AN: First time writing these guys. Be nice. I tried. Hail Hydra.

Still Got It

Clintasha/BlackEye

She ran her fingers gently over the scar on her hip. The ridged edges of skin roughly healed together always seemed to fascinate her and horrify her in turn. It reminded her how easily life could slip through her fingertips, how close she had already come to death, only to laugh in it's face. But how many times could she come so close?

Natasha wasn't 100% sure how much of her was fully functional after the whole escapade with Steve and Bucky and Hydra, but after a limitless array of X-rays, MRIs and CAT scans she could at least rest assured her reproductive organs were still in enough of a working order to give her a week from hell every month. And as she studied the Kitten calendar hanging on the back of her bedroom door she sighed. 3 months he'd been gone, under deep cover back in Budapest to clear up some loose ends. She hadn't had to buy a new pack of tampons in 3 months. The container of pills sat loosely in her open palm as she rubbed the smooth plastic sides. Her eyes could clearly see the words but it was taking her brain a rather long time to process them. 'Dr. Stoekworth's Essential Pre-Natal Regimen' The picture on it was of a pregnant woman gently caressing her growing human being. 'Recommended by moms across the nation!' the label proclaimed. Natasha bit her lip. She always hated taking medication, especially pills. She'd much prefer an IV drip at this point to the nerve-wracking process of ingesting a solid body without chewing. An odd sort of quirk for a trained assassin who at all times must be willing to follow through on a similar final act rather than allow a mission to be compromised.

She sighed, twisting the bottle open and making a face at the size of the tablets. At least they were clear-gels. "Bottoms up." She grimaced and threw back her head after taking a healthy swig from a water bottle. Once that was done she carefully screwed the lid back on and buried it deep within the crowded recesses of her medicine cabinet behind a prosthetic nose she'd grown attached to during a heist in Minsk. As she closed the cabinet door she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and froze.

She was glowing. How the hell was it possible for all those stupid pregnancy stories to be true? But sure enough, there was a subtle sort of sheen to her skin that wasn't sweat. It extended down to her neck, which quickly flushed as she took in the petite golden arrow that graced her collarbone. Like a kick in the gut the nausea and anxiety hit her all at once. She sat on the closed toilet and hung her head between her legs to try and calm down but it wasn't helping. In the midst of that feeling of dread you get as your bowels betray you, there was a smart rapping at the front door. "Oh, fuck." She spat before whirling around and offering up her partially digested lunch to the porcelain god.

She was still hanging in a daze after flushing on the floor of the bathroom when he walked in. Perfect and in one piece, she was happy to see, not even a bandage on his face or in an arm sling.

"Nat, what the hell? Are you alright?" Clint dove down to her and turned a bit at the faint whiff of vomit but he still pushed her hair back from her clammy cheek. She turned away, embarrassed and ashamed, not yet ready to tell him what was going on. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine, got into a bad batch of shawarma yesterday with Steve, that's all. You're home early." She pulled herself up, pushing his arms away when all she wanted was to hold him close. But not yet. Not until she could compose herself and fully explore her options at this point of their relationship. Even she wasn't sure what they were considered, fuckbuddies or romantic or what. Duty or something or other always came up and pulled them apart. But of course pulling Clint apart from her was like pulling old gum off a sun baked sidewalk. Slow and agonizing. And he always managed to come back, stickier than ever. Not that she ever minded. No, if there was one thing Natasha Romanoff truly enjoyed, it was the way this particular man made her insides go to mush. And right now they were a fruit smoothie.

"I get the feeling you're not exactly thrilled to see me. Seriously, what happened to you? You look…pale." Clint sat next to her on the bed, gently easing her chin around with one finger. "I told you, it's food poisoning, stupid really. And…I'm guessing you heard…?"

"Very astute of you. Yes, I did. It's why I'm home early. The mission was terminated for no reason. Me and my guys were stranded, had to dip into a savings fund to get home. S.H.I.E.L.D. is really gone, isn't it?"

She nodded. And before she could resist, he'd pulled her sweatshirt down, exposing the small square of slightly bloodied padding on her shoulder. "Nat…"

"It's nothing. 10 stitches, tops. And they're dissolvable. I'm healing great. Don't even need the Vicodin anymore." Her words were empty and he could tell. She also wouldn't meet his eyes, another obvious tell she'd developed once he'd figured out prolonged eye contact meant she was trying to cover UP a lie. "I don't get why you still lie to me. You know you can never hide anything from me anymore. I know you. Better than anyone." He draped an arm around her, resting a big tanned hand on her hip and pulling her against him. She could barely take it anymore, the smell of him, the feel of his arm against her even through the sweatshirt was electric, and the moment she finally gave in and looked up, the deep and profound want in his eyes was enough to make her clothes fly off of their own accord. But she held it, she held it like a trained dog from the K9 unit, stock still, teeth clenched.

"Hydra-"

"You feel different." He interrupted quickly, his grey eyes opening back up and his brows furrowing into that look of perpetual worry she'd grown used to. Those eyes could see through everything, even walls, she was sure. Piercing and stormy, not even trying to hide the troubled soul within them. He embraced his trauma, made himself better because of it, not in spite of it, like she did. She had a lot to learn from Hawkeye.

"Listen, you're going to figure it out eventually so I guess I better just say it. I'm pregnant."

A breath, deep and low, almost like a hiss of escaping air from a busted gas main. "Last time." It wasn't a question. He said it and she nodded and there was an immediate understanding. "But we-" "I know. It must have broken or something."

He sat back, easing his arm until it was settled on his side again. Another breath. Maybe two. She watched him like someone watches a ticking time bomb or a grenade. This time she really didn't know what was going to happen. It scared her, it frightened her, and maybe it thrilled her a little, she couldn't be sure. "Your doctors, they said there'd been irreparable damage, you have metal pins in your legs and god knows where else, I don't-" "I don't either. They said to just wait and see. I didn't even know until I went back in to get my shoulder checked again. My bloodwork…They're as much in the dark as I am. Nothing to do but wait it out."

"You didn't know? You didn't even suspect? It's been 3 months almost to the day. I know you're not that dense." She shook her head. "I didn't start getting sick until a few days ago when I started taking this stupid pre-natal crap. There's absolutely no point, I puke it up anyway." She got up and headed to the bathroom again, picking up her toothbrush and some toothpaste, suddenly uncomfortable with how quiet and calm he was being about all of this.

For a while there was no sound but the water in the sink running and her overzealous brushing, trying to get the taste of sick out of her tonsils. When she finished, Clint was leaning against the doorjamb, watching her with those calm grey eyes. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily. "Whatever happens, you know I'm not going anywhere, Romanoff. I'm braver than that. Better than that. You know." She put the brush down and gripped both sides of the sink. She'd been so rigorously trained, to be prepared for anything, fight, flight, injury and death. But this…wanting to hope and yet having to remain realistic at the same time…it was too much. She felt a burning in her eyes and slammed the door in his face.

He slid down against it, one palm pushed hard along the wood grain. He could break it, he could wrench the damn thing right off its hinges but he didn't, he just sat and listened, listened to the muffled sound of her sobs until there was nothing left. The sink ran for a bit. And the door opened. He looked up. Her jaw was set in a determined line as she threw the pre-natal pills in an expertly predicted arc so that they landed right in the bedside waste bin over 20 feet away. "Still got it." She murmured, smirking.