Everything was going fine, she was on week 31. Everyone knew she was pregnant by now, they’d decorated a babies room, picked out a name. She was actually feeling excited. Things were happening and she wasn’t sure if it was a dream out how long they would last but for now she was completely indulging in it.
“No, James. I don’t need another pillow for my back. Would you stop? You’re driving me crazy.” she says with a soft laugh into the phone before there was a loud bang outside her office. “What the hell—” she felt the shake happen this time. “Shit..” she says and hangs up the phone. She’ll get hell for that move later but right now she needs to get into the security cameras and see what’s happening.
Right outside her office is nothing but a cloud of dust and debris. She grabs her gun and rubs her stomach. “Not now lapushka, not right now.” she whines softly as she feels him kicking into her ribs. She has her gun tight in her hand as she leaves her office and runs down the hallway in the opposite directions of where she should be heading. She should be running from the chaos but instead, in true Natasha fashion, she’s heading right for it.
The next bits are a blur. She sees that there isn’t anything wrong, a water pipe burst big enough to send the hallway into bits but she falls to her knees clutching her stomach and letting out these sharply, pathetic whines. Sitwell and Coulson are at her side in minutes, carrying her to medical.
“She’s going into labor, there’s not stopping it this time. Call Barnes, now.” The doctor says to either one of them, Nat’s screams filling the other room.
“Dude, it’s much more fun if it’s us… Wait, WE NEED SAM!”
“I’m not wearing a bathing suit. Sam’s just going to have to deal with that.” she said.
“Natasha, lets swim.”
“I’m always up for a swim. Should we invite anyone else?” she says, grabbing the bottle of vodka and jumping into the pool.
Submitted by anonymous (through email)
You know what would be cool? Having someone to do something with…
-pokes dash and stares at it-
James rides the elevator up a floor, justify the unease hanging over the mission. It’s no the hotel room he has to enter, the man he has to lay with or the 14 armed guards on the floor; it’s his gut telling him that something is wrong, something is off. His gut instinct that was forged in the fires of war, something that had saved his life time and time again and one thing he was told to always trust—above all else. And yet, here he was knocking on Ruvosky’s door as guards across the hall sat in a smoke filled room—looking him over carefully through their propped open door.
It’s just small moments of her eyes flickering open and hearing James and some older man that reeked of whiskey speaking pure English. She’d hear James in her ear at night, willing her to come back to him, his voice in a soft Russian whispers.