106 Wedding Plans

The sun was beginning its slow descent over the golden fields of Iowa when the Quinjet gently touched down on the Barton family’s front lawn like a courteous pizza delivery drone.

Out stepped Harry and Natasha, dragging/floating a few bags of luggage like any couple would when their parents decided to move in with the other siblings for a while. Behind them, Charles and Dorea followed at a slower, stiffer pace.

They’d just crossed the Atlantic Ocean in just under three hours, in a jet fueled by arc reactors and Stark-tech mumbo-jumbo. The ride had been smoother than most elevators, but as Charles rubbed his shoulder and Dorea stretched her back with a pained groan, it was clear their bones had still kept count of every one of the five thousand miles.

“I feel like we’ve gone through seven time zones and none of them agreed with my spine,” Charles muttered.

“We have,” Dorea replied, adjusting her travel scarf with the air of someone trying very hard to pretend this was all perfectly normal.

Of course, they could have apparated. But apparating, they’d found, was like being drop-kicked through a drainpipe. Something their ageing bodies now protested with vocal enthusiasm. So, instead, they'd opted for the “reasonable” compromise: a high-speed military-grade stealth jet with leather seats, Michelin-level snacks, and a flight path that completely ignored international airspace laws.

Two rambunctious kids, otherwise known as Lila and Cooper Barton, bolted from the house like twin lightning bolts as they hollered in unison, “Grandpa Charles! Grandma Dorea!”

Before Charles could brace himself or Dorea could blink, they were both swarmed by the enthusiastic honorary grandchildren. Lila wrapped herself around Dorea’s waist, practically bouncing in place, while Cooper latched onto Charles’s back, eyes wide with that reverence reserved only for war heroes and candy suppliers.

“Well,” Charles managed, wobbling a little but smiling broadly, “I suppose this is our ambush.”

Dorea laughed, hugging them tightly and fishing out two wrapped pieces of chocolate from her cardigan pocket. “We come bearing sweets,” she announced, presenting the treats like diplomatic offerings.

Lila snatched hers with a cheerful gasp. “You’re the best, Grandma!” she declared, already grabbing Dorea’s hand and tugging her toward the front door. “You have to see what we did to the chicken coop!”

Cooper nodded excitedly, yanking on Charles’s sleeve. “And the treehouse!”

“What are these children made of, kinetic energy and helium?” Charles said dryly, glancing toward Clint

Clint grinned. “Welcome to the Barton Farmstead.”

As the kids dragged their honorary grandparents up the porch steps with boundless enthusiasm and zero regard for post-transatlantic fatigue, Clint and Laura Barton leaned casually against the porch railing as they watched the chaos unfold before them with loving eyes.

“How was the flight?” Clint called out.

Harry waved lazily as he levitated the luggage toward the house. “No complaints from air traffic control,” he replied.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “And no turbulence this time,” she added. “Probably because the thrill-seeker over here”—she jabbed a thumb toward Harry—“decided not to treat the Quinjet like a broomstick in a Quidditch match.”

“That was the one time Tony asked me to push the Quinjet to its limits for data collection. Scientific inquiry.” Harry grumbled.

“You mean ‘death wish,’” Clint fired back instantly. He pointed a finger at Harry. “We were inverted at Mach one. You know what that feels like to a guy with human organs and a breakfast burrito inside him? We were one G-force away from becoming human pancakes.”

Natasha snorted. “It wasn’t even a clean flip. I thought you hit turbulence. Turns out, it was just Harry trying to pull off his broomstick stunts with a twenty-million-dollar piece of hardware.”

“The Wronski Feint,” Harry corrected, lifting his chin in mock dignity. “A legendary Quidditch maneuver, executed with razor-sharp precision, and—need I remind you—perfectly within my control. If anything had gone wrong, I would have apparated both of us out before you could say ‘splat.’”

Clint looked genuinely offended. “You screamed.”

“That was part of the experience!” Harry shot back, waving his arms. “Tony wanted real stress-response data!”

“Stress response? My stress response was existential dread,” Clint said, deadpan. “My soul left my body. I'm pretty sure I saw Grandma Edith in the clouds waving me toward the light.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Harry scoffed. “It was majestic. Like poetry in motion.”

“Majestic?” Clint tilted his head at him. “You stalled the engine mid-dive and the emergency systems kicked in. You almost crashed.”

“I was performing art, Barton. Just because you don’t understand it—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint interrupted, waving a hand. “I know. I wouldn’t recognise art if it kamikazed into my lap at 30,000 feet.”

Laura leaned in toward Natasha with a smile. “How often does this happen?”

Natasha didn’t even look up. “Once a week, if Tony and Harry are bored.”

“Twice if they find old Top Gun DVDs lying around,” Clint muttered.

Harry folded his arms, muttering, “Still think it was the cleanest dive the Quinjet’s ever done.”

“And I still have neck pain from it,” Clint said, rubbing his shoulder.

Harry, knowing full well that Clint was never going to appreciate the artistry of flight manoeuvres, wisely chose to change the subject.

He turned to Laura with a softer tone. “Where do you want me to put the luggage?”

Laura smiled warmly and patiently, like only an experienced mother could after listening to grown adults argue like teenagers. “Just the room across from yours,” she said. “It’s already made up.”

Harry nodded, and with a spanp flick of his fingers, the suitcases rose into the air behind him like a well-trained school of fish, gliding toward the staircase. He followed them up to make sure that they got into the right place.

Back downstairs, Natasha, Clint, and Laura made their way into the living room, where the kids had taken over the floor like two tour guides high on sugar. Lila was proudly pointing out the “reading corner” she’d built with pillows and stuffed animals, while Cooper was dragging Charles toward a hand-drawn family portrait hanging proudly on the wall.

Dorea, still holding the peppermint candy wrapper Lila had handed her as “admission,” chuckled softly at Cooper’s detailed explanation of which crayon represented which Avenger.

Laura gently called out over the cheerful children. “Alright, you two, let Grandpa Charles and Grandma Dorea rest for a bit. You can give them the grand tour after they’ve had a moment to breathe.”

The kids groaned in unison, but obeyed, peeling themselves off their honorary grandparents with only minimal resistance. Charles gave Lila’s head a fond pat, while Dorea tucked a stray curl behind Cooper’s ear with a tired but affectionate smile.

The older couple exchanged a grateful look as they finally exhaled, visibly relieved. As much as they adored the children’s boundless energy, their bones, still rattled from crossing an ocean at impossible speeds, were already whispering demands for tea, naps, and quiet.

With the group reconvening, they strolled toward the wide back porch that overlooked the rolling green of the Barton ranch. The sky had softened into amber and lavender, and a gentle breeze rustled the tall grass with the lazy cadence of a lullaby.

Laura disappeared into the house for a moment, returning with a large pitcher of lemonade beading with condensation and a tray of mismatched glasses. She passed them out while Harry joined them, now free of his luggage duties, and sank into a seat next to Natasha.

Out in the field, Lila and Cooper had resumed play, darting between the trees like little fireflies, their laughter trailing behind them melodically. Dorea took a sip of the lemonade and let out a soft sigh as everyone clinked their glasses and their laughter blending with the hum of cicadas and the golden hush of early evening.

“You didn’t have to rush all the way here, you know,” Laura said as she settled into a chair. “I’m not due until June; July at the latest. There’s still plenty of time.”

Dorea gave her a look, one of her hands gestured towards the open field where Lila and Cooper were now chasing each other in wild zigzags. “And leave you alone with those two while you’re growing another one? Not a chance, dear. You may be the toughest mom I know, but even Wonder Woman needs backup.”

Laura laughed, but the gratitude in her eyes was unmistakable.

Charles added with a chuckle, “Besides, it’s been ages since we’ve been outside the UK. Even when we do leave Hereford, it’s usually just to pop down to London to see this troublemaker,” he nodded toward Harry, who gave a mock offended gasp and clutched his chest. “Coming here is more than a favour, it’s a bit of an adventure for us.”

“And I plan to be the cool grandma who lets the kids sneak cookies before dinner,” Dorea declared proudly, taking a long sip of lemonade.

“But what about The Rustic Hearth?” Laura asked worriedly. “It’s literally the heart of the Hereford community. You two disappearing even for a few months… that pub is like their second home.”

Charles let out a short laugh. “Oh, they’ll grumble for a bit, maybe start a betting pool on how long we’ll be gone. But trust me, they’ll survive.”

Dorea nodded. “They’re a tough lot. We didn’t close it down permanently; just hung a proper little sign out front: ‘Family Matters. Be Back Soon. Try not to burn the place down.’”

Natasha smirked. “And let me guess, there’s still a key under the flowerpot for regulars who need a quiet corner and a cup of tea.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Charles said proudly. “And there’s a schedule on the door. Muriel’s agreed to open up for Open Mic nights, and Gregory said he’ll keep the fireplace lit through the colder evenings.”

Dorea chuckled as she added. “Besides, we told them we’ll be back once baby Little Natasha is born.”

“And what if the baby’s a boy?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Before he could blink, Natasha lightly swatted his arm. “Don’t you dare jinx it.”

Harry chuckled, rubbing the spot with exaggeration. “I’m just saying, statistically, it’s a fifty-fifty shot.”

“As godmother,” Natasha said firmly, arms crossed and voice mock-regal, “I have declared that she will be a girl. End of discussion.”

“That’s not how gender works,” Harry muttered under his breath, but it was clear no one was listening. Dorea was already laughing into her lemonade, and Charles just shook his head with a knowing smile.

As the last rays of sunlight fizzled away to welcome the starry night sky, the group slowly migrated indoors to prepare for dinner. Laura had planned to keep things simple with mac and cheese for everyone. But Dorea was having none of it.

“Absolutely not,” she declared, her eyes narrowing like a general preparing to storm the gates. “You’re pregnant. You need iron, fibre, and folate, not just melted cheese and pasta.”

Before Laura could protest, Dorea had already looped Harry in for a grocery run. With a crack of Apparition and a few shopping bags later, Harry returned with an overflowing haul of leafy greens, two whole chickens, avocados, root vegetables, and a bundle of fresh herbs.

“Mac and cheese can stay,” Dorea allowed graciously, “as long as it’s part of a real dinner.”

Soon enough, the house's methodical clanking of pots and pans filled the Barton homestead as preparation for dinner began. Harry was chopping vegetables, Laura was marinating the chickens, and Dorea started heating the utensils. Gently, the comforting aroma of roasting poultry mixed with the tang of citrus dressing from the avocado salad, while sizzling sounds came from a pan of sautéed vegetables on the stove.

At the edge of the kitchen, Clint, Natasha, and Charles took the opportunity to retreat to the counter with cold beers in hand as they watched the kitchen maestros do their thing.

Slowly, the conversation drifted back to Harry and Natasha’s upcoming wedding.

“Why don’t we finish planning the wedding while everyone’s here?” Dorea suggested, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she glanced between Harry and Natasha. “Have you two decided on a venue yet?”

Harry and Natasha shared a look, then shook their heads in unison.

“We’ve thought about a few places,” Natasha said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hereford, the Avengers Tower, even Lily’s. But none of them felt right.”

Laura glanced out the wide kitchen window toward the open fields. “What about here?” she said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “You could have it right here on the ranch. We’ve got space, we’ve got the view, and with Harry’s weather magic, it’ll be perfect no matter the forecast.”

Harry blinked. “We couldn’t possibly impose—”

“Oh, stop it,” Laura cut him off with a wave of her hand, already moving mentally into planning mode. “It wouldn’t be an imposition. We’d love to host the wedding here. Wouldn’t we, Clint?”

Clint looked up from his beer, squinted at Harry, and grinned. “I may not always enjoy the sight of your ugly mug, but I wouldn’t mind seeing it in a tux on my lawn.”

Laura rolled her eyes and smacked him lightly on the arm. “Ignore him,” she said, turning back to Harry and Natasha with a smile. “We mean it. This place is already home for all of us. Why not make it part of the memory?”

Natasha looked around the kitchen, at the bubbling pots, the laughter in the next room, and the quiet peace that settled over the Barton homestead. Then she turned to Harry, who already had a soft smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

“Honestly,” she said, “this might be perfect.”

“Then it’s settled,” Charles said, raising his beer like it was a toast. “The Barton homestead it is. Now, what about the guest list? You’ve probably got half the planet to choose from.”

“Friends and family only,” Harry said without even giving it a thought. “We’re keeping it small and Personal.”

Natasha nodded. “The Avengers and their plus-ones, obviously.”

“We’ll send an invite to Odin and Frigga, but you know how it is with gods,” Harry added

“Don’t forget Fury, Hill, and Coulson,” Natasha jumped in.

“lastly, Yao and Felicia,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair.

Charles chuckled. “What about your army friends, son? I know they matter to you.”

Harry smiled warmly. “They do. But I want to celebrate with them in my own way. I’ll host a private gathering for them at The Rustic Hearth when we’re back in Hereford.”

Dorea gave an approving nod. “Perfect.”

“Plus,” Clint said with a grin, “any more than twenty people and this turns into a security nightmare.”

“Twenty-five,” Laura corrected automatically.

“Twenty-five,” Clint repeated, holding up his hands.

“And the bridesmaids?” Dorea asked, turning to Natasha.

For a brief moment, Natasha’s expression softened as her gaze drifted to a distant memory. A flash of a laugh, and a naughtiness that matched her own.

Yelena was a ball of chaos and charm who had fought like hell, loved harder, and left a space in Natasha’s heart that never fully closed. Natasha pictured her blonde hair with slightly wild eyes, alight with mischief. As if she could still crash into this very moment, elbowing her way into the bridesmaid lineup with a sarcastic quip and a wink.

If things had been different, Natasha would have wanted her to be next to her, no questions asked. But Yelena was gone now, and the further she moved into this new life, the more she carried that ache like a scar only she could feel.

Natasha blinked once and returned to the present.

“Laura and Felicia,” she said with a smile. “We decided that the moment Harry asked. No debate needed.”

Laura reached across and gently placed a hand on her arm, no words necessary.

“And the best man?” Dorea asked, turning her attention to Harry now.

Before Harry could even open his mouth, Natasha cut in smoothly, “Not Clint. He’s walking me down the aisle.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “I am?”

“You are,” Natasha said firmly, giving him a look that brokered no argument.

“I wasn’t going to say Clint,” Harry said, amused. “Though let’s be honest, he’d make a very entertaining best man’s speech.”

Clint smirked. “You’d never recover from it.”

“I have someone in mind,” Harry continued. “But I haven’t asked them yet. Need to find the right moment.”

There was a small pause—just long enough for curiosity to spark in everyone’s eyes—before Laura chimed in. “You’re being mysterious. That usually means it’s something meaningful.”

Harry just smiled and reached for a glass of lemonade. “I wonder if you could guess who it is?”

“All right then,” Dorea said with a smile, setting down her glass of lemonade. “I’ll take care of the catering.”

Immediately, a wave of polite protest rippled through the group.

“Dorea, you don’t have to—” Laura began.

“That’s a lot of work—” Harry started.

But Dorea raised a hand, silencing them with a look only seasoned grandmothers possess. “Don’t think I can’t handle a small wedding dinner. I’ve run the Rustic Hearth kitchen through holiday crowds, rugby nights, and snowstorms. This?” She gestured around. “This is going to be a piece of cake. And I’ll bake that cake too, thank you very much.”

There was a pause. No one dared argue with the kind of conviction that came with decades of wrangling pub-goers, children, and a certain very stubborn adopted son.

Everyone just nodded. Quickly.

“Oh, and Lila can be the flower girl and Cooper the ring bearer,” Clint suggested casually.

The adults all murmured in agreement, nodding, until the idea reached the kids, who reacted like they’d just been handed magical titles in a fairy tale.

“YES!” Lila squealed, practically bouncing out of her chair. “I want petals! I want sparkles! Grandma Dorea, can we make me a basket with ribbons?”

“And I get to carry the real rings, right?” Cooper asked with wide eyes, his expression dead serious. “Like... the actual rings? Not some fake ones?”

“That depends,” Harry teased. “Can we trust you not to lose them in the field with the chickens?”

“I never lose things!” Cooper protested, puffing out his chest.

Lila scoffed. “You lost your shoes last week.”

“They were outside shoes!”

The adults laughed, watching the kids argue with the same enthusiasm they’d shown when trying to convince Charles to give them a second dessert earlier.

“They’ll be perfect,” Natasha said with a soft smile, resting her hand on Harry’s arm. “And adorable.”

With that, the group eased into dinner, the conversation flowing as naturally as the iced tea being passed around. Talk of wedding plans blended with stories from the past and dreams for the future. The table, though crowded and mismatched, felt exactly right Harry dished out the avocado salad. Laura proudly unveiled her creamy mac and cheese. Dorea carved the roasted chicken, while Charles orchestrated the final touches with the garnish.

There were snorts of laughter over Clint’s failed attempt at dumping his carrots and an incident with the magically floating pepper grinder that ended with Cooper in a fit of delighted giggles and Lila demanding it sprinkle her pasta “like fairy dust.”

Outside, the stars bloomed one by one across the sky, twinkling in celebration of the peaceful night. Fireflies danced lazily above the grassy fields, blinking golden as if echoing the warmth inside.

The house itself glowed softly against the darkening backdrop, windows lit with the golden warmth of love and family. The sounds of laughter, of stories shared over second helpings, and the occasional shout of "save room for dessert!" spilt gently into the air.

It was the kind of evening that didn’t need magic to feel enchanted.

And somewhere between the easy chatter and full bellies, amidst the clatter of dishes and drowsy children snuggling into laps, it became quietly clear: This was how home is supposed to be even if there were superheroes.