your time has passed

Somewhere over the years the guest bedroom had become her bedroom; complete with drawers filled with her own clothes and shelves lined with the books she wanted to read. She kept knick-knacks from her travels, along with a dozen little meaningless things she nonetheless possessed and called her own, hers. In that room she had tossed and turned, unable to sleep while knowing that Clint reclaimed his mind from a god just a wall away, recovering himself piece by tiny piece; just as she remembered the house filled to the brim just months before, when she had found the courage to pull Bruce down to sleep by her side, twining about him like a vine and refusing to hear his objections, all the while thinking that maybe, just maybe -

But first:

"Natasha, meet Laura. My wife." Before she was even certain that she trusted the agent who'd spared her life, she trusted his love for his family, or so she thought.