#frobster

He can see exactly how messy her hair is as he gets closer, sleep-rumpled and wavy and tousled like someone’s had their hands in it, and Clint’s smile widens because he knows how much Pietro likes to mess with her hair when he’s small and she’s holding him.  About as much as he likes playing with her necklaces, or wrapping a gentle fist around the strap of her bra or cami to clutch onto, because he’s a clingy little mama’s boy at heart.

The thought doesn’t even bring with it the vague pinch of jealousy that it had used to, back when Nat and Pietro had first started getting closer and Clint had feared what that meant for him.  Now, the picture feels so natural, feels so perfectly full, and it’s so easy to round the sofa, so easy to smile warmly at his two loves and sit himself on the arm of the sofa by a sleeping Pietro’s socked feet and slot himself into the quiet.

“You’re back late,” Nat whispers, her voice the familiar playfully accusatory tone she often uses with him, but it’s still soft - so much so that he has to read her lips - and warm with the now equally familiar peace she finds in being Mama.  Her hand is in Pietro’s messy white hair, short nails carding through the strands, and he’s curled fast asleep against her bare thigh below the hem of her sleep shorts with a sky blue paci in his mouth.

They make such a tender picture that Clint can do nothing but once again use as many expletives as he knows to mentally curse the meeting which had pulled him away hours ago, when Pietro was quiet and sweet and just starting to regress.  Those are some of Clint’s favourite moments, coddling his little boy and helping to steadily ease him down from the stresses of all of their lives and the specific traumas of Pietro’s, but it seems that Nat’s done a pretty damn fine job alone.  Fine enough to wrangle Pietro into a pull-up and baby blue onesie - things he rarely allows unless he really, fully regresses, and regresses well - so perhaps Clint isn’t quite as bitter as he could be.

It’s a unique luxury, after all, to be able to step right into a scene like this.

“I’m ever so sorry, my dear,” he whispers back, tone grave with a Transatlantic accent fitting of old television and a dramatised remorse that makes Nat’s lips curl into the sort of smile that’s as close as she gets to laughing.  “At the very least, I trust you did well playing housewife with the baby while Daddy was at work?”

That earns him a shove, executed so gracefully that it doesn’t even jostle Pietro between them, and Clint has to bite back some sincere laughter of his own, diving off the couch with his hands held up in defence.

“Okay, okay, I’m the housewife,” he concedes, abandoning the accent, and Nat gives him a nod of stern approval, still sweetly petting Pietro’s soft hair with her other hand.  He hadn’t been truly disturbed at all, but some part of him must still recognise the soft-spoken commotion and what it means for his companionship nonetheless, because he snuffles and begins to stir against Nat’s thigh.

“Mama...?” is the first thing out of his mouth, thickly accented and hoarse with sleep, and Nat’s eyes practically sparkle as she looks down at him, twirling a pale curl around her finger.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she murmurs, giving him a moment to rouse a little more before she continues.  “Did you have a nice nap? You didn’t sleep for very long.”

Pietro slurs something that’s maybe words, maybe English, but seems satisfied that it’s response enough.  He’s rarely particularly talkative when he’s little, especially not when he’s tired, but he’s got his own language of clumsy English and half-formed Sokovian and mumbles and noises and gestures which Nat and Clint are both pretty fluent in.  Like right now - Clint knows that that mumble means Pietro is bone tired but entirely content, and it’s enough to make him grin like an idiot, heart thumping in his chest with the kind of adoration that aches.

“Too sleepy to say hi to Papa, then, ‘Tro?” he teases, voice soft, and his grin widens impossibly when Pietro’s pretty blue eyes dart open to find him.

“Papa!” he gasps, sending his paci tumbling to be caught by the clip on his collar.  Clint opens his arms and Pietro is diving into his embrace in a single moment.  Both Natasha and Clint recoil from the natural vertigo of watching Pietro use his powers - which he’s not allowed to do when he’s small, but sometimes he just can’t help it - sending a brief swirl of silver through the air, but it passes in a moment and Clint can’t help but laugh.  He presses kisses to Pietro’s soft, messy hair and cuddles him so tightly he can almost feel himself getting bruises from where the boy’s bones jut in sharp angles, listening to his baby mumble and coo as he settles.  Still sleepy - so tiny.

“God.  How’d you get him so young?” he can’t help but ask Nat in a whisper, breathy with wonder, and he looks up over the mop of silvery hair in his face to see her smiling.

“He must’ve needed it,” she replies, reaching out to smooth down some of the curls tickling Clint’s nose and then leaning in to kiss them both in turn - Clint’s nose and the crown of Pietro’s head.  Pietro coos again then, reaching out clumsily for her, and she takes his hand and holds it tightly, more than used to the routine of assuring him that she’s there - that she isn’t leaving.  Clint wants to kiss her then too, watching the way her fingers curl with Pietro’s, her grip strong and protective even though her hands are so much smaller than his, but he can’t reach like this, not without disturbing Pietro curled tightly in his lap.

Instead, he kisses Pietro again, kisses his temple and the corner of his eye and the warm apple of his cheek and finally the pulse point in his neck, pausing there to feel the rapid thumpthumpthump which once upon a time made him anxious and now relaxes him like nothing else can, and Nat smiles like she can feel it through him, all of the love Clint has for the both of them.  In her smile, Clint can feel the love she has for them, too - and, in Pietro’s one hand curled tightly in his shirt and and the other hand curled tightly with his Mama’s, he can feel the love their little boy has for the both of them.

Love enough that he doesn’t want to let either of them go, and he whines heartbreakingly when Nat tries to slip away a little while later.  She coos at him then, murmuring soothingly until he settles, and then she waits again until his grip on her finally, finally loosens, transferring to cling tighter to his Papa.

She kisses his forehead before making her way to the kitchen, steps loud and purposeful to serve as a reminder of her presence enough so he doesn’t get anxious, and Clint squeezes him comfortingly as he lays back across the warm couch cushions, hoping to distract the boy.  Feeling decidedly sleepy himself, he’s more than content to watch the movie still softly playing while Nat potters around the kitchen, only pulling his attention away long enough to clean Pietro’s paci off and pop it back into his mouth before he can start sucking on his fingers, but then he’s gone.  He’s practically asleep when Natasha returns, cooing something teasing that pulls a giggle from Pietro before he’s lifted carefully from Clint’s arms.

Clint opens his eyes blearily, attempting to stifle a yawn as he searches the room, but it turns into a lazy, definitely unattractive sort of smile when he finds what he’s looking for.  Pietro and Nat are curled together in the arm chair, ‘Tro’s paci dangling again as he suckles instead on his favourite sippy cup - the one with the smiley turtle on it.  Nat interrupts him every few sips or so to cajole a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, and he takes each one with considerably less fuss than usual.  Either he’s particularly hungry - which happens just about every hour - or she put sugar and honey in it, which is a luxury enough to warrant Pietro not fussing during mealtime.  Clint watches them for as long as he can, heart warm, but finally the relaxation of his environment truly catches up with his early start and dull, stressful work day, and he dozes again.

Some time later, he’s dimly aware of a warm, wriggly bundle being laid down atop him again - the press of a pacifier guard against his neck as the bundle snuggles down and settles.  Another body joins them a few moments later, laying beside them on the edge of the sofa and pressing close, and even almost entirely asleep he manages to wrap them both up in his arms, easy as anything.

And the three of them rest.

(At least until Nat pokes Clint awake a few hours later, smiling sugary-sweet, and tells him to go cook dinner like a good housewife.