Fic: Kobayashi Maru 2/3 (The Avengers)
kobayashi maru
Clint/Natasha, mild R. Post - movie, Avengers movie verse. Team. AU. Rest of the meta info can be found in part one
*
Later that day Steve appears at her door - with a smile, box of chocolates and flowers. Fucking flowers.
She should yell at him, but she wants to cry. She doesn't, though, she gives him a bewildered look as he enters her apartment and she carries his gifts as if she's carrying explosives.
“Why did you bring this?” she asks him when he takes a seat. His smile drops a little, but stays on.
“You're pregnant,” he says. “Congratulations are in order.”
“Steve,” she says warningly.
“No, wait,” he smiles softly. “Let me explain,” she doesn't have patience for this, not really, but she feels tired and she doesn't want to be unkind to Steve. “Uh... where I come from, it's a reason for celebration;” he says, like they come from a different place. Essentially, it is the truth. Steve comes from much kinder place than she does.
Steve continues, and he has to be the sweetest fucking person that ever existed.“I understand that you're.... concerned,” he looks at her patiently. “But, it will make you softer. Having a baby will make you softer,” he says, and she needs a moment not to stumble over having - a - baby bit, and the way he says it, like it will happen. The thing is, neither her or Clint have said it, not like that, but from Steve it sounds normal, like all those hero things that are supposed to be done because those are the right things. But she is no hero.
She is about to comment and ask how being softer (or her having a child) should be a good thing, when he continues. “No, that's not what I meant. You already are soft - I mean, everyone is soft, Natasha. There's nothing wrong with that, that's what I wanted to say,” he gets up. She's looking at him in disbelief. Soft is the last thing she would call herself, and soft is something nobody ever called her. Weak, yes, and broken; goddamned shattered; but never soft. In her mind those are connected, only soft is worse than any of them, because it implies kindness and hope and all those things she cannot be.
“I should get going,” he says and smiles, comes closer to awkwardly pat her arms. “We've got your back,” he says. Then he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on her cheek, and she is too shocked to say anything. He leaves her with hands full of flowers and candy, and tears in her eyes.
*
“That music will only make you depressed.”
It's not like Tony to knock, or ask if he may enter. He just does, and after the entire day, and Steve's little intervention, Natasha doesn't want to deal with Tony on top of everything else. She could call Clint, but she can deal with Tony on her own, she has no reservations like she did with Steve, but her body is refusing to cooperate right now.
“When did you become an expert in music?”
“I don't need to be an expert to know that thing is depressing,” He frowns and purses his lips. “It just looks like you're hitting Barton's existential crisis. What is that thing you're listening to?” he walks over the table and picks up the CD case, then sighs. “For God's sake, Romanoff. The River? This will not make you feel better. ”
“That's one of the best rock albums in history,” she deadpans.
“Only 250th place of top 500 according to Rolling Stone magazine. Overrated in my opinion. I came to talk to you,” he turns off the music and sits in the chair across from her small couch and she gives him a glare. She has to pull herself up into sitting position. Carefully, though. Harsh movements could result in nausea, and she doesn't want to puke in front of Tony Stark.
Or, maybe, she should puke on him.
“What if I don't want to talk to you?”
“In that case I'll talk and you'll listen,” he says and leans back in the chair. “I know what's troubling you.”
“Of course. You're very smart,” she says, all false calm and forced control, and leans back. At this point, she has to use most of her strength on breathing, ignoring Tony and not throwing up.
“As the matter of fact, I am. I'm smarter than you think, and no, it's not about me being fucking curious. I just act like that because I know it annoys people, and if something annoys them enough, they react. That's not much different from that thing you do. Besides I like watching how I can … inspire reaction,” he says.
“Someone just might confuse it with rudeness,” she says.
“I don't really care,” Tony shrugs. She watches him through half lidded eyes. “What I do care about is how much we all trust each other,” at that she opens her eyes and directs a glare at him.
“It's a little bit past the point, don't you think? I could have killed you by now, if I wanted to.”
“Not that kind of trust, Romanoff,” he sounds a little tired and he's looking at her with a thoughtful, studious expression, like she is a stubborn science project that's refusing to develop according to his ideas. “We are past that, this is a more subtle matter. Almost more important, if you ask me,” he pauses to just look at her. “Actually it is more important. How long do I know you? It doesn't matter which name you use -”
“Do you have a point, Stark?”
“I do, actually. Names doesn't matter -,” he gets up and walks to her, pulls her upright, and that's really not a good idea. She sucks in a breath, while he's leading her towards a mirror, and at any other time she would just hit him. “What do you see?” he asks.
“Stark,” she bites out, but her best threatening voice doesn't rattle him, he just sets his hands more firmly on her shoulders.
“Start counting. Sooner we get it out of the way, the sooner we can determine what to do about your little situation -”
“Get your hands off me, Tony -”
“Fine, then. I'll give us a head start. Natalia Romanova, Natalie Rushman, Natasha Romanoff. Those I know. Actually, no, I don't really know what Romanova is like. But I know others. You can do all kinds of roles - spy, manipulator, assassin, double agent, personal assistant; one sixth of team Avengers.” He pauses. His words are peeling off layer by layer, and she realizes what he's trying to do. “You can wear any of those masks, or all of them, but the question remains, which one is you? The real you? Do you know that? Is it the one you made yourself after you ran away from the monsters who owned you, Natasha?”
“- stop it,” her voice is a whisper and she doesn't like how it sounds, but she also knows Clint will never have this conversation like her, not like this. Tony doesn't intend sparing her, he doesn't want to deal with things by leaving them unspoken. Tony lives for words which poke at painful places. Clint doesn't treat her like he does because of mercy. But sometimes it's like standing and waiting for the train to crash into her and shatter her to pieces, so she could build herself anew. “You've been rewritten so many times, sometimes you might not know who you are any more. How could you raise another human being then? Give it an identity, a sense of who they're supposed to be, when you're still struggling to give one to yourself?”
All she wants is to push him away, but something stops her. She was trained to notice every detail, find every single weakness, but only weakness she is able to find now is her own. Tony's face is steady and there's compassion in his voice. That's what makes her stay. Not his words. His voice.
“Or can you?” he continues so softly, she can barely recognize him. “Can you do that?”
“Fine,” she says and closes her eyes. Then she's quiet. Moments pass, but Tony keeps her there.
She looks at herself then. Breathes in and out, this is what she does, all the time, every day and every waking moment. She redefines herself, every aspect of herself, all the time, she always ponders, she makes one conscious decision after another. It's like her monsters keep reaching out from her past to drag her back, and she has to steal herself away. Again and again and again. That's what her life is.
“Natalia,” she says. With accent, and her eyes fill with tears. Natalia is somewhere in her past, hidden, buried, and sometimes she still wants to reach and drag her out of there. It goes back to somewhere, some place where a soft voice called her like that. She had forgotten the face, no; it was taken from her; but the voice remained.
She pauses, because she just can't continue; and for once Tony doesn't push. He squeezes her shoulders.
“Natalia, Natalie, Natasha,” he chants, close to her ear, and in the reflection she can see his eyes. “Nobody owns your life but you. You'll decide who you are and who you're not, and trust me, it's something all of us do, but most people don't deal with it on such fundamental level,” he says.
And that is how Tony leaves her. With more tears, and hurt in her chest. It fills her up and bursts outside, leaving her empty, but at the end she feels open and raw, like she was scratched clean.
*
Three days later the nightmares start.
First one is about Loki. Second one is a variation, where Clint's face becomes Loki's and it disturbs her enough to keep her awake for an hour, and not even sound of Clint's breathing next to her helps. Third one, on third night, is about Red Room, taking her child. That one forces her out of the bed.
Natasha isn't afraid of darkness. She isn't afraid of pain or loneliness. Natasha isn't afraid of many things, and maybe that's one of the things so wrong about her.
She knows Clint's apartment by heart - both of them, actually. The one in Stark tower is comfortable, the other one is a hideout. She thinks she would probably feel better in his old place. She likes this one, though, spacious and airy, with big windows and city lights flickering on the outside.
She goes to kitchen and pours a glass of water. She leaves the light on there, but moves to the living room, to sit in front of windows and listen to music. She doesn't really like Clint's music, she tolerates it most of the time. It's sentimental, and most of the time unrealistic in her opinion; sometimes it's just too honest, but right now she'll take annoying and sentimental over images still floating in her mind. Besides it's his.
She knows how he listens his music, what he likes on good days, what he uses to soothe his mind with.
She picks an Emmylou album, sits on a barstool, pulls her bare feet up. There's rain outside, again, and lights flickering around the tower. She feels pleasantly isolated, a lonely soul caught inside a watchtower, as Emmylou's voice uselessly rolls over her mind. She can't calm down. It feels like she's trapped, with sea of voices around her.
“Thought you ran away.”
She turns around. She is distressed; Clint usually can't sneak up on her, especially when he is sleepy like this. But she doesn't ponder on it, because even the sight of him brings something. It brings relief. It's not a new thing per se, she was relieved to see him number of times, but it was mostly, if not every time, in uncertainty of a battle. This is different, this is personal, and intimate. This is something that either builds or destroys a person, and this is Clint, with his familiar hands and eyes.
“Couldn't sleep,” she says and he nods.
“Should have woken me,” He's standing in front of her, fingers brushing her curls away. She looks up at him then and realizes that decision they're still not talking about is taking a solid form in her mind. She's looking at him looking at her, realizing that his music doesn't work without him. She knows her life without Clint would continue. She is the owner of her life, of herself; and it's a notion that comes back to her, over and over, since she decided to trust this man who showed her mercy. She looks at Clint's hands, they give out his true age and extent of his experience. She concentrates on a familiarity she feels with his fingers and palms and the color of his skin. A decision forms in her mind, it doesn't bring relief; but it does help her feel at peace with herself, at least a little. She realizes that she can end this unplanned pregnancy, but she doesn't want to.
There's a change in his expression, as if he could read her thoughts. There's something almost hopeful on his face. Hopes are frail, betraying things in their world. One must be careful with them, not give them wings. She thinks it must be hard not to, as they're looking at each other, and warmth spreads through her chest. Then she thinks, she decides, she's going to do this because of him.
“I mean it,” he says when he takes her hand and pulls her to stand. It feels like he's picking her up a lot lately. “You should have woken me,” he pauses, looks at her long and soft. “Can't sleep?” he asks and she shakes her head. He pulls her closer, and she realizes what he plans to do when he sets her hands on his shoulders. At any other time she would protest. This time she leans into him, slides one hand into his, and he places it against his chest, like in an old movie. Emmylou sings a slow song, one of those Clint loves. Natasha lets herself melt into him, her face against his when they start to dance, slower than the song.
She starts relaxing, as one song flows into another and they move together, two figures against sleepy city lights. She feels tired again, and when she yawns he proclaims it's bedtime. She follows him, and when they curl together, face to face, she takes his hand and places it against her stomach.
“Tash?” he says quietly.
“Yes,” she says. It's a complete sentence, a statement, a decision in one little word and he understands. She knows this, because he kisses her, slowly, softly, and she lets him pull her close and kiss her until her soul aches in her chest.
Natasha understands why she needs him. She tells herself that softer doesn't have to mean weaker. If she repeats it enough times, she might just believe it.
*
Tony stops prying. Mostly. What he does suspiciously feels like caring, but it's still annoying as hell. Natasha tells herself she really appreciates his efforts, but she still prefers Bruce, who is unassuming and mild mannered, and very considerate. There's bitterness to Bruce, and it comes from the experience of being unwanted and feared of, from knowing what it means to lose yourself and become unrecognizable. She can relate to that, and he can relate to her fears. That is what she likes the most, and now she can relax around him.
Bruce does the basic stuff - her blood work and a general physical, and determines she is in good health and shape, and most definitely pregnant. Tony arranges for an obstetrician, a certain Doctor Fletcher, and pays the doctor enough to keep the matters confidential and make house calls.
Natasha decides to go through the first ultrasound alone. She wants privacy, but she also needs some solid footing with this, on her own. But once alone with the doctor, a pleasant lady with soft hands, Natasha is feeling uncomfortable, and wants to keep her eyes closed. She doesn't though, if you meet your fears with closed eyes, you lose; so she keeps looking at the small screen of the ultrasound.
Nothing happens at first. She doesn't feel anything in particular while she observes the screen, except being aware of her heart beating, faster and louder than usual. The doctor smiles at her.
“Everything looks okay,” she says, like Natasha is just another happy expectant woman. The image on the screen shifts.
“Oh,” is all Natasha says. Her eyes are glued to the screen.
“You're eight weeks along, and this,” the woman points with her finger at the screen, “this is your baby.”
Natasha stares. It's real and it's there, it has a shape. It looks like something only becoming human, but she thinks she can see the head, and something that could be arms. It's the moment when it becomes real; as real as the sheet she clutches in her hand.
The doctor gives her advices and leaves her sitting on a gurney when Clint and Bruce poke their heads in, and the rest of the team is hanging behind them.
“Nat?” Clint calls.
She is sitting with a black and white screenshot in her hands, but to her it feels more like a photograph. Natasha doesn't have photographs, she doesn't even remember ever having them. This is her first. And while others remain by the door, Clint comes closer, until he's next to her and she shows him - the first photograph she owns. He holds her then, and she doesn't see how four men by the door share a smile.
*
The conversation with Fury isn't a pleasant affair, but it goes better than any of them expect. Tony insists that the whole team is there and Cap, Thor and Bruce agree. Clint doesn't protest.
Fury, to his credit, doesn't look surprised. Not delighted, Clint thinks, if his general demeanor is anything to go by, but he isn't shocked, and isn't furious either. He definitely isn't a spy of spies for nothing, and no matter how stealthy he and Natasha were about everything going on between them, it seems that Fury was aware of it all along. One doesn't become a superspy by being easily surprised. Clint assumes that he resigned himself with the fact that he can't rule over this team. He can send them to missions but he knows well enough they have to accept to be sent somewhere. Suddenly, Clint feels something completely different and new - or at least, this is when it settles in his mind. He isn't a hired gun any more, not a piece that SHIELD can just pick up and move. Ironically, when he and Natasha marched off into a war with Avengers like soldiers, they became much more than that.
“An agent on a maternity leave? That's definitely a first,” is all what Fury says after the dust of their announcement settles down and he glares at them with his good eye. Next to Clint, Steve is steadily looking back at Fury, and Clint feels, rather than realizes, the meaning of having a team. “I assume you've made your decision?”
Clint realizes another thing then. He really is sentimental, as much as a man like him can be, because he reaches for Natasha's hand under the desk and holds it. She lets him; she gives him a look, but she still lets him get away with it. Tony sees it, but cards are finally on the table and Clint doesn't really care.
“We have,” Natasha says. Clint can hear an anxious undertone to her voice, so he squeezes her hand once more and lets it go. She looks at him and licks her lips. Fury just nods, because he's right on his assumption, he will have an agent on maternal leave; only Natasha isn't merely an agent any more. She isn't replaceable either.
“Fine. I'll see if we can keep you useful, Agent Romanoff,” Clint supposes Fury will never call her anything else, and he is okay with that. Natasha worked hard for that title, she won't be giving it up.
“Actually, I have a suggestion,” Tony pushes a file folder towards Fury. “Those high security facilities we were discussing earlier this month?”
“What about them?”
“Well, I think they'll be even more secure if they're tested by one person who can crack any kind of security,” Tony nods at Natasha, and the tension in the room loosens. “No offense, Barton.”
“None taken,” Clint says. “She does the fun stuff. I shoot.”
“That, actually sounds like a good idea,” Fury settles for it with a sigh. “Barton can help as well,” he suggests and Clint nods, feeling cautious relief washing over him. Fury looks at him and Natasha then. “Have two of you considered security aspects of your situation?”
“If I may, sir -” Tony interrupts and continues before anyone can stop him. “Anyone who'd be crazy enough to do harm to their kid? Would probably die slow and very painful death. Also, they'd have to count on four very angry uncles.”
Fury gives Tony this priceless, incredulous look.
“For once, sir, I agree with Stark,” Steve interjects. “We all do, don't we?”
Bruce nods, and Clint actually feels his heart swelling a little. Okay, a lot. Which is something he didn't expect. He shares a look with Natasha, and finds a reflection of his own feelings in her eyes.
“Is it customary to consider yourself a relative of someone's future child, Stark?” Thor asks.
“If you're crazy enough,” Fury says, not quite successful in covering up amusement.
“Or if you're really good friends,” Bruce adds. Cap looks proud, and Natasha doesn't really know how to react, and Fury looks oddly pleased.
“This will either be the worst thing you could pull on me,” he says and stands. “Or the best.” Team Avengers lets out a mutual sigh of silent relief.
Clint/Natasha, mild R. Post - movie, Avengers movie verse. Team. AU. Rest of the meta info can be found in part one
*
Later that day Steve appears at her door - with a smile, box of chocolates and flowers. Fucking flowers.
She should yell at him, but she wants to cry. She doesn't, though, she gives him a bewildered look as he enters her apartment and she carries his gifts as if she's carrying explosives.
“Why did you bring this?” she asks him when he takes a seat. His smile drops a little, but stays on.
“You're pregnant,” he says. “Congratulations are in order.”
“Steve,” she says warningly.
“No, wait,” he smiles softly. “Let me explain,” she doesn't have patience for this, not really, but she feels tired and she doesn't want to be unkind to Steve. “Uh... where I come from, it's a reason for celebration;” he says, like they come from a different place. Essentially, it is the truth. Steve comes from much kinder place than she does.
Steve continues, and he has to be the sweetest fucking person that ever existed.“I understand that you're.... concerned,” he looks at her patiently. “But, it will make you softer. Having a baby will make you softer,” he says, and she needs a moment not to stumble over having - a - baby bit, and the way he says it, like it will happen. The thing is, neither her or Clint have said it, not like that, but from Steve it sounds normal, like all those hero things that are supposed to be done because those are the right things. But she is no hero.
She is about to comment and ask how being softer (or her having a child) should be a good thing, when he continues. “No, that's not what I meant. You already are soft - I mean, everyone is soft, Natasha. There's nothing wrong with that, that's what I wanted to say,” he gets up. She's looking at him in disbelief. Soft is the last thing she would call herself, and soft is something nobody ever called her. Weak, yes, and broken; goddamned shattered; but never soft. In her mind those are connected, only soft is worse than any of them, because it implies kindness and hope and all those things she cannot be.
“I should get going,” he says and smiles, comes closer to awkwardly pat her arms. “We've got your back,” he says. Then he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on her cheek, and she is too shocked to say anything. He leaves her with hands full of flowers and candy, and tears in her eyes.
*
“That music will only make you depressed.”
It's not like Tony to knock, or ask if he may enter. He just does, and after the entire day, and Steve's little intervention, Natasha doesn't want to deal with Tony on top of everything else. She could call Clint, but she can deal with Tony on her own, she has no reservations like she did with Steve, but her body is refusing to cooperate right now.
“When did you become an expert in music?”
“I don't need to be an expert to know that thing is depressing,” He frowns and purses his lips. “It just looks like you're hitting Barton's existential crisis. What is that thing you're listening to?” he walks over the table and picks up the CD case, then sighs. “For God's sake, Romanoff. The River? This will not make you feel better. ”
“That's one of the best rock albums in history,” she deadpans.
“Only 250th place of top 500 according to Rolling Stone magazine. Overrated in my opinion. I came to talk to you,” he turns off the music and sits in the chair across from her small couch and she gives him a glare. She has to pull herself up into sitting position. Carefully, though. Harsh movements could result in nausea, and she doesn't want to puke in front of Tony Stark.
Or, maybe, she should puke on him.
“What if I don't want to talk to you?”
“In that case I'll talk and you'll listen,” he says and leans back in the chair. “I know what's troubling you.”
“Of course. You're very smart,” she says, all false calm and forced control, and leans back. At this point, she has to use most of her strength on breathing, ignoring Tony and not throwing up.
“As the matter of fact, I am. I'm smarter than you think, and no, it's not about me being fucking curious. I just act like that because I know it annoys people, and if something annoys them enough, they react. That's not much different from that thing you do. Besides I like watching how I can … inspire reaction,” he says.
“Someone just might confuse it with rudeness,” she says.
“I don't really care,” Tony shrugs. She watches him through half lidded eyes. “What I do care about is how much we all trust each other,” at that she opens her eyes and directs a glare at him.
“It's a little bit past the point, don't you think? I could have killed you by now, if I wanted to.”
“Not that kind of trust, Romanoff,” he sounds a little tired and he's looking at her with a thoughtful, studious expression, like she is a stubborn science project that's refusing to develop according to his ideas. “We are past that, this is a more subtle matter. Almost more important, if you ask me,” he pauses to just look at her. “Actually it is more important. How long do I know you? It doesn't matter which name you use -”
“Do you have a point, Stark?”
“I do, actually. Names doesn't matter -,” he gets up and walks to her, pulls her upright, and that's really not a good idea. She sucks in a breath, while he's leading her towards a mirror, and at any other time she would just hit him. “What do you see?” he asks.
“Stark,” she bites out, but her best threatening voice doesn't rattle him, he just sets his hands more firmly on her shoulders.
“Start counting. Sooner we get it out of the way, the sooner we can determine what to do about your little situation -”
“Get your hands off me, Tony -”
“Fine, then. I'll give us a head start. Natalia Romanova, Natalie Rushman, Natasha Romanoff. Those I know. Actually, no, I don't really know what Romanova is like. But I know others. You can do all kinds of roles - spy, manipulator, assassin, double agent, personal assistant; one sixth of team Avengers.” He pauses. His words are peeling off layer by layer, and she realizes what he's trying to do. “You can wear any of those masks, or all of them, but the question remains, which one is you? The real you? Do you know that? Is it the one you made yourself after you ran away from the monsters who owned you, Natasha?”
“- stop it,” her voice is a whisper and she doesn't like how it sounds, but she also knows Clint will never have this conversation like her, not like this. Tony doesn't intend sparing her, he doesn't want to deal with things by leaving them unspoken. Tony lives for words which poke at painful places. Clint doesn't treat her like he does because of mercy. But sometimes it's like standing and waiting for the train to crash into her and shatter her to pieces, so she could build herself anew. “You've been rewritten so many times, sometimes you might not know who you are any more. How could you raise another human being then? Give it an identity, a sense of who they're supposed to be, when you're still struggling to give one to yourself?”
All she wants is to push him away, but something stops her. She was trained to notice every detail, find every single weakness, but only weakness she is able to find now is her own. Tony's face is steady and there's compassion in his voice. That's what makes her stay. Not his words. His voice.
“Or can you?” he continues so softly, she can barely recognize him. “Can you do that?”
“Fine,” she says and closes her eyes. Then she's quiet. Moments pass, but Tony keeps her there.
She looks at herself then. Breathes in and out, this is what she does, all the time, every day and every waking moment. She redefines herself, every aspect of herself, all the time, she always ponders, she makes one conscious decision after another. It's like her monsters keep reaching out from her past to drag her back, and she has to steal herself away. Again and again and again. That's what her life is.
“Natalia,” she says. With accent, and her eyes fill with tears. Natalia is somewhere in her past, hidden, buried, and sometimes she still wants to reach and drag her out of there. It goes back to somewhere, some place where a soft voice called her like that. She had forgotten the face, no; it was taken from her; but the voice remained.
She pauses, because she just can't continue; and for once Tony doesn't push. He squeezes her shoulders.
“Natalia, Natalie, Natasha,” he chants, close to her ear, and in the reflection she can see his eyes. “Nobody owns your life but you. You'll decide who you are and who you're not, and trust me, it's something all of us do, but most people don't deal with it on such fundamental level,” he says.
And that is how Tony leaves her. With more tears, and hurt in her chest. It fills her up and bursts outside, leaving her empty, but at the end she feels open and raw, like she was scratched clean.
*
Three days later the nightmares start.
First one is about Loki. Second one is a variation, where Clint's face becomes Loki's and it disturbs her enough to keep her awake for an hour, and not even sound of Clint's breathing next to her helps. Third one, on third night, is about Red Room, taking her child. That one forces her out of the bed.
Natasha isn't afraid of darkness. She isn't afraid of pain or loneliness. Natasha isn't afraid of many things, and maybe that's one of the things so wrong about her.
She knows Clint's apartment by heart - both of them, actually. The one in Stark tower is comfortable, the other one is a hideout. She thinks she would probably feel better in his old place. She likes this one, though, spacious and airy, with big windows and city lights flickering on the outside.
She goes to kitchen and pours a glass of water. She leaves the light on there, but moves to the living room, to sit in front of windows and listen to music. She doesn't really like Clint's music, she tolerates it most of the time. It's sentimental, and most of the time unrealistic in her opinion; sometimes it's just too honest, but right now she'll take annoying and sentimental over images still floating in her mind. Besides it's his.
She knows how he listens his music, what he likes on good days, what he uses to soothe his mind with.
She picks an Emmylou album, sits on a barstool, pulls her bare feet up. There's rain outside, again, and lights flickering around the tower. She feels pleasantly isolated, a lonely soul caught inside a watchtower, as Emmylou's voice uselessly rolls over her mind. She can't calm down. It feels like she's trapped, with sea of voices around her.
“Thought you ran away.”
She turns around. She is distressed; Clint usually can't sneak up on her, especially when he is sleepy like this. But she doesn't ponder on it, because even the sight of him brings something. It brings relief. It's not a new thing per se, she was relieved to see him number of times, but it was mostly, if not every time, in uncertainty of a battle. This is different, this is personal, and intimate. This is something that either builds or destroys a person, and this is Clint, with his familiar hands and eyes.
“Couldn't sleep,” she says and he nods.
“Should have woken me,” He's standing in front of her, fingers brushing her curls away. She looks up at him then and realizes that decision they're still not talking about is taking a solid form in her mind. She's looking at him looking at her, realizing that his music doesn't work without him. She knows her life without Clint would continue. She is the owner of her life, of herself; and it's a notion that comes back to her, over and over, since she decided to trust this man who showed her mercy. She looks at Clint's hands, they give out his true age and extent of his experience. She concentrates on a familiarity she feels with his fingers and palms and the color of his skin. A decision forms in her mind, it doesn't bring relief; but it does help her feel at peace with herself, at least a little. She realizes that she can end this unplanned pregnancy, but she doesn't want to.
There's a change in his expression, as if he could read her thoughts. There's something almost hopeful on his face. Hopes are frail, betraying things in their world. One must be careful with them, not give them wings. She thinks it must be hard not to, as they're looking at each other, and warmth spreads through her chest. Then she thinks, she decides, she's going to do this because of him.
“I mean it,” he says when he takes her hand and pulls her to stand. It feels like he's picking her up a lot lately. “You should have woken me,” he pauses, looks at her long and soft. “Can't sleep?” he asks and she shakes her head. He pulls her closer, and she realizes what he plans to do when he sets her hands on his shoulders. At any other time she would protest. This time she leans into him, slides one hand into his, and he places it against his chest, like in an old movie. Emmylou sings a slow song, one of those Clint loves. Natasha lets herself melt into him, her face against his when they start to dance, slower than the song.
She starts relaxing, as one song flows into another and they move together, two figures against sleepy city lights. She feels tired again, and when she yawns he proclaims it's bedtime. She follows him, and when they curl together, face to face, she takes his hand and places it against her stomach.
“Tash?” he says quietly.
“Yes,” she says. It's a complete sentence, a statement, a decision in one little word and he understands. She knows this, because he kisses her, slowly, softly, and she lets him pull her close and kiss her until her soul aches in her chest.
Natasha understands why she needs him. She tells herself that softer doesn't have to mean weaker. If she repeats it enough times, she might just believe it.
*
Tony stops prying. Mostly. What he does suspiciously feels like caring, but it's still annoying as hell. Natasha tells herself she really appreciates his efforts, but she still prefers Bruce, who is unassuming and mild mannered, and very considerate. There's bitterness to Bruce, and it comes from the experience of being unwanted and feared of, from knowing what it means to lose yourself and become unrecognizable. She can relate to that, and he can relate to her fears. That is what she likes the most, and now she can relax around him.
Bruce does the basic stuff - her blood work and a general physical, and determines she is in good health and shape, and most definitely pregnant. Tony arranges for an obstetrician, a certain Doctor Fletcher, and pays the doctor enough to keep the matters confidential and make house calls.
Natasha decides to go through the first ultrasound alone. She wants privacy, but she also needs some solid footing with this, on her own. But once alone with the doctor, a pleasant lady with soft hands, Natasha is feeling uncomfortable, and wants to keep her eyes closed. She doesn't though, if you meet your fears with closed eyes, you lose; so she keeps looking at the small screen of the ultrasound.
Nothing happens at first. She doesn't feel anything in particular while she observes the screen, except being aware of her heart beating, faster and louder than usual. The doctor smiles at her.
“Everything looks okay,” she says, like Natasha is just another happy expectant woman. The image on the screen shifts.
“Oh,” is all Natasha says. Her eyes are glued to the screen.
“You're eight weeks along, and this,” the woman points with her finger at the screen, “this is your baby.”
Natasha stares. It's real and it's there, it has a shape. It looks like something only becoming human, but she thinks she can see the head, and something that could be arms. It's the moment when it becomes real; as real as the sheet she clutches in her hand.
The doctor gives her advices and leaves her sitting on a gurney when Clint and Bruce poke their heads in, and the rest of the team is hanging behind them.
“Nat?” Clint calls.
She is sitting with a black and white screenshot in her hands, but to her it feels more like a photograph. Natasha doesn't have photographs, she doesn't even remember ever having them. This is her first. And while others remain by the door, Clint comes closer, until he's next to her and she shows him - the first photograph she owns. He holds her then, and she doesn't see how four men by the door share a smile.
*
The conversation with Fury isn't a pleasant affair, but it goes better than any of them expect. Tony insists that the whole team is there and Cap, Thor and Bruce agree. Clint doesn't protest.
Fury, to his credit, doesn't look surprised. Not delighted, Clint thinks, if his general demeanor is anything to go by, but he isn't shocked, and isn't furious either. He definitely isn't a spy of spies for nothing, and no matter how stealthy he and Natasha were about everything going on between them, it seems that Fury was aware of it all along. One doesn't become a superspy by being easily surprised. Clint assumes that he resigned himself with the fact that he can't rule over this team. He can send them to missions but he knows well enough they have to accept to be sent somewhere. Suddenly, Clint feels something completely different and new - or at least, this is when it settles in his mind. He isn't a hired gun any more, not a piece that SHIELD can just pick up and move. Ironically, when he and Natasha marched off into a war with Avengers like soldiers, they became much more than that.
“An agent on a maternity leave? That's definitely a first,” is all what Fury says after the dust of their announcement settles down and he glares at them with his good eye. Next to Clint, Steve is steadily looking back at Fury, and Clint feels, rather than realizes, the meaning of having a team. “I assume you've made your decision?”
Clint realizes another thing then. He really is sentimental, as much as a man like him can be, because he reaches for Natasha's hand under the desk and holds it. She lets him; she gives him a look, but she still lets him get away with it. Tony sees it, but cards are finally on the table and Clint doesn't really care.
“We have,” Natasha says. Clint can hear an anxious undertone to her voice, so he squeezes her hand once more and lets it go. She looks at him and licks her lips. Fury just nods, because he's right on his assumption, he will have an agent on maternal leave; only Natasha isn't merely an agent any more. She isn't replaceable either.
“Fine. I'll see if we can keep you useful, Agent Romanoff,” Clint supposes Fury will never call her anything else, and he is okay with that. Natasha worked hard for that title, she won't be giving it up.
“Actually, I have a suggestion,” Tony pushes a file folder towards Fury. “Those high security facilities we were discussing earlier this month?”
“What about them?”
“Well, I think they'll be even more secure if they're tested by one person who can crack any kind of security,” Tony nods at Natasha, and the tension in the room loosens. “No offense, Barton.”
“None taken,” Clint says. “She does the fun stuff. I shoot.”
“That, actually sounds like a good idea,” Fury settles for it with a sigh. “Barton can help as well,” he suggests and Clint nods, feeling cautious relief washing over him. Fury looks at him and Natasha then. “Have two of you considered security aspects of your situation?”
“If I may, sir -” Tony interrupts and continues before anyone can stop him. “Anyone who'd be crazy enough to do harm to their kid? Would probably die slow and very painful death. Also, they'd have to count on four very angry uncles.”
Fury gives Tony this priceless, incredulous look.
“For once, sir, I agree with Stark,” Steve interjects. “We all do, don't we?”
Bruce nods, and Clint actually feels his heart swelling a little. Okay, a lot. Which is something he didn't expect. He shares a look with Natasha, and finds a reflection of his own feelings in her eyes.
“Is it customary to consider yourself a relative of someone's future child, Stark?” Thor asks.
“If you're crazy enough,” Fury says, not quite successful in covering up amusement.
“Or if you're really good friends,” Bruce adds. Cap looks proud, and Natasha doesn't really know how to react, and Fury looks oddly pleased.
“This will either be the worst thing you could pull on me,” he says and stands. “Or the best.” Team Avengers lets out a mutual sigh of silent relief.