RESURRECTION OVERTURE ▹ barnes-romanoff

twenty-one.

Natasha swallows thickly and sharply turns away. She busies herself around the kitchen, clearly trying to distract herself from the tension and mistrust all around them. Svet can't help but sink a bit. This isn't home. This isn't family. This isn't her grandmother.

And yet...

"Hello." The woman's thick accent gets softer somehow, peering carefully at the younger redhead, "And your name is...?"

"Svetlana, I'm..." Svet is more certain now, proud of who she is, confident of who her mother is. She draws in a deep breath, straightens her shoulders, and lifts her chin, "I'm Natasha's daughter."

Natasha stops her activity by the counter, hands frozen in the sink, the tension in her shoulders seeping away.

"Yes." The older woman's dark eyes look heavier, a small sad smile on her lips, "I can see resemblance."

Svet's heart jumps with hope, "For true?"

"Yes. It is true. Strong. Relentless."

Both look over at Natasha, but she doesn't acknowledge either of them. Instead, she's staring intently out the window to check for any sign of danger.

"Are there any booby traps around here?" She asks casually, glancing back at the older Widow as she moves about the kitchen, "Anything we need to know about?"

"I didn't raise my girls to fall in traps—,"

"You didn't raise us at all," Natasha cuts back instantly, pouring her and her daughter each a glass of water. It should satisfy her to say these words with such barbs, meant to sting and hurt, but it doesn't. It just hurts Natasha in return.

"Oh, maybe so." Melina quietly concedes, "But if you got soft—,"

Natasha glances back and their gazes catch.

"—It wasn't on my watch."

Soon, all the women in Svetlana's family are sitting at the table, Svetlana safely at Natasha's side across from Melina and Yelena. They linger in an uncomfortable silence, only interrupted by the sounds of the midlife crisis Alexei is currently facing in the bathroom. She can't help but study these people who are trying desperately not to make eye contact with one another.

Svet wonders if she is the product of each of these women who came before her. Natasha is her mother, her strength and power exists in her very blood and bones. Strong. Relentless. The same can't be said for Melina and Yelena, but they are in her spirit, aren't they? She can feel pieces of them in her mother's presence, in the softness amidst her sharpness, goodness amidst the gore. She hopes she has half of their courage and their resiliency.

She hopes one day they might love her the way she knows they love Natasha.

Finally, Melina breaks the awkward silence with a definite, "Let's drink."

She's busy pouring them each a glass, even Svetlana, when suddenly from the corner of the room, Alexei clears his throat. And there, leaning casually against the wall, stands Svet's grandfather dressed head to toe in a tight red and white suit.

"Still fits," he beams.

Melina whistles his way while Svet rather painfully swallows back an excited squeal, eyes wide in genuine awe. The Red Guardian is in uniform!

Natasha just frowns while Yelena sharply looks away in embarrassment, "Oh, my God..."

Each reveling in their glory days, Alexei bursts with laughter while Melina applauds him proudly.

"I never washed it once," her grandmother grins, motioning him to the seat at her side, "Come and drink."

Alexei does, pulling off the helmet to plop down at the head of the table, happily singing, "Rise, you workers of salvation..."