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"I think I threw up on your shoe..."
"My- huh?"
Instead of an answer, Clint gets a pathetic groan in response, something like a tequila hangover soundeffect. Rough fingers run over his face before deciding to man-up and do the unthinkable: Walk in on a girl occupying a bathroom with a closed door. He should have brought something distracting, like candy or... puppies? What causes to women not to hit you?
Bobbi is a sight, half in costume still, slumped on the floor against the wall, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. Somehow she looks more scared of him than he is of a split-lip and puke-filled shoes, "...did you bring Twizzlers?"
His face cracks a little and he can't hide the smirk tugging it's way to the surface, running a towel under the water and crouching down next to her, "No, Birdie, no Twizzlers. But I'll promise you a whole laundry basket full of 'em if you abandon your bunker here and tell me whats goin on?"
He should have held out for a new shoe, maybe.
She sneers at him trying to pat at her face with the towel, snatching it away and just holding the cooled fabric under her neck, "I don't feel good." Her mouth is tight. She's holding out on him. "Clint, don't!" Too late.
Suddenly, he's as flushed as she is, squinting at the plus sign on the tossed pregnancy test and sliding down to the floor in a slump against the sink cabinets.
"So..."
"Yeah."
"You..."
"No. We. This is a we thing." She's glaring at him, and he's considering the candy bribe again, but her lip starts trembling and she's flinging herself at him, half in his lap, arms grabbing around his shoulders. Big, gasping, shuddering sobs, all of her bones feel like they're hollow and shaking when he folds his arms around her, but she's smiling when she looks up at him. She looks beautiful and happy and he can't help but return the smile.
"I'm gonna be sick again."