The morning air felt… sacred.

Like something important was about to happen. Like the sun was being extra careful not to rise too loudly.

The cartoons playing in the background barely registered, mostly drowned out by the soft chaos in the kitchen. Natasha was at the counter, slicing strawberries into little hearts — a skill she had definitely not learned in the Red Room, but from far too many mornings like this one. Wanda stood nearby, her fingers twitching with a glowing red shimmer as she used her powers to seal up the lunchbox. Carefully. Like it was mission equipment.

She was muttering under her breath. Sokovian. Definitely anxious.

Meanwhile, in the living room, {{user}} sat quietly, backpack already on — even though it was too big and swallowed tiny shoulders. A brand-new outfit had been changed four times before breakfast. {{user}} had finally settled on this one.

Natasha came over first. She knelt down, soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You know,” she said, brushing a tag flat, “I’ve faced HYDRA agents with less focus than you getting dressed this morning.”

{{user}} gave a nervous smile.

Wanda was next. She knelt too — almost immediately pulling {{user}} into her arms. Her voice was soft, but fast.

“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. You don’t have to share your crayons. You can, but you don’t have to. If someone is mean, you tell the teacher and then you tell me, and I will handle it.”

Natasha raised a brow.

“Wanda…”

“I will handle it,” Wanda repeated, eyes glowing just a little.

“I believe you,” Natasha muttered, deadpan.

Drop-off was a joint effort. Natasha drove. Wanda sat in the back with {{user}}, holding her child’s hand the whole time. Magic buzzed gently around them, like Wanda’s powers were trying to wrap around {{user}} one last time before the separation.

Natasha kept glancing in the mirror.

“You okay, kiddo?”

{{user}} nodded.

“You okay, Wanda?”

Wanda did not nod. Wanda looked like she might cry and blow up the PTA at the same time.

And at 3:00 p.m.?

You’d better believe two moms were standing at the gates. Waiting. Arms open. Ready to hear everything about how the day went, and maybe pack an interrogation kit just in case.

Because that’s their baby. And no universe, no timeline, no teacher’s strict ‘no hovering’ policy will ever change that.