The moment Natasha Romanoff entered the room, all eyes instinctively shifted to her—not because of her presence, not because of her past, but because of the weight that lingered in the air around her, a weight so quiet yet so heavy, it felt like the stillness before a storm. She had come, not for a mission, but for a reason far darker—one that haunted her every step, every choice.
Today, however, Natasha wasn't in a mission-ready outfit. She was in something more... comfortable. Casual. And yet, every move she made, even the casual, carried the grace and precision of someone who knew how to kill without effort.
Alfredo, perched on the back of an old armchair that had clearly seen better days, ruffled her feathers. The chicken's keen eyes observed Natasha like a silent sentinel, sensing the storm she carried within herself. She was used to seeing people struggle with their pasts, but something about Natasha… something about her past demanded acknowledgment.
But Natasha wasn't ready to face that yet. Not with her newfound... companions.
It all began with a simple request: "I need you to teach me how to have fun."
The words had left the MC's mouth so suddenly that even Natasha, master of combat, nearly froze. She blinked, processing. "What?"
"You heard me," the MC said, his face entirely too serious for the conversation at hand. "You're always the one who's... distant. You're basically the antidote to fun. And we need a little fun around here, don't we?"
"Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?" Natasha raised an eyebrow.
"It's a challenge," the MC replied. "Can you get out of your head for once?"
Natasha's lips twitched. Out of her head. If only it were that easy.
The day began like any other, with the usual nonsense: Tony's gadgets being accidentally used for dance-offs, Kamala embiggening random objects for laughs, and Alfredo, of course, orchestrating chaos in her usual unpredictable way.
But Natasha was more than a spectator. She was not here to play games; she was here to face something much bigger—an unspoken reality that none of them fully understood yet. And if she was going to be part of this strange, vibrant group, she needed to understand herself, at least for a moment.
The room was set. A large space had been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, complete with flashing lights and a booming sound system that could have been lifted straight out of a 90s club scene. It was ridiculous, but there was something oddly comforting about the absurdity. It wasn't about the dance, it was about letting go.
"Alright, Romanoff," the MC said, pushing a chair toward her. "Let's see what you've got."
Natasha crossed her arms, her lips quirking into a half-smile. "I don't dance."
"Oh, come on!" Kamala chimed in from the side, her voice full of energy. "Everybody can dance. Even you!"
"That's where you're wrong," Natasha said flatly. "I've spent a lifetime learning how to avoid detection. Dancing is the opposite of that."
"Not in the least," the MC insisted, spinning in place. He struck a pose, immediately out of sync with any sense of rhythm. "Dancing is all about letting go. And if anyone needs to let go, it's you."
With that, he turned on the music.
The first beat hit Natasha like a wave, and for the briefest of moments, her mind felt at ease. Her body, however, was frozen. Every muscle screamed with the reflexes honed over years of training—too precise, too controlled. She hadn't realized how long it had been since she'd truly let herself move with abandon.
But then the MC, of all people, grabbed her hand and tugged her into the middle of the floor.
And she moved.
At first, it was stiff. Awkward. A little robotic even, but there was something freeing about it. Natasha found herself, for the first time in a long while, smiling. The rhythm, despite herself, started to seep in, and for a few brief moments, her movements became more fluid.
Kamala cheered, and even Tony gave a mock applause from the sidelines, all while Alfredo the chicken flapped her wings in what looked like approval. Natasha couldn't help but laugh as she spun, feeling the ridiculousness of the situation seep through her careful veneer. She was a trained assassin, a master of combat—she didn't dance.
But here she was. And for the first time, she didn't care about the labels or expectations.
However, amidst the laughter and the lights, the past she'd been avoiding crept up behind her, like the shadow of a far-off storm cloud.
She closed her eyes for just a second, and the faces appeared. Faces from missions long past, from a life she had tried so desperately to leave behind. Faces of those she had lost, people she had betrayed and hurt. Friends who had become enemies because of her choices.
One face stood out—Bucky Barnes. His eyes, once warm and filled with camaraderie, now haunted her every step. She remembered the way he had looked at her in the days before Hydra's influence had torn him apart. How she had failed him, failed so many.
Her feet faltered.
The MC noticed and caught her before she could fall. His expression had shifted from lighthearted to something more serious, something deeper—something that understood.
"Hey, you okay?" he asked quietly.
Natasha swallowed, her throat tight. She didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Not here.
But somehow, she found herself nodding. "Yeah. Just... a lot of memories."
"Memories can suck sometimes," he said, his voice soft. "But they don't own you."
She looked at him then, really looked at him. "You're right," she said, the words feeling foreign in her mouth. "I've spent so much time running from my past that I forgot how to live with it."
And there it was. The unspoken truth.
The music shifted, and Natasha couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. A dance floor in the middle of a compound, with Alfredo the chicken flapping like a strange, feathered DJ. The whole situation felt surreal.
But it was real. And for the first time in a long while, she felt the weight of her past lighten, even if just a little. And maybe that was enough for now.
As the song ended, she looked over at the MC. "Okay, that was fun," she said, surprising herself with the words.
The MC beamed, his grin infectious. "Told you."
And for that brief moment, Natasha Romanoff allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be a future filled with a little more joy, a little more dancing, and a whole lot more Alfredo.
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End of Chapter