You stare down at the baby in your hands and you wonder how things went so wrong.
She is sleeping now, and you wish you could pause this moment and live in it forever. She fidgets in her sleep and her tiny hand manages to find yours, grasping at your index finger. Her hold is tight – almost impossibly tight – and you feel as though this is the only thing tethering you to Earth. Without her grip, you might just float away, never to return to this place of sorrow.
No one has set foot in the house for three weeks. You stand on the front porch feeling the urge to knock, but knowing that your call will go unanswered. Instead you take the key out of your pocket and slide it deftly into the lock. The door swings silently inwards, beckoning you to enter. As soon as you walk in, you feel terribly and utterly alone, despite the weight of the baby in your arms. You feel intrusive and out of place, and you half expect someone to walk down the stairs and ask you what you are doing there. But no one does.
Although it has been only three weeks, there is already a fine layer of dust gathered on any horizontal surface, not noticeable – perhaps – to an unobservant person, but your keen eye could spot it a mile away. It is very obvious that this house has not been lived in for very long at all. There are boxes scattered around the entryway labelled things like 'kitchen', or 'books'.
You are somewhat unfamiliar with the layout of the house, having only visited it once. Walking first to your left, you encounter the kitchen and walk straight back out. The kitchen is the last place to be visited, once you have collected the baby's things. This time you go down the corridor facing directly opposite to the front door. The lounge room and dining room are at the end. A basket in the corner is open and you see baby toys. You won't be able to take them all now, so you place the sleeping baby momentarily on the changing table to the left. She is swaddled well enough that this does not disturb her. She remains asleep as you slip the backpack off your back and start to put a few toys in it. You pick up a small stuffed monkey that you have seen with her a few times, so you pack that, and then you're just randomly picking up things that won't take up too much room, but are varied enough to keep the child occupied.
The bag still has plenty of room, so you put it back on and pick up the baby gently. As you leave the lounge room, ignoring the dining room completely, you gaze down at her pretty, innocent face and start humming to her. At the bottom of the staircase you stop. You don't want to go up there. You were able to ignore the photos in the kitchen and lounge room, but you know that the walls will be full of them up there. Taking a deep breath, you continue humming and start to climb the stairs. You think perhaps that the humming is for your benefit more than it is for the baby. You like silence, but not here. Not now.
Once you reach the landing, you look around and see the baby's room is to the left, her name – the name that you suggested – cheerfully splayed across the wood of the door in coloured letters. H-A-Y-L-E-Y. To the right of that is a bathroom, and then at the end of the corridor is the master bedroom. You go into Hayley's room first and as soon as you open the door, you take a step back, as though something has physically hit you in the chest and winded you. Tears stab at the corners of your eyes as you fight a losing battle to try and compose yourself enough to enter the room.
You should have left this for tomorrow. You had only stopped by here on a whim after taking Hayley for a drive, which is why you have nothing to carry her in. But then you decide that it doesn't really make a difference and you're just glad you aren't the only one in the house. You probably wouldn't have even stepped over the threshold had it just been you. Alone. Eyes searching for something that you have lost and can never again hope to find.
You keep your eyes downcast, wiping your them with the back of your hand roughly, keeping a tight hold on the infant in your other arm. You place her down in her crib then slip the backpack off again. Putting it down in the middle of the room, you move to the dresser and start to methodically unpack clothes. You leave what you don't need in the drawers and pack the ten tiny outfits that you think are best into the backpack. Once the last drawer is shut, you lift your eyes to come to rest on the dresser top. It's filled with photos – more than enough to fill the bag – but you still have to get some things from the kitchen, so you pick out a few of the professionally done ones, and a few candid ones; you will come back for the rest another day.
You sigh heavily as you turn back around to look at Hayley. Deciding that she will be fine if you leave her in her crib while you go into the other room, you silently vow to her that you will be quick. It is obvious, as soon as you step into the room, that they spent far more time on Hayley's room than they did on their own. There are boxes everywhere. You open the first one and see men's shirts and pants. Closing it back up, you go to the left bedside table and rummage through the drawer. Not finding what you are looking for, you move over to the one on the right and open the drawer. The baby book you had been searching for stares you in the face and you lift it out. Opening it up, you see photos crammed into every bit of blank page. Written in calligraphy is Hayley's full name and a picture of her with her parents. Turning to the next page, you read what has been written on the page. 'Height', 'weight', 'length', 'eye colour', 'parent's names', and more. A cry from the other room makes your head snap to the door and you close the book.
The wailing gets louder the closer you get to the room, so you jog the last few steps to let Hayley know you are there. Picking the squirming baby up out of the crib, you hold her to you and rock her gently back and forth. But she doesn't calm down, and you know why – she wants her mother. When Hayley hasn't calmed down after a few minutes, you stare desperately around the room hoping to find something to distract her. Snatching up a teddy bear, you hold it in front of her, but she just cries harder. Tossing the bear aside, you hold her tighter and nearly start crying yourself. You can't do this. She was never meant to be yours, and now you're hopelessly overwhelmed. How do you calm this screaming baby? Unable to think of anything else to do, you grab a large photograph off the dresser and hold it up in front of Hayley. It takes her a moment to register that it's there, but as soon as she sees it, she stops crying. She stares at the picture with wide eyes and puts one pudgy, little hand on the neck of her mother. Her face screws up in confusion as she probably wonders why her mother feels so different, so cold and hard instead of soft and warm. She lifts her eyes to yours and you swear you can see her silently asking you where her mum is.
As your heart rips itself into tiny pieces, you struggle to plaster a smile on your face for Hayley's benefit, and as soon as she sees it, she reciprocates. Her toothless grin and soft giggle is almost enough to turn your smile into a real one, but you can't bring yourself to let that happen because you know how she's going to grow up without her mother and father.
With Hayley in one arm, you pick up her baby book and slide it into the bag, which is nearly full now. Before you leave the room, you decide to pack some more books into the bag so that you can read them to her at night.
You shut the door behind you on your way out and slowly walk back down the stairs. Turning once more into the kitchen, you look around and decide that everything in here can be left until later – the bag is full anyway. You just need to get out of the house.
Locking the door behind you, you look walk down the path towards your car and turn to look back. It's a cheerful looking house. Too cheerful under the circumstances. Looking back down at Hayley, you sigh and say, "Come on kiddo."
She has been happily gurgling ever since she stopped crying and laughs in response. Your eyes flick momentarily to the mess of red curls on her head, so like her mothers, and for a moment you just stand by your car, staring at it. Remembering. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounds, breaking you from your reverie.
Placing her into the baby seat at the back, you hear your phone start to ring, but it stops by the time you have finished buckling her in. Climbing into the driver's seat, you pull out your phone and see that it was Pepper. You hit redial and hold the phone to your ear, "Hey," you say when she picks up the phone.
"Hey Clint," she murmurs, "I was just…I was wondering where you were. You said that you would be back about an hour ago. I was just…I was just wondering where you were."
"I, um…took Hayley home because I had some things to pick up. We're on our way now," you tell her softly.
"Okay," she says, but you don't think she's done, so you wait, "Clint?" you murmur a 'yes' in reply and she continues, "Hayley is your goddaughter, and I know that, but…I just…you know we all love her, right? If you ever need anyone else to look after her…"
She trails off, but you get what she saying and you thank her before taking another deep breath and saying, "Well we'll be there in about 20 minutes, so I'll see you soon."
"Okay," she says again and you hang up.
Turning back to look at Hayley, you reach blindly into the backpack on the passenger seat and pull out the first photo your fingers find. You put the photo into Hayley's hands and she stares down at her parents. Bruce is hugging Natasha from behind, his hands underneath hers and both sets resting on Natasha's very pregnant belly. Radiant smiles grace both their faces and you think it's possibly the biggest smile you've ever seen on Natasha's face.
"I'm sorry you won't get to know them," you mumble to Hayley though she cannot understand you.
A/N I honestly had no idea when I started writing this who the characters were going to be. In fact when I started writing the first sentence I didn't even know that people were going to die. I think I'll write something happy next. Or I might do that after a write a prequel for this...
p.s. I really love writing in second person. I feel that it's such an emotive literary tool.