Title: It Comes Back To You

Paring: Clint Barton X Reader

Warnings: THIS CONTAINS CONTENT ABOUT PREGNANCY, AND MISCARRIAGE. IF YOU HAVE ANY TRIGGERS FOR THIS, PLEASE KEEP SAFE AND DON'T PUT YOURSELF THROUGH THIS

Spoilers: might be some for Civil War? Canon is a little wobbly in my memory.

Request: For LegendaryRosePlayer, who wanted some Clint. Hope you like it!

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The week you found out that there was life within you, there had been an earthquake somewhere around the country. And it felt like a sign from Mother Nature -- or whoever steered your life when you needed to let someone else take the wheel -- that everything was changing. To be perfectly frank, it floored you - that the doctors had been wrong about the fertility tests, that your husband would have to take this news in, that he, a vigilante had children on the way.

Clint Barton never really wanted kids. It was just something about him that he'd decided perhaps from when he was a kid, when he went through all the shitty things that wrung him out to be the man you married. Sure, you'd always hoped, but ever since your experience going through the wringer -- as an ex-S. H. I. E. L. D. scientist who had been a part of one of the labs attacked by the Inhuman radical Jiaying with the Terrigen Mist, and forcibly transformed into someone who could walk through time -- it had rendered you unable to produce.

Until now.

But sure, the week you found out was fantastic, you couldn't stop freaking out about it, and how Clint Barton would find out about it because he was sure, an ordinary guy at first if you don't consider his grasp over archery and sarcasm, but he was an Avenger, and a good man. If there was a secret, he always, always found out.

It was just your horrible luck that the only person to confide in was not your husband of four years, however, but the guy who practically kept the Avengers base afloat in Upstate New York - the mechanic. Tony freaking Stark. It took a moment for the news to properly hit him, and then the poor bastard couldn't stop looking at your midsection, like you were a carrier of something holier than the team.

"But...but you can't," he frowned, eyes fluttering as he processed the news. "Your new anatomy just can't carry a child. Dr. Simmons and Cho were there as you came out of the rock, did the readings, it's not -,"

"But it is possible, because why else does the pee stick say plus and my mornings filled with sickness? And I can't be bloated all the time..." you bite your lip, harrowing away to make it probably bleed in your stress. "Clint and I married four years ago, knowing we'd never have children...the Hawkeye just doesn't want to bring up kids in this goddamned world, and my condition -," you feel your lip quake, and taste the tang of blood. You hated it when you worried on your lip, but it was the only thing which kept you grounded. "You can't tell him. Please, Tony, don't tell him."

The billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, Iron Man - best friend nodded ever so slowly, and resting a hand on your arm, agreed to your terms. "Sure. Hawkeye won't catch wind from me."

By horrible luck you actually meant completely and honestly good luck to have someone to talk to about the whole ideal and not just aloud to Friday, his computer system. But, by horrible luck you also meant horrible luck, because it had been seemingly ages since the team had gone out for their most recent mission (three weeks) and you really wished that you could look into Clint Barton's eyes and gush and cry about the confusion you were in.

But life was life, and their mission needed an archer, not a time-traveller, and thus you stayed in the Avengers base with the remaining team and not in your shared apartment in downtown Brooklyn (terrible two bedroom place above a hair salon above a subway tunnel) alone.

It was another two weeks waiting, after that, and then one more when the sound of a Quinjet arriving back on the helipad, and the feeling of a small bump under your skin arrived on your midsection. It wasn't that you were terrified. Well, yeah, you were, but...maybe it was to do with the unknown. When the team disembarked from the jet, Rogers filing out alongside Romanov, Thor, flanked with Maximoff and lastly, Barton, your heart raced, and nothing on earth could have held you back as you flung yourself to your husband, and wrapped your arms around him.

"Is that an arrow in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" You joke, running your hand along the bulge in his Avengers uniform pants.

Clint grins, and slips a hand into his pocket, withdrawing an compact arrow that snapped into a full length one at once, "Both, babe."

Thor laughed, coming from within the compound to crush Steve and Tony together into a bone-crunching hug. "I appreciate your jest, Clint, ________. Pity that Asgard does not have use for such phrases..."

The fear and excitement and passion of it all got to you, and before you knew it, you were tugging Clint from the team and to the only secluded spot outside, a little patio where Vision maintained a small zen garden. Only just sitting down, the news spilled forth from your lips, and at once, his arms were around you once more, embracing you, worshipping you, loving you, surrounding you.

"Please don't hate me," you whisper through the tears. Damn the tears, those never ending tears. "Clint, I -," His head rested upon your neck, tucked away, nose snuffling through his own waterworks, "Don't tell me all this worrying is for nothing," you moan.

He shakes his head. "I never - really wanted kids. But now...we'll do our best to bring this little one into the world. Into a world that you and I will do our damndest to keep them safe." 

Not long at all -- a month later -- and probably planned that way by the universe or whatever organised the book of your life, there was a need for a diplomatic mission back to Europe for more sessions to broker in the effects of the Accords to suit all the needs of the team. It didn't escape you that months ago Clint had been locked up, or that the whole team had been a squabbling mess, but they needed someone levelheaded. Who had been as normal as anyone, and as powered-up as their threats had been. Thus, the team elected you to go, with Nat Romanov to keep an eye on you (and kick ass for you so you and your new life inside couldn't be hurt, Clint wasn't slick at all...). 

The bump under your shirt was showing, and selecting a wardrobe to pack might've needed a few trips to get new clothes, and before you knew it, you were kissing Clint's whiskery cheek goodbye, waving the team goodbye, and aboard a jet with your red-headed ex-assassin friend to the other side of the globe.

"So...what's it like," she asked you, poking your arm a half hour after being aboard the plane, grinning her devil-may-care smirk, "Growing something inside of you. Is it as gross as the sex ed posters make it seem?" 

You shrug, placing a hand on your stomach. "It's been strange. Puking. Getting bigger. If I didn't have any parents, I'd be phoning them up and telling them they're going to be a Grammy and Gramps." 

Nat pouted. "Don't give me that sad orphan shite, we all know you were raised by your aunt. Why hasn't Maggie and Scott heard? Don't tell me you're nervous about the Antman being all up in Clint's grill." She narrowed her eyes, and just like that, deduced your life, ala Sherlock Holmes. "You haven't talked to him since he became the Antman, have you? And that was..."

"Four years ago." You sigh, flicking open a manilla briefing folder for in-flight entertainment. "He's busy saving the world. I'm busy being a paradox. We'll work it out." 

A month passed, and somehow, it brought you back to the jet, back to home. Nat had done all she could to keep you off your feet, to protect the new life you were making inside. Now, on the plane, you'd kicked off your shoes, and snuggled into the not-quite-uncomfortable private plane's seat, and done your best to close your eyes for a few. 

But then it hit you. A pain, like shooting pain, pang from your belly up. At once, your eyes shot open. It felt like a terrible, terrible cramp, and stung like buggery. Even though you were a warrior, and a scientist, you were still a woman, and someone who had been through trauma, been through hell, and had every idea of what it felt like when it was ripping apart inside of you. 

"Nat," you moan, clutching your middle, "I don't think this," you wince, doubling over, "is supposed to happen." 

The red-head got to battle stations, at once googling what to do with symptoms like yours, and calling Clint on her spare phone. "Come on, I'll take you to the bed, you need to properly lie down. I'm calling your husband, so don't worry, he'll be on the phone in a - hey, Clint, hold on, I just need you to talk to _________. She needs to hear you right now." 

As you stand, you feel fluid in your panties, and tears forming in the corner of your eyes. "It's - it's not supposed to feel like this," you whisper to him, shuddering through your tears. "I don't think the baby's going to come after all."

Back in downtown New York, Clint Barton stood in the doorway, phone loose between his fingers, mouth agape. 

Clint Barton was just an ordinary guy, really, who happened to know superhero things and save the world a couple of times a week and once was invited to a Thanksgiving party with you to the Jane Foster's house a few years ago. He read the newspaper when he had time, and took ages to wake up in the morning. He'd gone through hell as a child, and never wanted to inflict it on his, had hoped from the bottom of his heart since he was small to never have his own. 

The second room to the apartment, once used as a dumping storage place, was not any longer. He'd taken a whole night to clean it out, and organise, stripped the ugly carpet up, and sanded the floors down. You'd been gone for a month, and for a month, he worked as hard as he could around his Avenger-hours, kitting out the place for the baby. There was a change table, and a little cot he salvaged from the people upstairs, and bought a new mattress for. 

He nods, and replies, "Come on, be strong, ________. You need to be strong." 

But back on the plane, you can't. You don't want to be. "Please, make it stop," you blubber, closing your eyes. "I can't be - I can't be. I can't be strong, not now, I - I," you scream, and Nat yanks the phone from your ear, and talks to Clint.

"I'm going to have to call you back, Barton." She sounds just as professional as she always does, but at Clint's end, he can sense his long-time S. H. I. E. L. D. agent partner's caring, and concern. "Of course this happens mid-flight."

He blinks, but Nat hangs up before he can speak. From the other room, Bruce calls out something, whether it be about beer, or vegan-friendly beef, he can't tell - and not just because of his hearing problem, either. The world is unstable. Wobbly. His eyes are swimming. 

There is no baby.

Bruce pokes his head out from the kitchen, holding a two bottles of lager, and seeing his teammate, and friend there, standing as if there is no floor, no floor under his feet, no universe, no stars and no meaning to life, goes to steady him. "Woah there, Clint, man - is everything okay?" 

He swayed there for a moment before answering. "I wasn't ready to be a dad," his voice is an echo, eyes not leaving the open doorway to the room freshly decorated and painted, "I don't think I'd ever be."

Eight Months Later

Life goes on. It has to, because time can't just stop when you feel yourself ripped out and tied down to a cliff to be tortured forever. There is no alcove where you can curl in on yourself and swear to be a hermit as it all stills and waits for you to come out of it. No. Life goes on. Planes land, and silence falls, and the pain lingers. It took days, weeks until you could look at Clint, before you could read the results from the doctor, could face your friends and share the terrible news. How was it that impossible, terrible things happened to you? 

But as life goes on, so does the heart, the mind, the soul. You could cry alongside your husband, and take the medicine prescribed to try and heal from it. Your family -- the Avengers, Maggie and her ex-husband Scott and little Cassie -- surrounded you with warmth and love, and gave you time to heal, to feel better. The envelope read that it had been something like an ectopic pregnancy, but because you had not gotten the right organs, it had lasted longer than the usual woman could stand, and caused great pain. 

You didn't need the letter to tell you that. 

But it was eight months after that phone call, nearly to the day when the team were coming back from a mission (once again with no need for a time-traveller) when you saw Clint coming off the Quinjet, carrying a squirming rag. In his arms, was a little baby, with bright eyes, and glowing skin, who looked at your husband like the universe came from his palms, and once seeing you, almost decided you were greatness incarnate.

"Who - where are her parents?" you ask him, noticing the Avengers swarming around the pair of you to witness the conversation. "Clint, you can't just go around picking up stray children."

The Maximoff twins laughed. "It worked with us," Pietro grinned, "but she has no family."

You narrow your eyes to your husband. "Clint, what - are we holding onto her until the agency finds her a home?" you ask her. It was almost like your guarded heart couldn't bear to lower the gates, to allow for any possibility of hope to seep in. "Clinton Barton, say something!"

"We couldn't save their city, her mother gave her to me. She was an Inhuman, like you, and saw the past in people, and saw nobody else fit to take care of her daughter than you," Clint's voice trembled, and slowly, passed the little girl toward you, to your empty arms. "I know it - it -,"

You accept her into your arms, feeling the weight of the baby there. You never believed in women being primarily mothers; you never thought of yourself as anything more than a lady in gender, and surely not duty. But here, holding the small girl, you felt a hole inside of yourself fill up, and spill over, toppling inside you like a tap stuck on, full of love. 

"What's her name?" you whisper, sniffing at the tears that threatened to show.

He wipes the water from your eyes, gazing into your eyes. "Hoshi. Hoshi Barton."

You grin through your tears, with eyes only for the little girl, for your little girl. You don't notice the Avengers assembling somewhere else, leaving the Barton family to transform into the next stage. "Hello, my love, my little Hoshi."