Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter 1944

The fire had burned low hours ago, now little more than a hushed glow in the hearth. The air inside the safehouse was damp with winter’s edge. Smoke clung to the walls, and outside, the wind scraped branches across the windows like fingernails.

Yelena sat with her back to the wall, curled up into herself, like she was trying to take up less space than she did yesterday. The sleeves of her coat swallowed her hands. It was too big for her now, hadn’t been, once, but the weight she’d lost in the past few months had slipped quietly from her frame, until even her clothes started to look like they belonged to someone else.

Her face was pale, Her eyes sunken with malnutrition and lack of sleep. Her lips chapped. There was a scab on her knuckle, raw from being picked at. The tin in her lap was open, already half-empty.

The second Natasha handed her the can, Yelena had pried it open with the edge of a dull spoon and began to eat, fast and silent. She didn’t look up between bites, and didn't pause to speak. Syrup dripped down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her sleeve, too focused on the sugar to care.

They hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days. Not since the last convoy failed to arrive. What little they had came from trade, or stealing, or kindness that didn’t come free. The peaches had come from a soldier much older than her, smug in the way men got when they knew they had the upper hand. His breath had smelled rotten, and his body was heavy and smelly on top of hers. Afterwards, when he'd taken what he wanted, he handed over two cans like they cost him nothing.

She hadn’t told Yelena about the encounter. She never would.

As she watched her sister close her eyes and breathe through the last bite, Natasha couldn’t bring herself to regret it. Not when Yelena looked like that. Not when, for the first time in weeks, she looked full. Happy. Like she’d forgotten, just for a moment, that the world was burning around them.

Yelena wiped the spoon clean on the back of her sleeve and leaned against the wall, the sugar had brought color to her cheeks, just a little. Natasha reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her own tin, still unopened.

“Here,” she said quietly, rolling it across the floor. It stopped against Yelena’s ankle.

Yelena blinked, surprised. 

“I’m full,” Natasha lied.

Yelena pushed it back. “You’re not.”

Natasha rolled to her side, propped her head in her hand. “I ate a cup of porridge earlier this morning,” she lied again.

Yelena shook her head. “Sugar’s rare. You should keep it.”

Natasha didn’t argue. She just sat up and slid the tin back toward her sister, slower this time. When Yelena didn’t reach for it, Natasha picked it up herself, opened the lid and scooped a bit onto the spoon. She moved forward, nudged Yelena’s hand aside, and pressed the spoon into her mouth.

Yelena scowled but swallowed anyway.

“Bossy,” she muttered, licking the sweetness off her teeth.

Natasha smiled and handed her the can to finish.

They sat like that for a while. Quiet. The wind outside howled against the stone. Yelena kept eating, slower now, like the edge of desperation had dulled. Natasha rested her chin on her knees.

Then, without thinking, she reached out and tapped her fingers gently against Yelena’s arm.

Tap... pause... tap-tap... pause... tap.

Yelena didn’t react at first. Then she turned her head, eyes softer than they’d been all night.

“You still do that?” she asked.

Natasha shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”

Yelena leaned into the rhythm the way she always had. The tapping was faint, familiar, something older than the war, older than the Red Room, older than even the ashes of the orphanage. It had started in the bunks, when Yelena was too little to sleep without a hand to hold. Natasha had run out of words to soothe her, so she found a rhythm instead.

Now it was muscle memory. Now it was all they had left.

“Don’t go tomorrow,” Yelena said suddenly.

Natasha stilled.

“I have to.”

“They’ll send someone else.”

“They won’t.”

“You said you weren’t ready.”

“I’m ready enough.”

Yelena turned away, pulling a wool blanket tight around her shoulders. “You’re lying.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She reached forward instead and tapped the rhythm again, this time along Yelena’s spine. Slow. Careful.

Yelena’s voice was smaller now. “What if something happens?”

“It won’t.”

“But what if it does?”

Natasha hesitated then, it wasn’t far fetched to think something could go wrong. It most likely would, but…“No matter what happens, I’ll find my way back to you.”

Yelena’s eyes searched hers, wide and sharp and terrified in the flickering dark.

“Promise?” she whispered.

Natasha leaned in close, pressed her forehead to Yelena’s.

“Promise.”

Chapter Text

Spring, 1951

The teacher’s lounge at St. Agnes smelled faintly of burnt coffee, paper glue, and lemon floor polish. The windows didn’t open all the way, and the radiator still clicked like it was trying to finish a sentence someone had started last winter.

Maria Hill sat at the edge of the small round table near the back, nursing a chipped mug of coffee that had gone cold ten minutes ago.

The teachers were louder than usual this morning. The rain had come in hard during the night, and there was something about bad weather that always made people meaner.

“She dropped the Barton kids off again today,” said Mrs. Wilkins, stirring powdered creamer into her cup with far more force than necessary. “Didn’t even have the decency to walk them to the door. Just watched them go in and drove off.”

“Who?” asked Miss Greene, her voice tinged with interest.

“You know who, the Russian girl,” Mrs. Wilkins said, like the words tasted bitter.

“Oh,” Miss Greene muttered. “Her.”

“She’s always hanging around that garage,” Wilkins continued. “Under the cars, grease on her hands, pants on like a man. Clint Barton’s out there all day with her. Lord knows what Laura’s thinking.”

“She’s probably not,” said Miss Greene. A small laugh followed.

Maria took a sip of the coffee. Bitter. Watery. Burnt.

“Maybe she’s just grateful her husband came back from the war. Some of us weren’t so lucky,” someone chimed in. 

That hung in the air too long. Maria felt it settle on her like dust.

“She’s not from around here, right?” One of the newer teachers asked. “Came over after the war?”

“She did, I also heard she lives with them,” said Mrs. Kincaid, second grade, perpetually clutching her pearls.

Maria didn’t look up. She stirred her coffee slowly. The spoon scraped the bottom of the mug in a steady rhythm.

“You’re joking,” said Wilkins, eyes wide. “Well. That’s just…improper.”

“More than improper,” Greene sniffed. “It’s disgusting. A young woman like that…living with a married man?”

“And his wife just allows it? What a shame.”

“There are rumors, you know. Not just about her being—well, loose.” Greene added, voice pitched low like she was telling a top secret. “They say she’s here to infiltrate us. A communist. A spy sent by the Russians.”

Maria resisted the urge to roll her eyes, in her opinion, the Russians had more urgent matters at hand than spying on the mundane residents of Westview, Ohio.

Tired of their theatrics, Maria stood, rinsed her mug in the sink, and dried it with a towel. She left the lounge with the hum of their whispers still rising behind her like gnats.

The rest of the day passed in the slow, measured way all school days did. Math worksheets. Spelling lists. Recess in the mud. A boy with a skinned knee and a girl who forgot her lunch. Maria taught like she always did, calm, poised and professional, and if her mind wandered once or twice, it didn’t show on her face.

By the time she left the school that evening, the sky had darkened with the kind of thick, low-hanging clouds that promised rain. The town had that strange hush it got before a storm: dogs restless, windows shut early, porch lights flickering like nervous winks.

Maria drove her old Buick. An ugly, bulky thing with a temperamental starter and a steering wheel that whined every time she made a right turn. She didn’t mind. She liked the familiarity of it. The way it wheezed and bucked like something alive.

Until it didn’t.

The engine sputtered once, then again. She cursed softly and barely managed to coast to the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires. She tried to start it again, then twice more before finally giving up. She looked around, there weren’t many houses near this side of the town and she hadn’t seen another car in at least 15 minutes.

The rain came in slow, cold drops at first, then all at once, pattering hard against the windshield, drumming against the roof. She sat with her hands on the wheel, watching it fall, feeling the chill creep in through the door seals. 

She opened the door and started walking towards one of the houses a little over a mile away from the road, with any luck they’d be home already and let her use their telephone. The frigid rain soaked through her coat quickly and coldness seeped into her bones. She was only a couple of feet away from her car when she saw a pair of headlights cutting through the storm.

An old red pickup slowed as it neared, tires hissing on the wet road. The window rolled down.

“Need help?”

The voice was raspy and low, and it sent shivers down her spine, not necessarily the bad kind. 

Maria blinked through the rain.

The woman behind the wheel wore a baseball cap pulled low over bright red hair that clung to her temples in damp strands. Her face was striking even under the unrelenting rain. She had green eyes that stopped Maria cold. Vivid, unnaturally so, and full of something Maria couldn’t identify.

Maria hesitated. “It won’t start.”

The woman pulled the truck off the road, parked behind the Buick, and stepped out without another word. She moved with practiced efficiency, rolled-up sleeves already soaked, boots splashing through the muddy gravel. She popped the hood like she’d done it a hundred times before.

She didn’t make conversation. Just worked.

Her hands moved with purpose. Grease under her nails. A wrench pulled from the cab. She leaned into the engine without hesitation, rain soaking through her collar, and adjusted something Maria couldn’t begin to name.

“You flooded it,” she said, not unkindly, her accent was faint but distinct, Russian. “Too many tries, too close together.”

“Oh.”

The woman glanced at her then. Just once. Then she went back to the engine, made one final adjustment, and closed the hood.

“Try it now.”

Maria slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key.

The engine started.

She looked up.

The woman was already walking away, back toward the truck.

“Thank you,” Maria called after her.

The woman paused, hand on the driver’s side door. “Don’t flood it again.”

And then she got in, started the engine, and drove off, tail lights glowing red against the rain-slick road.

Maria sat there for a moment, shivering from the cold. Listening to the steady hum of the motor. To the rain softening against the glass.

She didn’t even know the woman’s name.

But something about her stayed, like the scent of rain long after the storm.

Chapter Text

Spring, 1951

Maria sat in her usual pew, second from the back, left side. The seat by the wall. There had been a time when she and William had sat proudly at the front, her husband preening as the pastor praised him for being an exemplary son of God. Nowadays she preferred to remain unnoticed.

The choir was still warming up when she arrived, their voices drifting through the open door in uneven harmony. She sat down with a folded bulletin in her lap and tried not to think.

The sanctuary was dim despite the high windows, the light filtering through cloudy panes of stained glass. And the smell of church, of damp stone, wood polish, and old cologne, permeated the air. Around her, people settled in, adjusting coats, smoothing skirts, nodding to neighbors. The usual crowd. Familiar silhouettes. Everything felt a few degrees too warm, too many bodies in one space, too much perfume in the air. Her blouse stuck slightly to the inside of her coat, and the tips of her fingers were sweating inside her gloves.

Maria bowed her head as the opening hymn began. She didn’t sing. She hadn’t in years.

The priest’s voice rolled over the congregation like distant thunder. The gospel reading blurred into the litanies, which blurred into the sermon. Something about the righteous being misunderstood. About judgment. About compassion.

Maria tried to focus. She sat still. Eyes forward, back straight, hands folded neatly on her lap like she was being watched. Because she was. Everyone always was. That was the whole point of church.

After the service, the congregation moved like tidewater, steady, hushed, practiced. Coats and umbrellas. Handshakes. Perfume and wool. The foyer filled slowly with people lingering out of obligation. The women gathered first, coats buttoned to the neck, hats perched just so, hands clad in pristine white gloves.

Maria lingered too, just long enough to seem polite.

“She’s not here, is she?” someone said, low and sharp.

“She never is,” another replied. “I doubt she even owns a Bible.”

They didn’t say her name. They never did. To say her name was to be tainted.

“You’d think Laura would at least have the decency to drag her to a service or two,” said a woman with curls pinned too tightly to her scalp, “But I suppose it’s asking too much from her, given how she barely shows up herself.”

The women all hummed in agreement. The Bartons only showed up to church on the last Sunday of the month, enough to remain members of the congregation, but not enough to escape judgement.

“I saw her again last week,” someone whispered behind her. “Fixing a truck out past Miller’s field. Elbows deep in grease.”

“She’s always like that,” another replied. “Covered in filth. Walking around like it’s normal for a woman to be seen that way.”

“Well I heard she fixes more than cars, if you catch my meaning,” came another voice, this one more theatrical. “That’s how she’s paying the Bartons rent.”

A small, shocked laugh. A hand lifted to a mouth like she might faint.

“Oh, come on now.”

“Don’t act shocked. She’s foreign. Who knows what kind of morals they have over there.”

Maria’s mouth tightened. She smoothed the edge of her coat with one hand.

“Are you really saying she’s umm servicing men?” 

“Mostly. But you know how those types are, they’ll sleep with anyone for a quick buck.”

That one got a louder laugh.

Maria’s grip on her gloves tightened, knuckles going white.

She blinked slowly. Set her face to neutral.

“That’s what happens,” someone said, self righteousness dripping from her every word, “when you let foreign women into decent homes. They don’t know how to behave.”

Maria turned and stepped down the front steps without a word.

The sound of their voices followed her all the way to the sidewalk, lingering like smoke in her clothes.

…….

Maria didn’t go home right away.

She walked for a while instead, through side streets, past houses she knew by porch light and mailbox shape but not by number. The rain had started again, softer this time, thin drops like mist settling into her coat and hair. She didn’t mind. Not today.

When she finally stepped into the quiet of her kitchen, she stood in the doorway, letting the silence press in around her. Her shoes left damp prints on the wooden floor.

She set her purse down. Took off her coat. Hung it on the back of a chair.

Then, without thinking, she opened the cabinet where she kept her mother’s old recipe tin. It was tucked behind the flour canister, metal corners dented, label peeled off years ago.The lid stuck slightly when she opened it.

She flipped past the fancier cards, cherry tart, blackberry pie, chocolate cake, and settled on turnovers. Simple. Comforting. One of her mother’s favorites, or so she’d been told by the women who remembered her.

She set the card aside, then turned to the pantry. Butter. Flour. Sugar. Her hand hovered for a moment over the row of neatly stacked cans, apples, pears, peaches, and cherries in syrup.

She chose the peaches.

The house filled slowly with the warm scent of baking, something golden and bright cutting through the cold that encased her being.

Her sleeves were pushed to the elbows, her hands dusted with flour. The kitchen warmed slowly with the heat from the oven, the soft clatter of bowls and spoons filling the silence.

Despite the calmness that washed over her, her mind circled the morning like a vulture.

The words clung to her. They’d been said in that voice, flat and certain, the kind people used when they were sure no one would challenge them. And no one had.

Maria certainly hadn’t.

The woman had helped her. She didn’t have to, but she’d pulled over in the rain, rolled up her sleeves, and worked without asking questions. Without a fuss. 

And Maria hadn’t even offered to pay her. She’d only offered a thank you, muttered and half-lost under the sound of rain. And then she’d let her drive away.

And now, two days later, she’d stood silent and complicit while others tore apart that same woman. Maria shook her head, angry at herself. 

The timer clicked.

She pulled the tray from the oven and set it near the window to cool. The scent was brighter now. Steam curled up into the breeze that slipped through the screen.

She let it settle. Let herself settle.

Then she placed them in a wicker basket lined with a faded tea towel.

She didn’t bother changing out of her Sunday clothes before she drove out to the Barton farm. She just wiped any remnants of flour from her dress, grabbed the basket, and got in the Buick before she could change her mind.

…….

The Barton garage wasn’t far from the main road, just past the bend where the fields dipped low and the trees thinned out. The building itself looked more like an oversized shed than a place of business with its sheet metal roof, wide roll up door, two open bays, and gravel lot. A hand painted sign above the door read Barton & Co. Auto Repair , though Maria doubted there was a “Co,” beyond the redhead.

She pulled up along the edge of the gravel lot and turned off the engine. The motor ticked as it cooled. She sat for a second longer than necessary, hands still on the wheel. The basket rested on the passenger seat beside her, the tea towel she’d ironed that morning poking out from its lid. She hadn't practiced what she would say and now she was wondering whether she should have. Too late for that now, she thought. With a sigh, she smoothed her skirt, wiped her palms against it, and stepped out into the cold.

The rain had let up, but the gravel drive was still slick, and the air held that sharp, clean chill that came after a storm had passed but hadn’t entirely left. Her heels crunched on the gravel as she approached, basket in hand. Her coat shifted in the breeze, still faintly scented with the sugar and spice from her kitchen. 

The garage door was open, the soft clatter of tools echoing. A radio played somewhere inside, low jazz, scratched by static.

Clint Barton was leaning against the open hood of a rusted Ford, sipping something out of an old mug. His flannel sleeves were rolled to the elbow, grease smudged into the fabric.

He looked up when he heard her shoes on the gravel. His brow lifted in surprise.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, lowering the mug. “Mrs. Hill.”

Maria smiled politely. “You can call me Maria, Mr. Barton.”

“In that case you can call me Clint, having car troubles?”

Maria cleared her throat. “No, I-” She looked past him. The truck was there. The red one. “I came to drop something off. For your… employee.”

Clint blinked. Then he grinned like she’d said something particularly funny.

“Employee, huh?” He wiped his hands on a rag. “That’s a funny way to describe her, but I guess that’s technically right.” He turned toward the car. “Natasha! Someone’s here to see you!”

So that was her name. Despite Natasha being the subject of gossip in the teachers lounge more often than not, this was the first time she’d actually heard her name spoken out loud.

There was a pause. A muffled clank of metal, followed by the scrape of a creeper being pushed out from under the chassis. Natasha emerged from beneath the vehicle slowly. She glanced between Clint and Maria. Right eyebrow raised in a silent question.

A question Maria found herself unable to answer. In fact, she found herself unable to say anything at all.

She was beautiful.

Up close, she looked smaller than she'd appeared in the rain, when the truck headlights had thrown her into silhouette. Her shirt clung to her frame where it was damp with sweat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal slender, grease-smeared forearms. Her dark trousers were too large, cinched at the waist, the hems stained and frayed. Men’s clothes. Mechanic’s clothes. And they should have dulled her.

But they didn’t.

If anything, they made her more impossible to look away from.

Her skin looked like porcelain beneath the smudges of oil on her cheek and forehead. Stray curls of red-gold hair that had fallen loose from her braid framed high cheekbones and a sharp jaw softened only slightly by full lips. And those eyes, God, those eyes, sharp and bright green like glass held up to sunlight.

And for the first time, Maria wondered if the rumors, the hostility, and the whispered disgust, had nothing to do with what Natasha had allegedly done and everything to do with how she looked standing there like that. Breathtakingly beautiful.

When Maria finally seemed to remember why she was there, she took a step forward.

“You helped me the other night,” she said. “In the rain. My car wouldn’t start.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change, just looked her up and down before looking her straight in the eye. Maria gulped under the scrutiny.

“I wanted to thank you,” Maria continued. “Properly. These are turnovers. I baked them this morning.”

Natasha rose to her feet, wiping her hands on a rag. She looked at the basket, then at Maria. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” Her voice was soft but steady. 

Natasha took the basket carefully, like she wasn’t quite used to being handed things. “Thank you—” Her expression almost seemed amused.

“Maria,” she added, blushing slightly as she realized she’d forgotten to introduce herself.

“Thank you, Maria,” the other woman replied, the name feeling foreign in her mouth, it’d been a while since she’d talked to anyone other than Clint and his family.

There was an awkward beat of silence. Neither of them seemed to know what should come next.

Clint, watching with mild amusement, clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. “Well, as it happens, we’re about wrapped for the day. You’re welcome to come in for some coffee if you’ve got time. Laura was just saying we needed something sweet.”

Maria hesitated. Then nodded. “All right. Thank you.”

…….

The Barton house was only a short walk from the garage, up a narrow path bordered by patchy grass and the last of the daffodils. The rain had brought the smell of soil up from the ground. It had the kind of lived-in charm Maria had always admired from afar, soft light through the windows, windchimes on the eaves, boots by the door.

Inside, the house was warm and gently chaotic. A pair of tiny shoes strewn around the floor. A wooden toy on the table. A soft blanket draped over the arm of a chair. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke, soap, and freshly brewed coffee.

Laura Barton greeted Maria with a warm smile and a damp tea towel slung over her shoulder. “Oh! You teach at St. Agnes, don’t you? I think I might have seen you during drop offs.”

Maria nodded, “Fourth grade.”

“My oldest is in second. You must’ve seen him in the hall. All freckles and no sense of volume control.”

They laughed, easy and brief.

Natasha stood just behind Clint in the doorway, still holding the basket like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Go on,” Laura said, gently nudging her. “Put that on the table before Clint eats them all.”

It was almost funny how different Laura and Natasha’s interactions appeared to be compared to the rumors. Laura was almost maternal with Natasha, soft and gentle, as opposed to the scorned and jealous woman everyone insisted she was.

The conversation drifted easily, Laura talked about the school board’s latest nonsense, about how the road out past Walker’s farm flooded last week, about how they needed to do this, that and the other.

Maria listened more than she spoke.

Every now and then, her eyes drifted to Natasha, who stood quietly near the wall, arms crossed, as if uncertain what to do with herself.

The kids burst in before the coffee finished brewing. Lila, the youngest of the two, carried a folded paper in her hand.

“Aunty Nat!” she shouted. “I drew you something!”

Natasha’s expression shifted so softly Maria almost missed it. A faint, careful smile. She bent to take the drawing, examined it like it was a masterpiece, and whispered, “This is beautiful. I’m going to put it in my room.”

“You want me to help you?” Lila asked, already tugging her hand.

Natasha nodded. “Of course.”

They disappeared down the hall together, hand in hand.

Maria watched them go, a strange warmth flooding her chest.

“She’s wonderful with the kids,” Laura informed her when she caught her looking,“They absolutely adore her.”

Maria nodded once, unsure of what to say.

They were just about to eat when Natasha returned and the kitchen soon settled into a cozy hush. The kids had retreated into the other room, and the hum of their chatter gave the house a kind of soft  heartbeat. The kettle on the stove clicked as it cooled. A faint breeze stirred the curtain at the window.

The basket of turnovers sat open on the table. Laura leaned in first, pulling one free from the folded towel with a pleased hum. Clint followed, already halfway through his first bite before Maria had even reached for one herself.

“These are something else,” he said, a little muffled. “You put Mr. Wilkins’ bakery to shame.”

Laura smiled around her bite. “You’ll have to give me the recipe someday, these are just perfection.”

Maria thanked them, but her attention wasn’t on either of them, it was on Natasha.

She sat across from her, arms resting loosely on the table, sleeves rolled back down. Her hands, now scrubbed clean, reached forward, almost hesitantly, and chose one of the turnovers. The smallest one.

She didn’t take a bite as Maria had expected. She set it on the plate in front of her. Picked up her fork.

That, already, felt strange. No one else had used one. It was a turnover, meant to be eaten with your hands. But Natasha cut it carefully, neatly, exactly in half.

The crust gave way beneath the fork. Steam escaped in a slow curl. A line of syrup spilled across the plate, thick, golden, familiar.

Peaches.

Natasha stared at the filling.

Not just a glance.

Not the way a person checked for ripeness or color or texture.

She stared.

Her face didn’t change.

Not right away.

But something clouded her eyes, something Maria couldn’t name. Like she was still there, but not entirely. Like a thread had snapped deep beneath the surface, and the rest of her was still pretending to hold still.

Then the fork slipped from her hand.

It hit the plate with a sharp clatter that cut straight through the room.

Clint looked up immediately. “Nat?”

She didn’t answer.

Her eyes were fixed on the open pastry. Her posture hadn’t changed, but it was suddenly all wrong, too stiff, too still. Like she was bracing for something no one else could see.

“Natasha,” Clint said again, softer now, rising from his chair.

Nothing.

Clint came around the table slowly. He crouched beside her. His voice softened. “It’s alright. It’s just us. You’re safe.”

Natasha didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe, it seemed.

He reached out and touched her shoulder.

That broke something. Her head turned just slightly. Her eyes moved, but they didn’t really see the room. Just him.

“Let’s go lie down, okay?” his voice was impossibly gentle, “You’re alright. Come on.”

He helped her to her feet, guiding her with the kind of practiced ease that let Maria know this wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence. Maria could only stare as they disappeared down the hall without another word.

Maria sat frozen, her hands curled in her lap. The pastry on her own plate turning colder by the second.

Across from her, the open turnover still sat, steam fading, the syrup slowly sinking into the cracks of the crust.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know—”

Laura gave her a soft look. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t mean—” she began, but her voice caught.

“She’s okay,” Laura said gently. “Really. She just… sometimes gets pulled under for a minute.”

Maria stared at the plate. Guilt crashing over her in waves. 

Laura observed her for a moment before repeating, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

They finished the tea slowly. The conversation didn’t return. The kitchen stayed warm, but the warmth felt different now, like something ugly was trying to get in through the cracks, and they were barely holding it out.

When Clint returned, he only said, “She’s resting.”

Maria nodded, taking it as her cue.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long blue shadows across the gravel. Clint didn’t speak as they walked. When they reached the car, he held the door open for her.

“Is she okay?” Maria asked.

Clint hesitated. “She’s been through a lot. Some things stick harder than others.”

Maria nodded again, though she didn’t really understand.

She drove home in silence. The lingering taste of peaches turning bitter in her mouth.

Later that night, while she rinsed the last of the dishes, she would think about the way Natasha had looked at the filling, with a quiet horror that sent a shiver down her spine.

Chapter Text

Spring, 1951

Maria thrived on routine. Wake up early, drink her coffee dark, drive down the same road to St. Agnes. Routine had served her well enough. It kept the hours clean. Predictable. Manageable. Until now.

It was as if learning Natasha’s name had unlocked something in Maria’s brain, some invisible door she hadn’t known existed until it creaked open on its hinges, and now that she’d walked through it, she couldn’t seem to turn back.

She saw Natasha everywhere.

On Monday, she saw her at the Piggly Wiggly. Maria had reached for a jar of berry preserves at the same moment Natasha rounded the corner. Their eyes met across a display of discount peanut butter.

Natasha stopped. A flicker of recognition.

Then she turned on her heel and went the other way.

Maria stood still for a long moment, hand hovering just above the jar. Maybe Natasha hadn’t actually recognized her. Or maybe she was in a hurry. At least that’s what Maria told herself until Tuesday, when she saw her at the library.

Maria had been tucked in a corner reading the last pages of Carson McCullers’ The Heart is a Lonely Hunter when Natasha came in. Her red hair was loose and curly, reaching just past her shoulders, and her stained work clothes and muddy boots replaced by a plain baby blue shirt tucked in clean denim jeans and a pair of chuck taylors. Maria was mesmerized by the sight, and she briefly wondered if there was a reason Natasha wasn’t at the garage, not that it was any of her business. As if sensing her stare, Natasha turned towards her corner before quickly turning back towards the librarian. She didn’t look at her again as she left the library.

Maria was being avoided. It was becoming undeniable, now. The way her gaze flicked away too quickly from hers. The way her shoulders stiffened. The polite, deliberate distance of it all.

The shame that followed was slow, creeping. Like water seeping beneath a closed door. Maria told herself it was fine. That it didn’t matter. That she didn’t care.

But she did.

And not just because she kept noticing her everywhere now, not just because Natasha had taken root in her thoughts like something alive , no, it was also the guilt. The kind that lingered longer than it had any right to. It clung to her the moment Natasha's eyes had gone vacant at her kitchen table. The sound of the fork striking porcelain. The part of Maria that wanted to be acknowledged by her now was also the part that wanted, perhaps selfishly, to be forgiven. To be told it hadn’t mattered. That she hadn’t made whatever was plaguing Natasha worse.

It made her restless.

It made her... something.

She didn’t quite know what to call it.

Not yet. But the feeling settled in her chest like static, like the moments before a radio catches a signal. Like waiting for the sound to come through.

At lunch, the gossip continued. The teachers hadn’t run out of material; it only seemed to multiply. Natasha had taken Clint’s truck to the feed store instead of her own? Must be sleeping with him. Natasha had stayed home from Mass again? Probably hungover. Natasha hadn’t initiated small talk with Mrs. Kincaid while they waited in line at the Bakery? Proof of her rudeness.

The comments had always annoyed her. But now, they stuck differently. They made her stomach turn in quiet, rolling waves. She didn’t know Natasha well, not really, but she knew enough to know none of it was fair. 

Maria remained silent. But the silence didn’t sit the way it used to.

It clawed at her.

And maybe that’s what scared her most. Not just that she couldn’t stop thinking about Natasha, but that the silence she'd grown to rely on was starting to suffocate her.

It didn’t help that, more and more lately, Natasha had taken to picking up the Barton children after school. She’d pull up in the red pickup, always waiting past the gate and only getting out long enough to buckle the kids in before driving off. Maria thought she’d caught Natasha staring at her at least twice, but she’d averted her gaze too quickly for Maria to be truly sure. Clint must have asked her to help more , she thought. Or maybe it had always been this way and Maria simply hadn’t seen it.

It unsettled her how much she saw now. How much she noticed.

The shape of her in the distance. The shock of red hair in a crowd. The tantalizing green eyes across the gate.

She couldn’t explain why she kept thinking about her. Why the sight of that red braid made her breath catch. Why it mattered so much that Natasha wouldn’t acknowledge her presence.

It was ridiculous. Improper. Dangerous, even.

And Maria laid in bed at night with the weight of it pressing down on her chest.

By the time Friday came around, she’d had enough. Enough of Natasha’s avoidance, enough of the strange need to see the redhead, enough of whatever this was that she was feeling. 

…….

Maria was halfway through her coffee when she caught herself standing at the kitchen window, staring at her car in the driveway. The Buick sat there like it always did, solid and unlovely, tiny droplets tapping on its windshield.

She hadn’t decided to do it. Not really.

But by the time she realized her hands were moving, she was already outside with the hood of the Buick popped open and staring at the engine like it might give her an answer. She didn’t know much about cars. Only what William used to mutter about when he was too drunk to fix whatever was clunking. But she recognized the ignition wire. He’d once yanked it loose in a fit of rage, then made her watch while he connected it again like it was some grand display of masculine genius.

It took her ten minutes to find it. Less than five to unhook it. Her hands shook the whole time.

She slammed the hood closed, wiped her palms on her skirt and walked the five miles to the school, boots crunching against wet pavement, hair whipped loose by wind, her umbrella barely offering protection against the frigid rain. Her face flushed by cold and something harder to name, shame, maybe. Or anticipation.

What am I doing?

By the time she made it to the gates of St. Agnes, she was soaking wet and half-convinced she’d lost her mind.

…….

The rain had finally let up by midday, leaving the sky a low, pewter gray and the grass damp. Maria didn’t feel like sitting in the teachers’ lounge, too cramped and buzzing with gossip, so she took her lunch out to the courtyard. A few puddles still clung to the concrete edges, but the picnic tables were dry enough.

She sat alone, thermos of soup in her lap, spoon balanced on the lid. Her fingers were still cold from the morning walk. She hadn’t spoken much all day, and her body felt strangely suspended, like she hadn’t quite come down from whatever current had gripped her earlier. Every sound, every bell, every slamming locker, felt like it came from underwater.

She was halfway through her soup when someone sat across from her.

“Hope you don’t mind,” said Coulson, one of the few teachers she liked talking to, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other. “Didn’t realize anyone else would brave the cold.”

Maria shook her head. “It’s fine. I needed the air.”

He nodded, unwrapping the wax paper with methodical fingers. They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. She liked that about him. Coulson had a way of being present without being overbearing.

It was only after another minute that Maria spoke, surprising herself.

“What do you know about the Bartons?”

Coulson looked up, mid-chew. “The kids or the family?”

“Both,” she said, too quickly. “I mean… I see the kids around, of course. I was just curious.”

He gave her a small smile, something between amused and knowing.

“Clint’s a good guy. Quiet. Came from a rough home. His dad was a mechanic, a real piece of work, from what I’ve heard. Used to knock ‘em around pretty bad. His mom wasn’t in the picture, people used to say she ran off with another man but who knows. He was pretty young when the car crash happened. Killed his dad and his brother.” He paused, took a bite of his sandwich. “Clint walked away without a scratch.”

Maria blinked. “How old was he?”

“Seventeen. Married Laura about two years later. They were barely adults but they somehow made it work.”

“He got drafted in 43’ and came home shortly after the end of the war.” Coulson leaned back a little, stretching his legs under the table. “He was different when he came back, but steadier than I expected, given the circumstances.”

Maria’s gaze had settled on the old wood of the picnic table, following the splintering lines.

“Natasha came around a few years later. ’48, I think.”

Maria looked up, surprised by how easily he’d said her name. Natasha. No nicknames, no euphemisms, no “that Russian girl.”

“No one really knows how they met. Some folks think Clint met her during the war, maybe passed through a camp, or a transport route. But that’s just talk. All we know is, she came to live with them and never left.”

He glanced at her, then said, “She’s a good person. Just… different.”

Maria’s fingers stilled on the thermos lid. “Different how?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Keeps to herself, mostly. Doesn’t come to school events,  doesn’t say much either. I’ve only talked to her a handful of times, but she struck me as sharp. Witty even. Just withdrawn.”

Maria nodded, though she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. She turned the spoon over once more in her hands.

The bell rang, sharp and sudden.

Coulson stood and gathered his things, brushing a few crumbs from his jacket. “Well, I’ve got a classroom full of eighth graders waiting to forget everything I say.”

Maria gave a faint smile, “Thanks for the company,” she said.

He smiled back and nodded before heading back inside.

Maria sat there long after the bell rang, unsure what to make out of the new information.

…….

After lunch, Maria had forced herself back inside, slipping into her afternoon classes with a mechanical efficiency that almost convinced her she was fine. Almost.

Fractions, reading comprehension, handwriting practice.
The hours crawled.

But all through it, as she moved from the chalkboard to her desk to the window overlooking the street, her mind itched at the edges. Restless. Coiled.
By the time the final bell rang, the restlessness had turned to something sharper, more insistent.

What would she even say?

She didn’t know.

She just knew she had to see her again.

She gathered her things slowly, letting the students flood past her, coats flapping and shoes squeaking against the worn tile floors. Out into the gray afternoon they went, shrieking, laughing, shoving. Alive in the way only children could be.

Maria stayed a few extra minutes at her desk under the pretense of organizing papers, giving herself time to steel her nerves. 

Outside, the parking lot buzzed with the chaos of dismissal.
Parents lined the curb. Children dashed back and forth. Teachers hovered by the doors, ushering order into the fray.

Maria kept close to the building at first, one hand rested lightly on the wrought-iron bars, thumb brushing absently against the flaking black paint, scanning the edge of the lot. 

And then there it was. The red pickup. It pulled into the same space it always did, past the gate, a respectful distance from the school building. Natasha stepped out with that same quiet grace, her braid tied high and neat, sleeves pushed past her elbows. Lila ran to her first, talking animatedly as Natasha buckled her in the back seat beside her brother.

Maria felt herself moving before she had time to think it through.

The heels of her shoes tapped against the stone, too loud in her ears. Her coat was still buttoned from earlier, collar turned up against the cold, hands tucked stiffly into her sleeves. The wind had picked up again, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

She approached the truck slowly, careful not to draw attention, though she knew it was already too late for that.

She could feel everyone's eyes on her.

A pair of mothers at the edge of the walkway slowed their conversation to a hush. Miss Greene, standing by the front doors with her clipboard, had stopped pretending not to stare.

No one ever approached Natasha. Not here. Not where people could see.

Natasha hadn’t noticed her yet. She was bent over the passenger side, tying Lila’s shoes as Copper chattered about something, his feet kicking rhythmically against the seat. Natasha nodded occasionally, answering with a word here or there, patient and focused. She moved to close the door, and that was when she saw her approaching.

Maria stopped a few feet away, her throat suddenly too tight.

Natasha’s expression remained neutral. Her eyes flicked toward the teachers gathered by the door, then back to Maria. She straightened slowly.

“Hi,” Maria said, voice steadier than she expected.

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. Her gaze lingered, tense and cautious, as if she expected Maria to start cussing her out, and it occurred to Maria that maybe someone had done that at some point.

Maria cleared her throat, grasping for something to say, something to excuse the impulse that had carried her across the lot. “I– I hate to ask this, but… would you mind taking a look at my car? It wouldn’t start this morning.”

A pause.

And then Natasha’s eyes dropped to her boots. Damp, dusted with mud from her walk that morning. Her coat was slightly rumpled, the hem of her skirt still mildly wet with rain. She followed the trail of evidence like a thread.

“You walked all the way here.” It wasn’t a question, but Maria nodded anyway.

“I don’t live too far from here,” that wasn’t entirely a lie, it was only a few minutes away when she drove her car.

“I know you have better things to do,” Maria added quickly. “But–”

“Get in.” Natasha nodded toward the passenger side of the truck. 

Maria blinked. “Pardon?”

“I’ll take the kids home,” Natasha said, voice calm. “Then we’ll see what’s wrong with your car.”

Maria hesitated only a second longer before walking around the truck. She opened the door and climbed in.

The stares followed her like a second shadow.

She glanced once over her shoulder, saw Mrs. Wilkins openly gawking from the steps, and Miss Greene murmuring something to the woman beside her.

Let them talk, she thought, and closed the door.

Chapter Text

Spring, 1951

The morning came slowly.

Natasha sat at the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, bare feet pressed flat to the floor. The room was still dark, the kind of gray-blue that meant the sun hadn’t fully come up yet. In the kitchen, Laura was making coffee. The scent threaded through the house, warm and earthy. A comfort. A reminder that life kept moving.

She hadn’t slept much.

Not because of the nightmares, though they had come, as they always did and especially after episodes like the one the night before, but because every time she closed her eyes, she saw the woman, Maria, and the way she’d looked at her.

Natasha was used to being stared at. She was used to the lustful sneers men in town gave her as she passed by. Used to the scornful stares from women who believed her to be beneath them. But Maria hadn’t stared, she’d seen her. Not as a foreigner. Not as a stray the Bartons took in. She’d seen her as a person, and a good one at that. 

That was worse somehow.

Natasha had gotten used to the hostility, she even thrived in it. But Maria had looked at her with a kind of startled tenderness, like she wasn’t sure what she was seeing but wanted to understand it anyway. 

And then Natasha had blown it all in a single night.

Blyat.

Natasha scrubbed her hands over her face. The plate, the pastry, the fucking peaches…it had all blurred into memory now, but the fork clattering against the china… that sound had dug its way into her. She’d lost herself again. Clint had helped her get through it just like he’d had the past three years. It was almost comforting now, to share the burden with someone else.

But it’d never happened in front of a stranger before.

Natasha stood slowly. Her shoulder ached from lying too long on one side. She moved to the sink and splashed water over her face. The cold was bracing.

She moved to grab a towel and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Hair disheveled. Eyes bloodshot. Tear streaks stamped on her cheeks like a shameful reminder of the night before.

“Great,” she muttered.

She didn’t want to see Maria again. Not like this. Not while the memory of what happened still crawled beneath her skin.

But, just for a second, Natasha let herself wonder whether, the next time they met, Maria would look at her again or just stare.

She shook the thought loose.

It didn’t matter.

It couldn’t.

Slowly, she made her way to the kitchen. Light seeped through the thin curtains in pale bands, catching the steam that rose from the kettle. Laura stood by the stove, robe tied loose at the waist, hair still down. 

“You’re up early,” she said without turning.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Natasha replied. Her voice came out rougher than she meant.

Laura poured two mugs and set one on the table. “Didn’t think you would.”

Natasha sat. The chair creaked under her weight. The warmth of the mug seeped into her hands.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The only sounds were the tick of the wall clock and the soft clink of Laura’s spoon against her cup.

“How bad was it?” Laura asked at last, still watching the window.

Natasha swallowed. “Not as bad as other nights.”

Laura nodded once. She didn’t push. She never did.

“Did I scare her off?” Natasha asked after a moment, surprising herself.

Laura turned then. “Mrs. Hill?”

“Maria.” The name felt heavy on her tongue. “She just wanted to do something kind and I–.”

Laura’s face softened. “What happened is not your fault.”

“I know,” Natasha said quietly. “But…” she stopped. The words sat like gravel in her throat.

Laura crossed the room and leaned against the counter, her hands wrapped around her mug. “You didn’t scare anyone off,” she reassured her, firmly but still gentle.

“I just hate that it happened,” Natasha said.

They fell silent again. Outside, the yard was silver with dew, the grass still slick from the night’s rain. A wind pushed against the windowpane, soft but insistent.

“Clint’s taking the kids to school,” Laura said after a while. “You’ve got a bit of time before he gets back. You could rest.”

“I’d rather work,” Natasha said.

“I figured.”

Natasha drained the rest of her coffee and set the mug in the sink. Her reflection caught faintly in the glass, dark circles under her eyes, jaw tight, a frown she couldn’t shake off.

Laura’s voice followed her to the door. “You’re harder on yourself than anyone else ever could be.”

Natasha paused, hand on the frame. She didn’t have an answer to that, and Laura didn’t expect one either. She stepped outside. 

The house fell away behind her, its warmth replaced by the even stillness of the garage. The wide doors were half open, letting in thin morning light that caught on dust and the faint shimmer of oil stains.

Natasha pulled on her coveralls, tying the sleeves around her waist before heading to the bench. 

She worked quietly, cleaning a carburetor Clint had left half-assembled, checking the gasket seams, sorting bolts into small, precise rows. 

The radio on the shelf crackled to life after a few tries, settling on a station that bled through static, brass and strings caught somewhere between notes.

By the time Clint came in, she was elbow-deep in an engine.

“Mornin’,”  he said, shutting the door behind him. 

She only nodded, keeping her eyes on the work.

He hung up his coat, washed his hands in the utility sink, and joined her at the hood. The rest unfolded naturally. He reached for tools without asking where they were; she handed him parts before he spoke. They moved in the same rhythm they’d crafted over the years.

They worked that way for most of the morning, the sound of the radio and the hum of their breathing marking time. When the clock above the workbench hit noon, Clint went back inside the house, only to return a few minutes later with a brown paper bag.

“Lunch time,” he announced, 

He sat on the fender, tore a piece of bread, and handed her half along with a wedge of cheese and an apple. Natasha took it wordlessly, settling beside him.

Clint bit into an apple, wiped his hand on his sleeve. “Laura says the kids want to build a treehouse,” he said, not looking up.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “That’s very ambitious, aren’t they a bit young?”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what I said.”

She huffed, amused, and broke off another piece of bread.

They finished eating without hurry. Clint leaned back, hat pulled low over his eyes, and for a few minutes it felt like the world had narrowed to the sound of metal cooling and faint music drifting through the air.

When the crunch of tires sounded in the driveway, Natasha looked up first. Laura’s car.

A moment later, the door swung open and Laura stepped in, cheeks flushed, hair pinned haphazardly. “Forgot the milk again,” she said, half laughing, half exasperated. “And the sugar. I swear, my brain’s turned to mush.”

Clint smirked. “You want me to go?”

Laura shook her head. “ I’ll go once I get dinner started.”

“I can go,” Natasha said, already pulling off her gloves.

Laura blinked. “You sure?” it wasn’t often that Natasha volunteered to venture off into town.

Natasha shrugged. “I could use the drive.”

Laura smiled, grateful, “Just a quart of milk and a bag of sugar, thank you.”

“Got it.”

Clint tossed her the keys without a word. She caught them one-handed, slipped her arms into her coat, and stepped out into the golden light of afternoon.

She paused by the truck, looking back once, Laura laughing at something Clint said, her hands running gently through his hair.

Then she climbed in, started the engine, and let the rumble fill the quiet space inside her.

…….

The drive into town was uneventful.
Natasha drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open window, the air cool against her knuckles. The radio murmured something faint and grainy, a woman’s voice half-drowned in static.

In town, storefronts lined the street in tired symmetry, the barber, the post office, the grocer. She pulled into the parking lot, killed the engine, and sat there a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel.

The bell above the Piggly Wiggly door jingled when she stepped inside. The smell of floor cleaner and freshly baked bread clung to the air. A ceiling fan turned lazily above.

She grabbed a basket and went in search of the milk and sugar.

It wasn’t until she turned the corner of the second aisle that she saw her.

Maria.

She stood by the shelf of preserves, her hair pinned up, a gray cardigan pulled over her shoulders. There was something graceful about the way she moved.

For a moment, Natasha forgot how to breathe.

The last time she’d seen Maria, she’d been shaking, breathless, pulled out of herself by the ghosts that taunted her every waking moment.

Now Maria was here, in the flesh, reaching for a jar of berry preserves.

And then, as luck would have it, she looked up.

Their eyes met across the narrow aisle.

It was only for a second, maybe half that, but Natasha felt it in her chest. A pulse, sharp and quick.

She turned away.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she walked down the next aisle, pretending to study the labels on a row of soup cans. Her hand shook when she reached for one just to have something to do.

She moved carefully through the aisles, her basket empty except for the milk and sugar she finally forced herself to grab. She could feel Maria’s presence in the air, that awareness you get when someone’s near, even when you can’t see them.

At the end of an aisle, Natasha paused beside a display of crackers and stole a glance toward the front. Maria was at the register now, exchanging a few quiet words with the clerk. She handed over a few bills, tucked her change neatly into her purse, and turned toward the door.

The bell chimed again when she left.
Natasha waited.

She counted the seconds, one, two, three, until Maria’s silhouette disappeared past the window and out onto the parking lot.

Only then did she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

When she finally stepped up to the register, she kept her head down. The clerk rang her up without comment.

When she stepped outside, Maria was gone. 

Natasha stood there for a moment, the grocery bag tucked under one arm. Her pulse had finally slowed, but something still sat heavy on her chest.

She climbed into the truck, set the bag on the passenger seat, and gripped the steering wheel until her hands stopped trembling.

A coldness that had nothing to do with the weather settled in her bones as she pulled onto the road.

…….

On Tuesday afternoon, Clint handed her a short list of errands: drop off an order slip for new parts, a payment envelope for the supplier, and return the library books the kids had left scattered around the living room. She didn’t mind. The garage had been slow, and she appreciated having something useful to do.

Before leaving, she showered and changed out of her work clothes. They were dirtier than usual, and the thought of tracking oil and grease into a place like the library felt wrong, after all, Mrs. Jackson, the librarian, was one of the few people in town who treated Natasha like any other patron. She let her hair fall loose on her shoulders, the strands curling as they dried, and slipped into clean blue denim jeans, a blue shirt she’d bought the year she arrived, and the chuck taylors Clint and Laura gifted last Christmas. 

The library was nearly empty when she arrived. A few patrons lingered by the reading tables, their whispers barely audible beneath the slow tick of the clock. The scent of dust and old books settled into her lungs as she crossed to the counter, the small stack of children’s books tucked under her arm.

“Afternoon,” the librarian murmured a greeting..

Natasha returned the greeting before placing the books down carefully. “Returning these for the Bartons,” she said, her voice hushed as to avoid distracting the other patrons.

The woman smiled and began flipping through the checkout cards. Natasha’s attention drifted, eyes moving past her shoulder to the far end of the room.

Maria sat in the corner near the window.

The light hit her from the side, tracing the shape of her cheek, the fine line of her neck. Her hair was pinned up like always, a few loose strands curling against her neck. Her pristine white shirt contrasted sharply against her black hair. She looked calm, completely absorbed in her book. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, the cover read, and Natasha made a note to ask Laura if she’d read it before.

For a moment, Natasha couldn’t look away.

Something in her chest fluttered, unsteady and foreign.

“Anything else today?” the librarian asked gently.

The sound snapped her back. Natasha blinked, realizing she’d been staring, and muttered, “No, that’s all.” She shifted her weight, waiting for the librarian to finish the receipts.

When she looked again, Maria was already watching her.

Those eyes, blue like the ocean, drew her in like a siren song did a sailor.

Natasha’s pulse stuttered, and she felt an unknown heat rise up her neck. She tore her gaze away, thanked the librarian and turned sharply toward the door. Her footsteps felt too loud in the quiet of the library.

Outside, the cool air rushed against her skin like a reprieve. 

She told herself it was nothing. But there was something there, something that tugged at her in ways she didn’t recognize. A need to understand the woman. An unexplainable need to see and be seen by her.

She drove home on autopilot, the hum of the tires filling the silence that followed her everywhere these days. Maybe she just needed to sleep more.

But the feeling didn’t fade no matter what she did.

It lingered like a low hum beneath the surface, restless, insistent. She caught herself thinking about Maria more often than she meant to: how she’d looked in that quiet pool of light, the shape of her hands on the pages of the book. The way she never looked away first.

Natasha tried to ignore it. She busied herself with work, fixed an alternator that didn’t need fixing, reorganized the tool drawers twice. But by Wednesday afternoon, when Laura mentioned the children needing to be picked up from school, the words came out before she could stop them.

“I’ll do it.”

Laura blinked, clearly surprised, Natasha usually only did pick ups and drop offs when neither she nor Clint were available. “You don’t have to. Clint can-”

“It’s fine,” Natasha said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I’m not doing much anyway.”

Laura hesitated, studying her with that knowing kind of silence she used when she had questions but didn’t want to push. “Alright,” she said finally, smiling softly. “They’ll like that.”

The kids were delighted. They climbed into the truck with chatter that filled every inch of space, their laughter spilling out of the open windows. It was easy, grounding, the kind of noise that made the ghosts more bearable.

But when Natasha pulled up near the school gates, the old restlessness crept back in. Teachers gathered by the steps, children running past them in a blur of color. And there, at the edge of the walkway, stood Maria, talking to another teacher. Her hair as neat as always, skirt flowing gently in the breeze.

Natasha simply watched her, committing every detail to memory until one of the children called her name. By the time Maria looked up, the truck was already pulling out of the gravel lot.

The next morning, when Clint mentioned the drop off, Natasha volunteered again. And again the next morning. Sometimes, as the kids came running to the truck, she caught Maria watching her from the gate, just a passing glance between the rush of children, but it was enough. Enough to stir that strange, delicate ache she didn’t have a name for yet.

If Laura and Clint noticed a shift in her behavior, and they did, they chose not to say anything. Natasha was thankful for it, she wasn’t sure she could truly explain this thing she was feeling without sounding insane. 

At night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Natasha tried to trace when it had started, this restless need to see her again.

Maybe it was at the library, when their eyes met and there was no scorn behind her stare.
Maybe it was in the garage, when Maria had held out the pastries and looked at her so softly.
Maybe it was that afternoon in the rain, when she stared into her eyes for the first time and she couldn’t remember ever seeing something so beautiful.

Chapter Text

Spring, 1951

The truck rattled softly down the dirt road, its old frame shivering with every rut and patch of gravel. 

Natasha kept her eyes on the road. Her grip on the wheel was too tight. The muscles in her jaw ached from holding still. Beside her, Maria sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, posture straight, composed. The hem of her skirt was still damp, her coat buttoned high to her throat.

Neither of them spoke.

From the back seat came the quiet murmur of the kids, Lila humming a song she’d heard on the radio once, Copper kicking his heels against the seat in rhythm. It was comforting, that noise. Familiar. But it didn’t quite reach the front of the cab.

Maria’s presence inundated her very being. Her perfume hung faintly in the cab and Natasha fought the urge to breathe deeper.

She’d acted without thinking back there.
“Get in.”
It had come out sharper than she intended, but she could see the other staff and parents staring, could almost make out their whispers, and while she couldn’t care less about what any of them had to say, there was an innate need to shield Maria from them. 

But now, sitting beside Maria in the heavy quiet, Natasha couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made the wrong choice.

Her pulse hadn’t settled since. It sat just under her skin, restless, thrumming in time with the engine. Her whole body felt feverishly hot despite the temperature being in the lower 50s.

She risked a glance out of the corner of her eye. Maria’s face was turned toward the window, her profile calm, almost serene, though her hands betrayed her, her thumbs fidgeted against each other, rubbing small anxious circles.

Natasha looked away before Maria could catch her staring.
She didn’t trust her voice enough to speak, not yet, maybe not ever.

When the Barton house came into view, she felt relief flood her chest. She pulled the truck into the drive and killed the engine.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said quietly, as not to startle Maria.

Maria nodded, eyes still fixed on the windshield.

Natasha climbed out, forcing herself to move as though nothing was unusual, as though the object of her late night reminiscences wasn’t waiting outside for her. Lila skipped toward the porch, Copper close behind her.

Inside, Laura looked up from the stove.

“Everything alright?” she asked, worried when she noticed the tension in Natasha’s body.

“Yeah,” Natasha said, too quickly. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Maria’s car wouldn’t start. I told her I’d take her home and have a look.”

Laura tilted her head, curiosity softening her gaze. “That’s very kind of you.”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

Laura’s eyes lingered on her a second longer, as if trying to decipher her thoughts, and then she smiled.“Alright honey. Drive safe.”

Natasha stepped outside and climbed back in the truck before the nerves got the best of her. Maria turned her head slightly, offering a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You really don’t have to do this,” she said, there was something in her tone, a certain sadness Natasha couldn’t place.

Natasha didn’t look at her, who knows what could come out of her mouth if she did, “I know.”
Her fingers brushed the ignition. “I don’t mind.” And she really didn’t. She didn’t mind taking Maria home, or looking at her car; maybe it was how much she didn’t mind having her close that threw her off kilter.

They continued their drive in silence for the next few miles. The road wound narrow through stretches of bare trees and open pasture, the truck’s engine humming low beneath the sound of rain beginning to patter on the hood.

Maria hadn’t said anything else since they’d left the Barton farm. She continued to look out the window, watching the fields slide past in blurred streaks of brown and green. Every now and then, she shifted her hands in her lap, fingers brushing against each other like she needed to keep them busy.

Natasha wasn’t sure if she liked the silence, on one hand, it didn’t require anything of her, she could just focus on driving and not making a fool of herself. 

But a part of her also longed to hear the other woman’s voice, to know what she was thinking.

It started to rain again, soft at first, then steadier, tracing crooked paths down the windshield. Natasha kept her eyes forward, her grip on the wheel easing and tightening in quiet intervals. She didn’t know what she’d say if Maria did speak. She only knew that the silence between them was starting to feel too heavy.

Then, quietly, almost like she was talking to herself, Maria said, “I wanted to apologize.”

Natasha almost slammed the brakes, unsure she’d heard right. “For what?” 

Maria shifted in her seat, twisting the hem of her coat between her fingers. “For the other night,” she said. “At your house. I didn’t mean to– I just—” she hesitated, catching herself on a breath, “I just wanted to thank you, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Her words stumbled out in a rush, like she’d been holding the words in for a while and they just needed to be let out.

Natasha didn’t know what to do with the apology. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone outside the Bartons had cared enough to apologize to her for anything, let alone something that wasn’t even their fault.

For a few seconds, she just stared at the road, the windshield wipers dragging slow, steady arcs across the glass.

“You don’t need to apologize,” she said finally, her voice low, roughened by surprise more than anything else. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not,” Maria said after a pause. “But I still feel awful about it. The other night, I mean.”
Her fingers worried at the buttons of her coat. “Maybe I should’ve just left sooner. I didn’t know what to do and I kept thinking that I made it worse somehow.”

Natasha blinked, taken off guard. There was no pity, nor anger in her tone. Just guilt. Genuine, misplaced guilt.

“You didn’t,” Natasha said, almost too quickly, then finally turned to look at her. Her heart clenched at how distraught Maria looked, “I enjoyed your visit,” she admitted barely above a whisper, and she hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. 

While Maria’s visit had been unexpected, and it had ended in less than ideal conditions, Natasha had enjoyed her warmth, she’d enjoyed how normal she made her feel, if only for a moment. 

Surprise filled Maria’s expression, and Natasha had to turn back to the road to regain her composure.

The silence filled the cabin again, but there was a strange comfort in it now. Natasha found herself breathing easier. The tension that had sat sharp in her throat loosened, replaced by something she didn’t recognize.

…….

The rain had settled into a fine mist by the time they turned down Maria’s street. The sky hung low and colorless, the world washed in a dim, silvery hue. The truck’s tires crunched softly over pavement as the houses grew farther apart, tidy front yards bordered by hedges and neat little fences.

Maria’s house came into view near the end of the lane, a stately two-story colonial with white clapboard siding and pale blue shutters. The porch stretched the length of the house, framed by square columns and a railing so bright it almost shone against the dull sky. A white picket fence bordered the yard, each slat perfectly spaced, the paint so new it still smelled faintly of turpentine. The gate stood half-open, its latch tapping softly in the wind. Along the narrow walkway, the flowerbeds were neat but nearly bare, only a few stubborn daffodils and wild violets pushing through the damp earth this time of the year. The grass was clipped short despite the frost, patches of brown showing where winter had refused to let go. 

The porch light burned steady through the mist, casting a faint amber glow across the siding. It was the kind of home that might have appeared on the cover of those magazines the kids liked to look at sometimes, the promise of the American dream in the flesh. The kind of house meant for Sunday dinners, for a husband’s hat by the door and children’s toys left on the steps. 

But there was none of that.

Instead, the house stood picture perfect and solitaire.

Natasha slowed to a stop and cut the engine. For a long moment, neither of them moved, afraid to break the fragile peace between them. Then Maria reached for the handle.

“This is me,” she said softly.

Natasha nodded, “Let’s take a look at that car,” she said even though the words sat heavy on her tongue.

The air was cold and wet, and their breath fogged faintly in the space between them. She led Natasha around to the side of the house, where a green Buick sat parked neatly on the driveway.

Natasha approached confidently, she’d worked on the same model a thousand times before. Maria’s was a little old, and clearly well loved, she leaned over the hood, popping the latch. She ran her hand along the motor, the distributor cap, the ignition coil. It didn’t take long to find the problem.

The ignition wire had been disconnected. It wasn’t frayed, nor loose, it had been pulled. On purpose.

She frowned, running her thumb over it. There was no reason for it to be disconnected, not one she could think of that made any sense. It wasn’t the kind of mistake you made by accident. And the thought that Maria had walked an hour, maybe more, through the cold and rain because of it sat uneasily in her chest.

Why?

She shut the hood carefully and wiped her hands on her jeans before Maria could notice her hesitation.

“It’s fixed,” she said, keeping her tone even.

Maria looked at her, brows furrowed. “That was fast.”

“Wasn’t much to it.” Natasha hesitated, then added, “just a loose connection.”

“Thank you,” Maria said, avoiding her gaze, then she reached into a purse Natasha hadn’t even noticed she was carrying,  “Really. Let me pay you for your trouble.”

Natasha shook her head, “Don’t. It really wasn’t any trouble.”

Maria’s mouth opened like she might argue, but instead she smiled, small, uncertain, “Then at least let me make you dinner,” she said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“I–” Natasha started, but Maria was already speaking again, her voice quieter now.

“Please,” she said. “You’ve been kind enough already. I’d feel awful if you just left.”

There was that strange sadness in her eyes again, and an almost frantic note to her plea, and it stopped Natasha from refusing. She didn’t know what to do with the look on Maria’s face, that careful hope shadowed by fear, as if she expected rejection and was bracing for it.

“I could eat something,” she finally said.

The relief that flickered across Maria’s face made something in her flutter. “Come on in then,” Maria said as she led her toward the porch.

Inside, the warmth hit first, a pleasant contrast to the chill outside. The faint scent of lavender soap and something floral hung in the air. Natasha paused just past the doorway, glancing around as Maria slipped off her coat.

The house was as beautiful inside as it was outside, and twice as lonely. Hardwood floors polished to a shine. White walls, tidy furniture, a kitchen that looked straight out of a catalogue, every utensil in its place, every surface spotless. There were no family photographs, no mementos on the mantle, no clutter in the corners. The only signs of life were Maria’s coat hanging neatly by the door, and a pair of shoes placed side by side on the mat.

Maria’s voice pulled her back. “I’ll get started on dinner. Make yourself comfortable.”

Natasha nodded, though she stayed standing, her eyes drifting once more across the spotless room.

Maria moved easily through the kitchen, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows.
“I hope you don’t mind something simple,” she said, getting out a couple of spices from the pantry. “I don’t usually have company.”

“Simple’s good,” Natasha replied, staying near the doorway, jacket on as if she might be asked to leave at any moment.

The first few minutes passed with only the sound of water running, a pot clinking against the stove, the hiss of gas as she turned on the stove. The soft scrape of a knife on a cutting board. The air warmed slowly as the soup began to take shape, onions, carrots, celery, a faint trace of bay leaf and thyme curling through the steam.

Natasha watched the way Maria moved gracefully throughout the kitchen. She seemed softer here than she did at the school or in town, less tense.

Eventually Maria glanced back at her, smiling faintly. “You can sit, you know. I don’t bite.”

Natasha huffed out a small laugh, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. She slid into a chair by the small table, elbows resting on her knees.

For a while, they spoke about nothing in particular. They talked about the seemingly endless April showers and how cold the mornings had been recently. Maria asked how the Bartons were doing, and Natasha asked about her job at the school. They talked about the end of the year recital Maria had been helping to plan and how Lila was over the moon at having been selected for a solo. Their voices wove easily with the sounds of the kitchen, the faint simmer of the pot and the tick of the clock.

“Will you come to watch the children perform?” Maria asked.

“No,” Natasha answered simply, she’d never attended anything at St. Agnes, and it was unlikely she’d start now.

Maria nodded in understanding before changing the topic, Natasha was glad she didn’t ask why, she probably already knew the answer anyway.

Maria ladled the soup into two bowls and set them on the table.

“It’s nothing fancy,” she said. “But it’s warm.”

Natasha nodded. “Smells good.”

The soup was rich and savory, its warmth spread slowly through Natasha’s body. Every now and then Maria would glance up from her bowl before quickly averting her gaze again.

“This is really good,” Natasha said finally.

Maria smiled, “Thank you.”

The moment lingered between them, quiet and soft. Natasha found herself watching the way Maria’s fingers curved around her spoon, how her eyes softened when she listened. She didn’t mean to stare, but she didn’t know how not to.

When Maria looked up and caught her gaze, Natasha cleared her throat and looked away, pretending to focus on her bowl.

After a pause, she said, almost absently, “Your car should start fine now.”

“I’m glad,” Maria replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll try not to break it again.”

Something in her tone made Natasha look up. Playful, but nervous underneath.
She studied Maria for a long moment, the suspicion she’d had earlier growing into overwhelming curiosity.

“Why did you?” she asked.

Maria froze mid-motion, color rising to her cheeks. “Why did I what?”

“Disconnect the ignition wire,” Natasha said quietly.

Maria’s breath hitched. The silence stretched thin.

“I–” She stopped, her voice faltering. For a moment Natasha thought she’d deny it, but she didn’t. “I’m sorry.”

Maria’s face was bright pink with embarrassment, her eyes wide in a way that made her look impossibly endearing. “I didn’t mean to lie. I just… I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”

Natasha blinked, genuinely taken aback. “You sabotaged your own car to talk to me?”

Maria winced. “It sounds foolish when you say it like that.”

“It is foolish,” Natasha said, though there was no bite in her tone. Just bewilderment. “You walked more than an hour to school this morning.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Maria said, looking anywhere but at the woman in front of her.

“It was raining,” Natasha countered.

“I like the rain.”

“Maria,” Natasha said, and Maria looked up, relieved to see that Natasha didn’t seem angry or perturbed, if anything she seemed amused, “Why did you do it?”

Maria exhaled, her shoulders lowering. “I kept thinking about that night, after I brought the pastries. And then you wouldn’t look at me at the store, or the library. I thought you hated me. And I just…” She trailed off, staring at the edge of her bowl. “I wanted a chance to make things right.”

Natasha’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected this disarming honesty.

“You could’ve just come up to me,” she said quietly.

Maria hesitated, then met her gaze. “Would you have let me?”

Natasha opened her mouth, then closed it again. She thought of all the times she’d turned away. No, but… “I would now,” she said at last.

They lingered after the soup was gone, talking about nothing important. When Natasha finally stood to leave, the air between them felt warmer, steadier. Maria walked her to the door, fingers brushing the frame.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For the ride. For the car. For not thinking I’m mad.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at that, “I didn’t say I didn’t.”

That earned a laugh, loud and unabashed, and Natasha couldn’t help but smile.

Outside, the world was cool and quiet, Natasha climbed into the truck, the air still carrying the scent of thyme and something distinctly Maria. As she drove, the warmth of the kitchen stayed with her, Maria’s voice, her laugh, the strange and impossible truth of what she’d done just to see her.

By the time she turned back onto the road toward the Barton farm, the clouds had broken open, and the sky bloomed with gentle bands of red, orange, pink and violet. The world’s colors returning after a long, gray day.