She always looked gorgeous. From the perfection of her hair - never a single strand out of place - to her toes, painted blood red and covered with stylish boots that always held her most precious weapon: an all-black dagger with a leather handle and an engraving of a blood drop. It was both a reminder of her past and a warning for her future.
From the beginning, Natasha had to be a weapon to survive; first growing up in the Red Room, getting transferred to Hydra, then working for Shield. She couldn’t let herself be anything less than perfect - than the best of the best - not without disastrous consequences. She still had the scars from her mistakes.
So she always projected confidence. She portrayed strength. She embodied perfection. And she never let anyone else believe otherwise. To do so would mean certain death. Unless she was with him.
Bucky had no expectations of her. She didn’t have to be strong around him. She didn’t have to scare him or fear him or be perfect. She could just be Natasha and he could just be Bucky. Two assassins, both created and feared by a terrorist organization, linked by the legendary Captain America, able to bond over shared trauma while believing, inexplicably, in the good that people possess, couldn’t have the happily ever after that everyone else could. They had to pay - in blood, sweat, and tears - to leave their pasts behind.
And Natasha knew that leaving everything behind was the best decision she had ever made.
_______________________
Natasha was sprawled over the bed, the sun illuminating her face as she slept. Her vibrant red hair lay messy on her pillow, and although she wasn’t wearing any makeup and was sleeping in baggy pyjamas, snoring slightly, Bucky thought that she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He knew that every pound of blood, sweat, and tears it took to get to have this - her - was worth it. Rolling to the side of the bed, Bucky felt around for his obnoxiously bright pink slippers decorated with hearts - a gift from Tony. He leaned over Natasha as he stood up, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek, and took a moment to smile softly at his wife.
Padding softly to the kitchen, Bucky tied up his hair into a messy bun and put on his neon green apron with ‘Kiss the Cook’ in purple embroidered on it - another gift from Tony. Bucky put on the radio to the quietest setting and started getting out ingredients of the fridge. Slightly swaying his hips to the beat, Bucky turned his head over his shoulder and grinned when he felt two hands on his hips. He carried the eggs with one hand, and with the other, took Natasha’s hand and spun her around, cheesily whispering, “All I want for Christmas is you” in time to Mariah Carey on the radio.
He was met with a light punch to the shoulder - Natasha was getting soft in her retirement years - and a box of flour in front of him. He knew what she was asking for, even if she didn’t say it.
“Pancakes or waffles?” His voice was hoarse as he spoke, shattering the domestic scene they were in with his sudden question. But seeing Natasha in fluffy socks and his oversized hoodie, sweater paws even with the sleeves rolled up, filled something in him that he didn’t know was missing before he met her and soothed the panic of facing reality.
She swept her hair into a braid, nimble hands weaving through her hair, just like she did for him most mornings. “Pancakes? I’ll get the chocolate chips and the plums -”
“Even though plums are gross?”
“Even though plums are gross,” Natasha said fondly. Bucky scowled, his eyebrow raised, but knew she was just teasing him. It definitely wasn’t weird to have stashes of plums around the house, no matter what she said.
They cooked in perfect harmony - moving around the other in a dance so synchronized that it could only be achieved from knowing your partner’s thoughts and actions before they did. The only noises that could be heard were the sizzling of the frying pan, the rhythmic chopping of plums, and the radio playing gently in the background.
Taking the plates of pancakes, along with honey (which obviously went well with plums) and chocolate syrup (Natasha would never admit her sweet tooth to anyone else), Natasha and Bucky opened the door to their backyard, setting the plates down on a table while they went back for their drinks - hot chocolate with marshmallows for Natasha and coffee filled with cream and sugar for Bucky.
Bucky noticed when Natasha started to shiver, pulling her chair closer, and playfully bumped her shoulder. “Need a blanket?” His voice was steady and quiet, not taking away from the cacophony of bird songs they had been listening to.
Natasha smiled and shook her head, leaning into Bucky’s warmth. She didn’t need to say anything. Once again, Bucky the husband became Bucky the blanket but he definitely wasn’t complaining.
They sat there for hours, sipping their hot drinks and listening to birds chirping, enjoying the tranquility of their lives while spending time with each other, knowing that they deserved both each other and the escape from violence.
__________
Natasha didn’t want to move. She felt like a cat in the sunlight - content with curling up in the middle of the room (or with a very warm husband) and taking a nap - but she had finished her hot chocolate and she didn’t want to sleep outside, no matter how comfortable Bucky’s shoulders were.
Alas, responsibilities arose and she stood up, pressing a quick kiss on Bucky’s cheek. “Wanna wash? I’ll dry.” She gave him the most over-exaggerated puppy eyed look she could, batting her eyelashes.
“Race you? Winner dries.”
A slow smile spread on Natasha’s face. She wasn’t the best for nothing. “You’re on.”
No one would ever say Natasha and Bucky were sane or had good ideas. This one, particularly, ended up with two broken plates, a fork lodged in the sofa, a broken nose, and the honey bottle in the upstairs bathroom. To this day, no one asks about the bet - and no one lived to tell about it (to make a long story short… Bucky tripped)