Chapter Text
The year is 2029. Looking out over the city and seeing that the world hasn’t imploded yet is the first surprise of the day. Natasha has lived a long life – too long, she’d even say – and has intimate knowledge of aliens invading the planet, of humanity’s self-destructing tendencies (hello, 2016 US election. Why do we Russians always have to get our way?), and of things going wrong, just because.
Does the universe ever really need a reason to be a dick?
The second surprise is the knocking pattern that can only come from one person. It’s (fortunately) someone she trusts implicitly, but never likes to hear from.
She’s really not looking forward to the third surprise; she’s learned to hate them, whether good or bad. As far as she’s concerned, the only way to survive is to be prepared for anything.
“Hello, Isaiah. Wish I can say that it's nice to see you." She shuts the door behind him. "What brings you here?”
"You didn't hear this from me before the meeting your boss will be calling in 10 minutes. I thought you could use the warning, though."
"Get to the point."
"Jimmy's dead."
That doesn't come as a shock. His postcards have been few and far between these past couple of months.
"That's not all. He left you a child."
"What?"
***
Maria Hill started her day fairly normally. She woke up at 5, got up and ready for a run and a workout, had her coffee, some eggs and toast. Nothing’s amiss, she’s right on her schedule since she just finished yelling at 3 bumbling baby agents at 8:03am – yes, within 3 minutes of signing in. The laptop is shut when her personal phone rings; that can’t be good. Her days revolve around making sure the damn thing doesn’t ever make a peep.
She really thought that today would only consist of her usual routine.
No one figured that it would end with her owning an ancient mansion (potentially haunted by the spirits of James' family tree) in Canada, a bunch of jets she frankly does not need, a samurai…
...and a mutant child.
Christ. She rubs her temple, hoping to fend off the headache forming that feels a lot like the Mjolnir pounding the shit out of the inside of her head.
I’m almost 50 and, somehow, this is already more stressful than anything I’ve dealt with so far in life.
“Congratulations, it’s a girl,” greeting too chipper for bleak news.
“Hardy-har, I’ll pull your other eye out of its socket and put it back, asshole. There’s a reason why I avoid you like the plague. And Tony Stark. Mostly him,” she says to the person on the other end, already packing up to head to the briefing room.
“And yet somehow, you can’t escape these calls.”
“Dodging your boss is really tough, Nick. I hope you realize that. I’ll be down in 5.”