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THIS ROUND IS NOW CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS.
ROUND FOUR WILL OPEN AT 10PM EST ON MONDAY THE 14TH.
ROUND THREE
closing at 5000 comments
Please read the [rules] before commenting!
REMINDER: THERE IS A SPOILER POLICY IN PLACE UNTIL 7 MAY.
PROMPT FORMATTING:
Alphabetize pairings. They will be archived that way!Put [RPF] before RPF prompts ( Read more... )
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The following morning, there's an buzz in the air throughout the mansion that Clint can't quite define. He can't even really remember why anything might be different, until he stumbles into the kitchen for breakfast and finds Thor meticulously arranging slices of pickles into a smiley face on top of some ice cream. He's wearing Pepper's French Maid apron (a gift from Tony which she has flat-out refused to ever wear, at least for actual culinary purposes) and an expression of deep concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Thor,” says Clint weakly, “what the hell are you doing?”
“AH, FRIEND!” exclaims Thor, face breaking into a beam of pride, “GOOD MORNING. I HAVE LEARNED THAT MIDGARDIAN WOMEN REQUIRE PICKLES WITH ICED CREAM WHEN THEY ARE WITH CHILD, SO I AM PREPARING SOME FOR LADY ROMANOFF.” He holds the bowl of ice cream out for Clint to inspect, like a small child showing off their macaroni artwork.
“Er, I don't think that's always-” begins Clint, but it then decides it's too early in the morning to attempt to explain anything to Thor. “Y'know what? Never mind. Good job, dude.” Thor beams with even more pride, if possible, and arranges the remaining pieces of pickle as Clint helps himself to coffee.
“I knew Tony shouldn't have let him have internet access in his room,” mutters Bruce to Clint two minutes later, as he wanders into the kitchen and regards the scene.
“Not the best idea ever,” agrees Clint. “Oh god, what's he doing now? Is he making another bowl? How much ice cream does he think she needs?”
Steve arrives and begins his morning ritual of fighting with the coffee maker. He's just beginning to succeed when Tony staggers bleary-eyed into the kitchen and elbows him out of the way with a grunt that may or may not have been “caffeine”.
Clint takes pity on Steve and shows him (for the nth time) which buttons to press, as Tony downs his espresso and smacks his lips appreciatively. There's a companionable lack of conversation, except for “pass the cornflakes” and the like, until Tony seems to wake up properly and notice Thor, who has is now creating a third bowl of smiley face pickle ice cream.
“Er,” he says, “Thor, why are you-”
“OH, TONY, MY MOST SINCERE APOLOGIES. I SHOULD HAVE ASKED YOUR PERMISSION BEFORE BORROWING YOUR GARMENT. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.”
“It's Pepper's, actually. But you pull it off well.” Thor looks immeasurably pleased. “Not what I meant, though. Why are you putting - what is that, pickle? Why are you putting pickle on ice cream?”
“FOR NATASHA,” Thor explains.
“But... why?”
“We already had this conversation,” says Clint.
“Wait,” says Tony, “so, last night - I didn't dream that?”
“Nope.”
“She's really-”
“Yep.”
“Fucking hell.”
“You said that before,” Bruce points out.
“I know, but it seemed to require repeating in daylight.”
“Be nice, Stark,” warns Clint.
“Me? When am I not nice?”
“You just literally elbowed me out of the way to get to the coffee,” Steve reminds him reproachfully. Tony doesn't look particularly apologetic.
“Where is she, anyway?” asks Bruce.
“She is here,” says Natasha's voice from the doorway. “Jeez, can't a girl have a lie-in without everyone talking about her?” She saunters over to the table and plonks herself down in the chair next to Clint. Steve looks immediately panicked.
“How are you doing this morning?” Clint whispers to her, but before she can respond, Thor bounds over and places a bowl of (now somewhat melted) ice cream and pickles in front of her with a flourish.
“FOR YOU, MY DEAR LADY NATASHA. I UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS A DELICACY REQUIRED FOR CHILD BEARING. MAY YOUR OFFSPRING GROW STRONG AND MIGHTY.”
Natasha exchanges glances with Clint, who shrugs in a don't-look-a-me-I-couldn't-stop-him sort of way. “You made pickles and ice cream,” she says flatly.
“AYE. IN THE SHAPE OF A SMILING FACE, SO THAT THE CHILD MAY ALSO BE BLESSED WITH HAPPINESS.”
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But the smiley face ice cream is adorable.
But either way it is beautiful.
The fic, not the pickles and ice cream.
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“Um. That's very kind of you, Thor,” says Natasha - and she does, Clint notes, appear genuinely touched - “but I'm not actually craving pickles and ice cream. I think that mostly just happens on tv.”
“OH.” Thor looks crestfallen for a moment, but then appears to have an idea, and brightens. “WOULD YOU PREFER A SUGAR CUBE?” he suggests.
Natasha blinks at him. “A sugar cube. Not really. ...Why?”
“MY BROTHER GREATLY ENJOYED THEM WHEN HE WAS WITH CHILD. I WONDERED IF THIS MAY ALSO BE THE CASE FOR MIDGARDIAN WOMEN.”
Steve chokes on his cereal and dribbles milk down his shirt. There's a long pause. Then -
“Wait,” says Clint, “what.”
“An excellent question,” says Tony, who still has one hand over his eyes.
“You're telling us Loki got someone pregnant?” asks Bruce, his voice containing the hopeful undertone of someone desperately trying to find some sanity where there is none.
“NAY, HE BORE THE CHILD HIMSELF.”
Another pause while this is processed. Steve continuous choking and turns increasingly purple. Clint thumps him on the back.
“It's just... that's not usually how it works, Thor,” says Bruce.
“Is that ever how it works?” Steve asks weakly, eyes watering.
“Well, someti-” begins Clint, but Natasha elbows him in the ribs.
“I'm not sure now is the right time to attempt to explain trans theory,” she hisses. “His brain might explode.”
“You're expecting some other explanation for this?” he whispers back, incredulously.
Thor seems baffled by the assortment of confused faces. “HE WAS A HORSE AT THE TIME?” he offers.
Tony smacks his forehead down onto the tabletop with a thunk. Steve looks around the room wildly as if searching for some indication that he's hallucinating. Bruce just blinks.
“...Yeah, I take it back, that's definitely never how it works,” says Clint.
“A horse,” repeats Natasha.
“A horse?!” adds Clint, for good measure.
“INDEED. NOW THAT I CONSIDER IT, THAT PROBABLY EXPLAINS THE SUGAR CUBES.”
“...,” says Bruce.
“Oh, it's alright, I've worked it out now,” announces Steve. “I'm still asleep. I haven't actually got out of bed yet. Maybe I ate something that disagreed with me last night.” Without raising his head from the tabletop, Tony reaches over and pinches Steve's forearm. “Ow!”
“Sorry buddy,” says Tony's muffled voice.
“Yeah, I'm... not actually a horse, Thor,” says Natasha, and then adds under her breath, “There's a sentence I never thought I'd say.”
“UNDERSTOOD, MY LADY. MY APOLOGIES ONCE AGAIN. I SHALL DO FURTHER RESEARCH INTO THE MATTER OF CHILD-BEARING CUISINE.”
Tony raises his head from the table. “Can someone just confirm that I am not the crazy person in this room?”
“I don't even know any more,” says Bruce. “What is life?”
“You could make me some toast, if you want?” suggests Natasha, who appears to be feeling guilty for the mildly dejected expression Thor is now wearing.
Thor's face lights up once again. “CERTAINLY!”
“Oh god, Nat, no,” says Clint, as Thor begins collecting innumerable slices of bread, “why would you encourage him?”
One broken toaster later, the team gradually disassembles. “I'm sorry,” Natasha tells Tony as he exits the kitchen, “I really didn't think pressing one button would present such a challenge.”
“Whu? Oh, don't worry about it. When he moved in I stocked a whole room full of spare electrical appliances.” (Clint makes a mental note to stop paying so much for groceries in light of this latest reminder of the bottomless Stark fortune.) “I'm more concerned about my brain right now. Excuse me, I'm gonna go find some bleach.”
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*giggles*
This is so adorable.
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Thank you! <3
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“So,” says Clint when only he and Natasha are left hovering aimlessly in the kitchen, “that... was a thing that happened.”
“Yep. S'gonna be a loooong seven-ish months. It's sweet that he's trying, though.”
“I suppose so, but I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a horse the same way again,” says Clint sadly.
“How often did you look at horses anyway?”
“Hey, you don't know everything about me. I might have a secret addiction to dressage competitions!”
She smirks. “Oh, I'd know if you did. Believe me.”
He believes her. There's nothing about him that Natasha doesn't know. Except, perhaps, the fact that he owes her his life just as much as she owes him her own. Even before she saved him from Loki's control, even before That One Time In Budapest (which they've both sworn they will never tell Tony about), she saved him every single day. She saved him from the bullets on missions and then, in between, she saved him from himself. Because she was there. Because she gave him a reason to be there. Because if he believed her life was worth sparing, he had to believe that about himself, too.
And because, for the remainder of their frequently-endangered lives, they would always, always have each other. No matter what. It's the only thing he's ever been truly certain of.
She peers at him. “What?”
“What what?” He blinks and tries to snap himself back to the present.
“You went all pensive-face. Still thinking about horses?”
He balks. “Well now I am. Damn you.”
For a moment she looks as if she wants to question him further, unravel his train of thought, but instead she says, “So, I think I might go in to HQ today. Talk to Fury.”
The sudden non-sequitur startles Clint slightly, and he can't help noting the overly casual tone. She's professional enough to fool anyone else, but he knows her well enough to spot when she sounds more confident than she really is. “Oh yes?” he says, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, “You mean about the-”
“Yeah.” She gestures vaguely toward her midsection.
“You sure?”
“I kinda have to. Everyone else knows now, and you heard Bruce; I ought to get an appointment soon.”
She's right, Clint knows, but her resolve worries him. She's compensating for nerves; she's far more nervous now than she had been about telling the team the previous evening. “Right. Yeah. Want me to come with? I'm free all day.”
She looks momentarily tempted by the offer, but shakes her head. “Thanks, but I think... I think I need to do this alone.”
Oh, right. Her boss. Finding out she's pregnant. Associations there. That would certainly explain the extra fear.
“I understand,” he tells her. He does understand. That doesn't mean he has to like it. He wants to save her from the memories; to form a human barrier around her soul so nothing can hurt her any more. But he can't, whether he goes with her to see Fury or not. She needs to stare down the barrel of her past. Without him.
Natasha is staring resolutely at the ceiling, refusing look at Clint - he knows her resolve will crumble if she sees her worry reflected on his face - but he reaches for her hand and she doesn't resist. “Fury's not that guy, though,” he tells her gently. “He won't... It won't be like that. At all.”
“I know.” She finally meets Clint's eyes and flashes him an only-slightly-wobbly smile. “It'll be fine. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me.”
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A/N: I do have a little more written, but I should probably get to bed now (whyyy do I sleep such strange hours idek) and this was the least awkward place I could find to cut it off for the time being. More tomorrow, probably, or very soon. Goodnight, meme!
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And then, the mood whiplash.
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Yep, this fic definitely isn't getting any less mood whiplashy. Apparently it's the only way I know how to write.
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Seriously though, what I really like about this is how the exact nature of Clint and Natasha's relationship is open to interpretation. Like in the movie, there's obviously a lot of love there, but it can be romantic or platonic. Except for That One Time In Budapest, which I demand to know more about!
And Thor, OMG, THOR!!!!!! *dies laughing*
I look forward to reading more!
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I am seriously having far, far too much fun with Thor - can you tell? XD
Thank you so much. <3
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*hugs Bruce for the saltines and the follow-through as a doctor-type*
*hugs poor traumatized Steve while giggling*
*does not hug Tony, but smacks him, which he'll take the same way anyway*
... *hugs Clint for being so damn decent and supportive and concerned*
*hugs Natasha 'cause she needs it even if she'd break my arms*
Also, fwiw, I'm guessing you're a Brit by the exclamations-- which amuse the heck out of me, but, "oi" and "bloody hell" aren't heard so much on this side of the pond. Otherwise, I'd never guess, so don't let the observation slow you down. (And if I'm wrong, I'll just shush.)
Morrrre please!
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I am indeed British, you're absolutely right. I was being pretty careful with the Britisms (spelling aside, because if I tried to write without Us I'd have a nervous breakdown) but evidently a few slipped in there anyway (well spotted!), whoops. That's what I get for writing mostly in the middle of the night! Certainly if (if!) this ever gets finished and archived anywhere I'll ask an American beta to go through and clean it up for me first.
I'm so glad you're enjoying it anyway, thank you! There should definitely be so more. :D
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And oh my God the Sleipnir conversation was priceless. If I weren't in the office right now, I'd be making some really embarrassing noises.
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To be honest, the entire reason I gave in and started writing this in the first place was that I just really, really wanted to write the Sleipnir conversation. I'm glad you enjoyed it, so long as it doesn't get you into trouble at work!
(Also, your icon is weirdly adorable.)
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