She's not an idiot.
She's heard the rumors, noticed the stares, read the results of that science nerd's experiment that proved that gossip that the widow and Hawkeye were alone in a room increased foot traffic in the hall by 23%.
Everyone thinks they're sleeping together.
They're not. She can count her true friends on one hand and still have four fingers left over. She's not risking that friendship for sex. Lovers are easy to find. Friends are not.
She assumes he dates, but she doesn't ask and he doesn't say. It really doesn't matter.
At least it doesn't matter until they're in the middle of nowhere, 75 clicks from the closest extraction point, and he's out of his mind with fever, the unfortunate side effect of a minor cut from what has turned out to be a very dirty blade.
Who the hell is Laura?
She finds a doctor and persuades him she's more dangerous than the militants who control the area. The antibiotics work, and two days later, she's driving a stolen jeep up a rutted, winding goat trail while he fights to stay upright.
"Is Laura your girlfriend?", she asks as the jeep sends a shower of gravel careening off the edge of a cliff.
He laughs. "No." There's silence for a moment, then he asks, "I was really out of it, huh?"
"I just thought you liked playing sleeping beauty in the middle of the mission."
It's not really an answer, and they begin their descent in silence. They're almost at the extraction point when he says, "Laura's my wife."
"Oh." It hurts more than a punch, knowing that her friend has kept such an enormous secret.
"We have two kids", he continues. "There are only three people at S.H.I.E.L.D. who know they exist, and two of them are in this car."
It's not an apology – there's nothing to apologize for – but somehow, that makes it a little better.
Three days later, he knocks on her door. "Pack a bag, Romanoff."
They take an indirect route to a remote farmhouse. Barton pulls the car over just before he turns in the drive. He stares straight ahead and says, "This time could have been it."
"It wasn't."
"The next time could be." He turns to face her. "If it is, promise me you'll watch out for them."
She can't refuse.
He puts the car in gear and turns down the drive.
Laura lights up when she sees him, and Barton clings to her while two over-excited children tug at his pants. He lets his wife go and swings the children up in the air in turn, dispensing hugs and examining scrapes and crayon drawings.
She sits back, watching. She never would have pictured him living this kind of life, but it suits him. He looks years younger, relaxed and happy. Finally, he sets his young daughter down and says, "Laura, this is Natasha."
She's taken aback when Laura hugs her, too, and then she's walking up the stairs to a cheery room filled with mismatched furniture and being urged to make herself at home.
She spends the next few days feeling like a tourist in a foreign land. The entire family goes fishing, and she goes along. They don't catch much, but the kids run along the shore and catch frogs, laughing until they collapse in mirthful heaps on the bank. Laura insists that the two of them need a spa day, and Barton promises the kids a target-shooting contest while he pretends not to see her pleading look.
The spa's actually not bad, and she finds that she likes Laura. Laura is competent and warm and completely unthreatened by her.
That's not true of many people.
When she leaves, Laura hugs her, and the youngest child gives her a hug and a crumpled drawing. She's not sure what it's supposed to be, but she's oddly touched by the gesture.
..…
"Shit!"
They're in an alley LA, tracking some suspected terrorist the feds lost at LAX. It's 3 AM, and the temperature has finally dropped to a bearable level. She looks around for the threat, but there's nothing.
"What?"
She'd really like a fight right about now, and her voice reflects her annoyance.
"It's my kid's birthday."
She's not immediately sure why he's telling her that, and it takes her a second to realize he has somewhere to be.
She looks at the bar they suspect their target is hanging out in, opens her shirt another inch, and checks the knife in her boot. "Let's go get him."
She offers to take care of the paperwork so he can get home, but he says it can wait and tells her to pack her bags. By 7, they're on a plane, and at 10:30 they're in a rental car. At 10:35 she remembers that gifts are part of a traditional birthday celebration, and they find a toy store.
She's not sure what a five year old girl likes, so she goes down the aisle marked "For Girls" and is appalled to find dolls and an occasional craft kit, most of them in bubble-gum pink boxes. She's about to corner a clerk to ask why he thinks these are appropriate toys for girls when Clint grabs her shoulders and steers her around the corner to a more appealing display. There are guns that shoot little pieces of foam, and orange and green water pistols, and even a bow that shoots foam arrows. In defiance of the "For Boys" label, she buys one of each.
They pull into the drive just after noon, and his daughter leaps into his arms.
It's worth every bruise.
..…
It's a concussion – a mild one, but still enough to knock her out of commission for a couple of weeks. She doesn't argue. Frankly, just sitting up for more than a couple of minutes is enough to make her feel like she needs a nap. She lies on her couch and happily focuses on nothing.
She's sure she locked the door, but he walks in without knocking.
"Go away, Barton."
He pulls a duffel bag off the shelf and tosses it in her lap. "Pack your bags, Romanoff. I'm off for two weeks, and if I leave you here, you'll probably start climbing the walls. You're coming with me."
She's too fuzzy and tired to argue.
She spends the first week sitting on the porch, not doing much of anything. Sometimes Laura sits with her, watching the kids run and shriek across the lawn. Sometimes one of the kids sits with her, cuddling in against her side and asking her questions she's not quite sure how to answer. In the evenings, Clint joins her, fussing with his arrows and talking about nothing.
She wakes up on day 8 feeling better. For the first time, she begins to believe she will recover. In celebration, she takes part in what is apparently the traditional Barton family water-balloon fight, girls against boys. Her team wins – even a crack shot can't resist a plea of "Daddy, help!"
She gloats the rest of the day.
The next week passes in a blur, and soon she is hugging Laura and the kids and promising to return soon. She'll miss them. She's pretty sure they'll miss her, too.
..…
They meet at Heathrow. While he was at home, she was in Russia, working on a side project of her own. It's the beginning of December, and tinny Christmas carols are playing in the background. She's been sitting there long enough to tune them out.
Two weeks later, they're back at the airport, on the way home. She's off to headquarters; he's on his way home for the holidays.
His flight is called, and he picks up his bag and nods at hers. "Grab your bag, Romanoff."
She frowns at him. "My flight's not for another hour, Barton."
He shakes his head and picks up her carry on. "You're coming home with me. I cleared it with HQ. You're off until January 2."
"But …"
He starts walking away with her bag, calling over his shoulder. "Move it! I promised the kids I'd bring Auntie Nat home for Christmas."
She follows.
She's never really celebrated Christmas, but she enjoys the lights, laughter, and food. The box of gifts she routed through three dummy addresses beat them to the farmhouse, and she enjoys watching the kids rip through the colourful wrapping paper. To her surprise, there are two gifts under the tree with her name on them. One of them contains pictures from the kids. She can't take them with her, of course, but she knows just where she'll hang them in the guest room. The other gift – the one from Clint and Laura – contains a delicate silver necklace with an arrow pendant. Laura smiles. "We wanted you to have something to remind you of your family."
Immeasurably touched, she removes it from its package and clasps it around her neck. This one she can take with her when she leaves.
Two days after Christmas, Laura announces she's going on a date with her husband and Auntie Nat is babysitting. When they get home, the house is quiet – too quiet. They hang their coats in the closet and call "Kids? Nat?"
There's no response. Clint leads the way into the living room, which means he's the one who's knocked to the ground when his daughter drops from her perch near the ceiling.
His son lets go as well, and barrels into the pile of bodies on the carpet. In the corner, Natasha laughs so hard she has to sit down.
Clint picks himself up. He sends the kids off to brush their teeth and follows them down the hall, limping slightly. Laura grins at Natasha. "That worked well."
Natasha shrugs. "They're fast learners."
..…
"Laura's pregnant."
They're in a rental car, en route to the airport.
"Congratulations." She's not sure what he's looking for from her, but she's pretty sure that's the expected reply.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "If it's a girl, we're going to name her Natasha."
She stares at him. "Really?"
He shrugs. "Really."
They drive the rest of the way in silence.