russianchildatprayer

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He ached pretty much everywhere. 2 months of infiltrating a drug ring that operated from India and the only reason Clint was still vertical was pure, childish stubbornness and pride. Because if there was one thing that would never happen, it would be Clint Barton admitting defeat in line of sight of annoyingly chipper early-20s baby agents. They had been there the entire time. When they picked him up with the chopper, flying the quinjet and now, back at HQ in Washington.

Fuck, he was too old for this shit. He was pushing 40 and ... well, in all honesty, being 80% stay-at-home dad had meant he was way behind on his physical. Not that he had told anyone that.

God, he just wanted to sleep for a week. And see his daughter. That was #1 on the list. Fuck, she was probably twice as big now. He wanted to see Nat, too. Of course, he always did. It just felt heavier, thinking about her, than it usually did. Fuck, he missed her. He missed her so much. Her laugh, her smile, the way the sunlight made her hair glow ...

Clint shook himself from where he'd apparently been staring at a blank wall for minutes.

Crap, he needed to sleep. 

He packed away what he didn't need in New York and then jumped on the next possible Shuttle to New York. Well, shuttle might be pushing it. High-jacking a delivery jet that was meant for New Jersey but was manned with a green agent that owed him was more like it. Clint rappelled down from the jet onto Tony's landing pat and nearly cried from happiness.

Home. 

Though he knew JARVIS couldn't lie to Tony, he still hoped the A.I. would keep his home coming under the wraps for as long as possible. Family first then ... extended family.

Clint made sure to open the be quiet when he stepped onto their floor. If there was one thing he had learnt since becoming a father, it was to never wake his daughter if she happened to be asleep.

Currently, there were two very different approaches to Clint's live. On the one hand, he was absolutely happy to know Natasha was home. She was home with the best possible medical care at her fingertips, his daughter seemed fine, too. Still growing and moving when he talked to her and, well, it all came together pretty much like it should ... from an outsiders perspective. And Clint was grateful, so fucking grateful, that they were still both there. Also grateful that Fury seemed to have eased off a little, only sending Clint on run-of-the-mill surveillance ops that hardly took him out of the city at all.

On the other hand though, Clint had to deal with the Black Widow. With the Black Widow not only limited in her movements due to her pregnancy, but also not allowed to move at all. Well, sure, she was allowed to roll from her left to her right side, she was allowed to hold a book or a tablet but ... she wasn't allowed to get up. It wasn't the business with the bedpan, it wasn't that he minded massaging her every night so the soreness in her muscles eased a little. Heck, he loved every moment he was allowed to touch her at all these days so really, that wasn't the issue. And he loved her, he really truly did but ... well, it had been a while since Natasha had been in any type of welcoming mood and it was getting difficult.

As it was, Clint was wiping sweat from his face in the elevator back up to their floor after a slightly extended morning run (hey, he needed a moment after the morning he'd had, and it wasn't even 9AM) when the doors opened halfway up and someone from medical stepped in with him. Clint vaguely remembered the guy as someone who'd treated Nat at some point, nothing big just checking her blood pressure that sort of stuff, and was surprised to find the guy's kinda frantic gaze on him.

"Oh, good, Agent Barton! I tried to contact Agent Romanoff but she's ... anyway - she's cleared. Well, cleared-ish ... not entirely cleared, but she can, you know move. As in walk, I mean she can walk. Not too much because I know she's a walker and ... just ... in the apartment, trip outside through central park, that sort of thing. Just not more, OK? And she has to come in for a check-up first thing Thursday morning, 0800."

It was said in a rush, nervous and absolutely confusing and it took Clint until the guy was off the elevator again to realise what he'd really said. Who ever had recruited him really needed to rethink their options. But then the penny dropped and Clint couldn't remember the last time a sigh had actually brought that much relief.

Clint knew it was creepy. It was creepy and it was pushing boundaries that he usually never would have pushed and it could mean the end to a lot of things but he didn't care any more. He was not under the illusion that what ever had been brewing between them was true love, he wasn't stupid enough for that (though he might just be recless enough). But it had been something, he was sure of it. And even if it would never have a physical side, if was still a damn good and solid and important partnership. Or at least he had thought so.

So yes, he was hurt. And he was pissed off. Did she really think so little of him? SHIELD never had any complains but, hey, the Black Widow had different standards. So why hang out the entire time? Why even bother with the nice facade when she never bothered with anyone else? She said she was scared (or had she?). Afraid for him. Well tough, so was he, too, when they were out in the field together, it was how the whole human interaction thing worked, right?

Sitting in the dark on the small cot of Natasha's base quarters, arms and legs crossed, Clint forced himself to take a deep breath. She would probably be pissed off enough as it was, what with him breaking into her quarters through the air ducts. But he didn't care. He'd heard from Coulson that she was coming back and he was going to sit his butt right down where he was, on the too small pillow and wait for her and then they would be having words, whether she liked it or not.

PRAYER VERSE - The Future

✗ NATASHA AND CLINT // BURN MY SHADOW [►]

Send in ⁇ for my muse’s reaction to walking in on yours while bathing

Clint was late, sooo late. And that on a morning that had already been just this side of shitty, considering he woke up not only late, but alone. Not that Natasha being up earlier than him usually was something unknown (though a lot less common these days), shuffling (on in today's case - running madly) into the kitchen for a cup of coffee to find the rest of the flat empty - not so normal any more.

No note, either. And everything had been fine last night, hadn't it? Jesus, had he done something stupid without realising? He was pretty sure he hadn't. Clint was half-way through his coffee, clad still in boxers and nothing else, this close to an annoyed mini-panic, when his phone started playing in the bedroom. Phil's tune. Right, late. Already crazy late when he woke up ...

Practically flinging the half-full cup of coffee into the sink, Clint legged it back into the bedroom. He'd call Natasha on the way, he'd probably just been hogging too much and now she just needed a few days to breathe. That was fine, he could do that. He'd lived on his own for years! He'd embrace the freedom. He'd drink lots of beer and watch ... baseball or something. Smoke a cigar. Do the dude thing. He'd invite Tony over and Cap and Bruce and Phil and they would ... huh?

Shirt still unbuttoned (all his T-Shirts were dirty, OK?) and struggling with the buttons of his Levis, Clint nearly stumbled over his own naked feet when he blundered into the bathroom only to be met with a wall of moist hotness that seemed to hang in the air.

"What the ... Tash?!"

And there she was, all gloriously naked and wet, the rise of her breasts and stomach peeking out between the slowly fading bubbles and she looked so relaxed ...

"Jesus Christ, warn a guy!" Why was he snapping? "I could have fucking shot you! If I had, you know, something to shoot with."

Somehow, he felt angry now, though he refused to believe it was only because he'd been worried for nothing, because this entire being-in-love and having-a-family-thing sometimes threw him for a loop bigger than he anticipated.

"Thought you'd just fucked off, which was a nice surprise to wake up to, by the way. And thanks a lot for switching off my alarm, because we need another reason for Fury to be pissed." He nearly impaled himself on his toothbrush, scrubbing away angrily. Rinse, spit, dry and out.

Breathing as if he'd run a marathon, he just stood in the bedroom. Dirty T-Shirts thrown left and right, covers all over from where he'd tried to find his phone, one sock hanging from a lamp, half of Nat's underwear in rainbow colors all over the floor. Pretty much looked like he felt inside. Which was messy, sure, but most of all stupid.

He had been stupid. So fucking stupid.

"Nat, I'm sorry," he called before he had even made it back into the bathroom, hanging his head a little in shame. He poked his head around the doorway again. "Just ... I'm late and ... you were gone and ... talk to you tonight?" He smiled a little, walking in and squatting down in front of the tub. Head leaned on the edge of the tub, he let his left hand hand in the warm water, rubbing a soft hello to his daughter.

It had been dark when he'd woken up. Dark and the smell of antiseptic ointment had bitten and fuck, his entire left side throbbed, painkillers or not. His leg, for the moment, seemed to have shut up and whatever had happened when he'd had his head smashed to the floor obviously hadn't been that bad. Then again, he'd always had a thick skull.

He lay in the quiet for a second, only long enough to really wake up, when the door opened and Coulson stepped in.

"Hey boss," Clint croaked, waving with his right hand. "What's the verdict?" He wanted to ask where Natasha was, wondering if she was all right, if there was something he should know because .. well, because she wasn't there.

They'd stayed on the comms, exchanging very random quips about old missions until med evac had dragged him out and started poking him with needles. He thought he remembered her saying she was on her way but he couldn't be sure. Minutes later the world had blacked-out.

"One cracked rip, one only bruised, light concussion and there was something in the bullet you took to the leg. Some sort of poison, but they got rid of that quickly." His handler gave Clint and indulgent smirk. "4 days in here, 2 weeks sick leave."

Clint groaned, head hitting the flat pillow behind him. "No," he said in the end and used his right hand to throw the covers back. "Definitely not. Sorry sir but ..." He looked up quickly. "You know where I gotta be, especially because she's not here so ..." He nodded, as if that explained it all and to Coulson it did. He didn't even so much as sigh deeply, just gave the tiniest of eye-rolls.

"She is perfectly fine, Barton. No need to be a drama queen." The older man somehow magiced a small pile of papers from somewhere and, together with a pen, held it out to Clint. "I ordered her to go home, she was exhausted and, frankly, a shower was in order."

Clint threw Coulson a look, squinting slightly while he signed the discharge papers. "If you say so," he settled with in the end. Thank fuck it was dark, meaning there were less people around to try and talk him into staying. He'd had the discussion too many times with Coulson already and hey, he was still here so really, he knew when was early enough to leave.

Still, he did let Coulson wheel him out of the medical bay and into the elevator before hitting the button to his floor. He hoped that Natasha would be there and even if she wasn't - he needed something to wear that wasn't a hospital gown.

"I trust you will actually stay in bed for at least 2 days?"

Clint rolled his eyes and grinned. "Aw, come on Coulson. You know me, course I am." Thinking further, his grin turned into an honest smile. "A daughter, Phil. Gonna be a dad," Actually saying it aloud to someone else, another person he cared about it ... it made it so real, Clint had to swallow a few times. His fingers drummed on the handle of his wheelchair because, damn, he needed to get to where Natasha was. And hell, he'd be a model patient as long as it kept Natasha close and as long as he knew in a few short months, he'd get to hold his daughter in his arms, bounce her on his hip and have her cling giggling to his leg while he walked around the tower.

Phil's hand on his shoulder made him look up, and he answered the honest smile he found. Then, the elevator binged opened.

"Tell Skye thanks, will you?" He was back to grinning. "Might not be half bad, that team of yours." Then he wheeled himself the rest of the way, the soft light coming from the living room letting him know that Natasha was, after all, there. He found her curled up on the couch and couldn't help leaning over, hand slipping under the blanket and coming to rest on her belly.

Clint woke slowly. That in and off itself wasn't his usual MO. Living his life, slowly resurfacing to the normal world wasn't something he could usually afford to do and while the rational part of his mind knew he was safe where he was, there were a lot of irrationalities in his everyday behaviour and waking like a shot was fired just happened to be one of them.

Not today though. He woke slowly, all kinds of warm and comfortable and, what was even better, not alone.

Right, Christmas. Setting up a little tree, surprising Natasha, touching her and finally moving with her again. Somehow, miraculously, in one night they had found their groove again. At Clint had let go of most of his fears. He was still dead set on making it up to her, but he didn't feel like he was on the verge of losing her any more. Losing them any more.

Grinning to himself, eyes still closed, he snuggled closer, just a little bit. Yup, done good Barton. Turned it around for yarself, stupid dick that you are. He didn't really want to move, would much rather reenact some of what happened last night after they'd stumbled back to the bed ... or before, or in between ... but it was Christmas morning and he had promised Natasha pancakes, so pancakes it was.