Winter Widow One Shots

You Should Be Here

The string lights twinkled around her, a thousand stars lighting up the Barton's backyard. Paper lanterns swayed in the faint breeze, casting soft shadows across the grass. Someone had strung them up with care, Laura, most likely. Clint's wife was always good at that sort of thing, taking chaos and shaping it into something that looked like joy.

A speaker nestled near the food table, shuffling through a playlist so mismatched it might have been curated by a malfunctioning AI. Country twang bled into classic rock, which gave way to glossy Top 40 pop. Then, inexplicably, a mellow jazz track from the 1940s rolled in.

He would've hated it.

Or at least pretended to.

Natasha could almost hear his grumble: "Who the hell put Glenn Miller on after Taylor Swift?"

But then he'd have hummed along anyway, always softer than he thought, barely audible. It was one of the things she loved about him, his love hate relationship with everything

Laughter filled the air, bottles clinked and a child called for more sparklers. The fireworks were just about to start. A celebration. A tribute.

And yet, she stood alone on the porch, wrapped in a white sundress with yellow sunflowers dotting the fabric, the one he always said had "too many buttons." A comment that inevitably turned into something flirtatious. She wore it anyway. For him.

Condensation from her drink slid down her hand, the drink was too sweet. Her other hand clutched her phone to her chest like a lifeline. Like it would anchor her if she drifted too far.

His name was still in her favorites.

As if he'd ever answer her again after what happened.

Her thumb quivered over it and finally hit the call button.

It range twice before sending her to voicemail.

The happiness in his voice nearly broke her. 'Hey it's Bucky, or Barnes, or whatever it is Nat is calling me these days. Leave a message, or don't. I probably won't check it.'

Beep.

"You should be here."

Her voice was quiet, strained. The words cracking as they left her throat. "You should be here, James."

She eased herself onto the porch steps, setting her glass beside her. The wood beneath her thighs still held the fading heat of the day, seeping into her like a ghost of summer. The stars blinked above her, real ones, far and unreachable. While the string lights blurred in her vision.

"Clint tried to grill again." She said, the corners of her lips almost smiling. Almost. "Burned everything. He can assassinate a target a mile away but can't cook a stupid hotdog for the life of him. You would have given him hell for it."

She paused, fingers drifting across a crack in the step. They'd sat here together, countless times. Watching the sunset, or the Barton kids play, dreaming about their future. His hand always curled around hers.

"Steve brought that potato salad you hate." She went on, somehow even quieter than before. "He even set a place for you. Put one of those awful beers next to it that you love so much. Just set it down, like any minute you'd walk in and it would be waiting for you."

She stopped, trying to steady her breath.

"No one said anything. We all just stared at it."

Her throat tightened. The ache in chest turned sharp. "Sam gave a toast. Called you 'irreplicable.' And I think-" she trailed off, biting her lip to pulled herself back together. "I think that's the first time I've ever seen him cry."