The Spiderling Project

Chappie 3

About an hour later, Natasha returns with a box of pregnancy tests and some more orange juice. She didn't want to run out and have you constantly feeling nauseous. She had a feeling that you'd need it a lot in the near future.

After putting the juice in the fridge, she grabs the box with the tests and makes her way to the bathroom. When she enters, she sees you resting your head on your arm on the toilet seat fast asleep. She sighs, not wanting to disturb you and ruin your rest. But she knows that you're anxious about this and will probably just want to get it over with.

She kneels down next to you and starts unlocking the handcuffs, gently lowering your arm when it's free. You start to stir at the movement and slowly blink your eyes open. You slowly straighten up but pause at the wave of nausea. You clench a fist over your mouth and, taking the hint, Natasha hands you the glass of orange juice from earlier. You take slow sips and allow it to settle for a moment, grateful that the feeling slowly recedes. Natasha grabs the box of tests and holds it out in front of you.

"You ready?" You turn to look at her then shift your gaze to the box. You sigh and fix your gaze on your lap.

"No. But I'll probably never be." Natasha gives a small sympathetic smile as you take the box, leaving to give you privacy. After a few minutes, you open the door and she sees one of the tests sitting on the counter face down, starting a timer on her phone. You sit down on the lid of the toilet and hug your knees to your chest.

"Can I ask...how is there a chance you're pregnant? Widows are sterilized upon graduation and you don't seem that young." It had been on Natasha's mind since you asked for a test.

"I'm not technically a widow." You respond with. Natasha furrows her brows in confusion. You continue. "You were part of the Black Widow Program, right?" Natasha nods. "I was part of a different one. It was called the Spiderling Project. We're called widows, but we aren't sterilized and we're taken in adulthood. More specifically after menarche. They uh..." you swallow thickly. "They breed us in order to create genetically perfect widows that will eventually go through the Black Widow Program." Natasha is frozen as she listens. She couldn't imagine being used like that if she still had a uterus. "I was inseminated around 4 weeks ago and the nausea started just recently. I was going to be tested soon to see if it was successful." You don't meet her gaze, almost ashamed of everything.

"I'm sorry." Natasha murmurs after a long sigh. She knows that it won't mean much, but she simply doesn't know what else to say.

"Me too." You simply reply.

The rest of the wait is silent, anxiety thick in the air. You sip on orange juice as the anticipation makes you nauseous again. It feels like forever before the timer goes off. You stiffen and your eyes go wide. You try to breathe steadily and look up at Natasha standing in front of you. She's already looking at you and she can see just how truly panicked you are. You lock your gaze on the test and completely freeze, not sure you have the strength to look. Natasha shifts on her feet.

"Do you want me to look?" She asks softly, hoping to help you through this moment. She can't even imagine how you're feeling right now. All you manage is a nod.

Natasha moves to the counter and pauses before picking up the test. She flips it over to see what it says and looks at you after. She's careful to keep her face neutral for your sake.

"It's um...it's positive." Your eyes snap to the test she's holding out in front of you and you do in fact see two lines. You don't move, don't even breathe for a moment and Natasha grows concerned. Until you leap off the toilet, yank the seat open, and throw up once again. Natasha quickly places the test down and holds back stray strands of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead with one hand while the other rubs your back.

When your stomach is empty again, you let out a choked sob that seems to be a catalyst for more. You cry while still hunched over the toilet and Natasha gently pulls you back to lean against her. She scratches her nails along the top of your head while the other hand rubs your stomach and simply lets you cry against her.

It takes a while for you to calm down, Natasha gently rocking you back and forth until your cries are reduced to sniffles. Natasha sighs and rests her chin on your head before asking a question she's almost scared to bring up. She waits while you scoot out of her embrace and turn to face her, leaning your back against the toilet and sipping orange juice.

"Do you know who the father was?" You surprise her by simply sighing at the question.

"She's not a man. She's a woman. A mother." Natasha furrows her brows. She's been doing that a lot since you showed up.

"An intersex widow?" She questions but you shake your head. She's just more confused. "Then how?"

"They use tissue they kept from the Black Widow Graduation Ceremonies. They harvest the eggs from their ovaries and somehow turn them into sperm. Then they inseminate us." Natasha feels sick at this revelation.

"So a Black Widow is the mother." It's more of a statement than a question. You nod in confirmation. "Do you know who the mother is?" Whoever she was needed to be informed that they have a child on the way.

"They didn't tell me much about her. Just that I was genetically perfect to pair with their favorite, best widow. Natalia Romanova." Natasha's heart drops to her stomach. She can't move. She feels sick. When she's silent for too long, you glance up at her, confused by her pale face. Her gaze is locked on your stomach. It's then that you connect the dots.

Your wide eyes remain locked on her. The apparent mother of your child. You can't tell what she's thinking and it scares you. You need her to do something, say something. Anything. Even if it's just a blink.

"Please say something." You whisper terrified. Her gaze meets yours and time is frozen for a moment. Until you hear her gag.

Before you know it, she's pushing you aside and throwing up in the toilet. You wanted a reaction, but this somehow seems worse. You sit and wait for her to finish, not daring to look in fear of vomiting again. When she's done, she wipes her mouth and grabs the water bottle you left untouched. She promptly gets up and leaves you in the bathroom, heading to her room and locking the door behind her.

You remain on the bathroom floor without a clue of what to do, silent tears trekking down your face. You're absolutely positive the mother of your child hates you. You tuck your head between your knees and just cry, hating the Red Room more than you thought possible, and hoping that this is just some nightmare you'll wake up from.