan blur by her cab’s window as she sits in the back, staring off into the distance as she tries to make sense of the mess that is her thoughts. This morning, she had woken up certain of how she felt, certain of the direction her relationship with Steve was taking. And now, only moments later, she’s left wondering how she read the cards all wrong. Her mind can’t escape the memories of the night at his apartment after the baseball game and the sentiment he expressed over Sharon wanting to buy the house back from him as they lay in his bed. She can almost recite the words verbatim: But I suppose I do still mourn the loss of the life I envisioned. You spend so much of your life picturing it exactly the way you want it, only for it to be pulled from underneath you. And I guess that’s what selling the house back to Sharon feels like. Like I’m never going to have it.

It’s stupid, she knows, how hurt she is that he’s sold the house back to his ex-fiancée. It’s his property to do with as he pleases, and it’s not even a place she’s been to or seen, much less envisioned living in herself, but she also knows what it means to him. To Steve, that house is not just an edifice to come home to at the end of the day; it’s his dream home – a representation of the life he’s always wanted for himself, the life where he’s a father and a husband living out his happily ever after. And now that he’s given up on that dream, she’s not quite sure where she and their child stand.

She shakes her head. He loves their child, and she admonishes herself for even thinking otherwise. Even now as she sits in the back of the cab with her heart heavy in her chest, she still does not doubt that. She saw it in the worry in his face as he carried her up those stairs after she had taken that dreadful fall, witnessed it in the way the breath got caught in his throat the first time he heard the heartbeat in the trauma room, felt it in the way he had taken such good care of her in the last month, and affirmed it with every tender touch to the bump on her stomach.

Clarity suddenly washes over her. The pain in her chest has nothing to do with questioning his love for their child. It’s that somehow, in the time they’d spent fearing for their child’s life, and falling into some sort of domestic bliss, she had wrongfully thought that that love entailed feelings for her as well. But there wasn’t room for her in his picture, that much was clear from the start when he had laid the terms down in her office, and she was a fool for thinking that just because she was carrying a life he’s grown to love, that he would somehow change his mind.

The cab comes to a halt and she gets out, forcing her heavy legs to go up the steps she’s come to know so well. She rings the doorbell, and as it opens, she watches as Pepper’s face turns into one of absolute worry. “Natasha,” Pepper says, not even waiting for her to say anything as she envelopes her in her arms.

“You were right,” she says, wrapping her arms tightly around her best friend. “Contracts don’t cover everything.” The least of all, my heart. 

A groan escapes her as she watches her five o’clock warning pop up on her computer screen. Despite being off bed rest for the past two weeks, Pepper’s been hell bent on keeping her working hours to a minimum of eight every day, and the woman has gotten crafty at it by asking the IT department to lock her out of the system five minutes after the clock strikes five in the afternoon. To say that this irritates her would be an understatement. She’s always been one to burn the midnight oil, and she knows Pepper gets this, even does this more than she does sometimes, but she does not have the heart to be angry when her best friend throws her the I’m-worried-about-my-best-friend-and-godchild excuse. She argues, though, that had it been any other employee the rules wouldn’t be so stringent, but Pepper is quick to point out that there’s a reason the Daily is renowned in the corporate world for taking excellent care of their employees.

She lets out a sigh. More so than her hours being limited as of late, she’s really more annoyed by the fact that her curfew is now forcing her to do the one thing she’s been avoiding all day: talk to Steve. Despite her hasty escape from his apartment yesterday, avoiding him has been relatively easy today. With the Daily planning their anniversary issue that’s coming up in a few weeks, everyone at the office – the both of them included – has been swamped with work. Even if he did want to make the trek across the office floor, she knows that this is the one time during the year that the layout department is particularly busy as the entire paper gets a revamped look. But she knows she can’t hide forever, so she goes about shutting down for the day.

The weight of her purse feels cumbersome as she hooks the strap over her shoulder and locks the door to her office. In the late afternoon of the end of February, the expanse of the Daily is already bathing in the orange light coming through all the windows as the sun begins to set. She waves a goodbye to Darcy, who in return gives her a two-fingered salute, and as she makes her way across the floor, a few familiar faces smile at her and she tries her hardest to give them the best one she can muster in return. She’s crossed this very same path to Steve’s office countless times before, can practically do so with her eyes closed, but this is the first time her chest seems to tighten with every step she takes.

His door comes to view and that only causes her heart to pound faster, the sound filling her ears. It’s wide open, the way it always is when he’s inside, and she decides to offer herself a moment of reprieve by stopping to lean against the frame as she peaks inside to see him lost in whatever it is that’s on his computer, the mouse in his hand moving furiously against the sleek surface of his desk as he drags and drops items on the screen. He’s distracted enough that he does not even notice her standing there, and for a moment, she allows herself to just watch him. He’s wearing his favorite dark blue sweater – the same one she’s slept in time and time again because of how soft it is – but even through the thick material, his muscles look taut and his shoulders seem coiled with tension. Her eyes land on his face, zeroing in on the lines on his forehead that are accentuated by how his eyebrows are knitted together, the way they always are when he’s concentrating on something. She wants nothing more than to reach over to smooth the lines over, to run the back of her fingers through the soft hair of his beard and feel him relax into her touch, but she shakes off the thought. Get it together, she tells herself, and with a deep breath, she gently taps her knuckles against his door.

At the sound, his blue eyes flicker from his screen to where she stands. “Natasha,” he breathes out, his posture visibly relaxing as he catches sight of her. Her stomach flutters as he mentions her name, and inwardly, she scolds herself for feeling this way.

“Hi,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat before adding, “can we talk?” The irony does not escape her that this – them standing at the doorway of each other’s offices asking to talk – is something that they’ve done before. Only this time, the roles are reversed.

“Please,” he says quickly, rising from his seat. She walks further into his office while he walks the short distance to the door to push it closed before clicking the lock.

“I just have a few things to say,” she begins, her tone sounding rehearsed as she turns towards him. He’s standing by the door while she shifts on her feet by the center of his office, and while there’s only really a few feet between them, the distance seems farther than it actually is. “There’s a chance I could be wrong about this,” she begins, “I have been about a lot of things lately, but I really don’t think I am about this one.” His eyebrows furrow at the ambiguity of her words, so she goes on with a sigh. “I know you love this baby.”

“Of course I do,” he says without so much as a second thought, and while his words are exactly what she needs to hear at this moment, they also feel like a dagger straight to her heart. “That’s what I’ve been meaning to-”

It is probably the pained expression on her face that she cannot hide that causes him to pause mid sentence, and she makes herself continue. “I never met my father,” she whispers, her words catching his attention as she looks up to meet his gaze. “Melinda never talked about him much, and I suppose for good reason, so I’ve always had to wonder.” She shrugs. “His demons aside, was he a good man? Could he have loved me?”

His head cocks to the side, his eyes filling with what she thinks might be worry, but she does not know for certain, does not trust her perception of what he’s feeling any longer. “Natasha, what are you-”

“I have something for you,” she says, reaching into her purse to pull out a legal sized envelope. She hands it to him, and wordlessly, he steps closer to take it from her outstretched hand. Her head turns to the side as he works to pull the tab open, her eyes landing on the pictures he has on his walls as her own words bring her back yet again to that day in her office when he had uttered the same things to her as he offered her the envelope with the sketch he had made, and she finds herself yearning to go back to that day. She looks back at him, watching as he scans the document with confusion etched on his face.

Something catches his attention, making his fingers tense around the papers, and she feels her gut drop when he looks back up at her, his eyes wide and his voice harsh as he speaks. “Joint custody?”

She swallows, her throat dry. “I’ll have my lawyer declare our original contract null and void if you decide to sign that one,” she explains, straightening her stance. “It’s just a basic agreement. We can flesh out the custody and visitation schedules-”

“Custody and visitation schedules?” he repeats.

“It’s for the best,” she says with an attempt at a reassuring smile. She steps closer to him, her hand coming up to cup his face. His shoulders slump as he stands rooted in place, and when he looks down at her, the intensity in his eyes nearly causes her knees to buckle as her own eyes start to sting with imminent tears. She keeps them at bay, though; she won’t let them fall – not here, and definitely not now. “I don’t ever want our child to have to wonder about what their father is like,” she says, her voice is unsteady as her thumb runs across the apple of his cheek, “because you’re too good of a man for them not to know.” She raises her other hand to his face, savoring the feeling of having him this close, of being able to touch him like this before she adds, “and they deserve to know what it’s like to be loved by you.” She rises on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Steve.”

His head shakes in her hands. “Natasha…”

Although it takes all her strength, she lets go of him, her fingers curling into her palm as she retracts her hands away. She’s allowed herself to indulge far too long, so she makes her way out of his office without so much as a second glance at him. The floor has emptied as she makes it out, and for that she’s glad. Beneath her, her legs feel like lead as she walks towards the elevator, her strides small as a piece of her hopes – prays – that he’ll come running after her. But as she looks back over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the empty hall behind her, her heart constricts with the confirmation that she had made the right decision. She makes her way into the awaiting elevator, and as the doors close in front of her, she leans back to rest her head against the wall. A sigh escapes her lips, and the tears threaten to fall once again. Not here, she wills herself. Not here.

It’s already dark as she steps out of the Daily’s building, and while conventional wisdom tells her that she should go back to her place, she knows she’s not ready to be home alone just yet. She considers her options. She could easily run to Pepper’s, and while she loves the woman to death, the thought does not appeal to her the same way it did yesterday. The same goes for calling Melinda. She tries to think of all the other things she does when she finds herself at a crossroads and in need of clarity. She pours herself a drink, she loses herself in the gym, she throws herself into her work, and, before she can stop herself, the thought comes – she runs to Steve. She inhales a sharp breath at that, the idea almost singeing her as she realizes that perhaps out of everything on her list, that’s the one thing she’ll no longer be able to do. She sighs, and despite the biting wind blowing past her as she stands on the curb, she finds herself raising her hand to hail a cab. A driver stops in front of her moments later, and as he lowers his window to ask her where to, she says the first place that comes to mind.

“Central Park.”

She tucks her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat as she walks down the side of the Great Lawn. The usually lush greenery of the field is entirely covered in this morning’s snow, but it’s nonetheless still a calming sight to her. She makes it further down the pebbled sidewalk until she makes it to a bench, and after pushing out the white flakes that have accumulated on the metal to the ground, she decides to take a seat. She stares out into the field, the streetlamps around the perimeter only making the blanket of snow covering the various baseball diamonds where children and adults alike typically play look brighter under their harsh lights. Her attention falls to the Hamilton monument to her left, and then to the view of Belvedere Castle straight ahead as it towers over the frozen waters of Turtle Pond, and despite having been here more times then she can count, something about this exact view feels eerily familiar.

It hits her, suddenly, and a humorless chuckle escapes her lips as she realizes why that is. She’s sitting on the exact same bench she was on the day she had decided she wanted to become a mom. On instinct, her hand comes down to cup her already noticeable bump, a smile crossing her face and joy filling her bones as she holds the evidence of her wish soon coming true in her very hand. Excitement courses through her, thinking about how this time next year, she could possibly be taking her own child to feel the snow against their little hands. But her happiness fleets, fading as fast as it comes, and it angers her that she feels this way. As she sat on this same bench that day, she was absolutely certain that she wanted to become a mother. She still is, and there’s not a thing in this world that could change that, that could make her question the love she has for her child. She told herself then that she could do this on her own, and she knows she still can, so the pain in her heart feels incredibly misplaced now that Steve is in the picture.

She exhales deeply, her breath condensing in the icy air before her eyes. She has no right to feel this way. How could she, when the man who has been astonishingly generous enough to give her the best gift she could ever be given without asking anything in return, is now willing to be a father to the child he helped create? How dare her heart feel like it’s about to burst with sorrow in her chest, when he’s done nothing but care for their child? How dare she feel like she’s lost someone that was never even hers to begin with, when she’s gotten more than she’s asked for? There wasn’t a speck of embellishment in the words she had told him. He is too good of a man for their child not to know him, and she couldn’t have chosen a better father for their child if she tried. She knows what it’s like to have to speculate about whether or not her father had loved her, and that’s not something she wants her child to ever have to ponder. Not when their father is Steve Rogers, a man whose love is nothing but pure and kind and unconditional, the type of love every child deserves to know.

She just wishes she could experience his love, too.

But then his words ring loud and clear in her head: I know you’re not interested in love. I’m not either. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll ever get to a point where I’d be again.

Her eyes fall shut at the memory, a gasp slipping through her lips. And finally, she lets the tears fall free.  

Her fingers are pressing down furiously as she types a few edits on an article for tomorrow’s print when she hears a tap on her door. She looks up, her hands pausing above the keys, to see Darcy standing there with an eyebrow raised. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the meeting in five minutes?”

Her eyes fall to the time on the top right corner of her screen. “Shit,” she mutters, realizing that she had gotten carried away and that she does indeed only have five minutes to get to the conference room on the other side of the floor. She quickly saves the edits she made on her document before standing and walking around her desk. As she approaches the door, Darcy holds out her tablet and a travel mug with tea. “Thanks,” she says, grateful that her assistant is forever sharp and efficient.

“Go,” Darcy says, a smile on her face even as her hands shoo her forward. “Don’t want to keep the other Boss Lady waiting on her first day back.”   

She mumbles her agreement as she walks in the direction of the conference room with quick steps. The room comes to view as she makes it to the other wing of the floor, and through the glass windows, she can see that people are already waiting. She sighs. Her reason for wanting to be one of the first people to get to a meeting is twofold: first, she wants to make sure she does not have to sit next to Sitwell, obviously, but also because she tries to avoid sitting next to Thor, who, while sweet, gets pastry crumbs everywhere. Her hand pushes on the handle of the glass door as she enters the room, her eyes roaming the perimeter of the sleek rectangular table, and she’s relieved when she sees that the chairs next to both Sitwell and Thor are already occupied. She searches for a vacant one, but as her eyes land on one next to Strange, her heart all but drops when she sees who’s sitting on the other side. Given how popular the gallery has become, she’s surprised to see Steve sitting there, his attention directed at the tablet in his hands. He and Tony have been going from one interview to another as the world becomes more intrigued about the mastermind behind Manhattan’s latest artistic hot spot, so she’s barely seen him around the office. She sighs yet again, straightening her shoulders as she makes her way over to the seat.  

Strange looks up just as she approaches, and a smile spreads across his face when he sees her. “Good morning,” he says, pushing his chair forward to make room for her to pass behind him.

She nods at him as she passes. “Stephen, hello.” The sound of her voice causes Steve to look up, and she turns to him as she places her own tablet and tea down on the table. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He gives her a single nod before reverting his attention back to his tablet.

She tries to ignore the way his quick greeting unsettles her as she takes her seat, but as soon as she adjusts the chair close enough to the table, the clean, crisp, and completely Steve scent of his cologne fills her senses after so long, and her resolve to be an adult about this whole seating situation nearly dissolves. Luckily for her, though, she hears Jane’s voice calling out to her from across the table. “Do you know if you’re having a boy or girl?”  

Everyone on her side of the table turns their attention towards her at Jane’s question, and from the corner of her eye, she sees Steve’s head turn up as well, his eyes suddenly on her. “Not yet,” she tells Jane, and she catches the subtle change in Steve’s posture, though she does not dare turn towards him. “Probably in the next three weeks.” Next to Jane, she sees Thor mumble something before Jane elbows him with a hiss, and she raises an eyebrow at them. “There’s a pool going on for the gender, isn’t there?”   

Thor and Jane’s expressions turn sheepish, and to her right, Hill lets out a scoff. “Are you really surprised?”

“Not even a little bit,” she quips as she sits back in her seat. Despite the smile on her face, inside, she’s fighting her annoyance at the fact that Steve would think that she would really keep something as monumental as finding out the gender of their child from him. They might not be in the best of terms right now, but at the very least she thought that it was clear that all avenues are open when it came to their child. She does not have much time to seethe, though, as the door opens once again as Pepper walks in, looking very much the powerful CEO that she is in a gray blouse and black pencil skirt, and a chorus of welcome backs fill the room.

“Thank you, everyone,” she hears Pepper say as she reaches the other end of the table. “It’s good to be back.” She watches as Pepper points towards the projector screen behind her that’s currently showing the design for the front page of the upcoming anniversary issue of the Daily before she asks, “shall we begin?”

As far as meetings go, she has to admit that this is about as productive as they get – but that’s usually the case when her best friend is running the show. The heads of each section all commit to extra articles for the special issue, and as soon as Pepper announces that the meeting is adjourned, she all but bolts out of her seat and out of the conference room.

She’s just gotten her computer to start back up when she hears Pepper’s voice fill her office. “You know,” Pepper says, closing the door behind her before making her way over to one of the seats in front of her desk, “I know it’s been months since I led a meeting, but I don’t think I did that badly to warrant you running out of there like you were being chased by a hyena.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on the document she’s opened back up on her screen.

“Nat.”

She turns to see Pepper’s eyebrow raised at her knowingly. She sighs. “It’s not you.” She shakes her head. “It’s just… we can barely greet each other anymore, okay?” Her head falls to her hands as she adds, “and his cologne is driving me a little crazier than usual.”

She looks up just in time to see the corners of Pepper’s mouth twitch at her comment, but then her expression softens as she lets out a sigh. “Nat, what are you doing?” She begins to protest, but the sharp look on Pepper’s tells her to let her continue. “You two are obviously miserable apart. And I know what you said about the house, but are you sure this is what he really wants?”

She reaches for the handle on the drawer of her desk, pulling out a set of papers before handing it to Pepper. “Does this look like this isn’t what he wants?”

Pepper’s forehead creases as her eyes scan the document in her hands. “You gave him a custody agreement?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes, I did,” she says, suddenly defensive. “And he didn’t even think twice about signing it.” She wonders briefly if Pepper can sense the slight pain that’s dripped into her voice, and one look at her best friend and her resigned expression tells her that she has. Her voice grows low. “I found that on my desk the morning after I went to get my things.”

Pepper shakes her head. “Natasha-”

“He’s always been honest,” she whispers as she looks up at her. “Right from the start, he said that he locked up that part of him for good. I’m the one that decided to jump in despite the warning.” She shrugs. “Trust me, this is for the best.” She brings a hand down to her stomach before adding, “for everyone.”

Across from her, Pepper sighs before rising and walking towards the back of her desk where she perches on the arm of her chair. She feels Pepper dust a kiss to her hair before wrapping an arm around her and resting her cheek on top of her head. “I love you, you know that?” Pepper asks, covering the hand she has on her stomach with her own. “Both of you.”

She lets out a long sigh before nodding. “We love you, too.”

“This year, the featured article for International will center on the energy harnessing initiative taking place in the nation of Wakanda,” she says as she addresses her colleagues from behind the podium of the Daily’s media room. While she’s not particularly fond of talking about her section’s content before it’s been published, every year, Pepper likes to gather everyone before the release of the highly anticipated anniversary issue with the purpose of encouraging them to provide each other with feedback on the wow factor of their featured articles. And while this may seem like a typical brainstorming exercise, at the Daily, where some of the best journalists in the industry work, it’s turned into an outright competition amongst the sections – the editors in particular. Jane had gone before her, garnering great applause as she presented her plans to feature NASA’s new initiative, so all the more her competitive side is itching to blow them out of the water with the subject she’s selected to highlight. She presses the clicker in her hand to move to the next slide of her presentation, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop the smile from spreading across her face at the sound of astonishment that the picture behind her elicits from the crowd. Before her, she sees a hand go up in question. “Yes,” she says, pointing to one writer seated a few rows back.

“Yeah, hi,” the man says, shifting in his seat. The expression on his face is one of genuine curiosity, and she notes how kind his eyes look. “I’m Scott Lang, I cover the engineering articles for the Science section.” He points to the photo behind her, his expression confused. “What’s… what even… what are those?”

“The blue orbs inside the pods are a metal called Vibranium,” she explains, circling the glowing areas scattered across the image behind her with the pointer on her clicker. From where he’s seated, Scott’s eyebrows scrunch at the unfamiliar word. “It’s local to Wakanda, and the country is abundant in it. For years, their government has been trying to safely harness the Vibranium from their mountains, as they believe it can be used as a continuous energy source. This year-” She pauses, the feeling of a sudden twitch in her gut throwing her off for a split second, but the sensation ebbs as quickly as it comes, and she powers through. “This year, the president’s daughter, who also happens to be the newly appointed head of their STEM department, has finally figured out how.”   

Someone from the back immediately shoots her a follow up, and she has to squint her eyes to see a woman asking the question. “They’ve just recently opened up their country to the world. Are they willing to share this discovery with other nations?”

“President T’Chaka is definitely-” Her words are halted by a small gasp slipping from her lips as the feeling returns, though this time a lot more noticeably. She catches the concerned look Pepper and Darcy send her way from their seats in the front row. “Pardon me,” she says, turning away from the mic as she clears her throat. She swallows, willing her gut to settle, before she addresses the writer and the crowd once again. “President T’Chaka is definitely open to sharing the energy source, starting with third-world and developing nations, but first he’d like to get their nation safely running on it.” She sees a few more hands rise in question, and she puts on the most composed smile she can. “I’m appreciative of all your interest, but I’m going to choose to end the questions here. You will have complete access to the article the week before it’s published, and I’m certain that all your questions will be answered then. Again, thank you.”  

Applause fills the room as she makes her way off stage. Carefully, she walks towards the exit of the media room, smiling at a few colleagues offering her a look of approval at her presentation. She recognizes the sound of Thor’s deep and thunderous voice over the speakers as he begins his presentation, but she does not look back as she pushes on the doors and swiftly walks out. Despite working in this building for years, she realizes that she’s not extremely familiar with this floor as she goes further down the hall in search of an empty space. She passes a breakroom on her left, and when she finds it deserted, decides it’s as good a place as any to catch her breath. She walks in, her hand landing on the back of a chair as she closes her eyes and lets out a sigh. But as soon as she does, she hears a worried voice behind her.

“What’s wrong?”

Her pulse quickens at the sound, and she does not have to turn around to know who it is. “I thought you were in LA.”

“I was.” She hears the sound of footsteps coming towards her, and when she looks up, she finds Steve standing in front of her. “Got back just in time to catch your presentation,” he says, his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you dizzy?”   

“No,” she says quietly. “I’m fine.”

“Natasha,” he says tiredly, and for the first time, she notices how exasperated he looks. He’s not wearing his usual office attire, so she surmises that he must have just come from the airport. “Look, I know I’m the last person you want to be around right now-”  

“What?” she asks surprised. “No-”    

“You can barely sit next to me at a meeting,” he challenges quietly.

“That’s not-” She begins to argue, but then she feels a strong flutter in her abdomen that effectively cuts off her words and causes another gasp to escape her mouth. Her grip on the back of the chair tightens, and she watches as Steve pulls out the chair suddenly, maneuvering her into it.   

“Jesus, Nat.” He sighs as he runs a hand through his hair and begins to pace. “I know that we’re not in a good place right now, but could you at least tell me if…”

She lets a hand fall to her belly just over the spot she felt the flutter as he continues to speak, and for a moment, the sound of his voice is drowned out when she feels a light poke against her hand. Her eyes widen. “Steve,” she says in surprise, and he pauses to look down at her in worry. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” Both his tone and his expression show that he thinks she’s being absurd at the moment, and he lets another sigh escape him. “Nat, I’m serious. I am worried sick about you and if you have to go to the hospital you need to-”  

“Steve,” she repeats, though this time a little more loudly than she’d intended. His rambling halts at the firmness in her voice, and the look of complete and utter distress on his face makes her feel a tad guilty. This time, she keeps her voice soft. “Give me your hand.”

He walks towards her, his posture sagging in defeat as he crouches down next to her chair and offers her his hand. She takes his hand in hers, and it doesn’t escape her that this is the first time she’s felt his skin against hers in weeks, but she pushes the thought aside as she places his hand against the right side of her belly. “What-”

“Shh,” she says, applying a little pressure over his hand with her own.

“Is this safe?” She watches as his lips part with what is likely a continuation to his own question, but then his eyes suddenly widen, and she knows that he felt the faint kick against his hand. He looks at her, and the expression on his face is a cross between uncertainty and absolute awe. “Is that…” he begins, and she nods, a smile creeping onto her lips as she looks at him. “How… how long?”    

“I’ve been feeling… little flutters?” she says, like she’s testing the word to see if it fits. “It felt like I was getting butterflies from time to time for the past two weeks. This is the first time it’s been forceful enough for me to realize it’s actually a kick.” His eyes drift to their hands that are still joined on top of her belly, and the smile playing on his lips makes her chest feel the lightest it’s been in weeks. “Just trying to show off for Dad, I guess.”

His head shoots up at that. “Natasha,” he breathes, and the amalgam of emotions in his eyes cause the breath in her own throat to get caught. She realizes, then, that while she’s referred to the baby as their child before, this is the first time she’s referred to him as its Dad. Their eyes stay locked for a moment, their stare brimming with all the words that should be said, but before any of those can spill out, she feels another jab against her belly, and the smile on his face as he looks down at their hands tells her that he felt it, too.  

He moves their hands away from her stomach, and she watches as he leans his face down to press a kiss to the spot where their hands had just been. “Hi, baby,” he whispers. The sweetness of the gesture both brings a little smile to her face and makes her chest constrict all at once, but she does not dare move. He looks back up at her, and before she can catch herself, she’s reaching over to push a strand of his hair that’s fallen to his forehead back with her fingers. She wants him to have this even if a large part of her feels an awful lot like she’s intruding on a private moment. But she swallows that down, opting instead to selfishly insert herself into this, to let herself have this moment as well.

She huffs in annoyance as her fingers miss the bear-shaped bottle of honey on the top shelf, and she rises on the tips of her toes in an attempt to get a better reach, but even so, her hand does not reach far enough to grab a hold of it. She leans forward in an attempt to give herself a few more inches, but then her protruding stomach renders her attempt futile as it presses against the counter of the Daily’s common room. “Great, another thing I can no longer do,” she says to herself before letting out a frustrated groan. As she does, she finds herself surrounded by the smell of Steve’s cologne seconds before his hand comes up from behind her, reaching the bottle with ease and offering it to her. She takes the bottle, and when she turns around, she finds him standing with a slightly amused expression on his face. “Thanks.”  

“No problem,” she hears him say as she makes her way over to where she left her tea by one of the tables. “Darcy out?” he asks.

She looks back over her shoulder as she squeezes a few drops of honey into her drink to see him with his back to her as he inserts a pod into the coffee machine. “Yeah,” she says, mixing her beverage with a wooden stirrer. “Finally convinced her to take a few days off. How’d you know?”

He turns to her with his mug now in his hand. “Convinced or coerced?” he tries to clarify, but she just rolls her eyes as she lifts her own mug to her. “And I know because she would never let you walk this far across the floor, much less allow you to press your stomach against the counter like that.”

“You’re going to be sorry if Boss Baby comes out with a conehead,” they both say in unison in their best attempt to mimic Darcy’s tone. She smirks at that, but then it’s quickly replaced by a scoff. “Ever since I came back, she’s been hovering. A lot. I love her, but I needed a breather if only for two days.”

“She’s worried,” he says with a shrug, and then his voice grows softer as he adds, “we all are.” She looks up at him just as he takes a sip of his coffee. “It also wouldn’t kill you to ask for help sometimes.”

Her immediate reaction is to spew a sarcastic remark about how she can take care of herself, but the sincere look in his eyes causes her to think twice about saying it. This is the first conversation they’ve had in weeks that’s not covered by a cloud of awkwardness, and she doesn’t want to throw that away. She sighs. “I do-”

“Well look who it is, the most tenacious journalist I have ever encountered.” She and Steve turn in the direction of the intrusion, and by the doorway, they find Pepper standing next to the owner of the silky voice. Dressed in a well-tailored charcoal suit, this gentleman must be why the phrase tall, dark, and handsome was invented. His presence alone exudes confidence and charisma, and the smile he sends her way is full of charm. “And that’s saying a lot, given my line of work.”

A smile spreads across her face. “T’Challa,” she says in surprise, walking into his open embrace. Once they pull away, she drops her hands to his upper arms like she’s still in disbelief that he’s actually here. “It’s been so long!”

“Too long,” T’Challa corrects. His eyes drift down to her noticeable bump. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

Her hand comes up to rest on top of her stomach out of habit. “Yeah-” Her words are cut off by Pepper not so subtly clearing her throat, and her eyes widen when she remembers Steve standing behind her. “Oh.” She turns to her side to see Steve, who has obviously been watching their exchange, standing behind her. His expression is difficult to read. “This is Steve,” she says, pointing to him. “He’s, uh… a friend of mine.”

The words leave a rancid taste in her mouth the second she says them, and guilt washes over her as she notices the way Steve’s jaw sets as he walks forward to offer T’Challa his hand. “Steve Rogers,” he says, and she watches as T’Challa extends his hand as well.   

“Steve is the layout director for the paper,” Pepper interjects. “And the mastermind behind the gallery we just opened nearly a month ago downtown. His eye for art is unparalleled.”  

“Ah, yes,” T’Challa says just as their exchange of hands end. “I’ve read great things about the gallery. I should drop by before I return home.” He gives Steve a single nod. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, though the smile on his lips does not reach his eyes. “Um… so how do you know Pepper and Natasha?”

“Miss Potts, Miss Romanoff, and I are old friends,” T’Challa answers with a coy smile. “I was once a rebellious young man who wanted to see the world, and the only way my parents would allow me to do so is if it was for educational purposes.” He gestures towards her and Pepper. “I was fortunate enough to have these two magnificent women as my neighbors during my first year at university. This one, though,” he says, pointing directly at her, “turned me into a beer pong champion in record time.”

Her eyes widen at his comment, and the look Steve sends her is a cross between surprise and intrigue. “That was years ago,” she tells Steve more than anyone else before glaring at T’Challa who tries desperately to hold in a laugh. “We’ve all changed since then.” She turns back to Steve. “T’Challa is my primary source for the article I’m publishing for the anniversary issue. He’s currently serving as a senator in Wakanda.”

“Wakanda,” Steve says, recognizing the country. He looks at T’Challa curiously. “Any relation to T’Chaka, the president?”

“That would be my father,” T’Challa says proudly, to which Steve nods.   

“So to what do we owe the pleasure, mister senator?” Pepper asks jokingly.

T’Challa shrugs as he looks at her and then at Pepper. “I’m just a man dropping by, looking to take a few old friends out for a meal.” His gaze turns to Steve, and the smile on his face is friendly. “You’re welcome to join us, of course.”

“Oh, no,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “Thank you, but I don’t want to intrude on your reunion. I have a mountain of work to get to.”

She turns back at him with a questioning look just as Pepper and T’Challa admonish him for being ridiculous. “Are you sure? We can be back in an hour. Come with us.”

“I’m sure,” he says, his refusal to come to lunch with them bothering her more than it should. But before she can try to convince him further, he’s already moving out of the room. “I’ll catch you later.” He smiles at Pepper before nodding at T’Challa. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You as well,” T’Challa replies, and as the door closes behind Steve, he appraises both her and Pepper. “Where to?”  

“Actually,” she hears Pepper says as she looks at her watch, “I have a lunch meeting for another sector of Stark Industries in twenty minutes.” Pepper winces. “I’m sorry.”

T’Challa waves off her apology. “I’m the one who dropped by unannounced. Another time, maybe?”

“How long are you staying?” Pepper asks. “I would love to have you over for dinner at my house.”

“I’ll be here for three days,” T’Challa says.

Next to her, Pepper smiles. “Fantastic.” She leans in to hug her. “I’ll drop by your office later,” she says before hugging T’Challa. “Tomorrow at seven?”

T’Challa nods, and the both of them wave as they watch Pepper leave. He turns to her. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Miss Romanoff.”

They settle for an Italian restaurant by Gramercy Park where they reminisce over their college days, and she finds herself admitting that she’s missed his company. While they’ve certainly spoken intermittently throughout the years (more so for content for her articles), this is the first time since they graduated college that they’ve been able to actually catch up. They venture briefly into the topic of her pregnancy, and she’s glad that he’s perceptive enough to sense that aside from revealing that she’s chosen to become a single mom, she’s not really up to discussing the rest. They talk about the legislation he’s helped pass to better the lives of Wakandan citizens, and his perspective on local and world affairs reminds her of the time she and Pepper had first met him during their freshman year of college. There seemed to be two types of people then: those that were terrified of life on their own, and those that were basking in their newfound freedom. T’Challa fit into neither. He came across as far wiser and more mature than people their age, and that effectively drew both, her and Pepper, to him. Their friendship was well-balanced that way – she and Pepper would indoctrinate him to the American college ways, and he would offer a different perspective when they craved good conversation.

“So, tell me,” she says once they’re halfway through their entrees. “Why are you really in New York?”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow at her over his wine glass. “It wounds me that you don’t believe that I’ve come to visit my friends.”  

“That’s certainly part of it,” she concedes, “but not the entire reason you’re here.” She twirls her fork in her pasta as she looks at him. “We’ve been talking for weeks about my article, and not once did you mention taking a trip. And given your stature in your country” - her eyes roam the restaurant where his handful of bodyguards sit scattered across various tables to emphasize her point - “I doubt that you can just jet set whenever you please.” She brings her fork to her mouth, but not before sending a challenging look his way.

“Have you ever considered a career in espionage?” he asks with a smirk. “But I really should know better than to hide something from a journalist.”

“You can certainly try,” she says with a shrug. “Or, you could just tell me the truth.”  

“I’m stepping down as senator,” he says after a brief pause. His words pique her interest, and she finds herself sitting straighter. “My father wants me to run for president in the next election, and while I love serving my country, that’s never really been my dream.” She cocks her head to the side, encouraging him to continue, and a smile crosses his features suddenly. “But also, there’s this woman.”

“Of course there is,” she says teasingly before she props an elbow on the table to rest her chin on a closed fist. “Tell me about her.”

“Her name is Nakia.” She watches as complete adoration fills his eyes as he shifts in his seat. “She’s unlike any other person I’ve ever met. She fearlessly pursues her dreams, and she’s unapologetically herself. She’s… otherworldly, if I may be so blunt.” He lets out a contented sigh. “And being with her… well, let’s just say it’s opened my eyes to a whole different world. And now that I’ve seen it, I can’t look away.” He shakes his head. “Sadly, though, she is based in London.”

“And you want to move there,” she prods, “to be with her.”

He nods. “I want to follow my dream, not my father’s,” he says firmly, and she finds that she admires his courage. She’s all for going after what you truly desire – she certainly has with becoming a mom. “But also, we really think we can help so many more people together. She travels the world constantly, witnesses so many injustices that don’t get written about, and thus, do not get the attention they need on the international stage.” He pushes his plate aside to give him space to clasp his hands together on the table as he leans in closer. “We want to change that. But as much as I try to convince my father to help us, he’s too concentrated on making sure I succeed him in office.”

“While that’s no doubt a wonderful plan, I’m confused as to how a trip to New York factors into all that,” she admits, taking a sip of water.

“Nakia and I want to start our own media company,” he says quickly. “One that focuses on reporting the issues that mainstream outlets will not.”

“Oh,” she says, his ideas suddenly clicking into place in her head. “Well, I’m sure that Pepper would love to offer her experience to help you get your company up and running. I, for one, am glad to consult from time to time if you ever need help with-”

“I didn’t come to New York to ask you to be a consultant,” he interrupts, his hand reaching across the table to cover her own. “I came here because I could use the most brilliant journalist I know,” he says blatantly. “Natasha, I want you to be our editor-in-chief.”

She’s just locked the door to her office when she hears a voice call out to her. “Oh, good, I was hoping I’d catch you in time.”

She turns around to find Pepper walking towards her. “I mean, I’d love to work past five, but someone won’t let me,” she tries to joke, but the stern look Pepper sends her way as she comes to stand in front of her tells her that she’s not about to budge. She nods towards the briefcase in Pepper’s hand instead. “Meeting run late?”

“You have no idea,” Pepper replies with a roll of her eyes. “Come, I’ll walk you to the elevator.” They’re halfway across the floor when Pepper asks her, “how was lunch with T’Challa?”  

“It was nice,” she tries to say impassively. “It was good catching up with him. We talked about life, and politics, and… how he wants to me to be his editor-in-chief.”

“What?” Pepper says loudly, grabbing a hold of her arm to stop her in her tracks.

“Shh,” she scolds, looking around to see if someone heard her best friend’s voice ring across the floor.

Pepper waves off the concerned look on her face. “It’s Friday,” she says, “people have either gone home or decided to skip and work from home.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “T’Challa asked you to be his what now?”

She lets out a deep sigh. “T’Challa wants to open a media company in London, and he came here to ask me if I’d be his editor-in-chief.”

“That little…” She watches as Pepper’s face twitches in anger, and she braces herself for the outbreak that’s about to come. For as calm and collected as Pepper Potts can be, there’s a reason people know not to mess with her. “Who does he think he is?” Pepper spits out, causing her to wince from where she stands. “What, he thinks he can just waltz into this place all suave and courtly and try to poach my best friend and the best journalist I have? Well, he’s wrong!”

“Pepper,” she says, trying to calm the woman down. “For God’s sake, calm down-”

Pepper looks at her firmly. “Are you considering it?”

“I…” She does not want to lie to her best friend, but at the same time, she’s not entirely sure about what she wants, either. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Pepper asks incredulously. “Is this about compensation? Because I will gladly-”

“What?” she says, and this time, she’s the one caught in disbelief. “Of course not. You know it’s not that.”

Pepper looks at her like she’s at a loss. “Then what is this about?”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Pepper, I haven’t made a decision, okay?”

“What decision is there to make?” Pepper exclaims, her hands coming out in front of her. “Natasha, you can’t move to London-”

“You’re moving to London?”

The sound of his voice causes her to stop breathing for a second. They turn, and she swallows hard when she sees Steve standing there with his coat on and the strap of his laptop bag dangling from his shoulder, his blue eyes locked on her.

Chapter Text

Steve sighs as he tries to finish the template he’s working on. While he’s been trying to concentrate on getting work done all day, he can’t seem to stop his mind from trying to process this morning’s developments. His interaction with Natasha in the breakroom had made him hopeful that all had not been lost. That, somehow, they could revert back to their playful banter and honest conversations instead of avoiding each other like they had been for the past few weeks. But then her old friend had showed up, interrupting their moment as the man all but swept her away. And while she had seemed sincere in her invitation for him to join them for lunch, a big part of him felt like he would be intruding. She had referred to him as a friend of hers, after all, and while she wasn’t exactly wrong, he’d be lying if he said that sat well with him and that it hasn’t been on his mind all day. He is her friend, first and foremost, but in many ways, that description felt insufficient.

He shakes his head, deciding to call it a day as he goes about shutting down his computer and putting away the papers strewn across his desk. He puts on his coat and grabs his laptop bag before exiting his office and locking the door behind him. It’s barely past five, but since it’s Friday, the floor has long emptied out that he can hear the thump of his own footsteps against the marble floor. He’s just turned the corner leading to the elevators when he hears someone speaking in a restrained manner, and he recognizes the voice as Pepper’s.

“What decision is there to make?” he hears her exclaim, and for a moment, he considers turning back to give her and whoever she’s talking to some privacy. But then her next words cause him to freeze. “Natasha, you can’t move to London-”

“You’re moving to London?” he blurts out, and any pretense of privacy that he was willing to put up all but disintegrates as the words tumble a little too quickly out of his mouth.

The sound of his voice causes both women to turn his way, and he watches as Natasha swallows when she catches sight of him, her eyes widening. “Steve,” she breathes.

“I… I forgot something in my office,” Pepper says suddenly. “I’ll catch you guys later.” She looks at Natasha, and then at him, but she keeps her eyes low even as he gives her a small nod in goodbye and she retreats back down the hall and in the direction of her office.

Silence lingers between the both of them, and it’s almost deafening with the way his pulse is already ringing in his ears, but he follows her anyway as she moves closer to the elevator. “Natasha,” he says when the silence becomes too much for him. She turns to face him. “What did Pepper mean by you can’t move to London?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “When… when did that even become a possibility?”

Natasha sighs. “T’Challa asked me to be the editor-in-chief of his company over lunch today,” she explains, turning away from him momentarily to press on the button for the elevator before she adds, “it’s a generous offer, but the job is in London-”

“And you’re going?” he asks, not even bothering with preamble.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. The elevator dings, and she walks inside.

“You don’t know?” he asks incredulously as he steps in as well and the panic rushing through his every nerve begins to bleed into his tone. “Natasha-”

“Look, Steve,” she says in an appeasing tone as the doors close and the elevator descends. He looks at her, and as he takes notice of the weariness in her posture, decides to let her finish. “I just got this offer. It’s hours old and I’ve barely had time to think about it.” She shrugs, almost in defeat. “I don’t even know if I’ll get to it tonight.” She shakes her head. “All I know is that this is an extraordinary offer, and while I wouldn’t have let this pass me by in the past, I know I can’t just dive into it head first.” He watches as her hand falls down to her stomach. “Because it’s not just me anymore,” she says more quietly now before looking back up at him. “Please, can we not talk about this tonight? It’s been a long day. I’m unreasonably exhausted, and all I really want is to go home and eat the leftover curry in my fridge that I’ve been thinking about ever since I left this morning.”

“Okay,” he says, and she visibly relaxes at that.

The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby, and she looks back at him as the doors begin to open. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Helen’s office?”

Her question brings a little smile to his face. While they had agreed to come to her doctor’s appointment together the last time, the events that have transpired since then and the cloud of awkwardness that’s followed has left him unsure if she still wanted him there. “I’ll be there,” he says.

The corner of her mouth turns up at that, and she gives him a small nod before walking out. He follows, and as he turns in the opposite direction, he hears her call out to him. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope this goes without saying,” she says softly, and he watches as her fingers fidget against the strap of her purse. “But you’ll be the first to know when I’ve made a decision.”

For as shocked and as lost as he’s feeling right now, her words feel like an olive branch. Hope, he tells himself, and that somehow lightens the weight in his chest. He nods. “Thanks.”

“Your vitals are excellent,” Helen tells Natasha. “Blood pressure and glucose levels are all normal and your fundal height is within the range we want.”

Natasha’s forehead scrunches in confusion as she lies on the exam table. “Fundal height?”

“It’s the distance between your uterus and your pelvic bone,” he says from where he stands by her head. Her lips part slightly at his words, and she doesn’t even bother to hide the astonished look on her face as she looks at him. “The distance should correspond to the week of your pregnancy. Otherwise, it could be a sign of a growth impediment or gestational diabetes.”

Natasha nods amusedly, and he waits for the teasing remark he knows is on the tip of her tongue, but Helen speaks first. “Looks like Dad’s been doing his homework.”

“Apparently,” Natasha says, smirking at him. “Anything else you’d like to share?”

He rolls his eyes, and both Helen and Natasha laugh at him before the former asks, “are we interested in finding out the gender today?”

He hears Natasha say yes the same time he says no, causing them to look at each other. She raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were excited to find out?”

“I was,” he admits. “But I guess I’m just trying to embrace uncertainty?” He shrugs. “But, if you want to, then of course…”

“I don’t really mind either way,” she confesses. “It’s just…” She grimaces, and he looks at her questioningly. “Thor and everyone else are going to be insufferable if they don’t find out who won the bet.”

He sighs, shaking his head at their coworkers’ antics before looking at Helen. “That’s a yes, then.”

Helen smiles, directing Natasha to lift up her shirt as she goes about slicking her belly with gel after she wheels the ultrasound machine closer. She takes the wand in her hands, sliding it over Natasha’s stomach as the image comes to focus on the screen. “Here we are,” she says, keeping the wand still as she presses on the button on the machine’s panel. “The fetus is close to seven inches from head to toe, about the size of a banana.” She taps a finger against the screen where the baby’s feet are. “Looks like you have an active one on your hands.”

He looks at the monitor, and while Natasha had let him feel the baby kick after her presentation, a smile still spreads across his face as he witnesses the baby’s legs move in a paddling motion, like it’s stretching out. Natasha scoffs. “You don’t know the half of if.”

“Baby doesn’t respect sleep, I take it?” Helen asks as she moves the wand again. Natasha shakes her head no, and the doctor sighs. “Well, unfortunately, besides not wanting to sleep at night, this little one also seems unwilling to let anyone win a bet.” Helen looks at both him and Natasha apologetically. “The legs are too close together for me to determine the gender.”

He watches as Natasha shakes her head. “Of course they are.”

It’s silent as they ride the elevator up to her apartment with their hands filled with gift baskets. After her appointment, they had decided to share a cab, and when it stopped at her place, the doorman was quick to inform her that she had several packages. The sheer volume had made him uneasy, and he had argued that she shouldn’t be lifting and carrying big loads at the moment, and much to his surprise, she only sighed in defeat.

“What?” he says when he catches her stealing glances at him over the clear cellophane covering one of the baskets.

“You can smile now,” she says bitterly. “I know you got a kick out of this baby refusing to cooperate.”

Pride swells in his chest, though he’s not entirely certain why. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, rolling his lips to keep from smiling. She sends him a look that shows she doesn’t believe him, but he decides to change the subject. “Why are people sending you gift baskets in bulk?”

She sighs as the elevator reaches her floor and they step out. “I’ve slowly been directing my contacts and sources for articles to my other writers in preparation for when I go on leave,” she explains as she shifts one basket to one hand to rummage for her keys and open the door. “They used to send me booze as a congratulations, but apparently now I’m going to have to settle for onesies and teddy bears.” They walk in, and she points to where he can set the baskets down. “Some of them have food, though. Those are the best.”

He looks at her curiously. “What have you been eating?” he asks.

She shuffles on her feet, her eyes suddenly unable to look at his, and that piques his interest enough to walk towards her kitchen. “What’re you doing?” she asks in a panicked tone. “Steve!”

He ignores her as he walks over to her fridge to pull the doors open. His eyes scan the contents, and he frowns at the sight of all the takeout boxes. “Natasha,” he admonishes as he turns back to her. “You can’t possibly survive on takeout.”

“I have for the last thirteen years since moving out of Melinda’s, thank you very much.” He sends her a withering look, causing her to sigh. “I hate cooking, okay?” She shrugs. “But it’s not as if my meals have all been bad. Melinda was here and made a ton of food, but then that’s gone. And I went grocery shopping, but everything I bought is probably bad by now.”

He sighs as he begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. “Where are your pots and pans?”

“What?” she asks, her eyes widening as she watches him search through her cabinets. “No, Steve, you don’t have to-”

“Natasha, please,” he all but pleads. “I would sleep better at night knowing you’re eating something other than Pad Thai, Pierogies, and probably that weird spinach thing.”

“Spanakopita,” she corrects, “and that was supposed to be for tonight.” She bites her lip as he rolls his eyes at her. “Can I help at least?”

“You can help by making yourself comfortable in there,” he says, pointing to her living room. “I’ll let you know when the food’s ready.”

“Fine,” she says begrudgingly. “I’ll go see what’s in the gift baskets.”  

He turns back to her fridge the second she leaves the kitchen, inspecting the items she bought from the supermarket. He grabs the medley of vegetables in the chiller before pulling out a pack of chicken breasts from the freezer below as he decides on the spot to make a stir fry. As he chops the vegetables and waits for the chicken to thaw, he can’t escape the guilt rushing through him at the thought that this could have been avoided. He knows Natasha has an aversion to cooking, and he should have known that she wouldn’t be preparing herself home-cooked meals. He should have checked on her sooner, or at the very least, should have asked about her meals. But he had been so blind sided by the way their relationship had abruptly changed course, that he had chosen instead to avoid her. And while the rational part of him tells him that she’s a grown woman who’s survived just fine without him in her life, he still can’t help but feel like he’s somehow failed her. That, as he dwelled in his hurt these past weeks, he’s neglected her wellbeing and that of their child. Disappointment washes over him. He’s better than this, he knows, and he shouldn’t have let his pain trump his desire to check on the two people who have quickly become the most important in his life. He shakes the thought away before it consumes him, opting instead to focus on the task at hand.

Once he’s done, he walks out of the kitchen to find that while the contents of the gift baskets are strewn all over the coffee table in the living room, Natasha isn’t in the vicinity. He turns, and the open door at the end of the hall leading to her guestroom catches his attention, and he decides to pad over. Inside, he finds Natasha, lost in thought as she stares out the window. He walks further into the room, his eyes landing on the piles of baby items on the bed with colorful squares on top with Natasha’s handwriting. He surmises that this is her way of keeping track of who gave the baby what, and as he finds the onesie he had given her for Christmas, he can’t help but pick it up. He smiles as he reads the words on the bright yellow post-it: From Daddy.

“You and windows,” he says, putting the onesie back on the bed as she looks over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says, turning to him. “You’d think since I live here and see this every day, that I’d get tired of it. But I haven’t, and I don’t think I ever will.” She shrugs. “Sometimes it feels like I could never really leave this city.”

He nods at her in understanding. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, and as they both turn to walk out of the room, he catches himself hoping that her words stand true.

Come Monday, he watches from his seat as all eyes turn to Natasha as she enters the conference room and makes her way over to the vacant seat next to his. She sits down, and as she takes note of the expectant look on everyone’s faces, she sighs. “No one won,” she says exasperatedly. “Apparently this child only wants to share information on their own terms. Better luck next month.”

A chorus of whines fill the room, the loudest one coming from Thor, and as Natasha rolls her eyes at their coworkers, he has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

He watches the crowd of people before him filled with both familiar and new faces. Everyone is dressed in their finest formal attire as they mingle, drink, and dance joyously in celebration of the success of The Daily’s anniversary issue. This year’s edition had sold more copies than any printed issue the media house has ever produced, and tonight’s festivities are in honor of that. Tony and Pepper have gone all out, renting the Rainbow Room overlooking the Empire State Building and the rest of midtown Manhattan for the night. But, in spite of the festive and exuberant mood, he finds himself leaning against the bar as he nurses a crystal tumbler filled with what tastes like a very expensive scotch.

“If you glare any harder, your eyeballs are going to pop out.”

He looks to his side to see Tony standing next to him, looking sharp in a black pinstripe suit, but he ignores his friend’s snide remark as he brings his glass back up to his mouth to take a sip. “Don’t you have people you need to talk to?”

“Probably,” Tony admits, taking a sip from his own glass. “But Pepper prefers it when I keep my interactions to a minimum at these sorts of things.”

“I wonder why,” he mutters quietly into his drink, and though his eyes are elsewhere, he can practically feel Tony’s glare on him.

“You do know that if you just stand here all night you’ll never get to talk to Red, right?” Tony says blatantly. “She’s in demand and rightfully so. So get your ass over there and cut in, or get shitfaced here waiting.”

He sighs as he reverts his attention back to the person he’s truly been watching all night. Part of the reason the anniversary issue is such a success is because of the groundbreaking story about Wakanda’s energy initiative. In a time where every news outlet has been focusing on their digital platforms, this particular article had sent people clamoring to buy a physical copy. It had truly been a brilliant move on Natasha’s part to dare to find something that others seemed uninterested in, and on Pepper’s for deciding to make the article exclusive to print. The Journalists’ Guild had recognized Natasha’s work, bestowing upon her an award for her journalistic excellency, and he couldn’t be prouder as he clapped while watching her accept her award tonight. Her receiving an award, though, has also meant that people have been vying for her attention, therefore giving him little to no time to talk to her.

While she’s yet to tell him about where she stands with regard to the job she was offered, things between them seem to be on the mend after her doctor’s appointment. He recalls how she had all but burst into his office a few mornings ago, a blinding grin on her face as she shoved her phone in his face to let him read the email informing her about her award. Her eyes had shone with so much elation! While it had pained him not being able to bend down and kiss her, he was just grateful that they were at least back to sharing good news with each other. He couldn’t wait to celebrate her accomplishment with her, and he realizes that that’s part of the reason why he feels so unreasonably bitter right now as he watches her in the middle of the dance floor, looking gorgeous in her long black dress that dips alluringly at her back, dancing and laughing with Strange.

Tony nudges him with his elbow. “Go,” he says, gesturing for him to hand him his empty glass. “Or I swear to god I will drag you over there by your ear.”

He rolls his eyes, but nonetheless, he hands him his tumbler. He buttons his suit jacket back up as Tony shoos him away before walking across the floor to where Natasha stands with her back to him. Just as he nears, Strange looks up and halts to acknowledge him. “Rogers,” he greets politely.

Natasha turns at the mention of his name, and he gives Strange a single nod. “Strange,” he says. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Not at all,” Strange says before looking at Natasha. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Romanoff. Thank you for the dance and congratulations once again.”

Natasha smiles. “Thank you, Stephen.” Strange steps away, and once the man is out of sight, she looks up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, holding a hand out to her. She places her hand in his and his free one on her waist to pull her closer. A soft string tune begins, and he smiles down at her as they begin to sway. “You’re a hard person to get a hold off.”

“You seem to have found me just fine,” she says with a smirk on her lacquered red lips.

“I might have had to fight a few people,” he retorts, to which she rolls her eyes. “But, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure if you were up for dancing with us award-less chumps.”

She gasps at that, scowling at him as she uses the hand that’s resting on his shoulder to push him. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m kidding,” he says with a laugh. “Congratulations, Nat.”

“Thanks,” she says, her green eyes bright. “It’s not why I love my job, but it is a fun add on.”

“You and your work are far too brilliant for people not to notice,” he says earnestly, and he watches as a blush creeps onto her cheeks. “Before you pointed it out, people couldn't care less about that glowy blue thing they had hidden in the Wakandan mountains.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Now look at what you’ve done. You’re changing the world.”

She scoffs. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You are, Nat,” he affirms, and his words render her speechless. “You are.” They remain that way for a moment, content as they sway leisurely to the music in each other’s arms. Natasha looks up at him and he smiles. “What?”

“I…” she begins. “I think I’m going to take the job in London.”

Her words cause the smile on his face to fall. “What?” he asks incredulously. “What happened to being unable to leave this city?”

“You said it yourself, my work can bring about change,” she points out. “Don’t you think all those stories deserve-”

“What about the baby?” he asks. “Natasha, you can’t just take-”

“We have joint custody, remember?” she says hotly, planting her feet to halt their dance. “Where I live doesn’t really matter.”

Hurt paints his features remembering the pain he felt that day in his office, when she effectively placed herself off limits. "Yeah, I remember," he spits out angrily. "I... just- Why, Natasha? What could I have possibly done for you to decide that you have to hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” she asks in disbelief, as if she’s trying to clarify his words. He watches as her hands drop to her sides, and despite the anger he’s feeling, he finds himself surprised at the ire burning in her eyes. Her voice comes out as a whispered yell. “Everything I do now seems like an attempt to avoid just that.” She presses her lips into a line as she shakes her head in frustration. “I can’t even breathe anymore without thinking if it’ll hurt you, because that’s the last thing I want to do. But- God, Steve, you didn’t even want me-” she stutters for a second, but she composes herself just as fast. “You didn’t even want this baby.”

He goes rigid at her words. “How could you say that?”

“It’s the truth,” she states. “I wanted a child, and you wanted a warm body, and somewhere along the way…" She pauses, trying to calm herself. "You got to pick and choose what you get to walk away with.” He notices the way her voice cracks with bitterness at the end. "I don't really have a reason to stay, do I?" She looks directly at him, and while his first impulse is to tell her that she should stay because he loves her, he hesitates. His love had not been enough of a reason for Sharon to wait for him, and he doesn't dare find out if it would be enough for Natasha now. She smiles sadly at his silence. “That’s what I thought.”

She turns away from him, and he watches with wide eyes as she disappears into the sea of people.

The sound of giddy laughter fills his ears the second he enters the breakroom, and he’s confused to see Jane and Maria huddled over someone sitting at the table. With their backs to him, he’s not quite sure who’s sitting on the chair, but judging by the sounds he hears echoing through the room despite none of them talking right now, he surmises that they’re in the middle of watching something.

“Hi, sweetheart.” The familiar voice fills the room, halting him on his way over to the coffee machine to instead walk towards the table. As he nears, he sees Darcy’s familiar chocolate waves as she sits on the chair holding a tablet, and he stops to watch the screen over Jane’s and Maria’s shoulders.

“Hi, Fig,” the voice says again, and the nickname causes the breath to get stuck in his throat. He looks at the baby on the screen – at the bright green eyes and the pale skin and the strawberry blonde curls – and he’s nearly floored when he realizes that this is his baby, and that the voice that sounded all too familiar belonged to Natasha. “Can momma get a smile?”

His eyes watch the screen intently, curious to see if the baby will respond, and he feels his heart expand in his chest when he sees the corners of its mouth turn up in a toothless smile. Jane, Maria, and Darcy squeal at the same time Natasha cheers, and he finds himself smiling at the video as well. The baby smiles once more, and he’s so lost in committing the image to memory, that for a moment, he almost forgets that he’s witnessing the milestone through a tablet.

He’s about to turn away, feeling too much like he’s intruded on a moment he wasn’t supposed to even witness, when he hears another voice come from the video. “Fig definitely got your smile, love,” someone says, their British accent thick. His hand clenches at his side as he hears the stranger use the nickname that he came up with, and when he looks back at the screen, he finds Natasha cradling the baby with a man by her side. His jet black hair is slicked back, and he’s smiling down at the bundle in Natasha’s arms.

“Who’s that?” he blurts out, alerting all three women of his presence as they turn at the sound of his voice.

He does not miss the panicked expression that crosses Darcy’s features as she realizes that he’s seen the video. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced quickly by an icy stare. Luckily for him, Jane decides to speak first. “His name is Loki,” Jane says dreamily. “He’s a literature professor at Oxford.”

“And Nat’s new boyfriend,” Darcy adds almost snidely. “They met at Hyde Park while he was doing a free reading of Shakespeare on his day off.”

“But more importantly, Pepper mentioned that he is so good with the baby,” Maria says as she looks at him. “Fig absolutely adores him and-”

“He bakes her scones,” Jane interjects. “From scratch.”

Vaguely, he’s aware that they’re still talking to him, probably giving him more details, but their voices go right through him. A lump forms in his throat and he does his best to swallow it down along with the sinking feeling in his gut. “Excuse me,” he says, the room feeling like it’s closing in on him.

He walks out of the breakroom, his vision tunneling as he makes it back to his office and locks the door behind him. He catches his reflection in the mirror to his left and watches as his chest heaves. He braces his hand against the wall, closing his eyes, but as soon as he does, Jane’s words echo through his mind, conjuring the image of Natasha perched on the kitchen counters, their child in her arms as she watches the man from the video move about in the kitchen. The thought that the man isn’t him makes his stomach twist, and as he turns his attention back to his reflection once more, his frustration begins to consume him. How could he have let her walk away that night and put an ocean between them? Why didn’t he say anything, beg her to stay? His blood boils, and before he can think better of it, his fist clenches at his side before it collides ardently with the mirror, shattering it to pieces.

He bolts up in bed, his vision hazy at the sudden upright movement of his body. His chest heaves, and he feels the cold sweat dripping down his sternum. His eyes roam the expanse of his darkened bedroom, and relief washes over him when he realizes it was all a dream. He brings a hand up to rub over his face, only to gasp in pain when he tries to stretch his fingers out. He feels for the pull switch on the lamp on his bedside table, and when the light fills his room, he curses when he sees his bloodied knuckles. He sighs as he gets up from the bed, stepping over the suit he wore earlier tonight that he discarded carelessly as soon as he got home, and makes his way to his bathroom. He flicks the switch on, and when his eyes land on the shards of glass scattered all over his bathroom floor, he remembers that much like his dream, he had taken his frustrations out on his mirror. He walks over to his medicine cabinet in search of a first aid kit, and as he tends to his hand, he feels exhaustion permeating through him, sinking right to his bones.

The next morning, he’s relieved to find that, unlike in his nightmare, the break room is empty when he walks in. He makes a beeline for the coffee pot, filling the travel mug he has in hand with the precious liquid. He hears the swoosh of the door as it swings open just as he fastens the cover over his drink, and when he looks back, he sees Brock Rumlow standing by the doorway.

“Rogers,” Rumlow greets in his hoarse voice, dressed in his usual all black attire.

“Rumlow,” he says giving him a single nod before picking up his mug.

“Can I ask you something?” Rumlow says suddenly, stopping him just as he turns to make his way out of the room. “You talk to Romanoff lately?”

“No,” he says in a clipped tone, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why?”

“Heard she was bolting,” Rumlow answers. “You two are pretty close, right? Do you know if that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” he says, almost through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you ask her? She’s your boss, after all. I’m sure she’d be happy to discuss your career path with you.”

“Yeah, right.” Rumlow snorts. “The woman hates me.” He rolls his eyes. “Can’t tell you why, but I’m pretty sure she hates most people.” A teasing expression crosses his face. “It still blows my mind that she let someone close enough to get her pregnant. Does anyone even know who the father is? Last I heard the big shot attorney cheated on her with his secretary or something.”

“How about you mind your own damn business?” he snaps, his fingers clenching around his mug.

Rumlow puts his hands up. “Jesus, Rogers,” he says. “Relax, will you? I was kidding.”

“You shouldn’t be spreading gossip about your colleagues,” he spits out. “Especially when they’re your superiors.”

“What’s it to you anyway?” Rumlow tilts his chin up at him. “Everyone in this office talks.”

“Well I better not hear it from you,” he says, before turning to walk out of the door. In his haste to get out of the room, he nearly walks into someone, and he raises his bandaged hand to the person’s arm to stop them from colliding with him.

“Sorry,” Natasha says as he looks up at him, but then her eyes fall to his hand and worry fills her eyes. She gasps. “What happened to your hand?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice coming out cold. She recoils ever so slightly at his words, but he pretends not to notice it as he steps aside and begins walking towards his office without so much as a second glance at her.

He spends the rest of the work day tucked away in his office, his mind everywhere else except on the work in front of him. He tries to chip away at the things he needs to get done, but his attempts are futile as his mind wanders. By the time the clock strikes five, he’s more than ready to call it a day, and he’s almost grateful when he sees his phone light up with a text from Bucky.

“Guess who’s back in town?” the message reads, and he decides that that’s a good a sign as he’s ever going to get. He shuts down for the day, and leaves the building to make his way down to Brooklyn.

“Buck,” he says exasperatedly as he looks at his friend. “Could you at least say something?”

He watches as Bucky’s head nods up and down slowly as if he’s still trying to process everything he’s just been told, his eyes blown wide as saucers. Bucky’s been touring the country with his band for the past four months, and this is the first time he’s been able to bring him up to speed with everything that’s been going on between him and Natasha. “I…” Bucky begins, crossing and then uncrossing his legs as he slouches further into the couch. He settles for propping an elbow on the arm as he flicks a hand out, and his tone is one of utter disbelief as he speaks. “I told you to help her.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “I did!”

“Not like that!” Bucky spits out incredulously. From his seat adjacent the couch, he rolls his eyes, causing Bucky to point a finger at him. “Oh, don’t even! You told me she asked you to be her donor,” he emphasizes, taking a deep breath as his hands come up before him. “That means you were supposed to go to a clinic, choke the chicken into a cup, and then leave the rest to modern medicine!”

“Did you not hear-”    

“Yeah, I heard everything,” Bucky snaps as he rises from the couch and begins to pace in front of him. “Contracts and your libido and your friendship with Natasha notwithstanding, you still shouldn’t have gone in to do the job yourself.” He runs a hand through his hair, clenching his fingers around the top of his bun. “I mean, Christ, it’s one thing to agree to make a kid together, but did you two even consider what you were going to tell it once it’s born? Like, well, your mom wanted a baby, and I was feeling helpful, then boom! Bucky’s your uncle!” His eyes close as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Steve, you’re not even a one-night stand kind of guy. What did you expect to feel once you got her pregnant with your child?” His eyes shoot open. “Oh my god,” he says suddenly, his eyes growing wider in horror. “Does Sarah know?”

“Yes and no,” he says, shifting in his seat with a slight wince on his face. Bucky raises an eyebrow at him in question as he crosses his arms over his chest. He sighs. “After the fall, when I thought everything was going well, I told her about Natasha and the baby and how I was… falling, but I kept the details sparse.”  

“You mean like how you traded your swimmers for a good time?” Bucky deadpans. He shoots him a withering look, and this time, it’s Bucky’s turn to sigh. “Sorry,” he mutters. “But you have to admit, on the list of the craziest things you’ve ever done, this has got to be up there. And I’ve seen you do some pretty crazy things.” He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Bucky silences him with a challenging glare. “Kabul, 2006. Oh, by the way, how’s your spleen doing?” He presses his lips into a thin line at that. “And your mom? What do you think she’s going to do to you when she finds out that you drove the woman who’s carrying her first and only grandchild to live across the pond?”

“I know,” he says. “Believe me, I know.” He looks tiredly to the ground. “I messed up. But it’s not like I meant to, okay? When she asked me if she had a reason to stay, I wanted to tell her that she did. I wanted to tell her that she should stay because she belongs with me, and what I feel for her?” he asks. “I’ve never felt for anyone else. Ever. And no, it’s not just because she’s the mother of my child.” He shakes his head. “But…”

“You thought punching something would depict that better for you?” Bucky finishes skeptically, eyeing his bandaged hand.

He narrows his eyes up at Bucky before looking back down at the hand in question. “But then I remembered how for those four weeks that we were living together, I was so sure that she was starting to want me the same way I wanted her, but then she saw Sharon and suddenly it was like she couldn’t get far enough from me. I tried to stop her.” He looks up at his friend again, and the words almost burn him as much as the memory does when he adds, “but she flinched when I touched her, Buck.” From where he stands, Bucky’s expression softens at his words, and he reverts his eyes to the ground as Bucky goes to sit back down on the couch. “She recoiled from me like I was toxic,” he continues, his voice weak. “And I told myself she just needed space. But then she was serving me a custody agreement the next day, and avoiding me, and now she wants to move to London…” He shakes his head. “Here I am all over again, the only one caught with their heart out, and I can’t go through that again. I won’t.” He sighs. “She doesn’t want love. She wants a father for her child.”

“Is that why you signed the papers without a fight?” Bucky says, grabbing a throw pillow from the other side of the couch to lean on.

“Maybe I don’t end up with the woman I’ve fallen for. It wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, his tone resigned as he gives Bucky a one-shouldered shrug. “But at least I still get to have someone I will love unconditionally for the rest of my life.”

“You’re a good man,” Bucky says finally after a brief pause. “Noble, for sure, but you’re also kind of a dumbass.”  

His head whips in the direction of the couch where Bucky is sitting to glare at him, and his voice is venomous as he speaks. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying.” The nonchalant tone his friend uses as he tosses the pillow between his hands up in the air repeatedly causes his blood to boil even more. “It’s been years, and you’re still a slave to the pain of your past,” Bucky points out. “And it’s not like it’s not valid. Because what Sharon did to you? That was pretty shitty, and it’s a miracle that you were even able to open your heart up to someone again after all that.” Bucky shrugs. “But at the same time, maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t end up with the woman you’ve fallen for, but this time, it’s because you’re being a coward.”

He pushes off the back of the armchair as he angles his body towards Bucky with a scowl on his face. “I know you’re a jerk, but this is a new low even for you.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, setting the pillow on his lap as he moves to sit up straighter as well. “You’re the one hiding behind a custody agreement and the fact that Natasha’s been offered a great opportunity. You could have said something, asked her for more, but no – you settled because you’re afraid that if you ask her to give herself to you, she’ll say no. And I get it, I really do, but this isn’t like the last time. You know why?” Bucky asks, putting his left hand out. “Sharon left you because she didn’t love you,” he explains before putting out his right. “Natasha’s leaving because she does.” His eyebrows knit in confusion, causing Bucky to tilt his head, and he watches as Bucky moves towards the edge of his seat before leaning his forearms on his thighs to get to eye level with him. “That thing you said you felt when she was living with you? You weren’t wrong. She wanted you then, too. But you told Natasha from the start that your heart was off limits, and then you made the genius decision to sell that damn house.” Bucky scoffs. “Hell, I’d leave you too if I knew what that thing meant to you.”  

“The house?” he says, shaking his head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re joking, right?” Bucky’s eyes widen when he remains silent and dumbfounded. “Steve.” He says his name like he’s causing him actual physical pain. “Did you or did you not tell Natasha what that house meant to you? That that’s the place you want your dream life to unfold complete with the wife, the kids, and the fucking lemonade stand?”

“Yeah,” he says, his mind wandering back to that night in his apartment. “But-”

“Okay, so riddle me this, pal – how do you think it looks like to her when she literally wakes up one morning to find that you’ve sold it?” Bucky interrupts before rolling his eyes. “You practically showed her that there's no room for her in your life. And you wonder why she thinks you only want the baby?"

“But that’s not why…” he trails as he stands. “How could she even think that? That’s ridiculous-”

“Is it?” Bucky challenges from his seat. “What, did you think she was doing this because she felt threatened by your ex-fiancée standing at your door? Because Sharon’s not bad, I’ll give her that, but Natasha? She’s smart, and witty, and quite frankly, too hot for you.”

He glares. Bucky returns his icy stare, and after a beat, sighs. “She’s not doing this to hurt you, Steve. She’s doing this because she loves you enough to never ask you for something she thinks you don’t want to give her.”    

“But… why? Why would she even think that? How…” He runs his hand over his face before letting it settle at the back of his neck. “I didn’t sell the house because I didn’t see a future with her,” he states, and just as Bucky did moments ago, he begins to pace. “I sold the house because I did, and I didn’t think she would want to live in that house, because the street it’s on? It’s quiet, and she hates the quiet. Not to mention that it’s here in Brooklyn, a completely different borough from where Pepper’s house is, and she wouldn’t want to live that far away from her.” He turns to Bucky. “She’d be miserable in that house, and that’s the last thing I’d ever want to make her.”

“Did you tell her that?” Bucky presses exasperatedly.

“No,” he says flatly, watching as Bucky’s lips turn up. “I…” he trails off. “Oh, god.” His eyes widen as he whispers. “I didn’t tell her that.” He looks past Bucky as the gravity of that fact hits him. “That’s what she needs to hear…”

“What are you still doing here?” Bucky moans quietly as he rambles on.

He’s so caught up in the horror of his realization that his friend’s words do not register, and when he looks back at him, he finds that his smile is gone. “What?”

Bucky’s expression crumbles into complete agitation, and he watches as he brings the throw pillow he has on his lap up to smother his face. “What are you still doing here?” Bucky screams, and this time, that sends him running out the door.

His thoughts race as the cab he’s in crosses the Brooklyn bridge into Manhattan. As he digests the facts Bucky had astutely laid down, waves of clarity seem to crash down on him, slowly dissipating the feelings of confusion and helplessness that he’s been plagued with ever since Natasha left his apartment that morning. In the weeks that have gone by, he’d taken Natasha’s every word and action as a sign that he had misread everything – that he was the only one who wanted more than what they’d originally agreed upon, and, that every kiss, touch, and tender moment they’d shared that began to feel like a whole lot more, was all in his head. But even as he put some space between them, he had always felt deep in his gut that something didn’t quite add up, and the fact that there was a piece of this puzzle he was epically missing is only strengthened as he latches onto Bucky’s words from only moments ago: she’s doing this because she loves you enough to never ask you for something she thinks you don’t want to give her.

The idea that Natasha could ever think that he would not love her is preposterous to him. It’s downright ludicrous, he tells himself, because as he thinks back to every conversation and interaction they’ve ever had since the beginning of their friendship, he realizes that he never stood a chance of not falling for her. How could he have, when she’s as kind and driven and smart and entrancing as she is, with the biggest heart and the most brilliant mind he can’t get enough of. And while he never thought he’d ever be able to say this, he finds himself thanking his lucky stars that his impending marriage to Sharon had fallen through. Because he understands, now, what the difference is. With Sharon, he had found a way to shoehorn her into the idealized life he wanted. When she left him, he wasn’t mourning the loss of her as much as he was the life he thought lost. But with Natasha, the possibility of her moving feels an awful lot like he’s losing her, and he doesn’t think that anything can hurt more than that.

The fog in his mind clears as he becomes cognizant of that crucial difference. Bucky was right – he was scared of asking Natasha for more, fearing her answer would dig up the ghosts of his past pains that he’s worked so hard to bury. That exact fear had caused him to neglect the very things that made his friendship and arrangement with her work so well – trust and honesty. Unconsciously, he realizes, he had an inkling that he had opened up to someone once again. But instead of voicing that, he had chosen to shut down and revert back to the detachment that's kept him afloat for years. And in doing so, he had left out the very person who had mended his eviscerated heart. He recognizes now how misplaced his fears were, because he should have trusted her. And still, in the midst of the chaos that his fears have created, he finds himself smiling because he realizes that he does. He trusts Natasha with all of his heart, and he trusts that she would never hurt him, which is why the house does not have much meaning to him anymore. He couldn’t care less about where he lives as long as he is with her, and he can only hope that he can make her see that.

The cab has barely come to a stop when he hands the driver the fare and all but jumps out onto the curb. He enters Natasha’s apartment building, and he couldn’t be more thankful that he’s become such a familiar face to the people manning the front desk, that he’s not interrupted on his way to the elevator. He presses down on the number for her floor and hastily makes his way out the second he hears the ding and the doors open. He makes a left towards her door and lifts his fist up to knock. He taps on the wood repeatedly, and his patience runs thin when she doesn’t come to open it a few minutes later. His hand falls down to the pocket of his jeans, feeling for his phone, and a curse falls from his lips when he realizes that he must have left it at Bucky’s. He sighs as he considers his options. He’s not sure if she’s asleep, away, or ignoring him, and without a means to call her, he’s more than willing to wait out here for her, but he’s not sure he has that time to spare. He settles for going downstairs to borrow a phone when an idea comes to mind, and instead of pressing the button for the lobby, he pushes down on the one for the rooftop.

He’s hit by the winds of early Spring as he pushes through the doors leading to the rooftop of Natasha’s building, where he’s greeted by the bright lights of New York’s skyline. The sight of the city from sixty floors up takes his breath away, but not as much as the vision of Natasha does, the throw from her couch wrapped around her shoulders as she stands by the railing with her back to him. Relief washes over him, a sigh escaping his lips as he takes a few steps closer to her. “I sold the house because it wasn’t high enough.”

Natasha’s head turns at the sound of his voice. “Steve?” she asks confusedly. “What are you doing here?”

“The house,” he says a little louder. “I-”

“Look,” Natasha says, sighing as she turns his way. “If this is about what I said about you not wanting this baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I know you do. I was just mad and hurt-” Her head turns up as she speaks, and as she catches sight of him, her eyebrows knit together as she sends a glare his way. “I’m sorry, is there something amusing you’d like to share?”

“Not particularly,” he says, trying desperately to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. “But I am realizing that you have this habit of interrupting me when you think you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

He watches as her posture softens at the playful tone in his voice. “Yeah, well,” she begins, shifting on her feet as she tightens the blanket around her shoulders and reverts her eyes to her feet. Her voice grows quiet as she adds, “doesn’t really end well for me when I don’t.”

“I know,” he says just as softly, his words causing her to look up to meet his gaze. He steps closer to her, leaving a few feet between them. “But it’s me, Nat,” he tells her, looking into her eyes. “It’s me.” He gives her a little smile. “And if you would just let me finish what I’m going to say” - he pauses to raise an eyebrow at her jokingly, almost daring her to interrupt him, and chuckles silently when she rolls her eyes - “then you would know that I sold the house because it wasn’t high enough.”

A dumbfounded expression paints her features, her head tilting slightly to the side. “What?”

“The house I owned in Brooklyn, the one I told you I wanted to raise a family in,” he clarifies. “If we live there, you’re going to look out the window and see nothing but other houses, because, well, it’s only two stories high and at the end of a cul-de-sac. And I know you don’t want that.” Her lips part like she wants to speak, but she quickly presses them back together, and he takes that as a sign to continue. “I wouldn’t want that, either, because then I won’t be able to see the way your eyes light up when you stare at the city below. Because that look you get?” he asks, watching as she looks back down. “The one where your nose crinkles and your lips purse just a bit as something catches your attention? It’s one of my favorite sights in the world.”  He shakes his head. “You weren’t wrong.” His words cause her to look back up at him. “I do love this baby,” he says, stepping even closer to her as he erases the distance between them further. “But how could I not when it’s half you and I love you?” Her eyes widen at his words, and he lets a smile spread across his face. “I love you, Natasha Romanoff.”

“Steve,” she whispers, her lips quivering.

“I love you so much, Nat,” he affirms. “And I know… I know I’m an idiot for not telling you this sooner and for not telling you about it in the first place,” he concedes. “But I want nothing more than for you to be happy. That’s why I sold the house." He goes to stand right in front of her, leaving a measly few inches between them as he takes one of her hands in his.

She shakes her head as she stares down at their hands. “But what about your dream?”

“You are my dream,” he says with a smile. He lets go of her hand to cup her cheek, forcing her to look in his eyes. “And if yours is to go to London, because it is an amazing opportunity for you, then let me come along. Nat, you belong with me, stay with me. In New York, or in London, or in some desert in the middle of nowhere, I don’t care. Just stay with me.”

“You hate the desert,” Natasha points, her voice light in spite of the tears rolling down her cheeks and the small smile on her lips.

“I do,” he admits with a laugh, his thumbs wiping away her tears. “But I don’t give a damn about where we live as long as I’m with you.” He brings his hand down to caress her bump. “You, me, and our little fig. I want us to find a home we both love, where you can look out the window and watch the city lights go by, and I can get a ridiculous amount of counter space in the kitchen because I don’t want to live in a place where there’s not enough room for you to perch on the island while I make dinner every night for us for the rest of my life. And if I have to grovel-”

She cuts him off by pressing her lips to his, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck as she pulls him down to her. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt you again?” she asks when they pull away, a smirk on her face.

“Eh,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll live with it.”

She raises an eyebrow at that. “It’s a good thing you love me then.”

“I do,” he says, snaking an arm around her to pull her flush to him. “I love you, Nat.”

She shakes her head at him. “I love you, too.”

His back hits the wall with a thud the second he closes the door to Natasha’s apartment, and he groans in surprise when her lips are suddenly urgently on his, her arms snaking their way around his neck to pull him to her. He kisses her back just as fervently, dropping his hands to her waist to bring her as close to him as possible, and he feels her hands trail from his shoulders down to the expanse of his chest as her fingers work on the buttons of his shirt. He deepens their kiss, sucking on her bottom lip, and the sound she lets out is a cross between a moan and a growl of frustration as he feels her fingers begin to pull at the material in her hands. “Nat,” he says with an amused yet still breathless chuckle. “Hey.” He takes both of her hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs gently over her pulse. “What’s the rush?”

She looks up at him from underneath her lashes, and the ravenous look in her eyes causes him to swallow hard. “The rush,” she pants, tugging forcefully at his shirt. He hears the telltale sound of a few buttons clattering to the floor, but he keeps his eyes on hers. “The rush is because your cologne has been driving me crazy for weeks. Weeks, Rogers. I am also twenty-two weeks pregnant.” Her hands fall to the buckle of his belt. “You know what that means?” she asks with her eyebrow raised and her voice husky. “That means-” she pauses as she undoes the buckle, leaning in so that she’s close to his ear “-that I am hot and bothered all the time because all my appetites are back with a vengeance.” She grabs him by the chin, angling his face down to look at her. “And since you made me this way, I think it’s only fair that you fix this,” she says, desperation trickling into her tone. “So, take me to bed or take me up against this wall. Either way, you better-”

He doesn’t even let her finish her sentence as he captures her lips in his, eliciting a surprised sound from her as he bends down to hook his hands at the back of her thighs to lift her to him. The movement causes pain to radiate from his bandaged hand, making him gasp, and she pulls away from him.  

“You okay?” she asks worriedly.

“Fine,” he says reassuringly, crushing his lips back to hers. She wraps her legs around his hips, her hands working to undo what’s left of his buttons, and he walks them down the familiar path to her bedroom.  

His hand reaches across the bed as he begins to stir, his eyes fluttering open when his fingertips land on nothing but the softness of the sheets. Hues of pale purples and blues with a touch of orange fill the room, a sign of the impending sunrise, and he wipes the sleep away from his eyes before sitting up and letting the comforter fall to his lap. His eyes scan the room, looking for any sign of Natasha’s whereabouts, and it’s only when he notices the door cracked slightly ajar that he decides to get up, grabbing his boxers off of the floor and putting them on before he makes his way out.

The hallway leading to her living room is dark, but the end is illuminated by warm light, and he’s not sure if she’s purposely turned the lamps on or if they had left them on in their haste to get to bed last night. He looks to his right as he reaches the end and sees that there’s a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table that’s been left unattended. He turns, and just as he’s about to call out for her, he finds that to the corner of the room, the door to Natasha’s home office is wide open. He pads over, and a smile makes its way across his face when he sees her inside, her back to him as she rummages through her desk. He stops by the doorway, leaning his shoulder against it as he crosses an ankle over the other. She’s wearing the button-up he had on yesterday, revealing a hint of the creamy skin of her shoulder as it hangs loosely on her slender frame, and just the sight of her in his clothing is enough to make his smile widen as he resists the urge to pull her close.

“You know,” he begins, his voice still rough with sleep, “one might start feeling a little used if one keeps waking up to an empty bed.”

She turns to look over her shoulder, keeping her back to him, and though he can only see the profile of her face, he knows that she’s just rolled her eyes at his remark. “And one is delusional if one thinks I’m awake right now because I had a say in the matter.”

He chuckles as he pushes off the frame to make his way over to her. He wraps his arms around her from behind, leaning down to plant a kiss on her neck as his hands settle over her belly. “Fig trying to stretch out?”

“More like she’s practicing her arabesques.” She tries to sound annoyed, but he can sense the fondness and amusement hiding in her tone. “Albeit at a very, very inconvenient time for me.”  

“She?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her in question as she turns in his embrace. “And how are you so sure it’s an arabesque and not a curve ball?”

“I told you, I have a feeling Fig’s a girl.” She shrugs, and his eyes take notice of how low his shirt dips around her chest with the lack of buttons to keep it closed. “And I’m sure it’s an arabesque because the limb that’s been using my insides as a trampoline? Definitely a foot.”

He laughs at that, drawing her closer to him to kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says, his hand rubbing soothing circles over the bulge of her stomach. “Seems to have calmed down now, though.”

“Of course it’s calm in there,” she says acerbically as she pulls away from him. “I’m awake now, aren’t I?”

He runs his hands over her arms consolingly. “Is there a reason you’re in here so early in the morning instead of in bed with me?”

She reaches behind her and feels blindly for something on her desk, and when her hand comes back around, she shows him a stack of papers. “Probably should have done this last night,” she admits, a small smile on her lips. “But… well, you know what happened.” He looks up from scanning the documents in her hands to grin at her, but then her expression grows shy, almost sheepish, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I’m guessing last night meant we won’t be needing these anymore… right?”

He looks down at her hands where she holds a copy of their original contract and their joint custody agreement, and then back up at her. Judging by the way she has her bottom lip caught between her teeth, he can tell that she’s nervous. In an instant, he takes the papers from her and then he’s ripping both contracts in half. He drops the shreds to the ground unceremoniously before he shoots her a heated look, pulling her close. "All I will be needing," he says, "is you, in nothing but this shirt, back in bed."

To his delight, she smirks. “You know those aren’t the only copies, right? You have one, and we still have to call our law-”

He crashes his lips to hers, effectively silencing her and cutting off whatever logical explanation she wanted to set down before him. He lifts her to her desk, making her squeal in surprise. “I don’t care if you have a million copies stashed away somewhere,” he says. “Nor do I care about what our lawyers have to say.” He tucks a finger under her chin to lift her face to his, making sure she’s looking deep into his eyes. “If you think that I’m ever going to let you walk away from me again, you are sadly mistaken.”

A smile spreads across her lips and she pulls him down to her until their noses are touching. “Mine,” she mouths.

“Yours,” he promises.

“I told you we didn’t have time for this.”

He rolls his eyes as he tries to hurriedly straighten his tie from where he stands behind his desk. He looks up, and he sees her smirking through the mirror she’s standing in front of as she gives her cream-colored silk blouse a once-over. He sends a withering look her way. “Didn’t hear you complaining five minutes ago while we were making out against my desk.”  

She turns to face him, her eyes narrowing. “I actually came here to ask you a legitimate, work-related question. You’re the one that decided to ignore it.”

“Oh, so this is all my fault?” he challenges, taking his tablet in one hand as he makes his way over to her. His free hand falls to her hip, pulling her close, and she uses their proximity to dust lint off the shoulders of his gray suit jacket. “And what was so complex about this question that you had to walk all the way across the floor to ask me instead of shooting me an IM?”

She doesn’t answer, and he tries to lean down to kiss her, but she uses her hands on his chest to push him away. “We really don’t have time for this,” she states. “Do you honestly want to keep Pepper waiting?”

“No,” he says defeatedly before sighing. “Come on.” He opens the door to his office, and his eyes widen when he sees Darcy standing there. “Oh, hi, Darce. What’re you… I mean, we-”

“You have lip gloss on your cheek,” Darcy says, her tone not even the least bit surprised or interested. He wipes quickly at his cheek with the back of his hand just as Darcy walks around him to get to Natasha. “Here’s your tea and your tablet,” he hears her say. “And Jessica has submitted her article for final approval.”

“You’re amazing,” Natasha says. “Thank you.”

Darcy mumbles something about how she knows as she heads back to her desk, and they both start making their way to the section meeting. He pushes on the glass door of the conference room, holding it open for her before entering. His eyes scan the room once he makes it inside, and relief washes over him when he sees that while the room has filled, the meeting is yet to begin. He sees Natasha begin to walk towards a couple of empty seats by the window, and he follows suit, nodding at a few coworkers as they greet him and Natasha on their way to their seats.

“Steve,” he hears a deep voice call out, and he looks up to see Thor sitting across from him with Jane to his left and Hill to his right.

“Thor,” he greets as he settles down in his seat.  

Thor shoots him a skeptical look and his eyes fill with a mischievous glint as he points to his own head. “What… what happened to your hair?”

The question draws the interest and attention of Jane and Maria, and from his peripheral, he notices Natasha’s head whip in his direction, but he keeps his eyes trained on his colleague in front of him. “This thing?” he asks, pointing to his hair as he runs a hand through the side in an attempt to appear aloof. “You know it has a mind of its own. Probably time to cut it.”

“Other side,” Maria points out, her head tilting to the side as her expression grows suspicious. Next to her, he notices the way the corners of Thor’s mouth twitch.

“Right,” he says, moving his fingers to smooth over the hair on the other side of his head. “Must have been the wind this morning.”

“It looked fine to me when- ow!” Thor yelps. From where he’s sitting, he notices the way Jane’s arm clenches ever so slightly at her side, though the table blocks his view of where her hand is placed.

“You’re right,” Jane says, “it was pretty windy out there.”

He nods at her just as an awkward silence falls on their side of the conference table, no one exactly certain of what to say, and he couldn’t be more grateful when seconds later the doors open as Pepper walks in with Tony in tow, causing everyone’s attention to shift towards the couple.

“Don’t mind me,” Tony announces to the room, taking a seat on the one adjacent to Pepper’s by the head of the table. “I’m only here for a cheese Danish.”

The meeting begins, and though Pepper dives straight into discussing what needs to be done for the next issue, he can’t help but notice the glances Thor keeps sending his way as the meeting goes on. He tries to busy himself by taking copious amounts of notes on his tablet, jotting down things he wants to remember to do once he gets back to his office, but that does little to distract from Thor’s heavy stare. He looks up occasionally, catching the man trying to contain his grin, and he swears that he can hear Jane scold him about not concentrating. He shakes his head, deciding instead to take a cue from Tony and indulge in one of the pastries in front of him. His eyes search for the stack of paper plates, and when he spots it on Natasha’s other side, he nudges her arm with the side of his hand, causing her to turn her head in his direction.

“Can you pass me a plate?” he whispers. She reaches for the stack next to her, sliding it across the table before picking one up and handing it to him. “Thanks,” he says quietly before leaning down to give her a peck. Her eyes are wide when he pulls away, making him confused, but then it hits him, and his own eyes widen as well when he realizes what he’s just done.

“I knew it!” Thor exclaims ecstatically, his voice and his laughter echoing through the room loud and clear, causing both him and Natasha to look his way. “I won!”

He looks around, and his little slip up and Thor’s succeeding outburst seem to have drawn the attention of everyone in the room. Some people clap and cheer while others seem to gripe in defeat. To his left, he hears Tony quip about how it’s about damn time, and when he moves his head in his direction, he finds Pepper standing by the head of the table with a big grin on her face. He looks back at Natasha next to him, and the expression on her face is a mix between amused and incredulous. “Wait,” he says with a frown. “I thought the bet was about the baby’s gender?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “Would you really put it past these people to place bets on who the father was?”

“I guess not,” he concedes, shaking his head after taking a second to contemplate her words. He leans down to kiss her once more, and this time, the entire room erupts in an applause.

Chapter Text

A cogent jab to her ribs causes Natasha to stir, and she rubs a hand over the spot soothingly. “Five more minutes,” she tries to bargain, but it’s futile as she feels another dig. She groans, opening her eyes to the faint morning light. Her hand reaches for her phone and she sees that it’s only a few minutes past six. “Of course,” she grumbles as she puts the phone back on the nightstand, “of course you’re a morning person.”

“Fig’s not doing it on purpose,” she hears Steve say from behind her, his voice still gravelly with sleep. She shifts in his embrace just as his eyes flutter open to reveal his bright blues. Her heart swells at the sight – the way it does every morning when she wakes up in his arms – and momentarily, she wonders when this feeling will fade. The corners of his mouth turn up in a lazy smile, and the answer comes instantly. Never.

“Easy for you to say,” she says, pushing his hair back with her fingers. “No one’s trying to use your vital organs as a punching bag.”

“Your fault for giving Fig the flexibility of a ballerina.”

“It may be early,” she says, glaring at him in warning, “but don’t think I forgot that your lease still runs until the end of the year.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Kicking me out already?”

“I really should,” she says, her voice lowering as she peers up at him from underneath her eyelashes. Her fingertips graze his neck, and she feels his skin prickle underneath her touch. “But seeing as I already spent time making space in this apartment for you, I won’t.” His irises deepen a few shades as she traces the outline of his abs, making her pride swell just a bit. She shifts closer to him, enough that their faces are nearly touching, and she smirks when she feels him inhale sharply as her hand pauses just past his navel. “Plus, who else is going to make me subpar pancakes in the morning?”  

She expects an equally piquant remark in return, but instead a squeal leaves her lips when he wraps his arms around her, shifting her to lay on top of him. He sits up, taking her along with him, and her knees fall to either side of his hips as a dogged expression makes its way across his face. “My pancakes are world class.”

“Are they?” she asks, wrapping her arms around his neck and moving so that her stomach is flush against his own. “I guess you’re just going to have to make them again to jog my memory.”

He chuckles. “Should’ve known this was an ambush.”

“Probably,” she says with a shrug. “You used to be a tactician, after all.” He scoffs at that, but his attempt at acting annoyed lasts but a second as he grins and leans in to kiss her. There’s barely a millimeter left between them when she feels a forceful kick in her belly, and one look at the amused expression on his face shows her that he felt it, too. They burst out laughing.

“Okay,” he says, looking down between them. “Maybe a little on purpose.”

Her hand comes up to caress his cheek. “Pretty sure that’s an order, soldier.”

He turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of her palm. “Not even born yet and I’m already outnumbered.” He helps move her back onto the pillows before standing. “Twenty minutes?”

“Sure,” she whispers as he watches him stretch his arms over his head. The action causes his muscles to coil deliciously, making her bite her lip at the sight. He gives her another smile before walking out of the bedroom, and for a second, she contemplates following suit to watch him move about the kitchen in just his sweatpants, but she catches herself as soon as the thought comes. She shakes her head at how ridiculous she’s being, opting instead to sit up against the headboard. Her eyes take in the expanse of the bedroom – it’s a lot fuller than it used to be now that his belongings are mixed in with hers. In the past, she would have viewed a man leaving his things in her home as an invasion of her personal space. But this time around, she finds that she adores the fact that there are titles on her bookshelf that she does not recognize, loves that she has to be more mindful of the bottles in her shower. Most of all, she loves that these things belong to Steve.

After alternating for weeks between sleeping at his place and hers, they finally made the decision to move into her apartment. It just made more sense – she has more stuff and a bigger place so it was only logical for Steve to let go of his lease. And it was temporary, they both agreed, as they continue to search high and low for a place they both love. Deciding to live together was also strategic. She’s well past the halfway point of her pregnancy, and she can only imagine how much more taxing moving about is going to be on her body as she nears the end. But what it really comes down to is, living with Steve is effortless. A part of her knows that this is something she’s known all along - they simply fit, and the chemistry and understanding between them that make them great friends and coworkers, easily transfers to their home life now that they are a couple. She’s always loved her apartment, but it’s even more special now that she has someone to share it with, and someone to come home to at the end of the day. It’s home.

Another ripple across her belly breaks her out of her daydream, and she looks down before sighing. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

The breakroom is already bustling with conversation when she and Steve walk in to grab their morning drinks. It’s one of those rare days where there isn’t a section meeting planned, and yet everyone seems determined to keep up the tradition of huddling around one table before the official start of the workday to chat over coffee and pastries. Smiles greet them as their coworkers take notice of their presence, and she has to stop herself from groaning when she notices Jane and Maria exchanging gleeful looks as they zero in on the hand Steve has on her waist. It’s been weeks since they found out that she and Steve are an item, and as endearing as she finds their enthusiasm over their relationship to be, the constant probing for details is becoming exhausting. They may practically be family here at work, but she’s still a big proponent of privacy when it comes to her personal life.

“Good morning, Romanogers!” Thor greets cheerily.  

She and Steve pause a little past the door, and when she looks up at him, she finds that he’s just as perplexed as she is. “Roma- what?” Steve asks.

“Romanogers,” Thor repeats. “You know, Romanoff and Rogers put together.” His face fills with a cheeky grin. “Oh, and good morning to you too, baby…”

“Give it up, Thor,” she says tiredly as she walks closer to the counter. She tries to reach up to grab the box of teabags from the cupboard, but Steve waves off her attempt as he goes about making both of their drinks. She rolls her eyes at him before turning back to Thor. “We told you, we’re waiting until the baby is born to find out the gender.”

“And when might that be?” Thor asks. “Close to Steve’s birthday, perhaps?”

“Give or take,” she says, her head tilting to the side. “Why?”

“Oh nothing,” Thor says dismissively. “Just, you know… wanted to know when I should buy Little Romanogers’ welcome present.”

“You don’t have to get the baby anything,” Steve says earnestly, and she watches as he screws the lid back on her travel mug before handing it to her and turning towards the table where all their coworkers are seated.

“Oh, but I must,” Thor insists before his expression grows serious. He sets his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together in front of him. “You see, I aim to be his or her second favorite uncle.”

She shoots Thor a strange look. “Second favorite uncle?”

“Well, I figured Tony might be the favorite.” Thor puts his hands out as he shrugs. “On the account of him being able to build cool stuff and all… I get it, I understand. But Strange?” At the mention of his name, Strange looks up from his tablet just as Thor points a finger at him. “I know you’re trying to undermine my mission. But if you think I’m going down…”

Jane sends a glare her way as Thor rambles on. “You had to ask.”

She smirks before looking at Steve. “Go,” she mouths, nodding towards the door.

They slip out of the breakroom, waving to Darcy as they head towards her office, and the second she hears Steve click the door shut behind them, she lets out a laugh. “Is there anything these people won’t place a bet on?” she asks as she sets her tea down on her desk and presses her hand down to her side.

He smiles as he follows her lead and sets his drink down next to hers. “They might as well tell accounting to rewire their paychecks.” She chuckles at that, and he looks on concernedly as she tilts to the side in an attempt to stretch. “Something wrong?”

“Nah,” she says. “Just a little cramp. I think I’m going to have to get one of those pregnancy pillow things.”

He nods at that, moving closer to intertwine their fingers together. “What’s your day like?”

“I’m interviewing the mayor of Madrid through video chat in an hour,” she says, peering up at him. “But aside from that, it’s mostly just editing. You?”

“Tony and I have a meeting downtown for the gallery extension in California,” he says, bringing their hands up to kiss her knuckles. “I might be gone all day, but I’ll be sure to be back before we have to go home.”

Unlike most attractions in New York City that become yesterday’s news as soon as the latest one comes along, the popularity of the gallery they put up downtown has only skyrocketed since its opening. It’s become such a draw for the city, bringing in visitors from all over, that it’s been recognized by the governor for its significant contribution to the state’s tourism. As a result, other states have been vying to be the location for the extension, with California winning the bid. Between planning for the new location, his regular workload at the Daily, and them moving in together, Steve’s time has been booked solid as of late, something he’s been extremely contrite about since it’s put a damper on their time together. But she’s been quick to dismiss his apologies. She couldn’t be happier that he’s pursuing something he’s passionate about, and she refuses to let him feel badly about that.

She raises a perfectly arched brow at him. “I think I remember how to get home by myself.”

“I know,” he says, “but maybe I just like the fact that I get to take you home every night.” She shoots him a pointed look, eliciting a sheepish expression from him. “And... also because I can use you as an excuse to get out of that meeting early.” He sighs.  “I hate this part of setting up a gallery, okay? There’s just so much red tape to deal with that we’re barely breaking ground on the art. To be honest, I don’t even know why I’m involved at this stage.”

“I know,” she echoes, resting her palms flat on his chest. “But exposure is good. This could be big for you.”   

“You mean like how London could have been big for you?”

His counter silences her. As friends, they were determined to push each other to embrace the opportunities that came their way – that’s why she had urged him to curate for the gallery in the first place, and why, even now, he’s always the first person to alleviate her doubts when pursuing a topic for her articles that she thinks people might gloss over. And now that they’re together, they both seem more resolute than ever to uphold that. They had argued long and hard about her decision to forgo moving to London, but her heart was no longer in it. And with something as life changing as moving to a different continent, away from their friends and family, she knew that it was not a decision she could make without poring over the facts with a fine-tooth comb.

After that night in the rooftop, she had thought about why she had wanted to leave at all. And as she forced herself to be honest about the impetus behind her desire to move, she concluded that she was only using T’Challa’s offer as an excuse. Moving to London had nothing to do with furthering her career – that opportunity has always been in the cards at the Daily. When it came down to it, the move would solely be to get away from Steve and the constant reminder of what she thought she could never have. And if that was her rationale for leaving, then leaving did not do anyone or anything justice - not her and the hard work she's put in to get to where she is, not T'Challa and the company he hopes will foster change, not Steve and whatever was blooming between them, and not their child, who stood to lose the most in this. She wanted to run to protect her heart, and she now understood how selfish that would have been.

She shakes her head. “We’re not rehashing that discussion.”

“Natasha-”

“I wanted to go to London because I thought you didn’t love me.” A hint of guilt flashes through his features, and she brings her hand up to his face. "I know now that I was wrong," she reassures, and he nods, relaxing into her touch. "I didn't throw an opportunity away." She lets her lips turn up in a little smile. "I chose our family, and our family belongs here."

He nods after a brief pause, setting a hand on her waist to pull her closer. He leans down just as she tilts her head up, but before their lips can reach, the sound of a throat clearing interrupts them. He groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You know,” they hear Tony say, “public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” she says, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to find him and Pepper sporting matching smirks. She looks back pointedly at Steve as she adds, “they do.” Steve simpers at that, and she walks around him to raise her chin at Tony. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“It’s my building,” Tony points out. “Which is why that baby better not have been made on that desk.”

“Actually,” she says, keeping her expression purposely passive, “this baby was conceived in your guest room the night of your birthday party.”  

Tony’s head whips towards his wife. “I fell asleep there the next day!”

“Don’t look at me,” Pepper says. “That’s what you get for staying up so late that you pass out on the first surface you come across.”

Tony visibly shudders. “You,” he says, pointing at her, “are buying me new sheets.” He shifts his finger towards Steve. “And you, I’d be proud of you if it weren’t for the fact that your bare ass was on my sheets, but we’ll talk about that in the car.”

Steve sends a withering look her way. “This is going to be an excruciating car ride, I hope you know.”

She gives him a one-armed shrug. “I’ll see you later,” she says, smiling sweetly. She rises on the tips of her toes to plant a peck on his lips, but before she can move away, he’s cupping her face to deepen the kiss. He pulls away just as her lungs begin to burn for air, and in her daze, she’s unsure if she wants to wipe that smug expression off his face or drag him down by his tie to kiss him again.

“See you later,” he echoes, letting her go. She watches as he bids Pepper goodbye with a polite smile, and she shakes her head as she tries to gather her wits before moving towards her desk.

“So…” Pepper trails, closing the door before taking a seat on one of the armchairs in front of her. “Based on that display and the one we walked in on, can I deduce that your weekend up in Westchester went well?”

She smiles at the mention of her hometown. Shortly after she and Steve had declared their relationship official, it seemed logical to formally introduce each other to their families. Melinda was easily charmed – one mention of Steve being a veteran and they were practically inseparable, bonding over their experiences serving abroad. Her mother all but melted as Steve promised her to do everything in his power to take care of her daughter and her grandchild. The biggest surprise, however, was how easily Nick had taken to Steve. She could not recall a time he had been as chatty with one of her boyfriends as he was with Steve, but she wasn’t about to question it. The situation was no different with Steve’s family. They had welcomed her with open arms, and after just one evening spent with them in Brooklyn, she could easily see how Steve turned out to be such a good man. She feels especially fortunate to have Sarah and Wanda in her life now, the former quickly becoming a second mother to her, doting over her with an abundance of hugs and freshly baked goods. And Wanda, who comes over to binge watch ballet documentaries with her every now and then, has become the little sister she never knew she needed.  

“I don’t think ‘well’ is an adequate enough word,” she says, taking a seat. “Melinda was practically swooning.”  

Pepper’s smile is nearly blinding. “With those shoulders, who wouldn’t?” She snorts at that, though she does not make a motion to disagree as she turns her attention to her computer screen. A moment passes before she hears Pepper speak again. “Hey, Nat?”

“Hmm,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on her screen as she types in her username.

“You guys didn’t actually… in my guest room, right?”

The question catches her attention, and when she looks to her best friend, she finds that the woman’s expression is genuinely uncertain, even borderline terrified. She smirks. “Not in your guest room.”

Pepper visibly relaxes at that, her lips parting as if she wants to ask her to elaborate, but she settles instead for shaking her head.

A sharp screeching noise greets her the second she opens the door to the apartment, and concern overcomes her as she slips off her flats and lays her work satchel down next to them. She walks into the living room, her eyes widening when she sees a mess of flattened boxes, newspapers, wood, and various tools scattered across the floor. “Steve?” she calls out, but instead of a reply, she hears bickering. “Steve?” she repeats louder this time, and she hears the sound of a door closing. She looks up to see the silhouettes of two people coming down the dark hall.

“Hey,” Steve greets, surprise evident in his eyes. “You’re early.”

“My meeting in D.C. ended sooner than expected so I took an earlier train back,” she explains, her words coming out slower than usual as she takes in his appearance. He’s in jeans and one of his old Dodgers shirts that’s a little worse for wear, but even more so now that there’s a big paint splatter down the front. She peeks around him to see Bucky standing there with similar splatters on his shirt and what looks to be sawdust on his pant leg. “Hey, Bucky.”

“Hey Nat,” Bucky says with a two-fingered wave.  

She looks skeptically between him and Steve before squinting up at the latter. “What are you two up to?”

“I’m gonna bolt,” Bucky blurts out, looking at his watch before Steve can answer her question. “My band’s meeting for practice in Chelsea.” He makes his way towards them, and she watches as he shoots Steve a knowing look before patting him on the shoulder. When he turns to her, he leans down to kiss her cheek. “If you ever get tired of him, let me know.” He places both his hands on her arms, a glint shining in his eyes. “I’ll call the exterminator.”     

“That’s hilarious,” Steve says dryly from behind her as she and Bucky chuckle.  

Bucky gives them both a salute before he turns the corner, and the second they hear the door shut, she spins back around to face Steve. She gives his clothes another once-over. “What’s going on?”

His smile is lopsided, hopeful. “What are the chances of you giving me an extra two hours before I tell you?”

“About the same as me having a regular cup of coffee right now,” she retorts.

His shoulders sag at that, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he tilts his head to the side in contemplation. Eventually, he lets out a sigh. “Alright,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind, okay?”

Her eyes widen at his words. “Tell me you didn’t turn the other room into a Dodgers shrine.”

“No,” he says, pausing as his face lights up. “But I could do that when we find a bigger place...”

“Rogers,” she says, bringing his attention back to her as she puts her hands on her hips. “Why are you on edge?”

“Just…” he begins before shaking his head. “Just see for yourself, I guess.”

She follows him as he begins walking back down the hall, and for a second, she expects him to go all the way down to the end where the guest room is, but her interest is piqued when he stops in front of the door to the room they use as storage. She raises her eyebrows at him. Since he’s moved in, she’s found him sketching in here a couple of times despite giving him space in her home office to do so, so she supposes she shouldn’t really be that surprised that he’s taken a special interest in this space. His hand reaches for the knob, twisting it to push the door open. As he does, sunlight from the inside creeps into the darkness of the hallway, making her squint as she steps inside.

She blinks a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the light, and her jaw drops when she finally sees the inside. The once crowded room has been cleared out, and for the first time since she moved into this apartment, she realizes just how spacious this area actually is. The boxes filled with paperwork she’s had since college that were piling up in corners are gone, and so are the odds and ends she’s collected over the years that she had carelessly stashed into baskets and tucked away in the shelves that have now been torn down. That explains the mess in the living room, she tells herself. New furniture has been placed in the absence of all the clutter, and she recognizes the already assembled walnut colored crib and matching changing table from the registry she started online before bed weeks ago. To the right, just by the window, a chaise lounge sits with a lamp hovering just behind. What truly catches her attention, though, are the walls. What were once a plain white are now a soft, creamy yellow, the hue having enough brightness to give the space some zest, but not so much so that it’s glaring to the eye.

“Don’t worry,” she hears him say when he catches her looking at the walls. “I used water-based paint so there aren’t any harmful fumes for you to inhale.” She nods at his words, still taking in the room. “I know we agreed to turn the guest room into the nursery,” he goes on, “but I was in there the other day and I realized that the sun hits that room first thing in the morning.” She turns her focus away from the three intricate sketches of zoo animals she had caught a glimpse of when he was working on them the other night that are now framed individually above the crib to find him gauging her reaction, his hands tucked nervously in the pockets of his jeans. “Despite what you think, I have a feeling that, given our luck, Fig’s not really going to be a morning person.”

“Right,” she manages, still too much in awe to utter much more.

“Look,” he goes on with a sigh. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do the nursery yourself, but I just thought that I’d take this out of your hands. I know you’re busy at work and you’re tired, so I didn’t think you’d mind if I did this without you. I asked Pepper for help with the furniture just to be sure, but Bucky thinks you’re going to be pissed because I went ahead and did all this and tore stuff down and painted the walls, but it’s not even done yet, so if you hate it we can still-”

“Steve,” she interrupts, raising her voice purposely to stop him froms rambling on. He looks up to meet her gaze, and it’s almost preposterous how much uncertainty is in his eyes. “I love it.”

“You do?” he clarifies, relief seemingly washing over him.

“How could I not?” she asks, looking around the room again. “Steve, it’s perfect.” She smiles as she adds, “I think Fig might think so, too.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

She moves closer to him, reaching for his hand and placing it on her belly. “Started kicking the second we walked in here,” she says. “It’s like the little brat knew you were doing this.”

“Hey,” he says defensively, rubbing his thumb over the spot where he felt the kick. “We don’t name call in this house.”

“At least not to your face,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him as he moves his hand away.

He rolls his eyes before reverting his attention back to the room. “It’s not done yet, though.” He points to the ground where a roll of white carpet is still tied into a log. “Still have to put that down on the floor. I know you’re not a fan of carpet because it’s hard to clean and all, but I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to have it in case the baby falls or something.”

She shakes her head at him amusedly. “Such a worry wart,” she teases.

“I hate to break it to you,” he says, a smile beginning to form on his face. “But that’s not about to change. If anything, it’s probably going to get worse once Fig’s born.”  

“I’m sure,” she says, tucking herself into his side. He wraps an arm around her, his hand settling on her waist as she leans her head against his chest. She lets her eyes roam the room once more, like she still can’t believe that this is a part of her home, and a sigh escapes her. Months ago, if someone told her that this would be her life today, she would have laughed in their face. She was ready to become a single mom, and yet here she is, standing in the nursery of her soon to be born child, wrapped in the arms of someone who had unexpectedly stolen her heart. Falling this hard and this indelibly for the friend she had turned to for help in making her dream come true had never been in the plan, and the weeks she spent believing that he did not return her feelings had been some of the hardest she’s ever endured. But now that she’s sure of Steve’s feelings, of his love for her, and now that they’re months away from meeting this gift they’ve brought to life together, she can’t ever imagine her life differently. She does not even want to, and that’s why she has to ask, and why she needs to hear him affirm it. “This is real, right?” She tilts her head up at him. “You, me, Fig. This is really happening?”  

He looks down at her, and the conviction in his eyes is almost enough of an answer for her. “This is happening,” he tells her, his words coming out like a promise. “We’re going to be a family.” He smiles at that, and she’s powerless to do anything but reach up to capture his lips in her own.

“Thank you for doing this,” she says when they pull away.

“For you two,” he says, his hand falling to her belly as he drops another kiss to her forehead, “anything.” He eyes the room once more, examining his work before he adds, “everything.”

Silence befalls them, and she’s content to just stay in his arms as they take in the moment. She brings her hands up to the front of his shirt, tracing the dried paint splatter just below his chest when a thought comes to mind. “The room seems fine,” she observes, looking back up at him and raising an eyebrow in question. “Why are you and Bucky covered in paint?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  

“So, you two,” Tony says, commanding the attention of the entire table as he points his steak knife at the one end where Steve is seated before turning it towards her at the other from where he sits between Bucky and Pepper. “We have the love, and the wonderful coming together of the Romanoff and Rogers apartments, and the baby-”

“Who hopefully looks like Natasha,” Bucky interjects, eliciting a glare from Steve and chuckles from the rest of the table.

“Right,” Tony agrees, nodding at Bucky. “And while it didn’t necessarily go in that order-”

“Tony,” both Steve and Pepper say in warning.

“Can’t a man finish a sentence around here?” Tony says exasperatedly. “As I was about to say before I was rudely interrupted” - he shoots warning looks at both Steve and Pepper - “Tom Ford suits don’t get sewn overnight, so can I get a ballpark of when I might be expecting a wedding invitation?”   

“Who said you were invited?” she quips, looking at him challengingly as she brings her fork up to her mouth. In her periphery, she catches the subtle shift in Melinda’s posture as she glances in the direction of the opposite end of the table, but before she can pay further attention to it, Tony’s already volleying back.

“Trust me,” Tony says, “you want me there. I already have the fire dancers booked and everything.”

She turns her gaze towards Steve. “How opposed are you to Vegas?”

“Natasha Romanoff,” Melinda scolds. She turns towards her mother to find the stern look on her face that she used to see repeatedly in her youth, a clear indication that she was in trouble. “You wouldn’t dare do that to me.”

Sarah, who has remained silent in the midst of this conversation that Tony started, lays a hand on Melinda’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she says before glancing at Steve. “Some people are aware of the consequences if they ever even think about the e-word.”

Next to Steve, Wanda smirks into her glass of wine. “Because he hasn’t been spontaneous before.”  

“Do you have something to say?” Steve says pointedly at his sister, who just smiles charmingly back at him. He rolls his eyes before sighing. “Look, guys,” he says, levelling his shoulders. “We appreciate everyone’s interest in both... ganging up on me and our future.” He smiles at that, looking across the table at her where she matches the sentiment with her own grin. “But we haven’t really discussed that, and right now, we’re very much just focused on preparing for the baby.” He turns his attention towards both Sarah and Melinda. “That said, you don’t have to worry about us running out to get in front of Elvis.” He addresses the whole table as he adds, “when we’re ready, you all will be the first to know.”

“Fine,” Tony says begrudgingly. “But if I have to wear off-the-rack, I will never forgive you both.”

She tilts her head to the side as she examines the line of stuffed animals in the crib that she’s rearranged for the umpteenth time in a span of days. She straightens the giraffe, bemoaning once again how its legs are too thin to keep the toy upright. She tucks it into the center of the pile, barricading it with the other plush animals to keep it from falling forward before she looks down at it in satisfaction and reaches for another bear that’s tipped over.  

“That’s an awful lot of animals,” she hears a voice say, causing her to jump in surprise. She looks over her shoulder, and she relaxes when she sees Sarah standing by the door of the nursery offering her an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” Sarah says, pointing a thumb back towards the hall. “I was coming from the bathroom and saw the light was on. I thought we might have forgotten to turn it off when we were in here earlier. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, that’s okay,” she reassures. “Just got lost in thought.” She gestures for her to come further into the room. “Please, come in.” She puts the bear back in the crib before turning towards her. “I only came in here to put the blanket Bucky bought for the baby with the other stuff and got sidetracked.” Her voice softens as she looks at her handiwork in the crib. “It’s like I can’t even pass by this room without tinkering with it.” She feels sheepish as she adds, “I know we have everything, but I can never seem to be sure.”

“Oh, darling,” Sarah says with a little giggle as she moves to stand next to her. “You’re a mother. It’s a rite of passage for us to be equal parts anxious and excited.” Sarah covers the hand she has resting on the rail of the crib with her own. “Can I tell you a secret, though?” She nods, and Sarah smiles. “Unfortunately for us, the uneasiness never really fades. It’s going to make you uncomfortable at times, and you might even find yourself questioning yourself, but don’t worry. It’s okay to never be a hundred percent prepared.” Sarah shrugs. “You just have to do your best, and sometimes that means winging it on...” Sarah’s eyebrows furrow, causing the lines in her forehead to crease, and the sight reminds her so much of Steve’s own mannerisms that she has to fight a smile. “What do you kids call it these days? On the daily? Sometimes you just have to wing it on the daily.”  

She and Sarah both chuckle at that. “I guess I’ll stop fussing then.”

“You didn’t do all this on your own, did you?” Sarah asks worriedly, gesturing towards all the furniture and décor in the room. “I know you’re incredibly capable, dear, but Steven is about to get a harsh talking to if-”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts with a laugh. “Steve did all the hard work. I’ve barely had to lift a finger since we moved in together.”

“Good,” Sarah says nodding. “That’s good. Make the man work for it.”

She smirks. “We are still talking about your son, right?”

“Yes, and I love him dearly,” Sarah tells her. “But that does not mean he’s exempt from doing every single little thing it takes to keep you happy.”    

“He does,” she assures her, and she can’t help the smile from spreading across her face. “That and so much more.” She looks to Sarah, noticing the pride in her features as she looks around the nursery. “Sarah,” she says after a beat. Sarah looks at her expectantly, and this time, she’s the one finding herself reaching for the woman’s hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Sarah asks, confused.

“For raising such a wonderful man,” she says. “I’ve always feared reliance, but not with him. Through every doubt and fear I’ve ever had…  Ever since he’s become part of my life, he’s only managed to make me feel stronger, and I know that’s because of you.” She sighs. “So, thank you. Thank you for giving me a partner in all this.”

“Natasha,” Sarah breathes out as she pulls her into her arms. She goes willingly, returning the embrace. “I’m the one that should be thanking you,” Sarah whispers, pulling away slightly to look her in the eyes. “One of the hardest things as a mother is to watch your child get hurt, and for a while there, I thought I’d never see him smile again. But you fixed that.” The corners of Sarah’s mouth turn up. “So, thank you for making my son the happiest man alive, and me the happiest mother.” Sarah brings a hand up to her face lovingly before letting it fall to her ever-growing belly. “I know you two got thrown into the fire back there with all that wedding talk,” Sarah says. “But just know that you’re already family, and we’re going to spoil you and my grandbaby absolutely rotten.”  

Tears threaten to sting her eyes, but despite that, she finds it within her to laugh. “I don’t doubt that for one bit.”

“Believe me,” Sarah says. “Between Melinda and I, there will be no shortage of hugs in this family.” Sarah wipes away her own tears with the back of her hand before sighing. “Okay,” she says with a smile. “That’s enough with the waterworks. We should get back out there. You know how my son gets when you two are out of sight for too long.”

She nods as she follows Sarah out, switching the lights off and closing the door behind her. She makes it down the hall, leaning against the arch leading to the living room where she finds herself stunned by the warm and euphoric sight before her. Everyone has made their way over from the dining room, splitting themselves into two groups. By the couch, Sarah joins Melinda and Pepper in conversation, and she hears laughter erupt over something as Melinda pours Sarah a glass of wine. Towards the middle, Wanda, Steve, Tony, and Bucky are huddled around the coffee table over a game of Monopoly. From where she stands, she watches intently as Bucky moves his token, landing squarely on the Go To Jail tile of the board and causing everyone else to cheer at his demise. Bucky lets a curse fall from his lips, and both Sarah and Melinda reprimand him from the couch for his choice of words. That inspires more goading from Steve and Tony as Wanda takes the dice in her hands to roll her turn, and she does, Steve looks up in time to catch her watching. He smiles, making her heart expand in her chest, and again, she finds herself grateful that this has become her life. He gestures for her to come join them, and as she nears, he pulls her down onto his lap.

“Where have you been?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

She leans back against him, rubbing her thumb over the back of the hand he’s placed on her belly. “Just… watching,” she whispers, joining in on the laughter as Tony loses a negotiation and is forced to hand over more fake money to Wanda.    

Her fingers tap restlessly against the leather of the arm of her chair as she sits behind the desk in her home office. Everyone had gone home about half an hour ago, and Steve had insisted that she leave the cleaning to him. She contemplated retiring to bed early, but instead, her instincts had led her in here. Mindlessly, she reaches for the set of keys in the bowl next to the cup holding all her pens, and she glides her thumb over the tiny key for her drawer. She rotates her chair to the right, making enough space to lean forward and plug the key into the lock, and despite her shaking hands, she manages to unlock it and pull the drawer open. She feels blindly for the item she’s searching for, and when her fingertips find the smooth material of the paper, she pulls it out and rests it flat on her desk. She breathes in as she looks at the envelope before her. She’s had this for over a week now, and though it weighs next to nothing, just the knowledge that she has it in her possession has felt like a weight on her shoulders.  

“Stop being a wuss,” she mutters to herself. You’ve asked for worse before. She nods her head at the thought, picking up the envelope and a pen as she stands and makes her way out of the office and towards the kitchen. She walks in to find Steve by the sink with the door to the dishwasher pushed down, and she stops to lean by one of the counters.   

“Hey,” he says, hearing her footfalls. He keeps his eyes on the serving platter he’s washing that she knows does not fit in the dishwasher as he adds, “I made hot chocolate.”

“What if I already brushed my teeth?” she pouts even as she walks towards the island where two steaming mugs rest. She places the envelope down as she picks one up, letting the warmth calm her nerves.

“Like Fig would ever let you turn down hot chocolate,” he says over his shoulder. She mumbles her concession, and as she takes a sip, she hears the telltale sound of the soap dispenser being pushed down before the water starts running again. “Did you find the sauce okay without diced tomatoes?” he asks. “I know you love them, but I read that it could worsen your heartburn, so I didn’t put them in this time around.”  

“That’s okay,” she says, her voice coming out soft as her fingers trace the lip of her mug. She clears her throat. “Haven’t been able to stand them recently anyway.” She watches the back of his head bob as he nods in acknowledgement before he reaches for the glass of wine resting on the counter, bringing it up to his lips to finish what’s left.

“I’m hoping that’s temporary and not a sign that Fig hates tomatoes,” he says, rinsing his wine glass before setting it down on the rack in the dishwasher. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to adjust-” He pauses as he finally turns her way, and judging by the way worry fills his eyes, she can tell that he’s noticed how unnerved she feels at the moment. “Nat?” His eyes drop to the yellow packet next to her drink, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a nervous smile. “Got something for me?”

“Something like that,” she says, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

From where he stands, his head tilts to the side, his forehead creasing as he dries his hands with the dish towel. He walks around the island to stand in front of her, his hip resting on the edge of the counter as he appraises her. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

Her nerves quell at his question and she lets out a silent chuckle. It’s almost bizarre, the effect he has on her, that with just a few words and the sound of his voice, he can calm her heart that’s been pounding in her chest ever since she got up from her desk. “I just- I guess I came in here because…” Irony hits her as she tries to finish her thought, making her shake her head as a smile breaks on her face. “I came in here to ask you for a little favor.”

His eyebrows rise at that. “Another one?” he asks, a playful gleam shining in his eyes. “What could it be this time, a kidney? Part of my liver, maybe?”

“Probably a little more than that,” she says amusedly, provoking intrigue as she slides the envelope towards him. “But let’s be honest here, Rogers, nobody wants that liver.”

“Like yours is any better,” he returns. He picks the packet off the counter, and the spirited atmosphere between them falls as he lets out a sigh. “This isn’t another contract, is it?” he asks, the grief palpable in his tone as his fingers work the tab open to pull out the papers. “Because, Nat, I thought we were over-” His words stop as his eyes fall to the document, to the marriage license she had gotten from city hall last week on a whim when she was out to lunch and he was working out of the gallery, and his lips curve into a smile as he looks up at her. “Well, this one might last us a lifetime.”

“Ideally,” she says with a little grin on her face, but it lasts but a second as she shakes her head. “You don’t have to sign it or say yes or whatever to it right now. Or maybe you don’t want to say yes, I don’t know. I was just thinking-” She pauses when she sees him place the license down on the counter, reaching for the pen she brought. He signs his name on the bottom before chucking the pen over the island dramatically. She scoffs. “Well, that didn’t take much-”

He cuts her off by closing the distance between them, cupping her face between his hands as he tilts her head up towards him and leans down to kiss her. The intensity surprises her, causing her to gasp into his lips, but the shock is short lived because her senses are closing in on him and him alone. Her hands find their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to her as she deepens their kiss, pouring every promise that’s hanging on the tip of her tongue to love him, to stand by him, to cherish him for the rest of her life - all things she had meant to say before she asked him to sign, but instead quickly turned into teasing. He pulls away, resting his forehead against hers as they both gasp for air. Her eyes fall shut, but even then, she can feel his smile as he says, “I would like nothing more than for you to sass me for the rest of my life, Natasha Romanoff.”

She beams at that. “That’s a long time.”

“I’m counting on it.” Her eyelashes flutter open, and the elation she sees in his features is infectious. She pulls away from him just as his eyes light up as if in realization. “Well, since we’re doing this,” he says. “Wait here.”

“What?” she asks in confusion, but he’s already rushing out of the kitchen. Intrigued yet simultaneously perplexed, she grabs her mug off the counter before following him. “Steve, where-” She stumbles in her step, a gasp escaping her lips as she feels a stabbing sensation at her side, causing her fingers to loosen around the mug. The ceramic hits the ground, fracturing into pieces with a loud crack as what’s left of the liquid races down the hardwood.

“Nat,” she hears Steve call out followed by his heavy footsteps running down the hall.

“I’m okay,” she tries to say, but it comes out barely above a whisper.  She attempts to straighten her stance, but as the pain in her side intensifies, twisting, aching as it builds in intensity, her legs buckle from underneath her, and she hears Steve’s agonized cry as her knees hit the floor.

If there’s one thing she knows from her experience as a journalist, it’s that you don’t get all the accolades and recognition from being a good writer alone. It takes determination, grit, a few drops of blood, sometimes tears, and most importantly, becoming adroit at reading body language. In her career, she’s interviewed some of the most seasoned politicians and executives, masters of skirting simple yes or no questions, but even then, she has a yet to put her name on the byline of an article that did not uncover the truth or hit the nail right in the head. She knows that there is a reason her subjects both fear and respect her in equal measure, and that’s because try as they might to beat around the bush, in the end, she thrives just as much in analyzing what hasn’t been said as much as she does with what has. She’s always been intuitive when it comes to reading her interviewees, sensitive to their every shift in facial expression or tone of voice when she asks them a question; they fidget when she gets closer to the truth and laugh a little too loudly when she offers a joke meant to disarm them. Never in her life has she been ungrateful to have a skill that’s propelled her to the top of her career, but now, as she watches Helen enter the exam room from where she sits on the exam table, she finds that there’s a first time for everything.

The expression on Helen’s face as she approaches them is unsurprisingly neutral. The woman is a distinguished doctor after all, and the chances of her sending her patient into a fit of panic over how she presents herself, regardless of the results written in the clipboard in her hands, is slim to none. But she’s not most patients, she reminds herself. While most people might be comforted by the fact that the doctor isn’t displaying any sense of urgency at the moment, they’re also not as trained as she is to pick up on nonverbal cues – like the way Helen’s chest rose restrainedly as both her and Steve’s eyes darted in her direction as she opened the door, and the way she quickly reverted her eyes away from her and Steve’s intertwined hands. Helen stops by the foot of the table, and her heart plummets in her chest when she sees the doctor swallow before looking between them.

“We’ve identified and confirmed the cause of the pain,” Helen says, her voice steady as she looks between the both of them. “Natasha’s developed a condition called placenta previa.”

Her hand tenses in Steve’s just as the breath gets caught in her throat, and she’s thankful that he’s able to find his voice first. “What… uh- What does that mean?”    

Helen sets her clipboard down by the foot of the exam table. “It means that the placenta has migrated close to her cervix.”

“Is that treatable?” Steve asks.  

“In most pregnancies, yes,” Helen says. “But in this case, the fast progression makes this one that much more precarious.”

“What does that mean for the baby?” she asks, finally finding her voice the same time Steve asks Helen to expound on precarious.  

“Previas this early on usually correct themselves,” Helen explains. “But seeing as this progressed from nothing to this since your last ultrasound, it’s safe to say this is fast moving.” Helen looks directly at her as she adds, “for now, both you and the baby are fine. I am concerned, however, of the complications that will arise.”

She levels her chin, forcing herself to look at the doctor despite the pit in her stomach. “Such as?”

“The pain you felt was caused by the placenta hanging low,” Helen says. “From that, we’re dealing with multiple possibilities. If it goes any lower and presses against your cervix, it could rupture membranes and cause you to hemorrhage. If it tears from your uterine wall altogether, that could stifle the oxygen and nutrient supply for the baby and cause hemorrhaging anyway. It could go any which way, and we have no way of predicting what exactly will happen.”

She lets go of Steve’s hand, letting hers fall to the side as her fingers curl into her palm, her nails digging almost painfully into her skin. He turns to her, but she does not dare look at him. Instead, she keeps her focus on Helen. “What are you suggesting then?”

“As your doctor, my first priority will always be to save both mom and child,” Helen says with a sigh. “With that in mind, I suggest we schedule a c-section as soon as possible.”

“What?” she exclaims, leaning forward on the table. “No,” she insists. “I’m only twenty-seven weeks along. It’s too early.” She shakes her head vigorously. “It’s too early!”

“Hey,” Steve says, placing a hand on her arm consolingly.

“How could that be the best option?” she asks, anger slipping into her tone as her voice rises.

“I know it’s early,” Helen appeases. “The baby will have to stay in intensive care for a while since its lungs and other vital organs aren’t fully developed yet, but delivering now assures we don’t risk losing either of you.”

Silence falls upon them, lingering for what feels like an eternity before she asks, “and if I wait?”

“Natasha,” she hears Steve breathe next to her, but she still does not look his way.

“I can’t advise that,” Helen tells her. “It’s too dangerous for you.” The doctor appraises them both before adding, “I know it’s terrifying,” she says. “But complications arise during pregnancy more commonly than you might think, and it’s not something either of you could have prevented.”  

She leans back against the exam table at that, her head falling to the side as she stares at nothing in particular. Steve’s voice is small, pained as he speaks. “Do we have to decide on this right now?”

“I know this is difficult, but I can give you maybe a day, two at most,” Helen says. “Time is our enemy here. We’re working against the clock.”

They’re both silent as they enter the apartment, and she’s listless as she lets Steve help her out of her jacket. She hears him speaking to her, something about her laying down to rest, but she ignores him as she puts one foot in front of the other as if she’s on autopilot. She thinks he calls out her name, but she’s unsure and unable to bring herself to care as she walks into the living room, past the shattered mug that’s still on the ground, and towards the hall. A small, black square on the floor by the archway catches her attention, but she ignores it, walking past the item and the door of their bedroom as she makes her way into the nursery.

She walks over to the crib, reaching for the giraffe at the center to bring it to her face. Her eyes fall shut as the plush material rests against her skin. She’s been annoyed by this very object since she found it in one of the many gift baskets people have sent her, never quite grasping how its creators did not correct the obvious oversight of it being unable to stand upright, but she could never bring herself to throw it away. For as much as she balked at it, she was always more interested in finding out what their child would think of it, whether or not it would frustrate or intrigue it. And now, as unbidden as the thought is, she has to wonder if that’s something she will ever find out.

Tears spill from her eyes at the idea, leaving a hot trail down her cheeks as her heart tightens like a vice in her chest. It felt like just yesterday that Steve was showing her this room, newly painted and halfway put together. It had also only been hours ago that she had stood here with Sarah as they bonded over their excitement to meet the life growing inside of her, appreciating the space now that it was done. She puts the giraffe back, letting her hands fall to the rail, her fingers curling around the wood. She gasps at how cruel it is that circumstances can change in a blink of an eye.

“Nat,” she hears Steve call out. She turns to him, and the helplessness and unadulterated anguish on his face as he stands by the doorway are practically tangible. He looks around the room, at all the things he had a personal hand in putting together, before letting out a breath she knows is loaded with all the same emotions firing at her at the same time that she’s not even certain which to feel first, which to let singe her first. “We should go to bed,” he says, and it’s foreign to her ears, how defeated he sounds. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

“No need,” she says, her voice breaking as she walks past him and out into the hall.

“What?” he asks tightly, following her.

She stops mid stride, letting out a breath. She turns back around, steeling herself as she looks up at him. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she says. “I’m not delivering this baby.”

Chapter Text

Steve knows what fear feels like. During his two tours with the army, he felt it enough times that he’s congealed the details of every event that’s triggered the emotion into one big blur in his mind. And while he does not care to remember the specifics of all the close calls he’s encountered, that does not mean he does not recognize the feeling they elicit in him as it begins to course through his veins. In his experience, it always unfolds the same way. It starts with a stimulus – usually the sound of a device detonating or a trigger being pulled – followed by a rush of adrenaline that makes his body capable of physical feats previously thought impossible. Then comes the worry – for the wellbeing of the soldiers in his company, for how Sarah and Wanda will take the news, and then later on, for the future he hoped to have with Sharon. That’s always the worst part for him, the hardest pill to swallow even when he knows what he’s doing is for the common good, but somehow, he’s always found a way to navigate through it. To keep going.

Fear, and everything that comes with it, is something he knows how to handle. And if there’s one thing he knows for certain about it, it’s that every single time he’s felt it, it’s never been debilitating. Every blade and bullet he’s dodged from a hostile has never deterred him from acting. Instead, he’s always used it as fuel for him to fight harder, to pull through. But as he stands in the confines of their apartment’s elevator, drowning in worry, he finds that for the first time in his life, he’s petrified.

The soft hum of the elevator as it ascends to their floor is the only thing cutting through the dense silence, and despite his desire to say something – anything – his mind draws a blank. Inches separate him and Natasha, but it might as well be an ocean as they both stand with their backs to the wall. His instincts tell him to reach over and pull her close, wrap her in his arms and whisper reassurances to her, but his hands remain stubbornly at his sides. The space between them has been glaring to him since she had let go of his hand as Helen delivered the devastating news, and ever since, he’s been fighting this battle between what he wants to do and what he’s capable of doing at the moment. The elevator sounds as it reaches their floor, and it’s almost mechanical the way they put one foot in front of the other as they exit and walk into their apartment.

“You should get some rest,” he says quietly as he reaches to help her out of her jacket. She doesn’t reply, doesn’t even bother to turn his way as he slips the sleeves down her arms and hangs the garment on the hook. He calls out to her, but she ignores him as she begins to walk across their living room and down the hall. She makes it past their bedroom, and his head bows when she enters the nursery. He follows her, stopping by the threshold, and the sight of her shoulders heaving with a sob makes his heart constrict tighter in his chest. “Nat.” She turns as he calls out her name, and he has to swallow when he finds her eyes mirroring all the same emotions rushing through him. It’s too much that he has to avert his eyes, his gaze falling to the sunshiny walls, their brightness a stark contrast to the darkness that’s looming over them right now. He sighs. “We should go to bed,” he offers, and it frustrates him that that’s the best he can come up with, but it’s also all he has. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

“No need,” she says weakly, brushing past him as she walks out into the hall.

He knows he’s heard the words, but his mind refuses to comprehend them as he follows her. “What?”

She pauses, and when she looks back, the combative look on her face incites dread in him. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she says. “I’m not delivering this baby.”

“Nat, no,” he says quickly like a reflex, as if he somehow anticipated saying the words. His voice is heavily laced with panic that he almost does not recognize it. Every fiber of his being wills it not to be his, but the pit in his stomach that’s been sinking deeper as the night goes on, grounding him to this reality, reassures him that it is. “You heard what Helen said-”

“I know what Helen said,” she cuts in, her expression hardening. “And I don’t care.” She shakes her head. “It’s too early.”   

“I know, baby,” he says softly as he walks towards her. His hands reach for her, landing just above her elbows. This is the closest they’ve been to each other since they left the hospital, but the relief he thought the proximity might bring to both of them is sorely absent as she remains rigid under his touch. “But this is the only safe option for the both of you,” he reasons. “And we’ve read about this. At this stage, there’s a ninety-six percent chance-”

“That is four percent too short,” she says, her stare growing icy as she pulls away from him.

“Helen didn’t say that complications might arise,” he says tightly, his eyebrows furrowing as he appraises her worriedly. “She said they will.”

“For me,” she counters. “Not for the baby.”

He shakes his head. “Nat-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” she says sharply before she turns her back and stalks into their bedroom.

“What do you mean this isn’t up for this discussion?” he asks, looking at her incredulously as he stops by the doorway while she keeps her focus on ridding their bed of all the throw pillows. “You can’t just unilaterally make this decision. We have to consider all the facts.”

“Fine,” she says, her tone suddenly venomous as she throws a pillow forcefully to the ground and looks his way. “You want to talk about the facts?” She raises her chin at him as she steps closer to the foot of the bed. “Let’s talk about the facts.”

Her bellicose expression causes him to sigh. “Natasha.”  

“Did you know that this baby is barely three pounds? That its lungs aren’t fully developed yet?” Her voice rises on the last word, and he swallows as he witnesses her eyes fill with agony, hears the anger escalate in her tone. “And because of that, if I deliver now, they’re going to have to put it on a ventilator because it can’t breathe on its own?”

His shoulders sag at her words, his head bowing. “I know,” he whispers.

If she heard him, she does nothing to show it. “It can’t eat on its own, either.” She shrugs. “So, that’s probably, what, another tube through the nose or the mouth or through a vein.” Her voice breaks as she stresses the last part, and he has to close his eyes when the image she’s describing unwantedly floods his mind. “And that’s the best-case scenario. We haven’t even talked about its quality of life after-”

“I know that!” His eyes fly open to meet her bloodshot ones, the both of them startled by his voice suddenly rising a decibel. “I know, Nat,” he says more calmly. “I know.”

“Do you?” she challenges. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words get caught in his throat as she moves to stand in front of him, placing her hands on his arms just as he had done to her only moments ago. “Because this isn’t just some… thing that resulted from a contract anymore.” He looks at her, watching as fresh tears dot her eyelashes before rolling down her cheeks. “We listen to its heartbeat every night,” she says brokenly, making his vision blur as his own tears sting his eyes. “You’ve seen all its fingers and toes,” she adds. “You’ve felt it kick every time it hears your voice first thing in the morning.” She reaches up to swipe a tear away from his cheek with her thumb. “This is Fig, Steve.” He inhales sharply as she whispers, “I can’t lose our little Fig.”

“I can’t lose you,” he says.

She steps back, putting some distance between them again as she wipes away her own tears. “Continuing this pregnancy might kill me,” she says finally, nodding before she looks back at him. “But watching our child struggling, fighting for its life? That certainly will.”

He turns to the side, bracing his hands on the ledge of the bureau as he leans against it, no longer trusting his legs to hold his weight up. “How could this happen?”

His question lingers heavily between them, and though her voice is barely above a whisper, they seem to echo loud and clear. “I don’t know.”

He concentrates on the sound of Velcro being pulled as Helen secures the cuff of the blood pressure monitor on Natasha’s arm and begins the usual check-up routine. He’s seen this procedure done time and again from not having missed a single one of Natasha’s appointments that he’s memorized it – take vitals, measure fundal height, check for glucose and protein levels, ultrasound. And yet, from where he stands by the counter, he finds that, this time, he’s scrutinizing every movement Helen makes, committing every observation she voices to memory.

“Have you felt any more pain since yesterday?”

He turns his attention to Natasha as Helen asks her the question, suddenly curious of the answer himself. They haven’t said much to each other since they were last in this exam room only hours ago, though he doubts either of them have since found solace in the quiet. Sleep (if you could call it that) had been hard to come by last night. He had laid on his back, his eyes to the ceiling, while she had curled away from him. He supposes that the fact that she hadn’t mentioned anything meant nothing was hurting her physically, but she’s always been a still sleeper, and the way he felt every shift in the mattress as she tossed and turned until the sun finally came up makes him wonder if he’s just thinking wishfully.

“No,” Natasha says from where she sits on the exam table. The expression on her face is so even that his eyes tell him to believe her, but a part of him remains skeptical.

“Natasha,” Helen says, “I really wish you would reconsider my suggested treatment plan.”

“I told you the treatment plan I wanted.”

“And I told you that it’s too much of a risk,” Helen argues. “I know you think delivering right now is too early. But waiting until the thirty-seventh week like you want? That may be too late.”  

“What’s the risk for the baby?” Natasha asks, but the question is not as much an inquiry as it is a challenge. He recognizes her tone as the one she uses when she knows she’s about to deal a final blow to an argument, and he looks helplessly at Helen, hoping the doctor has a trump card.

“Theoretically, so long as the placenta does not detach, the fetus should be fine.”

“And if it does?” he asks tightly, crossing his arms over his chest as he directs his gaze at Natasha.

Helen looks between him and Natasha. “If it does, the oxygen and nutrient supply will be compromised, and we’ll have to deliver asap.”

“If it can happen anyway, I’m not delivering now,” Natasha says with a finality to her tone. “I’m not going to subject my child to a life in the NICU and who knows what else because we got squeamish over a possible outcome. It needs more time.”

“This is hardly being squeamish,” Helen says. “Yes, we can deliver the baby if the placenta detaches. But you?” She shakes her head. “You will bleed out on my table if we don’t get to you in time.”

“I can handle it,” Natasha says.

A shaky breath leaves his lips, something he’s been holding in ever since she had informed him and Helen of her plan. If their argument last night was anything to go by, he can’t exactly claim to be blindsided by her decision, but that does not mean it didn’t overwhelm him the second he heard it voiced out loud. “Natasha, please-”

“It’s my body,” she says, turning to him for the first time since they arrived back at the hospital. The stubbornness in her glare stokes the helplessness he feels. “I get to decide what it can and can’t handle.” She turns back to Helen. “I understand that this is dangerous for me and that there is a good chance that this baby can survive even if it’s born right now. But unless continuing this pregnancy puts it in immediate danger, I’m going to wait.”

Much to his horror, Helen nods. “I obviously can’t force you to do anything that you do not want to do,” she says. “But I need you to understand that since you’re going against medical advice, I can’t give you anymore guarantees, especially where your own health is concerned.”  

“I understand,” Natasha says before nodding towards the machine. “Can we check on the baby now?”

Helen nods before rolling the machine over. Natasha begins to lean back, lifting her blouse up as she does, and he walks to stand by the side of her head as Helen applies the jelly and glides the wand across her belly. “The placenta is still hanging alarmingly low,” Helen says after a brief pause, shaking her head in disapproval.

“But is the baby okay?” Natasha presses.

“No signs of growth impediments,” Helen remarks. “It’s about a few inches longer than it was from your last prenatal, and also a few grams heavier. Perfectly healthy, it seems.”

While his gaze had fallen down to the ground defeatedly, the sound of Natasha gasping causes his eyes to flicker towards her. “Is that…” she trails, too astonished to finish her thought. He follows her line of sight, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees what’s caught her attention.

“A lot of developments are happening,” Helen says with a little smile on her face. “They can get curious about exploring their newfound reflexes.” She reaches to press a button on the panel, and as the image zooms in on the baby’s profile, they see its hand unmistakably close to its mouth. “Thumb-sucking is part of that.”

“That’s your jaw line,” he hears Natasha whisper.

He keeps his eyes trained on the screen, carefully examining the image. “And your nose,” he says, finally turning to her. The corner of her mouth begins to lift in a little smile, and he finds that the ire in her eyes from moments ago has faded, replaced now with pride and awe. The emotions are infectious, permeating surprisingly rapidly through his every cell and meshing with all the other emotions that he was already contending with.

“I’m going to move your checkups to a bi-weekly schedule,” Helen says as she wipes down Natasha’s belly and throws her gloves into the trash. “Given the circumstances, we’re going to have to keep a closer eye on you.” She shoots Natasha a stern look. “If you so much as feel a twitch, I want you to call me. I don’t care what time it is, understood?”

Natasha nods and he offers her a hand to help her off of the exam table. “Anything particular we should be watching for?” he asks.

“Pain is one,” Helen says. “But bleeding is the most concerning. If it starts, get to a hospital asap.” She looks back at Natasha. “I can’t promise that we’ll get to the thirty-seventh week like you want, but I’m going to do everything I can. From now on, you’ll need to be on bedrest.”

“Whatever helps,” Natasha says.

Silence befalls them once more as they ride the cab to the Daily. While he had insisted on taking her home after her appointment to begin bedrest as Helen had ordered, she had reasoned that she might as well tell Pepper the news herself. He hadn’t really felt comfortable with that, but he's more than willing to choose his battles today, and he's confident that Pepper would be the first person to put her in a cab once she knows.

“I’ll come to your office when I’m done talking to Pepper,” she says as they ride the elevator up to the main floor.

He nods. “Are you telling everyone else?”

“I should brief Darcy,” she says quietly. “She should know why I won’t be around the office.” She shakes her head. “But I don’t think-”

“Surprise!”

They had been so lost in their conversation that they did not realize that the elevator had come to a halt. The greeting startles them both, and so does the confetti Thor pops from the small cannon in his hands as they turn to the now open doors to find all their co-workers congregated before them, decked out in pink and blue shirts and beaming smiles across their faces. He catches a glimpse of the pastel balloons decorating the expanse of the floor behind them, making his eyebrows furrow in confusion.  

“What’s all this?” he tries to ask evenly, taking in all their excited expressions as he plasters the best smile he can muster. He sneaks a glance to his side to find Natasha doing the same.

“Come see,” Jane says cheerfully, walking into the elevator to link both their arms with hers as she walks them out onto the office floor. His eyes scan the room, and if not for the fact that he’s worked here for years, he probably would not have recognized the space. His attention falls to the large banner on the window with the words IT’S A… BOSS BABY! and as realization sinks in, his stomach churns. Cakes and other treats are scattered across several tables, as are gift bags and even more balloons. Just below the banner, several onesies hang on a clothesline with various designs on the front.

“We didn’t know when you were officially going on leave,” Maria explains as she looks at Natasha. “Didn’t want to miss the opportunity to throw you a shower.”

“And we wanted it to be a surprise!” Darcy exclaims before pointing excitedly towards the banner. “I, of course, had that made.”

“But I put it up,” Thor insists before opening his arms out wide and gesturing towards the entire room. “And was in charge of balloons.”

“You mean the ones you didn’t put enough air in?” Strange inquires.

“This is all really great, guys,” Natasha says earnestly, addressing all their friends. “Thank you.”

“There’s more!” Darcy says before gesturing towards where a large lounge chair sits across the floor with more gifts by the foot. “We’ve got all the fun baby shower games.”

“But better,” Jane says, “since we put our own spin on it.”  

He watches as they whisk Natasha away, all of them chattering happily as they make it towards the center. He thinks of following, but his feet remain planted in place as he processes his surroundings. The feeling of a gentle touch causes him to turn, and he finds Pepper with a hand to his arm, looking at him concernedly. He recalls seeing her in the sea of people that greeted them at the elevator, but she’s remained quiet since then.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, the concern on her face bleeding into her voice.

His lips part with an answer, but before he can get the words out, Thor’s voice is echoing across the room. “Steve! Pepper!” the man calls out, causing both of them to look over to see him enthusiastically waving them over to where everyone is. “Come on, you’re going to miss out on all the fun!”

He gives Thor a single nod before looking back at Pepper. “We have to talk,” he says, eliciting a worried look from her as he nods towards Natasha.

“Where’s the body?”

“What’s that?” he asks, keeping his focus on the cupcake he’s in the middle of frosting.

“I said,” Sarah says, bumping his arm playfully with her shoulder as she comes to stand next to him. “Where’s the body?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Should I be concerned that you don’t think I can come visit you without having done something bad?”

“You’re frosting cupcakes,” she points out with a snort. “You’ve hated doing that ever since you were a kid because it gets your hands all sticky.” She takes the piping bag filled with icing from him before setting it down on the counter. “So, either tell me where the body is so I can help you bury it or drop the act and tell me what you really came here for.” She lifts up the cupcake he was working on until it is eye level with him before she adds, “because it’s certainly not because you’ve suddenly mastered the art of decorating.”

He lets out a chuckle as he raises his hands in defeat before turning to lean back against the counter. Sarah follows suit before looking at him expectantly. He sighs. “Do you remember when we were in Italy-”

“And you were pining after someone?”

He turns to her surprised. “How did you…”

“Please,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Steven, we were in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and you were acting like we were wasting our time because the best piece of art was back home.”  

“That’s because it was,” he says after a pause. “Or rather, they were.”  

“They?” she asks, clearly puzzled.

He nods his head towards the stools by the bakery’s worktable, and as soon as they’ve both settled down onto their seats, he tells her. Tells her as much as he can about Natasha, about falling for her, about feeling like his heart had finally been put together again. Sarah’s lips part in a smile as she listens, though it’s nothing compared to the beam that breaks out on her face when he tells her about the baby – about their little fig. Sarah’s first reaction is to engulf him in a big hug, and once the news finally settles in, she peppers him with more questions that he adoringly answers. Inevitably, he ventures onto the events of the past couple of weeks – of New Years’ Eve – and he watches as the happiness in his mother’s eyes is replaced with horror and worry, the same emotions that had filled him and Natasha as they weathered the events of that night, but it quickly dissolves when he tells her about how well they’re both doing.

“Everything’s been going great so far,” he says. “We’re a week short of reaching the sixteenth week without a complication.” He shakes his head in awe. “She’s been so strong through all of this. Makes it seem like a walk in the park.”  

“If she’s as determined and fiery and wonderful as you say she is,” Sarah says, patting the back his hand reassuringly with her own. “I don’t doubt that.” She smiles brightly. “When can I meet her?”

“Soon,” he promises. “I’m dying to tell her how I feel, but I’m waiting until we get through this.” Sarah nods in understanding. “She’s amazing,” he gushes dreamily, though not an ounce of him is ashamed of it. “You’ll love her.”

“Baby,” Sarah says, lifting his chin with her finger. “If the mere thought of her makes you smile like this, you best believe I already do.”

He chuckles. “The baby’s been making her crave sweets recently, so I am sure she’ll love your fudge cake.”

“Be sure to take an entire one before you leave then,” she instructs. “It’s never too early to start spoiling my grandbaby.” The word causes her to let out a squeal. “Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandma!” She goes to hug him again, and he willingly returns it, basking in the same joy she is. “How are you feeling?” she asks as she pulls away.

“A little nervous,” he admits with a sigh, but it quickly dissipates as his mouth turns up in a grin. “I’m going to be a dad, ma.”

Sarah’s face lights up. “And you’re going to be great at it.”

A sigh escapes his lips as the memory comes back to him, his hand pausing from darkening the shadow on his latest sketch with the pencil in his hand. If there’s one thing he remembers vividly about the night he had told Sarah that he was going to be a father, it was the excitement he felt. The prospect that he was soon going to have someone in his life that he could love unconditionally, that was half him and half the woman he was crazy for, had him on cloud nine. He could not wait to meet their child for the first time, and to be there for all the early morning feedings, the first steps, the ball games, the recitals, the artwork on the fridge – even the first heartbreak. His mom had warned him about the reality of every parent, of having to live with the constant worry over your child’s wellbeing even when they’re nestled safely in your arms, but even the idea of having to contend with that perpetual fear for the rest of his life could not extinguish his excitement.

He puts the pencil down to run his hand over his face in frustration. It’s not as if he could forget the situation they’re in at the moment, but at the same time, he can’t for certain pinpoint exactly how he feels because of the strange dichotomy taking residence in his chest. On one side, the excitement he felt then about becoming a father still exists, thriving every time he catches a glimpse of the latest sonogram or the way the skin on Natasha’s belly ripples as it moves about in her womb. But on the other, it is no longer the encompassing emotion it used to be when he thinks about the matter. It’s been days since they were in Helen’s office and since Natasha has felt any pain, and while he should be taking that as a good sign, maybe even thanking his lucky stars, it has only stirred the dread and uneasiness and everything else he feels but is yet to identify that’s proving potent at making his gut plummet. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, his eyes closing as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Got any plans of coming to bed?” he hears a voice ask, breaking him out of his reverie. He opens his eyes to find Natasha standing across the dining room with her robe tied loosely around her and the material of one of his shirts peeking out from underneath.

“In a bit,” he says, turning his attention to the clock on the wall to find that it’s nearly midnight. “What are you doing up?” he asks, unable to keep the worry out of his tone. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” she assures, moving closer to where he sits at the table. “It’s hard to sleep at the right time when you’ve been in bed all day.” She looks towards his sketch pad. “What are you working on?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, flipping the pad closed. She puts her hands on the back of the chair next to his, and he nods towards the item tucked to her side. “What’s that?”

“I was sorting through the gifts we got at the shower,” she explains as she takes a seat and places it in front of him. “This one is from Thor.”

His hand falls to the material of the tiny gray baseball uniform, his fingers tracing over the Dodgers logo embroidered in bright blue on the front. “He even went through the trouble of getting a vintage one from when they were a Brooklyn team.”

She gestures for him to turn the jersey around, and a little smile makes it across his face when he sees ROGERS and a 1 also embroidered on the back. “Guess he thought he might score the title of Second Favorite Uncle faster by sucking up to you.”

He looks at her, raising his eyebrow knowingly. “Like that’s really up to me.”

She hums in agreement, her hand coming down to rest on her bump as she smiles sinisterly. “Let’s face it,” she says, “this one is probably going to be a Yankees fan just because.”

He directs his gaze to her belly, narrowing his eyes. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“You’re probably right,” she acquiesces. “Because it’ll want to be just like daddy.”

“I don’t know,” he says, his fingers tracing the stress lines on the wood of the table. “I have a feeling it’ll take pride in being the outlier. Might even go as far as not taking a liking to the sport completely.”

“How is that possible…” she trails, pushing the jersey closer to him, “when you’re probably going to make it wear this for all one hundred and sixty-two games of the season?”

He shrugs half-heartedly. “Only if it wants to.”

“Oh, but it will,” she says with a smile. “I already know how this is going to go.” She points towards the direction of the living room. “The two of you are going to be curled up on the couch, hogging the tv while you give it a play-by-play before it can even understand a single word, and I’m going to have to resign myself to recording every episode of Criminal Minds because god knows how long nine innings can last. And then I’ll probably have to get my own jersey because…”

His mind wanders as Natasha’s words conjure the image in his head. He thinks about murmuring all the names of the players in the starting lineup to the sleeping infant in his arms. He thinks about how he’ll feel crazy doing it, but also like he won’t care. He pictures buying it its first glove, of them playing catch in Central Park, and of all the arguments it will have to sit through as Bucky tries to exchange the glove for a bat because he thinks that hitting is harder to learn than throwing. He envisions the wonder that will fill its eyes when it finally gets its first stadium experience – front row seats directly above the dugout because Tony and Pepper would never allow for anything else. He’ll be a nervous wreck, he knows, worrying about the wayward baseballs that could potentially come their way. But as the game goes on, it’ll gradually fade as he watches it take ridiculous amounts of pictures with Wanda and try to wiggle away as Sarah attempts to wipe the mustard from the customary stadium hotdog from its chin. It will chatter about that night for days, and it won’t hesitate to tell anyone at the office who’s willing to listen as they make a brief pit stop before heading to daycare.

“Steve,” Natasha says, pulling him out of his trance. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You were saying?”

She rolls her eyes. “I said, can you just imagine Fig begging us to move to Los Angeles to be in Dodger town?”

Her question stuns him into silence, his mind going back to all the different scenarios he had just imagined. Realization sinks in, making his chest tighten, because no, he couldn’t imagine it. Of all the images that had made its way into his head – of him and their child with everyone near and dear in his life – none of them had included Natasha. And that, he comprehends, is the problem. He scrambles out of his seat, like doing so could keep him away from this grim reality. “I can’t do this.”

“Steve?” Natasha calls out concernedly. He turns away, his chest heaving as his hand curls around the edge of the table. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this,” he repeats.

“Do what?” He turns back to her to find that she, too, has abandoned her seat, confusion and worry now heavy on her face as she stands a few feet away. “What are you talking about?”

“This…” he says a little louder than he intended to as he gestures between the both of them. “Imagining our future.” He shakes his head angrily. “How could you ask me to imagine something you’ve made very clear that you don’t intend to be a part of?”  

“I know you think of it that way,” she says, “but I’m just trying to do what’s best-”

“Best for whom?” he challenges, unable to contain the frustration from slipping into his tone any longer. “Best for Fig? Because I don’t know how this is what’s best for our child when we’re staring at a possibility of it facing its entire life without you.” He huffs out in disbelief. “Christ, Nat, you were the one who said you never wanted our child to wonder what I was like! That works both ways!” He looks at her, his eyes pleading. “I want our child to know you, not know of you.”

“I want that, too!” she argues. “That is exactly what I want.”

“Is it?” he asks bitterly. “Then why are you so hell bent on choosing the path that you might not walk away from?”

“Because that’s not going to happen,” she reasons, walking to stand in front of him. “Steve, listen to me, I can do this.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, shaking his head. “Not for certain.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?”

“Because it’s you and me,” she states simply. “And we always make it through the odds.” A humorless laugh escapes her lips. “I mean, think about all the circumstances that had to come together for us to be where we are right now.” Her eyes are bright yet glassy as she looks up at him. “Steve, you were on your way to start your life with someone else, and I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of touching the white picket fence dream with a ten-foot pole.” She sighs. “Falling in love and into this life together? That was never supposed to happen to us, at least not with each other. Yet here we are.”

“You’re right,” he says after a pause. “The fact that we found each other is a miracle, which is why I can’t accept that this is how it ends for us.”

“It won’t,” she swears. “Steve, I just need you to trust me-”

“I do trust you,” he says with as much conviction as he can muster, “more than I’ve ever trusted anyone in my life.” He looks at her. “But your life is too a high a price for any of us to pay if you’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” she insists. “I know I’m not. And I know that that’s not good enough for you because you need a guarantee, but I can’t explain it. I just… I know I’m not wrong.” She nods. “I know I can do this. The same way I knew I wanted this baby and the same way I knew that my heart belonged to you. I just know. I can feel it.”

“Natasha,” he breathes out. “I can’t gamble on a feeling. I don’t want this life without you.”

“You won’t have to,” she promises, closing the distance between them once again as she reaches up to caress his face. His shoulders sag, his eyes falling shut as she pulls him down so their foreheads are touching. “You think I’m being aloof about how dangerous this all is, but I’m not. I just know that whatever happens to me, this baby is always going to have you.”

“Don’t say that!” he exclaims angrily, his eyes flying open as he breaks away from her hold. “God, that’s what’s making you so sure of all this? That it’s always going to have me?” His hand flies aimlessly out in frustration, hitting the sketch pad on the table and sending it to the ground with a thud. “I don’t suppose you know what I’m supposed to tell our child when it asks about why mom isn’t with us, do you?” His words cause her to look away. “How am I…” He shakes his head as his voice goes quiet. “How am I supposed to love the very thing that took you away from me?”

Quiet envelopes them, the reality he had just laid bare a gut punch to them both. “You don’t have to feel guilty,” he hears her say after a moment as she bends down to pick up the pad. “That feeling in your chest?” she asks, stepping closer to him as she places it back down on the table, her fingers graze the sketch he had done of the last sonogram that showed the baby sucking its thumb. “That lightness that makes your heart feel inexplicably full every time you think about this milestone and the ones that are to come?” He looks at her, and the sincerity in her eyes makes him weak in the knees. “You’re allowed to feel it. Relish it.” Her hand reaches for his, bringing it up to press against her belly. “You’re allowed to love this baby, Steve. That won’t erase the fact that you love me.”

He retracts his hand, stepping away from her. “I can’t do this,” he says again. “You… you asked me to spend forever with you, and then you do this, and say things like that… and I…” He shakes his head. “I need some air.”

He steps aside, moving past her without so much as a second glance. The room feels like it’s about to close in on him, like it might swallow him whole, and he only has the wherewithal to grab his keys as he bolts out of their apartment door and into the elevator. The air is muggy in a way that signals an impending Spring downpour, clinging to his skin heavily as he exits the building and steps out into the New York night. Cars pass by the road in front of him, and he watches as they blur by his vision as they speed down the street. He moves to the side of their apartment’s building, bracing his back against the bricks. Natasha’s words ring loudly in his head, making his eyes close as he weathers the way they make his heart tighten in his chest. You’re allowed to love this baby, Steve. That won’t erase the fact that you love me.

Moments pass, and while the details of how he got into a cab and ended up here are all a big blur, he keeps his legs moving up the stairs. His hand reaches for the doorbell, pressing down on the button a few times before he waits restlessly. The porch light turns on a moment later, and he hears the sound of locks being turned. The door opens, and Bucky lets out a low whistle when he takes in his appearance.

“You look like hell,” Bucky remarks with a smirk. He does not say anything in return, just stares blankly at his best friend, but that seems to be enough as he hears him mutter an expletive as he pushes the door open wider for him to come in.  

The force he’s exerting into each punch is significant enough that he feels the impact through the leather of his gloves, but he does not stop, using the sensation instead as motivation to make his next blow more powerful. The rational part of him knows that he’ll regret this tomorrow, maybe even just in a few hours when he unwraps his hands, but even still, he throws caution to the wind. Every strike he deals to the sand-filled bag in front of him feels like a catharsis, every drop of sweat from his skin a purging of the anxieties that have been eating away at his sanity. But the reprieve from his own mind is fleeting, lasting but a moment before the thoughts that have been vividly looping in his head come back to haunt him. It’s that split second of relief that he keeps chasing despite the exhaustion he feels deep in his bones.

“So, the rumors are true,” an amused voice says from behind him. His hands reach out to steady the swinging bag before him, and he looks back to see Melinda making her way towards him. “A little birdy told me that you’ve been spending a lot of time down here lately.”

“Is Natasha okay?” he asks, still a little breathless as he works to free his hands from the confines of his gloves.

“She’s cuddled on the couch with your sister watching Swan Lake and eating your mom’s fudge cake,” she says, taking a seat on the bench by the wall. “It’s like she’s being tortured.” They exchange smirks at that, and he grabs for the towel in his duffle before sitting down next to her. “You know,” she begins, shifting her body towards him, “as prolific as my daughter is as a writer, sometimes getting her to tell the people she cares about the most how she feels can be like pulling splinters out from underneath her nails.” She raises her eyebrow at him. “I’m sure your sister is great at cuddling, but something tells me that there’s someone else Natasha might want to be wrapped in right now.” His gaze falls to the ground sheepishly as he unwraps the tape from his hands. “I got bits and pieces about the other night. How are you doing?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he says as he drapes the towel over his shoulder. “Your daughter-”

“My daughter has never been one to back down from a challenge or take the easy way out,” she finishes. “Especially when she believes in something.” His eyebrows raise in question at her words. “You may have an inkling about that, but my guess is you’re just now figuring out just how staunch her determination can be.” She sighs. “The point I’m trying to make here is, I’ve had thirty sum years of practice holding my breath when it comes to Natasha and her choices. And while it’s always turned out for the best, it’s still a lot more practice than what you’ve had.” She reaches over to pat his knee. “So, I’m asking, how are you doing?”

“Terrified,” he says, looking her way. “Melinda, I don’t have the words to accurately describe just how much I love your daughter. And normally, I would never, ever dream of deterring her from making her own decisions. But this…” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid of what this might cost.”

“You’re angry,” she says, but it’s an observation, not a judgment.

“I…” he trails, staring blankly ahead. “Maybe that’s part of it. But mostly, there’s a lot I just don’t understand.”

“I see,” she says, nodding in understanding. She seems content to ruminate in silence with him until she asks, “why did you enlist?”

He shoots her a confused look. “I’m sorry?”

“The Army,” she clarifies. “Why did you join?”

He takes a second to ponder her question. “At first it was because I wanted to do everything my dad did,” he says, leaning back. “He made it sound like such an incredible honor. And it is. But it wasn’t until I was finally in there that I realized it was more than just wanting to follow in my father’s footsteps. Serving, following orders, fighting for what I believed in… At the time, it felt like I had finally found a purpose. Something worthy to dedicate my life to.” He turns his head to look at her. “I know that may sound crazy. My mom says she understands, but that doesn’t mean she slept well when I was overseas.”

“Oh, I understand,” she says. “Both as a veteran and as a parent.” Her answer does not surprise him as much as the wry snort that follows. “You think my mother was all that thrilled when I told her that her only daughter was enlisting? But I know what it’s like to put on that uniform, get out there, and feel like you’ve finally found your calling.” She turns to him with a knowing look. “It’s comforting, isn’t it? Feeling like you’ve found exactly what you’re supposed to be doing despite the risks?”

He shakes his head in agreement. “It is.”

She lets out a breath as she stands. “We all have different ways of obtaining our purpose, Steve.” He looks up at her at that. “Sometimes that means taking a leap of faith despite the risks to get it,” she says, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth giving it a shot.” She gives him a final smile before leaving him alone with his thoughts.   

It’s dark and quiet when he finally makes it back up to their apartment, and the first thing he sees is Wanda slipping her coat on. He opens his mouth to greet her, but she quickly silences him by putting her finger up to her lips and then pointing over her shoulder. He cranes his neck to look further down the hall, and he catches a glimpse of Natasha sleeping on the couch.

“I’ll come hail a cab for you,” he whispers, setting his duffel bag down before reaching for his jacket on the hook.

“No, you stay here,” Wanda says, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “I had the front desk call a cab for me.”

He nods, content with her answer. “Let me know when you get home.”

“I will,” she says, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. He walks her to their front door, opening it for her, and though she’s already taken two steps out, she turns back. “Steve?”

“Yeah?” he asks, leaning against the doorway.

Her face is filled with hesitation, but he watches as she quickly swallows it down. “Remember when I was little, and I would come running into your room in the middle of the night?”

“Because you were convinced something in your closet was going to eat you?” he says with a smirk. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Those doors were creaky,” she says defensively before shaking her head in amusement. “But you would take my hand, walk me back to my room, and show me that there was nothing in there but clothes.” She looks at him, tilting her head to the side. “Do you remember what you would say then?”

“That you just have to be brave,” he answers almost instantly, “because monsters are afraid of bravery.”

“Yes,” she says, “and I would argue that I wasn’t brave enough. But then you told me that you would be brave with me, and because of that, our bravery would chase the monsters away.” A look of pride spreads across her face. “Whenever I’m scared of taking something on, I always come back to that moment. Nothing is too big of a challenge because I have someone to be brave with me.” She huffs out, her expression softening. “I know you’re scared,” she acknowledges, her eyes filled with understanding. “You have every right to be.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “She’s putting on a brave face for all of us, but I can tell that so is she, and I really think that she could use someone to be brave with, too.” She smiles. “Goodnight, big brother.”

“Night, Wanda,” he says, returning her smile.

He waits for Wanda to get into the elevator, and the second she’s out of sight, he closes the door behind him. He pads down the foyer and makes his way into the living room, stopping just short of the coffee table as he takes in Natasha’s sleeping form. He watches as her chest rises and falls with each breath she takes, relishing how peaceful she looks as she lays on her back with her hand pressed securely on her belly over the material of the throw. He had meant what he told Melinda – he didn’t have the words to accurately describe just how much he loves this woman. But, if there’s one thing he did have, it was the capacity to show her every single day just how much he does. He makes his way to the couch, gently pulling the blanket away from her, making her stir.

“It’s me,” he whispers, and she visibly relaxes as she registers his voice. Her eyes flutter open. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She nods, making a move to get up, but then he’s slipping his arms under her back and legs, lifting her to him. She wraps her arms around his neck, nestling her face where his shoulder meets his neck as she lets him carry her to bed.

Laughter fills his ears the second he steps out of their bedroom the next morning, sparking his curiosity. Once he makes it down the hallway, he can’t help his lips from immediately curving up in a smile when he finds the source of the wondrous sound. On the couch, Natasha sits with her knees bent and Maria propped up on her lap. She leans down, blowing bubbles on the little girl’s belly and eliciting a delightful giggle.

“Good morning,” someone greets, and he turns to see the rare sight of Pepper dressed casually as she stands by the archway of the kitchen with a mug in hand. “Tony’s out of town and we were in the area running errands, so we thought we’d drop by. Hope you don’t mind us intruding on your Saturday morning.”

“Of course not,” he tells her. “Always happy to have you both.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha’s head lift at the sound of his voice, and he turns her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says softly, before quickly turning her attention back to Maria.

He looks back at Pepper. “I hope you’re hungry. My mom dropped off some of her chocolate croissants, so I was going to make some eggs and bacon to go with it.”

“You hear that, baby girl?” Natasha says from the couch before Pepper can get a word in. “We’ve got chocolate croissants!” Maria gurgles back at her like she understands, eliciting laughter from everyone in the room.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Pepper says. “Can I help you out in the kitchen?”

“Thank you, but no,” he says. “Mom would kill me if she found out I ever let a guest help out in the kitchen.” Pepper rolls her eyes but smiles in understanding. “I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”

Breakfast is filled with light conversation, and he finds himself grateful that Pepper is there to conduct it. While it’s not their usual easy-going atmosphere, it’s the closest to normal he’s felt in a while as the four of them gather around their table to consume the tiny feast he put together. He and Natasha even get around to exchanging more than a few sentences as Pepper catches them up on the latest happenings at the Daily. Maria buts in with a squeal or babble every now and then, demanding attention from everyone at the table, most notably from Natasha, who’s taken it upon herself to help the little girl with the buttery pastry she’s indulging in. As the conversation goes on, he finds his attention drifting to Natasha, watching her small interactions with Maria and letting the tenderness of the moment put a smile on his lips here and there.

At the end of their meal, he gets to work on cleaning while everyone migrates back to the couch. As simple as the task seems, he basks in the peace and familiarity it brings him, something he’s been sorely missing as of late. He’s in the middle of drying down the freshly washed dishes when he hears Maria’s laughter again, and he looks to the side and through the archway leading to the living room to see the girl gleefully giggling as Natasha rocks her back and forth in her arms, no doubt showering her with words of admiration. He feels a presence next to him, and when he looks back to his side, he finds Pepper, her eyes trained on the same scene he’s been carefully watching.

“She’s going to be an amazing mom,” she says, her eyes still on Natasha and her daughter.

He looks back at them, taking in the joy on Natasha’s face. “She is,” he says, and he finds that he does not doubt his words one bit.

“Did you pack the ginger tea I left next to your bag?” he asks her as they exit their apartment building and begin walking towards the station. She mumbles a yes as she checks the subway schedule on her phone. “I picked a box up yesterday after I read that it’s a better alternative to decaf coffee and it’s supposedly effective at relieving stress.”

“As thoughtful as that is,” she says as they turn the corner, “I doubt even ginger tea can stop my blood from boiling the second I see Sitwell’s face in the meeting today.” She turns his way, making a face. “You’re so lucky you get to work on the gallery today.”

He places a comforting hand on the small of her back. “If it makes you feel any better, I have to spend the entire work day with a Tony who’s banned from drinking until he gets that tweak in his chest checked.”

“Normally that would make me feel better,” she says, linking her arm with his as they go down the stairs leading to the station underground. “But after the meeting I have a performance evaluation with my team.” She shoots him a knowing look. “Rumlow’s up first.”

“I’m sorry,” he concedes as they swipe their cards through the validator and move through the turnstile. “Tell you what,” he says, stopping to face her once they make their way into the expanse leading to the different platforms. “I’ll indulge Tony’s request to let him have free reign to plan the next game night if he lets me go an hour early so I can get a batch of Paprikash going before you get home tonight.” He runs his hands soothingly down her arms. “Will that make this day more bearable?” One of his hands reaches down to her belly as he adds, “for both of you.”

“Immensely,” she says with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He steps forward, but she places a hand on his chest to stop him. “What?”

She points her thumb over her shoulder. “The platform for the trains going downtown is that way.”

“I know that,” he says. “I wanted to see you off first.”

She looks back at her phone and then back at him. “Nope,” she says with a finality to her tone. “The next train is leaving in nine minutes, and if you miss that one, you’re going to be late.” She smirks as she places a hand to her bump. “We appreciate the thought of you protecting us for the whole twenty feet it takes to get to the uptown platform, but we think we’ve got this.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll see you two tonight.”

“See you,” she says through a chuckle. She reaches up to give him a quick kiss once again, but before she can pull away, he pulls her in closer, deepening it.  

“Bye,” he says once he pulls away, a triumphant smile on his face.

“Always so dramatic,” she says as she shakes her head at him.

She turns away from him and begins walking towards her platform. For a second, he just stands there, watching as she disappears into the sea of commuters with a smile plastered on his face and nothing but lightness in his chest. Since moving in together, he’s watched her walk this same path as she heads to the Daily without him, but this is the first time he finds himself unable to look away. It’s surreal, how far they’ve both come, and it’s almost as if he can’t believe that this – waking up to Natasha every morning and being the one she comes home to every night – is slowly becoming his new normal. He ponders the thought, and in a blink of an eye, everything comes to focus. He doesn’t ever want this feeling to end.

Instantly, his hand reaches into his pocket, his thumb scrolling through his contacts the second he gets his phone out. He begins walking towards his own platform, waiting for the person to pick up, and the second he hears the voice on the other end, his smile widens. “Melinda, hi. Do you have time to talk?”

The corners of his lips turn up when the memory of the exact moment he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Natasha comes back to him. That day, it had felt like clarity had crashed onto him. While he had known that he loved Natasha long before that, something about acknowledging that he was finally ready to officially give all of himself to someone again without an ounce of fear or trepidation in his heart was incredibly liberating. And now, as he looks out the windows overlooking the roof deck on their building, watching as the wind blows Natasha’s hair to the side as she stands by the rail with her back to him, he finds that despite everything they’ve gone through in the last few weeks, not a single thing has changed about that realization.

The sound of his footfalls as he makes it out onto the rooftop causes her to look back, and the way she takes in a breath like she’s bracing for battle makes his chest tighten. “I know I’m supposed to be in bed. But I need some air,” she says, averting her gaze back to the skyline as he approaches. “Surely, you can understand that.” He stops next to her, looking down at the city beneath their feet as well as he rests his elbows on the rail and the sun begins to set. “If you’ve come here to argue, you’re going to have to wait till tomorrow. I don’t have it in me tonight.”

“That’s not what I came here for,” he says, turning to face her.

She looks at him, her eyes filled with genuine surprise. “Oh.”

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms to her. She goes willingly, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck. He feels the breath she lets out against his skin, and when she relaxes into his embrace, he leans down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you were alone in this,” he murmurs into her hair. She looks up at him, her green eyes bright in spite of the tears brimming in them. “You’re not.”

“No,” she says, pulling away. “You have every right to be angry. We’re supposed to be partners in this, and I went ahead and made all the decisions without you.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I need to do this.”

He lets out a deep breath before nodding, and he watches as the action brings a wash of relief to her. He cups her face in his hands, tilting her head up so that she’s looking directly into his eyes. “I’m scared to death to lose you.”

“I know,” she says. “But you’re not going to lose me.” She shifts her head to kiss the inside of his palm. “I can do this, Steve.” Her voice is confident, unwavering, that in that moment, he finds that despite all his fears, he believes her. “I can do this,” she repeats, taking one of his hands as she guides it down to her belly. “And then you, me, and Fig will go to as many baseball games as you two want.” That draws a laugh from the both of them, and she intertwines their free hands together. “Forever.”

“Promise?” he asks, squeezing her hand gently.

She nods. “I promise.”

He steps closer to her, freeing his hands from hers to bring them to her face once again as he leans down to capture her lips in his. She returns the kiss, and it’s nearly bruising, the way their lips are locked, as the abyss that had stretched between them in the past weeks finally disappears, taking all the pent-up emotions along with it. But it’s also almost instant, the way comfort truly trickles over him now that they’ve erased the distance between them, and as she goes pliant in his touch, he can tell that she feels the same way. He pulls away when air becomes a necessity, leaning his forehead on hers to keep her close.

“Marry me,” he whispers after a beat.

Her lips curve with a smirk. “I asked you first, remember?”

“I mean now,” he says, pulling away. She raises an eyebrow at him. “We said we’d wait, but what for? I don’t want to waste another second not being yours in every possible way, Nat.”

She smiles before nodding. “Okay.”

Despite her words, he searches her face for affirmation. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, her smile growing. “I don’t want to wait, either.”

He can’t contain the smile from breaking out across his face. “Well technically this is all moot,” he says, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. “You already said yes, and I already signed our marriage license before that.” He watches as her eyes widen when he pulls out a little black velvet box, her lips parting slightly in surprise. He smirks. “But humor me for a second, all right?” He gets down on one knee, opening the box for her to see the ring nestled inside. “Natasha Romanoff, will you marry me?”

She breathes out a laugh and pulls him up for a kiss.

Chapter Text

A contented sigh escapes Natasha’s lips as she stirs awake. Her eyes slowly flutter open, and her eyebrows furrow in confusion as she takes in the unfamiliar surroundings, but it slowly fades as she finds her bearings. Despite living with Steve for the past few days since being released from the hospital, she’s still not quite used to his bedroom being the sight that greets her first thing in the morning. She reaches across the other side of the bed, but her hand lands on nothing but the soft cotton of the sheets, and when she turns her head, she finds his pillows already up against the headboard. Shifting onto her side, she feels for her phone on the nightstand and squints as she taps the screen in search for the time at the center before putting it back down. It’s only a few minutes past seven, and knowing what an early riser he is, she surmises that he’s on his way back from his morning run if not already in the kitchen making coffee. But as she sits up, stretching her hands above her head as she does, she inhales the familiar scent of his body wash coming from the open bathroom door on the left and knows immediately that it’s the latter.

Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she gets up carefully and finds herself grateful to learn that her bout with morning sickness ended at the same time her first trimester did. She pads her way to the bathroom, and as her feet make contact with the cool tile of the floor, she immediately makes her way towards the shower, turning the knobs to get the water to a desirable temperature. She reaches for the hem of her shirt while steam fills the room, but as she begins to lift it above her navel, something catches her eye and causes her to pause. Staring intently down at her stomach, she drops a hand to it to make sure her eyes aren’t playing tricks on her, but she still cannot bring herself to believe what they’re seeing. Scurrying over to the full-length mirror on the wall, she stands to the side, lifting her shirt up past her stomach with one hand and pulling the band of her pajama bottoms down with the other. Her gaze falls to the reflection on the mirror, and she gasps when she sees the small yet unmistakable bump on her belly. The corners of her lips begin to tug up in a smile, and before she can even think about the running water behind her, she’s already sprinting for the door.

“Steve!” she calls out as she bounds from the bathroom, to the room, and out into the hallway. She hears the sound of hurried footfalls against the hardwood and watches as Steve abruptly turns the corner from the kitchen before meeting her halfway.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly, his wide eyes searching her face as his hands land on her arms. “What’s wrong?”

She opens her mouth to say something, but her words get caught in her throat as she catches a whiff of his cologne. Just as she deduced, he’s already showered, his hair still a little damp as he stands in front of her nearly ready for work in his slacks and undershirt. It’s not as if she could forget how delectable this man is, but she would be lying if she said she hasn’t been grappling with her self-control these past few days – which is already a difficult feat when it comes to Steve, but even more so now that her hormones are running amuck and they’re sharing the same space. A light jolt coupled with her name being called snaps her out of her daze, and when she focuses on his face in front of her, she finds his forehead crinkled with apprehension. “What?”

“I said, is everything okay?” he asks, his tone matching his expression.

“Yeah,” she says, shaking her head, and she hears him let out a big sigh of relief.

“Jesus, Nat.” He drops his hands from her arms. “You can’t just do that. I thought something was wrong with you and the baby.”

“Sorry,” she says contritely, realizing how her actions could have rattled him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to show you something.” She moves to stand to her side just as she had done in front of the mirror, and his head tilts to the side in interest. She lifts her shirt up. “Look.”

He stares at the skin of her stomach confusedly at first, but when his face lights up, she knows that he sees it, too. “You’re showing,” he says, his voice filled with awe as his lips begin to turn up.

“You see it too, right?” His smile is infectious as he nods, making her mirror the expression. “I know it’s not much right now, but it’s there.”

“May I?” he asks, raising his hand. She nods encouragingly, and watches as he cups the small bump on her belly before looking up at her. “That’s amazing, Nat.”

She couldn’t hide her excitement if she tried. “Isn’t it?”

A smile crosses her face as her hand falls fondly to her belly at the memory. It’s a lot bigger now that she’s thirty-two weeks along, but she can still vividly remember the elation she felt the first time she saw the evidence of the life growing inside of her. It was distinct from all the milestones in her pregnancy. Obviously, she knew she was pregnant. The test and the prenatal checkups told her as much, and the morning sickness, extreme fatigue, and sudden mood swings were all poignant reminders. And she knew for certain just how much she loved her child, an emotion that has lingered in her chest ever since she found out she was expecting and that has only strengthened with each replay of the sound of the pitter patter of its heartbeat. But seeing her bump for the first time – the physical manifestation in her body of the life she was about to bring into this world – felt different, somehow, as the fact that she was going to be a mother and that she would soon have someone to protect and love unconditionally for the rest of her life became tangible.

Weeks have passed since that dreadful day at Helen’s office, and she’s glad for every passing day that brings her closer to the thirty-seventh week. It hasn’t been easy. While both her and the baby’s health have held up, it’s been an arduous endeavor to get to this point. She and Steve were walking on eggshells around each other for the first few days since she was ordered on bed rest, and the distance that grew between them in that period felt like a weight in her chest, sinking deeper and growing more excruciating as time dragged on. She understood his anger and his fears, knew they were all valid, but despite that, and despite how much she loved him and would do anything to not see him hurt, she knew she couldn’t do what he asked. Perhaps even if ultimately, not doing so would cost her him. From the moment they both laid all their cards on the table, there hasn’t been a moment where she’s doubted his love and devotion to her and their child, but it would be a lie to say that in those days, the thought that this was something she would have to face alone did not cross her mind. For the love she has for her child is fierce, the fiercest of all the types of love she’s felt in her life, and regardless of the odds stacked up against them, something in her heart of hearts knows that they can pull through.

But to say that relief washed over her when he came to her that night at the rooftop, offering his embrace and his support to her as the sun set before them, would be an understatement. She meant every word she told Sarah – since coming into her life, Steve has only managed to make her feel stronger, and his reassurance that he would be there every step of the way as they navigated through all this uncertainty was the extra boost of strength that’s kept her going. Things between them have only gotten better since then. He still watches her like a hawk, still hovers over her – much like everyone else in her life – but it’s not a slight on his belief that she will make it through this, but more his way of appeasing the nerves that come with their circumstances, and that she understands. She’s most thankful, however, for the fact that as the weeks go on, he’s allowing himself to revel in excitement of meeting their child without feeling like it’s a betrayal of his love for her.  

“You ready to go?” Steve asks, snaking his arms around her from behind. “Your checkup is in an hour.”

“Give me a few minutes,” she says, relaxing into his embrace as she sets a folded onesie down in the drawer in front of her. “I just want everything to be perfect.”

“It already is,” he insists, reaching forward to run his hand along the lines of perfectly folded and already washed baby clothes in the wardrobe of the nursery. “All we have to do now is make sure you and Fig are both perfectly okay.” He leans down to press a kiss just below her ear as he adds, “which is why we should get going.”

“Just a few more minutes,” she bargains, a contented smile breaking out on her face. She nods towards the basket of fresh laundry sitting on the rocking chair to their left. “I just have a few more things to put away.”

He scoffs as she breaks away from his hold to walk towards the basket. “I don’t know why we bothered shopping for the baby when everyone was going to do it for us anyway.”

She holds up a little lab coat from Jane. “If we left all the shopping to all the people vying for favorite aunt or uncle, the baby won’t have anything but costumes to wear.”

He chuckles at that before nodding towards the bunch of baby pink tulle in the basket. “Is that from Darcy?” he asks. “I think she’s the one putting a lot of money behind Fig being a girl.”

“Not exactly.” He looks at her questioningly and she gives him a one-armed shrug. “Darcy thinks your shoulder-to-waist ratio would look better on a boy.” She laughs as he rolls his eyes despite the blush that creeps onto his cheeks, and she turns to reach for the delicate material. “Melinda brought this,” she explains, showing him the tutu. “I wore it for my first recital. She thought I might want to keep it just in case the baby decides to take up ballet.”

“Oh, I know it will.” He steps closer to her, reaching up to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “One look at how beautiful you look when you dance, and it’ll fall in love.” He smiles. “I know I did,” he says, “with you, at least. Jury’s still out on how I feel about ballet that doesn’t involve you.”

“I don’t know if anyone has told you this,” she says teasingly despite the butterflies that arise in her stomach at the reminder of the day he first saw her dancing. “But you’re a serious sap, Rogers.”  

“Hmm.” He takes her hand in his, running his thumb over her engagement ring around her finger. “And yet you’re marrying me,” he says, a smirk on his face.

“I mean…” she trails. “Might as well, right?” She points to her belly. “Because pretty soon-”

He cuts her off by pulling her to him, eliciting a squeal from her as she wraps her arms around his neck. “Pretty soon we’ll get to hold our little ballet dancer slash baseball slugger slash whatever else it wants to be.” They both smile. “But also, you’ll be my wife.”

“She’s actually going to be your wife sooner,” a voice interrupts, and they break apart to see Sarah, an eyebrow raised teasingly at them, standing at the door with Melinda at her side. “That is, if you don’t smother her.”

“Ma,” Steve says in warning.

“What?” Sarah challenges. “You two are supposed to go make sure our grandbaby is okay, but instead you’re in here trying to make us another one.” Her comment draws laughter from the room as Steve lets out a groan.

“All right, you two,” Melinda says. “You better get going. The front desk already called. Happy’s waiting downstairs.”

She turns to glare at Steve. “You didn’t have to call Happy.”

“I didn’t,” he says, raising his hands up. “Pepper sent him.”

She rolls her eyes at that, but she quickly mumbles an apology when Melinda looks pointedly at her. “Just be thankful she did. Cabbies these days are out there driving like they’re in some sort of video game.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, turning to Steve. “Let’s go.”

“Are these really necessary?” she asks, eyeing the two belts Helen had strapped to her belly. “Because if I’m being honest, they’re pretty itchy.”

Helen laughs as she adjusts the settings on the machine in front of her. “Unfortunately, they’re needed to hold the sensors in place,” the doctor says before tapping the belt sitting higher up on her belly. “This one is going to monitor contractions while the one lower down measures the baby’s heart rate.”

In her periphery, she catches the way Steve shifts his weight on his feet. “Isn’t that what we were looking for in the ultrasound?”

“The ultrasound was so we can gauge movement, muscle tone, fluid levels, and breathing,” Helen answers. “They’re all part of a biophysical profile that’s conducted on high risk pregnancies. It sounds daunting, but it really is just a fancy way of saying we’re checking to see that the baby’s okay in there given the volatility of the placenta.” She looks reassuringly at the both of them. “Don’t worry, this is all noninvasive. It won’t feel a thing.”

“Are there specific metrics we’re looking for with this particular part of the test?” she asks, her voice coming out clipped. She swallows, her throat suddenly dry, and almost instantly, she feels Steve’s hand fall to her shoulder.

“Anywhere between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and sixty beats per minute.” She nods at that, watching intently as Helen presses a few more buttons. Within seconds, the sound of the baby’s fluttering heart fills the room, and despite having heard this a million times, the sound still brings a smile to her face. “This will run for twenty minutes, so you two might want to get comfortable,” Helen says, turning back to face them. “Or, rather, catch the good doctor up on some news.” She nods towards the hand she has resting on her belly. “I see congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at Steve who reaches for her hand. “We’re hoping to have the ceremony before the baby comes, but we haven’t found a place yet.” She shoots Helen a knowing look. “Don’t worry, your invitation didn’t get lost in the mail.”

Helen chuckles. “Well, I’m honored,” she says before looking sternly between the both of them. “But while I’m thrilled for the both of you, need I remind you that you need to keep your stress levels down? I know planning can be a lot.”

“Pepper has insisted on planning everything,” Steve chimes in. “I think all we’ll have to do is show up.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Helen says amusedly. “That woman does it all.”

“She does,” she echoes proudly.

Their conversation shifts into discussing the earlier results from the ultrasound, and despite the uneasiness threatening to overcome her as she sits on the exam table, she finds her nerves slowly dwindling when Helen informs them that the baby passed all four criteria. Save for her placenta still hanging lower than Helen would like, everything seems to be going smoothly, and the doctor expresses her cautious optimism that things may be going according to plan. She steals a glance at Steve at that, and she finds that for the first time in weeks, his expression is the closest to relieved as she’s seen.

“One hundred and forty-five,” Helen says as she reads the graphs from the test at the end of the twenty minutes. “Healthily reactive. That puts the baby in right about the ninetieth percentile and at a ten out of ten for the profile.” She smiles. “Looks like we’ve got an overachiever on our hands.”

Steve beams as he shares a look with her. “We sure do.”

She can feel his gaze heavy on her as she leads him further down the pebbled path. They haven’t said much to each other since they left Helen’s office, and he only put up half a fight when they got into the car and she directed Happy to their destination. It is the middle of spring, and leaves are beginning to color the branches of the trees that line their trail to the right, the smell of flowers blooming in the bushes lingers prominently in the afternoon breeze. She cranes her neck, and as her eyes land on the familiar form, she makes her way towards it with lengthened strides and him hot on her heels.

“Natasha,” she hears him say, uncertainty dripping into his tone as she places her purse down on the bench before taking a seat. She watches as he runs a hand haphazardly through his hair. “Can you please tell me why we’re here?” he asks.  “Because to be honest with you, my mind has gone into crazy scenario number fourteen million six hundred and five since we got out of the car. You really shouldn’t be on your feet this long.”

She has to bite the inside of her cheek to contain her amusement at the bewildered look he’s sporting. Her hand reaches across the empty space next to her, patting the wood in invitation. “Sit.”

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief, his patience clearly running thin. “Nat-”

“Rogers,” she says sternly before patting the seat once again. “Just sit.”

He huffs out a breath at that before reluctantly doing as she says. Once he’s seated next to her, he puts his arm around her, drawing her snugly to his side. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little stubborn?”

“If by now you aren’t used to that,” she says as she leans her head on his shoulder, “I don’t know what to tell you.” She feels his breath skim the top of her head at the little chuckle he lets out, and as he drops a kiss to her temple, she lets her eyes fall shut. For a second, she allows herself to revel in this peaceful moment – perhaps the first they’ve had in weeks – of them just wrapped up in each other, their child perfectly healthy, and life just passing by.

“Had I known we we’re coming here, I would have brought a blanket,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “The grass seems a lot more comfortable than this bench.”

“This bench…” she begins, her lips curving into a soft smile. “I was sitting on this bench when a woman pushing a stroller stopped to sit next to me. Her son had hurt himself and she was trying to clean the wound up.” She shakes her head at the memory. “She looked just about exhausted, but she moved so quickly to relieve the little boy of the pain. He had been inconsolable, but after he got bandaged up and she kissed his forehead, it was like nothing happened and he was on his merry way.” She nods towards the lawn in front of them where a game of baseball is going on in one of the diamonds in the distance. “The woman told me that kids sometimes make you wish you hadn’t opened your legs.” They both laugh at that. “But then… when you see what amazing humans they become, all that just goes away.” She scoffs. “At first, I thought she was just trying to make conversation, impart wisdom, maybe. But then she walked over to her son, sat down and pulled him into her lap, and as the boy giggled carelessly in her arms…” She huffs out a breath. “The haggardness, the exhaustion... it all faded. And I just knew she meant it.”  She turns to him. “I decided that day that I wanted to experience that. I wanted to be a mom.”

“And soon you will be,” he says, his hand coming to cover hers on her belly.

“Yeah,” she whispers softly, excitement unfurling in her at the thought. “I also came here the night after I came to see you in your office.” He goes rigid beneath her at her words, and when she lifts her head from his shoulder, she sees his gaze trained on the ground. “I didn’t say that to reopen old wounds.” She cups his face with her hand, making him look at her as she runs her thumb over the soft hair on his cheek. “I just… that night, as I sat here, I realized that the reason I was hurting so much was because I was so terribly in love with you.”

“Nat…” he breathes out.

“This place has this uncanny way of demystifying things for me,” she says. “That’s why I brought you here. With everything we’ve been through these past weeks, and then Helen saying that the baby is absolutely fine…” She sighs. “I just thought that maybe we could see the silver lining.”

A beat passes before she watches his face suddenly light up. “I think I just did,” he says, and she raises a brow up in curiosity. He gently untangles himself from her before standing, and she looks on in intrigue as he takes a few steps forward. His smile spans from ear to ear as he turns to face her, holding his arms out wide. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Her lips curve into a smile of their own, and she quickly reaches for her phone in her purse. Without looking away from him, she adeptly taps through her phone before bringing it up to her ear. “Pepper?”

“I still don’t understand why I have to go to this.”

“Because it’s tradition,” she says without looking up from the sheet of paper on her desk as she glides the pen over it. She stamps a period down before looking up to see Steve practically pouting as he leans against the doorway of their home office with his arms crossed over his chest. “One last hurrah before you have to wish your gladiator days goodbye and all that.”

“You’re only saying that because you get to stay here and get massages with the girls,” he returns bitterly. “Besides, bachelor parties are for people who are sad to see their single days go. I, on the other hand, cannot wait to leave mine behind me.”

“I know,” she says as she leans back against her chair. “You’ve only said it about a hundred times.” He sends a withering look her way, and she laughs. “Oh, come on.” She pushes her chair back to give her room to stand before walking around her desk. “You don’t want to hurt Tony’s feelings now, do you? The man’s been slaving away trying to make this night perfect for you.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he argues. “What I consider a good night and what Tony considers a good night are on completely opposite sides of the spectrum.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “How is Pepper even on board with this?”  

“What makes you think she didn’t help coordinate?” she challenges. “They’ve been married this long for a reason.” His face fills with dread at that, and she has to bite her lip to hold back her laughter. “You know…” she trails as she walks closer to him. “There are worse things in the world than watching beautiful half-naked women dancing while you enjoy a few beers and whatnot with some of your closest friends.” She grins as she pulls something out from her back pocket before holding it up for him to see. “I say you go have fun.”

He stares dumbfoundedly at her hand, and she watches amusedly as his expression contorts with various emotions, the creases on his forehead deepening as his eyebrows furrow closer together. “Do you always carry a wad of ones on you?”

“I had a life before you,” she says before shrugging. “Sue me.” A scoff of surprise escapes his lips before intrigue colors his features, and she can no longer hold back her laughter. He glares. “For god’s sake, Rogers.” She moves closer to him, holding the bills out. “Just take it, will you? Because let’s face it,” she says, pointing to her ever-expanding stomach. “This may be your only opportunity to get a lap dance for a while.” She shakes her head. “And let’s not pretend like you don’t enjoy one.”

“From you,” he stresses incredulously. “I enjoy one from you.” She looks at him pointedly, and he smirks as he closes the remaining distance between them, his arms coming around her to pull her close. “Besides,” he says, leaning down until his lips are close to her ear. “Maybe we can switch things up a little.” She smiles at that, her arms tightening around him as he nibbles on her earlobe. “Let me give you one for a change.” Her eyebrows shoot up at that, and despite not being able to see his face, she can picture the grin on it. “Might even use the engagement gift Buck got us.”   

She pulls away far enough so she can see the devious look on his face. “This I have to see.”

“I could be persuaded to give you a preview,” he says, his head tilting to the side. “If you let me stay.”

“Tempting,” she whispers as he leans in closer and her smile widens. But before their lips can meet, they hear a loud bang on the door, eliciting a laugh from her and a frustrated groan from him.

“Come on, Rogers! You’re not getting out of this one!” Tony calls out.

“Maybe if we’re really quiet, they’ll just go away,” Steve whispers.

The knocking returns, this time louder as seemingly more fists collide with their front door. “Open up before we have Thor kick this door down!” Darcy yells in warning.

“I’m afraid that preview’s going to have to wait,” she says before nodding towards their front door. “Go, before they tear our door off its hinges.”

“Fine,” he concedes, but not before pulling her in for a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And as cliché as this sounds,” she says, smiling, “I’ll be the one in white.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, dropping a final kiss to her temple before walking out.

She watches his retreating form, and once he’s out of sight, makes her way to the back of her desk. She gathers the papers scattered across the surface before pulling open one of her drawers, staring at the open box inside. As the sound of people filling into the living room comes through the door of the office left ajar, she sets the papers in her hand on top of it before pushing the drawer closed. She reaches for the switch on the lamp, and with one final look, walks out to greet her friends.

Her eyes close as she relaxes into the cushions of the couch with her feet stretched out before her, a sigh slipping from her lips. The at-home bachelorette party Pepper had planned for her and all the ladies has been glorious – massages, facials, manicures, pedicures – the woman had gone all out, and not for the first time in her life, she finds herself thankful that her best friend is one of the most thoughtful people on the planet. Spending the evening with her closest friends and soon-to-be sister-in-law has provided a nice reprieve from all the wedding planning and the anxieties that have been plaguing both her and Steve, and though she hadn’t realized it, a night like this one filled with pampering before their big day is just what she needed. Inside her, the baby does a little somersault, and a little smile breaks across her face as she brings a hand up to rub soothing circles over her belly.

“Just in case we haven’t said it enough, Rogers has amazing taste.” She opens her eyes to see Maria sprawled out next to her. “Obviously, he’s marrying you,” she adds before nodding toward the engagement ring on the hand she has resting on her belly. “But his taste in jewelry is also impeccable.”

“Thanks,” she says, and from the corner of her eye, she can see Pepper’s face light up from where she’s sitting on the lounger adjacent the couch. “It was my mom’s, actually.”

“Melinda was married?” Wanda asks, surprise evident in her tone as she lays on the rug next to Darcy, her head propped up on her closed fist.

“No, not Melinda,” she says. “Isabel, my biological mom.” She looks down at her hand, running her thumb over the diamond solitaire resting on the silver band. “This used to be on a necklace of hers. Melinda kept it to give to me one day, but she decided to give it to Steve instead to have placed on a ring when he came to ask her permission to propose to me.”

“Does that man have a flaw?” Jane asks begrudgingly from the other side of the couch, making her look down to hide her smile. “I mean, seriously, there’s got to be one thing he’s bad at.”

“Let’s find out,” Darcy says excitedly as she moves to sit up, tucking her legs beneath her before clapping her hands together. “Time for some games. We’ve got questions.”

“What?” she asks, her head whipping up. “I thought the whole point of this spa night was to avoid all the cliché bachelorette stuff.”

“I was already robbed of the chance to wear my ‘Same Penis Forever’ shirt,” Darcy says, narrowing her eyes at her. “You are not robbing me of this.” She shrugs. “Besides, tonight, you’re not my boss and I’m not your assistant. Therefore, I can ask all the fun things.”

“Darcy,” she says seriously. “You know you’ve never been just my assistant.”

“I know, and that’s sweet,” Darcy says, smiling. “But we’re still doing this because, let’s face it, Captain Tight Sweater may look like an angel, but something tells me he’s actually a freak in the sheets.”

“Oh, god!” Wanda exclaims, her nose crinkling in disgust as her hands come up to cover her ears. “Little sister in the room.”

“Don’t worry,” Pepper says, reaching forward to place a comforting hand on Wanda’s shoulder. “I wrote the questions. You’re safe.”

She raises an eyebrow at her best friend. “You act like I didn’t know you in college.”

“Stop stalling, Romanoff,” Maria says. “You’re always so tight-lipped anyway. At least give us this.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh before nodding towards Darcy. “Shoot.”

Darcy does a victorious little fist pump before reaching for the stack of cards on the coffee table, her eyes reading over the question. “Oh, this should be easy,” she says. “What made you realize Steve was the one?”

The question causes her to pause, catching her off guard, and she’s taken aback by the fact that she does not have an instantaneous answer. She tries to think of all the things that made her fall for the man in question, but one clear answer does not come up. Instead, her mind takes her back to the exact moment she knew – the exact moment she realized that he had stolen her heart. Everything about that day is still incredibly clear in her memory that she can still recall everything from the burgundy silk blouse she wore to work that day to the anger boiling deep in her veins as she made her way back home by the end of it. It was her first day back at the Daily after her fall, and between fighting Sitwell over the budget for her section and dealing with Rumlow, who was hell bent on being extra difficult that day, she was just about ready to punch a hole through the wall as she seethed in the back of the cab. But that all changed the second she made it back to Steve’s building.

The smell of something hearty and delicious fills her nostrils the second she opens the door to his apartment, and she’s quickly overcome with confusion. With Steve working late out of the gallery, there isn’t a reason for there to be a delicious aroma permeating through the air. Or, for there to be music playing softly for that matter. She walks silently down the hallway, her sense of smell coupled with the telltale sound of something simmering leading her to the kitchen, and her face immediately breaks out in a smile when he sees him stirring something at the stove, his back to her as he hums along to the melody. She makes her way behind him quietly.

“Hey, you,” he says as she wraps her hands around him from behind, burrowing her face just below his shoulder blades as she lets out a sigh. He covers her hands with his own, bringing them up close to his face to plant a kiss to her knuckles. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Didn’t think you’d be home already,” she says. “I thought you were going to be out late.”

“I was,” he admits. “But you sounded upset over the phone, so I told Tony I’d finish whatever it is that needed to be done from here.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, frowning as she pulls away from him. “I was just venting. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You didn’t,” he reassures her, turning to drop a kiss to her forehead as his hand falls down to her bump. “Hi, baby,” he greets softly, looking down at her stomach before smiling back up at her. “And I wanted to.” He holds the wooden spoon in his other hand out to her, and she leans in to try what he’s been working on. Her eyes close as she takes in the familiar taste of his marinara sauce, and she lets out a hum of delight. “Good?”

“Amazing,” she says, opening her eyes to see him turning the burner down. She tries to lift herself to perch on the counter, and he puts the spoon down before helping her up.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks as he stands between her legs and intertwines their fingers.

“Nah,” she whispers, leaning her head back against the cupboard. “Tell me about your day instead.”

He turns back towards the stove before obliging her request, and as he recounts the events of his day – of how there is a possibility of opening a second gallery in the West Coast – she watches amusedly as he becomes more animated as his excitement about this upcoming project begins to bleed into his tone. He looks so carefree and relaxed right now, a side of him that he does not always show the world, and she finds that it’s one of the most beautiful sights she’s ever seen and something she absolutely adores about him. But, perhaps more saliently, she realizes that the anger that was burning hotly within her is suddenly nowhere to be found, replaced instead with a feeling of comfort and peace as she gets lost in the sound of his voice and in the beauty of his smile that reaches his eyes as he works to put the finishing touches on the sauce. What she was fuming over on her way here now seems inconsequential, irrelevant. And despite this not being her apartment, she feels an awful lot like she’s home.

“I’m hoping we can make a children’s wing in both galleries,” he says, his voice almost giddy as he reaches for the wine glass on the other side of the counter. “There could be work stations for arts and crafts and tables for puzzles.” He brings the glass up to his lips for a sip before setting it back down. “You know, some place Fig could one day-”

She does not let him finish his sentence as she pulls him to her by his tie, her lips immediately colliding with his. His hands fall to her waist as hers cup his face, and she shifts so that he can stand between her legs as their kiss that started off soft and gentle quickly escalates into something more heated and passionate. When air becomes a necessity, she pulls away, and when she finally looks up at him, she finds him staring down at her questioningly. She sighs. “God, I really miss wine.”

He breaks out into laughter at that, his head tipping back, and the sound is a beautiful symphony to her ears.

“Earth to Nat!”

The sound of Darcy’s voice snaps her out of her trance, and when she blinks, she finds her friends looking at her expectantly. “Sorry,” she says, shifting in place as she tries to regain her focus. “I, uh… I don’t think there’s one thing, really.” She clears her throat. “It wasn’t like… like when he held up the positive pregnancy test before my eyes and I knew immediately that I loved our baby. That was instant.” She shakes her head. “But with him? It all happened so slowly, the smallest of moments all compiling together without me even noticing, that I didn’t even realize how indelibly I had fallen for him until I was already in too deep.” She shrugs. “And one day, as I was sitting on the counter listening to him talk about his day, I realized that this is how I wanted all my days to end.” A smile creeps onto her lips as she adds, “and then he was a completely different person to me.” She lets out a little sigh as she nods. “He was the one.” She expects her friends to bombard her with a plethora of follow ups after her long-winded answer, but instead she’s met with silence. She looks around once more – at Pepper, Maria, Jane, Darcy, and Wanda – all staring at her with their faces filled with elation, and she has to look down to hide the blush that colors her cheeks. “Any other questions?” she asks quietly as she plays with the ring on her finger.

“So that’s a no on Steve having a flaw?” Jane asks, causing the entire room to burst out in laughter.

It’s nearly midnight when she finally makes it to the bed, her fluffy robe still wrapped as tightly around her as her stomach will permit. After all the fun and games where she had divulged as much information about her and Steve’s relationship as she was comfortable with, Jane, Maria, and Darcy had decided to head home with a promise to see her at the wedding tomorrow, while Pepper and Wanda stayed behind with her. The former is currently checking on a sleeping Maria in the nursery while the latter had retired to their guest room. She leans back, sinking further into the pillows before bringing her left hand out in front of her, watching as the diamond sparkles under the light of her bedside lamp. Come tomorrow, there’ll be another band resting on her finger, and she finds that the thought makes her smile.

“It’s like we’re in college all over again.” She looks over to see Pepper making her way into the bedroom, placing the baby monitor on Steve’s nightstand before settling on the other side of the bed. “At least this bed is bigger.”

“And the sheets are softer,” she adds.

“Much softer,” Pepper emphasizes as she shifts to sit cross-legged. “How are you two feeling?”

“We just got pampered to the nines, Pep,” she reasons, her hand coming to rest on her belly. “We’re happy campers.”

“Yeah?” Pepper asks, and she nods before taking her hand to let her feel the baby moving against her stomach. Pepper smiles. “Good, that’s really good.” She gestures towards her feet. “And those? How are those feeling?”

She eyes her questioningly. “Toasty warm. Why?”

“Nothing,” Pepper says. “Just making sure you aren’t having any doubts is all.”

“This is coming from one of the co-founders of Steve’s fan club,” she says, raising a perfectly arched brow at her. “Something you want to tell me? I thought you loved Steve.”

“Believe me, I think he’s the one person you’ve dated that’s actually worthy of you.” Pepper shakes her head. “But he shouldn’t get it twisted. You’re still my best girl, and if you told me right now that you were having doubts, you best believe that I’ll be driving your getaway car without a second thought.” She looks at her friend amusedly, who just shrugs in return “You’d do it for me, right?”

“You bet your ass I would,” she says with a smile. “Pepper, thank you.”

Pepper waves her gratitude off. “Oh, don’t you start. This was nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she says firmly. “And I’m not just saying this for tonight. I mean, for everything. For tonight, for planning the wedding, for always having my back.” She sighs. “Just, thank you.”

Pepper moves until she’s lying next to her, pulling her close so she can rest her head on her shoulder. “We may not be related by blood, Nat, but you are my sister,” Pepper says. “You’ve been there for me just as much as I have for you. And if there is anything that I can do that’s going to make your life even remotely easier, you know I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Pepper turns her head to press a kiss to her hair. “You got it?”

“Got it,” she whispers, covering Pepper’s hand with her own. Silence befalls them, and as she basks in her gratitude for the woman next to her who has been her rock long before Steve had come into her life, she musters her courage to ask her for one more thing. “Hey, Pep?”

“Yeah, Nat?”

She looks up at her. “There is one more thing.”

She counts silently to three, bracing herself as she turns to face the mirror behind her, and a little gasp falls from her lips as she struggles to recognize her own reflection. Because, surely, the woman before her must be someone else. She looks incredibly radiant with her cheeks flushed a healthy pink, her lips glossy and shining and curved into a wide smile as she stands covered in the lace of her white dress that hangs daintily off her shoulders before cascading all the way down to the floor with a black velvet ribbon resting atop her ever-growing bump. But it’s the eyes that really get her; they’re bright and green and brimming with unadulterated happiness. The woman before her is a bride, a jubilant one at that, and she’s struggling to believe that this woman is her. Of all the roles and titles she’s held throughout her life – loving daughter, supportive friend, successful journalist, dotting godmother, and soon, mother – she never thought that blushing bride would make it high on her list, if at all on it. Pledging herself to someone for the rest of her life was never something that appealed to her, but today, as she stands in the elaborate tent Pepper had set up to be a makeshift powder room, she finds that she cannot wait to make it down the aisle. For she knows that at the end of it, Steve will be waiting for her, and right now, there isn’t a thing she wants more than to be his wife.

“Oh, my goodness!” The astonished voice causes her to look up, and she smiles when she sees Melinda standing behind her, her hands raised to her mouth. “Oh, Natasha,” she says, nearly squealing. “You look stunning!”

“Are you kidding me?” she asks, turning and pointing to Melinda’s dove gray gown and her hair that’s immaculately done up in a bun. “Look at you.” She shakes her head. “I mean, clearly, I learned from the best.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Melinda teases, making them both laugh. “Oh, come here,” she gestures, pulling her in for a hug. “I’m so proud of you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“I love you, mom,” she whispers, her voice breaking as tears sting her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“I love you too, my sweet girl,” Melinda says before pulling away from her as she cups her face in her hands. “But you don’t ever have to thank me.” She uses the pads of her thumbs to gently wipe the tears sliding down her face. “I was simply doing my job,” she says, dropping one of her hands to her belly. “Believe me, you’ll understand.” She sighs. “No more crying, okay? Pepper will kill me if I ruin her masterpiece.”

“Well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes,” a voice interrupts, and both she and Melinda turn towards the slit of the tent.

“Nick!” she exclaims, crossing the space to wrap her arms around the man. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it?”

“I only said that so I could surprise you,” he says, squeezing her back. “I’ve never missed a single one of your ballet recitals. You didn’t really think I’d miss your wedding day, did you?” He steps back from her, sending a stern look her way. “Tell me you didn’t.”

She rolls her eyes at his ridiculousness, but the sentiment lasts but a second as her face breaks out in a smile. “Are you walking me down the aisle, too?”

“Nah,” he says. His lips curve up as he smiles, the type he does not let many people see – the one he reserves for when he’s around her and Melinda. “I just wanted to be here to see you two.”

“You sure?” Melinda asks from behind her. “I don’t mind sharing.”  

“Certain,” Nick says. “This is something for the both of you to do.” He points his thumb over his shoulder. “We gotta get going. Pepper told me when I came in here that procession was starting in five minutes and that is one lady you do not want to keep waiting.”

Melinda nods at him, and as he exits the tent, she walks towards the table still scattered with Pepper’s arsenal of makeup products to pick up the bouquet of white roses resting in a vase. She holds them out to her with a smile. “Show time.”

Despite the certainty that she felt only minutes ago, she finds herself taking in a deep breath to steady the butterflies in her stomach as she and Melinda stand arm-in-arm right at the curve that leads to the aisle. Pepper had already made the trip down with Bucky, and as she hears the collective coos of the crowd over the tune of the string quartet, she knows that Wanda has already began walking with little Maria in her arms.

“You ready?” Melinda asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” she says, smiling.

Melinda gives Pepper’s assistant a nod, and as the woman brings a hand up to her earpiece, within seconds, she hears the familiar chords of the Bridal Chorus begin. She and Melinda turn the corner leading to the aisle, and she watches as the crowd rises as they begin to walk down. Everyone beams from ear to ear, and a chuckle escapes her lips when she directs her attention to the left, to where Thor, dressed sharply in a navy suit, is practically bouncing on the heels of his feet as Jane, looking on happily in an emerald dress, puts a hand on his arm to try to steady him. On the opposite side of the aisle, Darcy stands giving her a thumbs up as she records the moment on her phone. She takes note of the rest people before her – Laura, Clint, and their kids, Nick next to Sarah, Maria, Strange and his fiancée, Christine, Helen and her husband, and every person near and dear to them. But then her gaze falls forward, just beneath the arch of lilies, to Steve.

Her breath gets caught in her throat as she takes him in, the light coming from the sun shining overhead making his hair shine even more golden. The rest of the crowd seems to fade away, and right now, in this moment, it’s just the two of them. He looks devilishly handsome standing in his charcoal tux, his bright blue eyes trained on her. The smile on his face is infectious, and she finds that she, too, is unable to keep her lips from curving upwards into a blinding grin. And she just knows that this, the way he looks right now as he waits for her to make it to him, is an image that she will commit to her memory forever. And despite Melinda’s hold on her arm grounding her to reality, she feels as if time has stopped, like she can’t get to him fast enough even as they continue their descent and she loses herself in the oceanic pools of his eyes. Finally, as they reach the end, Steve breaks their gaze, and she watches as he steps forward to accept a hug from Melinda while Pepper comes to her side to take her bouquet.

“Take care of them,” she hears her mom say as she pulls away.

“With my life,” Steve promises before turning back to her as Melinda makes her way over to her seat. “Hey, beautiful.”  

She beams. “So, we’re really doing this, huh?”

“I suppose we are,” he says, taking her hand as he leads her to stand in front of Tony. As he does, she catches the way Bucky tips his head slightly towards her, a smile on his face, and she sends a warm one his way in return.   

“You guys can sit or whatever,” Tony says to the crowd as both she and Steve turn to face each other with their hands joined. Despite the smiles of amusement on their faces, they send warning glances Tony’s way.

“Told you we were going to regret this,” she whispers to Steve.

“I’m going to pretend like I didn’t hear that,” Tony retorts before clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Natasha Romanoff and Steven Grant Rogers, two of the most stubborn people I know who have somehow found a perfect match in each other.” That draws laughter from everyone seated, and despite her best effort, she finds herself grinning as well. “Now, as most of you may know, I have the incredible honor of being a friend to both of them. Steve and I met when we were just kids, while Red over here came as a Buy-One-Get-One deal when I met my wonderful wife, Pepper.” Tony steals a look her way, a knowing smile on his face, and she smirks in return. “I have known them as individuals, and I have gotten to know them as a couple, and I can say with the utmost confidence that you’d be hard pressed to find two people who bring out the best in each other the way these two do, and those of us here could not be more glad that you are beginning this journey together.” Tony regards the both of them. “And now, for the vows.”       

She watches as Bucky steps forward at that, handing Steve a ring, and the smile he gives her when he turns back to her is one of her favorites – the one that starts off lopsided, but eventually turns into one big beam. “Natasha,” he breathes out. “For so long, I’ve been searching high and wide for a place to call home. Yet, no matter where I went, or how close I thought I came to finding that place, something never felt quite right. And, for a time, I had resigned myself to thinking that it was a pipe dream. That, maybe I was searching for something that simply didn’t exist.” He sighs. “But then I met you, and I realized that all these places I’ve wandered, all these spaces I’ve tried to fit into my vision didn’t… They simply could not live up to what I’d hoped because none of them had you in it.”  He shakes his head. “Natasha, I love you more than I have ways of telling you. And while I can’t promise to be the perfect husband, because I will take offense the next time you call my pancakes subpar” - he pauses as she and the crowd before them chuckle - “I do swear to be the first person in your corner through every obstacle life throws at us, to be the one that pours you a glass of wine at the end of a hard day, and to be the best father to our child as I can possibly be.”

She turns to take the ring from Pepper before looking back at him once more. “Steve, to say that you have touched my life seems inadequate, because you’ve done so much more than that. You’ve changed it – changed it for the better – but more importantly, you have changed me forever.”  She shakes her head, almost in disbelief. “I thought that needing someone was a weakness. And for the longest time, I used that as an excuse to prevent myself from ever fully giving my heart away.” She shoots him an incredulous look. “And then you came along, bringing your kindness and patience and unwavering support…” She sighs. “I may never understand what I did to deserve you, but I’m so glad that I get to be your partner in this life. And while I will make sure you know every time our child is being stubborn that it’s your fault,” she says, smirking up at him. He tips his head back at that, joining in the chorus of laughter from their friends and family. “I will also make sure you know every single day how much I” - she pauses to bring his hand to her stomach - “and our little fig love and appreciate you.”

“I love you,” he mouths across from her.

“I love you,” she returns.

A moment passes as they get lost in each other’s eyes, and even as Tony begins to speak again, they keep their gaze locked on each other. “Steve,” Tony says, “do you take Natasha to be your lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” he says, sliding the ring onto her finger.

Tony turns her way. “Natasha,” he says, “do you take Steve to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” she echoes, slipping the ring onto his finger.

“Then by the power vested in me by the World Wide Web, I now pronounce you man and wife.” Tony nods towards Steve. “Rogers, you may kiss your bride.”

He steps forward, his hands reaching to cup her face in his hands before he leans down to capture her lips in a searing kiss as everyone erupts into cheers.  

“I hate to break it to you,” she says as he steps out of the elevator of their apartment with her in his arms. “But I think this ritual only applies if I haven’t been living here longer than you have.”

He stops in front of their front door to look down at her witheringly. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“I’m just saying,” she retorts, rolling her eyes as he bends down to twist the knob. He turns, using his back to push the door open before walking inside. “I have legs. I can-” she tries to say, but the sight before her causes her to pause. Without the hallway lights on, their foyer is dark, but the darkness only highlights the unmistakable warm orange glow of candlelight radiating from their living room. “Oh.” She takes notice of the scent of something faintly floral, and when she looks down, she finds the hardwood littered with red and white petals. She looks at him, smiling. “You really are a sap.”

“Perhaps,” he says, walking further into their apartment with her still in his arms. Once they reach the threshold of their living room, he sets her down on her feet. “But you’re stuck with me.” A wide yet nearly incredulous grin spreads across his face as he pulls her close by the waist. “Welcome home, Mrs. Rogers.”   

“God, I could get used to that,” she whispers as she wraps her arms around his neck to draw him closer.

“I thought you weren’t taking my name?” he asks, his expression a little dazed.

“No,” she says, biting her lip. “But I could get used to being yours.”

“Who’s the sap now?” he asks, a smirk on his lips.  

“You,” she says. “Always you.”

“All right,” he says, chuckling before pulling away from her as his hands move from her waist to her arms. “Bath, and then bed. You’ve been on your feet for too long today.”  

“It was for a good reason though,” she says with a pout even as she lets him guide her towards their bedroom.

He smiles back at her. “Glad you think so.”  

Their bedroom is a mirror image of their living room as petals cover the duvet, the floor, and the path leading to the bath, with the only sources of light coming from the candles and their bedside lamps. Steve leads her into the bathroom, and as she works on ridding herself of her jewelry, he walks further in to get the water running into the porcelain tub. He’s back in an instant, his nimble fingers working on the tiny zipper of her dress. He pulls it all the way down, letting the material fall to the floor before holding out a hand out to her, and she takes it as she steps out of the pool of lace. He begins to walk her towards the tub, but she places her hands on his chest to stop him.

“Let me,” she says, her hands already moving to undo his bowtie. He stops, letting her pull it off his neck before her hands fall under his suit jacket, urging him to shrug it off. “Have I told you how handsome you look in this suit?” she asks, peering up at him from underneath her lashes.

“Might’ve mentioned it a time or two today,” he says, his voice low.

Once they’re both stripped bare, he helps her into the tub, guiding her until she’s situated in the water before he follows suit, maneuvering himself behind her and pulling her back flush against his chest. Comfortable silence envelopes them, and as he presses his thumbs into the knots on her back and his lips pepper her shoulder with feather-light kisses, she lets her eyes fall shut as she all but melts into his touch. He brings his hand down to her belly, his fingers spraying out across her bump underneath their cocoon of warm water, and the smile she feels against her skin lets her know that he, too, had felt the little jab from inside of her at the contact.

“How and when did you even get this done?” she asks moments later, taking in the deluge of candles and flowers before them.

“Where do you think Bucky and Darcy wandered off to after we cut the cake?”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head back to look at him. “That’s a more sanitized explanation than what I had in my head.” He laughs at that, and the sound alone is enough to make her lips turn up. The steam from the tub has caused a few strands of his hair to fall onto his forehead, and she reaches up to push them back with her fingers. “I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly the wedding night you had pictured,” she says, dropping her hand down to caress his cheek as she smirks.

“Hey,” he says, shifting her in his arms until she’s practically cradled in them. He looks down at her, and the sincerity in his eyes nearly floors her. “All I needed for this night to be perfect was for you to be my wife at the end of it. Everything else…” he trails, shaking his head. “Everything else is just a bonus atop the many things I’ve been lucky enough to be given today.”

She searches for the perfect response, but when it doesn’t come quickly enough, she pulls him to her, crashing her lips to his as she pours every single emotion she wishes she could convey to him right now into the kiss instead.  

A rustling noise rouses her from her slumber as she turns over and her fingers come into contact with something cold, and when she opens her eyes, she finds a note resting on the pillow next to her. She picks up the small square, her eyes squinting as she tries to read the neat scrawl.

Making breakfast.
Stay in bed.
-Your Husband

The way he signed the note brings a smile to her face, and despite Steve’s instructions, she finds herself rising from the warmth of their bed and padding down the hallway as a yawn escapes her. She stops by the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame as she watches Steve, his shirt visibly missing, add batter to the steaming waffle maker on the counter as he stands with his back to her. A sizzling noise fills the air the moment the batter touches the heated iron, and she bites her lip as she watches the muscles of his back coil as he reaches for a plate in the cupboard.

“As much as I appreciate the show,” she says, her tone teasing. “I really don’t think you should be operating heated machinery without a shirt on.”

He turns to her, and the way his lower lip juts out in a pout is almost comical. “I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“And I wanted to wake up next to my husband.” She pushes off the frame before making her way over to him with a smile on her face. “But I guess we’re both going to have to make a few concessions now, aren’t we?” she asks, reaching for a sliced strawberry on the chopping board before popping it into her mouth.

His hands wrap around her waist, and she lets out a squeal as he hoists her onto the counter. “I seem to remember leaving a note explaining my absence,” he says, an eyebrow raised challengingly at her as he stands between her legs. “Now whether or not my wife does as I ask is a whole different story.” He drops her hand to her thigh, his finger tracing the hem of her shirt. “As for my lack of attire, I wouldn’t have to risk a third degree burn if my wife would stop pilfering my shirts.”

This time, she’s the one that can’t resist a pout. “You can’t make bacon, let the smell waft into the air, and not expect me to go looking for it.”

“Okay, fair.” He chuckles as he leans down to drop a kiss to her nose. “But the waffles will be done in a minute,” he points out. “Can you please get back in there so I can bring my wife breakfast in bed on our first morning as a married couple?”

“Fine,” she says, letting him help her off the counter. She begins to make her way out of the kitchen, but just as she makes to the door, she turns back. “But while we’re on this subject, you should know that bringing me breakfast in bed shouldn’t be-”

“Nat?” she hears Steve ask, his tone shifting. “Are you okay?”  

“I-” she tries, but she finds herself unable to finish her thought as her gaze falls to the floor, to the liquid pooling by her bare feet as she feels a warmth drip down her thighs.

The loud noise of the ambulance’s siren as it weaves through the streets of Manhattan is the only sound cutting through the rush of her thoughts, assuring her of where she is, and despite the warmth of Steve’s hand intertwined firmly with hers, she finds herself unmoving, frozen – the way she has been since they left the apartment. Everything went by like a blur the moment she looked down to see the water dripping down her legs. She and Steve had shared a wide-eyed stare, and in a blink of an eye, he was moving, bounding swiftly from one room to the next, opening one door after another with his phone to his ear as he gathered her hospital bag and a slew of other things with a precision she’s never seen from him before. The way he moved seemed rehearsed, like he had pictured exactly what he was going to do and what he was going to pick up the second this happened, but in spite of the urgency in his strides and the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she found herself rooted in place. She’s uncertain of how much time had gone by until she felt Steve’s hand on her arm, alerting her of the paramedics now in their apartment. In any other instance, she’d have a teasing comment on the tip of her tongue about what a worrywart he was being, or maybe even a snide remark about his unwarranted paranoia, but it was absent as she let him guide her onto the awaiting stretcher.

“Almost there,” he whispers, squeezing her hand gently.

She looks up to see him regarding her with a small yet reassuring smile on his face, but she knows him well enough to recognize the cracks in his seemingly brave façade. She nods, because it’s all she’s capable of at the moment, before she swallows the lump forming in her throat. “Steve-” He looks at her questioningly, but she does not have time to voice her thoughts because the ambulance comes to an abrupt stop, and sunlight pours in through the open doors as her stretcher is wheeled forward then down.

“So, who does the baby take after in the impatience department?” Helen asks teasingly as she’s lifted onto a hospital bed.

“Helen,” she says, reaching for the woman’s arm as she’s rolled past the automatic doors of the emergency room. “It’s early.”

“Natasha, I know that this is earlier than we’d like,” Helen says, shooting her a sympathetic look just as she’s wheeled into a room. “But we can’t delay this any longer. Your water has broken and yet you’re not showing any signs of labor. That puts you and the baby at a greater risk for infection.” Helen puts a hand over the one she has on her arm. “The baby is a lot healthier than it was at twenty-seven weeks, and this way the risk of placental abruption is lower.” She looks between her and Steve. “We have to do the C-section now.”

“And the baby will be okay?”

“The baby is doing great,” Helen says. “Now we have to make sure mom is, too.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice small, and Helen nods at her with a promise to be back momentarily. Nurses surround her, quickly putting her in a hospital gown and hooking her up to all kinds of machines. Once they’re done, she’s handed consent forms and a pen, and despite everything going on around her, it’s these documents that seem to overwhelm her the most, making the grip of her fingers tighten around the pen.

“Hey,” Steve says, wrapping a hand around hers as he takes a seat next to her bed. “Do you need help with those?”

The sound of his voice centers her, almost instantly quelling her overwhelming nerves. In the chaos of them getting to the hospital and all the fuss around her as Helen and the nurses got her settled, she had almost forgotten that she was not alone in this. Almost. “No,” she says, shaking her head to bring her focus back. “I’ve got this.”

“I know you do,” he says, smiling back at her. “I called everyone. They’re on their way.”

She nods at that, turning towards the clipboard the nurse had handed her. “It takes after you, by the way,” she says, keeping her eyes on the form she’s in the middle of signing. When she’s done, she sets them down next to her before looking up to see him raising an eyebrow at her. She gives him a little smirk. “In the impatience department, I mean.”

He scoffs. “How is it that every time it does something cute it takes after you, and every time it’s being a pain it takes after me?”

“Just the way it is,” she says with a shrug, and they exchange smiles as he concedes to the fact.

He leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead, before leaning his own against hers. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” she whispers, bringing a hand up to cup his face.

“Ms. Romanoff?” They break apart at the sound of a woman’s voice at the door, and when they look over, they see a nurse smiling at them. “We’re here to administer your epidural.”

She focuses on the eggshell white of the hospital’s ceiling as she’s wheeled towards the operating room. While she familiarized herself with the pre-delivery and delivery processes countless times in the months leading up to this day, she’s surprised at how quickly the epidural had taken effect, numbing her from the ribcage down in less than twenty minutes. It’s bizarre, not being able to feel like she has control of most of her body, but even so, she finds herself thankful to not have to experience the gruesome contractions she’s read so much about from other moms in the online forums that have kept her up at night.

“You two ready?” she hears Helen ask just as the ceiling shifts from a white to a dark gray as they enter the bright operating room, and when she looks to the side, she finds the doctor already dressed in scrubs.

“Don’t think this baby gave us a choice,” she jokes, and faintly, she hears Steve’s muffled chuckle from underneath the mask covering half his face from where he stands by her head.

“No, it did not,” Helen says, amusement in her tone. “Don’t worry, you’ll have the little trouble maker in your arms before you know it.”

Helen disappears from her view at that, and she hears the telltale sign of a curtain being pulled. From above her head, she watches Steve crane his neck, his eyebrows furrowing in dismay when he realizes that he can’t see over it. “Do you really want to see what my insides look like?”

“Don’t want to miss out on the action,” he counters, and though most of his face is shielded by the mask, she can tell he’s smiling by the way his eyes light up. “You’re doing great, baby.”

“It hasn’t even started yet,” she says, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Ready when you are, Natasha,” Helen says from the other side of the curtain.

She shares a final encouraging glance with Steve, and as he rubs her temple soothingly with his thumb, she smiles. “Let’s do this.”

“All right,” Helen says. “Ten-blade, please.”

She lets out a breath she hadn’t even known she’s been holding in as Helen talks to the team of nurses, but the medical jargon escapes her, and she chooses to focus instead on the sweet nothings Steve whispers to her, zeroing in on the sound of his voice. She feels the faintest of pressures along her abdomen followed by a sensation akin to prodding. Seconds turn into minutes, feeling like an eternity as she continues to wait, and a beat later, beyond the curtain, Helen’s voice grows louder as she instructs the people around her. There’s a quick shuffle, the ruckus around her growing louder before a distinct snip fills the air, and then she hears it – the sound so strong and loud and reverberating. A cry.

“It’s a girl!” Helen exclaims before rattling off a laundry list of vitals and numerical information.

“It’s a girl?” Steve asks incredulously, his voice cracking towards the end. “It’s a girl!”

The disbelief coupled with the pure elation in Steve’s tone causes her to let out a joyous sob, and vaguely, she feels the kiss he drops to her forehead. “I told you it was a girl!” she manages to choke out, focusing on his vibrant blue eyes as he looks down at her despite the tears blurring her vision.

“You did,” he says, his laughter filling her ears. “You really did.” He swipes his thumbs over the tears running down her cheeks, and when her vision clears, she finds that his eyes are brimming with tears as well. “We have a daughter, Nat.”

Helen’s question cuts through the sound of the cries filling the room. “Ready to meet your baby girl, mom and dad?”

“Go to her,” she tells him, and he does not waste time following her words. She turns her head to the side to see him meet Helen on the other side of the bed, and she watches as the doctor carefully places the screaming little bundle in his arms.

Steve’s words come through loud and clear. “She’s so beautiful.”

A smile crosses her lips at that, and she opens her mouth to speak, but before her response can make it out of her mouth, the wails of their daughter nestled in Steve’s arms blend with complete and utter commotion. Voices become urgent, machines go off, and she tries to comprehend what’s going on. But her eyes are suddenly heavy – too heavy – and the last thing she hears is the sound of her name being called out as they flutter shut.

Chapter Text

“It’s a girl?” Steve asks incredulously, his voice breaking at the end. Helen continues with a plethora of numbers and instructions to the people around her, but they escape him as the reality of the moment finally sinks in. “It’s a girl!”

He hears a sob and looks down to see Natasha, a beaming smile on her face despite the tears streaming from her eyes. He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I told you it was a girl!” she says, laughing through her tears.

“You did,” he says, laughter also rumbling through his chest. “You really did.” He swipes his thumbs over the tears running down her cheeks despite his own vision blurring. His heart swells, feeling too big for his chest and knocking the air right out of his lungs. “We have a daughter, Nat.”

Natasha smiles, but then Helen’s question cuts through the moment, rising above the sound of the cries filling the room. “Ready to meet your baby girl, mom and dad?”

“Go to her,” Natasha says, her tone encouraging.

Against all the emotions rushing through him, keeping him rooted in place, his legs propel him forward as if on their own accord. He makes his way to the other side of the bed, stopping just when Helen meets him halfway. In her arms, the crying baby squirms in the blanket wrapped loosely around her, and he steps closer to allow the doctor to gently maneuver the infant into his awaiting arms. He looks down at her – at their daughter – and it’s as if the world comes to a standstill. Euphoria, a level of which he hadn’t known existed, let alone experienced, rushes through him, and the truth slips easily from his lips. “She’s so beautiful.”

His words fill the room fleetingly, for as soon as he utters them, they’re drowned out by the sound of a monitor going haywire. In front of him, Helen’s eyes widen, and she turns to look back, calling out Natasha’s name as she scrambles towards the operating table. The commotion in the room intensifies, but it dulls to a hum as he stands frozen in place. He parts his lips in an attempt to speak, but it’s to no avail as he gets caught up in watching all the bodies moving urgently around him. Vaguely, it occurs to him that the baby is being taken out of his arms, though he’s unable to argue as his gaze falls to Natasha, her eyes shut and her hand lying limply on the table. The distance between them begins to widen, and it’s not until he’s stepped out into the hall does it register that he’s being ushered out. He stares blankly at the nurses before him. “What’s happening?”

He looks up as the double doors swing open. By now it’s become a reflex, his neck twisting immediately in their direction every time it is pushed forward with a creak. His eyes land on a pair of doctors, their faces still covered in surgical masks, and he watches as they approach a family waiting to the left of the room before he lets out a sigh. Across from him, Melinda and Nick do the same from their seats, their tired eyes clouding with disappointment when they also realize that the doctors are not headed their way. He imagines that his face does not look any different, though he wonders if the horror that’s been pulsing through his veins since he was forced out of the operating room and into the hall shrouds it.

A shudder runs through him at the memory of Natasha lying lifelessly on the table. Next to him, Wanda sits quietly, her hand rubbing up and down his back comfortingly. The grip he has on his arm tightens, his fingers digging into his skin as he tries to get a hold of himself.

“Can I get you something?” Sarah asks softly, and he sees the worry heavy in her eyes as she bends down in front of him, but all he can manage is a shake of his head.

“Steve?” His head turns to the side at Pepper’s concerned voice calling out to him, and he watches as her strides grow hurried as she makes her way over with Tony half a step behind her. “Where’s Nat?” she asks as she stops just in front of him, the worry on her face growing as she takes in everyone’s forlorn looks. “What happened?”

His throat aches as he swallows, and once again he finds himself shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice small. “No one will tell me anything.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Tony says, his face crinkling in disgust. “Did they see the outside of this building? Did you tell them-”

“He already tried that,” Bucky whispers from the corner.

From where he sits, he fights the anger building inside of him. Bucky’s words could not be more apt because he had tried everything – pleading, begging, demanding. And while he isn’t a fan of throwing his friend’s name around like a weapon, his desperation had taken precedence over his principles, and for the first time in his life, he resents the fact that not even Tony’s name could get him what he needs.

“They’re not going to break protocol. Not even for you,” Bucky tells Tony. His voice grows venomous as he adds, “they won’t even let him see her.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Tony mumbles confusedly.

“The baby,” Melinda clarifies. “It’s a girl.”

“Oh, Steve,” Peppers says, distraught. “How long has it been?”

He’s not entirely sure of the answer. Hours, probably, but they’ve surely come to feel like days. A handful of doctors have come and gone, informing other families waiting alongside of them about the state of their loved ones, and as time went on, he found himself growing more and more frustrated as none of them approached him. Waiting was excruciating alone, and while he thought the presence of their family would alleviate that feeling, it hasn’t done much to extinguish the pain in his chest as there was no information they could elicit from the hospital staff. He inhales deeply, trying to gather his composure to give Pepper an answer, but the sound of the doors swinging open again catches his attention, and the sight of Helen coming towards them has him bolting upright and onto his feet.

“Tell me she’s alive,” he says, doing away with preamble as the words fall a little too quickly out of his mouth and he crosses the distance left between him and the doctor. He stares at Helen, his eyes pleading as he holds in a breath. Helen gives him the smallest of nods. “Oh, thank God.”

“Steve.” Helen’s cautious tone abruptly cuts the relief rushing through him. He’s heard the doctor use this restrained voice before, and it’s never been to deliver good news. He looks back up at her to find her eyeing the growing number of family members crowding them. “Natasha’s condition was more severe than we thought,” she says, looking him right in the eye. “The placenta, hanging as low to her cervix as it was, caused a lot of lacerations. She also suffered a late abruption-”

“Cut to the chase, doc,” he hears Nick say from behind him, and he finds himself glad that at least someone has found the wherewithal to speak.

“Natasha is alive, but she’s unconscious and in critical condition,” Helen says. There’s a sob, from whom he does not know. Helen’s words feel like a vice around his neck, hindering his ability to breathe. “We were able to stop the bleeding, but she lost an incredible amount of blood. We’ve started a transfusion and are supplying her with fluids, but it’s a precarious situation and we’re navigating it as carefully as we can.”

“Prognosis?” someone asks. He thinks it might be Tony, or maybe Bucky, but he’s unsure, feeling a lot like the room is spinning.

“We’re not certain yet,” Helen admits. “I had to bring in a colleague as this is an area that is out of my expertise. He’ll come explain the exact details of Natasha’s condition once we know more.”

“What about the baby?” Wanda, he notes, recognizing the feel of her hand squeezing firmly as it wraps around his own.

“I’m about to check on her.” Helen looks directly back at him. “Natasha has been taken to the Intensive Care wing. You can go see her in room 315.” The doctor lets out a little sigh as she puts a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Steve, I’ll come to you as soon as we know more.”

He hears a faint thank you as the voices of his family crowd him, offering what he thinks are words of comfort, but they’re muffled by the sound of his heart beating in his ears.

He stares at Natasha’s hand, her fingers going out of focus as his vision blurs, and he blinks in an attempt to avert the weariness from his eyes. He sits up straighter, the muscles of his back protesting from being hunched in the plastic seat, and he winces as he scoots forward until his knees are touching the bed. Before him, Natasha lies, a plethora of tubes and monitors attached to her. Keeping her alive. The oxygen mask obstructs most of her face, but he still notices how much paler and sullen her skin looks. He thought that maybe time would help him grow even the slightest bit accustomed to seeing her this way, but it still makes his heart clench with pain as it did the first time he had walked into this room. He reaches over to push back a stray tendril of hair that’s fallen over her forehead before letting out a sigh. How they had gone from newlywed bliss to this, he does not know, and it takes everything in him not to let his emotions boil over.

Helen had stopped by shortly after he had made it to the room, the colleague she had mentioned in tow. She had introduced him as Doctor Fine, the hospital’s internist and Chief of Surgery. Fine could have been the best doctor in the world, boasting the best credentials, but none of that mattered to him as the man delivered another blow to what was already proving to be the worst day of his life. Natasha had hemorrhaged enough to send her body into shock, and now it was a waiting game as they supplied her with enough blood and fluids to make sure that her organs did not start to shut down. Helen had offered cautious optimism. Natasha’s young and healthy, she said, and her chances of making it and waking up were leaning more towards likely. The doctor’s words did nothing to appease him, though, for those hopes meant nothing if they did not come true.

The smell of coffee permeates through the air, mingling with the sterile smell of the hospital room, and when he looks over his shoulder, he finds Melinda walking into the room with two cups in hand. She walks over to him, offering the other cup. “Thanks,” he says, taking the cup from Melinda’s outstretched hand as she takes a seat next to him. “You didn’t have to go through the trouble.”

“Figured that would work better than trying to convince you to rest your eyes for a bit,” Melinda says with a light shrug. “Your mom and sister went home. They’ll be back in the morning.” He nods curtly at that, bringing the cup up to his lips for a sip as she eyes him. “Talk to me.”

A strangled sigh escapes him, and he keeps his voice below a breath as if saying his next words any louder might cement it into reality. “There is a very real chance our daughter might grow up without a mother.” From the corner of his eye, he sees her come to stand next to him, her hip resting against the edge of the table, but he keeps his gaze down. She covers his hand with her own, and he shakes his head as she lets out a sigh. “And if she doesn’t make it out of this…” he says, bowing his head. “What if I can’t love our child the way she thought I would?”  

“Oh, Steve.” The way Melinda’s voice cracks as she utters his name causes him to look her way, and he catches the way her eyes grow glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t even worry about that.” She pats his shoulder gently. “You’ll see,” she says, pushing off the table as she moves to walk away. “Oh, and one more thing.” He turns to see her halfway out the door. “I do have to go through the trouble. You’re my son now, too. Better get used to me hovering.” She gives him a faint smile before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He’s nearly dozed off when he hears a light tap, and from his seat, he looks towards the direction of the door to find a woman in light blue scrubs standing by the frame. “Mr. Rogers?” the woman says softly. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but I was instructed by Doctor Cho to come get you as soon as your daughter was cleared to be seen.”

“Right,” he says, standing. He makes his way over to extend a hand. “Please, call me Steve.”

“Claire,” the woman offers, shaking his hand. “I’m the NICU nurse assigned to your daughter. You can come see her now if you’ll just follow me.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, glancing back to where Melinda is sleeping on the chair next to Natasha’s bed. “Just give me a moment.”

“Of course,” the nurse says. “I’ll be out in the hall when you’re ready.”

He makes his way over to Melinda, bending down as he puts a hand on her arm. “Hey,” he says as Melinda stirs awake. “They’re letting me see the baby-”

“Go,” Melinda says almost instantly. “I’ll come get you if anything changes.”

He gives Melinda a nod, and with a final glance at Natasha, he makes his way out. Claire leads him down the hall and into a room, and he’s glad that the walk is short as he becomes cognizant of the exhaustion starting to sink into his bones. She points towards the sinks on the wall overlooking the main floor of the NICU, explaining that protocol requires all visitors to wash their hands before entering. He obliges, meticulously scrubbing at his hands, between his fingers, and up his elbows, and once he’s rinsed and dried off, he follows her past the automatic doors.

The first thing he notices as he walks in is how loud it is. For a space meant to house the smallest and frailest of patients, the chorus of various machines beeping and pumping, alarms going off, and the occasional cry of a newborn is oddly overwhelming, as is the image of how tiny and frail all the infants look as he passes one bed after another, doing nothing to assuage the pit forming in his stomach. But even so, he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other as he follows Claire deeper into the room. They make a right and pass through the clear, plastic curtain that divides the room into a separate wing before the nurse stops just in front of an incubator before turning to face him.

“Here she is,” Claire says.                                      

He steps forward, looking into the incubator more closely, and he swallows in an attempt to relieve his throat of the tightness that’s slowly building. Natasha had warned him about this sight, of how seeing their child connected to all kinds of tubes and machines would be her undoing, and while he had thought he understood that then, it’s nothing compared to how he feels now. Despite holding her for a few precious seconds in the delivery room, the infant in the incubator looks different – smaller, more fragile and delicate now as she lies on her back in nothing but a white diaper. But it’s the presence of the white plastic tube laying across her face and through her nostril that amplifies the ache in his chest. “Is she okay?” he asks, his voice small.

“She’s doing well, all things considered,” Claire says, a trace of optimism in her tone. Her words elicit a small sigh of relief from him, though it’s not nearly enough to slow his fluttering heart. “Test results should be back soon, but we didn’t find anything during her initial check that we’re particularly concerned about. She just got transferred from the radiant warmer into the incubator, which is a good sign since that means she’s no longer considered high-risk or in need of immediate resuscitation.”

“And the tube?”

“That’s called an NG tube,” Claire explains. “She’s breathing on her own, which is wonderful considering she was born five weeks early, but she’s not quite there yet with being able to suck, so this tube is how she’s getting nutrients at the moment.”

He eyes the nurse concernedly. “Is that hurting her?”

“No,” Claire assures. “The material of the tube is soft and is sized specifically for infants.”

He nods, though internally he chastises himself in frustration. All the reading he had done in the months leading up to this very moment, and his head feels like it’s in a fog, deterring him from recalling anything despite the millions of questions floating through his mind. “Is- uh…” He keeps his gaze trained on the incubator, shaking his head to gather his composure. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Certainly,” Claire says. “Would you like to try kangaroo care?”

“That’s skin-to-skin contact, right?” he asks, his mind finally clearing enough for him to remember some of the information he had meticulously studied. “Can I? I know- I mean, I read that some babies have trouble with contact.”

“That can be the case with some babies, especially those born prematurely,” Claire says, a small smile forming on her face. “But we can play it by ear, see how she takes to it. The benefits of kangaroo care for newborns are considerable.”

“Of course,” he says, this time without a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Anything I can do to help.”  

“Wonderful,” Claire says, gesturing towards the recliner next to the incubator. “You can make yourself comfortable over there while I pick her up. Some fathers will unbutton just enough of their shirt to expose the skin of their chest while others prefer to have their shirt completely off. I’ll leave that up to you.”

He nods, walking over to the recliner as Claire makes her way over to the other side of the incubator. He looks down at the blue Henley he’s wearing, at the three buttons that won’t offer much of his skin even when unbuttoned, before deciding to reach behind him to pull the soft material up and over him and draping it across the back of the chair. As he begins to take a seat, he hears a little whimper, and when he turns, he finds Claire shushing the baby. His eyebrows knit together in concern. “Something wrong?”

“Temperature in the incubator drops almost instantly when the doors are opened,” Claire explains, gingerly lifting the baby up and into her arms and slowly walking towards him. “It’s been a running joke here in the NICU that this little one is probably one of the best patients we’ve ever had so long as she’s warm.” His lips twitch at that, and he straightens his shoulders as she stops right at his side. “Ready?”

“Yes,” he says, positioning his arms just as he had in the delivery room. Claire bends down, maneuvering the baby with painstaking care into his arms, and despite the nerves running through him only moments ago, he finds that they’ve dissipated as he looks down at the little girl. “Hi,” he whispers. “Hi, baby girl. Remember me? I’m… your daddy.” A dam breaks, at least that’s what it feels like as a warmth floods through him and his eyes sting with unshed tears, but he swallows down the emotion as he carefully moves her to lie against his chest. Claire holds out a blanket, and he takes it as he settles it over the both of them. The baby calms down almost instantly, and a smile slowly breaks out across his face. “You’re the reason I’ve been getting up to make waffles at two in the morning, huh?”

“Do you have a name picked out yet?”

His head whips up at Claire’s question. He’d been so completely and utterly mesmerized by the little girl sprawled out across his chest that, for a moment, he had forgotten that it wasn’t just the two of them in the room. He knits his eyebrows together, trying to think of an answer.

“What about Melinda for a girl?” he asks as he leans against the headboard of his bed with Natasha sitting between his legs and his comforter wrapped tightly around them like a warm cocoon. He leans down to press a kiss just where her neck meets her shoulder, and he chuckles when she lets out a hiss as his cold lips make contact with her bare skin.

“Ass,” she grumbles, looking over her shoulder to glare at him.

“What?” he says, raising a brow at her challengingly. “You seemed to have no problem with the cold earlier.”

She rolls her eyes before reaching for the spoon wedged inside the pint of ice cream in her hands, scooping enough of the sweet treat into the utensil before bringing it to her mouth, and he rolls his lips in an attempt to stave off his laughter at how adorable her little sigh of satisfaction is. “And I would love to name the baby after my mom. I know a lot of people do that, but I don’t think that’s practical. She’s probably going to want to be around the baby all the time and then it’s just confusing for everyone involved.”

“If we’re going by that logic, then that rules out the name of every person that’s going to be around us all the time.”

She lets out a groan, leaning further into him. “This shouldn’t be this hard!” she gripes. “Seriously, Pepper knew what to name Maria right off the bat.”

“Maria is named after Tony’s mom,” he reasons, intertwining their hands together atop her bump. “And maybe this is one of those things that’ll come to us when we meet the baby.” He shrugs. “So what if it’ll be named baby Romanoff for a few days. It doesn’t have to know that.”

She shifts in his arms, angling herself to peer up at him. “Well… baby Romanoff Rogers,” she says, biting her lip.

His eyes widen, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Really?”

“Really,” she says, nodding. “I mean, if you want, that is. Only if you want. I just thought…” Her gaze falls to the side as she shakes her head. “I know we’ve only-”

“Natasha,” he says, cutting her off as he tucks a finger under her chin to tilt her head up and he beams down at her. “Thank you.”  

He shakes his head at the memory before looking back down at the bundle in his arms. “No,” he tells Claire. “Her mom and I couldn’t decide, so we said we’d wait till she was born to pick one.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Claire says. “She can be baby girl Rogers for the meantime.”

“Romanoff Rogers,” he corrects, running his thumb delicately across the back of the baby’s head.

“Of course,” Claire says with a smile. “I have to make a quick round around the floor, but I’ll be back to check in with you two in a few minutes.”

As the nurse walks away, he directs his attention back to the baby, committing her features to memory. What they had seen in the sonogram had been accurate. She does have his jawline, but everything else – from the button nose, the rosy cheeks, and the full pink lips – are all Natasha. Even the light dusting of hair atop of her head has a light tinge of red to it, and he’s sure that they will eventually darken into fiery locks, making her a near mirror image of her mother. That very thought tugs at his heart, and despite the pain and the sorrow still rooted there, he finds that something else entirely is blooming even in its shattered pieces. It’s love, he knows, but it’s radically different from any type he’s ever felt before, proving incomparable as it spans a depth that he never thought possible. It’s astonishing and terrifying in the same light, the type that leads him to believe that he’d give everything he has to make the impossible happen if it meant that this little angel would never have to feel a single ounce of fear or pain or harm. And it’s infinite, he’s certain; there isn’t a damn thing that could ever erase the love he has for his daughter.

He leans further back into the chair, trying to relax into the leather to afford himself the first taste of solace in this trying day as he welcomes his new reality. The action causes the blanket covering them to ride down, and the baby begins to whimper. “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly repositioning the cloth snugly over them. “I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry. It’s cold, I know.” He runs a hand up and down her back soothingly over the blanket, whispering a slew of sweet nothings as she quiets down. “No to the cold. Got it.” He looks down at her, leaning to press the faintest of kisses to the crown of her head. She stirs softly at the contact, her eyes slowly fluttering open, and a sharp breath escapes him at the sight of an exact replica of his own irises staring back at him. He chuckles. “I owe your mom twenty dollars.”

Streaks of sunlight have begun to sneak through the miniscule spaces left uncovered by the blinds when he finally makes it back to Natasha’s room. Melinda had sent him a message informing him that she’d be down in the cafeteria with Nick should he need anything, but he was quick to tell her that he was fine. His eyes sweep across Natasha’s sleeping form. The entire walk back to the room, he found himself hoping that somehow, he would be granted a miracle. That, by the time he would push the door open, he would find her sitting up in bed, a smile wide on her face as she directs a zinger right at him. That maybe, just maybe, this was just all a bad dream. He isn’t much of a believer in the power of wishful thinking, but as he watches his wife’s condition remain unchanged before him, he finds himself longing for it to work.

A shuddered breath escapes him as he makes his way deeper into the room to park himself on the chair next to Natasha’s bed. His hand comes up, rubbing at his temples as he tries to fight the headache that’s been brewing fiercely from the lack of sleep. As he does, something cold and solid rubs against his skin, and when he puts his hand out to inspect the source, his eyes land on the silver band encircling his ring finger. His jaw sets. Surely, this has got to be some sick joke. He had finally gotten his heart’s greatest desires – a woman he could trust wholeheartedly and spend the rest of his life with, and a child he could love so much that it almost hurt, and here he is, watching helplessly as his wife fought for her life and his daughter for her health.

He takes Natasha’s hand in both of his, the warmth of her skin anchoring him, a poignant reminder that while he couldn’t see her eyes or hear her voice, that she’s still here. “Hey,” he whispers, his gaze falling to her face. “I went to see our daughter. She’s… well, she’s perfect, Nat.” A smile grazes his lips, his eyebrow lifting in complete adoration. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’m not just saying that because we made her.” He scoffs at his own joke, knowing full well that his wife would make the same point. “The nurses say she’s an angel. At least when she’s warm. She hates the cold and isn’t shy about letting you know it.” He shakes his head. “And I know, I know what you’re going to say… This is my fault, because it always is when she’s being difficult, right?” He looks down at their intertwined hands, his thumb running over her knuckles. “I love her so much, Nat. So much. But I’m feeling way out of my depth here.” He sighs, letting the hot tears roll down his face. “I look at her, and it’s like I’m paralyzed because I don’t know... I don’t know what to do. I- I would do anything and everything for her, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be enough because she needs you.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he wipes his tears away with the back of his hand. “God, Nat, I need you.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to her hand. “But I’m going to try my best,” he swears, “because I promised you that I’m going to be the best father that I can be. And I know that you’re going to make it because you promised, too. And that’s what we do, right? You and me, we keep our promises.” Fresh tears roll down his eyes. “You promised that you could do this.” He looks at her face. “You promised,” he says, whispering the words like a prayer. “You promised.”

Two days later, he becomes unwantedly familiar with the corridors of the hospital. Despite pleas from his family for him to go home to catch even a few hours of decent sleep on a proper bed, he does not relent. Natasha has shown no signs of improvement from the day she delivered, and while he reluctantly holds onto Helen and Fine’s assurances that she at least hasn’t worsened since then, he finds his hope slowly thinning and his fears worsening. The only bright spot in the last forty-eight hours has been his daughter’s health progressing steadily. Her reflexes have grown strong enough that the NICU staff had done away with the NG tube, and for the first time, he was able to bottle feed her. He hadn’t expected the action to feel so gratifying, but something about knowing he had a personal hand in caring for his daughter beyond providing her with the skin-to-skin contact he was told was helping tremendously grounding; amidst all the helplessness he felt, he finally had some purpose. When he wasn’t holding vigil at Natasha’s bedside, he was holding his daughter, spending as much time with her as he could. Just as he’s doing right now, staring in awe at the little girl asleep on his chest. Though a couple of days have passed since he was first able to hold her, he finds that the novelty of the action still has not worn off, and he has a hunch that it probably never will.

“Hi,” Pepper greets softly, and he looks up to see her standing a few feet away.

“Hey,” he says, waving her over to sit next to him.

“How is she?” Pepper asks. She tilts her head to peek underneath the blanket, and he angles his body a little more towards her to give her a better view of his daughter sleeping soundly.

“She’s doing really well,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “Just had a bottle. Doctor Palmer- I mean, Christine said that she can move out of the incubator and into a bassinet today.” While Helen had been their constant adviser throughout Natasha’s pregnancy, pediatrics was not her forte. They had been using the in-hospital pediatrician for the past few days, but Christine had generously offered her services when she had dropped by with Strange and their co-workers to bring Natasha flowers and to offer him well wishes, and he was not about to turn down the opportunity to have his daughter be cared for by the best pediatrician in the state. Tony and Pepper were immediately on it, calling hospital administration late into the night to expedite the process to allow Christine to practice at Stark Medical by morning. “Thank you, by the way. For making the hospital grant Christine privileges on such short notice. It’s nice to have a familiar face explaining everything.”

Pepper waves him off, her gaze fixated on the baby. “No need to thank me. Only the best for my goddaughter.” She looks up at him, her blue eyes filling with concern. “But now that I know she’s thriving…” she says, “tell me, how’s dad doing?” He parts his lips to speak, but before he can get the words out, she cuts him off with a glare. “And if you dare say you’re fine, I will slug you.” He looks at her in surprise, watching as she shakes her head dejectedly. “I’m barely holding it together, Steve. I can’t even begin to fathom how you feel.”

He takes a moment to contemplate his response before shrugging almost in defeat. “I’m hoping with everything that I have that she makes it,” he says, looking at Pepper. “But hope can be a very painful thing to have.”

“I know it couldn’t possibly be the same,” Pepper says, reaching to put a hand on his arm comfortingly. “But we’re here. We all are. Anything you need.”

“I know,” he says. “And I won’t even bother trying to thank you.”

Pepper smiles. “Good.”

He leans down to press a kiss to the baby’s head before looking back at Pepper. “Do you want to hold her?”

Pepper bites her lip, nodding enthusiastically. He places both hands on the baby’s back, securing her to his chest as he leans forward and carefully moves her tiny frame until she’s cradled in his arms. His hand moves quickly, making sure the blanket is wrapped snugly around her before lifting her into Pepper’s arms. “Hey sweetheart,” he hears Pepper coo as he goes about buttoning his shirt back up. “Oh, Steve, she’s precious.”

“I think so,” he says proudly. “But then again, I might be a little biased.” He and Pepper share a smile before she proceeds to murmur what he identifies as compliments and promises to spoil his daughter absolutely rotten. He sits back, listening to and smiling every now and then at Pepper’s words, reveling in the peacefulness of the moment if only for a brief while as he lets his gaze fall to nowhere in particular. A crack in Pepper’s voice catches his attention, though, and when he looks over, he finds tears welling up in her eyes. He sighs.

“This isn’t fair,” Pepper says a moment later. “I shouldn’t get to marvel at this beautiful little girl before Nat has. It’s not right.” He swallows the tightness in his throat down, electing to show Pepper how much he agrees with her sentiment instead by reaching over to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Pepper huffs out a breath. “The night before your wedding, Nat made me promise that if something ever happened to her that I would look out for the both of you.” She scoffs. “I said she didn’t even have to ask.” Pepper’s words don’t surprise him, and he directs his eyes to the ground. “She’s going to make it, Steve. I know she will.”

“Yeah?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Pepper says. “Told her I’d never forgive her if she didn’t.”

“I think I see the problem here.” Christine pulls the binaural of her stethoscope away from her ears as she looks at him, and from where he’s standing on the other side of the exam table, he holds in a breath. “She’s exceeded all possible levels of adorable,” she says with a smile, causing relief to crash over him. “It’s just too much and it’s not fair to other babies on this floor.”

He smirks. “Or so all her grandparents have said.”

“Well, you can tell them that their assessment is backed by a doctor,” she says, carefully pulling the tiny shirt back over the baby with expert hands. “In all seriousness though, all her screening results and vitals check out.” She picks the baby up, making her way towards him. “She’s overachieved in both cuteness and health.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, securing the baby back in the wrap that holds her snugly against his chest as he takes her from Christine’s arms. He begins to sway gently on his feet. “All her results are fine?”

“Yes,” Christine says reassuringly. “Everything came back great. Pulse-ox, hearing, Guthrie…” She pauses at last word, catching the way his hand instinctively comes up to rest on the baby’s back, holding her closer to him. “Don’t worry, she’s forgotten all about that needle by now.”

“I know,” he says sheepishly, looking down at his daughter. He had been present when Christine had conducted her newborn screening, and he felt an awful lot like he was handing his daughter over to the sharks as he helped hold her foot out so the doctor could take a small blood sample from her heel. As expected, the baby wailed the second the needle had punctured her skin, the sound of her cries tugging painfully at his heartstrings. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he tells Christine. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m doubting your assessment. It’s just-”

“Steve,” Christine says, a knowing look on her face. “You’re a parent. Don’t apologize for worrying.” She points a thumb over her shoulder to where her clipboard rests on the exam table. “But her numbers are great, she’s breathing well and feeding from a bottle. She does not have a reason to be here any longer. I don’t see why you can’t take her home.”

He shifts his weight on his feet, grimacing lightly. “But what about this rash on her cheek?”

Christine moves to stand in front of him, leaning in to get a closer look. She looks to him before looking down back at the baby, and up to him again. “Have you been the one burping her?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes widening. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Christine says, causing his eyebrows to knit in confusion. “My guess is it’s difficult to not sneak in a nuzzle here and there when she’s so close to you?” He gives her a shy nod in response. “Facial hair can be a little abrasive on a baby’s skin,” she explains, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s just from your beard, dad. Nothing to worry about.”  

“So, she’s fine?” he asks, a tinge of skepticism still in his voice.

Christine nods. “She’s perfect.”

A sigh of relief falls from his lips. “Did you hear that, baby girl?” he says, lightly jostling the infant looking up at him. He smiles. “You’re perfect.”

“What’s going on?” he asks once he makes it back from the nursery to find Helen, Fine, and Melinda obstructing his view of Natasha as they stand huddled by the foot of her bed. “Is everything okay?”

“Steve,” Melinda says, her tone careful. “You might want to sit down.”

“I think I’ll stand,” he says, looking between Helen and Fine. “What’s this about?”  

“Natasha’s blood pressure is alarmingly low-” Fine says.

“Because of the hemorrhage, right?” he asks. “But wasn’t that what all the transfusions are for? To boost her circulation and get her blood pressure back up so-”

“Yes,” Helen says. “Steve, before anything, I just want you to know that this is us being extremely vigilant and pragmatic about this.” He tilts his chin up at that, looking the doctor straight in the eyes. “Days have passed, and the treatments aren’t going as well as we’d hoped. And while it’s too early to tell, we cannot at this juncture rule out the possibility that her kidneys might be failing and that’s why her blood pressure is still as low as it is.”

“That’s not what they came to talk to us about though,” Melinda says quietly, and he turns to see her holding her arm, her gaze on the ground.

He looks back at both doctors. “Helen?”

“Since Natasha cannot decide for herself at the moment, as her husband, you can dictate what kind of medical care she should receive,” Helen says. “However, if she has an advance directive, that must be honored first.”

“Advance directive?” he says, nearly spitting out the words. “Like a living will?” Helen nods, making him shift his weight on his feet. “What’re you- No! You just said it’s too early to consider drastic measures!”

“In the event that the patient is incapacitated, and after a particular time frame has passed, state law requires us to ask the family,” Fine says. “We’re very sorry to have to even bring this up at this point, but Natasha is one day away from reaching that threshold and we need to know.”

“Steve,” Helen says. “Can you rule out for certain that she does not have any kind of advance directive?”

He turns to Helen with a hardened expression, but it immediately softens when he sees the sympathy in the doctor’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he concedes. “I’ll have to check at home. But I can’t just leave. Helen, I-”

“I know this is difficult, Steve,” Helen says. “You know I think this is just as ridiculous at this point as you do, but our hands are tied when it comes to state laws.” She steps forward, placing a hand on his arm. “Let’s take this in stride, all right? Let’s get this out of the way so we can focus on saving Natasha.”

He looks to Natasha, and then at Melinda who gives him a single encouraging nod, before turning back to Helen. He sighs. “If I find one, I’ll have it to you by morning.”

A screech echoes through the room as he strikes a matchstick against the igniter on the side of the box, and in the emptiness of the hospital’s chapel, the noise is deafening. He brings the match close to one of the votive candles on the rack before him, watching as it lights the wick before extinguishing the flame with a flick of his wrist and making his way back to the pew at the very front. The last time he had lit a candle in a chapel, it had been in hopes that his father falling ill was just that and that his cancer had not recurred. That wish had been made in vain then, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to suppress the memory of the pain he felt on the last day he ever got to speak to his father. He rests his arms on his lap, slouching in fatigue as he tries to fight the dire thoughts that are chipping away at his composure at the idea that history seemed bound to repeat itself.

The door to the chapel pushes open, causing him to open his eyes, and he finds Tony making his way over to him. He eyes his friend as he takes a seat, leaving a few feet between the two of them. For a moment, he just stares, waiting for Tony to talk or let out a quip of some sort, and genuine surprise fills him as the man remains quiet, his eyes up front.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he admits. “Been a while since I’ve been in one of these. I don’t think I have any clout.”

“You’re telling me,” Tony says. “I’m surprised I made it this far in without going up in flames.”

“You and me both,” he says, sneaking a glance Tony’s way as they smirk at each other.

“Don’t hold your breath.” Tony nods towards the cross illuminated by a spotlight at the center of the wall in front of them. “Maybe the big guy just hasn’t figured out I’m here yet.”

They both seem content to sit in silence, but eventually, it becomes too stifling for his liking. He leans back into the pew. “Back then…” he begins, “when Natasha had asked me to be her donor, I hesitated.” The words come out quietly, like an admission he’s ashamed of. “But my trepidation had nothing to do with whether or not she was going to be a good mother. That was never in question. I always knew she would be.” A humorless laugh escapes him. “It was me I was worried about, what that arrangement could mean for me. If, like the last commitment I had gotten myself into, it would blow up in my face.” He exhales deeply. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

“Practically is,” Tony says, stretching an arm out on the back of the pew as he rests an ankle on his knee. “Somewhere between you lending her an ingredient for the baby batter and her showing you that there are still people out there worth trusting, you two nuts realized you were made for eachother.”

“And now look at where we are,” he says, bitterness slipping into his tone as he ignores Tony’s attempt at humor. “She was always going to be so much better at this than I could ever be.” He can feel the tears beginning to sting his eyes, but he blinks them away. “She’s the one who’s always so sure and so brave.” He shakes his head. “And I’ve been trying to convince myself that she’ll make it through this, but then Helen and Fine asked me to check if she has an advance directive… I know it’s just a piece of paper, but it feels an awful lot like I’m stupidly holding onto hope when my reality is about to run me over.”

“Look, I know this sucks, okay?” Tony gestures towards their surroundings. “This whole situation is messed up and unfair and really, really fucked up, but now is not the time to sit in here and feel sorry for yourself.”

“You don’t understand-”

“Natasha didn’t pick your name from a hat. She asked you to be the father of her child for a reason, and then she asked you to spend the rest of your lives together because she knows that she could depend on you. And not just to be the first person in her corner like you promised her in your vows, but also so if anything happened to her, you of all people would care for the one thing she deems more important than her own life.” He shakes his head. “So, go home,” he urges. “Find that stupid piece of paper so I can shove it up the hospital admin’s ass and you can shower because you don’t want your daughter believing her old man smells like this and you definitely don’t want Nat to see you looking like that when she wakes up.” He tilts his chin up. “And yes, I did say when.”

For a second, he sits there, staring at Tony.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Tony says, shrugging before nodding towards the door. “Go.”

He stands, giving Tony a single pat on his shoulder before making his way out. As he walks away, Tony’s voice reverberates through the empty chapel. “Oh, and I hear Antonia is a great name for a girl!”

His hand pauses on the cool metal knob of their front door, and he pulls in a deep breath before pushing it open. He expects the foyer to be littered with dried up petals from the night of their wedding, but he’s surprised to find only the shining hardwood and the faint floral smell left lingering in the air as he continues down the hall and into the kitchen. The first thing he notices are the marble counters. In his haste to grab Natasha’s hospital bag as they waited for the ambulance, he only really had time to unplug the waffle maker, abandoning what should have been their first meal as a married couple. But now, as he stands in the center of their kitchen, he finds that there’s not a single trace of the mess he’d left. He eyes all the clean dishes on the rack, the towels folded neatly as they hang from the handle of the dishwasher, and he makes a mental note to thank his mother later for tidying up as he makes a beeline for the coffee maker.

With a mug of the precious liquid keeping him moving in hand, he walks over to their home office. The door’s been left ajar and he stops just by the frame, the weight in his chest growing heavier at the sight of the empty chair behind Natasha’s desk. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s stood at this very spot, silently watching as she typed away on her computer completely oblivious of his presence, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her eyebrows scrunched together as she concentrated on her work. He could watch her all day, marvel at the precision at which she typed without having to look down at the keyboard. He sighs at the thought. What he wouldn’t give to see her at her desk at this very moment.

He begins his search by perusing the documents stacked up on Natasha’s desk, but he finds nothing but drafts of her articles and outlines of her ideas for when she goes back to work, and he puts them all back, feeling a little too much like he’s invaded his wife’s privacy despite having a valid reason to. He pulls open the top drawer of the desk, finding a plain white box taking up most of the space, and he reaches to pull the lid off. There’s a folder resting on the very top, and he takes it out before spreading it open across the surface of the table. Inside, a bundle of sonograms is clipped together, along with a batch of documents. The first one is Natasha’s results from her first prenatal with Helen, and his lips tug up in a small smile as he’s brought back to the day in the living room when they found out that what was then their little project had been a success. That same thought renews the urgency in his actions, and he peruses through the contents of the folder faster, frustration building when he gets to the end without finding what he’s been looking for. He’s about to put the folder back into the box when the sight of a folded piece of paper catches his eye, causing his eyebrows to furrow when he sees his name scrawled out on the front in Natasha’s handwriting. He swallows, reaching for it, but his hands shake, and he clenches them into a fist as he inhales.     

“Please,” he whispers, his hands steadying just enough to take the paper. Don’t do this to me. Carefully, he unfolds it, recognizing more of Natasha’s handwriting as he begins to read.

My dearest Steve,

This, by far, is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write, and I can only hope that you will never have to read it. Because if you do, that can only mean that I’ve broken my promise to you, and I know that there isn’t a combination of words in this world that I can conjure that will ever convey just how sorry I am for that. I truly believed that I could do this, Steve. Even now as I write this and my heart aches at the possibility that I could be wrong, I still feel deep in my bones that our story has a happy ending. But if it doesn’t, then there are a few things I need you to know.

I know that you will be angry with me. You have every right to be. But if I had to do this all over again, know that I wouldn’t have changed a thing. I couldn’t have asked for a better father for our child, and had it been anyone but you, I wouldn’t have been able to give it the opportunity to bring light into this world. And despite what you always say, you don’t need me to show you the ropes. You said that you’d follow my lead once fig was born, but truth be told, that was never going to happen. I’ve been taking all my cues from you, Steve - the way you uplift me, the way you take care of everyone, the way you stand up for what’s right, the kindness you show to strangers… You are everything I want our child to be, and I know that whether or not I’m right by your side, you will live by example and raise a wonderful human being. You wouldn’t allow for anything else.

This life we’ve fallen into together… it feels a little too precious, a little too good, that I still struggle with believing that I get to share it with the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. That, at the end of the day, you’re the person I get to come home to. I’m not sure if I’ll ever fully comprehend what I did right to deserve you, but if there’s one thing I will covet, it’s the opportunity to experience what it’s like to be loved by you. Thank you for giving me all of you, and for giving me the greatest gift of all – our little fig. Of all the things I’ve been privileged enough to call mine, you two are unquestionably the best.

If there’s one last thing I could ask of you, it’s that you don’t place the blame on anyone for this but me. Please don’t resent fig for the choices I’ve made, and please, please do not think for a second that there’s something more you could have done to change my mind. When your heart fills with joy with every milestone you witness, when it feels like it’s about to explode with love you couldn’t possibly understand you could feel for one person… know that that’s exactly what I fought for. Please embrace that feeling for me.  

I love you.

Yours always,

Natasha  

Tears well in his eyes as he sits stunned. His gaze falls back down to the box, and he finds a number of envelopes lined neatly inside. He cards his hand through them, catching some of the labels written on the front – fifth birthday, first date, senior prom, first heartbreak. The letter falls from his hands, his elbows falling to the desk with a thud as he slouches down, clasping his hands together as he rests his head on them and lets the tears fall free.

Steam begins to fill the room as the water runs in the shower, clouding his reflection in the mirror above the sink as he stares at himself. Internally, he cringes. This isn’t by far the worst he’s ever looked, but it’s by far the worst he’s ever felt. He almost does not recognize the man before him, his eyes bloodshot with bags hanging heavily beneath them and his beard the longest he’s ever let it grow out. The man before him looks just as broken and lost as he feels, and the image makes his hands curl into the enamel of the sink as he closes his eyes. As crippling as his pain feels and as tempting and as easy as it would be to allow himself to swim in it, he knows he can’t. Not when his wife has sacrificed as much as she has, not when he has a little girl to think about, and not when his family needs him the most. The man in front of him can’t be him, and as he reaches for his razor, letting out a sigh as he does, he decides he won’t let it.

His thumb runs restlessly over the smooth surface of the folder on his lap as he sits in the back of the cab, and despite there only being a few pages inside, its weight feels hefty. He flips it open, his eyes landing on the heading in bold font at the top of the front page.

STATE OF NEW YORK
MEDICAL POWER OF ATTORNEY

As he reads it, he averts his gaze away from the paper. He’s read the page enough times since finding it among the other documents Natasha had placed in the box that he could recite its contents from memory. But even so, the gravity of its words still feels as overwhelming as it did the first time he had read it. Natasha had granted him the authority to decide on her behalf about her medical care, and while part of him knew that as her husband, it would be his responsibility to do so at some point, it still does not take away from how jarring it is to see that trust laid out in ink. He flips the folder closed, his hand coming up as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

The cab stops right in front of the hospital, and he hands the driver the fare before stepping out into the curb and making his way inside. The lobby is busy, and he weaves through the throng of people checking in and out on his way to the elevator when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He reaches for it, reading the name on the screen before tapping on the answer button. “Wanda,” he says, “I’m on my way-”

“Get here now,” Wanda says hurriedly, cutting off the line before he can get a word in.

Both his mind and his reflexes scream at him to run, but his body goes rigid, Wanda’s words leaving him powerless to do anything but stand frozen amidst all the people passing him by. His gut sinks. Whatever it is that’s waiting for him upstairs, he knows that the second he makes it there, his life will never be the same again. He swallows at the thought. Regardless of his earlier resolve, there was never going to be enough time in the world to prepare him for this moment, to give him the strength to handle the blow, but he shakes away the thought. The same was true for Natasha, and yet, somehow, even when the cards were stacked up against her, she had found it within herself to think past her own fears and her own well-being, to make sure that whatever happened, he and their daughter would not be left in the dark. Natasha believed that he was strong enough to handle this, and he owed it to his wife to do the same. He straightens his shoulders at that, steeling himself, and with a final breath, he steps forward.

The floor of the Intensive Care unit is as quiet as it’s always been, but the sound of his shoes tapping against the linoleum rings louder in his ears than usual. He looks towards the nurses’ station as he approaches, searching for the faces he’s grown familiar with in the last few days, but his eyebrows furrow when he notices the scarcity of people behind it. His strides become urgent, the sound of his steps growing louder as he makes it down the hall and turns the corner. Natasha’s door comes to view, but the first thing he catches are the wide stares of their family as he moves towards them. His eyes immediately go to Nick, his arms wrapped tightly around Melinda as her shoulders shake with a sob. That causes his heart to race, drowning out all the voices of his family as they surround him. He pushes past them, stumbling into the room.

“Oh, my God,” he breathes out, not quite believing the sight before him. On the bed, Natasha lies, her green eyes looking right at him as Helen and Fine stand at either side of her. Helen gives him a tiny smile, as does Fine as he clicks his flashlight off, and his knees feel like they’re about to give in as relief washes over him.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Fine says, nodding at him as he exits the room.

Helen smiles down at Natasha. “Welcome back,” she says before turning to make her way out into the hall. She places a hand on his arm as she passes him, and all he can manage is a nod as he stares at Natasha.

The door clicks closed, and he does not waste time as he crosses the room, gingerly taking Natasha into his arms. “You scared the life out of me,” he says, his voice tight as he buries his face in her hair. “I thought I lost you.”

Natasha shakes her head, and when he lets go, he finds her smiling dazedly up at him. “You promised me a lap dance, remember?”

A cross between a scoff and a sob escapes him. “Give you one every day if you want,” he says, leaning his forehead against hers. She cups his face in her hands, keeping him close to her, and he turns to press a kiss to the inside of her palm.

“How long?” she asks.

“Five days.”

She closes her eyes, sighing. “Steve, I’m-”

“Ssh,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters.” She nods, running her thumbs across his cheeks. Her eyes shoot open suddenly, and he pulls away. “What’s wrong?”

“You shaved,” she says, looking at his face.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, touching the now bare skin of his face. “I had to. It was leaving marks on the baby-”

She bolts forward at that. “Where is she?” she asks frantically, worry clouding her features. “Is she okay?”

“She’s in the nursery,” he says, running his hands up and down her arms soothingly. He smiles. “She’s amazing, Nat. The most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

A smile breaks out on her face. “Can we go see her?”

“Yes,” he says, mirroring her smile. “Yes, we can.”

Fine and Helen return, finishing their initial exam, and once Natasha’s been cleared, he helps her into a wheelchair, grinning from ear to ear as he wheels her in the direction of the nursery. Smiles greet them as they enter, an amalgam of coos and wails from all the infants filling their ears, and he nods at all the nurses and other parents he’s gotten to know in the time he’s spent here as they make their way deeper into the room. Once they get to the back, he stops in front of a bassinet, and as he walks over, he hears Natasha let out a small gasp as she catches sight of the bundle wrapped in a pastel yellow blanket.

“Hey baby girl,” he says, lifting the sleeping baby into his arms. He looks at Natasha to see her hands covering her mouth as she watches the both of them approach. He smiles. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” He leans down by Natasha’s side, expertly moving the baby into her arms.

“Hi, you,” Natasha whispers, her voice clipped as she looks down at the baby in her arms. “I know you. You’re the one throwing punches at my ribs.” She laughs, as does he, and he watches as her eyes become glassy with tears. “I love you,” she says, tears falling from her eyes as she leans down to press a kiss to the baby’s forehead. “Oh, momma loves you so much.”

Tears stream from his own eyes, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand before he bends down to wipe away Natasha’s.

“She’s perfect, Steve,” she says, and she loosens the blanket just a little to caress the little girl’s tiny fingers and toes. She looks up at him, and the love and admiration clouding her eyes is a feeling he’s instantly grown accustomed to in the days that have passed. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “Thank you for coming back to us.”

“I promised,” she says, her lips tugging up.

He smiles. “You did.” Their moment is interrupted by the sound of a whimper, and they both look down to see the baby squirming in Natasha’s arms. He reaches down, wrapping the blanket tightly around her again. “She hates the cold.”

Natasha shoots him a knowing look, lightly rocking the baby in her arms. “Hey, it’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay.” She looks back at him, reaching a hand out, and he intertwines their fingers together. “We all are.”

The room is filled with the laughter and chatter of their family, and from where he sits on the hospital bed, he pulls Natasha closer to him. Their family filed in shortly after they had arrived back from the nursery, each of them hugging Natasha tightly. She got the customary scolding from Melinda, Nick, Sarah, and Pepper – every single one of them making her promise that she would never put them through that kind of pain again. Wanda followed, tearfully telling Natasha how glad she was to have her back, a sentiment that both Tony and Bucky echoed. A sense of relief permeated through the room, everyone looking like they could breathe for the first time in days.

“My turn! My turn!” Wanda says excitedly, walking over to where Sarah is sitting on the chair across the room with the baby in her arms.

He and Natasha share a smile. Once everyone had their turn to hold the baby, all three grandparents had established a monopoly on cuddles, leaving everyone else to fight for their time with the newest addition to their family.

“Can we all agree that Steve’s greatest achievement is giving this little angel as little of his face as possible?” Bucky asks, looking down at the baby from over Wanda’s shoulder.  

The room erupts in laughter, and he sends a glare at a smirking Bucky. “I knew I’d regret asking you to be her godfather,” he mutters under his breath.  

“Well, I for one have to admit that she is the cutest baby I’ve ever seen,” Sarah tells him. “You and Wanda included, sorry.”  

“That, I agree with.”

“Does she have a name yet?” Pepper asks, moving away from Tony as she comes to stand on the other side of Wanda.  

Natasha looks up at him, and he gives her a nod before she eyes Melinda at the front of the room. “Isabel,” she says, smiling. “Isabel Romanoff Rogers.”

“Oh, Natasha,” Melinda says with a small gasp. “She would have been honored.”   

“Strong and fearless,” Natasha says proudly. “Just like she was.”

The baby begins to whimper, drawing everyone’s attention, and Wanda walks over to the bed. “I think someone misses her momma.” Natasha takes the baby from Wanda’s arms, quietly shushing her, and she calms down almost immediately. Wanda smiles. “That’s what I thought.”

“And on that note, we’ll let you three get some rest,” Nick says before pointing a finger at them. “But don’t think I won’t be back for some more cuddles tomorrow.”

“It only took thirty years, but at least he finally has an incentive to take a leave of absence,” Melinda says as she approaches them, leaning down to give Natasha a hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Good to have you back, darling.” She turns to wrap her arms around him. “Take care of them.”

“I will,” he promises, leaning down to kiss her cheek before he adds, “mom.”

Melinda smiles at that, and he stands to bid everyone goodbye and show them to the door. He watches their retreating forms as they make it towards the elevator with Tony, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time, lagging behind.

“Tony,” he calls out, causing the man to stop before looking back at him confusedly. He makes his way down the hall, and for a second, he contemplates how best to express his gratitude for all the things his friend has done for him in the past few days. He shakes his head. The list is long and winding, and he’s pressed for words that could properly express how grateful he is for everything. He decides to settle for something simple. “Thank you.”

Tony smirks, nodding towards the room. “Go hug your girls, Rogers,” he says, turning back to meet everyone else at the elevator.

He does just that, walking back towards the room with his head held up high. He takes one step inside, his gaze falling to the bed where Natasha sits murmuring sweet nothings to their daughter nestled in her arms, and he pauses, allowing himself to just stand and watch. Natasha looks up, catching sight of him, and a smile breaks out on her face. He walks over to them, sitting next to her on the bed just in time to see their daughter’s eyes flutter open.

“Hello, baby girl,” Natasha coos, and he watches as awe fills her face as she lays eyes on their daughter’s big blue orbs for the first time. “Say hi to daddy.”

He leans down, running his thumb over the back of their daughter’s hand. “Hi there… Izzie,” he says, grinning.

Natasha smiles up at him. “Izzie,” she whispers, testing out the nickname. “You have changed us forever.”  

“I love you,” he says, kissing her temple before leaning down to do the same to the baby. “Both of you.”

“We love you, too,” Natasha says. Quiet settles over them as they both get lost in watching their daughter stare at nothing in particular. “Steve?” she calls out a moment later. 

“Hmm?” he says, looking up to see her smirking. 

“You owe me twenty dollars.”  

He chuckles, pressing another kiss to her temple. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Natasha leans further back into the chair, a smile breaking out on her face as she looks down at the little girl in her arms. The sight of Isabel with her lush eyelashes fanned out as she sleeps soundly incites bliss within her, a level of which she never in her wildest dreams thought she would ever feel, let alone get to relish. She had always been a big dreamer, convinced that she would reach nirvana as soon as her list of aspirations all checked out. It wasn’t very long to begin with. Not so long ago, all she wanted was to see every nook and cranny of the world, to be successful at her craft, to live a life of no regrets – and at that point, she had, for all intents and purposes. A home in the clouds, or as close to the clouds as she could get, was the final item on her list, and the thought causes her to look around the expanse of the room, taking in the creamy yellow walls of what was now her daughter’s nursery. It feels like just yesterday when she had first gotten the keys to this apartment, this space then just a place for her to store things she owned but didn’t want in sight. She was thrilled at the prospect of being able to see Manhattan’s skyline from fifty floors up, and while she loved the view, she could not deny that even as she got to look out her window to see it whenever she pleased, it still did not plug the void that was alive and well in her chest. She huffs out a breath. Nowadays, that hollowness is nowhere to be found, replaced instead with contentment that she’s happily basking in.  

Though that’s not to say that her life has been smooth sailing as of late. The last two weeks have been nothing short of a whirlwind, filled with a plethora of moments that threatened to overwhelm her. She had been discharged from the hospital three days after waking up, and though she never had any illusions of this being an easy feat, she still found herself taken aback more times than she cares to admit by how challenging adjusting to life with a child can be. Their daughter, as young as she is, changes seemingly with every day that passes. The first few nights at home were filled with uncertainty as she and Steve navigated life with a newborn, and just as they thought they were getting the hang of it, their daughter’s preferences had shifted in a blink of an eye.

At times, it felt like a lot. It still does, if she’s being honest, and between the post-birth crash of hormones adding to her outpour of emotions, the sleepless nights, and her body still recovering, there are days where the trials seem insurmountable. But as she’s learning, even the most difficult times pass, and she’s grateful that her family has never for one second let her feel like she’s alone in this. Their apartment is never without activity as eager grandparents, aunts, and uncles come around to vie for cuddle time with their newest addition, and in doing so, giving her a chance to catch her breath. Even Pepper, who has a family of her own to look after and a multibillion-dollar enterprise to run, is always around, if not just a phone call away, ready to answer any question she has about motherhood or to lend her an ear when she needs one.

And then there’s Steve. Her husband (somedays, it still felt surreal to call him that), has been her rock through all of this – staying up with her through every late-night feeding, sharing equally in the diaper duty, taking part in the guessing game they found themselves playing as they figured out Isabel’s quirks. Her first few attempts at breastfeeding had been trying to say the least, and tears of frustration made it down her face as the irrational thought of being a failure of a mother washed over her. Steve hadn’t been fazed by her tears or random outbursts. He sat quietly next to her, holding her hand in his, letting her breathe through the moment. And when she had finally let it all out, he assured her that it was going to happen. And he hadn’t been wrong. A few arduous attempts later, they had gotten Isabel to latch, and it’s only gotten easier with each feeding. By the end of their second week at home, she began to feel like they were finally settling into some semblance of a routine, and with that, she felt her confidence slowly soar.

A little hum breaks her out of her reverie, and she looks down just in time to see Isabel’s eyes slowly flutter open. “Hi, you,” she whispers. “Good morning, fig.” She can’t help but beam as Isabel yawns and stares up at nothing in particular, the blanket she’s wrapped in coming slightly loose as her little arms squirm. Once upon a time, she probably would have poked fun at herself for being so giddy about the smallest of things, and in reality, at two weeks old, there isn’t much her daughter could do. But even so, she draws absolute joy from just watching Isabel sleep peacefully, sometimes catching an errant smile, and she savors finding such beauty in the simplest of moments.

“Everyone keeps saying I’m biased,” a voice says, and she looks up to see Sarah walking into the nursery. “But have you seen how adorable my grandbaby is?”

“I don’t think you’re biased at all,” she says, smirking. “But then again…”

“Do you want to rest for a bit?” Sarah asks, perching on the arm of the chair. “I can take her if you’d like. Steve mentioned she’s quite the night owl.”

“Thank you,” she says, before shaking her head no. “But I’m fine. I don’t think I could ever tire of having her in my arms.”

“I’m sure,” Sarah says. “And I’m also sure that she loves being in her momma’s arms.”

“Or just anyone’s arms, really,” she says, scoffing. “She sleeps the longest when she’s being cradled.”

“You can blame her Daddy for that one,” Sarah says, her lips quirking up in amusement. “She was practically attached to his chest from the moment he was allowed to see her.”

Her lips tug up at Sarah’s words. “Is it wrong that I already wish she’d stay like this forever? I know it’s only been two weeks.”

“Not at all.” Sarah wraps an arm around her shoulder. “These moments fly by. Cherish them as much as you can, because before you know it, she’ll be spreading her wings and you’ll be out there watching her fly.”

“I’m excited and terrified all at once,” she admits as Isabel blinks up at her. “When we were waiting for her, I thought I understood just how much I loved her.” She pauses, swallowing the lump that’s formed in her throat at the thought. “But that love only seems to grow tenfold every day now that she’s here. Sometimes my heart feels like it just might burst.” She sighs, looking at Sarah. “The world’s become brighter because of her, but it also seems that much scarier.” A humorless laugh escapes her. “I don’t know if that even makes sense. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy, baby,” Sarah says with a chuckle, dusting a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re just a mom, and a damn good one at that.” She reaches down, securing the end of the blanket that’s come loose around Isabel. “Besides, I think you may have lucked out and gotten an angel. This one does not seem like the type to give you a coronary by almost getting herself blown up and purposely not telling you about it.”

“Are we still not over that?” Steve interrupts, causing them to look towards the doorway to see him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He raises an eyebrow at them. “Seriously, ma,” he says, “it’s been over ten years. You can’t hold that over my head forever.”

Sarah’s eyes narrow in his direction. “Watch me,” she retorts, standing from her seat as she walks over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “And, if you don’t want things held over your head for the rest of your life, don’t do stupid things.” She points a thumb over her shoulder. “Now go kiss your wife.”

Steve shakes his head as he watches Sarah leave, and as soon as his mom’s out in the hall, he turns back to them. “Hi.”  

“Pepper kicked you out, didn’t she?” she asks, watching as he takes Sarah’s vacated seat before craning her neck up to him for a kiss.

He nods. “She said my paternity leave doesn’t end until she says so.”

“Did you tell her that with Sarah and Melinda here all the time, we decided against going on leave together?”

“I tried, but she was having none of it.” He shrugs. “Far be it for me to argue with the boss.” He looks down at her arms, smiling at Isabel. “Hi, baby,” he murmurs at their daughter as he stretches an arm out across the back of the chair. “Wasn’t a complete waste of a trip, though. I got to meet the new photography intern. Nice kid, name’s Peter. Has really good composition in his work and you wouldn’t believe how close his shots are. I’d show you some of it, but-”

“Pepper had IT lock you out?”

“Unfortunately,” he says with a sigh. “How are my girls?”

“Good,” she says, grinning up at him. “Better now that you’re home.”

“Good to be home,” he says, “I missed you two so much.”

She rolls her eyes. “You were gone for two hours. If that.”

“Feels like an eternity when you’re away from this one,” he says, his eyes on Isabel.

“True,” she concedes. “Oh.” She looks up at him, grinning. “We have something to show you.” He raises an eyebrow at her in intrigue, and carefully, she works to undo the flaps of the blanket swaddling Isabel. “Look,” she says, “it already fits.”

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, sounding a bit astounded as he reaches over to trace one of the yellow swirls on Isabel’s Starry Night onesie with his finger.

He’s silent for a moment, and she watches as a plethora of emotions paints his features. “Steve?”

“I saw this in a gift shop in Amsterdam when Tony and I were collecting pieces for the gallery and remembered you saying you loved your Starry Night pajamas as a kid,” he says. A ghost of a smile creeps onto his lips, but it’s doleful. “I bought it because I thought you might enjoy seeing your own in something similar.” He shakes his head, his eyes bright with gratitude as he turns to her. He sighs. “I am so glad I get to see this.”

“Me too,” she says softly, reaching for his hand. She brings it up to her lips, planting a kiss on his knuckles. “Me too.”

“This is gonna work, Steve.”

“I know it is,” he says despite the uncertainty evident in his eyes as he turns to her. “Because I don’t know what I’m gonna do if it doesn’t.”

A sigh falls from her lips at that, and she drops a kiss to Isabel’s temple as she holds her tighter against her. She looks to the side to where Christine stands, shooting the doctor an exasperated look. “We’ve been trying to build up to the five minutes like you suggested, but it’s all been in vain. She really hates tummy time.”

“Hate being the operative word,” Steve says as he takes a seat on the chaise lounge in the nursery. “We’ve tried everything. Lying next to her, putting a rolled-up blanket under her arms, shaking a rattle. Nothing works.” He shakes his head. “She screams the second we flip her over. We’ve done two minutes at most.”    

“That’s not bad for a one-month-old,” Christine notes. “But hopefully she takes to this method.”

“And this is fine?” she asks, moving closer to Steve as he stretches out flat on his back. “Her neck muscles will still get to develop even if she’s not on a flat surface?”

“Oh, yes,” Christine says. “As long as she’s on her stomach, regardless of whether that’s on a mat on the floor or her Dad, her neck muscles will still get the workout they need.”

“Okay,” she says before glancing at Steve. “You ready?” He nods, and she carefully bends down to place Isabel onto his chest. The room goes silent as they all hold their breath, and she and Steve both wince in anticipation of the piercing shriek, but when seconds pass and Isabel stays silent, they share a look of disbelief. “Oh, my God,” murmurs, her eyes growing wide as excitement begins to paint her face. She and Steve share a triumphant fist bump before she turns back to Christine. “She should be screaming by now.”

Christine smiles. “A lot of babies hate tummy time because their lack of neck strength makes it feel like they’re being held down,” she explains. “It’s uncomfortable to say the least, but it can be alleviated by the proximity of being on top of a parent.” She grabs the tablet behind her before coming to stand close to them. “And with that little issue seemingly solved, looks like she’s all set.”

“Yeah?” she asks, relief evident in her voice. “Everything’s good? She’s healthy?”

“Perfectly so,” Christine confirms, her finger scrolling through the tablet’s screen as she gives Isabel’s chart another glance. “She’s right where she needs to be in terms of height and weight percentiles and her reflexes are developing as they should. Next month we’ll do the next round of immunizations and then another physical. Hopefully she’ll be more comfortable lying belly-down by then.”

“She’ll be a champ at tummy time by then,” Steve says almost instantly, his tone thick with pride as his gaze remains trained Isabel.

She rolls her eyes at that, prompting a little chuckle from the doctor. “Christine, thank you,” she says, hoping her tone reflects the overflowing gratitude she feels. She doesn’t hate or fear hospitals by any measure, but between being poked and prodded for all of her pregnancy and the extended hospital stay afterwards, she’d be lying if she said she wouldn’t mind not stepping into another one for a long while, and when Christine offered to do house calls for Isabel’s monthly checks, it was too tempting an offer for her to pass up. “Seriously, you spoil us. This is above and beyond.”

“Truly,” Steve pipes in, securing Isabel in his arms as he moves to stand up. “We can’t thank you enough.”  

Christine waves them off. “Nonsense, I’m more than happy to do it.” She nods towards Isabel. “And honestly, who could resist that face anyway? I know I’m not supposed to have favorite patients, but…” she trails, her eyes looking around before she leans in closer. “She’s my favorite,” she whispers, bringing a finger up to her lips as they all laugh.

“Well, we obviously can’t return the favor in the same way, but if there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know.” She smiles as she adds, “say, maybe give you and Stephen a night off when there’s a little Strange running around.”  

“Whoa there,” Christine says, laughing as her finger toys with her engagement ring. “One thing at a time, though I will keep that in mind for the future.” She shrugs. “Plus, I may have an ulterior motive. I heard she’s in high demand for cuddles, so at least this way, I don’t have to compete for minutes with the others.”

“Speaking of,” she says, nodding towards the door. “You guys ready to face the circus?”

Steve sighs. “If we don’t go out there, they’re going to come in here.”

She nods at that, making her way over to the door with Steve and Christine right behind her. As they begin to walk down the hall, the sound of their friends’ voices grow louder, and as their living room comes to view, she sees Jane, Maria, Darcy, and Stephen deep in conversation. She clears her throat, and the three women all but leap from their seats when they notice their presence while Stephen trails more calmly behind them. “Like throwing bread at ducks,” she whispers under her breath as they’re swarmed.

“We said we’d be done shortly,” Steve says, looking astonished by all the excited faces before them.

Jane shoots him a withering look. “We’ve been waiting for weeks to come visit.”

“It’s amazing we were able to wait this long,” Maria adds.

“Exactly,” Darcy says. “You guys don’t send enough pictures in the group chat.”

“We don’t exactly have time for a photo-op every five minutes,” she says dryly.

“Sorry,” Darcy mutters before looking up at her desperately. “But can we please hold her now?”

She looks to Steve, nodding towards their friends before watching as he steps forward to gently place Isabel in Darcy’s arms. Squeals fill the room as Jane and Maria peer over Darcy’s shoulders, singing praises at Isabel as the little girl blinks up at the sound of their voices. From where she’s standing, she glances to her right to see Strange, smiling with his arm around Christine. She raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you getting in on this?”

“Brave of you to assume that the holding order was not predetermined prior to our arrival,” Stephen says, shaking his head just as Christine smirks from where she’s tucked against his side. “I drew the short stick. Even Thor gets to have a turn before me.”  

“Where is he?” Steve asks. “I thought he’d be the first one here.”

“Oh, he’s coming,” Jane says. “He said he had to run an errand or something. He was being really weird about it, too.”

“Thor running errands?” she says skeptically. Jane shrugs, but before she can ask a follow up question, she’s interrupted by a loud knock on their front door followed by the sound of it being opened and then promptly closed.

“Second Favorite Uncle has arrived!” Thor announces, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood and his voice echoing from their foyer.

“What in the world,” she says, her eyes growing wide as Thor walks into the living room, her view of his face obstructed by the obnoxiously large stuffed bunny he has in one hand and the ornate gift basket in the other. “Thor-”

“You sneaky little…” Darcy interrupts, and she turns in time to see treacherous look her assistant sends Thor’s way. “You said you were going to use the pot money for your bike!”  

“It’s not my fault you guys decided to show up here empty handed,” Thor says, a satisfied smile on his face as he shrugs. “Have you no manners?” Darcy sticks her tongue out at him as he sets his presents down on the ground. “Now,” he says, walking towards the group. “I believe it’s my turn.”

“Wait,” Steve says, turning to Thor as the man takes Isabel from Darcy’s arms. “You bet on Izzie being a girl?”

“Then why did you keep gifting us baseball gear?” she adds, crossing her arms over her chest as she looks at Thor questioningly.  

“Oh, please,” Thor says, his eyes sweeping over all of their friends. “Shame on all of you for assuming that I only wanted to win the money to upgrade my bike and not so I could shower this precious angel with the gifts she deserves.” He looks to her and Steve. “And the baseball stuff is because I already know that this one is going to make all the other girls and boys jealous with her swing.” He begins to rock gently on his feet. “Or fastball,” he says, looking down at Isabel with a smile. “Because you can be whatever you want to be, my little warrior princess, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And if they dare, you tell them your uncle Thor…”

Thor’s words are momentarily drowned out as she lets her eyes roam across the room, to all her friends fawning over Isabel. She takes a deep breath, heart feeling a little too big for her chest. She never doubted that their family and friends would shower her daughter with an abundance of love and adoration, but in this moment, she finds herself grateful that she didn’t miss seeing those emotions reflected in their faces. The thought nearly overwhelms her, but before it can, she feels a hand wrapping around her own. She looks up to see Steve grinning at her, and she beams back at him as he pulls her close to watch the beautiful scene before them unfold.

“Okay,” Maria announces. “Time’s up, Odinson. Hand her over.”

Thor protests, sending the entire room up in upheaval, and she and Steve share a knowing look as they both laugh at their friends’ antics.

It’s after an indulgent Sunday brunch of homemade pastries and hash at Sarah’s when she finds herself gazing out the kitchen window. Under the maple tree in the backyard, Wanda and Steve sway softly on the swing set, talking animatedly as Isabel sits in Steve’s lap. She watches as Wanda reaches over, swiping the end of a burp cloth over Isabel’s mouth, making the little girl’s hand reach out to clasp around hers. Wanda looks up at Steve, her face filled with surprise and awe before she leans down to smother Isabel with kisses as Steve tips his head back in laughter. From where she’s standing, her hand comes over her heart, and her attention falls to Steve as he looks down at their daughter. With Isabel now three months old and them having adjusted to life with her, they had made the decision to let him go back to work. His workload has been light (something Pepper’s been adamant about), though recently she’s noticed how distracted he seems, often retiring to their home office once Isabel is asleep or going for another run after dinner. He’s never said anything to cause concern, his attentiveness to her and Isabel’s needs never once waning, but even as she sees his face aglow with delight right now, she can’t seem to fight the uneasy feeling in her gut.

“So, it’s true,” she hears someone say, and she turns to see Bucky standing across the room, his arms across his chest and an ankle crossed over the other. He smirks. “Married couples do start looking alike.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“The scowl,” he says, drawing an imaginary circle over the perimeter of his face. “You almost have Steve’s ‘I’m Brooding’ scowl down pat.”

“Almost?” she clarifies. “And how do you suggest I master it?”

“You can’t,” he says, moving to stand in front of her. “You could never be so ugly.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “You two.”

He shrugs, grinning as he leans against the island behind him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says instantly, letting one corner of her mouth tug up. “I’m good.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Yeah? Is that why you’re in here ruminating?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, waving off the concerned look he sends her.

“If it’s nothing, then it wouldn’t hurt to share, right?” Bucky smiles, looking pointedly at her. “Look, I probably should have said this a long time ago,” he says, taking a step forward. “But Steve is the closest thing I have to a brother, and being that you’re the love of his life, whether you like it or not, that kind of makes you my sister.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “And I know Pepper’s an all-around rockstar, but if you ever need someone else to talk to about anything, I’m your guy.”

“Thank you,” she says after a pause. “But I don’t even think there’s anything to tell, really.” She turns back to the window, prompting Bucky to do the same. She sighs. “He’s been such a trooper,” she says, her eyes on Steve. “I really couldn’t have asked for a better husband and a better father for Izzie.”

“He’s lucky to have you too, you know,” Bucky says. “I mean, you probably already know this, but he can be kind of a punk sometimes.”

“Sometimes is a generous word choice,” she says with a smile. She shakes her head after a pause. “I don’t know, Bucky, I guess recently it just feels like he’s there, but he isn’t. Not really.” Bucky’s forehead creases at her words, and she goes on. “You know how sometimes when you want something so badly, you work so hard to get it, but then you find out that it’s not what you expected when you do?” She lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. “I just hope that that’s not it. That he’s happy.”

Silence falls over them for a beat before she hears Bucky let out a sigh. “Steve and I have seen and been through some pretty gruesome stuff together,” he begins, causing her to look at him. “But the only time I’ve ever seen him truly terrified is when you were in the hospital.” Her head bows at that. “Natasha,” he calls out, and when she looks back up at him, she finds a smile on his face. “All he ever talks about nowadays is you and Izzie and how much he loves the both of you.” He shakes his head. “Seriously, my phone is basically a photo album of my goddaughter with how many pictures he sends me in a day.” He scoffs. “Believe me, he couldn’t be happier.” He puts a hand on her arm. “Whatever it is, if it’s even anything, it’s not that, all right?”

She gives herself a second to consider his words before nodding. “All right.”

Days later, she finds herself working up a sweat. A groan escapes her as her hand slams down on the big red stop button in the center console of the treadmill, and as the belt slowly comes to a stop beneath her feet, she picks an earphone out of one ear. The gym is silent save for her heavy breathing, and her chest heaves as she tries to pump air into her burning lungs. She gingerly steps down, walking the few steps to the mat across the room before collapsing on it. Sweat trails down her face, blurring her view of the fluorescent lights above her, and she brings a hand up to wipe it away before letting her eyes fall shut.

“Training for the olympics?”

Her eyes shoot open at the question, and she finds Steve with a smirk on his face as he towers over her with a towel in one hand and a water bottle in another. She attempts to sit up, wincing as her muscles strain, before deciding to plop right back down. “I don’t have the energy right now,” she says, “but if I did, I’d hit you on the back of your head.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he moves to sit by her side, and she hears the crackle of the cap twisting off as he opens the water bottle. “Good thing I come with a peace offering then,” he says, handing it to her.

She lifts her shoulders off the mat to take a sip. “Did you get all your errands done?”

“For the most part, yeah,” he says as he stretches out next to her, settling on his side as he props his head up on a closed fist. “What are you doing down here anyway? Did Helen clear you to work out already?”

She turns her head to the side, sending a glare his way. “Helen cleared me weeks ago,” she says. “For all physical activity.”

“Don’t think that meant you should push yourself to your limit,” he says, reaching forward with his free hand to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “The last thing you want is to hurt yourself.”

“I’m not,” she insists. “I’m just tired of getting winded while walking across our apartment all the time.”

“Nat, you just had a baby,” he reasons, “and went through major surgery.”

“I had a baby three months ago,” she points out, a shade of frustration in her tone as she sighs. “My body’s strength is just not where it used to be.”

“Cut yourself some slack.” He cups her face with his hand, running his thumb over her cheekbone. “You’ll get back there.”

She hums in concession. “You know,” she says, a sinister smile grazing her lips. “Working out was never this hard…” She watches as he raises an eyebrow at her, his lips parting with what she assumes is a question, but before he can utter it, she’s already pushing him flat on his back, letting her knees fall to either side of his hips as she straddles him and pins his arms over his head. “But this?” She smirks, the tail of her braid falling over one shoulder as she leans down until their faces are almost touching. “This never used to be this easy, either.”

“Or maybe you’re just a lot stronger than you think,” he says, his voice rough. Her only reply is to slant her lips over his, and she lets go of his hands so she can slide her palms flat against his chest, softly digging her nails into the material of his shirt. He grunts at the sensation, his hands coming to rest on the dip of her waist. She deepens the kiss, her mouth hungry on his, and even as the buzz of his phone begins to echo through the room, she does not relent. “Nat-”

“Ignore it,” she says huskily, trailing kisses down his jaw.

He cups her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “Might be about Izzie.” She rolls off of him at that, and he reaches into his pocket before bringing his phone up to his ear. “Hello? Yeah, okay. We’re on our way.” He places his phone back, turning his head towards her. “Melinda said she’s getting fussy.” He drops a kiss to her temple before he begins to get up. “Probably hungry.”

She nods silently, blowing a stray lock of hair away from her face before following suit.  

She looms by their kitchen’s doorway, watching as Steve empties the dishwasher. Despite Bucky’s reassurances that Steve couldn’t be happier, she finds herself focusing on how his shoulders seem coiled with tension, his body rigid even as he moves from one cupboard to another. It’s when he’s placed the last dish back in its rightful place that she decides to quietly make her way behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“She’s down for the night,” she says, kissing the space between his shoulder blades. “Wanna save water and shower with me?”  

“Tempting,” he says, chuckling as he turns to her. “Unfortunately, I still have a few emails to get to.”  

She frowns. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

“I’m afraid not.” He drops a kiss to her temple. “You should take your time, though,” he says, moving towards the door. “I’ll take a monitor with me in case Izzie wakes up.”

“You do that,” she whispers, looking down dejectedly once he’s out of sight.  

The spray of the shower is scalding as she stands underneath it and closes her eyes, willing herself to focus on anything but the thoughts running amuck in her head, coming at her seemingly at a mile a minute. She zeroes in on the sinking feeling in her stomach and the way her chest tightens as if it’s pressed for air, and she’s unsure if she’s truly experiencing all of this or just succumbing to the amalgam of emotions rushing through her. Her eyes snap open, her gaze inadvertently trailing down her figure as she watches the water flow to the drain. Everything in her life has changed in the past few months and her body was no exception. It had healed slowly, almost excruciatingly so, from the trauma it endured when she had brought her daughter into the world. Internally, she was nearly back to where she was before, and as Helen had optimistically expressed, pretty soon it would feel like nothing ever happened. But physically, her body bore the evidence of just how taxing that feat had been. The silvery lines going up parts of her torso, much like the scar that marred the lower part of her stomach, would stay with her forever, though their permanency didn’t really bother her. She had long accepted these indelible marks, evidence of what she had valiantly fought for and the wonderful gift she had gotten in return, but she can’t seem to shake off the idea that Steve may not feel the same.  

She nixes the thought as soon as it comes to mind, inwardly chastising herself. She knows the man she married, knows that isn’t him and that he could never be so shallow. Steve has gone above and beyond in proving just how much he loves her – who she is and what she stands for – and for her to think that love and want is predicated on how her body looks is nothing short of absurd. Despite the singeing hurt she’s feeling, he deserves more credit than that. She reaches behind her to shut the water before stepping out, her hand feeling for the towel on the hook, and once she has it secured around her, she moves to stand by the sink. She leans against the counter, inhaling deeply as her fingers curl into the granite. Part of her, albeit small and feeble, recognizes that she’s being ridiculous. That, what she’s feeling at the moment is nothing but a smokescreen for what truly is causing this rift between them. She reaches forward, wiping the steam away from the mirror with her hand, and as she’s greeted by her own reflection, she lets out a sigh.  

Her skin prickles as she steps out of steaming confines of the bathroom and into their bedroom. She pads barefoot across the hardwood and into their walk-in closet, pulling open a drawer for a pair of underwear. She slips the soft cotton up her legs before turning her attention back to the other garments folded neatly inside. Most of her wardrobe has consisted of nursing blouses as of late, and though they’re convenient and comfortable, she finds herself craving for something less fitting. Pushing the drawer closed, she walks over to Steve’s chest of drawers, rummaging through it in search of the tattered Dodgers shirt she had commandeered for all of her pregnancy. She finds it close to the bottom, and she peels off her towel before pulling the shirt over her head. She’s about to push the drawer closed when something familiar catches her eye, and before she can think better of it, her hands are already reaching to pull it out.

The sound of her own heart beating fills her ears as she stares at the white box before her. And while she does not have to open it to enumerate its contents, nevertheless, she finds herself lifting the lid. The folder of documents she had put together sit on top, and as she pulls it out, she sees both the letter she had written for Steve and the row of envelopes with messages she had meant for Isabel to one day read. She picks an envelope randomly, running her fingers over the words SENIOR PROM scrawled out on the front, feeling the contrast of the rough scratch of her pen over its smooth surface. When she had written this, it hadn’t even really been for Isabel. It was just for the child she may not have the pleasure of knowing, and even then, the thought made her chest ache. But now that there is a name and a face to that child, and now that she’s held her in her arms, she finds that ache has only tripled, making her clutch the edge of the drawer to keep her upright.

She rides out the shudder that runs through her before putting the envelope down to pick up the letter she had written for Steve. This is the last one she had written, and the irony does not escape her that on the night before she was to pledge her heart to him for the rest of her life, she was also trying to come up with the right words to tell him just how sorry she was that their time together had been cut short. They’ve never discussed the box or the letter, but as she’s slowly realizing, the fact that he had found and read it is tacit in how he’s been keeping her at arm’s length. Her hand tightens around the edge of the drawer once more. It was foolish to think that this was something they could sweep under the rug and even more so something they could walk away from unscathed.

“I don’t know why I even bother putting that shirt back in my drawer when you’re just going to steal it anyway.”

Steve’s voice fills the room, causing her to look up to see him standing behind her through the reflection in the mirror. She does not dare turn around, clutching the letter tighter between her fingers instead, and she watches as his teasing expression disintegrates.

“Nat?” he calls out softly, worry slipping into his tone. Her shoulders tense as she takes in a deep breath. “Natasha,” he says, his voice a little louder now as he nears. “Are you okay?”

“Do you…” she begins, slowly turning to find him with his eyebrows furrowed. She keeps her voice low, almost like she does not want him to hear her words. “Do you not want this life with me anymore?”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You’ve been… distant,” she says, confused by his surprised expression. His lips part, but the words seem to die on the tip of his tongue when she smiles sadly. “At first I thought it was because my body’s changed.”

“Natasha-”

“I know it’s not that,” she assures, nodding. “And with my recovery, and Izzie, and you slowly going back to work… it’s been a lot.” Tears sting her eyes, threatening to fall, but she wills them not to as she holds up her hand to show him the letter. “But if you’re angry with me, we should talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” he asks softly, his eyes anywhere but on her own.

“What’s there to talk about?” she repeats, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “Steve, I understand that we’ve had to deal with so much.” She looks up, blinking. “And people keep saying you’re happy, but it’s been three months." Three months since you’ve touched me, she wants to add, but she hesitates, because given everything that they’ve been through, it’s seems foolish that that’s her concern. But even so, the words slip from her mouth. “And recently, it’s like you can’t get away from me fast enough.”

“You think I don’t want you?” The pain in his voice is palpable, and coupled with the expression of complete and utter shock on his face, she finds herself taken aback by it. “You think I don’t want this life with you?”  

“The thing about goodbye letters is that the ones who write them don’t usually have to deal with the consequences,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek. “But I’m here.” Her voice breaks at the end. “You trusted me when I said I could pull through.” She watches him close his eyes at her words, his head turning to the side. “So I understand what finding that box and these letters must have seemed like-”

“Do you?” he challenges skeptically.

“I know what trust means to you,” she volleys back. “And if you want out-”

“Out?” he all but spits out. “Natasha, there is nothing I want more than this life together,” he says, his tone rising at the end. His words silence her, a blustering emotion that she can’t quite place brewing intensely in his eyes as he looks directly at her. “Every single time I see you with our daughter, I feel like I’m losing my mind with how badly I want it.” He shakes his head. “I love you more and more every day.” His words come out so earnestly that it causes her to swallow, and she watches as tears well in his eyes. “And that’s only made me that much more scared of losing you.” His eyes fall shut as tears make it down his face. “Because for those five days?” he asks. “For those five days, I did. And it was just me and Izzie. And finding those letters…” He pauses, taking in a breath. “Finding those letters felt like our life without you was final.”   

“Steve, I didn’t…” she tries to speak, but she finds herself tongue tied as realization washes over her, heavy with the effect all this has had on him that she had failed to see.

“I trust you, Nat,” he says. “And you have no idea how grateful I am that you’re standing right in front of me. And Christ, am I honored beyond belief that you would trust me to raise Izzie on my own.” His shoulders slump as he looks down at his feet. “I didn’t mean to be so cold,” he whispers. “But I don’t want to be blindsided enjoying this ridiculously amazing life with you only to lose you because I was too caught up to see what’s coming.”

“Oh, Steve.” She closes the distance between them, cupping his face in her hands. “I won’t make you anymore guarantees,” she all but swears, staring up at him as the world seemingly comes to a standstill around them. “Because now we know life is anything but.” She runs her thumb over his lips, searching his eyes for any sign that he’s heard her, that he believes her. “But whatever amount of time we have? I want to spend that with you. All of you.” She reaches between them to bring one of his hands over her heart, letting him feel it beat against her chest. “I’m right here, Steve. Right here, right now. Alive.” A laugh escapes her lips despite her tears stinging her eyes. “And I miss you, you ass.”

The corners of his mouth tug up even as lets out a scoff. And maybe it’s her, there, seamlessly slipping back into their bickering ways. Maybe it's a weight finally lifting off of them from being laid bare. But her words spark something in him, a fire in his eyes that she hadn’t even noticed was missing until she sees his oceanic pools come alight. Her lips part to say something, but before she can, he’s already kissing her hard and hungrily as he backs her into her vanity. She moans in surprise, but it lasts but a second as the small of her back hits the edge of the counter. Instinctively, she reaches behind her, pushing the neatly lined bottles of makeup and perfume off the surface and letting them carelessly fall to the floor with a clank as he hoists her up. He moves to stand between her legs, his hands trailing everywhere as he licks at the seam of her lips. And despite her lungs burning for air, she parts them, letting him in and letting him kiss her breathless. She reaches for the hem of his shirt, pushing it up urgently as she runs her hands across the smooth skin of his chest, reveling in its warmth, and the few measly seconds that pass as he pulls away to lift it up and over him feels like an eon. Her hands scramble for the drawstring on his sweatpants the second he’s back, but he stops her, wrapping a hand around her wrist and eliciting a pathetic whine from her.

“What are-” Her words are cut off as she throws her head back, her back arching as his fingers dance across the front of her panties. His touch is featherlight, but her senses are already on overdrive, and she shivers when he leans down to press a kiss to her pulse.

“I will never not want you, Nat,” he murmurs into her skin, making her gasp as his fingers find their way under the cotton to brush against her folds. “Never.” She wants to tell him that she feels the same way, that there’s no one else she could ever want, but then he’s teasing two fingers over her entrance, making her eyes all but roll into the back of her head. “Never,” he repeats, easing in and letting out a groan when he feels just how aroused she is. She cries out, reaching for him and digging her nails into his arms at the delicious intrusion. “Never.” The heel of his palm drags over where she’s aching most with every press of his fingers, making her whimper, and her cries are muffled as he brings his lips to hers, stealing the breath from her once more.

She rasps his name out like a conflicted warning, unsure if she wants him to push her over the edge or let her bask in this delirium, and she should be embarrassed by how he already has her so close to her crest, but she can’t bring herself to care as he quickens his actions, making her walls flutter. Pleasure floods through her as she leans her head on his shoulder, turning her vision to white, and with a final thrust of his hand, she falls apart.

Quiet settles over them, her labored breathing the only sound in the air as he runs a hand soothingly over her back. She lifts her head off his shoulder, still ravenous with the need to be close to him despite her body still buzzing as she turns to him for a kiss. It’s chaste, tender in comparison to how bruising it was only moments ago. His eyes are dark with desire when they pull away, his fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She gives him a single nod, raising her hands over her head as he pulls it off of her before gathering her into his arms and lifting her to him. She wraps her arms around his neck, locking her ankles on the small of his back as her lips seek his again and he walks them to their bedroom.

He sets her down on her back at the center of their bed, kneeling between her legs as he hooks his hands into the waistband of her panties, pulling them down before ridding himself of his sweatpants. She takes a deep breath, her nerves humming, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip when she feels his hand encircle her ankle. He trails kisses up her leg, to that spot on her thigh that drives her absolutely insane, making her spine arch off the mattress, but then he stills, his breath skating across her already heated skin as he eases his lips off of her.

“Steve,” she whines, impatience coloring her tone. His hand grips her hip, his thumb running across her skin and making her huff out a frustrated breath. She props herself up on her elbows, and the sinking feeling in her gut that she felt in the shower returns when she finds him looking at the scar on her belly. He hasn’t seen it, at least not this close, and while part of her half expects his eyes to be filled with fear or unease, she’s surprised to find reverence instead. Relief washes over her, and she cocks an eyebrow up playfully at him. “Bye-bye bikinis, huh?”  

“Yeah,” he says with a little smirk. “I bet you look terrible in them now.”

“Come here,” she says softly, pulling him over her as she lies back down. He leans down, capturing her lips in his as he leans his weight on his arms. She hooks her legs around him, pushing him closer to her, and they both groan when he brushes against her center. A gasp falls from her lips when he slowly pushes in, leaning his forehead on hers. For a moment, they stay that way, frozen and dazed as they’re reacquainted with the feel of one another after so long. Beneath him, her head spins, every nerve in her body pulsing at the delectable stretch of him. It’s familiar yet somehow alien, too much but not enough all at once, and the only thing she wants to do is surrender to the feeling. She tries to move her hips, tries to get any friction between them, but his weight pins her in place. She whispers his name, encouraging him to move, but he remains unmoving. She tries again, parting her lips, but the words die when she feels a warmth slipping down her face.

“Hey,” she says, bringing her hands up to swipe his tears away. “It’s okay.” His eyes flutter open at that, bright even in the dark, and as her vision blurs, she realizes that her own tears are falling, too. “I’m here.”

“God, Nat,” he says, cupping her face in one of his hands as he leans down to kiss her. She tastes the salt of their tears, and they both let out a gasp as he snaps his hips. For as careful and as cautious as he’s been with her in the past months, the pace he sets now is manic, his strokes deep and quick and dizzying – brazen with the assurance that she’s right here with him. A shudder runs through her body at a particularly delicious thrust, her hands digging into the flesh of his back. Their tears fall freely, making breathing an even more arduous task, but neither of them dares to pull away. For as quick as she is to remind him that they’ve made it, that they’re here together, she knows that the pain of how close they’d come to never again being in each other’s arms still looms way too closely over them, and she wants nothing more than for it to be a distant memory. Tension brews at the base of her spine in no time, his every touch electric on her skin, and she only has to let out a little mewl until he’s reaching between them, to where they’re joined, his thumb running tight circles over her bundle of nerves. “I’ve got you,” he says, chanting it over and over into the crook of her neck. “I’ve got you.” She cries out, waves of euphoria rippling through her as he rolls his hips once, twice, and then he groans as he’s right there with her.

Their bedroom is bathing in the purple light of dawn when she opens her eyes hours later, and as she stretches in Steve’s embrace, she finds herself relishing the feeling of being sore in a way she hasn’t been in a while. She turns in his arms, a smile etching its way across her face when she finds him deep in slumber. He looks so much younger now with his face relaxed and worry free, and she can’t help but bring a hand up to run the back of her knuckles over his cheek. Despite being clean shaven since Isabel was born, she still finds that she’s still not used to how soft the skin of his face feels underneath her touch. A sigh of contentment falls from her lips, and instinctively, she senses the whimpers before they even start coming through the monitor. She untangles Steve’s arm carefully from her as she reaches over to her bedside table to turn the volume down, swinging her feet off the side of bed and into their closet to pick up her robe before slipping it on and making her way out.

The carpet of the nursery is soft under her bare feet, and she hastens her steps as she hears the cries grow louder. She makes it to the crib, looking down to find Isabel’s face red and her limbs squirming in every direction. “Shh,” she soothes, leaning down to collect the screaming infant into her arms. “Momma’s here, fig. Momma’s here.” She gently rocks Isabel in her arms, waiting until her cries dwindle before she goes about their morning routine, expertly changing her diaper and settling down on the chaise lounge by the window for a feeding. When Isabel’s done, she quickly ties her robe back before leaning the little girl against her shoulder. “Feeling better?” she asks, tapping Isabel’s back gently. Eventually, she hears her let out a burp. “Good job, Iz,” she says, carefully moving to rest her back against the arm of the lounge and bending her knees to prop Isabel on her lap. “Hey, sweet girl,” she whispers, content to just watch as Isabel’s blue eyes wander as she murmurs sweet nothings to her in an attempt to elicit a smile. The soft light of the morning begins to brighten, illuminating the creamy yellow walls, and as the sun’s rays cast over them, Isabel lets out a grunt. “Not a morning person, huh?” she asks, shaking her head in amusement. “You get that from me. But your dramatics? Definitely from your Daddy.”

“What’s definitely from her Daddy?” Steve asks, his voice still gravely with sleep, and she looks over her shoulder to see him walking into the nursery dressed in sweatpants and a shirt.

“Her penchant for being a drama queen,” she says, smirking. “Among other things.”

He rolls his eyes as he settles down next to them. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

“Good,” she says, “one of us should get to sleep in every once and awhile.” She takes Isabel back into her arms, setting her feet back on the floor. “Look who’s here,” she says, pointing to Steve. “Can you say good morning to Daddy?”

“Hi Izzie,” he greets, leaning forward to kiss Isabel’s little fist. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

She watches as Isabel’s hands extend forward, falling on Steve’s face, and she gently maneuvers their daughter into his arms. “Seriously, though,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get her to smile for twenty minutes. It’s official, she despises mornings.”   

“What?” he says, feigning surprise. “Do you really hate mornings, baby girl?”

She watches as Isabel looks at him, letting out a coo as the corners of her lips curve up in a toothless smile. She gasps. “You little traitor.” She hears Steve’s chuckle as she leans forward, nuzzling Isabel’s belly. “You won’t smile for momma, but you’ll do it for Daddy? I see how it is.” Isabel rewards her dig with another smile, this time longer as her little feet kick out, and her jaw goes slack as she turns to Steve. “Did you see that?” she asks excitedly.

“I did,” he says, wrapping his other arm around her and pulling her close as they try to wring another smile from their daughter. Isabel indulges them, giving them yet another cheeky grin, and filling both their hearts with delight. They spend the rest of their morning cuddled together, her tucked to his side as Isabel falls asleep sprawled out on his chest. “Hey, Nat?” he calls out softly, causing her to look up at him as she her hand rests on Isabel’s back. “Thank you for this life.”

A sigh falls from her lips, and she reaches up to plant a kiss on his. “Thank you for being a part of it.”  

“I know I said I’m all for experimentation,” she says, the grip she has on the metal railing behind her tightening as a soft hum fills her ears and the ground beneath her feels like it’s ascending. “But being blindfolded since Happy drove into Fifth Avenue and then pushed into an elevator is a little too kinky even for my liking.”

“You were led, not pushed. There’s a difference.” Amusement colors his tone as he adds, “just a few more minutes, we’re almost there.”  

“That’s exactly what serial killers say before they drop you in a ditch.” She hears him move closer to her, and a smile grazes her lips when she feels him crowd her, Isabel’s sock-clad foot nudging her front as their daughter rests contently in the carrier keeping her tucked against Steve’s chest.

“We really have to put a cap on the amount of time you spend watching the Investigation Discovery channel,” he says, and though she can’t see his face right now, she knows he’s rolling his eyes.   

“Spouses are always the first suspects,” she says singsongingly.

He scoffs. “Should I be concerned that you think I’m plotting to murder you?”

“It happens,” she says. “I watched this one case where-”

“Nat.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, the elevator jostling as it comes to a stop with a sharp ding.

His hands come to cover hers, gently prying them away from the railing. “Ready?”

A retort about how she does not have a choice forms on the tip of her tongue, but she decides against spewing it, settling instead for a nod as she hears the telltale sound of the doors whizzing as they slide open. Slowly, they begin to move one step at a time, and with her vision impaired by the silk around her eyes, she tries to gauge her surroundings by the feel of the surface beneath the soles of her shoes. It’s smooth and solid – hardwood, she thinks, her deduction only strengthened by how their footfalls are accompanied by a slight creak as Steve guides her around. They make it at least a few more feet before he places a hand on her waist, stilling her, and she feels a light warmth on her face.

Her forehead creases in a mix of intrigue and confusion. “What are you up to, Rogers?”

“See for yourself,” he says, and she listens to the slight tap of his shoes as he shuffles around.  

The silk around her eyes rustles as his fingers work to untie the makeshift blindfold, and as it’s pulled away, her lips part in a gasp. Before her, the sprawling greenery of Central Park is in full view. In the peak of Summer, the leaves are vibrant, astonishingly so, and judging by how she can see the entirety of the Onassis Reservoir at the very edge of the park, its waters gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun, she surmises that they have to be at least sixty floors up in the sky. But it’s the unobstructed view of Manhattan’s concrete jungle bordering all the foliage that truly knocks the breath out of her, her heart fluttering in her chest at the thought of what this all must look like after dark when there’s nothing but the moon and the city lights. She turns back to Steve to see him standing with a hand on the back of the carrier, holding Isabel snugly to his chest. “What…” she trails. “What is this?”  

A beaming smile breaks out across his face. “Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” she asks, her tone dripping with disbelief. Her eyes scan the room, taking in the barren yet crisp white walls that rise high. By her feet, the hardwood floors that she had rightfully guessed span as far as her eyes can see, the sunlight coming from the countless floor-to-ceiling windows behind her accenting its rich espresso color. “Steve, this place is beautiful.” She points a thumb over her shoulder. “That view alone is swoon worthy.”

“Let’s look around,” he says coolly, gesturing for her to follow him as he begins to make his way out.

Her eyebrows furrow in bewilderment, but nevertheless, she finds herself hastening her steps to catch up to him. She makes it to the doorway, glancing to her left to see him standing in front of another open door down a hall. She pads over, raising an eyebrow at him expectantly. “Steve, what are we doing here?”  

“You see how wide that wall is?” He points from one end of the wall to the other for emphasis. “It’ll look perfect covered in mirrors. And there’s already a pillar on each end to hold up a barre.” She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can utter anything, he’s already moving into the room right across. She follows suit, watching him with wide eyes as he stands in the middle. He nods his head to the side. “And that window over there? It lets just enough natural light in here to make it a prime space for sketching.” He grins. “And writing.”

He starts to move again, this time out of the room and towards the opposite end of the hall, and her shoulders sag as she trails him. “How do you even know your way around this place?” she says exasperatedly, more to herself than anyone else. He stops, turning to her, and she realizes the spot they’re standing in gives her the perfect vantage point to see where the space diverges into different rooms.

“There’s a kitchen over there with enough counter space that someone can perch on while someone else preps dinner on the same counter,” he says before gesturing to her right. “And through there are three bedrooms.”

“Steve,” she says, “where are you going with this?”  

“Nat,” he says, a smile breaking out on his face. “How would you like this to be our new home?”

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “You can’t be serious,” she says incredulously. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a unit in a building like this?” She walks back into the room he had first brought her in – the living room, she now realizes – with him right behind her. She turns back to him. “Because I’ve tried, and we’d have to apply and be screened or know someone that- Oh, God.” Her expression crumbles. “You didn’t ask Tony to make a call, did you? Because I told-”

“Natasha,” he cuts in, letting out a little chuckle. “I didn’t ask Tony for help. Or Pepper, for that matter.”

Her head tilts to the side. “Then how…”

“Remember that painting you hated so much?” he asks, to which she nods. “Well, as it turns out, somebody does not share your thoughts and wanted to buy it from the gallery.” He steps closer to her. “Now, we usually don’t sell the original pieces we curated.” He gestures to their surroundings. “But I read about this place when I was doing some research on homes and you always said you wanted to live higher up, so when the woman said she was the admin for this building and that she wanted the art for the lobby, I thought I’d make an exception.” She must have been staring blankly at him, because the next thing she knows, he’s right in front of her, taking her hand in his. “Look,” he says, “I know I sprung this on you, so if this isn’t what you want, just say the word and we’ll keep looking.” He shrugs. “But between this being on the seventieth floor, the view, and the space for us to grow…” he pauses at that, and she follows his gaze as he smiles down at Isabel before looking back at her. “I guess I just thought that this could be the home we’ve been looking for.”

“This is why you’ve been so busy lately?” she asks quietly.

He nods. “Like you said, Manhattan real estate is tricky business. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I knew for sure we had a shot at landing this.”

The corners of her mouth begin to curve up in a smile. “We’re really going to live here?”

“If you want to,” he says, walking over to the fireplace on the left. He reaches for something on the mantel, and when he comes back to her, she sees a legal-sized envelope in his hands. He grins. “But only if you want to.”

“I’d-” She’s interrupted by the sound of a little gurgle, and she and Steve laugh as they look between them to find Isabel, her eyes wide open as she stares up at her father. “God forbid she ever misses out on the action,” she says fondly with a shake of her head. She reaches into the carrier to lift Isabel up and into her arms. “What do you think, baby girl?” she asks, dropping a kiss to Isabel’s temple as she takes a few steps around. “Do you want to live here?”  

Isabel coos at the question, prompting a chuckle from her and Steve. “Sounds like a yes to me,” he says, pulling a stack of papers out from the envelope and turning onto the last page. He produces a pen from his pocket before holding both items out to her with a smile. “Who are we to not follow orders?”

She beams as she shifts Isabel onto one side to free her left arm before signing her name on one of the lines, and she raises a questioning eyebrow at him when he sees that he’s already signed it. “What if I said no?”

He smirks. “Like you could really turn down paperwork.”

She scoffs, but otherwise does not make a move to refute his claim, settling instead for kissing the hand Isabel has on her face.

Her fingers pause over her keyboard when she hears a knock on her door, and her lips immediately turn up in a smile when she looks up to see Steve walking into her office with Isabel on his hip. “Hi, baby,” she greets, pushing her chair away from her desk as she stands and makes her way to them. She takes Isabel into her arms, making the little girl squeal as she presses a kiss to her rosy cheek.

“Mama,” Isabel says.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Isabel begins to babble animatedly, and she has to roll her lips to suppress the amused laugh threatening to fall. At eleven months old, Isabel’s vocabulary only consists of the basics – no being her newest addition and recent favorite. She nods her head, pretending to understand her daughter’s gibberish. “Did you come to visit momma at work?”  

“No,” Isabel says with a shake of her head.

Steve chuckles. “We actually got here twenty minutes ago,” he explains. “But then she had a five-minute meeting with Jarvis down at the lobby, and then she got kidnapped the second we got out of the elevator.” He rolls his eyes. “Had to go office hopping to see who had her.”

She shakes her head. “How long do you think until they stop playing hot potato with our daughter?”

“Judging by how I had to go to three different offices to find her, probably not anytime soon,” he says, walking over to set Isabel’s baby bag down on one of the armchairs in front of her desk. “Anyway, my afternoon meeting at the gallery got canceled and mom said she and Melinda got caught up at their workshop, so I told them I’d drop Izzie off at the house instead.”

“Melinda says she moved to the city to be closer to us,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But is that the entire reason?”

“Unlikely,” Steve says, smiling before nodding towards Isabel. “They’re taking her to the Botanic Garden.”

“Oh, my goodness,” she says, exaggerating each word as she turns to Isabel with a surprised expression. “Is Isabel going to go see some flowers?” Isabel grins at the mention of her name, flashing all four of her teeth. “Are you spending the day with your silly grandmas?”

“She sure is,” Steve says, his smile widening. “Are you slammed today?”

“Not really,” she says, pulling Isabel’s hand away from her mouth. “Section meeting, a few conference calls, some editing.” She shrugs. “The usual.”

Steve nods. “Well, we’re Brooklyn bound. Just thought we’d stop by in case you needed a little pick me up.”

“Best pick me up on the planet,” she says, lifting Isabel up to nuzzle her belly. Isabel giggles, the sound absolute music to her ears, and she can’t help but plant another kiss on her cheek. “Okay,” she says with a sigh. “I love you, fig. Have fun with your grandmas.”

Steve picks the baby bag up again before taking Isabel from her. “Paprikash good with you tonight?”

“You should know the answer to that by now,” she says, smirking. She leans up, planting a kiss on his lips before dusting another one to Isabel’s head.

“Good point,” he says, looking at Isabel. “Izzie, can you wave bye to momma?”

Isabel looks at him for a second before she turns to her, waving her little hand. “Bye.”

“Bye,” she says, waving back.

“I’ll see you later,” Steve says over his shoulder, stopping just at the door to nod at Darcy as she walks in. “Say bye to aunt Darcy, Iz.”

“Bye, Boss Baby!” Darcy all but yells, watching as Steve and Isabel make their way out. “Remember, I’m your favorite!” She turns back once they’re out of sight, huffing out a breath. “You know what I don’t get?”

“How to keep your voice down?” she says nonchalantly, shooting her a smirk as she looks up from her tablet.

“I mean, I don’t know how to do that either,” Darcy concedes. “But I just don’t get how that man can look like he does, cook you dinner every night, be super dad, and still only have one kid with you.” She throws her hands up exasperatedly. “Seriously, it’s a crime against humanity.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s cute that you think we get a lot of time to ourselves between work, the gallery, and an eleven-month-old climbing all over the place.”

Darcy tilts her head to the side. “Are you saying you guys have never…” She wiggles her eyebrows, gesturing towards their surroundings. “In here?”

“Darcy,” she says, shooting the woman a look of disapproval.

“What?” Darcy says with a shrug. “Inquiring minds want to know things, like why you guys feel the need to lock the door all the time. And if you don’t answer, I’m just going to have to rely on the science of deduction.”

She shakes her head before reaching behind her to grab her travel mug. “Come on, we have a section meeting to get to.”

She and Darcy make small talk on their way to the conference room, and as soon as they make it inside, they’re greeted by all their coworkers already in their seats. She walks to the head of the table, setting her mug and tablet down before letting her eyes sweep across all the faces before her. There are the familiar ones – Jane, Maria, Thor, Stephen – mixed in with some new. She looks proudly at Darcy, and then at the young intern, Peter, right next to her. She clears her throat, a smile grazing her lips as everyone turns their attention towards her. “Shall we begin?”

Thor beams, sitting up straighter. “Yes, boss.”

Later, as the elevator doors open on their floor, she’s immediately hit with the sweet smell of Paprika mingling with a deluge of other spices in the air. She smiles. “Steve?” she calls out, setting her purse down on the console table in the foyer. Her stilettos click against the hardwood as she makes it further into inside. “I’m home,” she announces, stopping just by the back of the couch and looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun still sits high in the sky, making the tree tops of Central Park and the concrete of the surrounding buildings shine, and she lets out a contented sigh at the sight before letting her nose guide her to the kitchen. She half expects to see Steve stirring something at the stove, but her eyebrows furrow when the only thing that greets her are the glowing digits on the slow cooker’s timer. “Steve?” she calls out again. “You here?” She shrugs when she does not get a response, a devious smile filling her face as she picks up the wooden spoon resting on the counter. She lifts up the lid on the pot, giving the contents a stir before she pulls the spoon up and runs her finger over the back. She brings her finger up to her mouth, moaning at the taste.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

She jumps at the sound of Steve’s voice, turning to see him standing behind her with an eyebrow raised. She smiles sweetly. “Quality checking?”

He shakes his head. “You know you’re not supposed to touch that until the timer goes off,” he reminds her.

“And you know patience isn’t my strong suit when it comes to my favorite food,” she says, turning to place the spoon back on the rest. She hears his footsteps as he nears, and she all but melts into his embrace as he wraps his arms around her from behind and the familiar scent of his cologne fills her senses.  

“Not the only thing you’re impatient with,” he whispers, making her eyes close and sending shivers down her spine as his lips hover by the shell of her ear. He leans down, pressing his lips into the space where her neck meets her shoulder, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Welcome home, Mrs. Rogers.”

She beams at the greeting. He only ever calls her that playfully, and he’s never once pushed for her to take his name, but she has to admit that it does have a ring to it, and she’d be lying if she said she isn’t slowly coming around to how it sounds – especially when he’s the one saying it. “It is good to be home.”

He turns her in his arms to face him. “Didn’t think you’d be home so soon, though.”

“Decided to come home early,” she says. “Why? Hiding something from me?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “Just thought I’d have a few more hours to prepare. Was going to wait until after dinner, but since you’re here…”  

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Consider me intrigued.”

“You should be,” he says, smirking. His hand brushes against hers, and he intertwines their fingers before slowly leading her out the kitchen and into their living room. He gestures to one of the armchairs, earning a suspicious yet clearly curious look from her as she takes a seat. He nods towards the box resting on the coffee table. “Go on. Open it.”

She narrows her eyes at him as he makes his way over to the window, pressing on the button for the blinds. “You are one strange fellow, Steve Rogers,” she says, reaching for the box and opening it. She stares at the contents, smiling as she takes the roll in her hands and looks up at him. “Is this…”

“The same wad of ones you gave me before our wedding?” he asks. “Yeah, you’d be surprised how useless they are when your friends take you mini-golfing.”

“You can never be too prepared,” she argues, trying to bite back a smirk. He shrugs off her remark, and she watches as he crosses the room to retrieve a remote from the console. There’s a faint ping, and in an instant, their living room is showered with flashing lights of alternating neon colors. Her lips part in surprise, her neck craning up to see the pair of strobe lights hanging above her. She looks back at him. “Bucky’s engagement present?”

“Yep,” he says simply, pressing on another button.

Music fills the room, and as the beat echoes through, she takes in the flashing lights above her and the wad in her hand before catching the look of downright mischief paint its way across his face. She smiles, mockingly looking towards their foyer. “Did you order me a good time or something?”

“No, but I did promise you one,” he says, looking at her heatedly as he steps closer, his fingers undoing the first button on his shirt. “And you know I only like things homemade.”

She bites her lip, leaning back against the cushion as she crosses her legs. Oh, it is good to be home.

Chapter Text

The room is awash with pale morning light when Natasha stirs awake. On the bedside, the clock reads half past six, but despite the early hour, she feels light and rested as she shifts onto her back and blinks up at the ceiling. To be afforded time to savor such feelings is a luxury these days, and in the silence of the room, she allows herself to embrace the tranquility, if only for a fleeting moment. A dreamy sigh escapes her lips after a beat, and as her thoughts slowly settle, she feels the weight of a stare. She turns her head, and is greeted by a pair of ocean blue eyes. She smiles. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Steve echoes softly with a grin, his head propped up by his fist.

“You’re up early,” she notes as she rolls onto her side to mirror his position.

“As is the case when you sleep next to a helicopter,” he says, looking down at the space between them.

She follows his gaze to see Isabel, her curls falling over her eyes and her limbs stretched out in every direction as she sleeps soundly. She scoffs. “I’d say I’m sorry, but she did spend months kicking me from the inside.”

“Fair,” he says, smiling as he pushes the hair away from Isabel’s face. “Think we should wake her up?”

“Not really,” she says earnestly. Isabel Romanoff Rogers is many wonderful things, but a morning person is not one of them. Their daughter’s dislike over early hours had been a running joke between the both of them when she was an infant, and they had hoped that it would be something she would outgrow, especially as she came of school age. That hope had been in vain, though, as Isabel carried that trait into toddlerhood. And now, at the age of four, she’s starting to fear that it may be something their precocious little girl may carry forever. Experience tells her that it’d be best to let her wake on her own, but today, her intuition says otherwise. “Something tells me we’d be in bigger trouble if we don’t, though.”  

Steve smirks in agreement. “Here goes nothing,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of Isabel’s head. “Izzie,” he whispers, causing her to stir softly at the contact. “Time to wake up, baby girl.”

She watches as Isabel’s eyebrows furrow at the sound of Steve’s voice, and the girl lets out a groan as she turns over to her side and burrows her face into his chest. Steve pulls Isabel closer, prompting her to sprawl out across him. That’s another habit their daughter hasn’t outgrown, and one she is certain Steve secretly wished she never would – no matter how tired and restless Isabel got, being wrapped up in her father’s arms remained the magic cure to lead her on the path to sweet dreams.

“Five more minutes, Daddy,” Isabel mutters.

“But it’s morning, fig,” she says, moving closer to them. She keeps her voice light and teasing as she runs her hand up Isabel’s back. “Remember what we said would happen in the morning?”

Isabel’s eyes fly open, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline and her desire for sleep seemingly forgotten as she sits up. “We’re here?”

She smiles. “We are.”

“Go see for yourself,” Steve adds, nodding towards the window.  

She barely has time to react before Isabel barrels over her, and it’s only on instinct that she catches the girl to help her off the bed. She and Steve sit up against the headboard, watching as Isabel scurries towards the nearest window, her feet pitter pattering against the carpeted floor. Isabel pulls the curtains apart, letting more sunlight pour in, and she lets out a gasp as she steps closer to the glass. Her head moves from side to side as she takes in the view, her body buzzing as her excitement visibly intensifies.

From where she’s sitting, she chuckles quietly. She may not see what Isabel can from where she is, but she doesn’t have to – she knows that it’s the gleaming waters of the Thames flowing through London with the Eye to the left and Big Ben to the right that has her daughter bouncing on the tips of her toes.

“Momma! Daddy!” Isabel exclaims, beaming as she turns to them. “We’re here! We’re really here!” She runs to the bed, tugging on the sheets as she makes her way up and causing the mattress to dip as she bounces back between them. “We’re going to see Paddington!”

“Still want to go to sleep?” Steve asks jokingly as Isabel climbs onto his lap.

“Daddy,” Isabel says incredulously, drawing out each syllable as she cups his face between her hands and narrows her eyes at him. “We can’t sleep now.” She says the words like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, earning a laugh from both of them. “We have adventures to get to!” She looks to her side, her expression hopeful. “Are we going to Paddington Station today, momma? Are we?”

She bites her lip at Isabel’s question. This trip has dominated almost their every conversation since they had told Isabel the news, with the girl telling anyone and everyone willing to listen about her nightly countdown and how she was going to see where her favorite bear had been found. They had taken the earliest flight out of JFK the previous morning, and Isabel’s resolve to stay awake until they landed had been staunch, but not nearly enough. With the time difference, it was nearly midnight when they had gotten to Heathrow, and Isabel had already been fast asleep in Steve’s arms as they made it through immigration and claimed their luggage. They had already passed through Paddington Station on the train from the airport to London proper, but as she shares a glance with Steve, they come to a silent understanding that that isn’t information their daughter ever needs to know.

“If you want to,” she says, smiling.

Isabel tilts her head to the side. “What about the castle and the crown and all the sparkles?”

“We can do whatever you want to do, baby,” she says, earning a giggle from Isabel as she taps her nose. “It’s your day.” She points towards the hall leading to their room’s walk-in. “Now why don’t you go pick out your outfit so we can get breakfast and get going?” She motions for Isabel to come closer, and the girl quickly obliges, leaning in. “I heard they’re serving waffles downstairs.”

Isabel’s eyes grow wide. “I love waffles!” she says, bolting up from Steve’s lap and off the bed before either of them can blink.

As she shakes her head at their daughter’s antics, she hears Steve’s chuckle next to her. She turns to him, raising an eyebrow in question.

He shrugs. “Maybe start with the waffles next time.”

As far as the hardest things she’s ever had to do go, taking a vacation without her work phone ranks high. But not nearly as high as trying to wrangle an overly excited child in one of the busiest transportation hubs does. Isabel had practically taken off running the second they had gotten out of the cab, and she’s already lost count of how many times she and Steve have had to tell her to slow down, and how much their fear of losing her in the sea of commuters before them has heightened just in the five minutes they’ve been in the terminal. With Victorian wrought-iron arches holding up the glazed roof and modern trains at every platform, Paddington Station’s eclectic aesthetic is plenty charming. Unfortunately for them, though, their daughter has not had the slightest interest in stopping to appreciate the architecture in her pursuit to find a certain sculpture.

“Izzie,” Steve calls out exasperatedly as Isabel moves a few steps too far ahead of them for his liking. He calls out her name once more, but it’s to no avail, and they both lengthen their strides towards the sign that reads PLATFORM 1. He sighs. “Isabel.”

Isabel stops dead in her tracks, giving them enough time to catch up to her. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” Isabel murmurs as they come to stand in front of her.

Her shoulders sag at the sight of their daughter looking at the ground with her lower lip jutted out, and as she looks to Steve, she sees his expression soften almost instantly. He bends down, tucking a finger under Isabel’s chin to find her eyes filled with guilt.

“Sweetheart, we know you’re excited,” he says, letting out another sigh as Isabel steps forward, wrapping her arms around his neck as he envelopes her in his own. “But we just don’t want you to get lost, okay?”

“I know,” Isabel says contritely, looking forward as she steps away from him. “But Daddy, we’re so close and- Paddington!”

“Izzie!” She jolts forward, her body poised to run, but before she can, she feels Steve’s hand on her elbow keeping her in place. “What?” she asks, her eyes never once leaving Isabel’s royal blue trench coat and bright red hat as she makes her way towards the statue across from them as fast as her feet will take her. She hadn’t been too thrilled with their daughter’s sartorial choices this morning, but in hindsight she’s glad they’re easy to spot from a distance. “Steve-” Her retort is cut short when he hands her his phone, and she relaxes when she sees the big red dot moving upwards on the screen. She looks up at him incredulously. “Where?”

He keeps his eyes trained forward to where their daughter is now happily jumping in front of the sculpture. “Under the collar of her coat.”

She snorts at his words. The nature of their jobs had all but ensured that they would be traveling extensively as a family, and between her work at the Daily and Steve tracking down art pieces all across the globe, their daughter has become well acquainted with planes and various time zones. And while this isn’t their first trip abroad with Isabel, it is their first one where she’s autonomously mobile and profusely opposing to being in a stroller - a point Tony was quick to point out as he handed them both a pair of tags that they could track from their phones before they had left for the airport. Steve had been adamant about not needing it then, convinced that they could very well handle their daughter without excessive gadgets. But as they are both learning at the moment, that task is easier said than done with their daughter on a mission.  

“We don’t need those, Tony,” she says mockingly. “We can handle her just fine.”

“Remind me, who was the one who used to give Melinda a heart attack as a child by constantly wandering off?” he says, earning an icy glare from her as he moves to catch up to their daughter.  

Very few things in life could make her as anxious as Isabel running off in a crowded space, and as difficult as it is to not let her fears get the best of her, she finds that remaining irate at her daughter is even more of a herculean effort. With Isabel’s eyes alight with elation and a smile etched seemingly permanently on her face as she put her little arms around the bronze statue of Paddington, she resigns to the fact that there is simply no way to do so. Her eyes fall to Steve, to where he’s crouched down a few inches away, taking picture after picture of their daughter as she strikes one pose after another.

“Big smile!” she calls out to Isabel, laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder as she comes to stand next to him. “Your grandmas and grandpa Nick are going to want one with a really big smile.”

Isabel follows suit, flashing her pearly whites next to Paddington. “And a funny face for uncle Thor!”

The rest of their day unfolds in a similar fashion – Isabel reverberating with excitement while she and Steve trade knowing and amused smiles at her every reaction. As they tour the city, they oblige Isabel’s request to stay on the second story of the double-decker bus, allowing her to kneel on the seat by the window to watch the streets pass them by. The English capital is breathtaking, a pulsing urban jungle, much like New York City, yet still harmoniously married to the remnants of the Old World with castles and former fortresses standing in lieu of gargantuan skyscrapers. Not that all the majesty mattered to her at the moment. She’s seen it many times over, has marveled and fawned over it all in the past. But today, with Steve sitting on the opposite row as she sits next to Isabel, she finds that she couldn’t care less about the grand fountains of Trafalgar Square, or the lights of Piccadilly Circus. Not when there’s a twinkle in her daughter’s eyes, a sense of magic on her face as she takes in all that is new to her.

As she dusts a kiss to Isabel’s temple, the emotion that overcomes her is one she’s known for only as long as her daughter’s been in this world. She had many preconceived notions about becoming a mother, some of which she had learned in text, and some from the wise brood of mothers she’s fortunate enough to have in her life. But none of those have ever really lived up to the actual experience of becoming and being one. To see Isabel smile, and for that alone to fill her with immense joy and fulfillment, is a beautiful, transformative ordeal unlike any other.

“Can I write the Queen a letter?” Isabel asks through a mouthful of food later on as they sit in a quaint restaurant in Chinatown, feasting on an authentic selection of dumplings and Peking duck.

“Chew, swallow, and then talk, Iz,” Steve reminds her gently, reaching over to wipe away the sauce on the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“What for?” she asks as Isabel follows Steve’s instructions.

“To ask her if me and Maria can borrow her crowns.”

From the corner of her eye, she catches the way Steve rolls his lips, and she reaches for her glass of water, taking a sip to hide her own smile as Isabel looks on patiently. They had spent the afternoon perusing the various exhibits at the Tower of London (minus the Wakefield Tower that housed torture devices that both she and Steve deemed too grotesque for Isabel’s eyes), and Isabel had been absolutely taken by the idea of being in an actual castle. The exhibit showcasing the Crown Jewels was hands down her favorite, with the experience hampered only by the fact that she was not allowed to touch any of the precious items.

She puts her glass back down, letting out a sigh. “I don’t think she’s going to agree to that, baby.”

“Why not?” Isabel says, her forehead creasing in confusion. “We’ll be careful, I promise.”

“We know you will,” Steve says. “But those are only for the Queen’s use.”

“What if aunt Pepper talks to her?” Isabel says insistently. “Uncle Tony said there isn’t a deal she can’t make.”

“Uncle Tony is right, but I’m afraid this may be out of even aunt Pepper’s hands,” she says. “Tell you what, though, we can go to the gift shop and get crowns for you and Maria there. How about that?”

Isabel stares at her for a moment, her expression pensive, before she lets out a sigh. “I guess.”

The sun sits low on the horizon, painting the skies of Hyde Park with shades of pink and orange as she and Steve sit on a blanket on the grass. Isabel strolls a few feet away, her hat replaced by a plastic crown as she watches the swans wade gracefully on the surface of Serpentine Lake in the distance. It had been quite a day, as perfect as she could have ever hoped for when this trip had only been a mere plan, and as a breeze blows by, she closes her eyes, inhaling the fresh air.

“A quid for your thoughts?” Steve asks, and she feels his smile against the skin of her shoulder as he wraps his arms tighter around her.

“Ha ha,” she says dryly even as the corners of her mouth twitch.

“Got you to smile,” he points out, chuckling softly as Isabel plops down on the grass, setting her new friend – Walter, as she had insisted on naming the stuffed Corgi when they had bought him at the gift shop – down next to her. “What’s up?”

“Just…” she trails, keeping her eyes on Isabel. “You think she’s happy?”

“She’s on cloud nine,” Steve states with a chuckle. “If that’s what you’re really worried about, I wouldn’t sweat it.”

She smiles contentedly at that, letting his words linger between them for a moment as she leans further into him. “Do you remember that day in my office?” She looks up at him, finding a smirk on his face and his eyebrow raised suggestively. She rolls her eyes. “That time you asked me what made me happy,” she clarifies. “And I didn’t know.” She nods towards Isabel. “I guess I just hope that that’s something she’ll never have to say. That, in her heart of hearts, she always knows what it is that sparks happiness in her.”

“I hope so, too,” he says eventually, looking out into the lake. “But even if she doesn’t know right off the bat, whatever happens, she’ll have the best person to guide her.” He covers her hand with his own, intertwining their fingers before he brings it up to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. “And what about you? Do you finally know?”

“Know what?”

“What makes you happy, Natasha Romanoff.”

She waits for the emptiness to sink in at the question, as it did the last time, but it never comes. Instead, when she looks back at him, staring into his eyes as their daughter’s laughter rings harmoniously in the background, there’s a confidence in her gut and a certainty in her bones. She shakes her head, beaming proudly. “With all of my heart.”

“Good,” he whispers, his grin boyish and lopsided, making her heart flutter as they lean in.

“Hey, no cuddles without me!”

They laugh as they move away from each other, and she looks up to find Isabel standing by the edge of their blanket with her hands on her hips. “Like we would ever dare,” she says as she gestures for Isabel to come forward. She and Steve shift to stretch out on their sides on the blanket, and Isabel lies down between them. “Did you have a good day today, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Isabel says, blinking up at the both of them. She smiles. “I love you momma and Daddy.”

She glances at Steve, knowing full well that his heart feels just as molten as hers does in this moment. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm,” Isabel says with a nod. “More than… more than waffles!”

“Oh, man,” Steve says, feigning dread. “Now how are we going to beat that?”  

“You love me too, right?” Isabel clarifies.

“Oh, fig,” she says, laughing. “More than all the waffles in the universe combined.”

“And you know what that means, right?” Steve prods.

Isabel giggles, clasping her hands together. “Fig sandwich?”

“Fig sandwich!” Steve confirms, engulfing them both in his arms.

The door clicks softly behind him as Steve closes the door to his office and steps out into the dimmed hallway. It’s utterly quiet as he begins to walk, his footsteps the only sound, and he finds himself enjoying the peacefulness. It’s late at night on a Thursday, and the gallery is void of people save for the security at the doors, leaving him only with his thoughts and the art around him to keep him company. As he turns the corner, he stops just by the bottom of the grand staircase that leads into the vast expanse of the main gallery, his eyes falling to the heavy brass floor stand by the side. His hand reaches forward, his fingers tracing over the glass as he reads the poster encased inside.

Stark Galleries Presents
A Study in Happiness
Artist: Steven G. Rogers

A long and winded sigh escapes him as he turns to scan the room, his eyes falling to the pieces of art underneath the track lights. He makes his way to the nearest wall, to the framed drawing of the sun rising above the desert dunes that he had done years back when he had been deployed overseas. Serving in the Army had been his first memory of him consciously searching for what it is that ignited joy in him and gave him a sense of purpose. And while he wasn’t fond of the climate in the desert, it was made bearable by the fact that he was fighting for his country and all the principles it stood for that he, too, ardently believed in. His head tilts to the side as he appraises the picture once more, and he brings a hand to the edge of the frame, shifting it carefully until he’s satisfied with its position.

“I saw that.”

He jumps slightly at the sound of the voice, looking over his shoulder to see Wanda coming towards him. “Jesus, Wanda,” he says, chuckling lightly. Wanda mutters a quick apology as he opens his arms for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to drop by your apartment, but Nat said you were still here,” she explains as she pulls away, raising her hand to show him the paper bag dangling on her wrist. “For you.”

“Wanda,” he says admonishingly. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“My big brother’s about to become the most sought-after artist in New York, of course I’m getting him something,” Wanda says, glaring as he waives off her choice of words. She pushes the bag into his hands. “Go on, open it.”

He reaches into the bag, pulling out the elongated gift box inside and undoing the fancy ribbon tied around it to find a silk tie resting inside. He sighs, wrapping an arm around Wanda once more as he drops a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s beautiful, thank you. I’ll wear it tomorrow.”

“Glad you like it,” Wanda says, linking her arm with his as they begin to walk. “So, tell me, what are you freaking out about now?”

“Who said I was freaking out?”

Wanda narrows her eyes at him. “You’re lurking in a dark gallery alone. It’s creepy.”

“It’s calming,” he counters before smiling. “And I’m not alone.”

“Never,” Wanda says, smiling back. “So you might as well spill. Are you having second thoughts?”

Wanda’s question brings him to a pause. Despite having ample time to come to terms with his new reality, he still hasn’t quite been able to grasp it. After weeks of him and Pepper tirelessly working side by side, searching far and wide for the next artist to showcase at the gallery for the next season, they had defeatedly gathered in his living room to go over possible candidates one more time. Each one of them was talented, of that there was no doubt, but neither he nor Pepper could seem to come to a clear choice. It had taken Natasha, watching them carefully as they discussed each option, to throw his name into the mix. He had scoffed at the idea almost instantly, certain that his wife had done it just for kicks. But the second he had looked up at her green eyes to see the sincerity in them, and then at Pepper’s brimming with sudden enlightenment, it had dawned on him that she was serious.

The days following that night had been spent in introspection. His art had always been an outlet, a way to depict how he felt at the moment when words or actions simply were not enough. The idea of showcasing it in a gallery where strangers could examine and judge his pieces felt bizarre, though admittedly not abhorrent. More than anything else, it was his skepticism that was difficult to get through. What business did his work have hanging in a sanctuary frequented by some of the most stringent art connoisseurs, he wasn’t certain. To display the work of others that he had deemed magnificent was one thing, but to introduce his own felt like a whole different ball game and one he was out of his depth to play.

But a single conversation with Natasha had alleviated all his doubts. There are so many things he loves about his wife that he’s lost track of the number long ago, but high on that list is that she always has his best interests at heart. Natasha pushes him to be better every single day, but never so far that he finds himself questioning whether he himself had made the decision, and that’s exactly what she did as they were settling for bed one night. Her advice had been simple: his art was his and his alone, and if it’s something he did not want to share, that was his prerogative. But to hide it from the rest of the world out of fear of someone else’s opinion, one that did not hold water at the end of the day, would be a travesty. What would he want Isabel to do faced with the same circumstances, she had asked, and though her earlier words had already resonated with him, it was that final question on the matter that sealed the deal. He may still be learning a great deal about parenting, but one thing he knows for certain is that he endeavors to lead by example, and he’d be damned if he ever let Isabel turn down an opportunity to pursue what she loves out of something as paltry as fear of criticism.

“No,” he says confidently, shaking his head. “Even though I didn’t necessarily know until it was an actual possibility, I want this. Sometimes it scares me just how much.”

Wanda eyes him, confused. “Why is that?”

“Maybe because I’ve gotten all I’ve ever wanted,” he says, looking towards the wall before them. “How could I want more?”

He watches as Wanda follows his gaze, to the large oil painting occupying the far wall of the gallery and the piece de resistance of his entire collection. The broad canvas is filled with muted hues of grays, blues, and purples, save for the fiery scarlet of the hair of the two ballerinas mid-arabesque, the first one tall and regal and the second smaller and more delicate. The works on the adjacent walls all tell a story, snippets of parts of his life when he had thought he had found what he’d been looking for. But this one right before them depicts the culmination of it all, the end of his search. Natasha and Isabel – his ballerinas – have filled the void that had long endured within him, making him certain of his purpose, and, more importantly, what makes him happy. They are the light in the dark, his solace in the storm of life, his home, and it is only apt that those four letters are the same ones engraved on the placard underneath.

“Maybe it’s not about wanting more,” Wanda says. He looks at her questioningly, to which she chuckles. “For so long you’ve been consumed with keeping yourself guarded that you haven’t been able to do much else.” She nods towards the painting. “Look at you now. Not only have you trusted someone with your heart, you’re also not afraid to go after what’s in it.” She shakes your head. “So, maybe it’s not about wanting more as much as it is wanting to be better. The best version of you.” She shrugs. “For you, but also for the people who matter most.”

For a second, he just stands there frozen as he lets the gravity of Wanda’s words sink in. “Huh,” he says. “When did you become the smartest in the family?”

Wanda scoffs. “I’ve always been the smartest.”

“Yes,” he says, laughing as he wraps an arm around her. “Yes, you have.”

“You ready?”

Natasha’s question breaks him out of his reverie, and when he turns to her, he finds her smiling disarmingly at him. She’s a vision with her hair curled loosely and her makeup clean and immaculate, her lacquered lips matching the crimson of her cocktail dress that accents her porcelain skin and deepens the green of her eyes, that, for a moment, he’s able to drown out the noise of the packed gallery.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says with a smile before offering his arm out to her. “Shall we?”

Arm in arm, they step closer to the side of the grand staircase, watching the swarm of New York’s finest dressed in their best evening attire gather around the stage at the center of the room. He takes in a deep breath, waiting for Pepper’s signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Pepper says, “it is with great pride that I present to you, the man of the hour, Steve Rogers!”

Pepper’s words are met with an uproar of applause, and they take that as their cue to make their way over to the landing. The noise from the crowd intensifies as they come into view, his nerves buzzing as he looks out into the sea of strangers and flashing cameras before them. His eyes search the crowd for familiar faces, and a smile begins to form on his face when he zeroes in on Tony as he stands next to Pepper by the podium, and then to all their family and friends - Sarah, Wanda, Melinda, Bucky, and everyone from the Daily - gathered close to the foot of the stairs all looking up at them. Next to him, Natasha gives his arm a reassuring squeeze, and with one encouraging nod, they begin to descend the stairs a step at a time.

“We’re so proud of you, baby,” Sarah whispers the second they make it down, a few tears welling in her eyes as she engulfs him in a hug. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, ma,” he says, returning the hug.

Wanda is next to wrap her arms around him, followed by Melinda and Nick, and he tries his best to catalogue the line of friends and strangers alike who shower him with an outpour of well-wishes. He’s not certain how long the onslaught of greetings and congratulations last, but just as it begins to cross from endearing to overwhelming, Pepper’s voice comes on the microphone once more, asking for the crowd’s attention and offering him a moment of reprieve.

“And now, for the opening remarks, Natasha Romanoff.”

Stunned, he looks up, his eyes wide with surprise when he finds that not only has he failed to take notice of Natasha breaking away from him, but also that she’s now standing behind the podium smiling brightly at him.

“For many of you, tonight is about coming to see Stark Galleries’ latest attraction,” Natasha says into the microphone. “Or, perhaps, getting a glimpse of who the crème de la crème of the art industry has dared to call, and I quote, the most exciting upcoming artist of the decade.”

The crowd cheers once again at that, the loudest of which coming unmistakably from Thor and Bucky, and a smile creeps onto his face when he sees Natasha smirking at him.

“There are some who claim the collection showcased tonight is one of the most impeccable to emerge in recent times. They are not wrong. Each piece has been brought to life by the talent, passion, and dedication of the artist you seek to meet.” He watches as Natasha pauses, letting her eyes sweep across the people before her. “But more importantly,” she says, “and the reason I stand before you here tonight, is to tell you all that that the art you’re about to see, to judge, is an extension of one of the kindest human beings you will ever have the pleasure of knowing.” Natasha looks to him, her gaze piercing and earnest and full of pride. “A window into a soul that is as compassionate, selfless, gallant and” - she cocks an eyebrow up as her voice drops slightly lower - “sexy as they come.” The crowd breaks out in a chorus of laughter, and he shakes his head as Natasha shoots him a wink. “Steve, I know in my heart that I speak on behalf of all your friends and family when I say that we’ve always known the greatness in you and have been privileged enough to bear witness to it every single day. And now, we couldn’t be happier that everyone else can, too.” She beams. “Congratulations.”

The crowd erupts into a thunderous applause, and he does not waste time as he makes his way over to the podium in lengthened strides. He steps up onto the stage, smiling as he walks up to Natasha and pulls her in for a kiss and the noise behind them roars louder.

“I love you,” he whispers, cupping her face as they pull away.

She smiles. “Ditto.”

Despite the warm opening to his night, he finds the rest of the evening is everything but. In the years he’s been working on the gallery, he’s used to overseeing openings of new exhibits alongside Pepper, making sure their patrons’ needs are met and the artist is given sufficient media coverage. What he doesn’t anticipate, however, is how much different it is when he’s the one in the spotlight instead of the one pulling the strings behind the scenes.

It’s after the nth benefactor that’s stopped him for a dance and the millionth reporter that’s asked him the same question when his patience begins to run thin. Before him, a liaison from New York One – Eddie Brock, as he had introduced himself as he cornered him on his way to the bar – holds a phone between them, recording his every word. He goes along, nodding politely even as he’s certain that the so-called facts about himself that the man is plying him with are the first few tidbits of information that pop up when you type his name into a browser.

“We’ve talked about the art, but now I’d like to focus on something a bit more personal,” Eddie states, catching his attention. “Your wife, Natasha, is the editor-in-chief of the biggest news conglomerate in the United States, and arguably the world. Not to mention a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he says, smiling proudly.

“I suppose,” Eddie says sardonically, causing his expression to fall. “Though such a demanding career can take a toll on a marriage and a family. Surely, you must feel the need to keep up with her, and if reports are to be believed-”

“Reports or tabloid fodder?” he interrupts sharply, watching the way Eddie’s lips press into a line. “Which, by the way, staying away from the latter is part of the reason why my wife is as successful as she is.”

“Yeah, and what’s the other? Cozying up to the Starks?”

“Intelligence and an unparalleled work ethic,” he counters coldly. “Elusive as those concepts may be to some.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You want the scoop, Mr. Brock, here it is. Natasha is one of the most brilliant and hardworking people I know. Not only is she prolific at her job, she is also the best mother to our daughter, and I am incredibly fortunate that I get to call her my wife.” He squares his shoulders as he gathers his composure and sends a smile Eddie’s way. “Feel free to print that, though I suspect you won’t. Have a good evening.”

Disdain burns hotly in his veins as he walks away and weaves his way through the crowd, doing his best to smile as he accepts a few nods and well wishes from various gallery goers. He looks to the far wall, spotting Bucky, Wanda, and Maria in conversation and Thor and Jane a few feet away. The sight of his friends puts a genuine smile on his face, his anger all but dissipating and his tension slowly easing, and he pauses to take a steadying breath.

“She stepped out to take a call,” a voice says as he feels a hand on his arm, and he sighs in relief when he finds Darcy smirking knowingly at him.

He grins sheepishly. “Any idea where?”

“Didn’t say. Probably out on the balcony.”

“Thanks,” he says, pointing a thumb behind him. “If Pepper asks-”

“Already on it,” Darcy says before he can even finish, nodding towards the staircase. “Go.”

With a thank you, he makes his way towards the stairs, climbing them two at a time until he reaches the top. A cool and crisp November breeze greets him as he walks down the hall, the air filtering through the glass doors left ajar. Lower Manhattan scintillates before him as he steps out into the night, the spire of the Freedom Tower a bright blue in the distance. But its beauty does nothing to dispel his disappointment when he finds the balcony empty. He leans against the chrome railing in defeat, left with nothing but the cacophony created by the faint sound of the piano coming from the open doors behind him and the noise of the bustling city below.

He huffs out a breath. Dealing with the press and rubbing elbows with patrons are aspects of the job he had grown to tolerate over the years. He had grown a thick skin that allowed him to let the jabs and superficial nonsense that came with it all roll right off his back – the world of art had some of the most discerning critics, after all. But tonight, even as he’s filled with gratitude for the opportunity to share his own work, he finds that the task is a little more difficult to do when his family is being put front and center to take hits.  

“I thought staring out into the skyline was my thing.”

He looks over his shoulder to find Natasha leaning against the door. He smiles. “You do it so often I thought I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she prods as she steps onto the balcony, the material of her dress gleaming in the night. “How’d you like it?”

“It’s not bad,” he concedes, turning towards her. “Though I like this view a lot better.” He extends a hand towards her, and even as she rolls her eyes at his words, she takes it, allowing him to pull her close. “Been looking for you.”

“Funny,” she says as she rests her hands on his shoulders and they begin to sway. “Been looking for you, too. Just wasn’t sure if you were up for dancing with us art exhibit-less chumps.” He narrows his eyes at her as she chuckles. “So, Mr. Rogers, how does it feel to have your own art hanging in a gallery?”

“Surreal,” he says. “But also like I could have never done this without you, Nat.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not true.”

“But it is,” he affirms. “Nat, everything you said up there, if it’s true it’s only because you walked into my life. Before you, before Izzie, I was just waiting for life to happen. I would never have had the courage to take this leap. And then you, us, our family...” He sighs. “It’s changed everything.”

“I know,” she says firmly yet quietly, letting her lips tug up in a smile. “I know.” She looks up at him from underneath her darkened lashes, the devious look in her eyes one he knows all too well. “Plus,” she adds. “I suppose I like this new you, anyway. Living life, chasing after your dreams… protecting me from Big Bad Brock.”

He scoffs. “Heard about that already, huh?”

“Word travels fast when you rip a gossip reporter a new one,” she quips, making him roll his eyes. She sighs. “He’s just noise, Steve. They all are. Nothing more, and nothing we can’t drown out.” She reaches up, cupping his face between her hands as she forces him to look at her. “And we’re going to have to. Because I hate to break it to you, soldier, but after tonight, there’s going to be even more of him. And you’re going to be an even harder man to get a dance out of.”

“I had to find you too, you know,” he counters. “Darcy said you had to take a call. Work?”

“Helen,” she says simply.

From where they rest on the dip of her waist, his hands tense. Her road to recovery after Isabel hadn’t been easy, and he knows that she’s struggled with the after effects of that experience ever since. It sends them both into high alert every time she goes for a checkup, even as she’s worked tirelessly with Helen to make sure she’s in optimal health. His forehead creases with worry. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she says, running her hands down his arms reassuringly. “The results of my annual came back clear and she just wanted to let me know.”

“Good,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief as he pulls her in to kiss her temple. “That’s really good.”

“Yeah,” she says, burying her face in his neck as she adds, “and to ask when I could come in for a prenatal.”

“Do you- wait, what?” He pulls away from her, his eyes wide. “What did you just say?” he asks breathlessly as she captures her bottom lip between her teeth. “Are you…”

An amalgam of emotions flickers through her eyes – fear, excitement, uncertainty, joy. But ultimately, it’s the little nod she gives him as a smile breaks out on her face that brings his entire world to a standstill.

“I think it might be a boy,” she says, her hand dropping to her belly.

“Natasha,” he gasps, his chest rumbling with laughter. He surges forward, making her squeal as he envelopes her in his arms, tipping her face up with both of his hands as he leans down for a kiss. He pulls away when his lungs begin to burn, the joy and excitement rushing through him only heightening his need to keep her close as he leans his forehead against hers. He smiles. “Twenty dollars says it’ll have your eyes.”

She tips her head back, giggling. “Oh, you’re on,” she says before letting out a sigh. “Think we can juggle all this? Life, Izzie, and do the late-night feedings and dirty diapers all over again?”  

“You and me?” he says, his tone dripping in confidence. “A million times over.”

She lifts a brow at him teasingly. “Should we write that down?”

He shakes his head, smiling as he pulls her in for another kiss. “Just to be thorough.”