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Clint ducked under Natasha's clearly halfhearted blow (if she'd really meant it, he'd have hit the kitchen tile by now) and backed slowly away from her icy glare. Even as recently as a week ago, he might have tried to figure out exactly what he'd said wrong with his morning greeting, but he was seven days (and thirteen bruises) wiser now and merely picked up her teacup and handed it over.
Her eyebrow smoothed out, so despite the lack of thanks, he counted it a win and Natasha mollified for at least the next five minutes.
He watched her sit down gingerly. For someone who had spent years honing her body into a living weapon with every muscle under her perfect control, the sudden shift in her center of equilibrium had proven annoying on the best of days and downright irritating on the worst. Clint waited until she was contentedly curled up on the couch with the newspaper before he dared to sit down beside her.
"How you doing?" he asked quietly, hoping not to disturb the tentative peace.
She surprised him, tucking her feet up beneath her and rolling over to curl into his body, her head leaning on his shoulder. His arms went around her automatically and he smiled as he realized she was snuggling.
"She's kicking," Natasha said evenly, none of her body language's warmth seeping into her voice.
Clint's breath stuttered for a second. He pressed one hand against her stomach until he felt the tiny fluttering Natasha swore didn't feel so tiny from the inside. He couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face.
"Seriously, Barton?" she asked, annoyed. "You're getting too soft."
He never could figure out if she was getting overprotective or it was all just hormonal mood swings. Probably both. She'd forgive him in five more minutes.
He kissed her cheek. "She'll be fine, Tasha. We'll be fine."