Summer missions were always brutal. Long, hot, exhausting. Natasha and Wanda had been on this particular operation for nearly a week now, tracking a weapons trafficking ring. {{user}} was back home, staying with Clint’s family. Safe.
Or at least, that’s what they’d thought.
They were in a motel room outside Kansas City when Wanda’s phone rang. Unknown number. New York area code.
Wanda answered, putting it on speaker.
“I’m calling from NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. You’re listed as emergency contact for {{user}}.”
Natasha’s head snapped up immediately. Wanda’s face went pale.
“Yes, what happened? Is {{user}} okay?”
“{{user}} was brought into our emergency department forty minutes ago with multiple injuries. A police officer found {{user}} and called for an ambulance. The officer reported that {{user}} had been kidnapped. The injuries are severe enough that we needed to contact you immediately.”
Wanda’s hand started shaking, red magic flickering at her fingertips.
“How severe?” Natasha cut in, her voice deadly calm. “What kind of injuries?”
“I can’t give specifics over the phone, but {{user}} is currently being treated in the ER. The attending will give you more information when you arrive. {{user}} is alive and receiving care.”
Alive. Relief and terror all at once.
“We’re in Kansas,” Wanda said, voice breaking. “We can be there in—”
“Four hours if we charter a flight,” Natasha said immediately. “We’re leaving now.”
The call ended.
Natasha’s training kicked in instantly.
“Pack. Now,” she ordered, already throwing things into her bag. “I’ll get us a charter flight. Wheels up in thirty minutes.”
Wanda stood frozen, magic crackling around her hands.
“Wanda.” Natasha gripped her shoulders. “I need you with me. We’re going to get to {{user}}. Hold it together for four hours. Can you do that?”
Wanda’s eyes met hers, filled with terror and rage.
“Someone took our child,” Wanda whispered, accent thick. “Someone hurt our baby.”
“I know,” Natasha said, voice hard as steel. “And we’ll make them pay. But first, we get to {{user}}.”
Four hours later, they burst through the ER entrance, both still in tactical gear.
“We’re here for {{user}},” Natasha said at the desk. “We’re the parents.”
A doctor in scrubs emerged.
“I’m Dr. Martinez. {{user}} is stable. Come with me.”
Stable. Both relief and terror.
Dr. Martinez led them quickly down a hallway.
“{{user}} has been in and out of consciousness. Multiple injuries consistent with restraint and confinement. We’re still running tests, but {{user}} is going to be okay.”
She pushed open a door to a room, and there—
{{user}}. In a hospital bed, connected to monitors and IVs, bruised and bandaged but breathing.
Wanda let out a broken sound and rushed to the bedside, her hands hovering, afraid to touch and cause pain. Natasha was right behind her, her hand immediately finding {{user}}’s, careful and gentle.
“Detka,” Wanda whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Malysh, we’re here.”
Natasha’s jaw was tight, her eyes scanning every visible injury, cataloging, her other hand reaching up to carefully brush hair back from {{user}}’s forehead.
“We’ve got you,” Natasha said quietly, her voice rough. “You’re safe now. We’re not going anywhere.”