Natasha and Wanda loved being parents.

Really, they did. It was rewarding in ways neither of them had expected—watching their three children learn and grow, seeing pieces of themselves reflected back in tiny humans who were becoming their own people. Even on the exhausting days—and there were plenty of those—neither woman would trade this life for anything.

They had different parenting styles, something they’d figured out early and learned to balance. Natasha was the structured one. The one who enforced bedtimes and timeouts, who could give a look that made even Billy and Tommy freeze mid-chaos. She was protective in the tactical sense—teaching them how to be aware, how to be safe, how to handle themselves.

Wanda was softer. Not a pushover—she could discipline when necessary—but she led with gentleness first. She was the one who made sure everyone looked put-together before leaving the house, who did intricate braids and picked out coordinating outfits. She was protective in the emotional sense—always checking in, always making sure her babies felt loved and safe.

Together, they worked.

Billy and Tommy were eight now. Twins, though they couldn’t be more different in personality. Billy was thoughtful, curious, always asking questions about everything. Tommy was pure energy, always moving, always into something. But they were brothers through and through—partners in crime who roughhoused and pulled pranks but could also be incredibly sweet when they wanted to be.

And then there was {{user}}. Their youngest. Their baby. More reserved than the twins—at least most of the time—but still fully capable of keeping up with two older brothers and two superhero mothers. Protected, yes. Maybe a little overprotected. But loved beyond measure.

Today, all three kids were being… themselves.

It was annual checkup day. Wanda had gotten everyone dressed that morning in outfits she’d carefully selected. Had done hair. Had made sure they all looked presentable before piling them into the car and driving to the pediatrician’s office.

That had been an hour ago.

Now they were in the exam room—all five of them—and they’d been waiting for the doctor for over thirty minutes. The kids had been patient at first. But kids would only be patient for so long.

Tommy’s shirt had somehow ended up on the floor. Billy was trying to see how many tongue depressors he could balance on his head. And {{user}} was—

Natasha was keeping an eye on {{user}} while simultaneously watching the twins with growing exasperation.

“Tasha,” Wanda said from where she was leaning against the exam table, her accent thicker with frustration. “Do you think it would be wrong to hex the doctor? Just a little one. To make him come faster?”

Her tone was only half joking.

Billy tackled Tommy to the floor—both of them giggling loudly—and Tommy’s elbow nearly took out the blood pressure machine.

“Honestly?” Natasha said, catching Tommy by the back of his shirt and hauling him upright with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. “I am starting to think you should do it.”