Chapter Text
2017 – Aged 33
Natasha woke as the sun rose.
The sun slowly filtered through the curtains of the spare bedroom of Clint and Laura's farmhouse. Natasha lay still, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, enjoying the feeling of being safe and cocooned underneath Laura's handmade blankets.
She breathed deeply, smelling cinnamon in the air; it smelled like someone was baking cookies in the kitchen.
She rolled over with a smile, finally opening her eyes, her gaze latching onto the dream catcher that hung above her bed. It had been decorated by Lila, vivid pink and purple paints splashed all over it.
It was one of Natasha's favourite things about this bedroom. Over the years, it had become less the spare bedroom and more Natasha's bedroom. Right from the beginning, Clint and Laura had told her that she was welcome to come and go as she pleased, and now, finally, she felt that it was true.
Downstairs, she heard someone pottering around in the kitchen. The low rumble of voices was audible through the floorboards; the comforting sound of home.
Natasha sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she disentangled herself from the blankets. She wrapped a dressing gown around herself and shuffled downstairs, following the sound of voices and the smell of cinnamon.
She paused at the threshold of the kitchen, watching Clint and Laura sitting sleepily at the kitchen table, talking together in low voices so as not to wake the children sleeping upstairs.
The Bartons were holding one another's hands, their heads touching gently as they murmured to one another.
Affection swelled in Natasha's chest as she watched them. They were her family – maybe not biologically, but in every way that mattered.
She cleared her throat to announce her presence, causing two sets of eyes to swivel towards her and silence to descend upon the room.
Laura was the first one to break it.
"Hey," she said softly. "How are you feeling?"
Natasha's first instinct was to shrug away her concerns, but she stopped herself. They would want her to be honest, she realised; they did not view her as a burden. It was OK to be honest with them, they were safe. It had taken Natasha a long time to accept this, but she was finally there.
Taking a deep breath, she held out her hands, showing that they were shaking slightly.
"I'm scared shitless," she admitted.
Laura extricated herself from Clint's arms and padded across the kitchen to her, wrapping Natasha in a tight hug.
"Whatever the outcome today, we believe you," said Laura. "You've been so strong. You've come so far. We're both proud of you."
Natasha nodded shakily, squeezing Laura's hand in silent thanks.
Today was the day that Madame B's trial was due to conclude.
It had dragged on for three years – three long, anxious years filled with waiting and uncertainty. The KGB had at first tried their utmost to stop the trial from progressing, before one day suddenly denying all knowledge of and connection to Madame B. They had washed their hands of her, throwing her out to the dogs.
Natasha felt bitter about it, that the KGB would get away with funding the Red Room Academy and allowing its existence to continue for so many decades, but she had accepted that some things just happened like that.
The important thing was that Madame B was on trial – after all, she was the one who had actually run the school and orchestrated or authorised each act of torture. She was the one who had brainwashed and killed so many girls. She was the one ultimately responsible.
Laura guided Natasha to the kitchen table. She sat down between Laura and Clint, reaching out and grabbing hold of both of their hands. They squeezed back, their presence grounding her and making her feel more secure.
A TV remote lay in front of Clint. His free hand was next to it, fingers brushing against the plastic.
"Whenever you're ready, just say the word," he said. "We're with you every step of the way."
Natasha closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of Laura and Clint's hands in her own. Today the court would announce whether Madame B was to be found guilty or not guilty of her charges. If found guilty, they would announce her sentence as well; the culmination of years of legal proceedings.
The verdict rested on the testimony of Witness N and Witness T, the folders found in Madame B's mansion in Bucharest and the hundreds of bones found buried in the grounds of the Red Room Academy, which had been located deep in the South Western Russian countryside.
The defence lawyers had tried to argue that the evidence of Witness N and Witness T was unreliable. That their pasts as assassins should mean that their testimony was disallowed and thrown away in disgrace.
It stung, to be disbelieved.
Natasha and Tatiana were not liars.
Natasha's hands were shaking, her heart hammering hard in her chest, anxiety gnawing at her stomach and making her feel queasy and sick.
The thought of Madame B getting away with her crimes was too awful to bear. She did not know how she would cope, if the court decided that Madame B was to be believed over Natasha and Tatiana.
Natasha had fought so hard to become more than what the Red Room Academy had shaped her to be. She had given Nick the most detailed, intimate description of her life. The thought that it could all have been for nothing had kept her awake for many sleepless nights.
"OK," she said, finally opening her eyes. "Turn it on."
Clint gave her a small, encouraging smile before picking up the remote and turning on the TV, putting it onto the news channel as soon as it crackled into life.
The screen showed a huge crowd of reporters crammed into the courtroom. Photographers and journalists from dozens of TV broadcasters and newspaper publications were filling the heavily-guarded courtroom.
The public gallery was packed with people who had come in off the streets, drawn in by the macabre lure of what was being called the trial of the century.
Madame B herself was barely visible in her bulletproof witness box, a gang of burly police officers surrounding her and obscuring her slender frame behind their muscular mass.
Natasha's eyes lingered on her for a moment, her heart heavy with the weight of fifteen years’ worth of horrific memories and three decades’ worth of waiting.
She was tired of waiting.
She was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than for this whole ordeal to be over, for the judge to stand up and announce the verdict, to lock away that wicked woman and throw away the key forever.
That was not what was happening.
Instead, on the screen, the judge was droning on and on about the history of the case, the legal precedents it had set, the importance of full and transparent justice and a million other things that Natasha did not care about.
What she wanted was for Madame B to face justice for the litany of crimes she had committed. It was far too late for many of her victims – many of them were dead, others missing – but that was not the point. The point was that justice should have no time limit, that no matter how much Madame B had tried to hide behind the passage of time, she should not be able to succeed.
Justice was patient.
Justice was fair.
Justice should be able to look at two broken, former Red Room Academy students and see that for all their mistakes, for all the horrors they had both committed and been subjected to, they were not liars.
Natasha and Tatiana were telling the truth, and it terrified Natasha more than anything else she had ever encountered that they may not be believed.
The victims deserved justice.
Elena deserved justice.
James deserved justice.
Natasha felt a tear slip down her cheek at the thought that she may not have been able to secure it for them.
On the screen, the judge finally seemed to be getting to the point. He stood up, the rest of the courtroom following suit.
Natasha leaned forwards in her chair, holding her breath, her entire body rigid as she stared at the small TV screen.
The courtroom had fallen into an equally tense silence. Natasha was sure that if she were actually in the courtroom, she would be able to hear the individual breaths of those present, so complete was the silence that had descended.
"Svetlana Bagrova, please rise," said the judge.
Madame B got to her feet, impeccably dressed in her patent blue dress suit. She gave the judge a cool, aloof stare, seemingly unfazed by the proceedings.
"You are charged with multiple counts of murder, multiple counts of kidnapping, multiple counts of cruel and degrading treatment of a child, multiple counts of rape as an accessory to the act, preventing multiple lawful burials and arson," said the judge.
The arson charge had been added during the course of the trial, when the Red Room Academy had finally been located. It was a burnt-out shell, set alight by Madame B after she had slaughtered the final students in a desperate attempt to cover her tracks.
Perhaps she thought that Natasha and Tatiana would not be able to direct investigators to the location, perhaps she thought that the KGB would protect her. Whatever her assumption, she had been wrong.
The Red Room Academy had been found, charred and empty, its grounds filled with bones, bullet casings and wild buttercups.
Natasha sat unnaturally still, her entire body taut like a violin string ready to be plucked. Her chest barely moved as she breathed, her entire concentration focused on the judge, the man who held Madame B's fate in his hands, who got to decide justice, who got to decide whether Witness N and Witness T could be believed.
Because the horror and the brutality that they had recounted were, by all accounts, unbelievable.
"I find you guilty of all charges and impose the maximum sentence available to me: life imprisonment with no possibility of parole."
Guilty.
Natasha's heart skipped a beat, possibly two or even three, and then a sob burst from her lips and the spell was broken.
On the screen, a cacophony of noise and motion erupted, cameras flashing and journalists shouting out questions as the public gallery roared with approval.
The rest of the judge’s words were drowned out by the commotion in the courtroom, but anyhow, Natasha was no longer listening.
Tears poured down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Relief, joy and grief warred within her – relief that it was over, joy that Madame B would finally be facing justice, and grief for Elena, for James, for everything that Madame B had done.
She let out a watery laugh that quickly turned hysterical. They had done it. Natasha and Tatiana had done it. They had succeeded in getting justice for themselves, for their classmates, for all the victims who had suffered or died because of Madame B and the Red Room Academy.
Madame B was finally going to get the punishment she deserved.
The sentence of life imprisonment no possibility of parole meant Madame B would have no hope, no freedom. She would rot behind bars for the rest of her life, knowing that she would never again set foot outside prison, that the four walls of her cell would be all she would see for the remainder of her days.
Natasha thought it was a fitting end.
Her outpouring of emotion did not last long. It was largely a physiological response, a reaction to the enormous stress she had been under and the sheer effect of having it all lifted at once.
When she finally looked up once more and wiped her eyes, she caught sight of the TV screen.
It was showing the public gallery, sweeping across the rows of jubilant onlookers as they celebrated an evil woman's downfall. For a couple of seconds, the camera panned across a familiar figure: a thin, pale face, mousy brown hair, grey eyes.
Tatiana was crying hard, her thin hands clutched over her heart.
Tatiana wiped her eyes and looked up, briefly making eye contact with the camera.
The camera was only on her for a moment, but it gave Natasha long enough to see a smile break out on her ex-classmate's face, her expression mirroring Natasha's own: a smile, the lightening of an immense burden and sweet, sweet relief.
Natasha's brainwashing was not the instant, brutally efficient mind-wipe that the Winter Soldier had been subjected to.
It took place over her entire childhood, fifteen long years between the ages of three and eighteen. It was a slow, insidious erosion of her soul, wearing her down, shaping her mind like the dripping of water on limestone.
Drip, drip, drip.
The result had been just as deadly.
The Red Room Academy had twisted her into a version of herself that would never have existed otherwise – a colder version, a more broken version, a stronger, more resilient version.
Natasha pondered who she could have been if Vladimir had never abducted her. She may have been kinder, she may have been softer, perhaps she may have laughed more easily.
She knew she had done terrible things as a Red Room Academy student and a KGB agent. She knew that she would spend the rest of her life trying to atone for it. But she also knew that she had changed, that she was a good person now, that she deserved to forgive herself, even if the guilt never entirely went away.
She was thinking about that, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel of her car, when she reached the shore.
She killed the engine, allowing herself to sit in quiet contemplation in the silence left behind after the rumble of the engine.
She gazed out through the windscreen, looking out at the small beach she had found herself on. She had not chosen it in particular; she had simply pointed her car towards the coast and driven.
The beach was small and made up of small pebbles rather than sand. It was a natural beach, miles away from anywhere, no man-made promenades or any other structures to spoil the natural beauty of the place.
Perhaps it looked a little bleak, now that the sun had gone behind a large bank of cloud, making both the sky and the sea more grey than blue, but to Natasha, it looked beautiful.
She allowed herself the luxury of sitting in the car for a couple more minutes, simply observing and appreciating the serenity and isolation of the little beach.
Sighing softly to herself, she pulled on her jacket and reached over to the back seat, gently picking up a bouquet of flowers.
She stepped out of the car and locked it, shivering slightly due to the sea breeze, instantly tasting the salt in the air as it whipped around her, causing her hair to fly about chaotically. She pushed her hair behind her ears and started to walk down the beach, the flowers pressed protectively against her chest so that she would not drop any of them.
The Barton children – Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel – had helped her pick them earlier that morning after the result of Madame B's trial had been announced. The bouquet was large enough to fill her arms with a riot of yellow; the most beautiful buttercups and daffodils that they had been able to find in the meadow outside the Bartons' farmhouse.
Buttercups because they were the flowers Natasha had given Elena during that glorious summer when Madame B had been ill, walking the hills around the Red Room Academy and eating picnics up birch trees.
Daffodils because they had been James' favourite flower, the flower that he had given her when he had caught her trying to break into his farmhouse aged 6.
The brightness of the yellow made Natasha suddenly remember James' ridiculous yellow rain hat, enormous and wide-brimmed and far too large for him. Once, they had tried to fit both their heads inside, giggling helplessly at the absurdity of it all.
The stones crunched underneath Natasha's shoes. She slowed her pace as she finally arrived at the sea's edge, little waves of foam rising and receding gently around her feet.
The sea stretched out in front of her, huge and endless and simple.
Elena had always wanted to go to the seaside.
Natasha knew her full name now. Nick had personally gone through the files retrieved from Madame B's music room, discovering in the process Elena and James’ names.
He had informed her of the fact immediately, asking her if she would like to know.
Natasha had replied instantly in the affirmative, and Nick had told her.
Elena Pavlova.
James Orlov-Taylor.
It gave Natasha a sense of peace, to know their full names. It gave her a sense that their stories had finally been completed, that they could now rest peacefully knowing that she knew this most intimate of secrets. She had not known how much healing power lay in knowing something as simple as a name.
She said their names aloud, calling out to them as if they might somehow be able to hear her across time and space. Maybe they could, in some version of reality. Maybe love was strong enough to go beyond the boundaries of the physical world.
The sea was soaking into her shoes, wetting her feet, but she did not make any effort to move. Now that she was here, at the sea shore, her arms laden with flowers, she found herself at a loss for what to do.
She had come with the intention of performing some kind of ceremony, but faced with the prospect of actually doing so, she felt lost.
She cleared her throat, gearing herself up to speak, even though she felt somewhat stupid doing so since she was alone. It felt like the right thing to do though. Elena and James mattered enough for the words to be said aloud.
"Hey guys," she said weakly. "It's me. I figured it was about time you both had a proper send off."
She faltered, unsure of herself. The words seemed inadequate, not truly conveying the force of love and emotion that lay behind them.
She cast her mind back, trying to remember what kinds of things she had heard people say at funerals. How did other people do this?
She cleared her throat, shivering slightly in the cool sea breeze, and tried again.
"The Red Room Academy is over now," she said. "Madame B got put on trial and found guilty of all her crimes. The school's been shut down and Madame B's going to spend the rest of her life locked away. We did it. We won. I know it's too little, too late, but we did what we could. No one else is going to suffer because of Madame B anymore."
She shifted slightly, an uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut as she remembered something she had said long ago, first during her graduation test at the Red Room Academy and again during her interview to join SHIELD.
She had been so sure of herself then, but she knew now that she had made a mistake.
"I was wrong," she said suddenly. "I'm not fearless. I used to think that I was, and that being fearless somehow made me strong, but I was wrong. I do have fears. I fear that harm might come to my friends, that something bad might happen to Clint or Laura or Cooper or Lila or Nathaniel or Phil, because I love them. With love comes fear, and that's OK. It's not weak. Love equals fear but it also equals strength. Our strength as a team comes from the love and the trust that we share. It's OK to be afraid, because some things are important enough to be worth being frightened about losing."
She looked up, seeking out the moon, and she saw it, a thin crescent just visible in the one patch of sky that was not obscured by clouds.
"You always believed, Elena, that when people died their souls went to live on the moon," Natasha said wistfully. "Are you there now? On the moon with James?"
There was, of course, no reply.
Natasha sighed softly. She was an atheist. She did not believe in an afterlife, either in Heaven or on the moon, but something about Elena's notion captivated her. Perhaps it was because it was something so simple, so individual, so quintessentially Elena.
"I love you, Elena," she whispered. "I love you, James. I'll never forget you, either of you. Whenever I see the colour yellow, I'll think of you."
She bent down, placing the flowers gently into the sea.
She watched as the current slowly sucked the daffodils and buttercups out into the ocean.
The cascade of yellow became smaller and smaller, until it finally became a single speck in the far distance, before that too faded from sight.
She stood there for a long while, breathing in the salty sea air and feeling the wind whip her red hair around her face.
The foam around her ankles slowly rose up to her knees.
When she finally walked away, her shoes and trousers were wet with sea water and her cheeks were wet too, but she was smiling, and although she was silent, in her heart she was singing.
She finally felt at peace.
Several days later, she was crammed into the Bartons' campervan, sharing the space with six other people and a multitude of camping equipment and food.
They were driving along a long stretch of road, the countryside whizzing by as they sped towards New York.
Clint and Laura were sat in the front two seats, talking about an interesting-sounding murder mystery book that they had both read recently.
Phil was sat in the middle row, Cooper by his side. The 11-year-old boy was chatting animatedly about some comic book or another, his long, gangly limbs flailing around as he gesticulated excitedly.
Natasha was in the back row with the two youngest Bartons: Lila, 8, and Nathaniel, 2.
They were sat on either side of her, their little hands clasped in hers, both of them leaning against her contentedly as the campervan rumbled on down the road.
Natasha glanced down fondly at the two children, her gaze flicking up to look at Cooper sat in the row in front too. They had grown so much over the years, each of them developing their own personalities and quirks.
Cooper, with his light brown hair and blue eyes, was growing to look more and more like Clint every day. Unlike his father, however, he was not so into action and sport. He was quieter, more thoughtful, more creative. He loved comic books and discussing stories. Natasha thought he might grow up to be a writer, like his mother.
Lila was bolder. With dark brown hair and brown eyes, she looked very much like Laura. Louder and more confident than Cooper, Lila was the child most likely to come home with scraped knees and a story to tell. She was curious, bright and outgoing. Recently, she had got into trouble at school for trying to single-handedly re-enact the battle of New York, running around the classrooms pretending to be Hawkeye, throwing sticks at the teachers, who she had cast as the Chitauri. When Clint and Laura had been called in by the school principal, they had had to stifle their giggles, telling their daughter later that what she had done was fine for playtime but not during lesson time, and that she should check if other people want to play before casting them in her games. Lila had accepted their proposal.
Nathaniel was the youngest. Natasha remembered how Clint had got the call from Laura informing him that she was pregnant, just before they had flown out to Bucharest to free Bucky and arrest Madame B. Unlike his siblings, Nathaniel did not look very much like either of his parents. He had Laura's warm brown eyes, but his hair was a pale, curly blonde. Apparently, he looked a lot like Laura's father. Natasha thought he looked a lot like James must have done when he was a boy. Nathaniel was a sweet, shy little boy. He adored Natasha, following her around like a shadow whenever she visited the farmhouse. He was kind, a miniature counsellor. If ever Cooper and Lila were upset, he would make a beeline for them and snuggle up to them until they stopped crying.
Natasha was just gazing down at his round face when he looked up. He smiled up at her sweetly before turning towards the front of the campervan.
"Daddy?" he called out, kicking his little legs slightly.
"Hey, little dude," replied Clint, leaning back fully against his seat to show that he was listening, even though he had to keep his eyes on the road as he was driving. "What's up?"
"Why am I called Nathaniel?" he said.
At the front of the campervan, Clint and Laura exchanged warm smiles, as if they were sharing a private thought that made them very happy.
Natasha leaned forwards with interest. She did not know why Clint and Laura had chosen to name Nathaniel as such, but judging by their expressions there was a story there.
Laura twisted around in her seat, grinning at her youngest son in the back of the campervan.
"Well, Nathaniel," she said. "You're named after someone very special. This person is very good and strong. They had a bad start in life, but they fought hard to turn out nice and do good things, and they did it."
Nathaniel leaned forwards eagerly, his head bobbing along excitedly as he listened to his mother tell the story.
"They're part of our little family," continued Laura. "Can you guess who they are?"
Nathaniel's forehead scrunched up into a tiny frown as he thought about it, his pink tongue stinking out slightly.
"Um, is it Daddy?" he said, sounding hopeful.
Clint laughed softly from the front seat, shaking his head.
"Nope, not me," he sing-songed. "Guess again."
Nathaniel bounced in his seat with excitement, clearly getting into the game.
"Is it Uncle Phil?" he asked.
Phil raised his eyebrows in amusement, shaking his head with a smile on his face.
"No," he said. "Phil isn't short for Nathaniel, I'm afraid."
Nathaniel pouted, looking slightly disappointed and confused.
"Do you want to know?" said Laura, her eyes twinkling.
Nathaniel nodded eagerly.
"Yes, Mommy!" he said, practically squirming in his seat with excitement.
"It's Natasha!" chorused Clint and Laura together.
Nathaniel clapped his hands together and squealed, immediately throwing himself sideways so that he was lying in Natasha's lap, looking up at her adoringly.
"Yey!" he said happily. "We're the same!"
His hands reached up towards her, his little fingers wiggling in her face.
Natasha closed her hand around his in stunned silence, bringing his wiggling fingers to her lips and kissing them gently, causing him to giggle.
A lump formed in her throat. She had never known, had never imagined, that Nathaniel had been named in tribute to her. Her heart swelled with emotion at the thought that the Bartons considered her to be such an important part of their family that they had decided to name their own flesh-and-blood child after her.
It was wonderfully, staggeringly touching.
Natasha bit down on her lip, not trusting herself to speak in case she started crying. She caught sight of Laura looking at her and gave her a watery smile, hoping that her gratitude and happiness had been communicated through the look. Laura seemed to understand, giving her a gentle, open smile and a nod before turning back to face the front.
Natasha gradually composed herself as Nathaniel continued wiggling in her lap, oblivious to the emotional rollercoaster she was experiencing.
Eventually, the little boy became sleepy, tiring himself out with excitement. Natasha pulled him back into an upright position, allowing him to sleep more comfortably with a straight back.
"Aww, so cute," said Phil, giving her a wink when she stuck her tongue out at him.
It had been three years since she had learnt that Phil was still alive, three years since they had been reunited.
Still, despite the passage of time, it made her heart sing to be with him, because she had lost him once and she would never forget how awful that had felt.
She watched Phil as he turned back around to continue his conversation with Cooper, drinking in the exact colour of his hair, the lines around his eyes that told of a lifetime of smiling.
She remembered when she had seen him at SHIELD Memorial Gardens that one time. She had run over to where she had seen him standing, to find him gone. At the time, she had dismissed it as a trick of the mind, grief making her see things that were not there.
It had not been a trick of the mind, after all.
Phil had confirmed the memory as being real. He admitted that he had kept an eye on her. He had yearned to tell her that he had survived Loki's stabbing, but Nick had thought it would be bad for team cohesion and had forbidden it – a decision the former Director had later admitted was wrong.
She had once asked exactly how Phil had survived Loki's stabbing. He had been on the Helicarrier – dead – for at least 40 minutes before it had landed at a medical facility. It did not make sense that he should be alive.
Phil himself had seemed a little uncertain of the details, but he had spoken at great length about his recovery in Tahiti. Apparently, it was a magical place.
All of a sudden, she remembered the poem that had been read aloud at Phil's funeral.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
She laughed out loud, startling Lila and causing Nathaniel to shift in his sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.
The truth had been in plain sight all along.
She remembered Lila's prediction that Phil might come back to life, just like her teddy that had once had its head miraculously reattached overnight. Somehow, against all the odds, Lila had been right.
Natasha smiled, tightening her hold on Lila's hand, and the little girl squeezed back enthusiastically, thrilled as ever at getting to sit in the back with Auntie Nat.
Natasha watched as the sun slowly slid across the sky and the landscape around them went from rural to urban.
At some point, Nathaniel woke up, pressing his nose against the window as they finally entered New York City.
"Where are we, Daddy?" he asked, his chubby hands squashed against the glass of the window as he stared out in wonder.
"New York, baby," said Clint.
Lila thrust her hand in the air as if she were at school. It was a quirky little habit that had appeared recently out of nowhere. The adults had just accepted it.
"Yes, Lila?" prompted Laura.
"I thought we were going to Yo-se-mi-te!" said Lila, pronouncing the word carefully.
Laura laughed and nodded.
"We are," she said. "But first we've got to pick up Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky."
Lila let out a shriek of delight that was only matched by Phil's squeal from the middle row.
Natasha rolled her eyes, grinning at being surrounded by such fangirls and fanboys. Whilst Phil was still hugely in awe of Steve, Lila had a deep adoration for Bucky's metal arm.
When she had first met Bucky, aged 6, she had immediately run up to him and pointed at it with a delighted scream, demanding to touch it and know exactly how it worked.
Clint and Laura had been mortified, stammering out apologies and promising to teach their daughter that that was not an appropriate way to talk to amputees.
Bucky, however, had brushed their concerns aside, patiently bending and flexing his metal arm for Lila's amusement, spending almost the entire evening entertaining the little girl and largely ignoring the adults. From that day forth, the two of them had had a sweet friendship that had only grown stronger over the years.
Natasha was jerked from her thoughts as the campervan slowed to a halt. She looked out of the window to see Steve and Bucky standing on the pavement outside their block of flats.
After Bucky had been rescued from Madame B, he had been hospitalised for several weeks as he was put under observation by a team of expert psychiatrists. Once the doctors were convinced that the Winter Soldier was not going to make a re-appearance, they had released him from the hospital.
There had followed a tense few weeks when various law enforcement agencies had tried to extradite and charge him for the crimes he had committed whilst brainwashed, but thankfully the UN had stepped in, exonerating him of all of his crimes.
There was plentiful evidence that he had been brainwashed, that he had had no control over his actions, and once the UN had released their statement to the world's law enforcement agencies, they had thankfully fallen away and left him alone.
After that, Steve had gone through the painstaking bureaucratic process of becoming Bucky's legal guardian until his mental state had stabilised.
They had moved to New York in an attempt to speed up the recovery of his memories. It worked. Different things triggered memories: sights, sounds, smells, taste, touch, even music.
Natasha remembered one particularly harrowing time when she had gone to visit them, her hair newly cut into a bob and a fringe. It was the same hairstyle she had had when she was aged 16. As soon as Bucky had seen her with her hair like that, he had gone as white as a sheet, running away and breaking down into sobs as memories of almost raping at the Red Room Academy had flooded back to him. He had been horrified, sickened with himself, begging her for forgiveness.
She had held him gently, stroking his back as he trembled and told him quietly that there was nothing to forgive. He had not been himself. He had been brainwashed. He was just as much a victim as she was. What had happened had not been his choice, much less his fault.
She had not had a fringe since then, letting it grow out so that it blended back in with the rest of her hair.
The last three years had been difficult ones for Bucky, but he was recovering. Old memories were returning to him every day, in bits and pieces. With the help of a professional counsellor and Steve's unwavering love and support, he was slowly but surely getting better.
Every day, he frowned less and smiled more.
Every day, he felt the joy of living a little more keenly.
Presently, the two super-soldiers were stood at the curb, sharing a joke together as Clint got out to help them put their bags in the back of the campervan.
Bags safely stowed away, they climbed into the campervan – Steve joining Phil and Cooper in the middle row and Bucky joining Natasha, Lila and Nathaniel in the back seat.
Lila held her hand up for a high five, which Bucky eagerly gave.
"Step on it, Daddy," yelled Lila. "We're going to Yo-se-mi-teeee!"
The adults laughed, little Nathaniel clapping and laughing along too, even though he was probably too young to truly understand what all the fuss was about. Cooper slouched and rolled his eyes, stifling a grin.
They drove through the city, finally hitting the highway that took them away from the hustle and bustle of city life and towards the countryside.
Steve turned around in his seat, grinning back at Bucky.
"Hey Buck," he said. "We've been to Yosemite before, when we were kids. I went on there a trip for asthmatic children and you sneaked along with us. I think you pretended to have an asthma attack or ten so that you'd blend in. Didn't work, but by the time they figured out you were faking we were already there. You got a free holiday."
Bucky gazed out of the window, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the road whizzing by outside. After a while, a smile spread slowly across his face.
"I forgot my pyjamas, so I had to wear your stupid spare pair with the ducks on?" he said, his eyes flicking to Steve uncertainly, his inflection making his sentence more of a question than a statement.
Steve bit his lip, nodding rapidly as he grinned back in response.
Natasha saw the tears glistening in his eyes, but casually looked away so that Steve could wipe his face surreptitiously.
When she looked back, Steve and Bucky were staring at one another fondly, gentle smiles on their faces as they remembered.
Yosemite was even more beautiful than Natasha remembered.
Perhaps it was because the weight of Madame B had finally been lifted off her shoulders. Perhaps it was because this time they were joined by even more members of their hodgepodge family who had not been present before: Nathaniel, Steve and Bucky.
Whatever the reason, the colours seemed that little bit more vibrant, the smells that bit crisper, the sense of peacefulness even more complete and all-encompassing.
After several days of driving almost 3,000 miles across the country, they had finally arrived at Yosemite National Park.
The adults had set up camp fairly quickly, slowed down only slightly by the dubious help of the children.
They were presently sat down in the grass, wildflowers in bloom around them, a small stream gurgling nearby, finishing off their picnic lunch and washing it down with fruit juice.
Natasha watched as Lila ran in circles around the camp, trailing a sleeping bag behind her as she stamped and hollered excitedly. Nathaniel was toddling after her in delight, Laura chasing after them both as she shouted at Lila to stop before she got the sleeping bag covered in mud.
Natasha laughed.
She had never had such experiences growing up. If she had gone on a rampage whilst trailing her bedsheets behind her, Madame B would have beaten her for sure, if not worse.
It gave her a warm feeling of happiness to see Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel have a good upbringing, a safe upbringing; a childhood where they were permitted to be children.
She startled slightly as Phil appeared from behind her and plopped himself down next to her. He watched the pensive expression on her face and cocked his head to the side.
"A penny for your thoughts?" he asked, offering a segment of his orange.
Natasha peeled a segment away and popped it into her mouth, savouring the cool, sweet juices that exploded on her tongue.
She was silent for a long while, struggling to put into words what she was feeling.
It was a contemplative feeling, very calm and peaceful, as she thought about all the events in her life that had led her to this point in time.
"Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if things had been just a little bit different?" she said eventually.
Phil licked orange juice off his fingers as he thought about it.
"Sometimes, yeah," he said. "Before I heard about SHIELD, I always wanted to be a history teacher. Sometimes I wonder what it'd have been like to have a classroom of 15 years olds rather than a Quinjet full of agents."
He finished his orange and lay back on the grass, inviting Natasha to do the same.
She lay down, feeling the blades of grass tickling the sensitive skin of her neck.
"Why?" said Phil. "Do you sometimes think about what your life could have been like if... if things had been different?"
If Vladimir had never kidnapped you and set your life on a radically different path?
The true question hung in the air, unspoken.
Natasha sighed.
"Yes," she admitted. "If that deer hadn't bolted across the road at that exact moment, then my parents wouldn't have died, and none of the Red Room Academy crap that followed would have happened."
Phil looked at her sympathetically.
"Would you change it, if you could?" he asked quietly.
After a long pause, Natasha shook her head.
"No," she said softly. "Because then I wouldn't be here. And I don't think I want to miss this for the world. Everything that's happened, it's led to me meeting you and Clint and Laura. It's meant I've got to see three beautiful children grow up. I have a wonderful life here, and it's more than worth all the suffering that came along the way."
She bit her lip, feeling a tear roll down her cheek and into the grass.
Phil reached out and held her hand gently. She turned her head to look at him. The sun was behind him, making it look as though he had a halo. She gave him a grateful smile, her smile brightening even more as a mop of blonde curls toddled towards her.
"Hey sweetie," she smiled.
Nathaniel flopped down on her other side, flinging an arm and a leg over her and snuggling up close to her side, his little fingers clinging to her t-shirt.
She looked down at his features, open and trusting and soft with sleepiness.
"Song, please, Auntie Nat," he asked sweetly, his eyelids already fluttering closed in anticipation of a lullaby.
Natasha wrapped an arm around him gently, pulling him close and cradling him to her side. She pondered for a moment what to sing, but when the answer came to her, she wondered why she had even had to think about it at all.
As she began to sing, Nathaniel instantly relaxed beside her, his head lolling back as he already started dropping off to sleep.
"Are you made of fire?
Are you a flame?
You've taught my eyes,
How to see again.
I was down so low,
I could not see,
Couldn't feel the good old,
Soul in me.
But in the darkest night,
The stars shine bright.
When all is dark,
You are the light."
By the time she reached the third verse, the others had congregated around them, joining them in sprawling out in the grass and singing softly to the youngest Barton.
After a while, Natasha stopped singing, finding joy in simply lying back and listening to her family as they went through the remaining verses.
She wished she had a photographic memory, so that she could record this perfect moment forever.
Her heart swelled with love for the people around her; her mismatched, weird, perfect family.
Clint and Laura were holding hands, Steve and Bucky lying on the grass just beyond them, side by side. Lila was sat cross-legged next to Bucky, pulling up daisies. Cooper had propped himself up on a bony elbow on the other side of Phil. The soft weight of Nathaniel pressed up against her side, the two-year-old's blonde curls tickling her arm.
Her family. Her wonderful, oddball family.
She smiled, lay back and listened to them sing.
A happy sigh escaped her. She was immensely thankful for everything that had led up to this moment; every twist of fate, every decision she had made to pursue freedom, to become good.
It had all been worth it, in the end.
Despite everything, she had resisted the temptation to become Madame B's soulless killing machine.
She had treasured poetry, chased freedom and loved deeply.
These were the things that made her human.
Unbidden, Alexander Pushkin's poem floated across her mind.
Love, the frivolous disorder fills every jitter of my soul.
She lay back and watched the big blue sky.