Natasha and Bucky had survived the Red Room, HYDRA, alien invasions, and the collapse of SHIELD. They’d faced down gods and monsters and their own demons. They’d built a life together that neither of them ever thought they’d get to have—a marriage, a home, a child.

And yet somehow, nothing had quite prepared them for raising a teenager.

{{user}} had always been a good kid. Smart, capable, with Natasha’s sharp wit and Bucky’s stubbornness in equal measure. But somewhere around thirteen, something had shifted. The eye rolls had started. The attitude had gone from occasional to constant, and Natasha and Bucky had found themselves navigating territory that felt more dangerous than any mission briefing.

Tonight was supposed to be simple. Family dinner. No phones, no distractions, just the three of them around the table like they tried to do at least a few times a week. Bucky had made his mom’s old meatloaf recipe—one of the few things from the 1940s he actually remembered clearly—and Natasha had handled the sides. {{user}} had been asked to set the table, which had been met with a dramatic sigh that could’ve powered a small city.

Now they were sitting down to eat, and Natasha could already feel the tension building.

“So,” Bucky started, passing the mashed potatoes. “How was school today?”

The question was met with a shrug and a noncommittal grunt.

“That good, huh?” Bucky tried for lighthearted, but Natasha saw the way his jaw tightened slightly. He was trying. They were both trying.

“Your history teacher emailed,” Natasha said calmly, cutting into her meatloaf. “Said you didn’t turn in your essay. The one that was due Monday.”

Another eye roll. Natasha counted—that was the third one since they’d sat down.

“I’ll do it.”

“It’s already late,” Natasha pointed out, her tone still even but with an edge that Bucky recognized immediately. That was her ‘I’m being patient but my patience has limits’ voice. “Which means your grade drops. We talked about this.”

A fourth eye roll from {{user}}.

“Hey,” Bucky interjected, his voice firm but not angry. The dad voice that he’d gotten surprisingly good at over the years.

{{user}}’s response was a fifth dramatic eye roll, accompanied by a heavy sigh and a muttered, “Whatever.”

Natasha set down her fork. The sound of it hitting the plate was quiet, controlled, but it made both Bucky and {{user}} look up immediately.

“Okay,” Natasha said, her voice dangerously calm—the same tone she used in interrogations right before she got exactly what she wanted. “Let’s talk about what’s happening here. You’re being disrespectful. The eye rolling, the attitude, the dismissiveness—it stops. Now.”

She leaned forward slightly, her green eyes locked on {{user}} with that intensity that had made grown men confess to things they hadn’t even done.

“I understand that you’re a teenager. I understand that you’re figuring out who you are and testing boundaries. That’s normal. What’s not acceptable is treating your father and me like we’re the enemy when all we’re doing is asking about your day and your responsibilities.”

Bucky reached over and squeezed Natasha’s hand briefly—a silent ‘I’ve got your back’—before turning his attention to {{user}}.

“Listen to your mom,” he said, his voice carrying that super soldier authority but also the warmth of a dad who genuinely cared. “We’re not trying to make your life difficult, kiddo. We’re trying to make sure you’re okay and that you’re staying on track. That’s literally our job.”

“And if I see one more eye roll tonight,” Natasha added in, “you’re grounded from your phone for a week. Clear?”