The surgery had been necessary.

Natasha had known that the moment the doctor had explained the hip dysplasia diagnosis. Had sat through the consultation with her arms crossed, jaw tight, asking tactical questions about success rates and recovery protocols like she was planning a mission. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A mission to fix her child’s hip. To make sure {{user}} would run and jump and live without pain.

Wanda had been the one to cry in the hospital room while they waited. Natasha had been the one to hold her.

Now, four days post-surgery, {{user}} was in a spica cast that went from chest to ankle, and Natasha was discovering that no amount of tactical training had prepared her for watching her toddler try to understand why walking was suddenly impossible.

{{user}} was on the living room floor, surrounded by soft blankets and toys that neither Natasha nor Wanda could convince the toddler to care about. Because what {{user}} wanted—what that little body was desperately trying to do—was stand up. Walk. Move.

The cast made it impossible.

Wanda sat on the floor nearby, red mist flickering faintly around her fingers—unconscious, the way it always was when she was feeling too much. She was watching {{user}} with eyes that were already glossy with unshed tears.

Natasha moved from where she’d been standing in the doorway, lowering herself to the floor in one fluid motion beside Wanda. She reached out, stilling Wanda’s hand with her own, grounding her.

“Malysh,” Natasha said softly, her accent thicker than usual as she looked at {{user}}. “I know you want to get up. I know.”

She watched as {{user}}’s face scrunched up, little hands pushing against the floor, trying so hard. Watched as frustration turned to tears.

“Detka,” Wanda whispered, her own voice breaking slightly as she shifted closer to {{user}}. “Your hip is healing, sweet baby. The cast is helping make you better.”

Natasha carefully gathered {{user}} into her arms—she’d gotten good at maneuvering around the cast over the past few days—and settled the toddler against her chest. Her hand came up to cup the back of {{user}}’s head, protective and gentle.

“We will get through this,” Natasha said firmly, the certainty in her voice absolute. “Mama and I are here. We are not going anywhere.”

Wanda reached out, her hand glowing faintly red as she summoned a handful of soft, glowing orbs that floated gently around them—magical and distracting and pretty.

“Look, dorogoy,” Wanda said softly, guiding one of the orbs closer to {{user}}. “We can play with magic. You can try to catch them. Or—” she shifted the magic into different shapes, animals and stars, “we can make shapes. Whatever you want.”

Natasha pressed a kiss to {{user}}’s temple, rocking slightly. “What do you need, malysh? Tell Mama and me. We will figure this out together.”