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Natasha Romanov dodged another punch, but just barely. She'd lost her edge. She could feel it. Another dodge, one that she'd done countless times, threw her completely off-balance. She hit the floor hard, much harder than she ever had before.
She kicked out, flat-footed, her heel contacting a knee. The crunch of tearing ligaments, felt as much as heard, seemed deceptively loud and their owner went down screaming.
She rolled to the left, but unexpectedly aborted, her distended abdomen bumping on the floor, stalling her momentum. She grunted and swept another man's leg with hers, sending him flying up into the air and onto his own back. She barely missed having her own legs pinned beneath him. That would certainly have ended the fight and not in a way she'd have preferred.
She pulled her legs up and rolled awkwardly to her feet. The pressure on her knees was greater than she'd expected and she was surprised she didn't blow one of them out. She'd have bet money on it had she been jumping from any appreciable height.
She made a mental note to start training with at least twenty pounds of extra weights. That was, once she'd resolved her predicament.
But first, she had more assailants demanding her attention. A quick look told her all she needed to know. An obliging rebar became a short-range javelin. She hurled it through a sternum, the slightly wet CRACK of metal through bone followed immediately by a thump as the metal pinned him to a rough wooden beam.
Natasha rose as quickly as she could. It wasn't enough—or, rather, not up to her demanding standards. She was used to rocketing upright, but the extra weight around her midsection made that impossible. A sting lanced through her right earlobe.
She lanced out with an arm, catching the hand that held the blade that had sliced her. She wrenched it sideways, then slammed her other palm into the elbow. It hinged neatly in a way it was never designed to hinge, crunching in that satisfying way. The man dropped the blade and Natasha drove a bladed hand into his trachea, neatly crushing it.
She ducked another blow, her knees protesting. Snatching the fallen knife, she swung sideways, the blade slicing through muscle and sinew. A scream rose up and Natasha with it, silencing that scream and barely avoiding the arterial spray. Then all was silent.
Natasha stood there, breathing heavily. She should have been able to have done all that without breaking a sweat. But, of course, things were far from equal.
A powerful spasm from her lower abdomen wrenched her attention downward, jarring into stark focus just how unequal things were. She knew that particular kind of contraction all too well.
A sudden gush of fluid spilled out from between her thighs, dribbled down her legs, and splashed onto the floor.
“Srat!” she spat. The forgotten knife fell from her fingers, clattering on the floor.
There was nothing for it. Natasha kicked off her underwear, thankful she'd decided on skirts, then squatted down and focused on her breathing. Another spasm. A few minutes later, there was another. And another...and another.....
“On your left!” Steve Rogers called as he passed Sam Wilson...yet again. He heard his friend chuckle through the labored breathing a morning run always brought.
Steve just couldn't resist the inside joke and despite Sam's continual protests, he was pretty sure his friend privately enjoyed it. That notwithstanding, a hearty run was good for clearing the head.
It had been nearly a year since the incident with Hydra. Things with SHIELD, or what was left of it, were still in limbo. Officially, it no longer existed. Unofficially? Who knew? At least he didn't have to worry about his finances, thanks to seventy years of back pay from the Army. The boredom? That was something else entirely.
Steve strolled into Sam's domicile. He let his friend have first dibs at the refrigerator. It was only fair, it being someone else's home and all. Sam reached for his usual orange juice, while Steve guzzled a pint of milk in one breath.
Sam shook his head. “Still gets me how you do that,” she said breathlessly. “Chug milk like that right after a run.”
Steve shrugged. “You do it with orange juice.”
“But I take breaths between drinks, you'll notice.”
“Fair enough.”
Steve let Sam shower first, too. Sam's place had become almost like a second residence for Steve. That had begun some months ago when an attempt at a relationship with Sharon Carter had fizzled. Around that time, he'd started spending more time at Sam's than at his own place, ostensibly to avoid Sharon.
Sam had, of course, ribbed him about being scared of pretty girls. But Steve had always shrugged it off.
An hour later, Steve stepped out of the bathroom, tight T-shirt, loose shorts, and nondescript flip-flops disguising him as an average guy. He tossed his towel over his shoulder.
“Steve?” Sam called from the other room.
“Yeah?”
“You got a visitor. Uh...two, actually.”
Steve paused. That was odd. There weren't very many people who might have known where to find him. But there was something in Sam's voice that gave him pause and that something told him he should proceed with caution.
He almost tossed the towel onto a nearby chair, but thought better of it. The towel would do two things: make him seem less threatening; and provide a surprise weapon.
No sooner had he stepped into the living room than his jaw dropped.
“Hello, Steve.” Natasha Romanov used that dead-pan tone he'd come to know and both love and loathe. It was a tone he'd rarely been sure how to interpret. That was probably the point.
“Natasha,” Steve said, not bothering to keep the surprise out of his voice. “What brings you here?” He immediately regretted the question. Not that it wasn't relevant. It was just...impersonal, especially considering what they'd shared.
Natasha pointed to a bundle she held against her chest. Steve raised an eyebrow. Natasha nodded.
A sort of wrap-around, charcoal-grey tunic hung half flopped open, revealing one of her very nicely curved breasts that seemed noticeably fuller than they had when last he'd seen her.
Steve's relationship with Natasha had, from the moment they'd met during the early days of his involvement with SHIELD and the Avengers Initiative, been entirely professional and one of soldierly camaraderie. Just when it had taken the turn it had he wasn't sure. Certainly during the last days of SHIELD shortly before they'd parted ways. Other than that? In any event, like any other hot-blooded man, he'd definitely noticed her curves.
He stepped across the room and looked down. Natasha raised her eyes to look directly into his. Their shared gaze locked for what felt like far longer than just a few seconds. But that was plenty long enough for a myriad of unspoken words and bittersweet memories to pass between them.
He glanced downward, his attention divided between her ample bosom and the baby feeding at one of them. He raised an eyebrow.
“His name's Alexi,” said Natasha, answering the unspoken question. “Alexi Stefanovich.”
Steve's eyebrow cocked even higher, if that were at all possible. “Not Romanov?”
Natasha shook her head slightly. “Russian naming convention.”
Steve grunted. “Meaning son of...” His brain ground to a screeching halt. Then, “You don't mean...?”
“Oh, he's yours, alright,” said Natasha, a hint of teasing running between the lines.
Steve stood there and blinked.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “Oh, man,” he said as his laughter intensified.
Steve shot him a look.
Sam turned around slowly and ambled to the kitchen. “If you need me, I'll be in here making coffee,” he said, “and trying not to laugh too hard.” Then he added, “Either of you need anything while I'm in here? Like, I don't know, breakfast?” He snickered again.
“Please,” said Natasha. “And thank you.” There was a lilt to her voice and Steve was quite sure she was enjoying the whole thing far more than she should. And also just a hint of desperation. Then again, he'd never known Natasha to be a typical woman.
Steve lowered himself toward the sofa, then paused. “Um...may I?”
Natasha smiled. “Always the gentleman,” she said, then nodded. Steve sat down.
“Are you sure he's mine?”
Natasha shot him a look. “Seriously?”
He raised both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Sorry,” he said, “had to ask.”
“Uh-huh,” she said dubiously.
“Sorry,” he repeated. “He's cute.”
“Do you want to hold him?”
Steve was suddenly terrified. He'd faced the combined guns of the Nazis and Hydra. He'd crashed a plane into the arctic ice in what should have been his final act on this earth. He'd fought his best friend on a crashing helicarrier and had all but died doing it. And he'd been repeatedly lauded for his courage. All of those things had frightened him, sure. How not? But those were nothing, everything, and so radically different from the prospect of holding his own more-or-less newborn son. It was so...weird...and confusing.
He swallowed, then nodded.
Natasha gently pried little Alexi from her breast, then handed him to Steve. The baby made a half-hearted protest. But once settled in his father's arms, he aborted what might have become a full-blown battle cry.
A pair of bright blue eyes stared up into his own and seemed to pull him down into them. The baby smiled, then giggled slightly, waving a pudgy arm. Steve held out a finger and Alexi grabbed onto it.
“Wow,” said Steve, “that's quite the grip you got there, little guy.”
“Well,” said Natasha, “considering how much he eats, I'm pretty sure he takes very closely after his papa.”
Steve chuckled as he engaged in a minor tug-of-war with his son.
A few minutes later, Sam sauntered back into the room. “Damn,” he said from behind Steve, “she's right. He looks just like you.”
Steve chuckled. “And he's the most handsome thing I've ever seen.”