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Laura first meets Natasha when she is still Natalia; barely nineteen, yet already so worn by all the lives she has lived.
Natalia is a small, doe-eyed thing. Fragile framed and trembling, with wide green eyes that never quite meet her own. In those first few, crucial seconds, Laura understands just why Clint defied direct orders to shoot on sight. Knows she would, too.
"Hi." Laura greets. "You must be Natalia. I'm Laura, Clint's wife."
Natalia does not answer, but her head lifts just enough for Laura to know that she has heard. She turns back to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Dinner warms on the stove top - homemade soup with the last of their harvest. Mostly potato, carrot and parsnip. Hearty. Filling. Both of which are things Natalia appears to need. Laura fetches three mugs from the rack and turns back to see Natalia waiting in the doorway. "How'd you take your tea?"
Picking up strays is a habit of Clint's, but Laura has always been the one to put them back together again. So, she does what she does best. Tends. Nurtures. Rehabilitates. Hourly check-ins, during the day, and three-hourly at night. Never quite routine enough to let Natalia settle.
The girl reminds her of the barn kittens, in a way - semi-feral and emaciated - and once Laura looks past the smiles that are all teeth and the knives tucked into boots and clothing hems, she can see Natalia for what she really is.
Scared.
Clint warns her to be careful. That for all of Natalia's short stature and bony limbs, she is still lethal. The girl's past is proof enough of that. But Laura knows he would not have brought the girl here if he truly thought she may bring them to harm, and he does not judge someone on their worst mistakes. He sees himself in Natalia. Sees someone worth saving.
And, in the wake of his impulsive, reckless decision, Natasha is reborn.
She blames the desire to feed and comfort on maternal instinct. Childhood toys made way for friends, made way for wayward assassins.
In those earliest days, Natasha's bones grate against each other. Hollow eyes become sunken, lost in the sharp edges of razor blade cheekbones.
Laura bakes until she runs out of eggs. Breads and pastries. Cakes and pies. Carbs first - for energy, she thinks - and then will come protein for growth. Her kitchen is a mess of spilt flour and milk, but when Natasha finally ventures down from her room to source the origin of sugary warmth, it feels like she has achieved something.
Getting Natasha to eat, however, is another problem.
The girl stares down plates with the defiance of a toddler teetering on the edge of a tantrum; hands folded neatly in her lap and cutlery still positioned on the napkin to her left. Dinner sits in dishes in the centre of the table, utensils ready for them all to serve themselves. Laura thinks, if given a choice, Natasha never will.
"Eat." Clint prompts around a mouthful of green beans.
But it is not permission that Natasha seeks and she does not so much as even glance up at them. Laura frowns and watches more carefully, intrigued. It is only then that she spots the slight tremble to Natasha's shoulders, the silent clench of her jaw.
It is instinct, again, to lean across and serve the girl's dinner up for her. A minuscule amount of each thing - for taste, perhaps, or truthfully to appease the morbid side of her mind that worries about the risk of refeeding syndrome and all of the woes that come with a lifetime of malnourishment. Once she has done so, she leans back and offers a small, honest smile.
"Eat." She encourages, and Natasha does. Small, cautious bites. Mouse-like and far too restrained for a child who appears to have known nothing but hunger.
Still, it is progress.
And that is how it goes, for those first few weeks. Plated portions that would do nothing to fill a child much older than eight, lowered to Natasha's placemat with a tentative look and murmured words of encouragement. Laura watches the white-knuckled grip the girl holds her knife and fork with, and the wariness painted so wrongly on such delicate features whenever Natasha sits back and quietly declares herself as done, but never full. The leftovers get scraped into the bucket of scraps to add to the chicken feed and Natasha darts off to her bedroom without another word.
"I'm worried," Clint admits. She knows Natasha must hear him. She knows he knows that, too, "She was barely even ninety pounds when I brought her in. Now I don't even think she's eighty."
Laura hums.
He is not wrong. Eighty would be generous, given Natasha's frame.
He sighs before continuing. "I'm not gonna force her to eat. I can't. Neither of us can. But I can't just sit and watch her slowly kill herself. I can't, Laur'."
The stairs creak, shifting under the slight weight of their resident spy. Her smile is sad even as she cups her husband's face in her hand, thumb brushing over stubble. "Let her choose." She tells him. "She may just surprise you. Surprise us both."
The next morning goes the same. Toast for breakfast; cut into four triangles, with only the crust missing from the plate upon its return to the washbowl in the sink. Two pre-cut bites of chicken and a spoonful of salad, at lunch. Not even a quarter of the fruit offered as an afternoon snack.
Dinner, however, sees Natasha shovelling spoonful after spoonful into her mouth.
Natasha chews reflexively. Swallows robotically. And perhaps it is all an automatic response, but the girl's plate is empty and Natasha looks between them, almost expectant as she puts her cutlery down.
"'Attsa girl." Clint grins and claps Natasha on the shoulder. The girl flinches, but returns his smile nonetheless.
It is Laura who sits there, trying not to frown.
She calculates calories and macros in her head, weighing up the risk and reward. Then, she waits. Waits until Natasha has left the table and retired to her room, door shutting so softly she almost thinks she imagined the sound. Waits even longer.
It takes less than thirty minutes for the bathroom door to slam against the wall, thrown open in haste. Knees thunk against the floor and the sound of violent retches echo off of tile, growing louder as she races up the stairs.
She is at Natasha's side in mere seconds, pulling the hair from the girl's face and drawing small circles against the ridged curve of her spine. "It's okay." She soothes. "Let it out. You're okay."
Too much. Too soon. Natasha flails like an animal caught in a snare, too exhausted to cause any real damage. Hands that bat and feebly shove. Bared teeth dripping bile and spit. When Natasha slumps and topples forward, it is Clint who catches her head before it collides with the toilet seat.
"Woah," He murmurs, "Steady."
Natasha makes a sound halfway between a gargle and a growl. "Fuck off."
But there is no bite. No true anger, just thinly veiled fear that radiates from every tremor and sharp movement. Clint barks out a laugh and helps Laura manoeuvre Natasha until the girl's back rests against her chest, where Natasha proceeds to curl up and hiccup out a sob.
Fingers comb through knotted curls and she presses a kiss to the top of Natasha's head. Then, she hums absentmindedly. Old lullabies and melodies she can barely recall, herself, from when her grandmother would rock her to sleep on the nights that her mom had to work. A distant memory of words she could never understand, and the smell of oolong and smoke.
Natasha blinks; eyes glazed and heavy. "Мамочка?"
Laura is sure she could figure out the word for mother in most languages. Her hands do not falter in their movements, even as she shakes her head piteously. "No. No, baby, it's Laura. Just me and Clint."
The girl's lip tremors. Brow pinched. Laura watches the exhaustion sink in, fight seemingly leaving Natasha's body.
"Мамочка." The girl cries. Whined. Weak. "Please."
There is nothing more that she can do. Eventually, Natasha falls asleep. Clint carries the girl back to her room, rolled on her side with a bowl strategically placed near her chin in case of further incident during the night. By the time he comes back to their own bedroom, Laura is blinking back tears of her own.
Her husband opens his arms out to her. She falls into them, fisting his shirt as she pulls him impossibly closer, and sobs into his chest, pretending not to feel his own tears that drip onto her shoulder.
They present Natasha with the choice: eat, little and often, or be fed artificially. Five small meals spread throughout the day, or meal replacement drinks pumped into her stomach through a plastic tube that runs down her nose.
Natasha does not take it well.
She throws her chair back hard enough that the hardwood scratches, and pulls the blade concealed in her waistband to point in their direction in warning.
"I will not go through that again." The girl hisses. "You cannot make me."
So, the choice is made for her. Each and every portion weighed out on scales immediately locked back in the medication cabinet, ignoring the fact that Natasha could quite easily pick the lock, if she wanted to. It is the motion that matters more than the reality, anyway. Then, they sit opposite her and watch as she shudders around each and every bite, before pushing her bowl away.
Six days later, the girl stares down at her empty bowl.
"I do not understand." Natasha admits. "I am not worthy of reward. I have not earned food. Yet you still provide it."
And if Laura is reminded of the way her husband hoards snacks with long shelf-lives, hidden in bags and jackets and random drawers throughout the house, she does not mention it, instead staring Natasha down with an intensity she never thought possible, prior to today.
"Food is a necessity. It's fuel. We'll never punish you by taking it away, same as you'll never have to earn it. So long as you are under our roof, you will always be fed and nourished."
She swallows the lump in her throat before continuing. "I may say no to eating your body weight in candy and ice cream, but that'd only be to stop you getting sick. It's a restriction, not a removal. Not a rule."
Natasha nods like she understands, but Laura would be a fool to believe it could be that simple.
Still. Maybe one day.
Natasha returns to S.H.I.E.L.D. with Clint, pending her psych evaluation and full physical examination. Laura stands on their porch and waves them off, chest aching at the distant look in Natasha's eyes and the apprehension on Clint's face.
S.H.I.E.L.D. does not like Natasha. That much is clear. Today will determine whether they still see her as a risk, and cart her off to a black site to waste, or see her as amenable, and bend her to their very will. There is no right outcome. No true good solution. Laura's only hope is they do not take the girl from them.
Clint calls her on his way back. She answers before the second ring, heart hammering against her chest as she waits for the news that will break her.
"We're coming home." He tells her, and she exhales in relief, shoulders slumping and head lolled forward. Then, a pause that builds her worry up all over again. "She's not holding up too good. I'll tell you more when we're home, but I think she needs a lullaby."
His ongoing joke from that night all those weeks back - Natasha curled against her chest like a small child seeking comfort from their parent, and Laura unable to deny her such.
"Guess I better go put the sheets on the bed." She replies, then hangs up.
She fetches the washing in from the line, tossing anything that is not their bedding into the basket for her to fold and put away later. It takes her fifteen minutes to make the bed, fetching the softest throws of the ones they have acquired over the years from the towel cabinet and bringing them into the bedroom for an extra offer of comfort. She cuts up vegetables to add to the broth on the stove, changing her plan for gravy into one for Natasha's favourite soup, and debates if she has time to bake fresh bread to pair with it, before deciding against it. Small comforts, she reminds herself. Try not to overwhelm the girl.
Laura hears the rumble of the truck engine as it drives up their gravel road, crunching rocks and squelching mud. It takes everything within her not to meet them at the door, instead giving the soup a quick stir and lowering the temperature down to let it simmer.
"Honey, we're home." Clint calls out in sing-song, and she steps out of the kitchen to spot him all but carrying Natasha's weight for her. The girl seems vacant. Shell-shocked. One look at her husband's face confirms she probably is not all that far off. "She's been out of it for most of the drive. Only been able to get the word 'home' out of her."
But that gives her hope. The farm is their home all the same as it has become Natasha's, these last few months. And for the girl to admit that...
"Why don't I take her upstairs, and you go turn the stove off? Dinner can wait a while." Clint nods at her request, unhooking his arm from around Natasha's waist and helping Laura take his place. Natasha stares unblinking. Unfocused.
They somehow tackle the staircase, making a quick stop in Natasha's bedroom to help her change out of the borrowed formal wear that hangs loosely from her body. Laura unbuttons Natasha's blouse and pulls one of Clint's loosest shirts over the girl's head. When it comes to Natasha's trousers, however, the girl stiffens.
(She has always had her theories. Laura has seen Natasha's scars. Heard the stories of the notorious Black Widow and what she could do to her prey. Temptress. Seductress. Succubus.)
"It's okay." She lies, because it could never be okay. She follows it up with the truth, wrapped in fierce determination and promise. "I won't hurt you. Never. Never, Natasha."
And perhaps it is the use of her Americanised name that has the girl looking up, wide-eyed and uncertain. Perhaps it is the fact that she is a woman, or that she is soft, and gentle, and all the things Natasha has never known before. Perhaps it is just coincidence. Still, Laura smiles.
"There's my girl. Come on. Time for bed, darling."
The girl follows like a lost lamb; arms hanging awkwardly by her sides. Laura tugs the sheets loose from their tucked corners, folding the comforter down enough for them to climb in. Natasha waits for her to do so, first, before crawling in after her. She pulls the girl close, brushing down flyaway hairs and releasing the tangled ponytail from the hair elastic that has barely been holding it in place. Natasha buries her face in the crook of Laura's neck, breath warm against her skin.
"Sleep," She offers with a kiss pressed to Natasha's forehead. The sound she is met with in return reminds her of a kitten's purr, "I've got you, baby."
Natasha's breathing evens out. Body completely slack against her own, a gentle weight firm against her side. Clint pops his head around the door, moments later, and smiles softly at the sight.
"What happened today?" Laura asks when it becomes apparent Clint is not about to tell her unprompted.
He shrugs. "On all accounts, everything went as well as it could've. Don't think Fury's too pleased with it all, but he'll come round to it. He just needs to see her prove herself and her loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D.." He answers, taking off his socks and stripping out of his jeans. He climbs in on her other side and spends a few seconds silent, watching Natasha's sleeping face. "Wherever she came from before...they fucked her up. More than we thought. More than we know. Medical had to sedate her. Don't think she appreciated that all that much."
Laura brushes Natasha's hair from her neck and notices the pinpoint bruise, already a violent shade of purple and black.
"What else?"
"Psych went to shit, too. It all did, really. They asked her about her childhood, earliest memories, if she'd ever been abused." He swallows thickly, grey eyes turned watery blue. "Took them three attempts to ask her if they ever raped her. Twice in English, once in Russian. They had to source a Russian dictionary to make sense of the word for her. She...she didn't know there was a word, for what had been done to her. She thought it was normal and that she was the one acting adversely about it."
They fall into a long beat of silence. Her fingers curl around Natasha's shoulder, holding her just that little bit tighter.
"It's a miracle she made it out alive." Clint breathes.
Laura shakes her head. "No miracle. She fought like hell."
Her only wish is that Natasha does not have to fight anymore.
Three weeks later, she is staring down the positive result on her pregnancy test.
Clint and Natasha have returned to S.H.I.E.L.D., gathering intel for the mission Laura knows will decide whether Natasha's place in S.H.I.E.L.D. is permanent or not. Laura had taken the test alone in the quiet bathroom of her all too silent house, and hates herself for the way her hands tremble, the way her stomach flips when she realises she has nobody to tell.
She is happy, she thinks. Or maybe she should be. She is excited. She is scared.
And she keeps all of this to herself, browsing through blogs and websites and flicking through the yellowing pages of first-time parent books in their local library, trying to make sense of it all. She attends her antenatal checkups alone and tells their pre-planned story of her military husband on his most recent tour, and how excited he will be when he comes home. Buys clothes from thrift shops and flea markets, and picks between paint swatches to decorate the nursery with.
She is near the end of her second trimester by the time the rest of her family returns home. Words seem to fail her as she steps out from behind the kitchen counter, watching both of their eyes drift down to her bump.
"Are...you're...this isn't a joke, is it? It's not funny, if it is."
She shakes her head and grabs his hand, bringing it to her stomach. She feels the flutter of movement and watches Clint's eyes light up.
Laura turns to Natasha next, only to see the girl has gone. The back door slams shut, echoing throughout the house, and the sight of Natasha sprinting away has her heart sinking.
"I'll go to her." Clint turns away, only for Laura to pull him back.
"No." She tells him. "Give her space. Give her time."
In every sense, Natasha is their first child.
That is the logic she tells herself, that night, when she approaches the barn, bundled in her bathrobe and winter coat, throw blanket in her arms. Natasha is learning how to accept love, slowly, tentatively, and adding a baby into the equation undoubtedly scares the girl. Her job now is just to ensure that Natasha knows there will always be love to spare.
When Natasha does not appear or vocalise her want for Laura to leave, she calls out into the open space. "Can we talk? Or, rather, can I talk and you listen?"
A shuffling sound from the loft. Laura crosses the barn and sits down in the space by Natasha's legs and tucks the blanket over the girl; blue-lipped and shivering hard enough to cause her teeth to chatter.
They do not speak. Not at first. She doubts that words alone could ever describe all Natasha is feeling, and all that she has felt before.
"I cannot have-" The girl whispers, breath clouding out in front of her. "They took from me. All it means to be a woman."
Her childhood. Choices. Autonomy.
Laura gets the idea.
The Russian lilt to Natasha's tone only accentuates the tiredness of pale features. The stammer of words yet to be spoken aloud, before this very moment.
"You want?" Natasha asks, finally meeting her eyes.
The girl stares with such intensity, as though searching for any sign of mistruth or wavering honesty.
"Yes." Laura admits. "I have always wanted children."
All sense of pristine, practiced grammar is gone. Natasha exhales and nods once. "Is good. Clint is good man. You are good mother."
Cooper is born in early May.
He has Clint's eyes, Laura thinks, and her own nose. A pink, wrinkled, wailing thing placed in her arms and held to her breast. It is hard to ignore the way Natasha watches from the edge of the room, when she finally steps in to come see them both.
"He is small." The girl whispers. Shocked. Awed, almost. "So small."
Laura beckons her over and pats the bed space by her side for Natasha to sit at. She passes the baby to Natasha's arms and bites back her laugh at the awkward hold the girl cradles him in.
"Cooper, meet your Auntie Nat."
Natasha returns to S.H.I.E.L.D. while Clint takes paternity leave and uses up the remainder of his vacation days. The house is not quiet in her absence - not with Cooper's cries and babbles - but it is empty. Heavy. A weight they all seem to feel.
They do not see her again until Christmas, where she shows up fifteen pounds lighter than she was last, carrying a bag of presents bigger than herself.
"Forgive me," Natasha announces, "It has been a long while since I knew Christmas."
Clint pulls the girl in for a one-armed hug - a sleeping Cooper cradled to his body in the other arm - and Laura smiles wetly, waiting for her turn. She holds Natasha tightly, feeling the warmth of tears on her cheeks, and pulls back just enough to cup the girl's face in her hands, frowning.
"What happened to you?" She asks. No point beating around the bush. "You've lost weight."
Natasha shrugs like it is nothing to her. Laura has to remind herself it probably is. "Catch and release. Took a while to gather the information Fury was after. International terrorists have no regard for meal plans."
"How long?" Laura dares herself to follow up.
Another shrug. "A month. Maybe two. I have had worse."
Undoubtedly. Her gaze stretches down over the rest of Natasha, looking for any other sign of injury or harm. It is hard to notice when the girl is bundled so warmly. Laura still reaches for a blanket from the edge of the couch, unfolding it and draping it over Natasha's shoulders. "Go sit down. I need to fetch your present."
She retrieves the box from near the top of the Christmas tree - the only spot it seemed safe from Cooper and his fumbling attempts to crawl. A small, velvet box tied with a satin ribbon. Natasha eyes it warily.
"For me?"
Her voice is soft. Lilted. It makes her sound ten years younger; the child Natasha never truly got to be, young enough to still believe in Santa and request toys and clothes and all the things she never got the chance to experience as she should have.
Laura nods, fighting back her second set of tears. She blames hormones. "Yours."
Natasha pulls the bow string, unraveling the ribbon. It is folded neatly and tucked at her side, ready for when she lifts the lid, revealing her gift. A dainty silver arrow on a matching chain.
"For the best shot I ever made," Clint nudges Natasha with his foot, now sat beside her on the couch, "The one I didn't take."
Cooper's first word is 'Na'.
His little fingers wrap tightly around the ends of Natasha's long curls. Rounded cheeks flushed pink with premature excitement as he tugs and squeals, kicking his feet out. Natasha does not flinch. Her smile wavers and her hand holds Cooper's in place before he can manage to rip any more hair from the root.
"Leave Auntie Nat's hair alone, bud." Clint warns, voice soft and eyes even softer. For all he was scared of becoming his father, Laura cannot help but think her husband is nothing like the man who raised him. "Hmm? Let go of Auntie Nat."
Cooper squeals again. A gormless, wordless screech followed by a sharp giggle. He babbles and coos, as she supposes all babies do. But then, he gurgles, "Na'."
Natasha frowns. Clint grins so wide it must surely hurt, tickling Cooper's neck. "Yeah! That's right, Coop, 's'your Auntie Nat."
Another giggle. Limbs flail without purpose, and Natasha struggles to keep Cooper from toppling off of her knee. "Na'."
Clint is too lost in the excitement of his son's developing speech to notice the way Natasha's face falls. Pallid skin and lip tugged between teeth, torn and bleeding. Laura cannot move fast enough. The baby is thrust into Clint's unsuspecting arms and the bathroom door slams shut, not even moments later.
"She okay?" Her husband asks, looking in the direction Natasha had taken off in.
But okay is a subjective word. For all that the girl has experienced - for all of the lives Natasha has lived before coming into their own - okay would seem a miracle. Right now, it seems impossible.
She offers a shrug and pulls the baby into her arms. Inhales the sweet scent of talcum powder and dried milk and finds herself wondering if someone ever held Natasha this close, when she was so young. If someone doted on her as they all do Cooper.
Hours later, when Natasha emerges from the bathroom, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, Laura will understand. One mother who abandoned her, leaving an infant to be swept up by the horrors of the Red Room and Dreykov, and the other, whose love could never have been enough to save them. The last child Natasha ever interacted with was a young Antonia; school bag packed with explosives as she ran to meet her father, unaware of the fate awaiting her.
Natasha still believes that she will only ever be Natalia. A monster. A victim. Worse.
And there is nothing Laura can do to change that.
Natasha turns twenty-one. A birthday spent with homemade cake and imported Russian vodka Clint had driven three hours to pick up, and three hours to bring back.
In that moment, party hat slightly askew and face reddened from the heat of candles yet to be blown out, Laura feels the warmth of fond affection in her chest. She may not be Natasha's mother, but she could not be more proud of the woman sat in front of her, and just how far Natasha has come.
Nothing could have readied her for the journey they were about to take two years prior; a rogue assassin and a hope, for something better. Yet, look at them now.
That night, they sit out on the porch swing. Tea in chipped mugs and a throw blanket tucked over their laps as they drift back and forth. Natasha looks out into the night sky with wet eyes.
She tells Laura about Ohio. A childhood dream - a picture-perfect family so filled with love, and the silent prayer for the moment to never end. Her sestra. Golden hair and wide-eyed wonder. Her father. Big and strong. A soldier. A machine. And her Мамочка, just as broken as her.
"I didn't want to go back there," Natasha whispers, "I wanted to stay. I wanted them to do something, to stop it all from happening again. I wanted to..."
She wanted to be enough for them to change.
But Natasha was a child. A small, helpless girl too old to be saved and too young to save herself. Nothing Natasha could have done would have ever changed that, and Laura knows she knows this. Understanding it, however, is a whole new matter.
"I wanted to be Natasha. Just Natasha. I wanted Natalia to die."
And she did. A thousand deaths at the hands of men pretending to be god, and monsters pretending to be men. Natasha survived, but not without cost. Scars that run deeper than the eye can see.
Breath hitches. Natasha's hands tremble around her cup, cheeks damp and skin flushed. Red-rimmed eyes that reflect the moonlight.
For all of Natalia's wants, it never meant a thing. By the time Clint came around with his bow and arrow, it was too late for her. The girl was long gone.
"What is that song you sing for the dead? The hymn one?" Natasha asks with slow, steady blinks.
Laura does not know. The girl hums a soft, slow note, then shrugs as she stops and shakes her head.
"I have forgotten. Or maybe I am confused."
A beat of silence that stretches out into the field in front of them, overpowered by cricket tunes and birdsong. The breeze blows against them. The porch swing sways and Natasha shivers.
In that moment, Laura wonders just how often it is that Natasha has thought about her own death. How many times the girl has fought tooth and nail for one more day, one more chance. How many years she should not have lived to see.
Natasha dies to save her husband's life. A soul for a soul, Clint had told her through tears, and how Natasha fought; not to be the one who survived, but to be the one who made that decision. A body thrown over a cliff, never to come back home.
Mothers are not meant to bury their children, Laura thinks, but there is nothing left of Natasha but an emptiness in their hearts and an ache in her chest. There is no furrowed brow for her to kiss one, last time, or knotted curls for her to sit brushing her fingers through. No more nights where they wake up to the woman's screams, tossing and turning in her sleep, and no warmth of breath against her neck as Natasha curls up against her and begs for her to hum the song that neither of them remember, but both know.
Her last goodbye was over the phone. It was never meant to be final. It will never feel that way.