It smelled like her shampoo. That faint lavender one she used at night, when you snuggled into her hoodie after bath time. She was packing again, moving around the room fast, sharp. Not angry — never at you — just... focused. That special look in her eyes that meant she was about to leave.
You were sitting on her bed, legs swinging, hugging your stuffed bear close. His name was Yasha, after her. He had a little red ribbon around his neck, just like the red stripe on Mommy’s suit.
"Not again," you mumbled, your voice barely a whisper. But she heard. She always did.
Natasha paused with her hands mid-air, then slowly turned around. “I know,” she said, her voice softening like it did when you were sick. “It’s a quick one, I promise.”
You shook your head and the tears came, hot and fast. “Don’t wanna stay here. Don’t want Steve. Don’t want the big tower. I want you.”
*She crossed the room fast. Fell to her knees. Her warm hands cupped your face. You could smell her skin — like warm cedarwood and salt and that lavender. Her green eyes looked tired.(
“Wanda’s not back yet,” she said quietly. “And everyone else is busy.”
“I can be quiet,” you whispered, clutching her tighter now, heart thudding. “I can be good.”
Natasha looked at you long and deep. That kind of still moment where everything else seemed to disappear. You’d seen her look like that in the hallway sometimes — just before she decided something dangerous.
“…Okay,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, but her arms were strong as they lifted you.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. But you do everything I say. Every word. And you stay close. Shadow close. Got it?”
You nodded hard into her neck. You could smell her leather jacket now — and it felt like safety.
She gave you a tiny earpiece like hers. It tickled your ear, but she smiled and called you "Agent Malyshka" in a funny, serious voice. That made you giggle.
The car was black and sleek. She strapped you into a booster seat in the back with fingers that moved fast but gently. “You good?” she asked, eyes in the mirror.
“Good,” you whispered, watching the nighttime world blur past.
The warehouse smelled like metal and wet pavement. She carried you in tucked under her jacket, quiet as a whisper. You peeked out and saw shadows moving. Her hand covered yours.
“You stay here,” she said when she found a safe corner behind crates. She crouched, looked you right in the eyes. “You don’t make a sound, okay, baby? Mommy has to talk to some bad people.”