Work Text:
The red-haired woman was hurt, cradling her arm to her stomach and bleeding from too many cuts and bullets. Her bright eyes were alert and pained with fear buried under the heightened adrenaline of readiness to fight.
Laura felt her mouth tighten as she looked her over. This was the woman Clint had brought home before disappearing into the bathroom to dress his own wounds. They had shared a bullet if Laura wasn't mistaken.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Laura said softly as she settled down near the woman, speaking as one would to an injured animal that might lash out. She smiled as she opened the medical supplies and showed them to her patient. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"
Those eyes came up, wary but resigned. A curt nod.
Laura carefully went to work.
When Clint came out of the bathroom and dropped down beside them casually, she shot him a look for the lack of warning. No name, no reassurance that this stray wouldn't hurt one or both of them, and little backup.
"You could have stayed out here," Laura commented softly as she smoothed over the last bandage.
"She probably trusts you more than me," he answered dryly, looking at the woman the entire time. "Laura, this is Natasha. Natasha, my wife, Laura."
"She's right," Natasha said, surprisingly clear with none of the pain in her expression leaking into her voice. "You shouldn't trust me with her."
Clint huffed. "If I didn't, you'd never trust either of us."
Laura didn't ask what they meant, what they were talking about. She packaged up the trash and cleaned up the couch and coffee table where they'd been working, then went to throw it away.
She sank down into her husband's arms that night, glad to see he was still alive, still whole and hers, even if he winced when she brushed over his ribs. "Sprained?"
"Bruised." He'd had worse, even worse than the bullet graze or the actual hit through his shoulder she was cautiously avoiding.
"What happened out there, Clint?" Laura asked softly. He didn't usually bring home strays that might leak anything to SHIELD, let alone dangerous targets he'd been told to eliminate.
He sighed, arm tugging her close against him. "Trust me?"
He could have explained, Laura knew, but there were times when Clint seemed reluctant to drag her deeper into his world of spies and secrets than she was already just by marrying him, being his safehouse, and not asking questions when she glimpsed top secret or sensitive materials.
His skin was warm under her fingertips as she tapped out her frustration. She pressed her face into him and held on tight for a long moment. He was asking much of her, to keep this strange, lost soul in her house, knowing she was dangerous, knowing they did not trust. If even Clint did not have Natasha's trust, then how could Laura have it or offer her own in return?
She breathed. She finally settled on, "You'll have to go back to SHIELD."
She meant more than she said. She meant this could hurt them all. She meant Fury would not be pleased. She meant he could be hurt or imprisoned, Natasha would be left alone with Laura, or else he would have to drag Natasha back to SHIELD anyway and that was what he'd brought her here to avoid.
"Not yet," was Clint's only response.
Natasha was like one of the skittish barn cats. She came down the stairs and settled gingerly in a corner of the room to lean against the wall. If Laura didn't comment but kept working on breakfast, then Natasha would stay. If she looked too long in Natasha's direction, her guard would go back up and tension would seep back into her form.
Clint had the same way with Natasha that he had with every stray creature he bumped into. He breezed in, said hi with that same grin on his face he sent toward any friendly acquaintance, and dropped into his chair acting as if Natasha was already his friend. Somehow it worked. Natasha slowly straightened from the corner and sat down stiffly beside him.
Laura didn't try to imitate him.
"Can I wash your clothes?" Laura asked quietly from the doorway of the guest room.
Natasha was dressed in some spares, but she stared at Laura for a long moment before finally nodding.
Clint was on the phone with Fury, trying to keep his voice down so Laura could actually sleep, but staying in the room so Natasha could. Natasha had begun finally dozing a bit through the night, but she would startle anytime people started moving around the house.
Even so.
Laura slipped out of bed and just smiled reassuringly at her husband's questioning look. She pulled on a robe and stepped softly out of the room and down the hall.
She looked in the doorway of Natasha's guest room where red hair spilled over the pillow and anyone who didn't know Natasha—or badly underestimated her—would think her asleep. She wasn't, but she didn't stir.
Laura lingered in the doorway for a moment, then stepped just inside and leaned against the frame.
Natasha lifted her head and looked up, a question in her eyes.
"Why did you save Clint?" Laura asked quietly. She could still hear the faint sound of Clint's voice down the hall, and she didn't really want him knowing she was in here.
Natasha blinked a few times, then sat up. "What do you mean?" Her voice was cautious, wary. She probably actually knew what Laura meant.
Laura took the invitation to conversation anyway and came in to sit down in the chair by the little writing desk with a soft sigh as her weight settled.
Natasha's studied Laura and the thin nightgown she wore to bed. "You're pregnant," she noted aloud, sounding a hint surprised.
Laura wasn't showing much yet, but she was pregnant and Natasha was here. Clint had brought her home anyway. She simply nodded.
The response was subtle. Natasha was deliberately difficult to read and good at it, and if Laura didn't know many people who fell in that category, she would think that Natasha's expression was completely blank. It wasn't though. There was a hint of troubled, a touch of wonder as she looked at Laura's body, and the faintest bit of surprise.
Laura made a guess and stood up to come over slowly, like approaching an uncertain cat, then sat down again on the edge of the bed. "You like children?" she asked, head tilting in casual curiosity, something she could put on, tamping down any taint of suspicion.
Natasha opened her mouth, then shut it and turned away. She tucked her knees up to her chin and answered the first question Laura had walked in with. "I didn't save him," she said. "Clint saved me. I was his target and he jumped in front of a bullet to save me, then helped me fight them off. He said he had a safehouse where no one would hurt me."
She glanced sidelong at Laura, who couldn't seem to decide between surprise and rueful unsurprise.
She reached out and patted Natasha's knee. "You get some rest. No one will hurt you here."
She didn't force the issue, didn't press. This was all still new and so she left before Natasha had to choose to trust her or respond. She closed the door gently behind her.
Clint didn't ask when she came back to bed, didn't even ask when she slid into his arms under the covers and whispered, "We're so lucky." He just kissed the top of her head as if he agreed.
She found them sitting on the floor in the living room, Clint sprawled out and eating a slice of cold leftover pizza while Natasha was pretending to look disdainfully down on hers in lieu of eating it.
Clint brushed a scar on her bare arm with the back of his hand. She was wearing one of Laura's t-shirts. He looked up questioningly.
"Failure," Natasha stated. "The baby of the family lived."
"You were supposed to kill all of them?" Clint asked in a deceptively casual tone.
It didn't fool Natasha. She simply looked at him without answering.
He took another bite of pizza. Natasha reached out and gently traced a small scar where his neck met shoulder. Laura knew where that one came from, its unnatural straightness, and waited to see what he would say.
He couched it in Natasha's terms. "Failure. I missed." He shrugged.
Jacque Duquesne had never tolerated failure. He was a master with knives.
Natasha licked her lips, then pressed them together firmly. She glanced up at where Laura had taken up residence against the wall, then shifted so she could lie down, curled up, with her head on Clint's knee. It was personal trust, nothing Laura wanted to stop. Clint brushed his fingers gently through Natasha's curls.
At lunch, Laura handed Natasha a plated sandwich, and Natasha stopped her with the lightest of touches against her wrist. A scar.
Laura stared at that scar, trying to remember where it came from. She finally sighed and turned away as she answered, "Car accident."
She glanced over at Clint out of the corner of her eye, but he didn't flinch. He too had been in a car accident once. In that one, his brother but not his parents had survived.
The conversations with Fury grew more frequent, Clint's expression darker. Medical dressing downsized to bandages, went down to scars. He took the phone out to the barn and returned only after burying arrowheads deep in the center of his targets.
Natasha pretended to learn how to cook, asking Laura after her favorite throw-together recipes, nothing fancy, just hearty.
"I'm fairly simple," Laura said, shrugging easily. "Clint's not picky."
Natasha's smile was small and fleeting, if sincere. "He's very picky."
Laura caught the meaning and brought her head up from the stove. "He's loyal," she corrected.
Natasha opened her mouth, then shut it and shook her head. "This Fury knows who you are. Does he trust him?"
Laura didn't answer. She couldn't explain Clint's gut instincts or what drew him to a person, only knew he was loyal and compassionate and always willing to make room in his heart for one more person in need of family or a home. Fury was Fury. Whatever his personal relationship, there was a professional one to put a layer of distance between his opinion's and Clint's.
She stopped instead to check Natasha's almost healed injuries. She had helped Clint through so many of his.
Natasha studied her intently as she sat still under Laura's assessment. Finally, she reached out and placed a hand on Laura's stomach.
Laura caught her breath.
Natasha smiled. "He kicks."
"He's as active as his father," Laura said. She moved back to the stove and stirred the soup.
She tried to ignore the prickling in her back that told her she was still being scrutinized. After a while, the sensation fell away into comfortable shared silence.
Natasha didn't sleep, she dozed, and she seemed to do it best when curled up under Clint's arm or leaning on Laura's shoulder. Natasha had nightmares the first time she fell into a proper sleep at night in her own room, and Laura cuddled her close in the bed after Clint had woken her.
She wouldn't talk about it, but neither of them asked. Laura held her, soothing, "shhhh," and Clint rubbed gentle circles on her back. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise when all three fell asleep and woke up tangled sleepily together in the morning.
Natasha seemed disinclined to move, and Laura certainly was.
Clint's work phone rang in the bedroom. He shot Laura a look, then went to go get it.
When Nick finally came out in person, Clint stood between him and Natasha, but Natasha surprised them.
"I'll go to SHIELD," she stated quietly. "I'll cooperate."
Laura put her hands on Natasha's shoulders, holding on for a moment, unwilling to let her go.
Nick Fury stared at Natasha with familiar suspicion gleaming in his eye. "Will you?"
Natasha just looked at him for a long moment. "Yes."
Laura put one hand to her mouth. She tried to stay put, but in a moment, she turned and fled up the stairs.
"It'll be okay. You'll see."
Clint's messages were reassuring, his phone calls even better. Cautiously optimistic, he'd already determined that Fury wasn't going to kill her.
"Will they lock her up?" Laura demanded. "It wasn't her choice. She didn't have a choice."
She was surprised at her own fierceness, except that she wasn't. She knew now exactly why Clint had brought her home, trusted her without being trusted, trusted Laura to her.
"Clint..."
"Don't worry, Laura. I'll bring her home."
She let him soothe her, let him love her verbally, then let him hang up the phone to go fight for Natasha.
It was too long. She washed dishes alone, she made casseroles then threw them out because they were recipes Natasha had made her own and things Natasha had put so much into learning and making, and she waited, one hand on her rounded belly because it had been months and she was showing now.
But finally, finally, she heard the telltale knock and Clint opening the front door before she could, duffel bag thumping on the hardwood floor. She turned and saw the red hair behind him, the feminine grace.
Clint smiled warmly.
Laura drank them both in with her gaze as Natasha came fully into view. "You're home."