The Avengers: Clint's Little Girl

"You don't hesitate to call out when you need to get up, even if you think you can handle it," he told her. Firm but caring. Giving orders because they were in her best interest.

Natasha felt something swell inside her, a muscle clenching after all the exercise it had got in the field, hearing his soft words and being held by him. God, what was she feeding inside herself? What was she letting grow that she responded even this much to him?

"Thank you," she said as he went to check on Laura, dinner. He half-turned, clearly surprised that she'd bothered to thank him. Of course, it was just a function of their partnership, one more way he watched her back and she watched his. Didn't need to be said, and excessive politeness didn't exactly fit her profile. But it felt good to say.

"Welcome," he nodded, and left her to it.

Natasha hugged the crutch to her chest, the hominess of the space pressing in on her, her curiosity overwhelming and something else.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to know what this feeling was or if that was just an excuse for more of it.

***

Natasha's musculature pivoted between stiffness and the loose vagaries of pain pills taken at the recommended dosage—twice what Natasha usually indulged in. But it didn't feel right to have the jarring shocks of pain that came with unmedicated healing. She sat through dinner, hazy, loopy, and just tried to keep up with the questions Laura asked to draw her into conversation. Short, clipped answers. She wasn't foggy enough not to notice Clint put his hand on Laura's, silently urging her to lay off. She wanted to be a part of the conversation, but she didn't know how. She just ended up listening as attentively as she could while Laura and Clint went back and forth.

Then it was time for bed, at least for her. Clint volunteered to help her to the walk-in closet and its cot, and she acquiesced. She was surprised when Clint brought her to the master bedroom instead.

"Clint," she said weakly, struggling for linked words with a full stomach and a pilled bloodstream dragging her eyelids down. "It's your home."

"I'll sleep on the couch," he said. "Laura'll take the cot. It'll be fine. Good reminder to me to get that farm bought up." He saw her marshalling to argue the point. "Stretch out, Nat. You've earned it."

He set her down on the bed and there wasn't much she could do but sit there, clutching her crutch. A few minutes passed; she was ready to relinquish the bed if they asked for it back, because surely Laura wouldn't go along with this. And Laura came in, but it was only to grab a book of hers.

She looked at Natasha with fond reproach, meant for Clint, not for her. "I'm guessing Clint forgot a few things."

"I didn't ask for the bed," Natasha said defensively. Didn't ask for his friendship, his care, didn't ask to be welcomed into their home...

"Do you need any help undressing?" Natasha could see Laura realize how that sounded. "Clint's come home with more than a few bandages, and I know it's harder than it looks, getting some things off..."

"Yes," Natasha said. She was letting pain into her voice, displaying it for Laura, and she didn't know why. "Please help me? It hurts."

"Poor dear," Laura said, and went to her. She knelt down to untie Natasha's shoes, pull them off her feet. Then her socks. Then she undid the belt on Natasha's baggy pants, pulled that out of its loops, then the pants down off Natasha's long legs.

Natasha blushed, being displayed to Laura this way. She'd shown a lot more to people a lot more interested, but this felt blunt. Intimate. Laura stood, and put her hands on the hem of Natasha's shirt.

"Can you lift your arms for me?"

"I'll try," Natasha said, pouting now, still not sure why she was drawing all the possible pain from this and putting it into her words, deluging Laura with it. It was this place, these people, she thought.

Laura reached out to her, brushing a lock of hair back behind Natasha's ear, stroking her cheek, then Natasha lifted her arms for her and Laura helped her out of her shirt. Natasha wasn't wearing a bra, and after a moment, she crossed her arms over her breasts. She didn't mind people looking at her—it was body parts, nothing more—but she found herself wondering at Laura's reaction to her body too much to want to allow it.

"I have something that should fit you," Laura said. "It's nice and loose, you'll barely feel it." Her voice lowered to a whisper as she went to the closet to search. "Sometimes, I run it through the dryer, then wear it to bed all warm. When Clint's on a mission, it's a little like having him back where he belongs on the other side of the bed."

Natasha felt a stab of guilt, as if she were intentionally taking Clint away from this woman.

Laura retrieved a sweatshirt in Clint's size from the closet, the name of his alma mater written across the front. Natasha had enough of a grasp of human psychology to imagine the little cold war that had played out, Laura stealing it from Clint, Clint stealing it back, loving it like men could only love worn things, but letting her have it because he realized she needed it more than he wanted it.

Laura pulled it over Natasha, popping her head through the neckhole in a burst of scattered red hair, then tugging the ends down to Natasha's thighs, even helping her pull her arms through the sleeves. There was no lingering warmth to it, lying cold in a closet, clean and waiting, but Natasha could smell Clint on it, smell Laura, like Laura had sat in his lap and snuggled under the sweater with him, her lithe body distending the front, her head poking up through the loose neckhole with his. Close and warm and together.

"Here we go, sweetie," Laura said, dragging Natasha with impressive muscle and impressive care to the head of the bed, laying her down on the pillows, pulling the covers out from under her and then up to her chin. "Is that alright?"

"Uh-huh." It was the drugs, it was her tiredness. She was sluggish and warm, covered in a soft sweater and softer sheets. Everything was smooth and soft. Her wound was a distant star in a far-off galaxy, the light barely reaching her. And Laura was the sun.

Laura lingered over her, stroking Natasha's hair again, her fingers on Natasha's cheek and her lips, cajoling Natasha to be comfortable in this unfamiliar bed.

"Get a good night's sleep, alright? Your phone's on the nightstand, if you need anything just call Clint or me. Promise you will?"

"Yes," Natasha said, as if she'd never defied interrogations that had sent pain blazing through her every pore.

"Good girl," Laura said. "I'm gonna fix you a real big breakfast, so make sure you go to sleep right away. No playing on your phone; I want you up bright and early to get breakfast while it's warm, mmm?"

Natasha nodded faithfully to her question. "Yes," she said again. It felt so good to say yes to her. Yes to this person who only wanted to take care of her. The only person she'd ever met who cared more about her than some mission. No wonder Clint was in love with her.

"Laura?" she asked, her voice younger than ever, softer than she could even recognize.

"Yes?" Laura replied, sweeter than anyone had ever spoken to Natasha. Even the people trying to seduce her would want something from her.

"When was the last time you felt safe? Really safe, like there's nothing in the world that could hurt you. Nothing in all the world..." She didn't usually repeat herself, but Laura had to understand what she meant. Even in the most secure safehouse, you still knew there were people somewhere who wanted you dead. This was the kind of safe when you didn't know there was such a thing as death, a narcotic level of thought that Natasha hadn't known existed until...

"When Clint's here, I always feel safe."

"He makes me feel safe too. But, not the kind of safe I mean. The safe that... lets you sleep as a baby?" It made her feel like she was back in the Red Room, struggling against languages, not having the right word to say how she felt.

Laura sat down on the bed. Natasha's heart raced. She didn't understand, but she felt safer—like she wished Laura would stay there forever like a sentinel, and also not safe. Very, very unsafe, a dog growling at her and Natasha wishing it would just lunge so the tension would be over. A little part of her wanted to be devoured.

"I think I know what you mean," Laura said. "Being with Clint, I know he can take care of me, how he wants to take care of me... but I also know all the things—shit, just some of the things that want to hurt us. And when he's gone, I worry for him so much more than for myself. I guess it's one of those lost innocence things. I wouldn't go back to not knowing Clint for all the world, but back before I knew him—hell, back before 9/11—I remember being a little girl and all I had to do was feel safe was run to my daddy and put out my arms. He'd pick me up and hold me and I'd think about how nothing could get to me, all the way up there, with those big arms around me like a wall."

Laura rubbed at her eyes. She was crying a little, and Natasha hated herself for that, even as she hung on every word that Laura bled.

"He's gone now," Laura said, her voice slightly stiff, like it didn't want to be used. "You can't ever go back to not knowing how the world works. But at least I know there are a lot of people like him in the world, good people... people like you."

Natasha bit her lip, thinking there was no way she could possibly give Laura the comfort she'd described. She could never be that safe.

"Would you go back to feeling that way? If you could?"

Laura wiped her eyes. "Maybe for a little while. A night or two. But I want to go forward too. Clint and I, we both want kids. He thinks I'll make a good mom. I know he'll make a good dad." She smiled at Natasha. "Maybe you should get used to being Aunt Nat."

***

In the night, Natasha wondered whether she would hear them making love, if she strained her ears hard enough. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hear or not.

***

A creaking door jarred her sixth sense. It spoke to how comfortable she was and how safe she felt that it took the comparatively loud sound to wake her: not the feet shuffling at the door, the knob turning, the disturbance in the air patterns that came with a warm body on the other side of the door. Still, she woke, and her training wouldn't let her slip back under without ascertaining who it was, even though she knew who it was, who it had to be.

She opened her eyes, and striding out of slumber and into wakefulness caused a dozen different aches and pains to bloom, rallying on the edge of her consciousness and rushing her as she stirred from barely moving insensateness.

"You awake there, sleeping beauty?" Clint called, knowing she was, able to register the keen awareness of her psyche through some charge in the air. Then he noticed her pain and was quick to drop his good humor, moving to the nightstand and popping the cap on her pill bottle.

He went to the bathroom, filling a glass of water from the sink, and brought it back. He gave her the pills, then tilted the glass to her lips. Natasha could not even protest over him holding the cup for her.

"That's it," Clint said, as she steadily swallowed, not too fast and not too slow, but precisely the rate of the level glass he had at her lips. "That's it... nice and easy..."

"More," Natasha said after she'd drained the glass. "Please, more..."

Clint went back to the bathroom, filled the glass again, and when he came back, Natasha was conscious enough to hold the glass herself, drain it again. He took it from her before she could try to set it down on the nightstand, her coordination still off.

"Time is it?" Natasha muttered, feeling far groggier than she should've. The windows were bright with daylight, and she'd gone to sleep quickly enough, she should've been well-rested.

"11 AM," Clint told her. "Laura went and made breakfast anyway. She doesn't know how much you like sleeping in."

Natasha closed her eyes, trying to push the pain down, center herself until the pills did their work. She was too sluggish to be sharp and too pained to be clear-headed... the worst of both worlds.

Clint smiled at her, reassuring, but his words were almost brusque except for the concern in his voice. "Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

Natasha had a nightmare vision of him helping her out of bed, carrying her to the toilet, sitting her down and waiting outside while she tinkled. She also knew that the only reason she didn't agree was that she didn't need to go. "Uh-uh."

"You hungry?"

She nodded.

"Think you can make it to the kitchen?"

Natasha almost sniffled before she shook her head. The pain was still too present, pressing down on her like weights. The yards to the kitchen seemed insurmountable. Even if he supported her, the simple shift of her weight to and fro would be unbearable. She needed to stay here, in bed, where it was safe from the pain.

"Okay then," Clint said, incredibly little judgment in his voice, like she hadn't been the best agent he'd ever seen before this. "I'm gonna go warm up some food and bring it in for you, alright? Breakfast in bed for the Russian princess. Think you can keep down about a plate?"

Natasha started to nod before it occurred to her that using her voice was more mature. "Yes," she said, sounding almost herself to herself.

"Alrighty. Be right back. Don't try to move."

Natasha laid there, wishing he'd come back. She wondered how many times he'd checked in on her while she was still too asleep, too tired, to notice. She wondered if Laura had checked in on her as well. She wondered why the pain was so much easier to bear when one of them was there, tending to her, almost mothering her—with her own entreaties playing into it, begging them to coo over her injuries and coddle her still more.

She imagined Laura lying in bed with Clint, wrapped in him like she was in his stupid sweater, and wondered if either of them knew how lucky they were.

True to his word, Clint returned in a few minutes, bearing a tray like the one the hospital had used. She wondered if they'd bought it just for her or if Clint had used it while recovering from various injuries.

He set the tray down over her, careful not to spill anything atop it. There was a glass of water, utensils, and a single plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. They smelled delicious despite the secondhand heat of the microwave.

"Thank you," Natasha said, and took hold of her fork and knife in numb hands. Despite her wayward coordination, she was able to summon up enough fortitude to eat, at least, though Clint was there to step in. When she reached for the water, he took hold of it for her and held it to her mouth, helping her drink. She wondered if she should feel embarrassed by the excessive attention. He could've just brought her a straw...

"Nat," he said, stealing a snip of her bacon. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"I don't have anything better to do."

Clint reached for another piece of bacon, and though Natasha made no move to stop him, he pulled his hand back and kneaded both together in his lap. "When you were shot, you kept saying a word, a single word, over and over again. Бата..."

"Батя," Natasha corrected.

"Yeah, that," Clint said. "I was just wondering what it meant."

Natasha was silent. She indicated the water. Clint helped her drink until it was gone.

"If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. The reason I didn't look it up was, well, I figured whether you want me to know—"

She hated him thinking she didn't trust him. "It means 'papa,'" Natasha said. "I was calling out for my papa."

Clint smiled ruefully. "I figured as much. People say all kinds of stuff when adrenaline collides with shock. I was just curious, I suppose."

"Can I have some more water?" Natasha asked.

"Sure. Anything you like."

Clint took the glass with him and thankfully went to get water from the Britta in the refrigerator, not the tap.

It was when he was gone that Natasha let the feelings play over her face. Her lips tremble, her eyes squeeze shut, as she remembered a little more of how she had felt that rainy night and let it bury itself in her consciousness as she forced her mind away from it, into the taste of the bacon and the texture of the toast.

She didn't even remember her father. But she found herself wishing that if she had been raised by him, he would've been very much like Clint Barton.

***

Coulson came to visit her, bringing flowers, which even Clint wasn't cheesy enough to do. Still, she'd known him long enough to know it wasn't a romantic gesture, just a gentlemanly one. He'd do the same for Fury himself, probably, and that was as good an incentive as any to get better. She wanted to be alive to see that.

"Bad luck catching some bullets. Thought I'd see if there's anything I can do."

"Better food," she said. "Clint cooks when Laura's at work."

"I'll bring some lasagna in. Don't think the nurse'll mind."

"Are you kidding? She's worse than the North K."

"Blake's wrapping up the op you faded on. At least the intel you got out let them rule out—"

"Stop," Natasha said. "I can't care about that right now."

Coulson let out a bemused noise. "And here I thought you were too workaholic for me to even bother trying to talk you out of keeping up with current events."

Natasha adjusted herself, raising her body a little and sitting up against the pillows and headboard of the bed. "I used to be a mercenary. My livelihood depended on my work ethic. Now I've got a cushy government job."

"You don't look very cushed out."

"That cannot be real slang."

"Who even knows anymore? You want to have a non-work-related conversation with me, or would you rather wait for Clint to clock in?"

She gave him a look. "I talk about things besides work with people besides Barton."

"Name one."

"Bobbi. She's nice."

"Bobbi does deep-cover assignments, she's incommunicado seven months a year."

"Lots of friends have boundaries."

"There's boundaries and then there's the Berlin Wall."

"You're such a yenta, you know that?"

"Writing reports on Stark gets boring. I have to find something to occupy my time."

"Wanna invade Cuba?"

***

Dinner was earlier than usual. Clint and Laura were having an evening out, tickets for a play Laura had been looking forward to, so they would be rushing through the meal. Natasha made the trip from the bed to the impromptu kitchen, able to move much more freely than she had that morning. She wondered if in all the procedures and tests, the Red Room hadn't done something more to her than break her. Was her current good health just a mixture of steely will and clean living, or did she heal faster than other people? Normal people?

Like she needed one less thing in common with them.

She ate, and was surprised when she was told the food was Clint's recipe. Apparently Laura was teaching him to cook, and he was improving drastically under her tutelage.

It was as she rose, Laura preparing for the night out while Clint cleared the table, that she grabbed her stomach and keeled back down into her seat. Clint vaulted to her, taking her shoulder, steadying her, "Hey, hey! Are you alright?"

Summoned by his psychic distress—they really were on some mutual wavelength—Laura came to the doorway, her make-up only half applied.

"I'm fine," Natasha said, clutching at Clint, trying to pull herself up him, and he reluctantly helped her to her feet to keep her from hurting herself too much in the attempt. "I just felt... dizzy. It's only a few feet back to the bed. Your apartment isn't that big."

Her legs shook. Clint slotted one arm under them, picking her up even as she went boneless. He carried her back to the bedroom, her fingers embedded in his clothes, her eyes drinking in the concern on his face, the sheer feeling that he was giving to her without any effort at all to cajole it out of him.