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When he comes home to her, such is the weight in his eyes that Laura instantly worries.
Nat? she wanted to ask, but could not seem to say. The question waited on the tip of her tongue, all but bubbling over from her throat - for he had not looked so shaken - haunted, even - since . . . since Loki and . . . and Phil, she forced herself to finish the thought. For that moment her relief that her husband was home, home, was pushed aside by the burden pushing down on his shoulders, weighing his expression and dragging on his stride.
Yet Clint looked up when she came out to greet him; he blinked, and he had enough presence of mind to shake his head in the negative as he enfolded her in his embrace.
“No, not Nat,” was all he could say, and his arms tightened around her. His fingertips pressed into her skin, but she only nuzzled against his chest with a matching need, trying to burrow as close as she could with the awkward weight of their child sandwiched between them.
The relief was terrible, but it was there – the gratitude and guilt she had for knowing that what she called her own was alive and well, even if someone else did not. She knew that she was more than a soldier's wife – knew that when she first accepted his ring and his name – but that did not mean that the days apart were any easier, nor the pain of simply not knowing was any more bearable. Yet, the worst part, she had come to learn from experience, was always the days after.
As was all too often the case, Clint did not speak about what was weighing on his mind; he could not yet speak, Laura understood. Instead, he simply went inside, summoned enough smiles and joy to greet his children – who, like her, understood to let their father be when he was newly home from work – and went upstairs to shower and change for the night. She waited in bed for him, unable to sleep – unwilling to sleep – and when he joined her, he simply laid his head down on the swollen curve of her stomach as the world darkened beyond them. He breathed in and out with his son for a long minute . . . for another . . . and then another.
And, patiently, Laura waited.
“He was a punk,” was all that Clint could say, sometime later, snorting as if responding to some conversation only he could hear. “A kid, really,” he repeated, his voice cracking – tellingly, dangerously - over the word. “Just a damn kid.”
He wouldn't say anything more than that, but Laura was nothing if not patient. She simply threaded a hand though his hair, and soothingly moved her nails back and forth over his scalp. He could not first sleep, but, eventually, he closed his eyes. At long last, his breathing slowed and deepened. And Laura stared into the darkness, and waited.
.
.
The story came to her in bits and pieces.
Not surprisingly, Natasha appeared only days later – claiming her place in their guest bedroom and asking about hot spiced cider and apple pie with a forced levity to her expression and voice. Laura swallowed back the bubble of how very American that she would normally tease her with – something she had quipped about since the early days, back when Clint first brought home the mark he could not kill - the former assassin who was all wild eyes and animal instincts, rather than the flesh and blooded woman they knew now – and put his complete trust in her with his dearest secret so that she would trust him in return.
Even more so, Laura bit her tongue to check her urge to ask for what she had been so, so certain about. Where was the doctor . . .
Instead of asking – and clearly picking at a still fresh wound before it could scab - she poured cider and got the ingredients out to begin baking. Natasha merely sat at the counter and watched with her too sharp eyes – much as she had in those early days. Laura simply hummed under her breath to cut the tension in the air, knowing that she would soon join in with helping – she never could stop herself, it seemed. And, Laura had to admit, she was rather handy with a knife.
Sure enough, Natasha pulled the bowl of apples to her a few minutes later, and started peeling the skins with a graceful, practiced ease for the steel in her hand.
She did not talk about herself – maybe she would in a few days, over wine and shared venting for the ills with working with so many men – instead saying, “Clint,” in a slow voice. It was a voice that had Laura pausing, listening – waiting.
And so, where her husband could not yet speak, Natasha did. And Laura listened.
.
.
Slowly, life went back to normal. The eddies caused by Ultron stilled; they soothed, and Laura enjoyed having her husband all to herself until their baby was due - all but for his dutiful trips to the Faculty being built in upstate New York, that was. Which, from one of those trips . . .
“You brought a girl home?” she could not help but tease, seeing the awkward looking young woman with messy waves of dark brown hair and rings on nearly every finger waiting on their porch. She had large, sad eyes, though, and shoulders slumped as if she carried herself upright underneath Atlas' burden. “She's a bit young for you, Barton, don't you think?”
Clint's raised brow in return was fond and exasperated by turns, but her words had the desired effect – they softened the line between his brows, they lightened the shadow in his gaze. He gave a half smile before the look faltered on his face – he still being too weary for any true joy to last for too long.
“This is Wanda Maximoff,” he said instead of deigning to reply, but the answer he gave was all the one she needed. “She needs to destroy things, and I've wanted to expand the kitchen for a while now.”
So Laura curled up on the couch, and watched her children dutifully fetch nails and take away scraps of debris while trying not to ogle too openly at the woman with scarlet energy dancing around her hands and turning her eyes alight with a dangerous sort of beauty – like that of an ocean wave or summer storm. Like with so many, the wary, wounded animal eyes of Wanda Maximoff softened throughout the day, and by the end of it, she gracefully took the painting of her that Lila had done with a soft smile turning her mouth. She touched the empty place by her side in the picture, and there her fingertips lingered, even as she gave a solemn thank-you and a promise to treasure the child's work. Laura did not think she exaggerated for Lila's sake when she put the picture down and carefully soothed the edges back.
Her husband always was taking in strays, she thought, watching the younger woman. It was one of the things she loved about him.
As if she could hear her, Wanda tilted her head, and after a moment's hesitation, she came to sit next to her on the couch. Clint was still hammering away on something beyond them – cursing when his immaculate aim faltered and he hit his thumb instead of the nail, and Laura smiled at the sound, wishing that she was next to him. Alas, she was at the point where she could not stand for too long – not with the baby this far along.
She smiled welcomingly at the other woman, Wanda looking as some hauntingly lovely gypsy against the plaid and country tones of her living room, and yet somehow fitting, nonetheless.
“I can hear you both,” Wanda said after a long moment, tapping the side of her head and looking down at the swollen bump of her child. “It is unlike anything I have ever felt before, and it is . . . it is a good thing,” she finished, as if unable to put her thoughts into words.
She looked fascinated, Laura thought – mesmerized by something as simple and human as a mother carrying her child to term. It was a fascination Natasha had first shared, she remembered with fondness – she having been expecting Lila then. Even before Natasha first trusted Clint, she had trusted his love for his family, and when she had hesitantly asked if she could touch – as a child certain of a rebuke in reply - Laura had been unable to refuse her, and Natasha had woven herself into their family ever since.
Such might, such power, these beings, these gods, possessed, and yet they were such child-souls deep down inside. And Laura was nothing if not a mother – more than twice over now.
“What does he say?” she asked – truly, truly curious, no matter the surreality of the encounter.
“He says nothing in words,” Wanda tilted her head, her eyes glowing faintly scarlet around the rims. The edges of her accent softened with her saying so, turning lilting and warm to the ear. “I can only understand feelings – projections of warmth and contentment. He likes your singing,” she revealed. “Clint's, not so much.”
Laura snorted. “That, I cannot blame him for.”
Wanda smiled a half smile, and made a careful fist of her hand – elegantly folding one about the other on her lap as if to restrain herself. Nonetheless, her fingers twitched. She looked as if she wished . . . and so, Laura waved a hand, and invited: “Do you want to feel him?”
Wanda bit her lip, and looked as if she would refuse, but Laura understood her wanting, and so she shook her head, and waved again. “You don't carry three children without being used to this sort of thing,” she revealed. “I've had old ladies at the market do so without asking, at that. Come here.”
Still Wanda hesitated, but Laura was patient, and kept out her hand. Her patience was rewarded, and she guided Wanda to where her son was lazily moving his right foot back and forth, stroking the wall of her womb. The movement was a small distortion, visible on her stomach, and Wanda blinked, her eyes wide with amazement.
When he gave a particularly strong kick against Wanda's hand, Laura looked up and grinned to say, “He likes you.”
“I introduced myself,” Wanda revealed, her voice soft. “I think he understood me, in his own way.”
Curious, Laura was about to ask for more when a rather painful seizing in her midsection overtook her. At first she was about to pass it off – she'd been having minor contractions on and off again the last few days, after all - but she then understood -
“Well,” she was able to keep her voice from wavering, but a grim determination steeled it nonetheless. “If you stick around, you'll be able to greet him in person.”
Wanda – whose brow had furrowed for her sensing the new-found state she was in – looked at her with very, very wide eyes – comically wide eyes, even. But now was not the time to smile for that. “Oh, it takes a few hours – quite a few,” she assured the girl. “Just, go get Clint for me? He knows what to do.”
Though every birth seemed to go smoother than the last, labor was still termed labor for a reason. Even so, she was glad that her nearly twenty-four hour battle to bring Cooper into the world was a memory when a few short hours later she was holding her son – tiny and red and screaming and perfect. So, so perfect.
She enjoyed those first moments as a new parent with Clint, glad to see joy – true joy - on his face again for the first time in far too long. They spent the hours of that night bonding with their child, even when every part of her body cried out for sleep and rest. In the morning he went to get the kids, and she then had two excited youngsters greeting their newest sibling – who blinked up at them with big brown eyes, but was yet incapable of doing anything more than that. Completely content, she savored having her whole family together – that was, until she became aware of the presence hovering at the door, hesitantly looking in, as if drawn by the feel of the small family – bigger now – against her senses.
And Laura waved her hand, and beckoned her forward.
Wanda approached slowly, but was unable to retreat when Clint pointedly vacated his seat at the bedside so that she could come closer. Biting her lip, she looked down at the child, something soft about her features as she stared. “He is beautiful,” she said, a ghost of red painting her eyes, and Laura knew that she meant her words in more ways than one. Wanda held out a hand, and though her son could not yet reach out and grab, he could wrap his hand around her finger when he felt her touch, and his grip was already strong for one so young.
Laura looked up at Clint, and met his eyes. She saw the understanding there – the approval, and he let her speak. “We named him Nathaniel,” she revealed softly.
“A good choice,” Wanda approved – she already having gravitated towards the Widow over most in their group. “It's a strong name.”
“We thought so too,” Laura agreed. She looked very steadily at Wanda, steeling herself. “For his middle name, we were thinking of Pietro.”
She held her breath as Wanda blinked. She was very, very still – carrying such an inhuman poise about her that for a moment Laura worried. But then she exhaled. Behind the red in her gaze, her eyes shone with the beginning of tears, and hurriedly, Laura went on.
“I . . . I wouldn't have a husband today, and my children would not have a father, if it was not for your brother. I – we – wanted to honor that somehow, and if you agree, this is the smallest way we can express the enormity of our gratitude.” Laura's voice fell to a whisper. “I . . . I know that this is not enough to bring him back, or replace him, and yet . . .” she faltered, unable to say anything more when words could not possibly express what she felt inside.
Yet, Wanda was ever more than words spoken aloud, and she inclined her head – sensing everything they felt, but could never fully utter aloud. For a moment she hid behind the curtain of her hair as she gathered herself, but then she looked up. When she met their eyes, her own gaze was dry.
“Nathaniel Pietro Barton,” thoughtfully, Wanda tilted her head to the side. “It does not flow much,” she pointed out, her voice still very small as she spoke. “And you know that he would have been unbearable if he knew how you honored him.”
For that Clint snorted, and rolled his eyes.
“And yet, I am honored by your doing so,” Wanda stated, her voice gaining strength with each syllable spoken. “I thank you.”
She said no more than that, but when she gazed at the baby again, Laura moved to pass her son to the other woman in understanding. Wanda held the baby tightly, as if afraid of dropping him, and she looked down at her brother's namesake with wide, caring eyes. When she touched a hand to the infant's cheek, there was such an adoration that filled her expression, so much so that . . .
. . . Laura almost pitied anyone who would stand against Nathaniel, or any of her family, in the years to come. Almost.
“Pietro,” Wanda muttered as she stroked her hand over the boy's tiny face, and Laura sighed in contentment. When Clint sat down on the edge of her bed, she reached over to take one of his hands in her own, feeling absurdly happy in that moment – grateful too, more than words ever could say. He too looked as if a weight had been lifted from him, and though there was still a shadow in his eyes as he looked at the girl and his son, it was a shadow that was lifting.
Laura simply leaned against her husband, and watched her family grow yet again.