It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Flarking whupped

The first thing out of Romanoff's mouth when Brunnhilde and Carol arrive is a frustrated groan.

"Seriously?" she complains, storming over to Brunnhilde and subsequently whacking her on the arm. Carol tries- and fails- to keep her laughter contained.

"Watch where you aim that thing!"

"You moved your flowers!" Brunnhilde retorts amid the chuckling. "It isn't my fault this time. I specifically avoided the bedroom."

Romanoff glares. "Liho kept knocking them over," she says firmly.

Brunnhilde grumbles back, "Well, maybe next time, how about you text me a location instead of saying something ominous like, 'avoid plants' and hoping for the best." As Romanoff dramatically proceeds to rearrange her haphazard collection of shrubbery, Brunnhilde backs away from the scene of the crime. "Yo, Hill!" she yells, jutting her thumb to where Miss 'Irresponsible' is definitely glaring at her.

"Keep your woman in line."

Hill is too busy wafting hot air into her face to hear. She's in a black T-shirt and leggings, her forearms speckled with dried chocolate batter, and as she closes the oven door, a determined sigh escapes her lips. "Hey, Nat?" she asks, calling out from over the island. "When were they supposed to... oh-"

Her gaze meets Brunnhilde's. With a flustered breath, she's placing her hands on her hips and smiling.

"When do you guys arrive?" she asks. "I didn't even hear you come in."

Carol smiles back. Holding up the yellow bag with a satisfied grin- the kind fueled by alphabetizing itineraries and chugging iced Chai- she responds, "We brought you some chocolate. Brunnhilde said there was a chip emergency."

"Nobody calls it that," Romanoff murmurs bitterly into a plant.

"Are we about to fight right now?" Brunnhilde jokes.

"She just got back from training," Hill finishes, motioning for Carol to throw her the package, which she does with easy perfection. The chocolate lands in the middle of Hills' hands with a soft thud. "I wouldn't test her."

"I think I could win."

"Super Soldier vs ancient Babushka," Romanoff responds.

"Mhmm. Sure thing. Bet you'd absolutely destroy me with your knitting needles."

As Carol and Hill inevitably strike up a conversation- something about Hala and the current dynamics of SHIELD's board of directors- Brunnhilde meanders closer to the window, where Romanoff is shoving the final flowerpot into its proper place. "How's the team doing?" she asks, diverting Romanoff's attention away from any future 'old woman' jokes.

Romanoff shrugs.

"Surprisingly well, actually. Rogers is on top of things and most of the kids are pretty chill."

"... Chill?" Brunnhilde repeats. Romanoff narrows her eyes.

"Lay off me," she replies. "God, you are literally the worst," but with a snap of her fingers, she's raising her arms, anyway. Brunnhilde easily makes contact. Locking their wrists together, she gives Romanoff a tug off the floor and when Natasha dramatically wipes her palms on her sweatpants, Brunnhilde ignores her. Instead, she takes a look around the apartment, indulging herself in Hills' decorating skills.

Their apartment is nice.

Everything has its own home, here. The bookshelves by the dining room table are alphabetically organized, with classic literature peeking out at Brunnhilde between governmental texts and Russian dictionaries. The carpet is a fuzzy square of practical creamy white, a slight contrast to the light brown of the wooden floors, and the walls are the same way.