put that thing back where it came from, or so help me
Something strange happens one night.
This fic is set in September 2008. This means Laura is 7/8 months pregnant, and Cooper is 2.5 years old (at least in my headcanon for the Bartons).
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Laura felt Clint move in the bed, and woke up. Damn. She had finally managed to fall asleep after an intense kidney-kicking session by Peanut, and now it was all at square one. She fumbled with the covers and blindly reached for Clint's arm, her eyes still firmly shut - no way she was losing this night of sleep.
«Hon, what's the problem?» Laura whispered, her voice half-muffled by the pillow. Clint hushed her with a gesture and laid still, his expression focused. Laura tensed: she was used to seeing her husband on edge, though the worry was the same each and every time.
After maybe a minute of stillness and silence, Laura heard something. Like some sort of noise, or a had heard it, too, 'cause he breathed out, clenched his fists, and bolted out the bed. He grabbed the baseball bat they kept near the drawer (no bow and arrow in the house, obviously, or else Cooper would find it and ruin it and Laura didn't think she'd be able to console a whining arrow-less Clint), and headed out of the room, shooting a meaningful glance at Laura.
She hoisted herself from the bed and tiptoed to the door, listening attentively for anything going on downstairs, ready to eventually reach Cooper's bedroom. As the minutes passed, Laura grew more and more uncomfortable with waiting. Then, she heard that strange noise again, slightly clearer than before. She heard Clint's subsequent half-hearted cussing, and his frantically moving (still not totally noiseless when he's walking barefooted - any thief must've clearly heard him already...). Laura decided she needed some kind of weapon on her own, and resorted to one of her high-heeled pumps.
She had returned to her spot near the door since about thirty seconds, when she heard a loud and clear sound coming from the stairs. «Do you wanna play?» it said, in a creepy singsong voice. Laura frowned in confusion, and secured her hold on the shoe slash weapon in her hand. Then, again: «Do you wanna play?», even louder and clearer. And closer.
She readied herself to jump out of the bedroom, her worry tamed by her determination, but before she could move, Clint appeared in the doorframe, holding some ugly furry thing in his hand. The baseball bat was slouched on his shoulder, and his expression promised sonorous laughter.
«What?!» Laura asked, bewildered. It took her a couple of seconds to understand what was going on, but when realization hit her, she was so pissed she wanted to throw the shoe at her husband's stupid face. Instead, she tossed it on the armchair in the corner, and faced Clint, hands on her hips.
«Clinton Francis Barton» she hissed. «Did you really forget about that horrid Furby monster? Again?» Clint's grin was gradually turning into a sheepish expression under his wife's glare. «It was on you this evening, the whole make-the-baby-sleep thing and whatnot. And it includes tending to that, specifically». Laura's death stare shifted for a moment towards the toy in Clint's hand, before returning on him. «I can't believe you let your heavily pregnant wife, and maybe your son, get woken up in the middle of the night because you forgot to lock that damned thing in the washing machine! It isn't even the first time, come on...»
Laura's rant was actually a bit excessive, compared to the actual annoyance she felt. She was exhausted, more than pissed. And, she had to admit, bossing Clint around because of the demonic hellbeast he had insisted on buying was actually fun. Endearing, even - especially because Clint had scrunched his face at the mention of their unborn daughter, and Laura had felt her heart fill with tenderness at the sight. But she had to maintain her strict demeanor, no sweet smiles allowed; or else Clint would forever forget the furry demon out of the made-up cage.
«Now go solve this situation! And make sure it doesn't speak again for tonight» Laura ordered, taking the baseball bat from Clint's hand. He tilted his head and answered «Yes, ma'am», before turning around.
Laura put the bat down near the drawer, climbed onto the bed and tucked herself again under the blanket. «I hate you, Clint Barton» she said, her voice heavy with sleep. The usual, sockless pace halted abruptly. «Not really, honey. Now go...» Laura added, smiling.
The steps resumed.
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Well, this is really silly. But I love the Bartons, so…