[fic] The Unexpected Struggles, Lack of Sleep, and Fishy Smell Joys of Parenthood
Title: The Unexpected Struggles, Lack of Sleep, and Fishy Smell Joys of Parenthood
Rating: PG-13 (Clint swears! Blame him!)
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Avengers
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Warnings: Some swearing.
Summary: Clint does his best to cheer Natasha up after she’s restricted to the base following her polar bear plunge.
Word Count: 1158
Author’s Notes: It’s World Penguin Day! This chapter isn’t done, but it’s World Penguin Day and World Penguin Day means there must be penguins! So what better than another of my Peter Lorre series (that really needs its own series name)? There will be more of this coming (eventually), and it follows these stories: #1- Talking Like Peter Lorre, #1.5- Bacon Bits, #2- Swimming Like Peter Lorre.
Though she follows the doctor’s orders, more or less, Natasha’s normally-stellar immune system betrays her and lands her with a whopping head-cold and fever. It’s annoying because she never gets sick and it’s worse because it means she’s stuck on base.
It’s not all bad. Clint is grounded, too, which in the end, turns out to be just as much of an annoyance as it is a comfort. For every bowl of soup and silly movie he brings her, there’s a glance at the ceiling, like he might be able to escape the base by crawling through the ducts. Clint Barton is not a man that likes to be cooped up. That he even manages to keep still through the movies he makes her watch must surely be a sign of his love for them.
He’s cleared to leave the base a before she is. She tries to distract herself by catching up with paperwork. It doesn’t work.
“How was it?” she asks when he comes into the office they both share now, stomping his feet like that might make the feeling in his toes come back faster. She keeps her voice disinterested.
“Cold,” he says, shaking his head. “Colder than a witch’s tit, whatever the hell that means. I hate cold.”
“Probably should’ve thought of that before you picked penguins,” Natasha says, and blows her nose. She hates being sick.
Clint gives her a sour look and jumps around their office like a hyperactive toddler, flapping his arms in a vain attempt to warm up.
“Or Antarctica,” she says.
He sticks his tongue out at her and slouches into his chair. Their desks are against opposite walls, but there’s so little room that they sit back to back. Natasha expected it to be more annoying than it is. It turns out Clint is every bit as serious about his science as he is about being a goofball, so sharing an office space with him isn’t torture. And it mainly works because she smuggled a coffeemaker in as an office-warming present, and they’re both conscientious about keeping the pot full.
(The coffeemaker might actually be a bad idea, though. Stark’s always dropping by “just for a chat” and Natasha can’t help but notice that he always brings an empty mug with him and leaves with a full one. Steve, at least, has the decency to sneak them things from the mess whenever he comes by for a cup of coffee.)
“Who’d you go with?” she asks as Clint logs into his computer.
“Jane, actually. I know-I was surprised, too. I’m still trying to figure out if she was just tired of being inside or she just wanted to see some penguins. I figure it’s both.”
“Mm,” Natasha says. She’s tired of being inside, but Fury’s not letting her out of his sight while she’s still sniffling. “Have a good time?”
“Yeah, but Jane may or may not have slipped in penguin shit and I may or may not have taken a picture or two for posterity.” Clint’s fingers tap against the desktop. “Just like Darcy also may or may not be posting those pictures to the website as we speak.”
Because he can’t see her face, Natasha grins.
“She was remarkably good-humored about it, though. Don’t know if that’ll hold up after Darcy’s done, though.”
“Darcy was Jane’s choice.” Natasha personally would have picked a social media intern that doesn’t inject things like “Hashtag Oh my God!” in conversations with a straight face, but Darcy has her charms. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Her pants ripped. You were right: Dr. Seuss long-johns.” A five dollar bill folded like an airplane lands on her keyboard. She glances behind her, but Clint is focused on his computer and apparently didn’t even have to look to toss the projectile correctly. She can almost hate him for that.
She picks up the five dollar bill instead and admires the neat creases. Easiest fiver she’s won off of Clint. “Is this all you brought me?” she asks. She’s bored, her computer’s still rendering the tracking pattern data on the cows she managed to tag before she took a swim in the ocean and ended up on bed-rest, and so maybe she’s feeling playful.
Indeed, Clint swivels around in his chair and gives her a mock-surprised look. “I have to bring you things now?”
“A girl likes to be appreciated,” she says, keeping her voice deadpan.
“Oh, I can appreciate you. I can appreciate you hard,” Clint says, and with an evil grin, he turns back to his monitor.
Natasha suspects this conversation might have derailed somewhere, and Fury’s probably not going to like the results.
It starts with a pebble, left on the corner of her dinner tray when she goes to get a second helping. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he says the reddish hue reminds him of her hair. And then he does a rather impressive bit of dramatics that involve being loudly disappointed that she’s not fawning over the rock.
The feather-all white, tipped with a dot of black at the end-is left on her pillow. She doesn’t appreciate the mites and lice it probably holds, but it’s a pretty feather. She uses it for a bookmark. Other gifts follow: a bit of driftwood twisted into a star, a couple of green pebbles to match her red one, a piece of ice that Clint assures her looked just like Fury’s face before it melted into a puddle all over her chair, and other bits and pieces that convince Natasha that Clint Barton has spent far too much time in the company of penguins.
When the office door opens, signaling Clint’s return from yet another trip out to the local chinstrap community, she looks up to make just that remark. She pulls up short when she gets a look at him. He’s still in his outdoor gear. As much as he hates being cold, Natasha can’t help but notice that he’ll strip down to the minimum of clothing at any given opportunity. Hell, last week she caught him in a sleeveless shirt.
Not that she’s complaining or anything. It’s just an observation, and Natasha prizes herself on being an observant person.
But not only is he still geared up, there’s wide-eyed excitement on his face. He’s got both hands inside his jacket. She can’t help but be a little fearful as she asks, “Oh, God, Barton, what have you brought me now?”
“The more suitable question, Nat, would be ‘What have I brought us?’” Clint’s eyes are practically shining with excitement as he pulls his hands out of his jacket. Clutched in them are two eggs, mottled and off-white.
Natasha gapes. She’s Russian, they don’t really gape, but she’s been around expressive Americans long enough that she indulges herself in a long, startled stare. It doesn’t make the eggs go away.
“Congratulations!” Clint says. “We’re parents!”
Rating: PG-13 (Clint swears! Blame him!)
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Avengers
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Warnings: Some swearing.
Summary: Clint does his best to cheer Natasha up after she’s restricted to the base following her polar bear plunge.
Word Count: 1158
Author’s Notes: It’s World Penguin Day! This chapter isn’t done, but it’s World Penguin Day and World Penguin Day means there must be penguins! So what better than another of my Peter Lorre series (that really needs its own series name)? There will be more of this coming (eventually), and it follows these stories: #1- Talking Like Peter Lorre, #1.5- Bacon Bits, #2- Swimming Like Peter Lorre.
Though she follows the doctor’s orders, more or less, Natasha’s normally-stellar immune system betrays her and lands her with a whopping head-cold and fever. It’s annoying because she never gets sick and it’s worse because it means she’s stuck on base.
It’s not all bad. Clint is grounded, too, which in the end, turns out to be just as much of an annoyance as it is a comfort. For every bowl of soup and silly movie he brings her, there’s a glance at the ceiling, like he might be able to escape the base by crawling through the ducts. Clint Barton is not a man that likes to be cooped up. That he even manages to keep still through the movies he makes her watch must surely be a sign of his love for them.
He’s cleared to leave the base a before she is. She tries to distract herself by catching up with paperwork. It doesn’t work.
“How was it?” she asks when he comes into the office they both share now, stomping his feet like that might make the feeling in his toes come back faster. She keeps her voice disinterested.
“Cold,” he says, shaking his head. “Colder than a witch’s tit, whatever the hell that means. I hate cold.”
“Probably should’ve thought of that before you picked penguins,” Natasha says, and blows her nose. She hates being sick.
Clint gives her a sour look and jumps around their office like a hyperactive toddler, flapping his arms in a vain attempt to warm up.
“Or Antarctica,” she says.
He sticks his tongue out at her and slouches into his chair. Their desks are against opposite walls, but there’s so little room that they sit back to back. Natasha expected it to be more annoying than it is. It turns out Clint is every bit as serious about his science as he is about being a goofball, so sharing an office space with him isn’t torture. And it mainly works because she smuggled a coffeemaker in as an office-warming present, and they’re both conscientious about keeping the pot full.
(The coffeemaker might actually be a bad idea, though. Stark’s always dropping by “just for a chat” and Natasha can’t help but notice that he always brings an empty mug with him and leaves with a full one. Steve, at least, has the decency to sneak them things from the mess whenever he comes by for a cup of coffee.)
“Who’d you go with?” she asks as Clint logs into his computer.
“Jane, actually. I know-I was surprised, too. I’m still trying to figure out if she was just tired of being inside or she just wanted to see some penguins. I figure it’s both.”
“Mm,” Natasha says. She’s tired of being inside, but Fury’s not letting her out of his sight while she’s still sniffling. “Have a good time?”
“Yeah, but Jane may or may not have slipped in penguin shit and I may or may not have taken a picture or two for posterity.” Clint’s fingers tap against the desktop. “Just like Darcy also may or may not be posting those pictures to the website as we speak.”
Because he can’t see her face, Natasha grins.
“She was remarkably good-humored about it, though. Don’t know if that’ll hold up after Darcy’s done, though.”
“Darcy was Jane’s choice.” Natasha personally would have picked a social media intern that doesn’t inject things like “Hashtag Oh my God!” in conversations with a straight face, but Darcy has her charms. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Her pants ripped. You were right: Dr. Seuss long-johns.” A five dollar bill folded like an airplane lands on her keyboard. She glances behind her, but Clint is focused on his computer and apparently didn’t even have to look to toss the projectile correctly. She can almost hate him for that.
She picks up the five dollar bill instead and admires the neat creases. Easiest fiver she’s won off of Clint. “Is this all you brought me?” she asks. She’s bored, her computer’s still rendering the tracking pattern data on the cows she managed to tag before she took a swim in the ocean and ended up on bed-rest, and so maybe she’s feeling playful.
Indeed, Clint swivels around in his chair and gives her a mock-surprised look. “I have to bring you things now?”
“A girl likes to be appreciated,” she says, keeping her voice deadpan.
“Oh, I can appreciate you. I can appreciate you hard,” Clint says, and with an evil grin, he turns back to his monitor.
Natasha suspects this conversation might have derailed somewhere, and Fury’s probably not going to like the results.
It starts with a pebble, left on the corner of her dinner tray when she goes to get a second helping. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he says the reddish hue reminds him of her hair. And then he does a rather impressive bit of dramatics that involve being loudly disappointed that she’s not fawning over the rock.
The feather-all white, tipped with a dot of black at the end-is left on her pillow. She doesn’t appreciate the mites and lice it probably holds, but it’s a pretty feather. She uses it for a bookmark. Other gifts follow: a bit of driftwood twisted into a star, a couple of green pebbles to match her red one, a piece of ice that Clint assures her looked just like Fury’s face before it melted into a puddle all over her chair, and other bits and pieces that convince Natasha that Clint Barton has spent far too much time in the company of penguins.
When the office door opens, signaling Clint’s return from yet another trip out to the local chinstrap community, she looks up to make just that remark. She pulls up short when she gets a look at him. He’s still in his outdoor gear. As much as he hates being cold, Natasha can’t help but notice that he’ll strip down to the minimum of clothing at any given opportunity. Hell, last week she caught him in a sleeveless shirt.
Not that she’s complaining or anything. It’s just an observation, and Natasha prizes herself on being an observant person.
But not only is he still geared up, there’s wide-eyed excitement on his face. He’s got both hands inside his jacket. She can’t help but be a little fearful as she asks, “Oh, God, Barton, what have you brought me now?”
“The more suitable question, Nat, would be ‘What have I brought us?’” Clint’s eyes are practically shining with excitement as he pulls his hands out of his jacket. Clutched in them are two eggs, mottled and off-white.
Natasha gapes. She’s Russian, they don’t really gape, but she’s been around expressive Americans long enough that she indulges herself in a long, startled stare. It doesn’t make the eggs go away.
“Congratulations!” Clint says. “We’re parents!”