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Entry tags:
Avengers - Breathing Exercises
Title: Breathing Exercises
Genre: Gen, Clint & Natasha Friendship
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~6,500 words
Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence
Synopsis: She can use the time to prepare for the inevitable, or to plot her escape. She's not sure which she prefers. [Clint brings the AWOL, and pregnant, Natasha home.]
Author's Notes: Sequel to Breathe Again [LJ | DW | AO3], and will only really make sense if you read that first. Also, this is one of the very few times I have actually completed a sequel - go me?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
If anyone asked, she would speak of her annoyance that Clint had found her. She would make a scathing remark about how long it took him and how rusty his skills were even as she made even more dour remarks about how it must have been the hormones that made her sloppy enough to leave a trail he could follow to her doorstep.
If left alone to her own thoughts she might concede that there was a palpable sense of relief when she heard his voice, that something tight within her unwound just the slightest of bits to know that she did not need to go through this alone, that her most trusted of allies - someone she dared to call friend - would be there at her side.
Fortunately for her, he rarely left that side and she barely had time to even contemplate being alone before he returned so she was prevented from having to come to this realization more often than not and could rely on snide remarks even if they earned her a knowing eye roll and the barest hint of a smirk.
She quit her extremely bland and boring Admin job the day after his arrival. She went in and gathered her few fake belongings and wove a tale of her family begging her to come home now that the baby was so close to being due and, with a hand purposefully rubbing the bulge of her belly, how maybe they could get past their differences with the new life providing new opportunities for them all. Sandra, her immediate supervisor, nodded along sagely and offered her letters of recommendations for any employment she may seek in the future. "Nora" was barely out the door before she had already increased the potential temp listing for her maternity leave to a full time position.
It spoke of Clint's restraint that he only followed her in his own rental car versus driving her or actually coming in with her. He gave her an opening, and more than a single chance to runaway if she really wanted to, while avoiding seeming like the obsessive and possibly abusive "baby daddy" that had come to wrangle her home and cuff her to a stove in some shack in the middle of nowhere. His words, not hers. Still, the effort was appreciated, even as she contemplated lifting Sandra's keys and sneaking out the back with her now former employer's truck and escaping away to solitude and solace once more.
She dumped the potted plant as soon as she returned to her apartment, and rolled her eyes when Clint rescued it and placed it neatly atop the boxes she had been talked into taking with her. She could have just as easily left everything behind - she had done so before and would no doubt do so again - but acquiesced to his argument that she had already found maternity clothing that fit so there was no need to start the whole process from scratch all over again. It was a moot argument, really, she felt she grew with each and every day and would soon no longer fit even the few pieces she had purchased, but she also understood the silent and psychological argument he made: it was a remnant of the life she made for herself, a sign of her freedom of choice, and he was not about to take that away from her.
They took her Volvo as it was untraceable to anything other than her current alias and fully paid for in cash. He left his rental at the nearby airport and picked up another, only to leave it in the lot of a strip mall to be found either once they were safely at their location, or SHIELD hacked through his own aliases to find it.
She drove through the border checkpoint and both easily recited stories of visiting her sister and brother-in-law in Montreal before the baby came and to possibly let them try to intimidate the dad-to-be as a welcome into the family. The guard laughed and stamped their fake passports and wished them safe journeys and never noticed how Natasha's hair hung in her face and Clint was turned just so and the cameras never got a clear picture of their faces.
They took the route through Canada despite the tolls as SHIELD held far less sway there than they did on any major US route. The plan was to avoid detection as much as possible right up until they couldn't. She expected trouble when they crossed back over in Niagara, and they would then either floor it or call in a favor to Stark to cover their tracks until they reached the safety of the Tower if needed.
They could have called in assistance far sooner than that, and they both knew it. Her apartment had been close enough to the Duluth airport for one of the endless Stark Industries planes to land, pick them up, and be on its merry little way, delivering them to New York in a matter of hours instead of days. This was yet another instance of Barton giving her a chance to both adjust and think things through, and she appreciated the sentiment. She could change her mind at any time up to and including their arrival in Manhattan and he would let her, possibly upon the request that he got to go with, and that was if she didn't just slip away while he was distracted with something else. She wanted time to dissect the decision though, to verify to herself that this was right, that this was good, that this would not end horribly. There was also the glitz always associated with anything Stark and very little chance they could slide by SHIELD unnoticed between the airport and the Tower, something she wanted to put off for as long as possible.
That, and she may have read one too many books that stated plane travel was not recommended at various times during a pregnancy, especially for high-risk situations. Previously infertile until impregnated with your own clone while various government agencies hunted you down definitely counted as high-risk in her mind.
Clint took over driving duties far sooner than she would have liked to admit, and she dozed in the front seat, hand on the pistol hidden at her side, half an eye on the countryside around her. She was exhausted, bone tired and soul weary - another thing she wished only to admit to herself and possibly only under duress, but she was fairly certain he knew anyway. She had hid for so long, kept the secret to herself for so long, looked over her shoulder waiting for someone to find her for so long, that she simply did not have the energy to spare once her mind screamed at her about being safe and watched over and whole again.
Not that she was safe, not yet. Not that she fully trusted him, not completely. She knew Barton and knew his loyalties and knew he would screw over SHIELD if need be, but noticed his hesitance and avoidance of a certain other group, as well as his insistence that she would be safe with only them. She did not see him as compromised, but she did see him as potentially naive. Steve and Bruce and Tony and Thor were all her friends, she knew this at some level. But they were also intrinsically tied to the Avengers initiative, which was intrinsically tied to SHIELD. If SHIELD wanted her, and she would be a fool to think they would not see the benefits of having both her and her child under their control, they could still make the attempt. Friendship only went so far, massive artillery and countless trained ground troops went so much further.
They slept in a tiny hotel that took cash payment, and ate in roadside diners that did the same. Only once did Clint raise his eyebrows at what she ordered, and it was less at the amount than at the fact she actually indulged in the chocolate cookie sundae the waitress had offered, hand on her own barely showing bump of a stomach and promise that sugar truly was good for a growing child on her lips.
They didn't travel quite as far each day as they normally would have, what could have been done in only two days plotted out to take just over three. She protested at first, more than capable of handling a bit of discomfort and sleep deprivation as she had done far more than that in the past. Clint insisted though, arguing the health and safety of the child - which was a dirty move on his part - and that they would stay under the radar more as the casual tourists than as a shady couple on a mission, blowing through the checkpoints far faster than they had any right to.
And they were a couple, at least as far as anyone they crossed paths with were concerned. They shared a room and a table and, when asked, Clint plastered on a smile and wrapped an arm around her waist and spoke of how eagerly they were awaiting the special day. She only had to stop herself from dislocating his fingers the first time, resigning herself to their public roles even when she threatened to take him down privately and he readily nodded in admittance that she probably still could.
It was the probably that bothered her. Atop the overwhelming exhaustion, her balance was off, as were her normal levels of agility. She had not reached the point of being unable to tie her own shoes yet and, should that time come, she would walk barefoot across a frozen tundra before she would admit it, but she gauged her response time to be significantly slowed and estimated she could only throw Clint three-fourths as far across the suite as usual. He offered to let her try, and she was tempted, but the room they shared was small and the walls paper thin and it was not worth potentially alerting the world to their presence just to prove a point.
They did not encounter problems until the afternoon of the second day. The light dusting of snow had become a full on storm, complete with horizontal winds and severely reduced visibility. They had stopped at a Tim Horton's to refuel Barton's caffeine addiction and possibly to grab a box of the TimBits donut holes for the road, and the bored cashier had both sided with Clint about the safety of the drive and had provided directions to a hotel that should have openings.
She had pretended to think about it and argued the point during the walk back to the car. She tried to swipe the keys from him but what should have been an easy and simple maneuver had her gripping the side of the car to avoid slipping and possibly ending up underneath due to her center of gravity being thrown off from the additional mass she currently carried.
Barton had the grace not to gloat, but he did have the mind to belt himself in and start up the engine before he unlocked the passenger door to let her in, earning a glare for his troubles out of principal if nothing else. She would have continued to argue the point anyway, but the baby kicked at the same time a muscle in her side seized in a worrying way and the thought of sitting in a car in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm versus sitting in a halfway decent hotel room while she had her silent panic attack about whether the pain was from something more than the slide on the ice had an obvious winner.
The hotel was a little more upscale than they would have preferred - and therefore more likely to be noticed by anyone attempting to follow them - but had open rooms at a reasonable rate and a covered garage to park in. The added bonus of a cafe on premises meant no need to venture out in the storm for dinner later that night, though both knew they would go stir crazy if the storm continued for as long as originally predicted.
It was after a decent meal and a longer than truly necessary shower that Natasha lay on the bed, half staring at the damn plant Clint had insisted on rescuing and half watching him flip through channel after channel for something more interesting than a reality television show. She wondered if it was simply Barton's nature to rescue stupid things, or if he had deliberately trying to draw a parallel in his usual less-than-subtle ways.
She was tempted to toss the sad looking bit of greenery into the trash, or maybe leave it out in the car to shrivel in the cold out of spite, but then questioned how that spoke of her potential parenting skills. Instead, she glared at it until she flipped over to her side so that she wouldn't have to see it anymore. She rubbed absently at her still slightly sore side, now convinced it was from the almost fall than anything more dire, and resolutely did not sigh in contentment when Clint pulled a heating pad out of nowhere and draped it in just the right spot.
She eventually drifted off, waking slightly when he removed the pad at the prescribed time later, and sinking into the residual warmth left behind. The television was still on low, but the lights were dimmed, and there was just enough distraction to allow her to finally rest.
The storm petered off by the afternoon of the next day, but the roads were nowhere near ready for travel yet. Ice had built up beneath the snow in some areas and, while the plows and various other road crews did their best, it would probably be nightfall by the time they were deemed safe by both the local news and a certain overprotective archer.
They booked an additional night, but braved the block and a half to an actual restaurant instead of hitting the cafe yet again, both armed with far more than just hats and gloves. The meal was pleasant and actually did not make her nauseous in the least, which was a problem as of late that she thought she had left behind early in her first trimester.
They decided to go back the next morning for breakfast and found, of course, a discovery that rather put a damper on the day.
A black SUV, shiny and sleek and standing out like a sore thumb in the quiet, simple town was parked just inside the garage they cut through from their hotel to avoid the residual slipperiness outside. A shared look, and they detoured around the back, taking the staff elevator back up to their rooms when they played Confused Tourists with a sympathetic maid. Their gear was packed and ready to go in minutes, though they waited for an appropriate opening to slip out into the bright light of morning.
"It could be a coincidence," Clint tried, tightening a holster across his thigh. "Some random rich vacationer or business man dumb enough to try to brave the storm and get caught just like us?"
She swung her bag across her shoulder knowing he would need the most freedom of movement for their current operation. "When have we ever been that lucky?" she challenged dryly. They had gotten complacent, knew the risks as they traveled and still assumed safety for all their cautions. This was the price they paid for that, with the possibility of an extreme up-charge waiting in the wings.
He agreed readily enough, and then they slipped back down the way they had come up, Natasha trying desperately not to roll her eyes when she saw a corner of a bedraggled leaf poke out the side of Clint's zippered pack.
The roads were slick but far safer than they had been the day before. The snow was piled high along the roadsides, still bright and blinding white as few people had ventured forth yet to darken it with their exhaust. "I could use some sunglasses," she muttered, trying to keep watch for anything lurking behind the makeshift barriers while still avoiding the worst of the ice.
Clint slipped his own pair up onto her face, the world suddenly becoming a vibrant contrast of near infrared and hyper-colors. She blinked to adjust to the new view and noted Stark must have upgraded his old pair. Either that, or Barton had found a new source to abuse for his ever-present quest for the perfect sightlines. For now though, he squinted slightly as he kept his notoriously sharp vision on the side view mirror and the world around them, and his finger on the trigger of the Glock he held in his hand. His bow rested at his feet, ready but a ranking a rare second in line as the gun wouldn't be seen until it was far too late.
They had to stop to get gas and she raided the station for damn near anything edible. The clerk looked on with what she was certain he thought was a knowing smile when he saw the bulge of her belly beneath her open jacket and she resisted the urge to wipe it from his face. Said urge may have been quelled by the presence of Smarties and ketchup flavored chips, but she definitely wasn't going to admit that, especially not to him.
She added several energy drinks for Clint and bottles of water and a pre-packaged tea that she hoped she could stomach for herself and paid the nice man for it all. She then dumped her wares in the car and shoved half a Kit-Kat in her mouth while she went to empty the bladder she was about to fill again. The thing growing within her, her daughter she reminded herself, had a knack for pressing just so already and she figured she might as well make use of actual facilities while they were available.
The food was long gone by the time they reached Niagara, as was most of the gas. She was tempted to just hit up another station and go, but the boarder guard had recommended a place that she swore had the best pot pies and warm food did sound rather delightful. Seeing how they needed to blend in with the other tourists, at least for a while, she acquiesced and they ate a decent, if slightly watchful meal.
The watchfulness paid off when a different guard entered. They tensed and readied for a fight for flight, but apparently he was a regular and the waitress greeted him fondly. His radio squawked and he listened for a moment, then chuckled at the questioning look he received from the woman who had set down a large cup of coffee in front of him. "Guess I got out just in time," he told her with a grin.
"How so?" she asked, matching the coffee with a equally massive piece of pie.
"Some bigwig is causing a ruckus, trying to cut ahead like there's a VIP line or something," he replied good-naturedly before digging in.
The waitress shook her head as though at the idiocy of others, and went on to top of Clint's coffee. "No thanks," he said, pulling out enough bills to pay for their meal and leave behind a decent tip.
She eyed the payment and offered, "Not even to go?" She gestured behind her towards a stack of styrofoam cups with matching plastic lids.
Clint made a show of looking tempted, which was probably only slightly a show in truth, and then shook his head again. "Nah, the smell bugs her and I'd prefer not to have to clean the car," he smiled.
Natasha glared partially to play the game and partially because she was beginning to hate the pregnancy cliches, especially the ones that were true. She "playfully" poked him at a pressure point near his kidney and he winced appropriately. The waitress just laughed though, and then they were finally on their way.
Barely two hours out from their destination, their typical luck and the SUV caught up with them. She was returning from making use of yet another restroom and Barton was leaning against the door when the SUV pulled into a rival gas station across the street. She walked as calmly and quickly as she could to the Volvo and knew the exact moment they spotted her. She slid into the passenger side and Clint gunned it the moment her ass hit the seat. The agents, for they looked like the epitome of every shady government agent she had ever had the pleasure of working with or against, had to stop fueling and deal with crossing traffic, which gave them a little bit of a head start, but not much.
She readied her weapons while Barton wove in and out of traffic. When she adjusted a gauntlet that she had not worn for far too long, she saw him reach into his coat and assumed he was reaching for a gun of his own. She turned as much as she could in her seat to try to get a line on their pursuers, but the SUV still seemed out of range, at least for now. Questioning his actions as much as his intentions, she subtly readied the Widow's Bite in case he was suddenly dumb enough to betray her now, after they had gotten so far together. Then again, maybe it had been his plan all along, lure her towards both a sense of safety and towards her confinement. She had had her revelation about complacency earlier, perhaps this was just a second lesson, one more painfully obtained.
He flipped, of all things, a phone up into his hand though, and called out a target four cars behind and two lanes to the left. She narrowed her eyes at the multiple new data. Their pursuers were no longer alone, and she had once again underestimated his loyalty.
She did not wish to risk harming civilians in the path, nor did she wish to be the one to fire the first shot when everything went down and blame was to be laid, and so she waited, eyes on multiple targets, vectors changing by the second. While she waited, she listened in on Barton's half of the conversation. It was not quite what she expected.
"Stark? Yeah, it's me," he began. There was a pause, no doubt Tony berating him for running off without the others. Apparently bored with that, Clint interrupted, "Shut up for a second, will you? I need your help. How long will it take you to lock down the Tower? Team only."
Natasha raised a eyebrow at that. She knew they were headed to the Tower and, at some level, she knew that mean team involvement. They were not there yet, so she was curious as to why Barton revealed his hand quite so soon.
"What do you mean you can't? You're Tony Fucking Stark - do it!" Clint yelled into the phone. It was followed by a sharp pull to the wheel and then, "An exception? No, no exceptions. Trust me on this." There was another swerve and another burst of profanity. "Let's just say I have a very precious package that I am attempting to deliver and would like said package to arrive in one fucking piece with no fucking holes in it," he explained in overly sweet, placating tones similar to how one would speak to a child.
He swerved again and Natasha knew the split attention was doing him no favors. That determined, she took the phone out of his hand, flipped it to speaker mode, and said, "Hello, Stark."
She was greeted by a round of colorful language that challenged even Barton's repertoire. "Shit... Nat, is that you?" he finally managed when the worst of the swearing died down.
She didn't deign to answer something so obvious and instead ordered, "If the exception is a SHIELD agent, we go elsewhere. If the exception is Potts or Foster, we talk."
"Where are you?" Tony asked.
"Currently being pursued by armed men in a black standard issue SUV, and you didn't answer my question," she replied. She fingered the safety on her weapon, knowing the time to use it drew near.
"Technically, you didn't ask one," Stark countered. She could picture him attempting to get a lock on their location and hoped Clint wasn't dumb enough to use a Stark Phone as that would just ease the process. "Tell me where you are and we can be there in five, ten if it's too far and I even then I'll go supersonic if need be."
"Who is the exception?" she demanded. The second car was edging closer, window down, and she highly doubted it was for fresh air.
A new voice answered, and she didn't know whether to laugh or scream. "The exception is me, Agent Romanov," Agent Coulson replied crisply and clearly. "I am attempting to ascertain if SHIELD or any of its subsidiaries authorized pursuit. Stark is in the process of evacuating and locking the Tower down now. I can leave if you so desire, but request permission to stay at this time."
"He has handed over his weapon," Rogers' voice sounded over the line, as if that was any consolation.
Clint barked out a laugh. "This is the man who took out two armed men with a bag of flour and a pack of mini donuts, do you really think that matters?" he asked as he ran though a red light and avoided the cross traffic.
"The mini donuts had nothing to do with the takedown," Coulson insisted in the same calm tone. "I have handed over my weapon and offered to let Captain Rogers handcuff me if need be."
"Kinky," Barton commented, earning a smile from her despite the situation. It was immediately followed by, "Cuff him to something solid and monitor any voice commands, have JARVIS run interference if needed. Sorry, sir, but this is imperative."
"Understood," Coulson replied. "Bring the package home." She would not admit to the tiny bit of warmth deep in her chest at those words but, then again, there were other things to worry about at the time and she could always pass it off as heartburn if anyone was foolish enough to ask.
Clint turned down an alley to avoid another light, but one of the vehicles was close enough behind to follow, and finally let off a shot now that they were clear of the worst of the non-combatants. It was aimed for a tire, but didn't hit its mark. Natasha ducked instinctively and fired back, a ricochet bouncing off a brownstone wall and dumpster. Their next shot was better though, splintering the glass of the rear windshield and sending shards shattering atop her meager belongings.
"Fuck, were those gunshots?" Stark's voice demanded over the line. "Tell me where you are so I can cover you!"
Natasha hesitated, and not because she was lining up a target. She told them now, she trusted them now while they harbored an agent of the very organization that may be pursuing her, and there was no turning back. She took her shot and the car behind them flipped, a corresponding sensation felt deep in her belly. She could hear Stark as he verified the Tower was seventy percent locked down already. She could hear Rogers as he promised a Quinjet could be airborne in minutes if need be. She could hear Coulson, as pensive as she'd ever heard him, call her first by her surname and then by the name she signed on all those forms he held so very long ago.
"Your call, Nat," Clint said from her side. He turned from the alley only to find another SUV headed their way. They could get free, she trusted him in this. It would not be easy and it meant totally and completely cutting themselves off from everyone: SHIELD, the team, their friends. He'd do it if she asked. He'd go on the run for her, possibly be hunted for the rest of his life for her. He'd do it to give her a chance. He'd do it to give her child a chance.
Which is precisely why she wouldn't let him.
She rattled off the coordinates and the sensation in her stomach settled, if only for now. She felt awash with calm, even as splinters of glass from yet another broken window cut across her skin. She fired at the shooter, not surprised when another easily took his place. They still did not aim directly at her, only the vehicle and Clint. Either they still cared about her safety, or they were limiting the damage closest to her. He daughter was far enough along for an emergency delivery if need be; they only needed to make sure the fetus itself was not directly harmed.
Somehow, that made her irrationally angry. This was her daughter, her child. Experiments upon Natasha herself aside, if there was one person in the world that she should be able to protect, this was it. The child should have every benefit she could give it in life, and being ripped from her mother before she was even supposed to enter the world on her own was not in the cards, not if that same mother could help it.
She took aim and hit the front passenger tire. The driver attempted to compensate, but did so by veering hard and slowing, presenting the gas tank free and clear. Her mind registered the weapon trained on her in return, but she fired anyway, the resulting explosion satisfying in ways it had no right to be.
It took her a stupidly long time to realize that the ball of fiery gas and shrapnel had to go somewhere, and that they were still in its path. She prepared herself for the inevitable, only to barely feel the searing heat as an extremely familiar red form landed in front of the shattered window and took the brunt of the force.
"Go now!" Tony's voice sounded through the suit and the words were reiterated by her teammates through the phone that still lay in the cup-holder at her side.
Clint did just that and floored it, darting along street after street as Stark flew above them and cleared a path through force of will and technology, the whine of his repulsors accompanying the squeal of the tires. They made excellent time and she had the ridiculous thought that they might even make it, right up until they reached the barricade approximately four blocks away from the entrance to the Tower's garage.
"Damn it, Coulson!" Stark cursed. Clint screeched to a stop and the Iron Man suit landed in front of the car, weapons at the ready and clearly in an offensive position.
"Negative," came an only slightly panicked voice through the speaker. "This is not a SHIELD authorized operation. These are not authorized agents."
"Are you certain?" Barton asked skeptically. The men before them wore the standard black tactical gear, though they crouched in ways that made it difficult to ascertain the logo on their arm and on their weapons. Natasha couldn't make out the details at all, but if it was close enough to the real thing for Clint question it, she knew to be wary.
"I just talked to Fury myself," Coulson insisted. "Use whatever force you deem necessary at this time. These are not SHIELD agents and the fact that they are pretending to be is pissing him off."
"Lethal force approved, sir?" Barton asked, clearly centering himself in the routine as there was a damned good chance he would use it whether it was approved or not.
"Blow them to hell if you want, just leave enough pieces for us to figure out who sent them," came the reply.
Clint looked to Natasha and she could see it in his eyes that he deemed Coulson's claims legitimate just as she did. Whether it was based upon their years working with the man, or his parroting of Fury's anger, she did not know. She did know that Stark had the flaps up on his suit in preparation to fire and that Clint had his hands on the wheel in preparation for a messy exit and that her own hand tightened around the grip of her gun. That, mixed with a shout of surprise, a crashing noise, and a spinning red and white disc flying high before circling back to the hand that threw it was enough for her.
She nodded, and then all hell broke loose.
Barton aimed them at the opening Stark blew in the barricade that was hopefully far enough away from the approaching Rogers to not take him out in the process. There was the sound of gunfire and the smell of ozone from Tony's blasts and then the car rocked as two tires went down and Clint tried to continue on the rims.
She knew they wouldn't get much farther and that they needed to make a run for it. "Going now!" she shouted, and then pried the door open, weapons at the ready. She tucked and rolled and came up firing, the icy slosh already soaking through her leggings and dripping down into her boots.
Clint followed a moment later, pistol in its holster strapped to his thigh as his real weapon could finally be used front and center. She covered him for the moment it took him to slide his quiver into place, and then let him cover her as she made a break for it up the block. Two false agents made a grab for her, and she managed to take them down with far more effort than she thought was truly warranted. A third tried to shoot her with something decidedly not a bullet, and she was thankful for Captain America's flying shield even as she called out a warning of, "Tranqs!"
She shot a man who aimed for Rogers, but it made his own shot arc wide and her arm twinged with sudden pain. She wasn't sure if it was the actual bullet or shrapnel or some combination of both, but she was sure she could compensate and did just that to take him out once and for all.
"Widow's hit," Steve announced. She was about to insult him for that brilliant observation, but he made a grab for her and she had a split second of debating shooting an American icon before she realized he reached for her good arm and simply pulled her along with him instead of something stupidly heroic and embarrassing like actually carrying her. He came close a moment later when she slipped on something wet and only partially frozen, but settled for righting her and trying to tuck her behind his own bulk. She opened her mouth to comment that she couldn't exactly shoot that way, but then saw Tony do the same with Clint as a new player entered the field.
Thor arrived with a rumble of thunder and a burst of lightning and then, a scant few swings of his hammer later, the battle was well and truly over, tattered remnants of it still floating through the air to land in the surrounding slush. After everything they had just been through, she wasn't sure of it was anticlimactic, or just disappointing.
Stark strode over to her and flipped his mask up to revealed a pair of carefully groomed raised eyebrows. "Someone's been keeping secrets," he accused without heat. She had no doubt that he had already run a full biometric scan and currently knew more about her condition than she did herself.
Steve rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, and possibly pressed something cloth-like to her still bleeding arm. "Congratulations?" he asked carefully, as if unsure of her thoughts on the matter. She offered him the largest smile she could muster given the circumstances, which was not much more than a quirk of her lips. He returned the gesture with interest, beaming brightly despite the debris that still rained down around them. "Welcome home," he told her, this time with a gentle squeeze of the hand that was not staunching the flow of blood.
She was not used to the contact, not after so long without it and not after being so careful to avoid it, but knew that was likely to end, and soon, especially when Thor approached and his massive hand hovered just slightly above the gentle round of her stomach. "A very precious package indeed," he intoned in that deep rumble of his, and she had no idea if it was the alien equivalent of a prayer or plotting out how to make any future suitors' lives as difficult as Asgardian possible, but felt reassured all the same.
She glanced behind him to where Clint watched her with a knowing smirk and reluctantly admitted that maybe, possibly, he had been correct in involving the rest of the team in this whole mess. They were the closest thing she had to a family, and somehow it just felt right that they were there beside her, now of all times.
Someone was noticeably missing though, and she glanced at the others questioningly. "Banner is with Coulson," Steve explained with a sheepish grin. She had to appreciate his interpretation of cuffing him to "something solid" even if she doubted the two men in question felt the same.
"We figured Big and Green could keep him in line if he decided to betray us all or that sort of thing," Tony chimed in. Then, more to himself than to the others, he added, "That reminds me, we should probably tell him we're good to go." He wandered a few steps away, likely to do just that, which left her surrounded by her three remaining teammates, who seemed to form a sort of protective circle around her as though she should not be witness to the damage and bloodshed, even though she had seen so much worse in her day.
A flash went off just to her side, followed by another, and then another, and she realized they were protecting her from far more than a little gore. The battle had been less than subtle, and now that it was over, the paparazzi descended, looking for the latest scoop on just who threatened who and why.
Before her lay a mess of damage and ice and slush and people who either wanted her dead or laid out on a table in a lab. Behind her stood the Tower with its warmth and comfort and reinforced security systems and her version of family. She turned on her heel, decision made and balance kept with more than just the guidance of the people that hovered around her, and asked, "Shall we?"
They walked the short distance back with no questions of why or how or what the future held. Instead, there was the gentle bickering of who had played the greatest role in their latest triumph and who was to corral the disabled and unconscious men as that was usually SHIELD's job and whether or not they trusting them yet and if Natasha could handle Chinese food right now as their usual place was still open for delivery. And, as they reached the glass and chrome entryway and were greeted with the dulcet tones of JARVIS, she wondered why she had ever doubted that this was home.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen, Clint & Natasha Friendship
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~6,500 words
Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence
Synopsis: She can use the time to prepare for the inevitable, or to plot her escape. She's not sure which she prefers. [Clint brings the AWOL, and pregnant, Natasha home.]
Author's Notes: Sequel to Breathe Again [LJ | DW | AO3], and will only really make sense if you read that first. Also, this is one of the very few times I have actually completed a sequel - go me?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
If anyone asked, she would speak of her annoyance that Clint had found her. She would make a scathing remark about how long it took him and how rusty his skills were even as she made even more dour remarks about how it must have been the hormones that made her sloppy enough to leave a trail he could follow to her doorstep.
If left alone to her own thoughts she might concede that there was a palpable sense of relief when she heard his voice, that something tight within her unwound just the slightest of bits to know that she did not need to go through this alone, that her most trusted of allies - someone she dared to call friend - would be there at her side.
Fortunately for her, he rarely left that side and she barely had time to even contemplate being alone before he returned so she was prevented from having to come to this realization more often than not and could rely on snide remarks even if they earned her a knowing eye roll and the barest hint of a smirk.
She quit her extremely bland and boring Admin job the day after his arrival. She went in and gathered her few fake belongings and wove a tale of her family begging her to come home now that the baby was so close to being due and, with a hand purposefully rubbing the bulge of her belly, how maybe they could get past their differences with the new life providing new opportunities for them all. Sandra, her immediate supervisor, nodded along sagely and offered her letters of recommendations for any employment she may seek in the future. "Nora" was barely out the door before she had already increased the potential temp listing for her maternity leave to a full time position.
It spoke of Clint's restraint that he only followed her in his own rental car versus driving her or actually coming in with her. He gave her an opening, and more than a single chance to runaway if she really wanted to, while avoiding seeming like the obsessive and possibly abusive "baby daddy" that had come to wrangle her home and cuff her to a stove in some shack in the middle of nowhere. His words, not hers. Still, the effort was appreciated, even as she contemplated lifting Sandra's keys and sneaking out the back with her now former employer's truck and escaping away to solitude and solace once more.
She dumped the potted plant as soon as she returned to her apartment, and rolled her eyes when Clint rescued it and placed it neatly atop the boxes she had been talked into taking with her. She could have just as easily left everything behind - she had done so before and would no doubt do so again - but acquiesced to his argument that she had already found maternity clothing that fit so there was no need to start the whole process from scratch all over again. It was a moot argument, really, she felt she grew with each and every day and would soon no longer fit even the few pieces she had purchased, but she also understood the silent and psychological argument he made: it was a remnant of the life she made for herself, a sign of her freedom of choice, and he was not about to take that away from her.
They took her Volvo as it was untraceable to anything other than her current alias and fully paid for in cash. He left his rental at the nearby airport and picked up another, only to leave it in the lot of a strip mall to be found either once they were safely at their location, or SHIELD hacked through his own aliases to find it.
She drove through the border checkpoint and both easily recited stories of visiting her sister and brother-in-law in Montreal before the baby came and to possibly let them try to intimidate the dad-to-be as a welcome into the family. The guard laughed and stamped their fake passports and wished them safe journeys and never noticed how Natasha's hair hung in her face and Clint was turned just so and the cameras never got a clear picture of their faces.
They took the route through Canada despite the tolls as SHIELD held far less sway there than they did on any major US route. The plan was to avoid detection as much as possible right up until they couldn't. She expected trouble when they crossed back over in Niagara, and they would then either floor it or call in a favor to Stark to cover their tracks until they reached the safety of the Tower if needed.
They could have called in assistance far sooner than that, and they both knew it. Her apartment had been close enough to the Duluth airport for one of the endless Stark Industries planes to land, pick them up, and be on its merry little way, delivering them to New York in a matter of hours instead of days. This was yet another instance of Barton giving her a chance to both adjust and think things through, and she appreciated the sentiment. She could change her mind at any time up to and including their arrival in Manhattan and he would let her, possibly upon the request that he got to go with, and that was if she didn't just slip away while he was distracted with something else. She wanted time to dissect the decision though, to verify to herself that this was right, that this was good, that this would not end horribly. There was also the glitz always associated with anything Stark and very little chance they could slide by SHIELD unnoticed between the airport and the Tower, something she wanted to put off for as long as possible.
That, and she may have read one too many books that stated plane travel was not recommended at various times during a pregnancy, especially for high-risk situations. Previously infertile until impregnated with your own clone while various government agencies hunted you down definitely counted as high-risk in her mind.
Clint took over driving duties far sooner than she would have liked to admit, and she dozed in the front seat, hand on the pistol hidden at her side, half an eye on the countryside around her. She was exhausted, bone tired and soul weary - another thing she wished only to admit to herself and possibly only under duress, but she was fairly certain he knew anyway. She had hid for so long, kept the secret to herself for so long, looked over her shoulder waiting for someone to find her for so long, that she simply did not have the energy to spare once her mind screamed at her about being safe and watched over and whole again.
Not that she was safe, not yet. Not that she fully trusted him, not completely. She knew Barton and knew his loyalties and knew he would screw over SHIELD if need be, but noticed his hesitance and avoidance of a certain other group, as well as his insistence that she would be safe with only them. She did not see him as compromised, but she did see him as potentially naive. Steve and Bruce and Tony and Thor were all her friends, she knew this at some level. But they were also intrinsically tied to the Avengers initiative, which was intrinsically tied to SHIELD. If SHIELD wanted her, and she would be a fool to think they would not see the benefits of having both her and her child under their control, they could still make the attempt. Friendship only went so far, massive artillery and countless trained ground troops went so much further.
They slept in a tiny hotel that took cash payment, and ate in roadside diners that did the same. Only once did Clint raise his eyebrows at what she ordered, and it was less at the amount than at the fact she actually indulged in the chocolate cookie sundae the waitress had offered, hand on her own barely showing bump of a stomach and promise that sugar truly was good for a growing child on her lips.
They didn't travel quite as far each day as they normally would have, what could have been done in only two days plotted out to take just over three. She protested at first, more than capable of handling a bit of discomfort and sleep deprivation as she had done far more than that in the past. Clint insisted though, arguing the health and safety of the child - which was a dirty move on his part - and that they would stay under the radar more as the casual tourists than as a shady couple on a mission, blowing through the checkpoints far faster than they had any right to.
And they were a couple, at least as far as anyone they crossed paths with were concerned. They shared a room and a table and, when asked, Clint plastered on a smile and wrapped an arm around her waist and spoke of how eagerly they were awaiting the special day. She only had to stop herself from dislocating his fingers the first time, resigning herself to their public roles even when she threatened to take him down privately and he readily nodded in admittance that she probably still could.
It was the probably that bothered her. Atop the overwhelming exhaustion, her balance was off, as were her normal levels of agility. She had not reached the point of being unable to tie her own shoes yet and, should that time come, she would walk barefoot across a frozen tundra before she would admit it, but she gauged her response time to be significantly slowed and estimated she could only throw Clint three-fourths as far across the suite as usual. He offered to let her try, and she was tempted, but the room they shared was small and the walls paper thin and it was not worth potentially alerting the world to their presence just to prove a point.
They did not encounter problems until the afternoon of the second day. The light dusting of snow had become a full on storm, complete with horizontal winds and severely reduced visibility. They had stopped at a Tim Horton's to refuel Barton's caffeine addiction and possibly to grab a box of the TimBits donut holes for the road, and the bored cashier had both sided with Clint about the safety of the drive and had provided directions to a hotel that should have openings.
She had pretended to think about it and argued the point during the walk back to the car. She tried to swipe the keys from him but what should have been an easy and simple maneuver had her gripping the side of the car to avoid slipping and possibly ending up underneath due to her center of gravity being thrown off from the additional mass she currently carried.
Barton had the grace not to gloat, but he did have the mind to belt himself in and start up the engine before he unlocked the passenger door to let her in, earning a glare for his troubles out of principal if nothing else. She would have continued to argue the point anyway, but the baby kicked at the same time a muscle in her side seized in a worrying way and the thought of sitting in a car in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm versus sitting in a halfway decent hotel room while she had her silent panic attack about whether the pain was from something more than the slide on the ice had an obvious winner.
The hotel was a little more upscale than they would have preferred - and therefore more likely to be noticed by anyone attempting to follow them - but had open rooms at a reasonable rate and a covered garage to park in. The added bonus of a cafe on premises meant no need to venture out in the storm for dinner later that night, though both knew they would go stir crazy if the storm continued for as long as originally predicted.
It was after a decent meal and a longer than truly necessary shower that Natasha lay on the bed, half staring at the damn plant Clint had insisted on rescuing and half watching him flip through channel after channel for something more interesting than a reality television show. She wondered if it was simply Barton's nature to rescue stupid things, or if he had deliberately trying to draw a parallel in his usual less-than-subtle ways.
She was tempted to toss the sad looking bit of greenery into the trash, or maybe leave it out in the car to shrivel in the cold out of spite, but then questioned how that spoke of her potential parenting skills. Instead, she glared at it until she flipped over to her side so that she wouldn't have to see it anymore. She rubbed absently at her still slightly sore side, now convinced it was from the almost fall than anything more dire, and resolutely did not sigh in contentment when Clint pulled a heating pad out of nowhere and draped it in just the right spot.
She eventually drifted off, waking slightly when he removed the pad at the prescribed time later, and sinking into the residual warmth left behind. The television was still on low, but the lights were dimmed, and there was just enough distraction to allow her to finally rest.
The storm petered off by the afternoon of the next day, but the roads were nowhere near ready for travel yet. Ice had built up beneath the snow in some areas and, while the plows and various other road crews did their best, it would probably be nightfall by the time they were deemed safe by both the local news and a certain overprotective archer.
They booked an additional night, but braved the block and a half to an actual restaurant instead of hitting the cafe yet again, both armed with far more than just hats and gloves. The meal was pleasant and actually did not make her nauseous in the least, which was a problem as of late that she thought she had left behind early in her first trimester.
They decided to go back the next morning for breakfast and found, of course, a discovery that rather put a damper on the day.
A black SUV, shiny and sleek and standing out like a sore thumb in the quiet, simple town was parked just inside the garage they cut through from their hotel to avoid the residual slipperiness outside. A shared look, and they detoured around the back, taking the staff elevator back up to their rooms when they played Confused Tourists with a sympathetic maid. Their gear was packed and ready to go in minutes, though they waited for an appropriate opening to slip out into the bright light of morning.
"It could be a coincidence," Clint tried, tightening a holster across his thigh. "Some random rich vacationer or business man dumb enough to try to brave the storm and get caught just like us?"
She swung her bag across her shoulder knowing he would need the most freedom of movement for their current operation. "When have we ever been that lucky?" she challenged dryly. They had gotten complacent, knew the risks as they traveled and still assumed safety for all their cautions. This was the price they paid for that, with the possibility of an extreme up-charge waiting in the wings.
He agreed readily enough, and then they slipped back down the way they had come up, Natasha trying desperately not to roll her eyes when she saw a corner of a bedraggled leaf poke out the side of Clint's zippered pack.
The roads were slick but far safer than they had been the day before. The snow was piled high along the roadsides, still bright and blinding white as few people had ventured forth yet to darken it with their exhaust. "I could use some sunglasses," she muttered, trying to keep watch for anything lurking behind the makeshift barriers while still avoiding the worst of the ice.
Clint slipped his own pair up onto her face, the world suddenly becoming a vibrant contrast of near infrared and hyper-colors. She blinked to adjust to the new view and noted Stark must have upgraded his old pair. Either that, or Barton had found a new source to abuse for his ever-present quest for the perfect sightlines. For now though, he squinted slightly as he kept his notoriously sharp vision on the side view mirror and the world around them, and his finger on the trigger of the Glock he held in his hand. His bow rested at his feet, ready but a ranking a rare second in line as the gun wouldn't be seen until it was far too late.
They had to stop to get gas and she raided the station for damn near anything edible. The clerk looked on with what she was certain he thought was a knowing smile when he saw the bulge of her belly beneath her open jacket and she resisted the urge to wipe it from his face. Said urge may have been quelled by the presence of Smarties and ketchup flavored chips, but she definitely wasn't going to admit that, especially not to him.
She added several energy drinks for Clint and bottles of water and a pre-packaged tea that she hoped she could stomach for herself and paid the nice man for it all. She then dumped her wares in the car and shoved half a Kit-Kat in her mouth while she went to empty the bladder she was about to fill again. The thing growing within her, her daughter she reminded herself, had a knack for pressing just so already and she figured she might as well make use of actual facilities while they were available.
The food was long gone by the time they reached Niagara, as was most of the gas. She was tempted to just hit up another station and go, but the boarder guard had recommended a place that she swore had the best pot pies and warm food did sound rather delightful. Seeing how they needed to blend in with the other tourists, at least for a while, she acquiesced and they ate a decent, if slightly watchful meal.
The watchfulness paid off when a different guard entered. They tensed and readied for a fight for flight, but apparently he was a regular and the waitress greeted him fondly. His radio squawked and he listened for a moment, then chuckled at the questioning look he received from the woman who had set down a large cup of coffee in front of him. "Guess I got out just in time," he told her with a grin.
"How so?" she asked, matching the coffee with a equally massive piece of pie.
"Some bigwig is causing a ruckus, trying to cut ahead like there's a VIP line or something," he replied good-naturedly before digging in.
The waitress shook her head as though at the idiocy of others, and went on to top of Clint's coffee. "No thanks," he said, pulling out enough bills to pay for their meal and leave behind a decent tip.
She eyed the payment and offered, "Not even to go?" She gestured behind her towards a stack of styrofoam cups with matching plastic lids.
Clint made a show of looking tempted, which was probably only slightly a show in truth, and then shook his head again. "Nah, the smell bugs her and I'd prefer not to have to clean the car," he smiled.
Natasha glared partially to play the game and partially because she was beginning to hate the pregnancy cliches, especially the ones that were true. She "playfully" poked him at a pressure point near his kidney and he winced appropriately. The waitress just laughed though, and then they were finally on their way.
Barely two hours out from their destination, their typical luck and the SUV caught up with them. She was returning from making use of yet another restroom and Barton was leaning against the door when the SUV pulled into a rival gas station across the street. She walked as calmly and quickly as she could to the Volvo and knew the exact moment they spotted her. She slid into the passenger side and Clint gunned it the moment her ass hit the seat. The agents, for they looked like the epitome of every shady government agent she had ever had the pleasure of working with or against, had to stop fueling and deal with crossing traffic, which gave them a little bit of a head start, but not much.
She readied her weapons while Barton wove in and out of traffic. When she adjusted a gauntlet that she had not worn for far too long, she saw him reach into his coat and assumed he was reaching for a gun of his own. She turned as much as she could in her seat to try to get a line on their pursuers, but the SUV still seemed out of range, at least for now. Questioning his actions as much as his intentions, she subtly readied the Widow's Bite in case he was suddenly dumb enough to betray her now, after they had gotten so far together. Then again, maybe it had been his plan all along, lure her towards both a sense of safety and towards her confinement. She had had her revelation about complacency earlier, perhaps this was just a second lesson, one more painfully obtained.
He flipped, of all things, a phone up into his hand though, and called out a target four cars behind and two lanes to the left. She narrowed her eyes at the multiple new data. Their pursuers were no longer alone, and she had once again underestimated his loyalty.
She did not wish to risk harming civilians in the path, nor did she wish to be the one to fire the first shot when everything went down and blame was to be laid, and so she waited, eyes on multiple targets, vectors changing by the second. While she waited, she listened in on Barton's half of the conversation. It was not quite what she expected.
"Stark? Yeah, it's me," he began. There was a pause, no doubt Tony berating him for running off without the others. Apparently bored with that, Clint interrupted, "Shut up for a second, will you? I need your help. How long will it take you to lock down the Tower? Team only."
Natasha raised a eyebrow at that. She knew they were headed to the Tower and, at some level, she knew that mean team involvement. They were not there yet, so she was curious as to why Barton revealed his hand quite so soon.
"What do you mean you can't? You're Tony Fucking Stark - do it!" Clint yelled into the phone. It was followed by a sharp pull to the wheel and then, "An exception? No, no exceptions. Trust me on this." There was another swerve and another burst of profanity. "Let's just say I have a very precious package that I am attempting to deliver and would like said package to arrive in one fucking piece with no fucking holes in it," he explained in overly sweet, placating tones similar to how one would speak to a child.
He swerved again and Natasha knew the split attention was doing him no favors. That determined, she took the phone out of his hand, flipped it to speaker mode, and said, "Hello, Stark."
She was greeted by a round of colorful language that challenged even Barton's repertoire. "Shit... Nat, is that you?" he finally managed when the worst of the swearing died down.
She didn't deign to answer something so obvious and instead ordered, "If the exception is a SHIELD agent, we go elsewhere. If the exception is Potts or Foster, we talk."
"Where are you?" Tony asked.
"Currently being pursued by armed men in a black standard issue SUV, and you didn't answer my question," she replied. She fingered the safety on her weapon, knowing the time to use it drew near.
"Technically, you didn't ask one," Stark countered. She could picture him attempting to get a lock on their location and hoped Clint wasn't dumb enough to use a Stark Phone as that would just ease the process. "Tell me where you are and we can be there in five, ten if it's too far and I even then I'll go supersonic if need be."
"Who is the exception?" she demanded. The second car was edging closer, window down, and she highly doubted it was for fresh air.
A new voice answered, and she didn't know whether to laugh or scream. "The exception is me, Agent Romanov," Agent Coulson replied crisply and clearly. "I am attempting to ascertain if SHIELD or any of its subsidiaries authorized pursuit. Stark is in the process of evacuating and locking the Tower down now. I can leave if you so desire, but request permission to stay at this time."
"He has handed over his weapon," Rogers' voice sounded over the line, as if that was any consolation.
Clint barked out a laugh. "This is the man who took out two armed men with a bag of flour and a pack of mini donuts, do you really think that matters?" he asked as he ran though a red light and avoided the cross traffic.
"The mini donuts had nothing to do with the takedown," Coulson insisted in the same calm tone. "I have handed over my weapon and offered to let Captain Rogers handcuff me if need be."
"Kinky," Barton commented, earning a smile from her despite the situation. It was immediately followed by, "Cuff him to something solid and monitor any voice commands, have JARVIS run interference if needed. Sorry, sir, but this is imperative."
"Understood," Coulson replied. "Bring the package home." She would not admit to the tiny bit of warmth deep in her chest at those words but, then again, there were other things to worry about at the time and she could always pass it off as heartburn if anyone was foolish enough to ask.
Clint turned down an alley to avoid another light, but one of the vehicles was close enough behind to follow, and finally let off a shot now that they were clear of the worst of the non-combatants. It was aimed for a tire, but didn't hit its mark. Natasha ducked instinctively and fired back, a ricochet bouncing off a brownstone wall and dumpster. Their next shot was better though, splintering the glass of the rear windshield and sending shards shattering atop her meager belongings.
"Fuck, were those gunshots?" Stark's voice demanded over the line. "Tell me where you are so I can cover you!"
Natasha hesitated, and not because she was lining up a target. She told them now, she trusted them now while they harbored an agent of the very organization that may be pursuing her, and there was no turning back. She took her shot and the car behind them flipped, a corresponding sensation felt deep in her belly. She could hear Stark as he verified the Tower was seventy percent locked down already. She could hear Rogers as he promised a Quinjet could be airborne in minutes if need be. She could hear Coulson, as pensive as she'd ever heard him, call her first by her surname and then by the name she signed on all those forms he held so very long ago.
"Your call, Nat," Clint said from her side. He turned from the alley only to find another SUV headed their way. They could get free, she trusted him in this. It would not be easy and it meant totally and completely cutting themselves off from everyone: SHIELD, the team, their friends. He'd do it if she asked. He'd go on the run for her, possibly be hunted for the rest of his life for her. He'd do it to give her a chance. He'd do it to give her child a chance.
Which is precisely why she wouldn't let him.
She rattled off the coordinates and the sensation in her stomach settled, if only for now. She felt awash with calm, even as splinters of glass from yet another broken window cut across her skin. She fired at the shooter, not surprised when another easily took his place. They still did not aim directly at her, only the vehicle and Clint. Either they still cared about her safety, or they were limiting the damage closest to her. He daughter was far enough along for an emergency delivery if need be; they only needed to make sure the fetus itself was not directly harmed.
Somehow, that made her irrationally angry. This was her daughter, her child. Experiments upon Natasha herself aside, if there was one person in the world that she should be able to protect, this was it. The child should have every benefit she could give it in life, and being ripped from her mother before she was even supposed to enter the world on her own was not in the cards, not if that same mother could help it.
She took aim and hit the front passenger tire. The driver attempted to compensate, but did so by veering hard and slowing, presenting the gas tank free and clear. Her mind registered the weapon trained on her in return, but she fired anyway, the resulting explosion satisfying in ways it had no right to be.
It took her a stupidly long time to realize that the ball of fiery gas and shrapnel had to go somewhere, and that they were still in its path. She prepared herself for the inevitable, only to barely feel the searing heat as an extremely familiar red form landed in front of the shattered window and took the brunt of the force.
"Go now!" Tony's voice sounded through the suit and the words were reiterated by her teammates through the phone that still lay in the cup-holder at her side.
Clint did just that and floored it, darting along street after street as Stark flew above them and cleared a path through force of will and technology, the whine of his repulsors accompanying the squeal of the tires. They made excellent time and she had the ridiculous thought that they might even make it, right up until they reached the barricade approximately four blocks away from the entrance to the Tower's garage.
"Damn it, Coulson!" Stark cursed. Clint screeched to a stop and the Iron Man suit landed in front of the car, weapons at the ready and clearly in an offensive position.
"Negative," came an only slightly panicked voice through the speaker. "This is not a SHIELD authorized operation. These are not authorized agents."
"Are you certain?" Barton asked skeptically. The men before them wore the standard black tactical gear, though they crouched in ways that made it difficult to ascertain the logo on their arm and on their weapons. Natasha couldn't make out the details at all, but if it was close enough to the real thing for Clint question it, she knew to be wary.
"I just talked to Fury myself," Coulson insisted. "Use whatever force you deem necessary at this time. These are not SHIELD agents and the fact that they are pretending to be is pissing him off."
"Lethal force approved, sir?" Barton asked, clearly centering himself in the routine as there was a damned good chance he would use it whether it was approved or not.
"Blow them to hell if you want, just leave enough pieces for us to figure out who sent them," came the reply.
Clint looked to Natasha and she could see it in his eyes that he deemed Coulson's claims legitimate just as she did. Whether it was based upon their years working with the man, or his parroting of Fury's anger, she did not know. She did know that Stark had the flaps up on his suit in preparation to fire and that Clint had his hands on the wheel in preparation for a messy exit and that her own hand tightened around the grip of her gun. That, mixed with a shout of surprise, a crashing noise, and a spinning red and white disc flying high before circling back to the hand that threw it was enough for her.
She nodded, and then all hell broke loose.
Barton aimed them at the opening Stark blew in the barricade that was hopefully far enough away from the approaching Rogers to not take him out in the process. There was the sound of gunfire and the smell of ozone from Tony's blasts and then the car rocked as two tires went down and Clint tried to continue on the rims.
She knew they wouldn't get much farther and that they needed to make a run for it. "Going now!" she shouted, and then pried the door open, weapons at the ready. She tucked and rolled and came up firing, the icy slosh already soaking through her leggings and dripping down into her boots.
Clint followed a moment later, pistol in its holster strapped to his thigh as his real weapon could finally be used front and center. She covered him for the moment it took him to slide his quiver into place, and then let him cover her as she made a break for it up the block. Two false agents made a grab for her, and she managed to take them down with far more effort than she thought was truly warranted. A third tried to shoot her with something decidedly not a bullet, and she was thankful for Captain America's flying shield even as she called out a warning of, "Tranqs!"
She shot a man who aimed for Rogers, but it made his own shot arc wide and her arm twinged with sudden pain. She wasn't sure if it was the actual bullet or shrapnel or some combination of both, but she was sure she could compensate and did just that to take him out once and for all.
"Widow's hit," Steve announced. She was about to insult him for that brilliant observation, but he made a grab for her and she had a split second of debating shooting an American icon before she realized he reached for her good arm and simply pulled her along with him instead of something stupidly heroic and embarrassing like actually carrying her. He came close a moment later when she slipped on something wet and only partially frozen, but settled for righting her and trying to tuck her behind his own bulk. She opened her mouth to comment that she couldn't exactly shoot that way, but then saw Tony do the same with Clint as a new player entered the field.
Thor arrived with a rumble of thunder and a burst of lightning and then, a scant few swings of his hammer later, the battle was well and truly over, tattered remnants of it still floating through the air to land in the surrounding slush. After everything they had just been through, she wasn't sure of it was anticlimactic, or just disappointing.
Stark strode over to her and flipped his mask up to revealed a pair of carefully groomed raised eyebrows. "Someone's been keeping secrets," he accused without heat. She had no doubt that he had already run a full biometric scan and currently knew more about her condition than she did herself.
Steve rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, and possibly pressed something cloth-like to her still bleeding arm. "Congratulations?" he asked carefully, as if unsure of her thoughts on the matter. She offered him the largest smile she could muster given the circumstances, which was not much more than a quirk of her lips. He returned the gesture with interest, beaming brightly despite the debris that still rained down around them. "Welcome home," he told her, this time with a gentle squeeze of the hand that was not staunching the flow of blood.
She was not used to the contact, not after so long without it and not after being so careful to avoid it, but knew that was likely to end, and soon, especially when Thor approached and his massive hand hovered just slightly above the gentle round of her stomach. "A very precious package indeed," he intoned in that deep rumble of his, and she had no idea if it was the alien equivalent of a prayer or plotting out how to make any future suitors' lives as difficult as Asgardian possible, but felt reassured all the same.
She glanced behind him to where Clint watched her with a knowing smirk and reluctantly admitted that maybe, possibly, he had been correct in involving the rest of the team in this whole mess. They were the closest thing she had to a family, and somehow it just felt right that they were there beside her, now of all times.
Someone was noticeably missing though, and she glanced at the others questioningly. "Banner is with Coulson," Steve explained with a sheepish grin. She had to appreciate his interpretation of cuffing him to "something solid" even if she doubted the two men in question felt the same.
"We figured Big and Green could keep him in line if he decided to betray us all or that sort of thing," Tony chimed in. Then, more to himself than to the others, he added, "That reminds me, we should probably tell him we're good to go." He wandered a few steps away, likely to do just that, which left her surrounded by her three remaining teammates, who seemed to form a sort of protective circle around her as though she should not be witness to the damage and bloodshed, even though she had seen so much worse in her day.
A flash went off just to her side, followed by another, and then another, and she realized they were protecting her from far more than a little gore. The battle had been less than subtle, and now that it was over, the paparazzi descended, looking for the latest scoop on just who threatened who and why.
Before her lay a mess of damage and ice and slush and people who either wanted her dead or laid out on a table in a lab. Behind her stood the Tower with its warmth and comfort and reinforced security systems and her version of family. She turned on her heel, decision made and balance kept with more than just the guidance of the people that hovered around her, and asked, "Shall we?"
They walked the short distance back with no questions of why or how or what the future held. Instead, there was the gentle bickering of who had played the greatest role in their latest triumph and who was to corral the disabled and unconscious men as that was usually SHIELD's job and whether or not they trusting them yet and if Natasha could handle Chinese food right now as their usual place was still open for delivery. And, as they reached the glass and chrome entryway and were greeted with the dulcet tones of JARVIS, she wondered why she had ever doubted that this was home.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
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Also, are you going to post this to AO3 like the first part and make them a series so I can subscribe and bookmark it? :)
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I have posted to AO3 now - the delay was due both to the life = insane aspect, as well as attempting to come up with a title for the series as another awesome author already used "Breathe" for hers.
Thank you again!