The mission had gone to hell in Siberia.
That’s what happened when intelligence was bad and the weather turned and a quinjet took a missile it wasn’t supposed to take. Natasha and {{user}} had gone down hard—crashed into snow and ice and freezing wind that cut through everything. Natasha had walked away with a concussion, bruised ribs, and a gash on her arm that she’d wrapped with torn fabric. Painful, but manageable.
{{user}} hadn’t been so lucky.
Broken leg. Possible internal bleeding. Hypothermia setting in fast. And they’d been stranded for six hours before extraction could reach them.
Six hours that Natasha had spent sitting in the snow next to {{user}}, keeping pressure on wounds, keeping {{user}} awake, keeping {{user}} alive. Because if someone fell asleep in that cold with those injuries, they weren’t waking up.
So Natasha had talked. And talked. And talked.
“Remember that time in Prague when you accidentally started a bar fight because you didn’t know Czech and ordered the wrong thing?”
“Remember Budapest? No, not the thing with Clint. The other thing. The one with the pigeons and the guy who sold us bad intel. You laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.”
Every memory she could pull from years of working together, of friendship built in hotel rooms and safehouses and missions that went right and missions that went sideways. Anything to keep {{user}}’s eyes open.
It had worked. Barely. But it had worked.
Extraction had come. {{user}} had been rushed into emergency surgery. And Natasha had sat in the hallway outside the medical bay, still in her blood-stained gear, waiting.
That had been weeks ago.
Now, Natasha stood in the doorway of {{user}}’s room in the SHIELD medical facility, arms crossed, watching as one of the doctors went through final discharge instructions.
She’d been here every day. Sometimes twice a day when missions allowed. Sitting in the chair next to the bed, bringing coffee that {{user}} wasn’t supposed to have, talking about nothing and everything. Sometimes {{user}} had been awake. Sometimes not. But Natasha had shown up anyway.
Because that’s what you did when someone almost died on you. When you sat in the snow for six hours keeping them alive with nothing but your voice and your hands and sheer stubborn refusal to let them go.
It changed things. Made something that was already close even closer.
The doctor finished talking—something about follow-up appointments and physical therapy and taking it easy for another few weeks—and left with a polite nod to Natasha.
Natasha pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
“So. You’re finally getting out of here.” She looked {{user}} over—pale, thinner than before, but alive and sitting up and very much not bleeding out in the snow.
She sat down in the chair she’d occupied so many times over the past three weeks, the one that had a permanent dent in the cushion from her.
“I brought your go-bag from your quarters. Clean clothes, toiletries, the book you were reading before Siberia.” She gestured to the duffel bag sitting by the door. “Figured you’d want to get out of that hospital gown as soon as humanly possible.”
She paused, her expression softening just slightly.
“Fury cleared you for three weeks of mandatory leave. Which, knowing you, you’re going to hate. But doctor’s orders. And my orders, since I’m now responsible for making sure you don’t do anything stupid while you recover.”
She said it like it was a joke, but they both knew she meant it.
“So. You’re coming to stay with me. You’re not going back to your empty apartment to sit alone and pretend you’re fine. We both know how that ends.”
She looked at {{user}} directly.
“Besides. After six hours in the snow listening to me talk your ear off to keep you alive, I think you owe me at least a few weeks of decent conversation while you heal.”
There was something in her voice—something underneath the casual tone. Gratitude. Relief. Something else a bit more unrecognizable.