Natasha was silent, and when Clint looked up at her, he saw she'd gone deathly pale.
"Tasha?" It was a huge shock, yes, but she looked almost as if she'd been punched in the gut. She didn't answer, and he wasn't sure what to say. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, Clint flipped through the photographs on his phone; a couple more of the baby, one of himself holding his son – he thought that he looked a bit like a deer in the headlights in that one, though it was a good picture of the baby – and finally one of him and Ziva with the baby. He heard Natasha's sudden intake of breath, and he hastily went back to the previous photo. "The nurse insisted on taking that one," he said uncomfortably.
The silence stretched, and Clint was about to speak again when Natasha looked up at him. "You didn't bother with protection?" There was an edge to her voice, accusation and scorn.
"Yes, we did," Clint said quietly. "But they're not one hundred percent effective, accidents happen..." He sighed. "Tasha – this isn't something I wanted. I always figured that in this line of work, it was better not to have kids. I mean – anything could happen to me. It didn't seem fair to have a family in those circumstances. There's enough orphans in the world. But Eli is here now, and I have a responsibility to him. I know it's going to make things complicated for you and me..." Natasha snorted derisively, but Clint went on, "...but he's got a right to know his father. And I want to be part of his life."
Natasha suddenly got up and went to stand at the window, with her back to Clint. "I think you should leave now," she said. There was an odd quality to her voice, an uncharacteristic harshness. After a minute, Clint got up and went to the door. He had a feeling that he shouldn't push her too hard right now. Let her get over the shock, he told himself. God knows he was still getting used to the idea. He collected his backpack, and looked again at the box with his possessions.
"Do you – do you want me to take these?" he asked.
"Up to you." Now her voice was taut, strained, as if she were holding her emotions under tight control. Clint looked at her for a moment, wishing she'd meet his gaze. "Give me a call," he said quietly, before letting himself out of the apartment.
When she heard the door close, Natasha looked around. Clint's stuff was still there, the key was where she'd dropped it. He hadn't touched the box.
Natasha walked into her bedroom and sat down on the side of the bed. Something landed on her hand, and she looked down to see the tear that had fallen. Impatiently, she brushed the moisture away, then used the palm of her hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. But she couldn't stop them flowing.
Ziva had given Clint the one thing that Natasha never could.
Of all the psychological and physical abuse inflicted during her time in the Red Room Academy, the practice of surgically sterilizing the girls was perhaps the most cruel. Those running the establishment had not wanted the intensive training and indoctrination interrupted by unplanned pregnancies, so it had been deemed necessary to permanently prevent that possibility. Until now, Natasha hadn't given it a lot of thought; she'd had no particular desire to have children, knowing how drastically it would affect her work. As Clint had said, it had seemed foolish for someone with such a dangerous job to have a family.
But now he had one; and despite his claim that his time with Ziva had been nothing more than a casual encounter, there was no getting away from the fact that having a child together would create a bond between them. Even if it was only a mutual interest in their son's well-being, it was a connection that Natasha could never share with him.
With an effort, she managed to control the tears. She wasn't going to change anything by crying, it just made things worse - she hated how helpless it made her feel. Clint had commented on her vulnerability earlier, but she was certain that he had no idea just how unsure of herself she really was where he was concerned. That was the real reason she'd told him to leave. She didn't want him to see her weakness.
Natasha got up and began to prepare for bed, moving by habit alone. Finally she got into bed, and turned out the light. But as she lay staring into the darkness, she knew that she wasn't going to sleep that night.
It was very quiet, some time after midnight, but Ziva was wide awake. She was sitting up in the hospital bed, her knees slightly raised, and her newborn son cradled in her lap. She was still a little in awe of him – of the fact that she'd actually produced this perfect little person. She gently traced a finger over his cheek – the neonatal wrinkles were starting to smooth out, and the redness of his skin was fading. She could tell that he was going to have her own olive complexion, and the luxuriant dark brown hair was definitely hers.
Eli stirred, and opened his eyes. Looking at his unfocused gaze, Ziva smiled. Babies had blue eyes at birth; but Eli's were so pale that she had a feeling that they might stay blue. She knew that blue eyes occasionally occurred on her mother's side of the family – she'd been told that her great-grandfather was blue-eyed - so she could certainly have the gene to make that possible. Ziva gently stroked the baby's hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, and marveling at its soft silkiness. She placed a finger in his palm, and got the expected grasp reflex; did babies normally have such long, slender fingers? He was starting to squirm, and began to cry.
"What is it? Are you hungry?" She gathered Eli into her arms, and in a few minutes had him settled comfortably. As she watched him nurse, she murmured, "Welcome to the world, little one."