Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Nor need we power or splendor, wide hall or lordly dome. The good, the true, the tender--
These form the wealth of home."
- Sarah J. Hale

2015

Clint woke in the small hours of the night to soft infant whimpering.

For a moment, he let himself lie perfectly, hopefully still. Maybe this was it. The night of every parent’s dreams. The first self-soothe, sleep-through-the-night night.

In the crib in the corner of the room, Nate sniffled, quieted--Clint held his breath--and then settled into a long, enthusiastic wail.

Next to him, Laura groaned. “Clint.”

“I know, I know.” Wincing as old wounds creaked and stretched, Clint rolled out of bed and shuffled across the room. “Alright, buddy, it’s okay. I got you.” He reached into the crib and lifted Nate out. As if on cue, Nate’s cries stopped at the touch. “There you go, man. Dad’s got you.”

Nate turned his head and nuzzled at Clint’s belly, one tiny hand patting against Clint’s skin. Clint made a valiant effort not to melt inside, failed miserably, and changed Nate’s diaper, because he and Laura had their routine down to a science at this point and he wasn’t about to mess with it.

By the time Nate was changed--on the dresser, because by kid number three they were done pretending that a changing table was a necessity--Laura was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “Special delivery,” Clint said, passing the baby over.

Laura’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled, reaching for Nate. He pawed at her until she set him against her breast, and then immediately relaxed, suckling contentedly. Laura leaned back against her pillows with a sigh, one arm wrapped securely around Nate. She reached up with the other to brush Clint’s hair back. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Clint turned his head to kiss her palm. “You okay? Need anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I have some water here.” She smiled at him. “Do you want to catch some sleep while he eats?”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay up with you. It’s only fair--” He cut himself off, ears perking. The downside of wearing his aids to sleep in order to hear the baby was that the slightest sound woke him, but the upside was that his sniper-trained sense system was always turned up to eleven. The noise in the house had been soft and muffled, but still out of place.

“Clint? What is it?”

“Someone’s in the house,” he said, careful to keep his voice low and level.

Laura tensed, her smile vanishing. “Do I need to get the kids?”

Clint listened for another moment. He heard a creak, some familiar footsteps, and then another creak, this one of a well-loved sofa settling under someone’s weight. He relaxed. “No. It’s Nat.”

Relief flooded Laura’s features. “She could have called.”

“She never calls.” Clint leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll check on her.”

“Tell her to come up to bed,” Laura said, shifting Nate slightly as she leaned back again. “That couch will kill her back.”

Clint snorted. “She’ll say no.”

“Then tell her she’s in charge of Cooper and Lila when they come down in the morning.”

He chuckled. “I’ll let her know.” Straightening, he grabbed a flannel off the end of the bed, shrugging into it and buttoning it one-handed as he headed down the hall. Out of habit, he paused briefly by Cooper and Lila’s doors to listen for any sounds beyond soft, even breathing, and then, satisfied that all was well, padded down the stairs

As expected, there was a blanket-covered lump curled on the living room couch. A few red curls were visible at the edges of the afghan. Clint smiled, crouching down next to the sofa and tugging gently on one of the rogue curls. “Tasha.”

Natasha’s head emerged from the pile of blankets, frowning at him. “Hair-pulling, Clint? Really?”

“Who broke into whose house again?”

“I didn’t break in. I have a key.” Natasha sat up, pushing her hair back. The only light in the room was the moonlight through the window, but Clint could see she looked exhausted. Still, she smiled faintly at him. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He held out his arms and she leaned into them with a sigh, resting her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair. “Bad day?”

“Many.” She leaned back, moving over on the couch to make room for him. “I needed a break.”

“You’re always welcome here.” He took the spot next to her, wincing as his joints settled. “You could’ve come up.”

Natasha shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Clint raised his eyebrows at her. “I’ve got a five-week-old baby up there. You think I was planning on sleeping through the night?” Natasha shrugged again, looking down. Clint frowned and nudged her gently. “Hey,” he said. “Still nothing from the big guy?”

She shook her head. “I keep looking,” she said quietly. “Don’t get anything back.”

He ran a hand through his hair. Damn it, Bruce, he thought. You were supposed to be the good one. “I’m sorry, Nat.”

Natasha looked at him sharply. “Are you?”

There was a challenge in her voice. Clint very carefully ignored it, holding her gaze steadily. “Yes, I am.” He spread his hands, a no-threat-here gesture. “I want you happy, Nat. Whatever else we’ve been, you’re my best friend, and I want you happy. Maybe I got my own hopes for where that could be, but what I want’s not the priority here. If Bruce makes you happy and he’s gone, you bet I’m sorry for it.”

Natasha’s expression softened, and she looked away. “I know. I know that.” She shivered slightly, and Clint pulled the blanket up and around her shoulders. She spared him a smile. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“I know. You don’t have to explain it to me.”

She nodded, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the afghan. “Cap and the rest, they say hi.”

Clint rubbed the back of his head and let her change the subject. “I keep meaning to call.”

“You’re parenting. I think they forgive you.”

“Yeah, well, if I stay gone too long, they’ll think I’ve retired for good.” He winked and, in the dim light, saw Natasha roll her eyes. Clint grinned at her, then sobered slightly. “How’s Wanda?”

Natasha’s expression turned thoughtful. “Healing,” she said after a long moment. “I show her pictures of Nate sometimes. I think it helps.”

“That’s something, at least.” Clint rubbed his eyes. “How long’re you staying?”

Natasha hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

Clint nodded. It was about what he expected. “You know you’re welcome as long as you want.”

She smiled softly. “I know.”

“Good.” He climbed to his feet. “Come on. Laura said to tell you to come to bed.”

Natasha started to rise, and then paused. “I don’t know.”

“It’s just sleep, Nat.” He rubbed absently at an old scar, and then grinned at her. “Laura also said to tell you that if you stay down here, you’re in charge of the kids when they wake up for Saturday morning playtime.”

She winced. “Low blow,” she said, but got to her feet. “How many more times will Nate be up tonight?”

Clint groaned. “God knows. He’s almost as bad as Cooper.”

Natasha followed him towards the stairs. “Not lucky enough to get another Lila?”

“Lila was our angel child,” Clint agreed.

“Until she was mobile.”

“Yeah, all downhill from there.”

They fell silent as they reached the landing, slipping quietly past the kids’ rooms and making for the master bedroom. Clint held the door open for Natasha, then closed it carefully behind them.

“Perfect timing,” Laura said from the bed. “I think he’s about done.” She smiled at Natasha, her special Natasha smile that no one else ever received. “Hi, Nat. We missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Natasha said, climbing into the bed. She reached out and brushed her fingertips over Nate’s head. “He’s getting so big,” she said, and Clint wouldn’t help his smile. Nat was all awe and wonder around babies, especially Clint’s, all of whom she’d seen born, in blood and tears and joy. “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Laura dipped her head slightly, a few strands of hair falling forward. Natasha tucked them back for her, a motion that seemed at once automatic and unexpected, and she looked at her hand as she pulled it back, as if surprised at it. “How long are you staying?”

“Don’t know,” Natasha said, and then, as Laura looked at her unwaveringly, amended, “A few days, at least.”

Clint suppressed a grin. Laura always got a better answer than he did.

“Glad to hear it,” Laura said, smiling at her. “Maybe you and Clint can do some sparring. He’s getting antsy.”

“I have not,” Clint protested. Laura shot him a skeptical look, and he deflated. “Well. Maybe a little.”

Natasha grinned at him, all teeth. “I’ll get it out of his system.”

“Evil women,” Clint muttered. “No fair ganging up on me.”

Laura chuckled. “It’s good for you, Barton.” She eased Nate away from her breast, rubbed his back until he let out a contented burp, kissed his forehead, and then passed him up to Clint. “Back to bed with him.”

Clint took him from her and cradled him carefully, letting Nate yawn sleepily against one arm as he carried him back to bed. He set him down in the crib and laid a hand on Nate’s belly, rubbing small circles and humming a nameless lullaby to him as he settled. After a few moments, Nate relaxed, his breathing turning slow and even. Clint smiled, turning away and back to the rest of the room, only to find both Laura and Nat staring at him with identical expressions, somewhere caught between affection and and wonder. Laura looked almost tearful. “What?”

Laura shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “I love you. Come to bed.”

Clint cocked an eyebrow at her, but shed his flannel, climbing into bed. “Scoot,” he told Natasha. She rolled her eyes, but moved over to make room. He dropped face-down onto the pillow, and received identical pokes in both sides until he groaned and rolled over onto his back. “Fine, fine.”

“Listen to him,” Laura said, curling into his right side. “Such hardship, being in the middle of two women who love him.”

“Some things never change,” Natasha said, and if her voice hitched just a little, Clint wasn’t going to mention it as she settled down on his left. “He’s always been a whiner.” Clint didn’t pinch her for that, but only because it would have woken the baby, and then Laura would have smothered him with a pillow. Nat didn’t say anything more, though, just laid her head on Clint’s shoulder and rested one hand on his chest.

Clint wrapped one arm around Laura’s shoulders and dropped his other hand into Natasha’s curls. “Night, girls.”

“Mmf,” Natasha said, half-muffled against him.

“Good night,” Laura said. Clint felt her hand settle on top of Natasha’s. “Welcome home, Tasha.”

There was a pause, and then Clint felt Nat turn her hand to grasp Laura’s. “Thank you.”

Clint smiled, closed his eyes, and relaxed. He flexed the fingers of his left hand slightly, feeling the weight of his wedding ring, still something to get used to each time he came back from a long time in the field. The cool metal of Laura’s ring brushed against his side. It was a comfortable, practiced touch.

(In a small velvet box in Laura’s jewelry drawer, there was another ring, a slim, simple band of rose gold. It had been more than half a decade since the ring had been on its owner’s finger, but Laura kept it clean and polished, and every now and then Clint caught her looking at it, a quiet, nostalgic gaze. Sometimes, it was Laura who caught him. Each time, they had the same conversation, hushed and hopeful. Patience. Time. Love.

Someday, she’ll come home for good.)

Clint turned his head to kiss Natasha’s forehead, and she made a contented sound, shifting closer. He sighed. Someday was a nice idea, but it always seemed damn far off.

Still, it had taken years just to get back to where they were now. Clint relaxed back into the pillows.

Patience. Time.

Love.

Surrounded and content, Clint closed his eyes and let himself sleep.

1996

Clint knows he looks like shit when he drags himself into the bar in Milan, but it’s been a hell of a day and he’s very ready to have a drink. It’s the sort of feeling that always makes him a little uneasy, but tonight he’s not going to push it. He’s got a knife slash hidden under his jacket and bruising blossoming into color on his face and a probable concussion, and he wants. A damn. Drink.

The bar is a total dive, the kind of place he wouldn’t have expected to find in a city like this, but they’re definitely playing Cash loud enough to be heard in the street and that’s good enough for him.

It’s a few minutes after eleven and the bar isn’t too crowded, so Clint hauls himself up to the bar. The bartender is a broad-shouldered black man who eyes him thoughtfully for a moment, as if determining whether or not Clint is likely to pass out on his floor, then comes over. “Cosa desidera??”

“Un whiskey liscio.”

The bartender nods. “Qualche preferenza?”

Clint scans the bottles behind the counter. “Jack.” He gets another nod, and a moment later the bartender sets a glass down in front of him. Clint picks it up, wincing as his shoulder twinges. “Cheers.” The bartender turns away to serve another customer. Clint sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He hopes he got all the blood off.

The job shouldn’t have been a tricky one, and if Nat had been here it would’ve been easy. But things tend to go wrong when Clint goes solo, which was probably why the mark had had five bodyguards instead of the promised two, and had gone down fighting a lot harder than expected. Still, the mark was dead, the bodyguards were...well, incapacitated, Clint came away alive and with the files he’d gone for in the first place, and he was definitely going to get paid. He took a sip of his drink. All things considered, not a bad day. Just not one of his best.

Still, he hates it when Natasha’s away. They’ve been partners for five years now, since Clint was nineteen and barely knew what he was doing. Natasha looks barely a day older than the day they met, and Clint’s still not sure exactly how old she is. After the first time he’d asked, when her eyes had gone dark and cold, he hadn’t pressed further. Still, she’s his as much as he’s hers, and doing a job without her makes him feel like he’s missing a limb. She’s off somewhere in Russia, and he’s not looking forward to an empty hotel room after a day like this.

His internal proximity alarm startles him out of his Nat-related reverie as someone slides into the stool next to him. “Un bicchiere di Chardonnay, per favore,” the woman says in smooth Italian. Her accent isn’t native, but it’s much better than Clint’s. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, assessing for any kind of threat. She looks like she might be around his age, maybe a little younger, fairly petite, dark hair and eyes, natural smile lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth as she chats with the bartender, glasses with thick black rims. Her hands, gesturing as she talks, are smooth, no signs of gun callouses--though Clint’s used to Natasha, and knows that smooth hands aren’t necessarily an indication of safety.

As if sensing his eyes on her, the girl turns, looks at him, does a double take, and then says, “Holy shit, what happened to you?”

Not the response he was expecting. Clint blinks, trying to get his brain to turn back on. It’s running pretty slowly. Definitely a concussion.

The girl shakes her head. “Sorry, sorry,” she mutters, and then, “Stai bene?”

Clint clears his throat. “You were right the first time.”

She relaxes. “You’re American?”

He salutes her with his drink. “Ciao,” he says. He’s running out of Italian. He never bothered learning much beyond directions and drinking.

“Hi.” She smiles, wide and pleasant, and then her eyes flicker over him again. “So, um. This might be kind of a forward question, but...are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Rough day at the office.” He takes another drink and closes his eyes at the burn. When he opens his eyes, the girl’s still looking at him. “You good over there?”

“Oh. Yeah, yes. I’m fine.” She flushes a little, takes a sip of her wine. He’d heard her order--Chardonnay, simple, classy, and a little bit basic. He suspects she doesn’t drink much. “I’m Laura.”

“Hi, Laura,” Clint says, raising one eyebrow. He has a history of being a disaster with women, Natasha excluded, though he still isn’t sure how she puts up with him. Women flirting with him in bars isn’t uncommon, but it doesn’t usually end well. They’re usually trying to kill him.

Still, he gives her a little wave. “I’m Clint,” he says.

“Hi, Clint.” Laura taps her fingertips on the bar for a moment. “Sorry. I’m going to be forward again. You kind of look like you should go to a hospital.”

He snorts into his drink. “Forward is one way to put it,” he says, putting his glass down. “You a doctor or something?”

“No. But I’m an oldest sibling, so it kind of sinks in.” She peers at him through her glasses. “Is that weird?”

Clint shrugs. “No clue. I’m a youngest kid, and my older brother wasn’t the caring type.” He thinks about it. “He might’ve commented on someone’s bruises in a bar, but probably not just out of concern. It would’ve been to see what was under their clothes.”

Laura’s eyes sparkle. “Maybe I do want to see what’s under your clothes.”

Because he is a mature, experienced man, Clint does not choke on his next sip. It’s a close call. “Sorry. What?”

She goes pink and ducks her head. “That was so awkward. Sorry. I don’t really do this.”

Her expression is so mortified that Clint can’t help grinning. She’s pretty and funny and she seems to like him, and that’s a great combination, even if he hasn’t quite figured out why. “Nah, you’re good,” he says, draining his glass to clear out his throat. “But buy a dude a drink before you start undressing him in a bar, you know?”

Laura laughs, says something in rapid Italian to the bartender, and a moment later another glass of whiskey replaces Clint’s empty one. “There,” she says. “How’s that?”

Clint raises his glass to her. “Cheers,” he says. “Are you always this, ah…” He searches through his mostly-murky brain for the right word. “Extraverted?”

It’s absolutely the wrong word, but Laura laughs anyway. She seems to be the kind of person who laughs a lot. “No,” she says. “I was supposed to go on a date tonight, but the guy turned out to be…” She makes a face.

“An asshole?” Clint suggests.

“Not my type,” she says. “Anyway, I was already dolled up, so I thought, you know.”

“Why not pick up a guy in a bar?” He fills in.

“Yeah,” she says, pink-cheeked. “That.”

Clint sips his drink. “Okay,” he says. “Well, tell me about yourself. I think I deserve to know a bit about the lady who’s trying to pick me up.”

“What do you want to know?”

He shifts a little on his barstool, trying to ease the fabric of his shirt away from the knife wound on his side without drawing attention to it. “What’s a nice Chicago girl like you doing all the way in Italy?”

Laura’s smile fades, her brow furrowing slightly. “How did you know I’m from Chicago?”

Clint tries not to wince. This is usually where he blows it. Or, as Natasha puts it, goes too far with the spy senses and turns the girl off, honestly, Barton, I can’t take you anywhere. “Your accent,” he says.

Confusion flickers across her face, but not suspicion, and she leans back towards him a bit. “I have an accent?”

“Everyone has an accent,” he says, relaxing a fraction, knowing that she’s not totally scared off. “I’m just good at hearing them.”

“Huh.” She sips her wine, looking at him thoughtfully. “That’s pretty impressive.”

He shrugs. “Good ears,” he says. “And practice.”

“Does that have something to do with whatever line of work you’re in?”

Clint eyes her over the rim of his glass. “Something like that,” he says, intentionally vague. “What about you? What do you do?”

Laura sets her glass down, resting her chin on her palm. “I’m a student, actually.”

Clint pauses with his glass halfway back to his lips. “Graduate?” he asks, hopefully.

She shakes her head. “No, undergrad.”

Slowly, Clint puts his glass down. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Nineteen.”

Clint winces. “Well, Laura, it’s been great talking with you, but I think this is where we call it a night.”

“Wait!” She lays a hand on his arm. “Come on, Clint, I’m not that young. You’re what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four,” he says warily, but doesn’t move his arm away, because he is a bad bad man with weak morals, and Nat is going to skin him alive if he sleeps with a teenager.

“Fine, twenty-four.” Laura reaches up with her other hand, curls her fingers over the cut on his cheek--he carefully doesn’t flinch--and then runs her fingers through his hair. “That’s not such a big age difference.”

“You’re a teenager,” Clint points out.

Laura raises her eyebrows. “I’ll be twenty in two months,” she says, leaning in a bit further.

Clint closes his eyes. He senses her ease her way into his space, and automatically settles his hands on her hips. She’s Natasha’s height, but he can feel that her proportions are different. “I’m a bad, bad man,” he says, without opening his eyes.

Laura laughs softly. “I like you anyway,” she says, and kisses him.

It’s a soft kiss, chaste and sweet. She has one hand in his hair and the other resting gently on his arm, and doesn’t press any closer than that. She kisses, Clint realized, like someone who has only ever been kissed like this, gently, sweetly, with no violence or motive. Clint, who mostly kisses people in his own line of work (and Natasha, of course, but Natasha, as always, is his exception to everything), finds himself leaning into it, relaxing against her lips. He spreads his fingers, brushing her waist, and she shivers a little, pulling back to look at him.

“Hi,” she says, a little hoarsely. She doesn’t move her hands.

“Hi,” he says back.

They regard each other without speaking, letting the music in the bar play around them. Laura’s dark eyes look a bit darker than they did before, and Clint can feel her fingers trembling. After a long moment, Laura slips her hand from his hair and lays it against his cheek. It’s a soft touch, the kind he usually hates, but he turns his face into it, makes it firmer. Laura smiles. “Clint,” she says. “Will you come home with me?”

Clint swallows. He thinks about Natasha, thousands of miles away, and wonders what she’d say here, what she’d do. Tasha, who spends so much time with her hands covered in blood that the first time Clint had touched her with tenderness, she’d hid her face in his shoulder, cheeks damp with tears. His body was aching with new injuries and old, and the idea of a gentle touch, even just for a night, was…

Well. That was what Natasha would say, wasn’t it? Take softness where it’s offered, Clint, she’d told him once, as they lay in a hotel bed in Beijing, the sheets damp and tangled around them. You never know when you’ll get it again.

Laura is still looking at him, quietly, giving him time to think. Clint swallows, takes her hand away from his cheeks, and threads his fingers through it. “Yes,” he says, and she smiles.

2015

In the morning--the real morning, not the various ungodly hours that Nate seemed to think were reasonable times to be awake--Laura detangled herself from the arms that had wrapped around her in the night and slipped from the bed, half-smiling at the twin grumbles that echoed her leaving. She glanced into Nate’s crib, found him sleeping soundly, and padded into the ensuite to use the bathroom and then wash her face, enjoying the cool water. She gave her teeth a quick brush and swept her hair up into a bun, securing it with an elastic

The bathroom window was open, the cool morning breeze carrying the soft scents of corn and wheat in from the fields. Laura inhaled deeply and smiled, enjoying the quiet as she pulled a nursing bra down from where it had been drying overnight over the shower curtain rod, slipping off her sleep shirt to put the bra on. Her breasts ached slightly, but the extra support helped.

With a quick, automatic glance at her reflection in the mirror, Laura headed back into the bedroom. Moving as quietly as she could so as not to wake the pair in the bed, she eased open a dresser drawer to find a wrap top and pulled it over her head. Straightening back up, she made it to Nate’s crib just as the baby was beginning to stir, his mouth opening and closing as he moved his head back and forth. She reached down and lifted him gently into her arms, cooing softly to him and smiling as he nuzzled against her. “Come on, little love,” she whispered to him. “Down the stairs we go.”

She picked up the baby sling and draped it across her chest, settling Nate into it in an easy, practiced motion. Arms free, she tucked a few flyaway pieces of hair behind her ears and turned to leave the room.

A slight shifting on the bed made her pause and she glanced over her shoulder. Clint and Natasha had rearranged themselves while she had been in the bathroom, and their limbs were now tangled together into an odd, octopus-like formation. Natasha’s head was pillowed on Clint’s chest, her mouth open slightly, her features utterly relaxed in sleep. Clint had one arm thrown over Natasha’s shoulders and the other resting in the empty spot Laura had vacated. One of Natasha’s wayward red curls was dangerously close to Clint’s nose, and Laura, biting both lips to keep from giggling, reached over and carefully moved it away. Clint wrinkled his nose in his sleep, and then his face relaxed again.

Shaking her head with a fond smile, Laura left them to sleep and padded out of the room on bare feet. Both Lila and Cooper’s doors were open and she could hear the television on downstairs, quiet enough that she couldn’t identify what they were watching.

She wrapped a steadying arm around Nate in his sling as she walked downstairs, loosening her grip as she reached the landing. Cooper and Lila were in the living room, Lila on the floor with a coloring book and Cooper sprawled on the couch watching Wreck-it Ralph. They looked up as she entered, waving in unison. “Morning, monkeys,” she said, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss the top of Cooper’s head.

He wrinkled his nose in a perfect imitation of his father but allowed it. “Morning, Mom.”

Lila had already gotten to her feet, climbing up onto the couch to give Laura a hug. Laura smiled, folding her daughter into her arms and inhaling the smell of her hair. Some things, she thought, simply never got old. Lila bent her head to put a kiss on Nate’s forehead. “Gentle,” Laura cautioned, but she knew she didn’t need to. Lila was a thrill-seeker and risk-taker, but only with herself, and had treated Nate with wonder and care since first laying eyes on him. “Good girl.”

“Mom, there’s a car in the driveway,” Cooper said, pushing himself up onto his elbows and peering at her. “Is somebody here?”

Laura straightened up. “Auntie Nat came in last night,” she said, and then immediately put a finger to her lips before the kids’ immediate expressions of ecstatic glee could turn into shouting. “And she and Daddy are still sleeping, so let’s wait until she comes down on her own, okay?”

The kids faces fell but they nodded, returning to their respective activities. Laura glanced around them and saw two empty mugs and equally empty bowls, and made a face. Cooper was allowed to use the stove now, and both kids knew that Saturday mornings meant they were allowed sugary cereals, and she suspected that the mugs had been full of marshmallowed hot chocolate. She shook her head, idly praying to whatever deity made decisions about children’s teeth that one day of sugar a week wouldn’t melt her kids’ teeth away, and headed for the kitchen.

Someone--Laura suspected Clint, but it might have been Lila--had already set out a mug and the box of her favorite tea by the stove, and the kettle was still mostly full. Laura put the kettle on and made quiet hushing noises to Nate, who was beginning to fuss in his sling. “Give me a few more minutes, baby,” she murmured to him. “Let Mommy get her things together.”

Miraculously, Nate settled long enough for the water to boil and for Laura to fix herself her mug of tea. She carried it, along with a tall glass of water, over to the kitchen table, settling herself in her favorite chair and picking up her e-reader. Her back twinged, and she winced. “Coop,” she called. A head of tousled brown hair appeared over the back of the couch. “Can you bring me my back pillow, please?”

Cooper’s head disappeared, and the rest of him reappeared a moment later, her curved lumbar pillow in one hand. He brought it over to her and even fitted it behind her back for her. “Thanks, love.”

“You’re welcome.” He reached down and stroked one hand over Nate’s nose, smiling his Big Brother smile, and Laura watched him with a smile of her own. “He’s gonna have Dad’s nose, I bet.”

“Poor kid,” Laura said, and Cooper snickered. She ruffled his hair and he went back to his movie, leaving Laura free to pull the loose wrap of her shirt aside and unfasten one side of her nursing bra, setting Nate to her nipple. He made a pleased sound and set to suckling, one tiny fist curled against the curve of her breast. Laura supported him with one arm, using the same hand to pick up her book, and settled back to enjoy her tea.

As challenging, exhausting, and occasionally painful as exclusive breastfeeding was, Laura loved these moments, the sweet tenderness of sitting with her baby and knowing she was giving him everything he needed. She’d breastfed Cooper and Lila as well, and had quietly mourned when she’d weaned them, knowing that they’d never have the same sort of closeness again. She hummed softly to herself, sipping her tea as Nate nursed and half-listening to the scratch of Lila’s crayons and the dialogue of Cooper’s movie.

She’d finished her tea and was getting into a truly excellent chapter of her book when the commotion in the living room started, both kids clamboring to their feet with gleeful cries of “Auntie Nat!” Laura looked up in time to see her children throwing themselves at a sleepy-looking Natasha, who had just emerged from the staircase, her hair a fiery halo of tangled curls. Natasha stumbled back a step at the force of the embrace but wrapped her arms around them, kissing the tops of their heads.

Laura smiled, lowering her eyes back to her book and giving Nat her time with the children. Cooper and Lila adored Natasha and always had, though Laura knew it was a slightly different sort of love. Natasha had been Mama Tasha to Cooper before she had been Auntie Nat, and Laura sometimes heard him stumble, unsure of what to call her. To Lila she had always been a favorite aunt, and remembering that always put a lump into Laura’s throat.

She had her reasons, Laura reminded herself, shifting slightly in her chair. She had her reasons.

After admiring Lila’s coloring and laughing at something Cooper said about his movie, Natasha made her way to the kitchen table. Laura smiled at her. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Good morning.” Natasha ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing slightly. Her expression softened as she looked down at Nate. “How’s my traitorous namesake today?”

“Hungry,” Laura said, and meant it. Nate was growing, and his feedings were getting longer. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a vaguely smothered rock,” Natasha said with a wry smile. She picked up Laura’s empty mug. “Do you want another cup?”

“Please. There’s coffee in the usual place, if you’d like it.”

Natasha nodded, taking Laura’s mug and disappearing behind her. Laura heard the click-click-click-whoosh of the gas stove turning on, the crinkling of a bag of coffee, the buzzing of the burr grinder--Oh, coffee, Laura thought wistfully--and finally the distinctive hum of the coffee machine turning on. “Milk and honey, yeah?” Natasha called to her.

“Mm,” Laura confirmed. She put her book down and pulled Nate off her nipple, rearranging her sling, shirt, and bra to set him to her other breast. He had just settled into his second half of breakfast when Natasha returned, two steaming mugs in her hands. “Thank you,” Laura said as Natasha set hers down within easy reach. “You still look tired,” she noted, watching Natasha sit down next to her and curl her hands around her mug. “Are you feeling okay?”

Natasha nodded, turning her mug in her hands. “It’s been a long few weeks,” she said. There were faint circles under her eyes, and Laura knew that anywhere else but here, she would have covered them with makeup before even emerging from a bedroom. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a teacher. Or a mentor.”

Laura raised her eyebrows. “You’re mentoring?”

“Something like that.”

Memory clicked. “Oh,” Laura said. “Wanda?” She hadn’t met the girl herself, but Clint had talked about her, and even raised the idea of inviting her to stay with them.

“Nate’s got her brother’s name,” he’d said. “Seems only right for her to meet him.”

“Wanda,” Natasha confirmed. “She’s working hard, but…” She sipped her coffee. “The loss is fresh for her,” she said. “And it’s all there at the surface, just waiting to boil over. Anger, and grief, and pain. And her powers are so tuned to her emotions…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say to her,” she said finally. “She doesn’t need a mentor. She needs her brother. And I can’t give her that.”

“No,” Laura agreed. She picked up her mug, inhaling the sweet, honey-scented steam. “What kinds of things does she say?”

Natasha looked down into her coffee, her expression quiet and thoughtful. “She doesn’t, really,” she said after a long moment. “I look at her body language, at what her face says. But she doesn’t talk about it.”

Laura tried to imagine being twenty, alone in a strange country and surrounded by strange people, having just lost the person who had been the other half of herself since conception. She shuddered at the thought, tightening her arm around Nate. “Maybe she needs to,” she said.

Natasha hesitated, her coffee mug in her hands. “That’s not really my strong suit,” she said.

“Nat,” Laura said, reaching out and curling one hand over Natasha’s wrist. Natasha looked up at her, her expression drawn and uncertain, and took her hand away from her mug to wrap her fingers around Laura’s. “All you have to do is listen to her,” she said, as gently as she could. “She’s scared, and she’s alone. She needs to know that someone is there for her. She needs to know she’s allowed to feel.”

For a moment, Natasha regarded her in silence, her green eyes thoughtful. And then she smiled, soft and slow. “I missed you,” she said.

Laura squeezed her hand. “I missed you, too.”

Nate pulled his mouth away from her nipple with a yawn, and Laura released Natasha’s hand to tend to him, lifting him out of the sling and propping him onto her knee to burp him. Natasha watched quietly, her chin resting in her palm, sipping at her coffee. “How are you feeling, Laura?” she asked. Her tone was gentle, curiosity mixed with slight concern.

“Squishy,” Laura said, patting Nate’s back. He let out a satisfied little burp and both women laughed at the sound and the surprised expression on Nate’s infant face that followed it. “Not bleeding as much anymore, though. A bit of light spotting.”

“That must be a relief.”

Laura gave an emphatic nod. She started to put Nate back into his sling, and then paused. “Do you want to hold him?”

Natasha hesitated. Laura waited, giving her time to think. After a long moment, she nodded, and Laura unwrapped the sling and passed it over. Natasha settled it across her chest and then held out her arms for Nate, who settled sleepily into them with a contented sound. Natasha’s lips curved into a smile and she murmured to the baby in Russian as she put him into the sling the way Laura had first taught her with Cooper almost nine years ago. Laura watched her, smiling, her heart swelling with love.

Hormones made tears prickle at her eyes. “Dammit,” Laura muttered, reaching for the box of tissues on the windowsill. Cooper and Lila had both inherited Laura’s family’s horrendous allergies, and there were boxes of tissues in every room of the house, almost always in arm’s reach. Laura had been blessedly skipped by the allergy gene, but she was grateful for them now, dabbing at her eyes.

“Are you alright?”

Sniffling, Laura nodded, meeting Natasha’s concerned eyes. “Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”

Natasha tilted her head to one side, her mussed curls falling with the motion. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, really.” Laura put her tissue aside--she didn’t have Clint’s aim, and the trash can was at an awkward angle from the table--and managed a watery smile. “I just...I missed this. Sitting here with you in the mornings. Seeing you holding the babies. You always stay away too long.”

Something Laura couldn’t quite identify ghosted across Natasha’s features, her smile faltering slightly before restoring itself. “I know I do,” she said. She looked down at her namesake, now dozing contentedly in his sling, and smoothed his wispy hair down with gentle fingers. “There’s been a lot going on,” she said after a long moment of silence. “I’ve been...I burned a lot of bridges. All of my aliases. All of my SHIELD ones, anyway. I’ve been trying to figure out who I am now. What I want.”

Laura picked up her mug of tea, giving herself something to do with her empty hands, and sipped at it. Natasha had mixed it perfectly, adding just the right amounts of milk and honey. “Well,” she said carefully. “I can’t say I know what you’re going through. But if you need a safe place to think it through…”

Natasha looked thoughtful, swaying slightly in her chair to rock Nate in the sling. It seemed to be an unconscious, instinctual movement, and Laura didn’t comment on it. After a long moment, she smiled, almost teasing. “I don’t know,” she said. “Might be a little loud to get any good thinking in.”

Laura laughed, saluting Natasha with her mug. “A little noise might be good for you,” she said.

Natasha gazed around the room, taking in the toys scattered around the floor, the drawings on the refrigerator, the soft sounds of bickering from the living room as Cooper and Lila argued over what movie to watch next. She looked down at Nate’s sleeping face, and then back up at Laura. Her expression, Laura thought, looked almost peaceful. “You know,” she said. “I think it just might.”

1996

“I met a girl in Milan,” Clint says when he and Nat are finally in the same place again, holed up in her cozy London apartment.

It’s not the first thing he says. The first thing he says is “Hello, gorgeous,” and she twines her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck and says, “You look like shit, Barton,” and then neither of them says much of everything for the better part of two hours, focusing instead on relearning one another’s bodies with lips and hands and tongues.

After that, though, when they’re lying tangled and panting in sheets damp with sweat and come and a bit of blood from where one of Clint’s half-healed knife wounds had split open, Clint says, “I met a girl in Milan.”

Natasha lifts her head from his shoulder, propping herself on one elbow to study his face. His features are still sated and relaxed, and he’s gazing at her with unfiltered affection. If she was anyone else, Natasha thinks, she would have called it love. “Your Italian got you far enough to hook up with a girl in Milan?” she teases, running one forefinger down the center of his chest.

“Ha, ha.” He catches her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the tips of her fingers. “No, she was American. She picked me up in a bar.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. “Did you swoon?” Clint nips at her pinky finger and Natasha kisses his shoulder in apology. “What was she like?”

“She was friendly. Funny.” He runs his thumb over the backs of her knuckles, looking up at the ceiling. “Studying art history.”

There’s something almost wistful in his voice, and Natasha carefully doesn’t frown. Usually Clint is playful and teasing when he tells her about his exploits, and Natasha is often the same. This is different. “It seems like you liked her.”

Clint is quiet for a few moments. “She reminded me of home,” he says. “Something in her voice, in the way she talked, the way her hair smelled. She made me feel calm.” He turns his gaze back to her. “Like you do, almost, but in a different way.”

Now, Natasha does frown. “Explain.”

He plays with her fingers, his expression thoughtful. Natasha watches his face, appreciates the way the afternoon sunlight plays around his features. Sometimes she catches herself marveling at the changes in his face over the past five years, can’t help but be amazed at the way normal people age. She likes to watch him when he’s thinking, the way his eyes go distant, as if he’s reaching deep inside himself to find the perfect words. He’s rarely quiet like this, even on jobs, and Natasha always finds it oddly fascinating to see.

When he finally answers, his voice is quiet and calm. “There’s a sense of peace I get when I’m taking a shot,” he says. “A sense of knowing exactly what I’m doing, of feeling safe and comfortable in my own skin. For a long time, lining up a shot, pulling back on a bowstring, taking that last breath before loosing--that was the only time I’d feel that. Then there was you, and I realized I could feel that way with a person, too.”

Natasha smiles, reaching with her free hand to brush her fingers through his hair. He quirks the corner of his mouth into a grin. When they’d met, Clint had been nineteen, just this side of scrawny, with a look in his eyes that spoke of abandonment and underfeeding. It had been his bow that caught her eye in that narrow Detroit alley, and the spark in his eyes when he’d looked at her. She’d surprised herself as much as him when she’d offered him a place to sleep that night. Over pad thai and bandages, he’d asked curious questions and she’d given curt answers, and something in his easy grin had made her heart flutter.

He’d been by her side since, and she hadn’t regretted a day of it. Now, she props her chin on her hand. “And you get the same feeling from this girl? You just met her.”

It comes out more petulantly than she wants it to, and she almost scowls at how unlike her it is. Clint cocks an eyebrow at her, and she rolls her shoulders, an intentional relaxing motion. “I don’t know,” Clint says after a moment, when her expression must have settled back into neutrality. “Something about her made me feel comfortable. Relaxed. Not the way you do. With you it’s like--like coming home to your bed at the end of the day. A place that knows you, that’s there for you, and you sink into it and it’s like it’s made for you.”

He flushes a little, maybe surprised at his own words, and Natasha bends her head to kiss the curve of his shoulder. “Go on,” she says.

“Laura felt like...like when you step into the ocean, and it’s just the right temperature.” Clint shifts a little on the bed, winces as the edges of his wound pull with the motion, and settles back again. “Like the first time you took me to Bali, remember?” At her nod, he goes on, “It feels right, like there’s no adjustment period when you try to figure out if it’s too hot or too cold. You feel like you could just stay there all day, letting the waves wash over you.” He lets his gaze slide back to hers. “I guess it’s corny.”

Natasha smiles despite herself, brushing her fingers through his short hair. “You’re a romantic, Barton. I don’t hold it against you.” Clint makes a face at her, and Natasha laughs. “Will you see her again?” she asks, as casually as she can.

Clint shrugs his shoulders. “She gave me her address back in the States. We’ll see. If it happens, it happens.” He grins lazily up at her, reaching to brush a few errant curls back behind her ear. “Is that jealousy I hear, Miss Romanova?”

She shoves at his shoulder hard enough to push him off the bed and he goes over the side, cackling all the way. Just like that, she feels some of the tension in her shoulders loosen. “Not on your life, Barton,” she says.

Still laughing, Clint rolls up onto his knees, leaning folding his arms on the bed and leaning his chin on them. “Hey,” he says. “You know I’d choose you, right?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him, stretching across the bed to mirror his position. Their noses nearly touch. “Over a girl who makes you feel like the ocean in Bali?”

Clint looks at her, and the look in his eyes is so intense it makes her shiver. “Tasha,” he says quietly, so low and calm and earnest she can’t disbelieve it, “I’d choose you over anyone.”

There’s nothing she can say to that without her voice giving away the sudden lump in her throat, so Natasha pulls him back onto the bed and into her arms. Clint kisses her and she wraps herself around him, and if he notices that her hands tremble as she slides them around his waist, he’s enough of a gentleman not to comment.

2015

By the time Clint came downstairs, stumbling over the landing like a zombie and his hair doing a remarkable impression of being stuck into an electrical outlet, Natasha and Laura had gotten deep into a conversation about Eastern European religious art, while Cooper and Lila had begun their third disagreement about what one of the adults in the house should make them for lunch. Natasha watched, amused, as the kids leapt off the couch to tackle their father, who went down in a sprawling heap of small limbs and pajamas. She’d seen Clint maintain perfect balance on a wet rooftop in Beijing with two bullet wounds in his body, but somehow all coordination abandoned him in his own home.

“Never gets old,” Laura snickered beside her. Natasha clinked her coffee mug--now twice refilled--against Laura’s glass of lemonade.

Clint hauled himself up out of the pile of children and back to his feet. “Off, beasts,” he grumbled. Lila attached herself firmly to Clint’s left leg while Cooper made an impressive leap up and onto Clint’s back, and Clint bent under the sudden weight. He straightened up with effort that was probably more feigned than real. “I don’t know what I expected,” he said with a sigh, and began making slow progress into the kitchen, dragging his left leg and its clinging, giggling weight behind him. “Thanks for the help, ladies,” he said dryly as he passed the table.

“I’m holding your child,” Natasha said, indicating the sleeping bundle in her arms.

“I grew your child,” Laura added. “Forgive me for taking bit of a sit-down now and again.”

Clint made a face at them both. “Guilt,” he said. “Great.” He shuffled over to the coffee machine, poured himself a large mug, and then came back to the table, setting it down. “Okay,” he huffed, and leaned suddenly forward, reaching his arms back. Cooper flipped over the top of his head with a surprised yelp, and Clint grabbed him by the hips in an easily controlled motion, setting him down on the floor. “Off you go, monkey,” he said.

“Aw, Dad,” Cooper whined.

“Don’t aw, Dad, me,” Clint said, prying Lila’s arms from around his legs. “You don’t want an unconscious parent making your lunch, do you?”

“Mac and cheese!” Lila chirped, allowing herself to be unwrapped with the compromise of being plopped unceremoniously onto Clint’s lap.

He reached around her for his coffee, taking a long sip. Natasha held back a laugh. Most of the other instances in which that level of bliss appeared on his face would certainly not have been acceptable around his children. From the muffled giggling behind Laura’s glass of lemonade, she suspected Laura was having a similar thought. “Not mac and cheese,” Clint said after a long moment, lowering his mug. “I’m assuming you’ve both been eating mostly sugar all morning?”

“And milk,” Cooper said. “There was milk. Milk is good for us!”

“Go to law school,” Natasha told him. He beamed at her.

“There have been no nutrients in the kids’ meals thus far,” Laura said, setting her lemonade on the table. “Don’t let them convince you otherwise.” She got to her feet. “On that note, I will now be turning parenting over to the two of you. I am going to go take a shower, which I have definitely earned.” She kissed Natasha’s cheek, ruffled Clint’s hair, and made her way up the stairs.

Natasha watched her go, unable to hide a smile at the slight bounce the prospective shower had put into Laura’s step. She looked at Clint, who had followed Laura’s exit with the look of an adoring puppy, and rolled her eyes. “She sure married down.”

“Hey,” Clint protested. “Kids, don’t listen to a word your Aunt Nat says. Mom loves me.”

“Mommy said you should make mac and cheese,” Lila said solemnly, turning huge brown eyes up to her father.

Clint narrowed his eyes at her. She widened hers. He leaned forward and attempted to bite her nose, and she squealed, diving off his lap. Clint caught her easily in one arm and tossed her over his shoulder, climbing back to his feet and grabbing his mug with his spare hand. “Come on, nuggets, lets go look at the pantry.”

Natasha leaned her head back. “Feed the children a vegetable, Clint,” she said.

“Yes, dear,” he called over his shoulder.

She shook her head fondly, returning her attention to her coffee. Her namesake made a quiet snuffling, turning in his sleep. Carefully, she tilted his chin around to keep him from burying his face in the fabric of the sling. He didn’t seem to mind, just parted his lips slightly. She hummed quietly and slipped her pinky finger into his mouth, and he suckled on it for a few moments before relaxing into sleep again, mouth going slack. “Where was all this sleeping last night, little hawk?” she murmured to him.

Despite Nate’s frequent wakings, Natasha couldn’t deny that she’d slept better here, in a crowded bed beside a crying baby, than in her large, empty, quiet room in the Avengers training complex or in any of her safe houses. She’d woken in the morning to bright sunlight, found Laura gone but Clint still in bed, twined around her and mouthing contentedly at her bare shoulder. For a few moments, she had allowed herself to enjoy the contact, to enjoy feeling held and comfortable and warm in his arms. The bed was as well-worn as ever and seemed to remember her shape, and she had closed her eyes again, let herself sink a little deeper into the sheets and blankets, curled her fingers around Clint’s arm.

She’d gotten up only when her bladder had made it clear she wouldn’t be going back to sleep. She’d been tempted to wake Clint as well, but decided against it.

A quiet morning with Laura seemed to have done her as much good as the sleep, and she felt more than a little refreshed. She hadn’t realized, she thought, sipping her coffee, just how exhausted she had been by the last few weeks. Even before Ultron, weariness had begun to seep into her bones. And then there was Ultron, and Bruce, and Sokovia, and Nate’s birth, and then back to the training center to start whipping the new roster into shape, all the while scanning the skies, the frequencies, even her Twitter feed for signs of Bruce’s return.

“I do not think the big man is coming back,” Wanda had told her once, quietly, as they stood together on the balcony, watching the stars.

“You never know,” Natasha had said, but it had felt hollow even then. She had pulled Bruce towards her with talks of monstrosity, and then pushed him into his biggest fear even as she’d told him she adored him. If Bruce did come back, she thought, it wouldn’t be for her.

She hadn’t been sure, at the time, what had finally driven her away from the training center, brought her to book a flight to Waterloo and rent a car for the drive out here. Exhaustion, maybe, or perhaps just a need for some peace and quiet, a return to a place where she could shed all of her layers of professionalism and calm and simply relax. Yet when she had packed a bag and headed to the nearest airport, it hadn’t been her apartment in New York or her condo in DC or her London townhouse or any number of hidden bolt-holes she kept around the world that she’d flown to, but a creaking, busy farmhouse in Iowa.

Even after all these years, when the long-buried childish part of her that hadn’t truly been a child for the better part of a century thought I want to go home, it was the farmhouse and its occupants that called to her like a siren song.

Commotion from the direction of the pantry brought her attention back to the present, and Natasha shifted around in her chair to see Clint coming back into the kitchen, his arms no longer full of children but now full of an assortment of food. Lila and Cooper trotted in on his heels. Lila had Clint’s coffee mug in her hand, and put it on the counter. “What’s the verdict?” Natasha called.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Clint said, setting a loaf of unsliced--probably homemade, Natasha thought--bread and some sealed jars of something red onto the kitchen counter. He turned and rummaged around in the refrigerator, coming up with some onions, blocks of cheese, and what appeared to be a bottle of ketchup. Natasha made a face. Clearly, Clint’s kids had inherited his palate. Clint looked down at Cooper and Lila, who were hovering around the counter, and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you helping, or watching?”

“Watching,” they chorused.

He waved his hands at them. “Shoo,” he said. “You’re going to get stepped on.” The kids made identical faces at him and made their way back to the living room. “And Cooper, it’s Lila’s turn to pick a movie,” Clint called after them.

“Told you,” Lila said smugly, flipping one of her braids over her shoulder. Cooper looked like he was thinking about pushing her, and Natasha narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed to think better of it, shooting her a guilty look and following his sister back to the couch.

Satisfied that she’d helped avert a conflict, Natasha got to her feet and headed into the kitchen. She glanced at Clint’s coffee mug, saw that it was empty, and refilled it for him, setting it down next to the hand that wasn’t casually slicing onions. “Here.”

He looked at it and grinned at her. “Aw, Nat. You do care.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Drink your coffee, Barton. I don’t want you chopping your fingers off.”

“I would never,” he protested, but put his knife down, picking up his mug. He leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee, looking at her. The side of his mug read “NOPE NOT TODAY” in large black letters, and she couldn’t help a snort of amusement. Clint raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said. In the sling across her chest, Nate woke, moving from side to side. Natasha wrapped an arm around him, bouncing him gently, and he started making soft, happy noises at the motion. “You like the bouncing, little bird?” Natasha asked him, looking down at his face. Nate’s blue eyes were open, starting to peer around, and fixed on her face with a smile. “Just like your big brother, hm?”

Clint smiled, his eyes soft as he looked at her. “You remember that?”

Natasha glanced up at him. “Of course,” she said, and meant it. She had been there for Cooper’s birth and for most of the first three years of his life. She had been there for Lila’s birth, too, but things were already changing by then, and Lila, she knew, saw her more as a beloved aunt than a third parent. That had been Natasha’s own choice, and she didn’t regret it, but she still found herself looking at Lila’s baby pictures and feeling her heart wrench when she remembers that she missed Lila’s first steps, first words. Sometimes she looked at the girl herself, her features relaxed in sleep after Natasha had read her a bedtime story or settled beside her for a late-night movie, and marveled at how different she looked from even a month before, each passing moment taking her further from the tiny creature Natasha had held after her birth.

“Nat?” Clint’s voice brought her gently back, and Natasha looked up at him, finding herself blinking more than usual. “You with me, Red?”

She swallowed hard and nodded, pushing her hair back. It felt mussed and tousled under her fingers, and she focused in on the sensation. “Is one of those going to be for me?” she asked, nodding at the assembly line of sandwich makings Clint had begun to set up, neatly sliced onions and cheese and pieces of bread. He had opened two of the large jars and they sat beside a saucepan on the stove, presumably waiting to be poured in.

If Clint noticed that she had pointedly side-swept any questions about her thoughts, he didn’t comment. “As many as you want,” he said. He narrowed his eyes playfully as he threw a few pieces of butter into a large pan on the stove, setting them to melt. “You don’t get fed right when I’m not around.”

“Says the guy who lives off Chinese take-out and pizza when not at home,” Natasha countered.

Clint buttered both sides of two slices of bread and put them into the pan, then leveled a spatula at her. “I see your sass, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“I see your face and I don’t appreciate it,” Natasha said, just to annoy him. She lifted Nate out of his sling and bounced him in her arms, wanting to feel his whole weight, cradle it close. Clint stuck his tongue out at her.

“The maturity in this room is truly overwhelming,” Laura said, coming back into the room. She looked miles more awake now that she’d showered, her dark hair damp around her shoulders. She had slipped into a loose-fitting dress with an empire waist, the kind she always favored during pregnancy and in the first few months after giving birth. “Really, it’s inspiring.”

“She started it,” Clint said.

Natasha rolled her eyes, sending Laura a despairing look. Laura laughed, light and sunny, slipping around Clint to pour the two jars of soup into the saucepan on the stove. “How’s Nate doing? Causing you any trouble?”

“He’s been great. Woke up a few minutes ago.” She turned him in her arms as she spoke, settling him belly-down across her forearm and rocking him back and forth, a trick she’d picked up from Clint. “He’s just looking around.”

“I wonder where he gets that?” Laura smiled at Clint, who reached over with his non-spatula hand to pinch her cheek playfully. “Get ready to have ‘Let it Go’ back in your head for the next few months, by the way,” she said as she picked up a large spoon to stir the soup. “The kids seem to have finally picked a movie.”

Clint groaned. “I just got it out of my head.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you were humming in the Quinjet a few months ago?”

“One more word out of you, Romanoff, and I’ll tell Lila you want to play Elsa and Anna all afternoon,” Clint said mildly. He flipped over a sandwich, watching its color the way Natasha was used to seeing him watch targets. For some reason, it made her smile. Leaving the sandwiches, he turned to one of the cabinets to take down a stack of plates, setting them on the counter beside the stove. “How are we on soup?”

“Another minute or two,” Laura said.

Natasha watched them move around each other, seamlessly exchanging dishes, short instructions, the occasional smile. They handled each other in a kitchen the way Natasha and Clint handled one another on the battlefield, perfectly in tune with one another’s movements and thoughts. Clint reached back to accept a mug of soup from Laura before she’d finished extending her arm, Laura leaned forward to take a bite of caramelized onion from Clint’s fingers before he’d completely turned around. It was fascinating to watch and Natasha never got tired of it, her heart swelling in her chest.

“Lunch, monkeys,” Clint called when the soup had been ladled into mugs and the sandwiches put onto plates, and Natasha stepped back in amusement as Cooper and Lila pounded in from the living room. He passed them each a plate and a mug. “Table,” he instructed.

Lila pouted. “But Daddy, Frozen!”

“You’ve seen it a hundred times, Lila,” he said, looking exasperated. “You’ll be okay if we pause it.”

“Alternatively,” Laura said mildly, “Three adults could eat lunch in peace and quiet.”

Clint looked at her, cocked an eyebrow, and then turned back to his daughter. “Back to the couch with you.”

Lila cheered, scampering back to the living room with Cooper on her heels. “Carefully,” Laura called after them, wincing slightly. “At least try not to spill.”

“Sofa’s had worse,” Clint said. He passed Laura a plated sandwich and then picked up two mugs in one hand, and a plate in the other. “I’ve got yours, Nat.”

Natasha tucked Nate back into his sling, pausing to pick up Clint’s coffee cup as they went back to the table. She traded it for a mug of soup and he set the plate with its two sandwiches between them. Laura settled down on Natasha’s other side, leaning over to rest her chin on Natasha’s shoulder and look down at Nate. Natasha turned her head automatically, breathing in the smell of Laura’s conditioner, a sweet, jasmine-lavender scent. Laura caught the motion and smiled, reaching up to run her hand through Natasha’s hair before she leaned back. “He might start fussing for his lunch soon,” she said, picking up her mug of soup. “I’ll take him when he does.”

“He’s fine here in the meantime,” Natasha said, picking up the half of sandwich Clint handed her.

Clint picked up his own sandwich. “Am I going to get to hold my kid again any time soon now that there’s two of you?”

“Someone needs to change diapers,” Laura teased. He made a face at her. Natasha reached over and scritched his neck, and he gave her a grin. Laura sipped her soup, looking at Natasha. “I made up a guest bed for you and brought your bag upstairs,” she said. “I hope that’s all right.”

Natasha smiled. “Thank you,” she said, hearing what wasn’t said. She’d come in too late last night, her only options the downstairs couch or Clint and Laura’s bed, but today there was enough time to set things up. Trust Laura to always give Natasha as many choices as she could. “I’ll shower in your bathroom, though.”

Laura nodded. “Probably best,” she agreed. “Otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety from rogue rubber duckies.”

The sandwich was good, the ketchup and caramelized onions pairing together oddly well, and the soup was spicy and rich. Natasha relaxed, feeling warm and comfortable as she half-listened to Clint and Laura talk about the schedule for the upcoming week, who would take Cooper to lacrosse and Lila to gymnastics, Clint’s plans for the dining room renovation, Laura’s most recent conversation with her mother. It was calm and mundane and Natasha smiled, rocking Nate easily in her arms. Even with Tony and Thor gone, the Avengers training facility was constantly in motion, loud and busy and frantic in a way that the farm--despite Cooper and Lila’s ever-present voices and pounding feet--could never be. Between sparring practices, drills, and the general clamor that arose whenever too many superheroes ended up in a room together, Natasha sometimes found herself feeling like she hadn’t had a peaceful moment in weeks.

It was different here.

Nate began to fuss in his sling, opening and closing his mouth and attempting to nose at Natasha’s breast. “No luck there, little bird,” she told him, unable to suppress a slight laugh.

Laura looked equally amused. “Here,” she said, holding out her arms. “I’ll take him. Don’t worry about the sling.” She slipped the strap of her dress over her shoulder, unfastening the same side of her nursing bra to set Nate against her breast. She winced briefly as he latched, and then relaxed, settling back in her chair. Clint passed her mug back to her, and she smiled at him. “So,” she said, her gaze turning back to Natasha. “Have you given any more thought to how long you’re staying?”

Natasha swallowed another hot sip of soup. “Some,” she said carefully.

Clint glanced at Laura. “It’s not to pressure you,” he said. “Just trying to figure out if we’ll have an extra driver around, you know?”

It was a terrible bluff, bad enough that Natasha raised her eyebrows at him. Laura rolled her eyes and twitched slightly, and Clint winced. Natasha suspected he’d just been kicked under the table. Despite herself, she smiled. “You’ll know as soon as I do,” she said. “How’s that?”

He gave her a wry grin. “Kind of a non-answer,” he said.

“Her favorite kind,” Laura teased gently. Natasha winked at her.

Natasha took care of the lunch dishes, washing them at the sink while Clint dried and Laura stayed at the table, nursing Nate and keeping a mindful eye on Lila and Cooper in the living room. The warm water was soothing on her hands and she let herself get lost in the task, soaping and rinsing the dishes and gazing out the window in front of the sink. It was a gorgeous day, the sun shining over the fields around the house. A light breeze brought the scents of corn and wheat into the room, and Natasha closed her eyes, breathing it in.

Warm hands settled on her hips and Natasha smiled, turning off the water and leaning against Clint’s chest. Her body knew his easily, conforming against the weight and curvatures of his body. She turned her head to inhale his scent, long-familiar and mostly unchanged over the years. “I need to go up and shower,” she murmured.

“Okay.” Clint didn’t move.

She reached back with one arm, skimming her fingers under the hem of his t-shirt and over his skin. He hummed contentedly, dropping his face down against her shoulder. Natasha let herself relax into the contact for a moment, and then tapped his hip. “Clint,” she said. He made another sound, more disgruntled this time, but let her go. Natasha turned to look up at him, laying her fingers over his cheek. He leaned into her palm and she smiled, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone.

There was a crash from the living room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a little girl bursting into tears, and Clint tensed, his head whipping around. “Cooper,” he said sternly, voice slightly raised.

Cooper’s head appeared over the back of the couch, wearing a guilty expression so absolutely inherited from his father that Natasha had to suppress a laugh. “Oops,” he offered.

Clint sighed, going to investigate. Natasha watched him go, then turned to look at Laura, who was watching her with a soft, tender expression. “Hey,” she said softly.

Laura smiled. “Hi,” she said.

“I’m going to go up and shower.”

Laura inclined her head. “Okay.”

She didn’t say anything more, and Natasha was grateful for it. Laura had an ability to speak volumes with her eyes, and Natasha could read love and sadness and longing in her expression. She touched Laura’s shoulder as she passed, lingering for a moment and closing her eyes as Laura tilted her head just enough to brush Natasha’s arm, and then slipped from the room.

In the living room, Lila’s sobs had been reduced to sniffles as she sat in Clint’s lap on the floor, Cooper looking mildly put out as he sat in the corner of the couch. Another movie was starting, and Natasha recognized the opening of Brave and felt her lips curl in a smile. Clint caught her eye as she passed and shrugged his shoulders, and she dipped her head to him, heading upstairs.

The guest room that had become Natasha’s favorite over the years faced the east, bathing her with sun in the mornings when she stayed here. Laura had made up the bed with light summer blankets, opening the windows to let the early afternoon air in, and Natasha’s simple black duffle sat on the edge of the bed. Natasha dropped onto the mattress with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scent of Laura’s laundry soap.

She felt incredibly peaceful here, relaxed in a way she had never been anywhere else. It wasn’t just the space, she knew, but the people--Clint’s long-familiar comfort, Laura’s softness, Lila’s laugh, Cooper’s easy grin. Love was for children, but Natasha felt like a child here sometimes, childish in a way she had never been allowed to be herself, warm and surrounded by easy affection. For the first time in weeks, a tension she hadn’t even recognized in her chest was beginning to loosen.

With one hand, Natasha opened the zipper of her duffle, fishing inside for her phone. She dialed by memory, and waited for an answer.

In predictable form, Steve answered before the third ring. “Nat,” he said. “How’s your R&R?”

She hadn’t told him where she was going, and Steve hadn’t asked. Natasha wondered, in the back of her mind, if he’d guessed. “Good,” she said. “Feeling better already.”

“Glad to hear it. Something you needed?”

Natasha looked up at the ceiling, taking in the constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars she had helped Cooper place a year ago. “Yes,” she said. “I think...I think I’m going to need a little more time than I thought.”

Steve was quiet for a moment. “Everything all right?”

“It’s fine. I just…” Natasha hesitated. “You remember what I told you? After everything with SHIELD went down?”

“You wanted to figure out who you were.”

“Something like that.” She traced her fingers over the pattern on the bedspread. “I think this is my chance to do it.”

Another pause, and then, “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend a vacation,” Steve said, and Natasha relaxed. “I’ll get in touch with Tony, let him know he’s on call if there’s an emergency. Take as much time as you need, Nat.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said, and meant it.

“No problem. Oh, and--” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Say hi to Barton for me.”

“Cheeky,” she said, but hung up smiling, his laugh ringing in her ears. She put the phone aside, stretching out on the bed and letting herself relax into the familiar mattress. Through the open door, she could hear the sounds from downstairs: Cooper and Lila singing loudly and very slightly off-key along to the movie, Clint and Laura’s laughter. The wind wove lazily around the house, wrapping it in the warm, sweet scents of Iowa summer.

Natasha closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of being comfortable, and peaceful, and calm.

She breathed, and it felt like being home.