Disclaimer: I do not own and of the characters of The Avengers or Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D nor do I make any profit off of this work of fiction.

Author's Note: This popped into my head and I couldn't move on with any of my other works in progress until it was finished. I don't know it it'll continue or not. If you have a chance, please let me know what you think! Thanks!

He was still half asleep and bleary when he opened the front door to snow and cold and his best friend, her long curly red hair a riot of color against the bleak winter world. He focused on her intense eyes for just a moment before she moved a brightly colored box into his line of sight. He read the words on the box slowly before groaning and shuffling his way toward the kitchen, hitching his comforter up around his shoulders as he moved. He started the coffee in a daze and sat at the table. Natasha placed the box in front of him and tended to the coffee, just a few minutes later placing a steaming mug in front of him, just as he usually liked it, very blonde and lightly sweetened. He took a sip of his own as she sat at the table and made a face, trading his mug for her completely black, unsweetened one. He took a sip of that one and then winced again and pushed it back at her.

"There's only decaf in the kitchen, Clint," she said quietly, void of inflection.

"Just in case," He mumbled back, pushing the box out of the way and laying his head down on the table.

"Clint," She set a surprisingly gentle hand on his dirty hair and ran her fingers through it. He turned his head so that he could look at her, "You have to take the test."

"I know," He murmured, then sighed and turned his face to the table, hitting his head lightly on it repeatedly.

The corner of Natasha's mouth quirked up as she and she placed a glass of water in front of him, "Drink," She ordered gently, "Then you piss on a stick."

Clint was elbow deep in soil and flowers when they came to tell him. Luckily Nat had been with him at the time, her clothes, hair and make-up pristine as she sipped lemonade on the porch, refusing to garden with him though he'd almost begged. But, she was no fun and she didn't do dirt, so they'd been bantering back and forth, talking about his plans for when Phil was back home, the new romance she was brewing with the shy head of research at work, and just how much he missed his husband when he was deployed. She'd been his strength that evening, holding him up in her surprisingly strong arms when his legs threatened to buckle. He'd recognize how respectful and kind the team that had come to notify him had been, but as soon as they'd gotten out of the car his head had been filled with the sound of the ocean and his vision had tunneled until the only thing he'd been able to see what on the buttons on the dress uniform, shined to perfection, just like Phil's had always been when he'd gotten into full dress.

He'd signed the contact form in a trance. It was only after the two uniformed men had gotten back into the car they came in that the trance had broken and he'd fallen to his knees making a sound that he hadn't even known he could make, like the howl of a wounded animal. Natasha had curled herself around his back as he doubled over, not saying anything, not trying to give him words of comfort that could bring none, just trying to demonstrate to him that she was there. He would recognize later that he'd felt tears on the back of his neck and was surprised that she'd let them fall. He didn't know if it was minutes or hours before Nat uncurled herself from his back and he felt his neighbor, Thor, picking him up gently from the ground. He didn't have the strength or the inclination to fight as Thor's sweet, petite wife helped Nat get him in a shower and into pajama's after. When they'd put him in his bed, he'd closed his eyes and turned his back to them. Eventually he'd fallen asleep.

When he'd woken up the next day Nat had been in the bed with him, her face had been stoic and strong, but he'd known her for so long that he'd seen the grief in her eyes and she'd held him close as the tears came again. When he'd finally cried himself out for the moment she'd taken him downstairs and made him some soup that he barely touched. Then they curled up on the couch under Phil's favorite blanket said nothing until they both fell asleep again.

"How long does it say I have to wait?" Clint asked her as he turned the test stick around in his hand.

"Two minutes," She said quietly, "Do you want me to look first?"

"Nah," He almost giggled, a little hysterical, "I already know what it says, Nat. You already know what it says. I don't need the little plus sign to confirm what I already know."

"Then why are we waiting to see it?" She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"You have to ask me that?" He snapped.

The eyebrow went higher and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Sorry, Nat. I just…How can I try for six years with Phil and then one drunk night it finally…I…The universe is laughing at me."

"The universe is always laughing at us, yastreb. You just have to decide whether or not to laugh back."

"Yeah," He huffed a laugh out and almost managed a smile, "I'm laughing, Nat. I'm laughing."

He turned the test around so that they could both see the plus sign on the test stick.

He'd met Phil by chance when the washing machine in his apartment building had been on the fritz for the fifth time that month. Rather than wait for the three days it took for the parts to make it out and give the machine a couple more weeks of life, he'd decided to make the trek to the laundromat, despite the snow that was beginning to fall. He had noticed the man, older than himself by maybe a decade, competently and quietly doing his own laundry, in a distracted kind of way and had gotten his laundry underway, pulling out a novel that he'd been trying to get through for weeks. He'd never really read for pleasure, but since he'd gone back to school for his GED and then his bachelor's and had to read for class, he'd been trying. If he was trying to convince his young students that reading was necessary and, even, fun he had to try to make it so for himself. He'd been enjoying the story, but the words trying to float off the page and the letters changing places on him all the time made reading more hassle than it was worth most tof the time.

Phil had noticed his struggle and the moment Clint had looked up into his eyes, so kind and so very blue, he'd been enraptured. The moment he'd heard the man's reading voice, quiet and competent, he'd been lost. And it seemed Phil was the same way. He didn't care that Clint was an ex-carney turned high school teacher who had social anxiety, one true friend, and dyslexia. They'd seen each other almost every day for six months until it made more sense to move in together in Phil's place in Brooklyn with the small garden and the great layout than it made to stay apart. Nat finally met Phil and they'd gotten along like a house on fire, which surprised everyone involved. Finally, they'd married quietly with only Nat and Phil's parents present.

When Phil had been called back up for service, he'd felt obligated to go. He could have turned the tour down, he had enough pull, he was a doctor, not career military, despite his desire to serve. Clint hadn't been scared. Phil was the most scarily competent and surprisingly strong mad he'd ever known in his life. So, he'd given Phil a kiss, told him to stay in contact as much as possible, and waited at home. Phil had returned nine months later, tan, tired, a little more haunted, and full of stories about the men he'd served, mostly an eighteen-year-old nobody they'd all expected to wash out, too thin, too sickly. But, despite everything he'd made it through basic and well into his first tour. Phil had taken care of him a couple of times and they'd struck up a friendship, both loners in the midst of camp. Steve, as the young soldier's name was, had told him about his best friend back home, a couple years older, who'd lost an arm in the service and how he'd always felt that he couldn't do less, which had convinced him to work so hard to get into the service.

Phil had admired him, called him Private America, the best things about the American service. Clint had thought he sounded corny, a little young and idealistic, but he hadn't said anything. It was nice that Phil had found someone to believe in. The next five years they'd spent in mostly happiness, some arguments, some strife, like all married couples. They'd adopted a one-eyed dog they both adored and named him Lucky, and they'd tried for a baby. Again and again. They tried everything, fertilization treatments, multiple doctors. Clint got pregnant twice, but both times he'd lost the pregnancy just a few weeks in, and they'd both mourned. It was just after he lost the second pregnancy that Phil had accepted another tour, knowing they both needed a little time. They'd healed when they'd been apart, until they'd been desperate to see each other again, feeling stronger and more connected than ever before, spending as much time as they could video chatting and sending each other long love letters via email.

And that was when everything had gone wrong. Phil had only been three weeks from the end of his tour when the caravan he was travelling with had been hit. He'd acted heroically, as he always had, and he'd been killed for his efforts. After the funeral, after the worst of the grieving, Clint had shut himself off from romance, even the possibility of it, closed himself off from caring about anyone but Nat and his students.

And he'd sworn to never love again.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now, Nat?"

They were sitting at the table and she was knocking back shots of vodka for both of them, seeing as Clint couldn't, though he was holding a mug of green tea under his nose to mask the scent. He appreciated her solidarity, but the smell of the vodka made him want to hurl more than the smell of the blonde coffee had.

"Well, Clint," she said, reasonably, despite the alcohol she'd already consumed (the bitch,) "That would depend on who the sire of the little parasite is. You have options. You could abort, adopt it out, without ever telling the sire…"

"No," he said immediately, "No. I couldn't do that to him. He's a good man."

"Is he really?" She sipped her latest shot instead of shooting it like the others, "Do you ever plan on telling me who this good man is?"

Clint raised his mug back to his nose and focused on the grain of the table. From the moment he'd found out he was a carrier when he was fifteen he'd sworn to himself that he'd never be put in this position, that he'd never carry. Phil had changed all of that. He'd loved him so much, he's thought that there was nothing better he could do to express the love that had grown between them than to give birth to their child, half him, half Phil, completely loved by them both. But, it hadn't worked out as they'd wanted and he'd thought that he never even have the opportunity to…until…He looked at Nat and lifted his eyebrow in a good approximation of her patented look.

It was probably the first time he saw her look genuinely surprised, "No."

He sipped his tea and nodded.

"Yep."

One the one-year anniversary of Phil's death Clint had only plan. He was going to go to work in the garden, because Phil had loved it so very much, then he was going to watch their wedding video that Nat had shot and get blazingly drunk before crying himself to sleep, Lucky tucked under his arm. But, it hadn't worked like that. As he'd been in the garden, helping things grow, getting them ready for the winter that was fast approaching, he'd been approached by another man in uniform. But, this one hadn't been in dress. He hadn't been approaching in any official capacity. He'd been young, nervous, and had his bag strung over his shoulder. Clint had been about ready to go into the house. He didn't want to speak with anyone dealing with the military ever again. But he'd been stopped by the earnestness in the guy's voice, his desperation to speak to Clint. Clint had given him a chance and a drink.

He was Steve, he explained, and Phil had been one of the best friends he had overseas. Clint had laughed at first. He remembered Phil's stories of Little Steve, the one who needed protection, the one who Phil admired so much. Steve had been suitably embarrassed as he explained that he'd finally hit his final growth spurt when he turned twenty and he'd put on about seventy-five pounds of muscle. He'd been putting it to use in his capacity as an officer, his rank earned in the field. He was a Captain now, he explained, but he wouldn't have been without Phil Coulson, who had been one of the few to believe in him, one of the few to take him under his wind and take care of him until he could take care of himself.

He'd explained over way too many glasses of the bourbon that Phil had loved and he hadn't touched since the day Clint'd been told that he'd died, that he'd admired Phil as much as Phil had seemed to admire him. He'd taken a kid under his wing, believed in his dream, and helped him become what he was. It had taken a few drinks, but finally Steve had admitted that he'd been there when Phil died, that he'd been part of the backup team sent in after it all went to shit, that he'd been holding Phil when he died. Phil had only had one thought on his mind, Steve explained, and that was his husband and how much he loved him. He'd been holding a photo of them in one hand and clutching a hand-written letter in his other hand. He'd begged Steve to deliver it to Clint in person when he could and had been at peace when he passed.

Clint hadn't realized how hard he was crying until he'd tried to take the letter from Steve's hand and realized that he couldn't really see it. Steve had tucked it into his hands and then wrapped himself around Clint in the best damn hug Clint had ever had. Even better than Phil's, and Phil's hugs had felt like coming home. It was only then that he'd allowed himself to feel just how lonely he'd been since Phil's death. And Steve, Steve had been so kind, so warm, s strong…and he'd been just been drunk enough and Steve had been just drunk enough that it had all felt like a good idea. They'd both loved Phil in their own ways and they both missed him like hell.

When Steve had made love to him he'd cried, not because of Phil, but because he realized just how different Steve was from Phil. He and Phil had always had a good sex life but Steve…Steve had fucked like a train. He'd demanded his pleasure from Clint and torn Clint's from him like he demanded that too. Clint's throat had been hoarse from crying out by the time they were done and he'd been exhausted, almost unable to move. When Steve had collapsed next to him he'd almost been able to forget about the loneliness and the pain. And when Steve had kissed him, lazily, stoking him to another orgasm, he'd almost felt like he was healing.

So, of course, in the morning, he'd unceremoniously kicked Steve out the next morning when they awoke, and spent the rest of the day curled up with Phil's favorite sweatshirt that no longer smelled of him and cried.

"You bedded the Captain?" Natasha asked, her mouth still open in surprise, "The Captain? Phil's Captain? The only other man I've ever seen him get a hard-on for other than you? Hypothetically speaking? Captain America? The one who was awarded the medal of honor for his actions the day Phil was killed, rescuing almost the rest of the convoy single-handedly and carrying Phil's body back to the base in his arms?"

Clint flinched and laid his head down on the table, making a show of taking his aids out before he turned his head away from Natasha and pointedly closed his eyes. As if he hadn't already felt horrible enough about what he'd done, what he'd allowed himself to do, and how he still felt about it.

He jerked his head up from the table and yowled, he was sure, like a cat when Natasha dumped a glass of cold water on his head and held out his aids to him.

"We were both mourning," he said quietly, as he put his aids back in, "It was the one year anniversary and he had come to give me Phil's last letter…He…We both drank too much and we just…we needed each other, I guess. I…he…"

"You kicked him out the next morning in a panic," Natasha guessed, but it wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Clint admitted.

"Because he made you feel something again other than your grief?"

"I…yeah." It was no use arguing when Nat was only telling the truth.

"And it scared you."

"Yeah."

"Because you felt like you were being disloyal to Phil."

He huffed out a breath and felt his shoulders curl in, "Yeah."

"Yastreb," she sighed, "You know Phil would want you to be happy. Who better to be happy with than someone else who loved him?"

"I just…He's so fucking young, Nat."

"Bullshit," Natasha spat back at him, "He's ten years younger than you just like you were ten years younger than Clint. It's not the insurmountable difference you would make it out to be."

"What if he only want to be a father to the baby and he doesn't want…me?"

"That's the rubbing point isn't, Yastreb?" She set her hand to his, which, from anyone else, would have been a maternal hug, "You're afraid, after your fear, that he won't want you? You're afraid you ruined what could have been a good thing. You're afraid that you're betraying, Phil."

"All of the above," He admitted.

"And who says you only get to have one great love in your life, Clint?"

He looked into her eyes in shock, unable to say a word.

"Go," she said gently, "Get in the shower and clean yourself up. His roommate is one of my boss's pet projects. I'll drive you."

"Phen of my heart," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.

"Go," She wrinkled her nose, "You smell."

Two hours and four minor freak-outs later he found himself in front of a brownstone in Brooklyn that, in and of itself, made his heart flutter a little, it was so beautiful, so well upkept. He rang the old-fashioned bell, please at the old-fashioned sound it made, and stepped back. When Steve came to the door, splattered in paint and looking about as nervous as Clint felt, all of the thoughts went out of his head.

"Clint," Steve murmured as he opened the door, "Didn't expect that I'd ever see you again."

Clint said the only thing that came into his head.

"Hi, Steve."