natasha romanoff oneshots

stolen childhood last part

The journey to Russia was long and somber, the Avengers' quinjet slicing through the sky with a quiet hum. Inside, the atmosphere was tense, filled with a mixture of anticipation and unease. Natasha sat quietly, her gaze fixed out the window, lost in thoughts and memories. The team respected her silence, understanding the gravity of what she was about to face.

As they approached the small town where Natasha's childhood home was located, the quinjet descended smoothly, landing on the outskirts. The town itself was a stark contrast to the bustling cities they were used to. It was quiet, almost eerily so, with narrow streets lined with aging buildings. As the Avengers stepped out, the townspeople stared, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and suspicion. It wasn't every day that such famous heroes arrived in their remote corner of the world.

Natasha felt their gazes but paid them little mind, her focus solely on the task at hand. She led the way, her footsteps quickening as they neared her old home. When the house came into view, she stopped abruptly, a wave of small, fragmented memories hitting her like a tidal wave. The house was modest, its exterior weathered by time, but there was something achingly familiar about it. Without a word, Natasha broke into a run, her heart pounding in her chest.

The rest of the team followed, giving her space as she reached the front door. Natasha hesitated for a moment, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. She pushed the door open, and the air inside was cool and still, carrying a faint scent of dust and old wood. The house seemed frozen in time, a snapshot of a life that had been violently interrupted.

They split up to explore the house, each room revealing glimpses of the life that once was. In the living room, they found old photographs, the faces of a younger Natasha, her parents, and various family members smiling from behind the glass. Tony and Clint lingered over a picture of Natasha as a small child, her hair a vibrant red, the same green eyes as her father staring out with innocent curiosity.

"She had the same hair as her mother," Clint observed softly, pointing to a photo of Anya Romanoff, a striking woman with the same vibrant red hair and a warm smile.

Natasha moved through the house like a ghost, her fingers brushing over surfaces and items that sparked faint recollections. She entered a small bedroom at the end of the hall, stopping in the doorway. The room was filled with toys, clothes, and posters on the walls—everything a little girl could dream of. It was untouched, a shrine to a childhood abruptly stolen away. Natasha stepped inside, running her hand over the bedspread, her eyes glazing with unshed tears.

"This was my room," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... remember bits and pieces. The way it felt to be here. Safe, loved."

Steve stood in the doorway, his heart aching for her. "You had a family that loved you very much, Natasha."

She nodded, swallowing hard as she took in the sight. It was overwhelming, the contrast between the innocent life she could have led and the harsh reality she had been forced into. As the team rejoined her, they all stood silently, letting the weight of the moment settle over them.

After a while, Natasha led them outside to the garden. It was overgrown, the grass wild and untamed, but in the center stood two simple graves. Natasha's breath caught in her throat, her legs feeling like they might give out. She walked over slowly, her heart breaking at the sight of the headstones. One for her father, Ivan Romanoff, and the other for her mother, Anya Romanoff.

Natasha sank to her knees in front of the graves, her face a mixture of sadness and resolve. She traced her fingers over the engravings, tears finally spilling over as she smiled sadly. "They never stopped loving me," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.