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As a young girl, you were always the most energetic one in the compound. Your loud, contagious giggles were always a sound the team cherished. You would run around in only a diaper, climb over dangerously high things, and spend your days making a mess that your mother always ended up cleaning.
Natasha was so happy seeing you be the most carefree child. Despite the constant heart attacks she would get from your usual daredevil moments and the many messes she would clean, being your mother was one of the most rewarding moments of her life.
You were a happy kid and that made your mother overjoyed.
However, slowly as you grew up, you became less like your usual self. Natasha and the team just assumed it was natural as you matured, but by the time you made it to high school, it had progressively gotten worse.
The entire team was worried about you, but Natasha–she was in distress. She longed to hear your laughter again, to see the your silly personality. She wanted you in her arms again–the arms that provided you love and safety for seventeen years.
She leaned back in her chair, bringing her hand over her eyes. Natasha was afraid and as unusual as it may be–her tears fell freely.
"Nat? You okay?" Steve questioned cautiously, walking into her office.
Natasha looked up, wiping her tears quickly and regaining her composure. She gave him a reassuring smile–though it wasn't convincing.
"Is this about Y/n?" He asked, kneeling beside the woman.
She slowly nodded, sniffling as she looked down at Steve's concerned face. "Something is wrong, I-I can feel it but she refuses to talk to me."
"She might not want to worry you with whatever is going on." Steve said, gently gripping Natasha's hand and stroking his thumb across her knuckles.
The woman let out a forced laugh, unintentionally letting a few tears slip as well. "Well, I'm worried."
"Maybe you should initiate the conversation." He suggested. "Start by letting her know that whatever the problem, every one of us is here to help."
Natasha nodded, smiling at the advice her best friend had given her. "Thank you."
"Anytime."
___
Natasha cautiously entered your room with a plate of pasta that you had once again refused to eat. It was the third day in a row and your mother knew you hadn't eaten a thing in those seventy-two hours.
She gently placed the pasta on your bedside table as you slept buried underneath your blankets. Natasha scrunched her nose at the sight of your room. Clothes were thrown everywhere, your blinds closed to block out all the afternoon light, and the smell was feral. It was tearing her apart to see you like this–wasting your life away with nothing but sleep.
