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Laura's first impression of Natalia Romanova is that she looks just like the 'cute kid' her husband's been going on about for nearly two years now, ever since he came home from that one assignment with a dozen minor stab wounds, a not-so-minor gunshot wound, an official reprimand, and one defecting Russian spy in tow.
Clint has told her some of the things 'Nat' can do and some of the things she must have been through, but try as she might, Laura can't see any of it in the girl Clint more or less just pushed through their front door. She looks like she belongs on a college campus; this tiny young woman drowning in a too-big hoodie, large green eyes darting from Laura to Clint to the living room and back to Laura again, bringing to mind an alley cat trapped in a corner.
“Laura—Nat, Nat—Laura,” Clint says, looking hopefully between the two of them.
“It's Natasha,” Nat—or apparently, Natasha—says, extending a small, pale hand—Laura seriously can't get over how tiny she is—for Laura to shake. “Pleasure.”
She has a low, smoky voice and an accent that is perfectly American, and obviously artificial if you know what to listen for.
Laura looks at the hand offered to her and then slowly, slowly moves in for a hug. She's careful to avoid jostling Natasha's left arm, which should probably still be in a sling only three days after having her shoulder dislocated.
Natasha remains perfectly, eerily still, not returning the gesture but not moving away, either. She might be small but she's all sinew and muscle, which makes sense; she did beat the shit out of Clint that one time, and although she has no personal experience in that area, Laura likes to think she has a pretty good idea of what a feat that must have been.
“It's so good to finally meet you,” Laura murmurs.
When she pulls back, Natasha is staring at her with wide eyes, so clearly lost it would be funny if it wasn't so sad.
“You know when people say stuff like how they don't have a life outside the job?” Clint told her one night a couple of months back. “And ninety percent of the time, they're just talking out of their ass. But Nat? She literally didn't have a childhood. No family, no friends, no attachments of any kind. It just breaks my heart.”
“You should bring her around sometime,” Laura suggested sleepily.
Clint propped himself up on an elbow to look down at her.
“Are you saying you want me to bring a former KGB agent into the home we've gone to great lengths to keep hidden and safe?”
“Honey, you either trust her all the way, or you don't trust her at all. Or are you saying you trust her with your life but not ours?”
Which is how they ended up here.
Cooper, bless him, chooses this precise moment to totter onto the scene, and as always, he only has eyes for Daddy.
“Hey, little guy,” Clint says, grinning as he hefts him up with one arm. “Are you gonna say hi to our guest or what?”
Cooper just blinks at him for a few moments, and then he finally seems to notice there are one too many adults in the room.
Laura honestly can't tell who's more freaked out by this encounter; Cooper—always terribly shy around strangers, since they don't get to go out as much as they probably should—buries his face in the crook of his father's neck with a startled little noise, while Natasha looks on in what Laura guesses to be sheer, blind panic in the face of the unknown.
Clint laughs and murmurs something to Cooper, jostling him gently, before looking over at Natasha.
“Let me guess, you don't wanna hold him.”
Natasha shakes her head slowly. There is a soft curiosity in her expression, though, somewhere under all the deer-in-the-headlights helplessness.
“That's fine, maybe next time,” Clint tells them both.
“I don't understand him,” Natasha confesses to her hours later.
They are sitting in the kitchen with mugs of tea, just the two of them; Clint is actually home for bath time for once, and Cooper is unlikely to let him go without a bedtime story.
“I could be a sleeper agent. He has no way of knowing.”
“I know,” Laura agrees. “But consider this: I could be sleeping with ten different guys while he's away doing things you would know much more about than I do. Cooper could be someone else's; it's not like we've ever had any tests done. Clint could be sleeping with all the Bond Girl types in the world and I'd be none the wiser.”
“He isn't,” Natasha says quickly.
Laura smiles, shaking her head.
“I know that. See, sometimes you just have to go with your gut and hope it doesn't steer you in the wrong direction. I trust my husband, and that means I trust him to keep our child and me safe. You could be a sleeper agent and we could all end up dead, sure. Or you could be the person Clint thinks you are and end up being a friend to us. I have absolutely no way of knowing at this point, but I'm willing to go out on a limb here.”
“I can see that,” Natasha says, staring into her mug with a little frown. “I just don't understand why you would.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Laura heroically resists the urge to move in for another hug. “He likes you and he wants you in his life, all parts of it. He thinks you're worth the risk.”
Natasha gives her a startled glance before going back to contemplating her tea, which is probably too cool to enjoy by now.
“I hope I am,” she says after a while, so quietly Laura nearly misses it. “I want to be.”
“It's entirely up to you,” Laura tells her, smiling even as her heart breaks for this strange, lonely girl from a strange, lonely world someone like Laura can only try to imagine. “Clint doesn't trust easily, you know. Or maybe you don't. But believe me, this is a pretty big deal for us, too.”
“Thank you,” Natasha murmurs. “You have a beautiful home.” She clears her throat. “I should have probably opened with that, huh? Pleasantries first, existential drama later.”
“You get a pass just this once,” Laura assures her, laughing. “But next time I expect a casserole, at the very least. Just so you know, we Bartons are famously big on etiquette.”