The apartment in Queens felt fuller now—four people learning to share not just space, but silence, laughter, fear, and hope.
Natasha had stayed.
Not officially. Not with words. But the spare bedroom she'd claimed had slowly filled with her things: a black duffel always half-packed (old habits), a knife under the pillow, a single framed photo of Clint's farm she kept on the dresser. She didn't sleep there every night—some nights she still needed the rooftop, the cold air, the distance—but more and more, she ended up tangled with the others on the oversized bed, breathing in sync.
It was a Thursday evening—rain again, softer this time.
They were in the living room: Alex on the couch, Gwen curled against his left side, Wanda tucked under his right arm, Natasha perched on the armrest beside Gwen—close enough to feel included, still learning how to fully lean in.
Pizza boxes littered the coffee table. A half-finished movie played on low volume—some old rom-com none of them were really watching.
Natasha broke the quiet first—voice low, almost hesitant.
"I had a dream last night."
Three heads turned to her.
She stared at her hands—scarred, steady. "I was back in the Red Room. Training. Always training. But then… you three were there. Not fighting. Just… standing. Watching. And instead of hurting me, you held out your hands. And I took them."
She looked up—eyes glistening, unguarded.
"I woke up crying. I haven't done that since I was a child."
Gwen reached over—slipped her hand into Natasha's. "You're allowed to cry here."
Natasha squeezed back—small, grateful. "I know. That's what scares me. That I'm allowed to feel anything at all."
Wanda shifted—red energy glowing softly, wrapping around Natasha's wrist like a gentle bracelet.
"You're allowed to feel everything," Wanda whispered. "The fear. The love. The grief. All of it. We'll hold it with you."
Natasha's breath hitched. She looked down at her abdomen—hand unconsciously resting there.
"There's something else," she said, voice barely audible. "Something I've never told anyone. Not even Clint."
The room went still.
She swallowed. "The Red Room… they made sure we couldn't have children. Sterilized us. Clean. Permanent. I didn't care then. I thought it was just one more thing they took. But lately… seeing you three, the way you hold each other… I wonder what I could have been. What I could have given."
Alex moved first—slow, careful. He knelt in front of her, took both her hands.
"We can try to heal it," he said quietly. "I have healing traits—copied from Banner, from Cap, from Asgardian traces. Wanda's chaos magic can guide it. Reshape what was broken. It might not work perfectly… but we can try. If you want."
Natasha stared at him—tears spilling freely now.
"You'd do that? For me?"
Alex's voice cracked. "I'd do anything for you."
Wanda slid down beside him—red energy already coiling, warm and precise. "Let me help. I can feel the damage… the scar tissue. I can soften it. Guide your healing through."
Gwen knelt too—hand on Natasha's knee. "We're here. All of us."
Natasha exhaled—shaky, trembling. Then she nodded.
"Okay."
Alex placed one hand on her lower abdomen—gentle, respectful. Wanda laid hers over his—red threads weaving into his skin, into Natasha's body. Gwen rested her forehead against Natasha's shoulder—spider-sense humming softly, protective.
Healing began.
Warmth spread—Alex's copied regeneration flowing like sunlight, guided by Wanda's chaos magic. Natasha gasped—soft, surprised. Not pain. Relief. A deep, aching release.
Red and gold light pulsed—soft, intimate—reshaping scar tissue, coaxing cells to remember what they were meant to be.
Minutes passed—maybe longer.
Then Natasha shuddered—tears streaming—and a small, broken sob escaped her.
"It's… it's working."
Alex's voice was thick. "We feel it."
Wanda smiled through tears. "You're whole again. Or… close enough."
Natasha opened her eyes—looked at each of them.
"I don't know how to thank you."
Gwen kissed her temple. "You don't have to. Just stay."
Natasha pulled them all close—four bodies, four heartbeats.
"I'm staying," she whispered. "I'm staying."
They held each other—rain tapping the windows, city humming below.
Healing wasn't just physical.
It was this: four people choosing each other, scars and all.
And in that choice, they found something stronger than any power.
Home.
(Word count: 1002)