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Avengers - Breathless
Sequel to a sequel of a sequel. Or something.
Title: Breathless
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~5,000 words
Synopsis: When she said she was going to decorate the damned nursery if it killed her, she hadn't meant literally.
Author's Notes: Part 4 of the Respiration series. Follows immediately after Breathing Room. Natasha is pregnant with her clone and the team is determined to protect her.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Sequel to Breathe Again [LJ | DW | AO3], Breathing Exercises [LJ | DW | AO3] and Breathing Room [LJ | DW | AO3] and will only really make sense if you read them first.
Link to the Respiration Series on AO3.
"Not a word," Natasha growled when Barton came to pick her up. She sat on the edge of the sofa and was in no way out of breath from the acrobatics it had just taken to shove her feet into a pair of socks. He had come in right after an abortive attempt to grab her just barely out of reach boots, and had seen the way she caught herself on the pillow bedecked arm of said sofa to stop herself from toppling over.
To his credit, he remained silent, even if his lips twitched up in the hint of a fleeting smile. He walked the short distance across the room and knelt at her feet to adjust her socks with quick, efficient movement, righting the seams and straightening the cuffs just the way she liked them. He then reached for the offending boots and let her kick her foot into each, tightening and tying the laces in the same straightforward manner, going so far as to slide her favorite blade in along the side as if she would actually be able to reach it should the time come.
"I could have done that," she grumbled instead of thanking him.
"Probably," he agreed easily enough. Too easily, really. He stood and grabbed her coat and even offered it out to her before he added, "And you can probably still kill me in sixteen different ways right here and now, but you don't need to do that either."
He stood there, waited for her, and gave absolutely no commentary to the fact it took her far more effort than she was comfortable with to clamber up into a standing position. She tugged her sweater down where it had ridden up on her new and improved and even larger stomach, and accepted the coat.
"Pepper wants to take you shopping again," he said as she tucked her arms through the sleeves. She took that to mean she was bursting out of her clothing and Clint wasn't man enough to say that to her face. Her sweaters were tight and her jeans even tighter, and bending over had been damned uncomfortable - all things she would admit to absolutely no one. She knew she needed things, these material objects, and yet didn't want any of them.
No, that wasn't strictly true. She didn't want to want them. They were a sign of change, a sign of her changing, and a sign of something she could not control. She needed that control, even with everything else so carefully situated around her. Stark controlled the security of the Tower, her teammates controlled the security of everything else, and she ruled over only the rooms she directly lived in, hid in, wallowed in her random depression and mood changes so that she would not take it out on people who she was certain meant well and was also certain she may maim if they kept up with those good and kind intentions.
That was what today was about, really. She was to have control over her own living space and that of her impending progeny. Stark had already detailed four separate security protocols to choose from for the nursery, with others to be finalized and approved if those did not suffice. She, however, was going to decorate the damn thing if it killed her.
Pepper had offered the services of a professional designer, who presented fluff and pastels and everything abhorrent to her. Rogers had drawn and redrawn possible layouts until his pencil met an untimely end. Thor had wanted gild and gaudy and things she would never relax in and were in no way appropriate for a child of an assassin. Bruce had asked if he would be permitted to offer a quilt, though she had caught him mentioning something about a cradle when he thought she wasn't listening.
It was infuriating and she decided to put an end to it the only way she knew how: by resolving the situation on her own terms. She was going to shop for what she wanted and purchase what she felt was best, and do so without having to close down stores for private shopping hours or whatever else Potts had planned. Barton was coming with as she had yet to leave the Tower without an escort of some sort since her return to her overprotective teammates and he was the least annoying, though she would never tell him that to his face. His sole input as to the child-to-be's room was a stuffed teddy bear approximately one foot in height and that damned plant he wouldn't leave behind, remaining quiet on all other fronts.
They left her quarters and rode the elevator down to the private garage where Rogers just happened to be. She didn't even deign to glance his way, knew he was already suited up and ready to go, before she announced, "Follow us and it won't just be your pencil."
He mysteriously found something to buff on the chrome of his already polished bike, but his posture screamed chagrined, to say the least.
Stark was there because, well, he was Stark. He didn't offer to follow, but she would place money on him having each and every vehicle tracked via multiple means anyway. He tossed Barton the keys to something sturdy and stable and safe versus something slim, sleek, or shiny, promised them it was gassed up and ready, and told them to have fun.
Ready, in Stark terms, meant that Barton's bow case and quiver were in the back and the hidden side panels held backup pistols and ammunition to coincide with what she was already bringing. She nodded her thanks, fussed with the seatbelt, and gazed out the undoubtedly bulletproof glass as she finally escaped to some semblance of freedom.
Two hours in, and she had found a suitable dresser and changing table and arranged for their delivery. She had also found a gray blanket that was impossibly soft and in no way ruffled, and caved and purchased that as well, the bag bouncing softly against her shoulder with each step. Clint had wanted something for the walls and was easily distracted by the multitude of toys each place had en masse, but shrugged amiably enough when she explained she did not want clutter that would only need to be replaced once destroyed.
They stopped for tea and pierogis and, a short while later, she indulged in a dessert of frozen yogurt while Barton downed a sundae covered in damn near every topping imaginable. It was still cool outside, but the biting wind of winter had died down for at least the day and the confection seemed right against the warmth of her jacket. They were finishing these when he asked, "So, were you thinking diaper bag or just using a backpack to carry everything?"
She hadn't actually thought of such trivialities yet, and needed to weigh the benefits and carrying capabilities of each versus what she usually used to hide her weaponry away from view. She stalled admitting to as much by dryly asking, "I don't know, which is the least likely to get in the way of your quiver or Thor's cape?"
He took it all in stride and mused over another bite of sugar, "A diaper bag could be slung cross-body style and allow for freedom of movement, though a backpack would distribute the weight more evenly."
And for a brief moment, she could picture it, child on one hip and diaper bag resting on the other, gun in hand while the baby was cradled close and protected. The problem was, she saw him as the protector while she was off drawing fire to cover them both, the rest of the team swarming around and aiding in their own ways.
She stumbled at the thought, but covered for it quickly enough that she was fairly certain he either did not notice or would once again assume it was simply her center of gravity being off kilter. She was tempted to shake her head to clear it of such images, but was distracted instead by a glint of light off of one of the many store windows.
Clint had seen it at the same time she did, and tossed his ice cream to the side, easily hitting the target of the nearest available garbage can. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked the world at large, hand already disappearing into his coat to arm himself.
The glint was not the flash of some overzealous paparazzi nor was it something as innocuous as someone wanting a picture with some random Manhattan landmark and, of course, they were a good three blocks away from where the reinforced car was with its bow and ammunition. Not that they were unarmed in the least, but they had decided that Clint wandering around with a compound bow and full compliment of explosive arrows while shopping for cribs would draw more attention than a seemingly normal man and woman intermixing with the crowds.
It would be easy enough to duck into one of the many stores, but that risked drawing fire to a confined area with potential civilians and property damage. Not that the street itself was any better save for more room for movement, more chance at getting lost in the crowds that would serve as shield and buffer and hopefully not targets.
Instead, she did something she was not exactly proud of as it was nowhere near her usual levels of stealth. She picked the pocket of a man she had overheard lamenting the need for a cigarette, lit the napkin for her deserted dessert with the resulting lighter, and tossed it in the same trash can Clint had just used. It smoked and smoldered soon enough and she muttered just loud enough to draw the attention of a poor, unsuspecting pansy who then repeated her warning at a much increased volume: "Fire!"
The resulting chaos was impressive. Some ran away from the flames and some ran towards them, making her question the judgement if not the intelligence of the majority of the population. It served as a distraction though, and they were able to make it at least half a city block before the first shot rang out.
The glass shattered behind them and, of course, someone screamed. The masses were now torn between running away from the fire and running away from the shots and, while it was easier to hide in the resulting melee, it was also harder to move. She shouldered her way past a panicking trio of imbeciles, gun still tucked under the bulk of her coat so no one would be dumb enough to blame them and make the situation that much worse.
Clint had one hand on her arm and one hand on his own concealed weapon and they shuffled their way roughly another hundred feet before the next crash of glass. He shoved her down behind a steel reinforced garbage can and peered over the top, eyes scanning the crowd for the source. "Two shooters, and another four agents on the ground headed this way. Probably safe to assume they're armed as well."
She didn't roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all, but it was a near thing. She rarely ventured from the Tower and, of course, the one time she did all hell had to break loose. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were being watched, groups waiting to make their move. Instead, she asked, "Who?"
"Similarly dressed to last time," he replied, which was less than helpful. Plain black uniforms mimicking those of SHIELD, though their parent organization swore they were not involved. She had her opinions on the matter, and was not surprised in the least when Clint said, "If I had to hazard a guess, I would say something in the AIM genre."
It fit with her suspicions as well. She doubted they were the ones to originally take her as the tech, sophistication, and the scientists spoke more of the last remaining vestiges of the Red Room, but they would definitely capitalize on the results if they could.
There was a shot to the left and a woman in a coat similar to her own went down, clutching at her arm. "Go, go, go!" Clint urged. The agents descended on the other woman, giving them an opening they would be foolish not to take advantage of.
They only made it another three-fourths of a block before one of the shooters found them again. On the up side, the shooter was AIM standard, which meant he missed. On the down side, the shooter was AIM standard, which meant the ricochet hit a civilian. She watched the man go down, making a feeble grab at his chest and tossing something small and dart-like to the side. "They're using tranqs," she warned, even though she knew Barton would have seen the same damn thing.
"Not completely. That was a bullet on the glass," Clint corrected. "They could care less about me but want you alive," he guessed.
"Yeah, not going to happen," she growled in response. The agents had figured out the woman wasn't her and were moving towards their new position. The crowd was parting, giving her a clear view of at least one with his gun drawn and she decided she had had enough. She took her shot and watched with no small amount of satisfaction as he went down.
Clint was tugging at her again and she would have resented it except for the fact he was also managing to keep her steady on the broken glass and other detritus. This time, he took the shot but a pistol was no match for a sniper rifle and it didn't make the distance with enough force irregardless of how on target it was.
He pushed and he pulled and they may have shoved a few civilians out of the way but another broken window mixed with the contents of someone's bag when they were smart enough to cut and run were enough to send her sprawling forward. She felt the slices in her palms and the impact on her knees, and was silently thankful she had managed not to squash the baby-to-be. She tried to climb upright, but found one rather pissed off archer in the way. He bodily lifted her, ignoring her protests that he couldn't shoot with his hands full and that he had no protective gear on anyway. He huffed a rather rushed, "Tranqs only. The sniper is using tranqs," and took off as fast as he could manage.
While he took care of her, she took care of him. She replaced the gun she had dropped in her spill with the one from his waistband and took aim at the rapidly approaching man in black that was aiming at them. She wasn't always Barton's level of shot but, at this range, she made certain the man's kneecap would never be the same again.
Soon enough, Clint had her pressed against the car, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. A beep later, and he pried open the back door and pushed her inside.
There was another sound though, the familiar whine of the repulsors from the Iron Man suit as it circled overhead. "You pushed a panic button?" she asked incredulously when he seemed in no way surprised. The situation wasn't ideal, but they had it well in hand and were ready to escape; she saw no need to call in the calvary over something already likely over and done with.
Barton just looked at her like she was the insane one. He shook his head and said, "Sweetheart, I would push that damn thing a hundred times if it meant you two were safe."
She opened her mouth to make a scathing comment about his sentimentality getting in the way of his better judgement, but stopped when she saw him flinch forward and physically brace himself against the side of the car. "Barton?" she demanded when he provided no explanation for the action.
He grabbed the gun out of her hand, turned, and fired, revealing a feathered dart embedded soundly in his shoulder. She swore, violent and low, and reached for the plethora of weaponry tucked away into the various panels and pockets.
It was the movement of bending forward that made her notice. The pain that arched along her side that she had attributed to the fall was from a different source altogether. She plucked the dart from where it had been tangled in the layers of her coat and sweater, the tip barely within her and scraping against her skin above her hip before she tossed it away.
The slight dizziness she had felt when tossed into the car as well as Barton's overprotectiveness now explained as something other than pregnancy-related, she slid a clip into place and shouted, "Stark, get down here!"
Clint turned and she expected him to make a remark about who was panicking now but, instead, he shoved her feet the rest of the way inside and slammed the door shut, placing himself as a barricade in front of it while the Stark-designed security features activated with the action. She scrambled for the lock, only partially surprised when it opened, likely a failsafe for Tony to escape if needed versus actually holding a prisoner within. Clint was on that side though, body still blocking her as much as protecting her. She scooted across the seat to the other door and forced that one open instead.
Half in and half out, she took aim above and around her would-be protector. Metal and glass bit into her side as she listed heavily to the left, and she heard a shot go off before she ever pulled her own trigger. A dart bounced beside her, leaving a web of marks across the supposedly shatterproof glass. She turned and fired in that direction instead, earning a huffed, "Damn it, Nat, get in the damn car!" for her troubles.
A rush of silver and a blur of red signaled Thor's arrival and she found herself blocked in by machinery and heroes on all sides. "Please seek safety," Thor requested, hammer raised as if that alone would stop the current madness.
Maybe it did as she found things becoming eerily silent, the roar of the chaos that surrounded them now not much more than a background hum and the bright light of the sun shadowed at the edges. "Widow?" Thor asked, and she questioned when he started to loom above her instead of stand at her side.
The baby kicked, erupting the pain in her side and reminding her of her injury. It also reminded her what it was from and she reasoned the toxin had finally worked its way into her bloodstream. She spared a thought in hopes that AIM wasn't dumb enough to dose her with something that would harm her daughter, then spared a thought for the partner that had also been hit. "Barton's been shot," she warned, voice slurred and echoing.
"Of course he has," Tony sighed in reply, and she couldn't remember his landing though it had undoubtedly shook the ground around them. She heard him speak again, directions to watch Barton as Rogers was on his way and could drive him home. She then felt herself lifted for the second time in less than an hour, the air cold and biting as it whipped past her face, deafening her to the sound of the repulsors. She tried to focus her eyes but saw only gold and red haloed with blue. As they drifted closed, she thought she heard Stark promise, "I've got you."
There was more, but it was difficult to tell if it was memory or supposition based upon logic and reasoning. Calls for doctors, or at least one in particular, descriptions of her injury and verification that a sample of the tranquilizer had been obtained. She felt herself lowered, head and body cushioned against something soft and conforming versus sharp and unyielding. Chilled air struck her skin as her jacket and sweater were pulled back, a liquid colder still and with the bite of antiseptic applied to what must have been the scrape. There was the crush of a blood pressure cuff around her arm and the circular pressure of a stethoscope, but it was only when she heard Banner's voice huff a relieved, "She should be fine; both of them should be fine," that she gave in fully to the draw of unconsciousness.
She woke an indeterminate time later, surrounded by comfort and warmth. Her eyelids still felt heavy and clunky, but she forced them open to take stock of the situation. She lay in her own bed, coat and boots removed, the tape of a bandage sticky across the side of her abdomen, and the weight of a pulse/ox monitor clipped to her finger and the tightness of gauze around her palms. She still wore her clothing from earlier and the slant of the sun through the windows hinted that approximately three hours had gone by, though it was difficult to be precise with the cloud cover. She was propped slightly upright against a plethora of pillows, and she was covered by both her own coverlet and something soft and gray and vaguely recognizable as the blanket she had purchased before her day had been shot to hell. Her dagger was within easy reach at her side.
Banner rose from his seat beside her, hands out in a non-threatening manner as though afraid of imminent attack. "Your daughter is fine," were the first words he spoke. They were followed shortly by, "As are you, by the way. I'd like to run an ultrasound to make sure though, with your permission, of course." He reached over and unclipped the monitor from her finger, placing it on the nightstand and out of the way.
"Barton?" she asked. Her mouth was dry with the annoying aftertaste that tended to come with being drugged unconscious and breathing through it for too long.
"Sleeping off the effects in his own bed," Bruce assured her. He turned and poured her a cup of tea from the decorative pot he had brought with him, and then poured himself the same. She knew better than to think he would drug her, not now, but she appreciated the effort. He let her shift into a slightly more upright position and handed her the cup, hovering slightly as if afraid she may spill the scalding liquid.
Her hands shook slightly, but she controlled the fatigue well enough that she doubted he had actually seen the slip. She let the steam waft upward for a moment, the scent of jasmine filling the air. A few sips were enough to rid herself of the taste and dryness, as well as sort her thoughts.
She could have asked about the men who had attacked her, or even made a quip about how her child was either going to have to learn to fight or grow up in seclusion if the world was so determined to get to her. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and asked, "Panic button?"
Bruce nodded, completely unashamed. "We all have them now, and not just because of you. You have to admit that we each have enemies enough to need them." He took a sip of his own tea and seemed to relish the taste before he expanded, "There should be an app for your phone as well as a separate, more innocuous trigger. He had planned on adding them to watches, but figured those tend to be taken in an abduction as well, so he got creative."
There was no need to guess who "he" was as only Stark would plan such a thing. She wondered if hers was to be a bracelet or brooch or something equivocally girly. She would have to talk to Tony about adding them to a comm device for the times when communication of the details of the situation would be beneficial.
"I think he's working on shielding for a stroller now," Bruce said, apropos of nothing.
"Bulletproof or energy barrier?" she asked as if deciding between the purple or the red accents for the fabric.
Bruce shrugged and took another sip of his tea. "Both, I think."
She shook her head and ignored the lingering dizziness that accompanied the movement. "What right do I have to do this to her? What kind of life is she going to have?" she asked the air around her. She pictured all the security precautions, all the agencies lurking and plotting and attacking at a moments notice. She herself had been gone for less than three hours and managed to nearly get ensnared. Eighteen years or more? And even then there were still risks, still chances for harm, simply because she was who she was, simply because she was forced into an existence not of her own making.
"Your daughter will have the best life we can give her," Bruce replied with a calmness and sureness she envied. He set down his teacup and folded his hands in front of him, as steady and certain as she often pretended to be. With him though, it wasn't an act. He believed in his words and willed her to believe in them as well and, if she could not, to at least believe in him enough for them to be true. "We will give her everything we can, and more. We will look out for her as though she were one of our own, because she is. You will not go through this alone, and neither will she. Each and every one of us will be there for you."
"Whether I like it or not?" she guessed, but there was a smile on her lips, and a hint of hope buried down deep inside her.
"Pretty much," Bruce agreed with a grin. He clapped his hands together, a sure sign he had spent far too much time with Stark. "Now, Tony has about seventeen new security protocols he wants to review with you - say no to the mechanized bear, by the way. Seriously, don't even ask, just say no. Pepper wants to review color schemes with you and is using words I don't understand that may or may not be shades or hues? Or possibly fabrics? Steve was nodding along so maybe he knows. We've talked Thor out of a golden crib, but he wants to know your feelings on capes and a stuffed version of something that may or may not be a mythical monster. Are you up for any of this?"
She hung her head in the hand not presently occupied with her cup and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Do I have a choice?" she asked, resignedly but not truly upset. It was simply further evidence to support his earlier words, and warmed her as much or possibly more than actually annoyed.
"Of course," he promised. She looked up to see that grin on his face again, and was in no way surprised when he clarified, "Of course, that choice is whether you want to do this now or later, but it's still a choice."
"Running away is still looking like a viable option," she told him, peeking out through her fingers.
"You have a team of superheroes that have decided to adopt you and your unborn child - I don't think escape is on the table any time soon," he countered. "Besides, Steve and Thor have spent the last two hours trying to make syrniki for you - it would be rude not to at least try it."
Her stomach growled and she tried not to glare at its betrayal.
His lips quirked, but he wisely did not comment. Instead he requested, "Finish your tea? I'm going to go check on Clint and then we can have a nice relaxing dysfunctional family dinner, if the Wonder Chefs don't burn down the kitchen."
"And if they do?" she asked, rising to the bait.
He shrugged from his spot in the doorway. "I'm sure there's some takeout menus around here somewhere."
He left her with her tea and her thoughts and likely the watchful eye of Stark's AI. She still worried about the future, but she also worried about how a single word both steadied her and warmed her heart. Family. Not team, but family. It was something denied her for so long. Something she thought she had forgotten or given up on entirely. Something she was going to need, whether she liked it or not. Of course, he was also correct in the descriptor of dysfunctional because, really, there were few words more accurate for their dynamics.
She sipped her tea and rubbed her belly and felt the tiniest bit of the tightness around her chest ease at the thought. She would have her ultrasound and eat her possibly burnt dinner and everyone would hover too close and discuss all the ways she shouldn't do what she wanted to do and then discuss how they were going to let her do it anyway and they would be annoying and thoughtful and simply there.
Her daughter chose that moment to kick again and she sighed, patting the corresponding spot absently. "I know, little one, but what are we going to do? They're supposed to be this way; it's who they are."
The little flutter of movement that she felt with the words was more than an appropriate response.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Title: Breathless
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~5,000 words
Synopsis: When she said she was going to decorate the damned nursery if it killed her, she hadn't meant literally.
Author's Notes: Part 4 of the Respiration series. Follows immediately after Breathing Room. Natasha is pregnant with her clone and the team is determined to protect her.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Sequel to Breathe Again [LJ | DW | AO3], Breathing Exercises [LJ | DW | AO3] and Breathing Room [LJ | DW | AO3] and will only really make sense if you read them first.
Link to the Respiration Series on AO3.
"Not a word," Natasha growled when Barton came to pick her up. She sat on the edge of the sofa and was in no way out of breath from the acrobatics it had just taken to shove her feet into a pair of socks. He had come in right after an abortive attempt to grab her just barely out of reach boots, and had seen the way she caught herself on the pillow bedecked arm of said sofa to stop herself from toppling over.
To his credit, he remained silent, even if his lips twitched up in the hint of a fleeting smile. He walked the short distance across the room and knelt at her feet to adjust her socks with quick, efficient movement, righting the seams and straightening the cuffs just the way she liked them. He then reached for the offending boots and let her kick her foot into each, tightening and tying the laces in the same straightforward manner, going so far as to slide her favorite blade in along the side as if she would actually be able to reach it should the time come.
"I could have done that," she grumbled instead of thanking him.
"Probably," he agreed easily enough. Too easily, really. He stood and grabbed her coat and even offered it out to her before he added, "And you can probably still kill me in sixteen different ways right here and now, but you don't need to do that either."
He stood there, waited for her, and gave absolutely no commentary to the fact it took her far more effort than she was comfortable with to clamber up into a standing position. She tugged her sweater down where it had ridden up on her new and improved and even larger stomach, and accepted the coat.
"Pepper wants to take you shopping again," he said as she tucked her arms through the sleeves. She took that to mean she was bursting out of her clothing and Clint wasn't man enough to say that to her face. Her sweaters were tight and her jeans even tighter, and bending over had been damned uncomfortable - all things she would admit to absolutely no one. She knew she needed things, these material objects, and yet didn't want any of them.
No, that wasn't strictly true. She didn't want to want them. They were a sign of change, a sign of her changing, and a sign of something she could not control. She needed that control, even with everything else so carefully situated around her. Stark controlled the security of the Tower, her teammates controlled the security of everything else, and she ruled over only the rooms she directly lived in, hid in, wallowed in her random depression and mood changes so that she would not take it out on people who she was certain meant well and was also certain she may maim if they kept up with those good and kind intentions.
That was what today was about, really. She was to have control over her own living space and that of her impending progeny. Stark had already detailed four separate security protocols to choose from for the nursery, with others to be finalized and approved if those did not suffice. She, however, was going to decorate the damn thing if it killed her.
Pepper had offered the services of a professional designer, who presented fluff and pastels and everything abhorrent to her. Rogers had drawn and redrawn possible layouts until his pencil met an untimely end. Thor had wanted gild and gaudy and things she would never relax in and were in no way appropriate for a child of an assassin. Bruce had asked if he would be permitted to offer a quilt, though she had caught him mentioning something about a cradle when he thought she wasn't listening.
It was infuriating and she decided to put an end to it the only way she knew how: by resolving the situation on her own terms. She was going to shop for what she wanted and purchase what she felt was best, and do so without having to close down stores for private shopping hours or whatever else Potts had planned. Barton was coming with as she had yet to leave the Tower without an escort of some sort since her return to her overprotective teammates and he was the least annoying, though she would never tell him that to his face. His sole input as to the child-to-be's room was a stuffed teddy bear approximately one foot in height and that damned plant he wouldn't leave behind, remaining quiet on all other fronts.
They left her quarters and rode the elevator down to the private garage where Rogers just happened to be. She didn't even deign to glance his way, knew he was already suited up and ready to go, before she announced, "Follow us and it won't just be your pencil."
He mysteriously found something to buff on the chrome of his already polished bike, but his posture screamed chagrined, to say the least.
Stark was there because, well, he was Stark. He didn't offer to follow, but she would place money on him having each and every vehicle tracked via multiple means anyway. He tossed Barton the keys to something sturdy and stable and safe versus something slim, sleek, or shiny, promised them it was gassed up and ready, and told them to have fun.
Ready, in Stark terms, meant that Barton's bow case and quiver were in the back and the hidden side panels held backup pistols and ammunition to coincide with what she was already bringing. She nodded her thanks, fussed with the seatbelt, and gazed out the undoubtedly bulletproof glass as she finally escaped to some semblance of freedom.
Two hours in, and she had found a suitable dresser and changing table and arranged for their delivery. She had also found a gray blanket that was impossibly soft and in no way ruffled, and caved and purchased that as well, the bag bouncing softly against her shoulder with each step. Clint had wanted something for the walls and was easily distracted by the multitude of toys each place had en masse, but shrugged amiably enough when she explained she did not want clutter that would only need to be replaced once destroyed.
They stopped for tea and pierogis and, a short while later, she indulged in a dessert of frozen yogurt while Barton downed a sundae covered in damn near every topping imaginable. It was still cool outside, but the biting wind of winter had died down for at least the day and the confection seemed right against the warmth of her jacket. They were finishing these when he asked, "So, were you thinking diaper bag or just using a backpack to carry everything?"
She hadn't actually thought of such trivialities yet, and needed to weigh the benefits and carrying capabilities of each versus what she usually used to hide her weaponry away from view. She stalled admitting to as much by dryly asking, "I don't know, which is the least likely to get in the way of your quiver or Thor's cape?"
He took it all in stride and mused over another bite of sugar, "A diaper bag could be slung cross-body style and allow for freedom of movement, though a backpack would distribute the weight more evenly."
And for a brief moment, she could picture it, child on one hip and diaper bag resting on the other, gun in hand while the baby was cradled close and protected. The problem was, she saw him as the protector while she was off drawing fire to cover them both, the rest of the team swarming around and aiding in their own ways.
She stumbled at the thought, but covered for it quickly enough that she was fairly certain he either did not notice or would once again assume it was simply her center of gravity being off kilter. She was tempted to shake her head to clear it of such images, but was distracted instead by a glint of light off of one of the many store windows.
Clint had seen it at the same time she did, and tossed his ice cream to the side, easily hitting the target of the nearest available garbage can. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked the world at large, hand already disappearing into his coat to arm himself.
The glint was not the flash of some overzealous paparazzi nor was it something as innocuous as someone wanting a picture with some random Manhattan landmark and, of course, they were a good three blocks away from where the reinforced car was with its bow and ammunition. Not that they were unarmed in the least, but they had decided that Clint wandering around with a compound bow and full compliment of explosive arrows while shopping for cribs would draw more attention than a seemingly normal man and woman intermixing with the crowds.
It would be easy enough to duck into one of the many stores, but that risked drawing fire to a confined area with potential civilians and property damage. Not that the street itself was any better save for more room for movement, more chance at getting lost in the crowds that would serve as shield and buffer and hopefully not targets.
Instead, she did something she was not exactly proud of as it was nowhere near her usual levels of stealth. She picked the pocket of a man she had overheard lamenting the need for a cigarette, lit the napkin for her deserted dessert with the resulting lighter, and tossed it in the same trash can Clint had just used. It smoked and smoldered soon enough and she muttered just loud enough to draw the attention of a poor, unsuspecting pansy who then repeated her warning at a much increased volume: "Fire!"
The resulting chaos was impressive. Some ran away from the flames and some ran towards them, making her question the judgement if not the intelligence of the majority of the population. It served as a distraction though, and they were able to make it at least half a city block before the first shot rang out.
The glass shattered behind them and, of course, someone screamed. The masses were now torn between running away from the fire and running away from the shots and, while it was easier to hide in the resulting melee, it was also harder to move. She shouldered her way past a panicking trio of imbeciles, gun still tucked under the bulk of her coat so no one would be dumb enough to blame them and make the situation that much worse.
Clint had one hand on her arm and one hand on his own concealed weapon and they shuffled their way roughly another hundred feet before the next crash of glass. He shoved her down behind a steel reinforced garbage can and peered over the top, eyes scanning the crowd for the source. "Two shooters, and another four agents on the ground headed this way. Probably safe to assume they're armed as well."
She didn't roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all, but it was a near thing. She rarely ventured from the Tower and, of course, the one time she did all hell had to break loose. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were being watched, groups waiting to make their move. Instead, she asked, "Who?"
"Similarly dressed to last time," he replied, which was less than helpful. Plain black uniforms mimicking those of SHIELD, though their parent organization swore they were not involved. She had her opinions on the matter, and was not surprised in the least when Clint said, "If I had to hazard a guess, I would say something in the AIM genre."
It fit with her suspicions as well. She doubted they were the ones to originally take her as the tech, sophistication, and the scientists spoke more of the last remaining vestiges of the Red Room, but they would definitely capitalize on the results if they could.
There was a shot to the left and a woman in a coat similar to her own went down, clutching at her arm. "Go, go, go!" Clint urged. The agents descended on the other woman, giving them an opening they would be foolish not to take advantage of.
They only made it another three-fourths of a block before one of the shooters found them again. On the up side, the shooter was AIM standard, which meant he missed. On the down side, the shooter was AIM standard, which meant the ricochet hit a civilian. She watched the man go down, making a feeble grab at his chest and tossing something small and dart-like to the side. "They're using tranqs," she warned, even though she knew Barton would have seen the same damn thing.
"Not completely. That was a bullet on the glass," Clint corrected. "They could care less about me but want you alive," he guessed.
"Yeah, not going to happen," she growled in response. The agents had figured out the woman wasn't her and were moving towards their new position. The crowd was parting, giving her a clear view of at least one with his gun drawn and she decided she had had enough. She took her shot and watched with no small amount of satisfaction as he went down.
Clint was tugging at her again and she would have resented it except for the fact he was also managing to keep her steady on the broken glass and other detritus. This time, he took the shot but a pistol was no match for a sniper rifle and it didn't make the distance with enough force irregardless of how on target it was.
He pushed and he pulled and they may have shoved a few civilians out of the way but another broken window mixed with the contents of someone's bag when they were smart enough to cut and run were enough to send her sprawling forward. She felt the slices in her palms and the impact on her knees, and was silently thankful she had managed not to squash the baby-to-be. She tried to climb upright, but found one rather pissed off archer in the way. He bodily lifted her, ignoring her protests that he couldn't shoot with his hands full and that he had no protective gear on anyway. He huffed a rather rushed, "Tranqs only. The sniper is using tranqs," and took off as fast as he could manage.
While he took care of her, she took care of him. She replaced the gun she had dropped in her spill with the one from his waistband and took aim at the rapidly approaching man in black that was aiming at them. She wasn't always Barton's level of shot but, at this range, she made certain the man's kneecap would never be the same again.
Soon enough, Clint had her pressed against the car, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. A beep later, and he pried open the back door and pushed her inside.
There was another sound though, the familiar whine of the repulsors from the Iron Man suit as it circled overhead. "You pushed a panic button?" she asked incredulously when he seemed in no way surprised. The situation wasn't ideal, but they had it well in hand and were ready to escape; she saw no need to call in the calvary over something already likely over and done with.
Barton just looked at her like she was the insane one. He shook his head and said, "Sweetheart, I would push that damn thing a hundred times if it meant you two were safe."
She opened her mouth to make a scathing comment about his sentimentality getting in the way of his better judgement, but stopped when she saw him flinch forward and physically brace himself against the side of the car. "Barton?" she demanded when he provided no explanation for the action.
He grabbed the gun out of her hand, turned, and fired, revealing a feathered dart embedded soundly in his shoulder. She swore, violent and low, and reached for the plethora of weaponry tucked away into the various panels and pockets.
It was the movement of bending forward that made her notice. The pain that arched along her side that she had attributed to the fall was from a different source altogether. She plucked the dart from where it had been tangled in the layers of her coat and sweater, the tip barely within her and scraping against her skin above her hip before she tossed it away.
The slight dizziness she had felt when tossed into the car as well as Barton's overprotectiveness now explained as something other than pregnancy-related, she slid a clip into place and shouted, "Stark, get down here!"
Clint turned and she expected him to make a remark about who was panicking now but, instead, he shoved her feet the rest of the way inside and slammed the door shut, placing himself as a barricade in front of it while the Stark-designed security features activated with the action. She scrambled for the lock, only partially surprised when it opened, likely a failsafe for Tony to escape if needed versus actually holding a prisoner within. Clint was on that side though, body still blocking her as much as protecting her. She scooted across the seat to the other door and forced that one open instead.
Half in and half out, she took aim above and around her would-be protector. Metal and glass bit into her side as she listed heavily to the left, and she heard a shot go off before she ever pulled her own trigger. A dart bounced beside her, leaving a web of marks across the supposedly shatterproof glass. She turned and fired in that direction instead, earning a huffed, "Damn it, Nat, get in the damn car!" for her troubles.
A rush of silver and a blur of red signaled Thor's arrival and she found herself blocked in by machinery and heroes on all sides. "Please seek safety," Thor requested, hammer raised as if that alone would stop the current madness.
Maybe it did as she found things becoming eerily silent, the roar of the chaos that surrounded them now not much more than a background hum and the bright light of the sun shadowed at the edges. "Widow?" Thor asked, and she questioned when he started to loom above her instead of stand at her side.
The baby kicked, erupting the pain in her side and reminding her of her injury. It also reminded her what it was from and she reasoned the toxin had finally worked its way into her bloodstream. She spared a thought in hopes that AIM wasn't dumb enough to dose her with something that would harm her daughter, then spared a thought for the partner that had also been hit. "Barton's been shot," she warned, voice slurred and echoing.
"Of course he has," Tony sighed in reply, and she couldn't remember his landing though it had undoubtedly shook the ground around them. She heard him speak again, directions to watch Barton as Rogers was on his way and could drive him home. She then felt herself lifted for the second time in less than an hour, the air cold and biting as it whipped past her face, deafening her to the sound of the repulsors. She tried to focus her eyes but saw only gold and red haloed with blue. As they drifted closed, she thought she heard Stark promise, "I've got you."
There was more, but it was difficult to tell if it was memory or supposition based upon logic and reasoning. Calls for doctors, or at least one in particular, descriptions of her injury and verification that a sample of the tranquilizer had been obtained. She felt herself lowered, head and body cushioned against something soft and conforming versus sharp and unyielding. Chilled air struck her skin as her jacket and sweater were pulled back, a liquid colder still and with the bite of antiseptic applied to what must have been the scrape. There was the crush of a blood pressure cuff around her arm and the circular pressure of a stethoscope, but it was only when she heard Banner's voice huff a relieved, "She should be fine; both of them should be fine," that she gave in fully to the draw of unconsciousness.
She woke an indeterminate time later, surrounded by comfort and warmth. Her eyelids still felt heavy and clunky, but she forced them open to take stock of the situation. She lay in her own bed, coat and boots removed, the tape of a bandage sticky across the side of her abdomen, and the weight of a pulse/ox monitor clipped to her finger and the tightness of gauze around her palms. She still wore her clothing from earlier and the slant of the sun through the windows hinted that approximately three hours had gone by, though it was difficult to be precise with the cloud cover. She was propped slightly upright against a plethora of pillows, and she was covered by both her own coverlet and something soft and gray and vaguely recognizable as the blanket she had purchased before her day had been shot to hell. Her dagger was within easy reach at her side.
Banner rose from his seat beside her, hands out in a non-threatening manner as though afraid of imminent attack. "Your daughter is fine," were the first words he spoke. They were followed shortly by, "As are you, by the way. I'd like to run an ultrasound to make sure though, with your permission, of course." He reached over and unclipped the monitor from her finger, placing it on the nightstand and out of the way.
"Barton?" she asked. Her mouth was dry with the annoying aftertaste that tended to come with being drugged unconscious and breathing through it for too long.
"Sleeping off the effects in his own bed," Bruce assured her. He turned and poured her a cup of tea from the decorative pot he had brought with him, and then poured himself the same. She knew better than to think he would drug her, not now, but she appreciated the effort. He let her shift into a slightly more upright position and handed her the cup, hovering slightly as if afraid she may spill the scalding liquid.
Her hands shook slightly, but she controlled the fatigue well enough that she doubted he had actually seen the slip. She let the steam waft upward for a moment, the scent of jasmine filling the air. A few sips were enough to rid herself of the taste and dryness, as well as sort her thoughts.
She could have asked about the men who had attacked her, or even made a quip about how her child was either going to have to learn to fight or grow up in seclusion if the world was so determined to get to her. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and asked, "Panic button?"
Bruce nodded, completely unashamed. "We all have them now, and not just because of you. You have to admit that we each have enemies enough to need them." He took a sip of his own tea and seemed to relish the taste before he expanded, "There should be an app for your phone as well as a separate, more innocuous trigger. He had planned on adding them to watches, but figured those tend to be taken in an abduction as well, so he got creative."
There was no need to guess who "he" was as only Stark would plan such a thing. She wondered if hers was to be a bracelet or brooch or something equivocally girly. She would have to talk to Tony about adding them to a comm device for the times when communication of the details of the situation would be beneficial.
"I think he's working on shielding for a stroller now," Bruce said, apropos of nothing.
"Bulletproof or energy barrier?" she asked as if deciding between the purple or the red accents for the fabric.
Bruce shrugged and took another sip of his tea. "Both, I think."
She shook her head and ignored the lingering dizziness that accompanied the movement. "What right do I have to do this to her? What kind of life is she going to have?" she asked the air around her. She pictured all the security precautions, all the agencies lurking and plotting and attacking at a moments notice. She herself had been gone for less than three hours and managed to nearly get ensnared. Eighteen years or more? And even then there were still risks, still chances for harm, simply because she was who she was, simply because she was forced into an existence not of her own making.
"Your daughter will have the best life we can give her," Bruce replied with a calmness and sureness she envied. He set down his teacup and folded his hands in front of him, as steady and certain as she often pretended to be. With him though, it wasn't an act. He believed in his words and willed her to believe in them as well and, if she could not, to at least believe in him enough for them to be true. "We will give her everything we can, and more. We will look out for her as though she were one of our own, because she is. You will not go through this alone, and neither will she. Each and every one of us will be there for you."
"Whether I like it or not?" she guessed, but there was a smile on her lips, and a hint of hope buried down deep inside her.
"Pretty much," Bruce agreed with a grin. He clapped his hands together, a sure sign he had spent far too much time with Stark. "Now, Tony has about seventeen new security protocols he wants to review with you - say no to the mechanized bear, by the way. Seriously, don't even ask, just say no. Pepper wants to review color schemes with you and is using words I don't understand that may or may not be shades or hues? Or possibly fabrics? Steve was nodding along so maybe he knows. We've talked Thor out of a golden crib, but he wants to know your feelings on capes and a stuffed version of something that may or may not be a mythical monster. Are you up for any of this?"
She hung her head in the hand not presently occupied with her cup and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Do I have a choice?" she asked, resignedly but not truly upset. It was simply further evidence to support his earlier words, and warmed her as much or possibly more than actually annoyed.
"Of course," he promised. She looked up to see that grin on his face again, and was in no way surprised when he clarified, "Of course, that choice is whether you want to do this now or later, but it's still a choice."
"Running away is still looking like a viable option," she told him, peeking out through her fingers.
"You have a team of superheroes that have decided to adopt you and your unborn child - I don't think escape is on the table any time soon," he countered. "Besides, Steve and Thor have spent the last two hours trying to make syrniki for you - it would be rude not to at least try it."
Her stomach growled and she tried not to glare at its betrayal.
His lips quirked, but he wisely did not comment. Instead he requested, "Finish your tea? I'm going to go check on Clint and then we can have a nice relaxing dysfunctional family dinner, if the Wonder Chefs don't burn down the kitchen."
"And if they do?" she asked, rising to the bait.
He shrugged from his spot in the doorway. "I'm sure there's some takeout menus around here somewhere."
He left her with her tea and her thoughts and likely the watchful eye of Stark's AI. She still worried about the future, but she also worried about how a single word both steadied her and warmed her heart. Family. Not team, but family. It was something denied her for so long. Something she thought she had forgotten or given up on entirely. Something she was going to need, whether she liked it or not. Of course, he was also correct in the descriptor of dysfunctional because, really, there were few words more accurate for their dynamics.
She sipped her tea and rubbed her belly and felt the tiniest bit of the tightness around her chest ease at the thought. She would have her ultrasound and eat her possibly burnt dinner and everyone would hover too close and discuss all the ways she shouldn't do what she wanted to do and then discuss how they were going to let her do it anyway and they would be annoying and thoughtful and simply there.
Her daughter chose that moment to kick again and she sighed, patting the corresponding spot absently. "I know, little one, but what are we going to do? They're supposed to be this way; it's who they are."
The little flutter of movement that she felt with the words was more than an appropriate response.
End.
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