Avengers (2012): "As If You Have a Choice" (2/3) (Clint/Natasha)
Title: As If You Have a Choice (2/3)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Adult, 17+
Warnings: language, buckets of angst, discussion of abortion, did I mention angst? No, really
Spoilers: none
Type: complete
Word Count: 6,360
Summary: She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, there was no way for a child to work in their life. None. Even if they were willing to leave what they did for a living behind (which was as essential to both of them as breathing) there would be no way to keep it safe. Too many people would be interested in the child of a Black Widow, particularly one who’d been enhanced like she had - either for experimentation, leverage, or revenge.
Author's Notes:
Many, many, many thank yous to my betas kadollan, sweetwatersong, anuna_81, and SidheRa (if I've forgotten someone else I bounced this off of, I apologize profusely)... this story took forever and a lot of hand-holding to write.
There's no character death, but I'm not kidding about the angst, y'all.
In re: "discussion of abortion" - this isn't meant to be a political stance on the issue one way or t'other. It's simply how I feel these particular characters would view/discuss/approach the issue, period.
In re: POVs - Clint has always been the one telling me this story. The very first scene I had in my head was one of their central conversations, and the bucket-o-feels he had about the subject. I had always intended to go back and write in Natasha's points of view to alternate with his, because that makes sense and it's absolutely her story too and involves her just as much, but all I could ever get out of her was the intro. Then finally, after seriously considering giving up on the whole project, I got the epilogue from her in one mad rush in the middle of the night - but nothing else. I think the epilogue gives a better explanation of *why* she didn't want to "talk" about the rest of the fic.
If you want the soundtrack, it's Snow Patrol's "Run".
He'd been worried about her since she'd up and left the previous weekend without telling him anything about it, but had kept quiet because he knew some things just had to be worked through alone. At a guess, she was having nightmares, she was pale and irritable, and had been avoiding his quarters - even his very presence when they were off duty, and that was usually the cause. He'd decided to give her a week to work it out before cornering her, because Brazil was still giving him nightmares, too, and they could both use the time.
Then, she made a mistake. It was their regular training routine, and he’d gotten in a blow that by all rights she ought to have taken so she could use his momentum against him and bring him down, but instead she'd curled in to protect her abdomen and so he'd caught her shoulder and sent her sprawling sideways onto the mat. It had surprised him enough, was such a rookie move, that he'd stopped, then dropped to one knee to see if she was alright.
“Nat, what the he-”
“Don’t,” she hissed. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are. No way should you’ve gotten hit like that. You could do that combination in your sleep.”
“Clint-”
“You’ve been off for over a week now, Tash.”
Angrily, she pushed herself to her feet and glared at him. “I don’t... I can’t... Dammit.” Turning on her heel, she stormed away from him, shoving through the gym doors and into the women’s locker room. He followed her, slamming through the door and ignoring the affronted "Hey!"s the other occupants managed.
“Clear out,” he barked at the other agents, and silently they obeyed, but Natasha just kept her back turned to him as she dug around in her locker and started to change clothes.
She jumped slightly at the gentle hand he set on her shoulder and he turned her around and face him. She’d been halfway through pulling on a fresh shirt and her arms were still tangled in the sleeves. The fury in her eyes felt just a few moments ago seemed to have evaporated and she was left looking tired and worn.
“Tasha. Talk to me, babe. What’s wrong? And don’t tell me 'nothing', because I’m not stupid.”
A tremor went through her, too small to see but he felt it under his fingers.
"In Brazil. After the fire,” she started, then paused like she was searching for the right words.
“Yeah. I remember. What about it?”
“We’re idiots, Clint. We made a mistake.” He’d gotten her out of that godforsaken research facility the Red Room had fronted in Sao Paulo, and they’d driven up the coast to Angra dos Reis until they'd found some place she could sleep off the drugs and he could treat their wounds. One thing had led to another, and simple comfort and relief had turned into more. It certainly hadn't been the first time, they'd been lovers for years, and if that's what was bothering her... it didn't make sense.
“What do you mean? We didn’t-”
“Yes, we did.”
“What are you talking about?” He looked thoroughly perplexed. “You're not making any kind of sense. We holed up in that room for three days while we waited for SHIELD to get us out. Nothing happened while we were there, Tash. Are you having trouble with your memory again, or-” The concern in his eyes deepened.
“No.” Her stomach chose that moment to turn over on her and she pulled away, tossing the shirt aside and barely making it to one of the stalls before she threw up again.
“You are sick,” he admonished, with no little shock in his voice as he followed her, pressing up close against her back and threading his fingers through her hair to comb it back from her face.
“No I’m not,” she managed. She struggled to her feet and stumbled over to the sink. She used her hand as a cup and took her time rinsing her mouth.
“But you just-”
“Being sick isn’t the only reason a woman throws up, Clint.” She said it slowly, like she needed him to catch on so she wouldn't have to say it out loud. She met his eyes in the mirror, and he knew she saw the moment he put the pieces together. They wouldn’t have partners if he’d been a stupid man, after all.
It felt a little bit like the bottom of the world had dropped out from under his feet.
“No way. No way in hell. Tasha.”
She nodded. “I think they screwed up my body chemistry with whatever they did to me in Sao Paulo. Then we didn’t take the proper precautions. So, yes.”
He sat down hard on a nearby bench and dropped his head into his hands. She continued to lean against the counter and when he looked up, she was shaking, just a little bit.
“I don’t... So what now?” he finally managed.
Her eyebrows went up in shock. “What now? What now? What do you think now? Now I make an appointment with SHIELD medical and take care of it,” she bit out, all the fear and anger from the last week and a half spilling out of her, and he realized that this was what she'd been holding in all week, what she'd been avoiding him over.
His head shot up. “Hold on, just a minute, before you go-”
“You don’t actually think we could have a baby, do you, Clint? Seriously?”
“No, of course not, but-”
“But, nothing. We can’t have children here. I can’t ever have children. It wouldn’t be safe, or fair to bring someone into this mess. I won’t do it. I won’t have that kind of liability added to my damn ledger.” She stormed by him then, grabbing her abandoned shirt as she went, tugging it on as she pushed her way out the door and leaving him sitting in the locker room with his head in his hands.
*****
He wasn't sure how long he sat there. He didn't move until three female SHIELD agents came in to change for a workout and made him leave. He wandered aimlessly for a few hours through the cold metal hallways, trying to wrap his brain around it, before finally tracking her down in one of the conference rooms overlooking the water.
"Natasha," he started, then trailed off because he wasn't sure what to say.
She was facing away from him, her arms wrapped tight around herself. "I don't want this, Clint. I've never, never wanted this."
He'd never heard her sound so... devastated. It made him think of forests burned to the ground and cities razed to their foundations, and it fucking broke his heart. Tasha wasn't scared, she wasn't weak, and she wasn't even vulnerable, ninety-nine percent of the time. But in that other one percent, she was all those things, every kind of tragedy Russian authors had ever dreamed up in one surprisingly fragile package.
She wasn't physically or psychologically frail, but it turned out her heart was. Maybe that was the price of doing their business. It was their hearts that kept them from falling into unreachable places in the depths of their abyss, but by the same token, their very nature made them brittle, brittle things.
"Tash..." Part of him wanted nothing more than to make things better for her - to do whatever he could to stop her from hurting. At the same time, though, he found he could not tell her it was okay. He couldn't stand the thought of losing something that was a part of her - a part of her indelibly tied with something of him. Maybe it was ego, maybe it was love, he really wasn't sure. But he could not agree or keep himself from trying to stop her, much as it would ultimately be her decision. He wasn't sure he could promise his forgiveness, and that scared the shit out of him, because it felt like he was going to lose her, either way. All he could do was try to explain, try to make her see.
"I know we shouldn't... can't keep it. I know that, ok? That's not what I'm asking you to do. It'd be a liability, leverage, always in danger just because of who we are. And we're not parents. We're not cut out for that, I agree with you. I just want to know it's out there somewhere, even if we never see it again, I want to know that there's something, some little part of you and me - maybe the good parts, if we have any to give - out there having a happy life. We can arrange that for him or her, Tash, if you're willing to do this for just a little while."
"You don't know what you're asking, Clint." There was a trace, usually absent, of Russia in her voice which told him just how far gone she was.
"No, I probably don't. I never will. You are absolutely right, but you also don't know what you're asking of me. My hands are tied here, Natasha. I am at your fucking mercy and all I can do is ask you, and then trust you to make the right decision. It's your decision. You know my opinion, okay? That's all I can do."
He stared at her back for another long moment, at the set of her shoulders that screamed "back off" and "don't touch me", he waited for her to say something, anything that would give him a way in, a way to get to her, but all he could see was a widening canyon forming between them. He could see the reflection of her face in the glass, and it was the look she had before the missions they weren't willing to talk about, after. The ones that Fury sent them on with something that almost felt like an apology. It was the look of Natasha, already set on her course, ready to wade into battle and do the hard things she felt she needed to do.
Finally, feeling defeated, he left the room.
*****
She started to walk down to medical more times than she could count. And every time, she would hear his voice in her head and just how desperate he had sounded.
Every time.
*****
They didn’t talk for two weeks. He prowled around the edges of wherever she was, but knew that she would have to come to him first. He’d pushed her, he’d made his case, and now it was in her court. He made sure that she knew what he was doing, too. He made sure to make eye contact with her any time he entered or left a room, so it was obvious that he wasn’t approaching her. In a backwards sort of way, it was both a jab and a reassurance - he wasn’t about to let her forget he was here, that she was still a part of this world, but he also wasn’t going to step past her boundaries.
He couldn’t watch her all the time, and he didn’t intend to. So he couldn’t be sure what she had or hadn’t done. Theoretically, it would be in her files on the SHIELD medical mainframe, but he resisted the urge to hack in because he really didn’t want to know. As long as he didn’t know, he could pretend that she hadn’t done anything, and that things were... not normal, but maybe not irrevocably changed.
*****
“Barton! My office, now!” Fury cut a swath through the startled junior agents and interns when he caught sight of Clint walking past the commissary, and didn’t wait to see if he’d obey. One of these days, Clint wasn’t sure when or how, he was going to do something unexpected and remind Fury that he wasn’t actually his lapdog. Probably on a day when he was in a mood similar to this, just off a three day surveillance mission with precious little sleep, and ready to bite off the head of whoever looked at him crosswise because of the entire situation with Natasha. He’d taken for granted how much she tended to smooth out his rough edges.
Normally he didn’t deal with Fury directly, because Coulson was his handler. Coulson knew him well enough to know when not to approach him, or the best way to go about it. Which was disconcerting in its own way, even though he’d earned their trust several times over. But Coulson was in Riyadh (or that was the official story) on assignment for at least another week.
Apparently the Director hadn’t felt like waiting.
Clint closed the door behind him, slightly harder than was proper and not nearly as hard as he’d wanted to. Fury didn’t even blink.
“Barton, I just received some paperwork from Agent Romanov, that I have a sneaking suspicion you’re the one responsible for.”
Now that was unexpected, he thought to himself. Out loud he said, “Paperwork, sir?”
“Agent Romanov just filed to remove herself from field duty for the next few months. For medical reasons. I’m going out on a limb and guessing you’re the cause of those ‘medical reasons’. I’m not going to ask what in the hell you two were thinking, or remind you that you’ve broken about fifty separate regulations. What I want to know from you is whether or not I’m losing my two best agents because of this shit.”
The world was honestly a little white around the edges, and there was a buzzing in his ears that was drowning out part of what was being said.
She’d filed for restricted status.
She’d filed for restricted status.
She was going to go through with it.
“Barton!” Fury bellowed and he reoriented himself in the present.
“Sir. Sorry. Yes, sir, I believe this does involve me. And I believe this is just a temporary restriction, sir.” He willed himself to look as blank and stoic as possible - normally not a difficult feat. Normally.
“It better be. I don’t want to pull you two up on disciplinary charges, but I will if you force me to. Discretion is the better part of valor, Agent, in all things. You got me?”
“Yes, sir. I believe I do.”
“Good. I don’t want to regret this. And I’d rather not give anyone any ideas. Be back here at 17:00 hours for your new assignment.”
Inside his head, he sighed. They wouldn’t get disciplinary action, but they’d be punished in some other subtle way, and being given crap assignments was one of Fury’s favorites. But Clint would take that, all things considered. He fought off a shit-eating grin as he left the office, and honestly? He didn’t care.
*****
He wanted desperately to seek Natasha out and talk to her about it, but knew it would still be better if he waited for her move (he more than half expected her to show up at his door once he'd found out). He packed his bag, then lay across his bed for a long time, but no one ever darkened his door.
She was already in Fury's office the next morning when he arrived.
She turned slightly when the door opened, and his eyes locked on hers. It was the closest they’d been to one another since their fight in the conference room and it was almost physically painful for him to not reach out and touch her. Her eyes were flat, almost empty, and that scared the shit out of him.
“Agents, take a seat,” Fury cleared his throat and stared at them until they obeyed.
“I know I don’t have to tell you, Agent Romanov, just how precarious a situation you’ve just put yourself in.”
“No, sir,” she agreed and Clint looked at them both.
“Is there something else going on you haven’t told me about?” he directed it mostly at Natasha, then realized it was the first time he’d spoken to her in over a month.
“You know about the Red Room.”
He nodded. He probably knew more than SHIELD did, officially or unofficially.
“Among other things, they injected several of us with a modified version of a super soldier serum. It was the same thing the US and Britain, as well as Germany, were working on during World War II. There were only a small handful of us that it worked on. And a smaller handful yet that excelled at their training and maximized its potential.”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the Red Room wasn't exactly pleased that Agent Romanov defected.” Fury added. “She’s far too expensive and successful of an experiment for them to just let her go.”
Pieces were falling into place around him very quickly.
“They’d want her even more if they knew about this, wouldn’t they.” He didn’t make it a question.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “As soon as they know, they will redouble their efforts to try and take both me and the child. They would be very interested to see if the effects of the serum are transmitted from the mother.”
“Because that would mean they could breed super soldiers.”
Natasha nodded. “Did you ever wonder why they didn’t just permanently render us unable to have children?”
He shook his head, slowly, because the full horror of it all was starting to dawn on him. “I just didn’t - it never occurred to me.”
She smiled then, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was bitter and angry. “They hoped that even once we’d outlived our usefulness as field agents, that we would pass on our strengths and traits that made us such successful operatives to the next generation. So that they could make more of us. Also, it was useful for certain deep cover situations.”
Remaining impassive was taking every last bit of his acting abilities. That kind of long con was exactly what they’d created the Black Widows for, but the thought of Natasha doing it made his blood run cold.
"Is there a plan, sir?"
Fury arched an eyebrow at him. "That depends on what you two plan to do at this juncture. I'm assuming, based on your request, that you intend to go through with the pregnancy?"
Natasha's hands were tight on the chair arms, but she nodded, a slightly jerky motion he wasn't used to seeing from her.
"What then?" Fury asked.
"We'll need to find a suitable home for the child. Assuming we can keep it off of the Red Room's radar long enough to do so."
"They won't be the only ones intrigued by the possibility," Fury pointed out. "Even the U.S. government still does research on the Super Soldier serum."
"We go into hiding," Clint said flatly. "Not just undercover, but really the fuck deep cover. Not even on SHIELD's radar. Once the baby's born... we can find someone to adopt her. Him. Whichever. But I don't want it anywhere on the records here that this ever happened."
"No one knows where we'll be, when we'll be back, anything," Natasha continued, switching into planning mode, which was a familiar second skin. "We disappear."
"And then just waltz back in?" Fury asks. "That'll be suspicious timing, right there."
"No, we'll have to stay away... maybe a year?" She's doing calculations in her head.
"So I just happily give up my two best agents for over a year?" Fury asked, and it was bitter, but Clint knew he'd already signed off on the papers in his head. "This is why we have fucking regulations," he continued, and if that was their trade off for getting out of SHIELD unscathed and without being followed, he'd take it. Fury spent the next fifteen minutes lecturing them about personal conduct and fraternization. Clint just tuned him out while he started to make concrete plans.
It was after ten before they'd gotten done packing up a meager handful of things and regrouping in the parking garage. Clint picked a nondescript, older SUV and fidgeted with the keys while he waited for her to arrive. She said nothing as she stowed her gear and climbed into the passenger seat out of habit. He enjoyed driving, and she didn't particularly care one way or the other, so it usually fell to him.
She stayed silent for the first three hours. Natasha hadn't ever been a chatterbox, but this seemed different and was starting to unnerve him. Hell, if he was being honest with himself, he missed talking to her. He missed her, god, he missed her.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked. It was after one a.m. and they'd stopped to switch out cars.
"Honestly?" he risked a sideways glance and she nodded. "I have no idea yet. Any place in particular you'd like to go?"
*****
She finally chose one of the smaller cities near Vancouver. The first set of passports and IDs got them over the border into Canada, and once they were on an open, uninhabited stretch of road, they stopped to get some sleep and he burned them. The second set got them the rest of the way to the west coast.
*****
They didn't talk about it. That was the thing, the elephant in the room. "Thank you" and "I'm sorry" were always on the tip of his tongue, pressing on his chest until he could barely breathe around them. But he wouldn't say them, because until he knew she wanted them, they would hurt more than they would help. He wasn't about to hurt her anymore than he had to. He'd already done too much damage.
*****
She found an obstetrician about a week after they found an apartment, which was about two weeks after they'd arrived in the city. He'd put down some nonsense about being a freelance writer, and had several doctored pay stubs from obscure magazines to prove to the landlords that they'd be able to make rent. Their covers - Nathan and Maria Greene - had a perfectly acceptable credit score and modest, but comfortable bank balance. Fury had overseen the set up himself, letting Clint handle it directly so that there was no paper trail back at SHIELD. Then, after they'd been gone for two days, Clint had Natasha completely redo it all so that they weren't even reliant on the SHIELD cover story. It became yet another layer of cover.
After the first doctor's appointment, she came home and just stared out the window at the street for the rest of the afternoon. She never once asked him to go with her.
*****
They had different bedrooms, which was both familiar - because they didn't share rooms at SHIELD HQ - and strange, because it had been years since they hadn't shared a bed outside of their on-base quarters. She'd found the local library about as quickly as she'd found a doctor and spent most of her time either reading or working out. She didn't practice hand-to-hand (at least not when he was around) and seemed to restrict herself to yoga and some of the more form-based martial arts routines. In the middle of a fairly simple tai-chi warm up he saw her lose her balance and stumble. Her hand went to her abdomen for an excruciatingly long moment before she realized what she was doing and dropped it again. He watched as she closed her eyes and found her balance, adjusted for her obviously shifting center of gravity, and began again.
He went back to making dinner because he wasn't sure what else to do.
*****
Natasha was borrowing books in English, because Maria Greene didn't speak Russian or French or anything else exciting. They were obvious picks from the best seller lists of the last ten years or so. Clint realized one afternoon that he wasn't sure if she was borrowing them for forms sake or if she'd actually been wanting to read them. He wasn't even sure how to ask the question.
*****
To keep up his cover story, and because being the house with her - without her - was making him crazy, he started going to the coffee shop up the street. She started making sure that she was already in bed by the time he got home.
*****
He missed heights, and he missed his bow and arrows. He missed the calm center he found while shooting, and the adrenaline / patience amalgam that made up the job and the hunt. He knew she missed it to. He wondered what else she missed. It was another thing he couldn't ask.
*****
He wasn't talking to her, and they weren't spending all that much time together, but he was almost hyper aware of her when they were in the same room. He still focused on her, watched her, memorized her actions and expressions and tried to catalog them to figure out what was going on in her head. He noticed all the little changes, how her movements had slowed down as she tried to compensate for the shift in her muscles, joints, and tendons, how she had to stop and think for the first time in years (maybe decades) about where her body was before she did certain things. He noticed how her breasts got fuller, and with a tearing sensation noticed as her hips and belly rounded. He also noticed that the only time she ever put her hands on her stomach was when she wasn't thinking about it, and he saw how quickly she would move them away when she realized what she was doing.
*****
She took the vitamins her doctor had given her religiously, made sure that she was eating the right things and drinking enough water. She'd stopped drinking coffee and black tea, and limited herself to just one cup of green tea a day. She never missed a doctor's appointment best he could tell but she never mentioned them, either. Their spoken interaction consisted entirely of practical matters like what was for dinner and whether or not anything was needed from the store. And it was killing him.
*****
It stormed. They'd been through plenty of storms, and neither of them had a particular fear of them. In and of itself, the storm wouldn't have done anything, except-.
Except.
Either Natasha had misjudged how loud the thunder was, or maybe the duration, because there was a sudden eerie silence from outside, and Clint heard the unfamiliar but distinct sound of someone crying. He'd been lying on his bed, still clothed because he hadn't had the give-a-damn to strip or even pull back the bed covers, just staring at the ceiling and listening to the storm.
He was tired of this shit. He was tired of living some kind of half shadow life where they didn't know one another anymore. He also wasn't sure if what he wanted to say was going to be more hurtful than what they were doing to each other now.
He was up across the room before he'd even consciously decided to be, and it was only a few more steps down the hall before her door knob was in his hand. He thought about knocking but shrugged it off. It would only give her a chance to send him away, and he wasn't willing to take it.
Lightning ripped through the room and painted highlights over her where she was curled on the bed. Her hair was loose across the pillow and he realized just how long it had gotten. She'd dyed it blonde while they were traveling, and had started wearing it up about two months ago, and now he saw why. It was beautiful though, and he wanted to run his hands through it so badly he clenched his fists.
"Natasha," he said roughly. It almost felt foreign in his throat.
She didn't turn over to face him but he saw her become unnaturally still.
Clint eased himself down onto the bed behind her, perched on the edge so that he was facing away from her, and rested his elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. "I owe you an apology," he started. "More than that, I owe you a hell of a thank you. And I didn't say either one, because the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you more. But what we're doing right now, that's no good, either. So to hell with it, and I'm gonna say them anyway.
"I know you didn't want to do this, and I'm so sorry I didn't understand or stop to think through all the 'whys'. It should've just been enough that you didn't want to and had your reasons. I can't... I don't know, if I'd known about everything, if I'd make the same arguments that I did. Maybe I would've, because I still can't stand the thought of this child not existing somewhere. But I understand more than I did. And if I said 'thank you' every day for the rest of our lives, it still wouldn't be enough.
"I don't want to lose you, Nat. These last few months have been hell on earth. I just haven't known what to do for you."
She was so still he had to suppress the urge to make sure she was still breathing.
"I didn't want you involved. Once I made the decision, I wanted to keep you out of it," she said finally.
Heart in his throat and afraid of the answer, he asked "Why?"
"So you wouldn't get attached. That's why I've never asked you to go with me to the doctor, or anything else. Because you would. You will. And we can't."
"Tasha."
"We still can't. There is no ending where we get to keep her."
He was gripping his knees then, because if he was holding onto something, his hands wouldn't have the chance to shake. "Her?"
"Yes. I burned the pictures. I didn't want you to see them."
To hell with it. He stood, stripped off his boots, socks, and jeans, then turned and got back on the bed, facing her this time. She was lying in the center, but there was enough room for him to settle himself behind her. He grabbed the extra blanket from the foot and tugged it over both of them before looping an arm around her, just below her breasts. She tugged for just a second to try to get loose, then settled when he wouldn't budge.
"This part will hurt you more than it will me," she whispered, the cold practicality he was used to seeing from her edging her words.
"Bullshit," he snapped. "I've seen what this is doing to you, Tasha."
"Not for the same reasons," she amended, but didn't deny it. "I don't like feeling like my body isn't mine anymore. I don't like it changing - being changed - when it's not my doing."
He could see the parallel she was drawing and he buried his face in her hair, pressing a kiss against her neck. His arm loosened around her a bit and he slid his hand around and down so that it covered the swell of her belly.
"Clint, don't..."
"Shhhh. We don't get to keep her. But we have her, and each other, right now. I'm not going to waste anymore of this time while we have it. It's going to hurt either way and I don't care anymore."
There was a shifting against his hand and he froze. "Was that..."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"A month, maybe? It's only just now strong enough to feel it from outside."
There was another little thump against his hand. "It's amazing."
"This is what I was worried about. I can distance myself from this. You can't. You've always had a weakness when it came to children, Clint." It was critical, not indulgent, and something they'd argued about before.
"I don't care, Tasha. Just let me enjoy this. It's the only chance I'm going to get."
He knew she was biting back her reply, and could tell when she gave up and lapsed back into silence. She shifted somehow out of his reach without actually moving a muscle. And she was right, she was absolutely right, but he was well past caring about what was going to happen someday.
*****
She still drew the line at the doctor's appointments, and refused to bring home any pictures or video. But she was letting him get close again, to touch her, and they were talking more. Clint was going to take his victories where and how he could get them.
*****
It was difficult to watch as she lost more and more of her mobility. Subtle things that would be annoying to the average woman were huge blows for her. By the time they'd reached the last few weeks, she'd spent more time sitting in one place than he'd ever seen. She'd also started eschewing either bed for the couch or the recliner and complained that she couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep more than fitfully. She didn't like it when he laid a hand on her stomach, but was grudgingly allowing it because he always asked.
*****
He finally found a family they were both comfortable with. There was nothing in their background checks to indicate they were anything other than what they appeared to be - a childless middle class couple from the suburbs. They had no ties to SHIELD or Russia or the US, or anything else that would make them stand out, and from what he was able to observe they seemed like good people. They were looking for adoption opportunities through their local synagogue, and the Rabbi there checked out too, so he contacted him. He spun a story (under yet another cover identity) about how his wife didn't want to care for a child because of her own traumatic childhood, and that they'd made the difficult decision to find a family more suitable. He made it clear that while he regretted the decision, he wanted what was best for both his wife and the baby. He didn't even have to lie that much, in the end.
******
The labor went as smoothly as such things could go - it was still long and exhausting but Natasha was ridiculously strong and healthy. She refused to breast feed, and after a concerned frown the nurse took the baby away to the nursery for her first meal. Clint took the doctor aside and explained they were giving the baby up, and his expression softened as he laid what Clint supposed was a comforting hand on his shoulder before signing off on the release paperwork for the following day.
Natasha rode up front next to him and didn't speak on the ride back to their apartment, hadn't spoken at all in fact, since the nurse had taken the baby away. He dropped her off first and collected the forged paperwork they'd set up for the adoption, then took the baby and his keys and started the four hour drive north.
******
Clint didn't know any lullabies, but the baby cried, so he sang along with the radio. When that didn't help he turned it off and sang the only songs he could remember all the lyrics to: "Starry Starry Night" and "American Pie".
******
There was a moment, when he handed her to the Rabbi, that she opened her eyes, and it was Natasha's eyes that were looking back at him. Then the Rabbi asked him if she already had a name. They'd never planned to name her anything, had never talked about it, so he was surprised when he found himself opening his mouth and saying "Leah. Her name is Leah."
It wasn't a name that meant anything, or reminded him of anyone. It just seemed to suit her.
He didn't listen to anything on the long drive back home.
******
It was after three a.m. when he got back into the city. The entire building seemed quiet and still when he slipped back into their apartment. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find, but through the crack in the doorway he could see her on the bed, her back to him as she curled in on herself. He could tell by the line of her shoulders she wasn't asleep - and he could only hope that her choice of his bed meant that she wanted him there, too. Each step was deliberate and measured, with no attempt at stealth so she would know he was home, know he was entering the room. Clint sank down onto the edge of the bed, a foot of space between them, and slowly took off his boots, his socks, then shrugged out of his jacket. Only then did he turn and look at her.
Her hair was over her face and he followed the line of light from the window down her shoulder to her arm to her hand, where she had a death grip on a scrap of lavender fabric. It took him several long seconds to realize it was the hat they'd put on the baby's head when she'd left the nursery. It had apparently fallen off between arriving at the apartment and his leaving again - or maybe Natasha had taken it from the car, he didn't know.
"Natasha," he whispered, just her name as he laid his hand on her arm and that was all it took to undo her completely.
The sob was an echo through the room even as she caught it back, tried to choke it down. He clenched his jaw so tightly he thought it might lock in place as he wrapped himself as tightly around her as he could, burying his face in her hair so that he could pretend there weren't wet tracks on his face to match. She shook against him without any other sound for so long he lost track of the time, just gave himself up to the repetitive movement of his hand on her arm.
He did the only thing he had the strength left to do and held onto her like she was the last solid thing in the world.
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Rating: Adult, 17+
Warnings: language, buckets of angst, discussion of abortion, did I mention angst? No, really
Spoilers: none
Type: complete
Word Count: 6,360
Summary: She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, there was no way for a child to work in their life. None. Even if they were willing to leave what they did for a living behind (which was as essential to both of them as breathing) there would be no way to keep it safe. Too many people would be interested in the child of a Black Widow, particularly one who’d been enhanced like she had - either for experimentation, leverage, or revenge.
Author's Notes:
Many, many, many thank yous to my betas kadollan, sweetwatersong, anuna_81, and SidheRa (if I've forgotten someone else I bounced this off of, I apologize profusely)... this story took forever and a lot of hand-holding to write.
There's no character death, but I'm not kidding about the angst, y'all.
In re: "discussion of abortion" - this isn't meant to be a political stance on the issue one way or t'other. It's simply how I feel these particular characters would view/discuss/approach the issue, period.
In re: POVs - Clint has always been the one telling me this story. The very first scene I had in my head was one of their central conversations, and the bucket-o-feels he had about the subject. I had always intended to go back and write in Natasha's points of view to alternate with his, because that makes sense and it's absolutely her story too and involves her just as much, but all I could ever get out of her was the intro. Then finally, after seriously considering giving up on the whole project, I got the epilogue from her in one mad rush in the middle of the night - but nothing else. I think the epilogue gives a better explanation of *why* she didn't want to "talk" about the rest of the fic.
If you want the soundtrack, it's Snow Patrol's "Run".
He'd been worried about her since she'd up and left the previous weekend without telling him anything about it, but had kept quiet because he knew some things just had to be worked through alone. At a guess, she was having nightmares, she was pale and irritable, and had been avoiding his quarters - even his very presence when they were off duty, and that was usually the cause. He'd decided to give her a week to work it out before cornering her, because Brazil was still giving him nightmares, too, and they could both use the time.
Then, she made a mistake. It was their regular training routine, and he’d gotten in a blow that by all rights she ought to have taken so she could use his momentum against him and bring him down, but instead she'd curled in to protect her abdomen and so he'd caught her shoulder and sent her sprawling sideways onto the mat. It had surprised him enough, was such a rookie move, that he'd stopped, then dropped to one knee to see if she was alright.
“Nat, what the he-”
“Don’t,” she hissed. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are. No way should you’ve gotten hit like that. You could do that combination in your sleep.”
“Clint-”
“You’ve been off for over a week now, Tash.”
Angrily, she pushed herself to her feet and glared at him. “I don’t... I can’t... Dammit.” Turning on her heel, she stormed away from him, shoving through the gym doors and into the women’s locker room. He followed her, slamming through the door and ignoring the affronted "Hey!"s the other occupants managed.
“Clear out,” he barked at the other agents, and silently they obeyed, but Natasha just kept her back turned to him as she dug around in her locker and started to change clothes.
She jumped slightly at the gentle hand he set on her shoulder and he turned her around and face him. She’d been halfway through pulling on a fresh shirt and her arms were still tangled in the sleeves. The fury in her eyes felt just a few moments ago seemed to have evaporated and she was left looking tired and worn.
“Tasha. Talk to me, babe. What’s wrong? And don’t tell me 'nothing', because I’m not stupid.”
A tremor went through her, too small to see but he felt it under his fingers.
"In Brazil. After the fire,” she started, then paused like she was searching for the right words.
“Yeah. I remember. What about it?”
“We’re idiots, Clint. We made a mistake.” He’d gotten her out of that godforsaken research facility the Red Room had fronted in Sao Paulo, and they’d driven up the coast to Angra dos Reis until they'd found some place she could sleep off the drugs and he could treat their wounds. One thing had led to another, and simple comfort and relief had turned into more. It certainly hadn't been the first time, they'd been lovers for years, and if that's what was bothering her... it didn't make sense.
“What do you mean? We didn’t-”
“Yes, we did.”
“What are you talking about?” He looked thoroughly perplexed. “You're not making any kind of sense. We holed up in that room for three days while we waited for SHIELD to get us out. Nothing happened while we were there, Tash. Are you having trouble with your memory again, or-” The concern in his eyes deepened.
“No.” Her stomach chose that moment to turn over on her and she pulled away, tossing the shirt aside and barely making it to one of the stalls before she threw up again.
“You are sick,” he admonished, with no little shock in his voice as he followed her, pressing up close against her back and threading his fingers through her hair to comb it back from her face.
“No I’m not,” she managed. She struggled to her feet and stumbled over to the sink. She used her hand as a cup and took her time rinsing her mouth.
“But you just-”
“Being sick isn’t the only reason a woman throws up, Clint.” She said it slowly, like she needed him to catch on so she wouldn't have to say it out loud. She met his eyes in the mirror, and he knew she saw the moment he put the pieces together. They wouldn’t have partners if he’d been a stupid man, after all.
It felt a little bit like the bottom of the world had dropped out from under his feet.
“No way. No way in hell. Tasha.”
She nodded. “I think they screwed up my body chemistry with whatever they did to me in Sao Paulo. Then we didn’t take the proper precautions. So, yes.”
He sat down hard on a nearby bench and dropped his head into his hands. She continued to lean against the counter and when he looked up, she was shaking, just a little bit.
“I don’t... So what now?” he finally managed.
Her eyebrows went up in shock. “What now? What now? What do you think now? Now I make an appointment with SHIELD medical and take care of it,” she bit out, all the fear and anger from the last week and a half spilling out of her, and he realized that this was what she'd been holding in all week, what she'd been avoiding him over.
His head shot up. “Hold on, just a minute, before you go-”
“You don’t actually think we could have a baby, do you, Clint? Seriously?”
“No, of course not, but-”
“But, nothing. We can’t have children here. I can’t ever have children. It wouldn’t be safe, or fair to bring someone into this mess. I won’t do it. I won’t have that kind of liability added to my damn ledger.” She stormed by him then, grabbing her abandoned shirt as she went, tugging it on as she pushed her way out the door and leaving him sitting in the locker room with his head in his hands.
*****
He wasn't sure how long he sat there. He didn't move until three female SHIELD agents came in to change for a workout and made him leave. He wandered aimlessly for a few hours through the cold metal hallways, trying to wrap his brain around it, before finally tracking her down in one of the conference rooms overlooking the water.
"Natasha," he started, then trailed off because he wasn't sure what to say.
She was facing away from him, her arms wrapped tight around herself. "I don't want this, Clint. I've never, never wanted this."
He'd never heard her sound so... devastated. It made him think of forests burned to the ground and cities razed to their foundations, and it fucking broke his heart. Tasha wasn't scared, she wasn't weak, and she wasn't even vulnerable, ninety-nine percent of the time. But in that other one percent, she was all those things, every kind of tragedy Russian authors had ever dreamed up in one surprisingly fragile package.
She wasn't physically or psychologically frail, but it turned out her heart was. Maybe that was the price of doing their business. It was their hearts that kept them from falling into unreachable places in the depths of their abyss, but by the same token, their very nature made them brittle, brittle things.
"Tash..." Part of him wanted nothing more than to make things better for her - to do whatever he could to stop her from hurting. At the same time, though, he found he could not tell her it was okay. He couldn't stand the thought of losing something that was a part of her - a part of her indelibly tied with something of him. Maybe it was ego, maybe it was love, he really wasn't sure. But he could not agree or keep himself from trying to stop her, much as it would ultimately be her decision. He wasn't sure he could promise his forgiveness, and that scared the shit out of him, because it felt like he was going to lose her, either way. All he could do was try to explain, try to make her see.
"I know we shouldn't... can't keep it. I know that, ok? That's not what I'm asking you to do. It'd be a liability, leverage, always in danger just because of who we are. And we're not parents. We're not cut out for that, I agree with you. I just want to know it's out there somewhere, even if we never see it again, I want to know that there's something, some little part of you and me - maybe the good parts, if we have any to give - out there having a happy life. We can arrange that for him or her, Tash, if you're willing to do this for just a little while."
"You don't know what you're asking, Clint." There was a trace, usually absent, of Russia in her voice which told him just how far gone she was.
"No, I probably don't. I never will. You are absolutely right, but you also don't know what you're asking of me. My hands are tied here, Natasha. I am at your fucking mercy and all I can do is ask you, and then trust you to make the right decision. It's your decision. You know my opinion, okay? That's all I can do."
He stared at her back for another long moment, at the set of her shoulders that screamed "back off" and "don't touch me", he waited for her to say something, anything that would give him a way in, a way to get to her, but all he could see was a widening canyon forming between them. He could see the reflection of her face in the glass, and it was the look she had before the missions they weren't willing to talk about, after. The ones that Fury sent them on with something that almost felt like an apology. It was the look of Natasha, already set on her course, ready to wade into battle and do the hard things she felt she needed to do.
Finally, feeling defeated, he left the room.
*****
She started to walk down to medical more times than she could count. And every time, she would hear his voice in her head and just how desperate he had sounded.
Every time.
*****
They didn’t talk for two weeks. He prowled around the edges of wherever she was, but knew that she would have to come to him first. He’d pushed her, he’d made his case, and now it was in her court. He made sure that she knew what he was doing, too. He made sure to make eye contact with her any time he entered or left a room, so it was obvious that he wasn’t approaching her. In a backwards sort of way, it was both a jab and a reassurance - he wasn’t about to let her forget he was here, that she was still a part of this world, but he also wasn’t going to step past her boundaries.
He couldn’t watch her all the time, and he didn’t intend to. So he couldn’t be sure what she had or hadn’t done. Theoretically, it would be in her files on the SHIELD medical mainframe, but he resisted the urge to hack in because he really didn’t want to know. As long as he didn’t know, he could pretend that she hadn’t done anything, and that things were... not normal, but maybe not irrevocably changed.
*****
“Barton! My office, now!” Fury cut a swath through the startled junior agents and interns when he caught sight of Clint walking past the commissary, and didn’t wait to see if he’d obey. One of these days, Clint wasn’t sure when or how, he was going to do something unexpected and remind Fury that he wasn’t actually his lapdog. Probably on a day when he was in a mood similar to this, just off a three day surveillance mission with precious little sleep, and ready to bite off the head of whoever looked at him crosswise because of the entire situation with Natasha. He’d taken for granted how much she tended to smooth out his rough edges.
Normally he didn’t deal with Fury directly, because Coulson was his handler. Coulson knew him well enough to know when not to approach him, or the best way to go about it. Which was disconcerting in its own way, even though he’d earned their trust several times over. But Coulson was in Riyadh (or that was the official story) on assignment for at least another week.
Apparently the Director hadn’t felt like waiting.
Clint closed the door behind him, slightly harder than was proper and not nearly as hard as he’d wanted to. Fury didn’t even blink.
“Barton, I just received some paperwork from Agent Romanov, that I have a sneaking suspicion you’re the one responsible for.”
Now that was unexpected, he thought to himself. Out loud he said, “Paperwork, sir?”
“Agent Romanov just filed to remove herself from field duty for the next few months. For medical reasons. I’m going out on a limb and guessing you’re the cause of those ‘medical reasons’. I’m not going to ask what in the hell you two were thinking, or remind you that you’ve broken about fifty separate regulations. What I want to know from you is whether or not I’m losing my two best agents because of this shit.”
The world was honestly a little white around the edges, and there was a buzzing in his ears that was drowning out part of what was being said.
She’d filed for restricted status.
She’d filed for restricted status.
She was going to go through with it.
“Barton!” Fury bellowed and he reoriented himself in the present.
“Sir. Sorry. Yes, sir, I believe this does involve me. And I believe this is just a temporary restriction, sir.” He willed himself to look as blank and stoic as possible - normally not a difficult feat. Normally.
“It better be. I don’t want to pull you two up on disciplinary charges, but I will if you force me to. Discretion is the better part of valor, Agent, in all things. You got me?”
“Yes, sir. I believe I do.”
“Good. I don’t want to regret this. And I’d rather not give anyone any ideas. Be back here at 17:00 hours for your new assignment.”
Inside his head, he sighed. They wouldn’t get disciplinary action, but they’d be punished in some other subtle way, and being given crap assignments was one of Fury’s favorites. But Clint would take that, all things considered. He fought off a shit-eating grin as he left the office, and honestly? He didn’t care.
*****
He wanted desperately to seek Natasha out and talk to her about it, but knew it would still be better if he waited for her move (he more than half expected her to show up at his door once he'd found out). He packed his bag, then lay across his bed for a long time, but no one ever darkened his door.
She was already in Fury's office the next morning when he arrived.
She turned slightly when the door opened, and his eyes locked on hers. It was the closest they’d been to one another since their fight in the conference room and it was almost physically painful for him to not reach out and touch her. Her eyes were flat, almost empty, and that scared the shit out of him.
“Agents, take a seat,” Fury cleared his throat and stared at them until they obeyed.
“I know I don’t have to tell you, Agent Romanov, just how precarious a situation you’ve just put yourself in.”
“No, sir,” she agreed and Clint looked at them both.
“Is there something else going on you haven’t told me about?” he directed it mostly at Natasha, then realized it was the first time he’d spoken to her in over a month.
“You know about the Red Room.”
He nodded. He probably knew more than SHIELD did, officially or unofficially.
“Among other things, they injected several of us with a modified version of a super soldier serum. It was the same thing the US and Britain, as well as Germany, were working on during World War II. There were only a small handful of us that it worked on. And a smaller handful yet that excelled at their training and maximized its potential.”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the Red Room wasn't exactly pleased that Agent Romanov defected.” Fury added. “She’s far too expensive and successful of an experiment for them to just let her go.”
Pieces were falling into place around him very quickly.
“They’d want her even more if they knew about this, wouldn’t they.” He didn’t make it a question.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “As soon as they know, they will redouble their efforts to try and take both me and the child. They would be very interested to see if the effects of the serum are transmitted from the mother.”
“Because that would mean they could breed super soldiers.”
Natasha nodded. “Did you ever wonder why they didn’t just permanently render us unable to have children?”
He shook his head, slowly, because the full horror of it all was starting to dawn on him. “I just didn’t - it never occurred to me.”
She smiled then, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was bitter and angry. “They hoped that even once we’d outlived our usefulness as field agents, that we would pass on our strengths and traits that made us such successful operatives to the next generation. So that they could make more of us. Also, it was useful for certain deep cover situations.”
Remaining impassive was taking every last bit of his acting abilities. That kind of long con was exactly what they’d created the Black Widows for, but the thought of Natasha doing it made his blood run cold.
"Is there a plan, sir?"
Fury arched an eyebrow at him. "That depends on what you two plan to do at this juncture. I'm assuming, based on your request, that you intend to go through with the pregnancy?"
Natasha's hands were tight on the chair arms, but she nodded, a slightly jerky motion he wasn't used to seeing from her.
"What then?" Fury asked.
"We'll need to find a suitable home for the child. Assuming we can keep it off of the Red Room's radar long enough to do so."
"They won't be the only ones intrigued by the possibility," Fury pointed out. "Even the U.S. government still does research on the Super Soldier serum."
"We go into hiding," Clint said flatly. "Not just undercover, but really the fuck deep cover. Not even on SHIELD's radar. Once the baby's born... we can find someone to adopt her. Him. Whichever. But I don't want it anywhere on the records here that this ever happened."
"No one knows where we'll be, when we'll be back, anything," Natasha continued, switching into planning mode, which was a familiar second skin. "We disappear."
"And then just waltz back in?" Fury asks. "That'll be suspicious timing, right there."
"No, we'll have to stay away... maybe a year?" She's doing calculations in her head.
"So I just happily give up my two best agents for over a year?" Fury asked, and it was bitter, but Clint knew he'd already signed off on the papers in his head. "This is why we have fucking regulations," he continued, and if that was their trade off for getting out of SHIELD unscathed and without being followed, he'd take it. Fury spent the next fifteen minutes lecturing them about personal conduct and fraternization. Clint just tuned him out while he started to make concrete plans.
It was after ten before they'd gotten done packing up a meager handful of things and regrouping in the parking garage. Clint picked a nondescript, older SUV and fidgeted with the keys while he waited for her to arrive. She said nothing as she stowed her gear and climbed into the passenger seat out of habit. He enjoyed driving, and she didn't particularly care one way or the other, so it usually fell to him.
She stayed silent for the first three hours. Natasha hadn't ever been a chatterbox, but this seemed different and was starting to unnerve him. Hell, if he was being honest with himself, he missed talking to her. He missed her, god, he missed her.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked. It was after one a.m. and they'd stopped to switch out cars.
"Honestly?" he risked a sideways glance and she nodded. "I have no idea yet. Any place in particular you'd like to go?"
*****
She finally chose one of the smaller cities near Vancouver. The first set of passports and IDs got them over the border into Canada, and once they were on an open, uninhabited stretch of road, they stopped to get some sleep and he burned them. The second set got them the rest of the way to the west coast.
*****
They didn't talk about it. That was the thing, the elephant in the room. "Thank you" and "I'm sorry" were always on the tip of his tongue, pressing on his chest until he could barely breathe around them. But he wouldn't say them, because until he knew she wanted them, they would hurt more than they would help. He wasn't about to hurt her anymore than he had to. He'd already done too much damage.
*****
She found an obstetrician about a week after they found an apartment, which was about two weeks after they'd arrived in the city. He'd put down some nonsense about being a freelance writer, and had several doctored pay stubs from obscure magazines to prove to the landlords that they'd be able to make rent. Their covers - Nathan and Maria Greene - had a perfectly acceptable credit score and modest, but comfortable bank balance. Fury had overseen the set up himself, letting Clint handle it directly so that there was no paper trail back at SHIELD. Then, after they'd been gone for two days, Clint had Natasha completely redo it all so that they weren't even reliant on the SHIELD cover story. It became yet another layer of cover.
After the first doctor's appointment, she came home and just stared out the window at the street for the rest of the afternoon. She never once asked him to go with her.
*****
They had different bedrooms, which was both familiar - because they didn't share rooms at SHIELD HQ - and strange, because it had been years since they hadn't shared a bed outside of their on-base quarters. She'd found the local library about as quickly as she'd found a doctor and spent most of her time either reading or working out. She didn't practice hand-to-hand (at least not when he was around) and seemed to restrict herself to yoga and some of the more form-based martial arts routines. In the middle of a fairly simple tai-chi warm up he saw her lose her balance and stumble. Her hand went to her abdomen for an excruciatingly long moment before she realized what she was doing and dropped it again. He watched as she closed her eyes and found her balance, adjusted for her obviously shifting center of gravity, and began again.
He went back to making dinner because he wasn't sure what else to do.
*****
Natasha was borrowing books in English, because Maria Greene didn't speak Russian or French or anything else exciting. They were obvious picks from the best seller lists of the last ten years or so. Clint realized one afternoon that he wasn't sure if she was borrowing them for forms sake or if she'd actually been wanting to read them. He wasn't even sure how to ask the question.
*****
To keep up his cover story, and because being the house with her - without her - was making him crazy, he started going to the coffee shop up the street. She started making sure that she was already in bed by the time he got home.
*****
He missed heights, and he missed his bow and arrows. He missed the calm center he found while shooting, and the adrenaline / patience amalgam that made up the job and the hunt. He knew she missed it to. He wondered what else she missed. It was another thing he couldn't ask.
*****
He wasn't talking to her, and they weren't spending all that much time together, but he was almost hyper aware of her when they were in the same room. He still focused on her, watched her, memorized her actions and expressions and tried to catalog them to figure out what was going on in her head. He noticed all the little changes, how her movements had slowed down as she tried to compensate for the shift in her muscles, joints, and tendons, how she had to stop and think for the first time in years (maybe decades) about where her body was before she did certain things. He noticed how her breasts got fuller, and with a tearing sensation noticed as her hips and belly rounded. He also noticed that the only time she ever put her hands on her stomach was when she wasn't thinking about it, and he saw how quickly she would move them away when she realized what she was doing.
*****
She took the vitamins her doctor had given her religiously, made sure that she was eating the right things and drinking enough water. She'd stopped drinking coffee and black tea, and limited herself to just one cup of green tea a day. She never missed a doctor's appointment best he could tell but she never mentioned them, either. Their spoken interaction consisted entirely of practical matters like what was for dinner and whether or not anything was needed from the store. And it was killing him.
*****
It stormed. They'd been through plenty of storms, and neither of them had a particular fear of them. In and of itself, the storm wouldn't have done anything, except-.
Except.
Either Natasha had misjudged how loud the thunder was, or maybe the duration, because there was a sudden eerie silence from outside, and Clint heard the unfamiliar but distinct sound of someone crying. He'd been lying on his bed, still clothed because he hadn't had the give-a-damn to strip or even pull back the bed covers, just staring at the ceiling and listening to the storm.
He was tired of this shit. He was tired of living some kind of half shadow life where they didn't know one another anymore. He also wasn't sure if what he wanted to say was going to be more hurtful than what they were doing to each other now.
He was up across the room before he'd even consciously decided to be, and it was only a few more steps down the hall before her door knob was in his hand. He thought about knocking but shrugged it off. It would only give her a chance to send him away, and he wasn't willing to take it.
Lightning ripped through the room and painted highlights over her where she was curled on the bed. Her hair was loose across the pillow and he realized just how long it had gotten. She'd dyed it blonde while they were traveling, and had started wearing it up about two months ago, and now he saw why. It was beautiful though, and he wanted to run his hands through it so badly he clenched his fists.
"Natasha," he said roughly. It almost felt foreign in his throat.
She didn't turn over to face him but he saw her become unnaturally still.
Clint eased himself down onto the bed behind her, perched on the edge so that he was facing away from her, and rested his elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. "I owe you an apology," he started. "More than that, I owe you a hell of a thank you. And I didn't say either one, because the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you more. But what we're doing right now, that's no good, either. So to hell with it, and I'm gonna say them anyway.
"I know you didn't want to do this, and I'm so sorry I didn't understand or stop to think through all the 'whys'. It should've just been enough that you didn't want to and had your reasons. I can't... I don't know, if I'd known about everything, if I'd make the same arguments that I did. Maybe I would've, because I still can't stand the thought of this child not existing somewhere. But I understand more than I did. And if I said 'thank you' every day for the rest of our lives, it still wouldn't be enough.
"I don't want to lose you, Nat. These last few months have been hell on earth. I just haven't known what to do for you."
She was so still he had to suppress the urge to make sure she was still breathing.
"I didn't want you involved. Once I made the decision, I wanted to keep you out of it," she said finally.
Heart in his throat and afraid of the answer, he asked "Why?"
"So you wouldn't get attached. That's why I've never asked you to go with me to the doctor, or anything else. Because you would. You will. And we can't."
"Tasha."
"We still can't. There is no ending where we get to keep her."
He was gripping his knees then, because if he was holding onto something, his hands wouldn't have the chance to shake. "Her?"
"Yes. I burned the pictures. I didn't want you to see them."
To hell with it. He stood, stripped off his boots, socks, and jeans, then turned and got back on the bed, facing her this time. She was lying in the center, but there was enough room for him to settle himself behind her. He grabbed the extra blanket from the foot and tugged it over both of them before looping an arm around her, just below her breasts. She tugged for just a second to try to get loose, then settled when he wouldn't budge.
"This part will hurt you more than it will me," she whispered, the cold practicality he was used to seeing from her edging her words.
"Bullshit," he snapped. "I've seen what this is doing to you, Tasha."
"Not for the same reasons," she amended, but didn't deny it. "I don't like feeling like my body isn't mine anymore. I don't like it changing - being changed - when it's not my doing."
He could see the parallel she was drawing and he buried his face in her hair, pressing a kiss against her neck. His arm loosened around her a bit and he slid his hand around and down so that it covered the swell of her belly.
"Clint, don't..."
"Shhhh. We don't get to keep her. But we have her, and each other, right now. I'm not going to waste anymore of this time while we have it. It's going to hurt either way and I don't care anymore."
There was a shifting against his hand and he froze. "Was that..."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"A month, maybe? It's only just now strong enough to feel it from outside."
There was another little thump against his hand. "It's amazing."
"This is what I was worried about. I can distance myself from this. You can't. You've always had a weakness when it came to children, Clint." It was critical, not indulgent, and something they'd argued about before.
"I don't care, Tasha. Just let me enjoy this. It's the only chance I'm going to get."
He knew she was biting back her reply, and could tell when she gave up and lapsed back into silence. She shifted somehow out of his reach without actually moving a muscle. And she was right, she was absolutely right, but he was well past caring about what was going to happen someday.
*****
She still drew the line at the doctor's appointments, and refused to bring home any pictures or video. But she was letting him get close again, to touch her, and they were talking more. Clint was going to take his victories where and how he could get them.
*****
It was difficult to watch as she lost more and more of her mobility. Subtle things that would be annoying to the average woman were huge blows for her. By the time they'd reached the last few weeks, she'd spent more time sitting in one place than he'd ever seen. She'd also started eschewing either bed for the couch or the recliner and complained that she couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep more than fitfully. She didn't like it when he laid a hand on her stomach, but was grudgingly allowing it because he always asked.
*****
He finally found a family they were both comfortable with. There was nothing in their background checks to indicate they were anything other than what they appeared to be - a childless middle class couple from the suburbs. They had no ties to SHIELD or Russia or the US, or anything else that would make them stand out, and from what he was able to observe they seemed like good people. They were looking for adoption opportunities through their local synagogue, and the Rabbi there checked out too, so he contacted him. He spun a story (under yet another cover identity) about how his wife didn't want to care for a child because of her own traumatic childhood, and that they'd made the difficult decision to find a family more suitable. He made it clear that while he regretted the decision, he wanted what was best for both his wife and the baby. He didn't even have to lie that much, in the end.
******
The labor went as smoothly as such things could go - it was still long and exhausting but Natasha was ridiculously strong and healthy. She refused to breast feed, and after a concerned frown the nurse took the baby away to the nursery for her first meal. Clint took the doctor aside and explained they were giving the baby up, and his expression softened as he laid what Clint supposed was a comforting hand on his shoulder before signing off on the release paperwork for the following day.
Natasha rode up front next to him and didn't speak on the ride back to their apartment, hadn't spoken at all in fact, since the nurse had taken the baby away. He dropped her off first and collected the forged paperwork they'd set up for the adoption, then took the baby and his keys and started the four hour drive north.
******
Clint didn't know any lullabies, but the baby cried, so he sang along with the radio. When that didn't help he turned it off and sang the only songs he could remember all the lyrics to: "Starry Starry Night" and "American Pie".
******
There was a moment, when he handed her to the Rabbi, that she opened her eyes, and it was Natasha's eyes that were looking back at him. Then the Rabbi asked him if she already had a name. They'd never planned to name her anything, had never talked about it, so he was surprised when he found himself opening his mouth and saying "Leah. Her name is Leah."
It wasn't a name that meant anything, or reminded him of anyone. It just seemed to suit her.
He didn't listen to anything on the long drive back home.
******
It was after three a.m. when he got back into the city. The entire building seemed quiet and still when he slipped back into their apartment. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find, but through the crack in the doorway he could see her on the bed, her back to him as she curled in on herself. He could tell by the line of her shoulders she wasn't asleep - and he could only hope that her choice of his bed meant that she wanted him there, too. Each step was deliberate and measured, with no attempt at stealth so she would know he was home, know he was entering the room. Clint sank down onto the edge of the bed, a foot of space between them, and slowly took off his boots, his socks, then shrugged out of his jacket. Only then did he turn and look at her.
Her hair was over her face and he followed the line of light from the window down her shoulder to her arm to her hand, where she had a death grip on a scrap of lavender fabric. It took him several long seconds to realize it was the hat they'd put on the baby's head when she'd left the nursery. It had apparently fallen off between arriving at the apartment and his leaving again - or maybe Natasha had taken it from the car, he didn't know.
"Natasha," he whispered, just her name as he laid his hand on her arm and that was all it took to undo her completely.
The sob was an echo through the room even as she caught it back, tried to choke it down. He clenched his jaw so tightly he thought it might lock in place as he wrapped himself as tightly around her as he could, burying his face in her hair so that he could pretend there weren't wet tracks on his face to match. She shook against him without any other sound for so long he lost track of the time, just gave himself up to the repetitive movement of his hand on her arm.
He did the only thing he had the strength left to do and held onto her like she was the last solid thing in the world.