Disclaimer: Despite my wishes, I still own nothing. It depresses me. Though reviews make me happy, so technically you can control my happiness!
"It feels like an elephant sat on my head, Tasha."
"That's what happens when you go drink for drink with Tony Stark. Advil's on the nightstand."
"Soft voice, Tasha. Shh," he shushed, his mumbles muffled in the pillow.
"Come on, carnie. Up you go. Take the Advil. Do you smell something burning?"
"Ten bucks says Thor's back from wherever the hell he was and toasted his stupid PopTarts into oblivion. It really shouldn't be that hard for someone to make PopTarts."
"Last time I checked you burned toast, smart ass."
"Toast is more of a culinary delicacy than PopTart."
"You're full of shit, Barton."
"I want PopTarts now."
"Barton, you're naked."
"Can you be bribed to get me PopTarts?" Natasha raised her eyebrows at her husband's request. "My head hurts, and I want PopTarts with my Advil."
"You are such a baby."
Natasha threw on a robe and went down to the kitchen where she ran into Pepper and Thor. The taller woman walked around barefooted in denim shorts and a large band t-shirt while the demi-god frowned deeply at the toaster. "JARVIS, please make sure Thor doesn't burn this box of PopTarts. I can't stand that crispy smell anymore."
"I'm sorry, Lady Potts. We do not have this technology on Asguard. Good morning, Lady Natasha."
"Hey, Thor. I see Stark has you corralling breakfast as well, Pepper."
"He's a lazy jackass," she grumbled. "How is your drunken idiot?"
"My drunken idiot demands PopTarts."
"Men are great," Pepper replied sarcastically.
"Thank you," Thor accepted cheerfully. Pepper started to explain the sarcasm to the blonde god, but decided against it, opting instead for her cup of coffee. Natasha shook her head as well, her red curls swaying in the process.
"Ms. Romanov, Director Fury for you."
"Oh, swell. This morning actually does get better," Natasha grumbled sarcastically as Pepper laughed at her expense.
"Good luck with that one. Thor, please don't burn down the kitchen. I'm going to feed Stark in the hopes he comes less of a drunken jackass." The tall woman excused herself after a pointed look at the god, who glared ominously at the toaster.
"Fury," the agent addressed as she picked up the closest handset.
"We need you to come in."
"We're on vacation."
"It's urgent."
"I'm not taking the mission in Russia. Sir, I cannot do a multiple year undercover mission."
"That's not why we're calling you. It should be in an in-and-out mission for Agent Barton, Captain Rogers, and yourself. Be on base in an hour." She confirmed, keeping her general unhappiness out of her voice.
"JARVIS, please inform Captain about Fury's request. Enjoy your breakfast, Thor." She nodded to the older man before grabbing two PopTarts and her coffee and retreating to their suite. "We've got to be on base in an hour. Eat up. Don't vomit. Take Advil, and suit up." The archer looked at her with bleak eyes from his prone spot on the bed.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me. Does Fury need a dictionary? Last time I checked 'vacation' meant the stupid bald man goes the fuck away."
"I'm taking a shower. JARVIS is getting Captain put together, and your bumbling ass is my problem apparently. Get moving, Barton." She left him to shower and get ready.
He grumbled as he swung his feet to the ground, bracing his upper body on the mattress behind him. "Mother fuck." He scrubbed a hand over his face. He started to count down to standing. "One, two, two and a quarter… two and a half… two and two thirds… Fuck. Oh god," he moaned as he shuffled to the bathroom to vomit. "This mission is going to be fan-fucking-tastic," he coughed into the bowl. "It's going to be really entertaining to see if I can stand long enough to shoot." He threw up again before dragging himself into the shower as Natasha got out. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing. "Once I can function, I'm going to shoot Stark in the face with an arrow."
After downing a very disgusting hangover remedy created by JARVIS and nearly emptying his stomach again, Barton sat grumpily in the back of a SHIELD vehicle headed towards the nearest base with Captain at the wheel and Natasha in the passenger seat. He made a mental note to ask for the recipe for that hangover cure because ten minutes into the drive, he was already starting to feel like a non-functional pile of limbs and more like a mostly useless human. It's a step in the right direction, he thought to himself grimly.
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Fury threw three matching manila folders across the conference room table to the three people. "There's a gala tonight. In attendance is Nikodim Ioakim, a known arms dealer. We need information on the next weapons hand-off. The Council wants him alive and brought in for further questioning. He likes unavailable women, so Captain, Romanov; congratulations you're a married couple. Flaunt it. Romanov, you get the information and call for extraction when necessary. Barton, watch from the rafters inside the building. Got it? Great."
"Is it best to be in such close proximity to a dangerous man given the current situation?" Captain posed the question, genuinely concerned, but it made Natasha see red.
"And what situation would that be, Captain?" Fury demanded. "From past experience, it is clear that Agent Romanov can handle herself in the most complicated of situations. Is there something I need to know?"
"No, Director," the agent interjected. "I can do my job, Captain," she said, her voice dangerously calm.
"I'm just trying to look out for your well-being, Romanov. Given the circumstances, is it wise for you to be in the field?" When he met Natasha's narrowed, icy glare, the star-spangled superhero paled.
"What the fuck is going on," the Director demanded, his palms slapping the table loudly. Barton barely contained the wince as the loud noise caused his headache to throb mercilessly. He wanted nothing more than to remove his hearing aids and go to sleep. That wasn't in the cards though, and he couldn't help but want to kick Stark in the stomach. "Captain, why is it you think Romanov is not capable of doing her job? Is she slipping in her duties as an agent?" Rogers clenched his jaw and refused to look at the either of his assassin comrades. He could feel Natasha glaring a hole into the side of his head. He doubted even his shield would protect him from her wrath this time. "I asked you a question, Captain. As your superior, I demand an answer."
"Agent Romanov is more than capable of doing her job, sir."
"That's what I thought. Plane leaves in forty minutes. All three of you will need formal, black-and-white-tie attire. Romanov, don't kill him. Dismissed." The Director didn't specify whom she shouldn't kill, but he figured the general directive should keep her teammates alive. He was impressed that Barton hid his hung over well, and Captain seemed to backtrack enough to cover his ass, though he was sure Romanov would snap at both her teammates before the mission was accomplished.
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"Natasha." Captain tried to speak. She sent him a narrowed glare and focused on checking her weapons. "It wasn't my place. I am sorry. I'm just trying to look out for your child."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before seething, "I am not fragile, and I'm more than capable of doing my job." The agent fell back on her training, eliminating emotion from her train of thought and instead memorized the file meticulously. Barton watched her slip into her role as the Black Widow. When he was sure Captain was engrossed in the file, he nudged her gently with his knee. He was met with the emotionless, calm façade of the Widow. He offered a small, but genuine smile. Her returning nod was almost imperceptible.
Once in the hotel room reserved by SHIELD, the team got ready, each person slipping into his or her formal attire. Rogers adjusted his bowtie and smoothed back his hair. Natasha efficiently knotted Barton's tie before the archer tightened the holster for his back-up weapon on his ankle. In turn, he zipped up his wife's sapphire gown. She checked her own weapon at her ankle as well as the knives held in sheaths between her thighs and breasts. Her red hair was twisted in a loose up-do with few strands dangling to frame her face.
Barton left the room first, checking his comm link subtly as he went. Fifteen minutes later, Rogers and Romanov left as well to join the gala function happening in the ballroom. In the elevator, they checked their comm links. Natasha glared at him furiously before the doors slid open to reveal the overly decorated ballroom. She clutched Roger's forearm, perfectly playing her part of the attentive wife. Captain, for his part, seemed a little uncomfortable. He was a soldier, not a spy. This was not his area of expertise.
"Cap, breathe. You look like a constipated penguin. You've got a pretty lady on your arm; loosen up," Barton instructed over the comm from his perch in the rafters. Years of training and countless missions listening to her partner's commentary in her ear kept Natasha's face clear of any laughter. Mark is at the bar. It looks like he has four guards in the room at 2, 4, 8, and 10, and one on his six. Natasha licked her lips briefly, her sign for understanding.
The couple on the floor worked their way slowly over to the bar, chatting amongst the patrons and blending from one conversation to the next. Natasha played her part exceptionally, clinging to Captain's forearm and leaning into him ever so slightly. Occasionally, she would laugh aloud and lean in to whisper something in his ear, pretending to share a joke or secret. Rogers kept his hand on her back.
"Slide your hand lower, Cap. She's supposed to be your wife, not your elderly grandmother." Rogers coughed a little to cover his discomfort before inching his hand down slowly. "Keep going, Captain. Put your hand on the small of her back. You need to be more convincing. Loosen up."
The band in the far corner started playing a lively tune. "Dance with me," Natasha requested happily, a grin strategically placed. Rogers nodded brusquely. He held her as he would have held a woman in the 1940s, and she almost groaned. Snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him close, she whispered in his ear. "Ioakim's got his eyes on me. When the song ends, excuse yourself." He looked like he was about to argue, but he bit his tongue. He couldn't call the plays here. This wasn't what he was familiar with. This wasn't a firefight. This was a mission for a spy. He needed to play his part because Fury wanted Hawkeye on guard. He had his orders, so when the song ended, he brusquely excused himself, leaving Natasha on the dance floor.
She huffed exasperatedly, easily falling into the role of an unsatisfied wife. She gracefully retreated from the floor to the bar where she smiled sadly at the bartender. She let her Russian accent blend into her English as she ordered a drink. Ioakim leaned over; clearly interested in the character she was playing.
"I see your dance partner abandoned you to dance alone. That is no way to treat a lady."
"My husband, he's very uncomfortable at these kind of events I'm afraid."
"You have a Russian accent. Perhaps from Moscow?"
"Да, да. Я первоначально от Москвы. Себя и?" She responded fluently in Russian, confirming his suspicion of her origins while asking for his own.
"English, Tasha. Captain can't understand Russian," Barton reminded her.
"Мой супруг от Америки. Он не любит когда я говорю русского. Он чувствует из места. Можем мы поговорить в английском вместо? Я не хотел бы сделать его чувствовать больше дискомфортным." Natasha amended her original statement, smiling dejectedly at her mark. "My name is Tatiana."
"What did she say?" Rogers asked through the comm.
"She said my husband is from America. He doesn't like when I speak Russian. He feels out of place. Can we speak English instead? I wouldn't want to make my husband anymore uncomfortable," Barton translated smoothly.
"Nikodim," the mark introduced himself with an offered hand. "You are a very striking woman, Tatiana. I must say, though, you look like someone from my past. I too am from Moscow."
"Ah," she smiled happily. "Red-headed Russian girls are not hard to come by, Nikodim."
"Indeed. The woman to whom you look so familiar is a woman from a lifetime ago. I remember her only in terms of a fire, and it was decades ago. The striking beauty is familiar though. Forgive me for being so rash."
"Thank you for the compliment. I appreciate it kindly. My husband and I have reached what Americans refer to as the seven year itch. Have you heard of it?"
"Yes, dissatisfaction with a current lover causes one or the other to seek other forms of intimacy," Nikodim confirmed. "Are you looking for such intimacy, Tatiana?"
"Perhaps," she flashed a flirty smile over her champagne and raised a seductive eyebrow. "Though that intimacy usually isn't encouraged in such a public place," she mentioned.
"I do know of quieter, more private locations, if that's what you prefer. Shall we go?" He offered her his arm. "Maybe in another location, we can both be more comfortable."
"I do miss speaking Russian," she pretended to confide in him. "My husband knows very few phrases, and while he tries, the language does not have the same comforting effect when the conversation is so stilted and terse." Nikodim nodded his understanding while leading her to a side elevator.
"Tell me, Tatiana. Are you a soundless lover?"
"There are very few things I do quietly. Then again, we aren't known for being a particularly quiet ethnicity, are we?" Nikodim laughed and pressed her against his body, waiting for the elevator to reach their destination.
"A very true statement. Another question, do you mumble in Russian in the throes of passion?"
"Not with my husband, I don't. He's not a very attentive lover though, too self-absorbed to focus on my pleasure. Will you be different Nikodim? If so, you may be able to pull a few Russian phrases out of me."
"Я всегда вверх для возможности," he responded as he led her down a hallway, waving off the guards.
"I am always up for a challenge," Barton translated for Rogers. "In addition, I would like to shoot this jackass. I don't care what the mission parameters say. He's so full of shit." Rogers snickered in response, but said nothing.
"Before we start the challenge, how about another drink," Natasha suggested. When he turned, she removed a tiny vile from her cleavage before pouring into his glass. The serum mixed with the bubbly champagne and blended with the drink almost immediately. "Cheers," she said excitedly with a clink of her glass. She sipped her glass politely as her companion took a large gulp. "I have a better idea for this champagne," she insinuated as she glanced down at her dress. "I've always tried to get my husband to be more adventurous in bed, and you said you were up for the challenge."
"Indeed, a challenge is always exciting." He downed his champagne, reaching for her hips as he placed the empty glass on the table. The mark kissed her fully; she kept her lips closed, but started walking him slowly back to the bed, removing his tie as she moved. He pulled away and looked at her with dazed eyes. She flashed him a flirty smile before dipping her head to kiss his neck. She pushed him onto the bed and excused herself to the restroom. When she returned to the room, the serum had done its job.
"He's out. Fourteenth floor, Room 31," she instructed her teammates. "He sent his guards away. Where I don't know, but keep an eye out. I'm calling for an extraction." As she set about the room securing the mark with slip ties, she found his phone and forwarded the appropriate messages to SHIELD. "We need to be on the roof in ten."
"Captain, you have the pleasure of carrying him to the roof," Barton declared as he made his way to the room. The comm link transmitted some grumbling, but Rogers didn't decline, throwing the unconscious man over his shoulders like nothing more than a sack of potatoes. "If you happen to knock his head on the door frame, I would be much obliged," Barton called after him.
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"That was boring. Why did Fury need us for that," Barton grumbled from his seat on the jet. "I didn't even get to loose an arrow." Romanov fixed him with a look that clearly said stop-acting-like-a-child. He shot her a toothy grin and continued his list of complaints. "You make a very uncomfortable looking husband, Rogers."
"Undercover really isn't my strong suit. I'm more of a firefight person myself."
"You and me both. Can that even be deemed a mission? It was more like a carpool. What sort of arms dealer isn't overtly paranoid and cautious? He's an idiot."
"He seemed to recognize you there for a second," Captain noted, his statement geared toward Romanov. She arched her eyebrows, saying nothing. "Is it possible you met him and have forgotten his face?" Captain continued to push. She blinked slowly.
"No."
"Are there really that many Russian women with red hair? Your file mentions fires. It seemed coincidental." Romanov's head snapped to her left, fixing Captain with yet another death glare.
"You read my file," she stated, anger starting to tint the edges of her statement.
"Stark produced the files of all the Avengers. Was I not authorized to see it?"
"No."
"Tasha," Barton interrupted. "He meant no harm. He was just pointing out the coincidence." He knew by his partner's tone that Captain was two badly worded sentences away from being seriously injured, superhero or not. Her training easily hid her anger and frustration behind a veil of emotionless calm. She sat in silence for the rest of the flight, ignoring the conversational advances of both men.
Once in debriefing, she maintained her professional attitude. Falling back on her training, she focused on finishing the mission and ignoring the concerned glances Barton kept shooting her way as well as Roger's apologetic smiles. When Fury mentioned her pregnancy, she was hurtled back into reality. She barely avoided making a very undignified noise in her surprise.
"Rogers, are you convinced Agent Romanov can do her job despite her pregnancy? I will not take one of my best agents off of missions until absolutely necessary."
"Sir," Captain sputtered. "I never thought she could not complete missions, sir. I value her highly as a teammate and an agent. As a friend, I am worried for the health of the baby. I'm not sure if it's wise to put such an innocent life in so many dangerous situations." Captain's admission made her clench her fists under her desk.
"You know," Barton inquired, confusion etched in his brow as he looked around the table.
"I am the Director of SHIELD, Agent Barton, or did you forget that fact?"
"Right," the archer mumbled. "You don't seem particularly upset," he said, simply because the entire scenario was kind of anti-climactic considering how much yelling he had imagined in his head.
"I'm not particularly excited to have your offspring turning my base into a playground nor am I particularly happy to have my best agents on maternity or paternity leave for an extended period of time. That being said, this is not the Soviet Union. You are allowed to marry. You are allowed to have families. You are in control of your own lives. If you want to reproduce little demon archer ninjas, that's entirely your choice. I prefer you leave the child corralled at Avengers Tower if for no other reason that to irk Stark."
"Okay," Barton drawled slowly. "So you're saying," he paused and couldn't find the words to finish his statement.
"I'm saying congratulations, Agents Barton and Romanov. We will discuss maternity leave when you get closer to your due date. As for missions until then, the choice is yours, Agent Romanov."
"Is that safe," Captain questioned from his spot. "I don't mean to be impolite, but Natasha is mortal. Her uniform doesn't provide the most protection from bullets or blades. Is it safe for the baby to be in mission conditions? Is it safe for a pregnant woman to be in such conditions? I'm worried it could be too much stress on her body- pregnancy with its hormonal fluctuations and mission pressures." Barton almost reached over to cover Roger's mouth before he dug himself into a deeper hole. "Shouldn't we be handling this situation with more care and delicacy?" That did it. Barton could see her losing the control over her anger.
"We'll instruct Stark to start working on a bulletproof version of her current cat suit. Will that make you feel more secure about having her in a mission environment? Though keep in mind, Captain, this is her decision and not yours. We are only having this conversation because you are the team leader and I share some of your concerns, though I know Agent Romanov is more than capable of protecting herself and her child."
Natasha stood up suddenly and stormed out of the debriefing room. "Oh boy," Barton groaned when the door closed. "Rogers, I wouldn't sleep much tonight if I were you. She just might kill you."
"I didn't mean it in a condescending way. She is more than qualified in the field and a great teammate on missions. I'm just worried about the baby."
"The more you say that, Captain, the more it sounds like you think she's not taking the baby into consideration. It's a new situation, yes, but even before, she doesn't do anything recklessly. She analyzes each condition and determines the best course of action. Her training allows her to do that in a split second. It doesn't mean she's reckless or not taking into account the gravity of the situation, just that she doesn't need the time to formulate a plan and make a decision in the same amount of time others need." Clint tried to explain. "We know you're worried. We're a team. It's important to look out for one another, but can I encourage you to find a different way to voice your concerns? Bringing them up in a mission debriefing probably just rubbed salt in the wound." He could see the realization slowly dawn upon the other man, and he understood how badly he felt. Captain knew how private Natasha was, and he just unearthed his worries about her pregnancy in front of her boss.
"Oh no," he mumbled remorsefully.
"Good luck, gentlemen. You're dismissed. Barton, enjoy the rest of your vacation." The two men left the conference room to find a vehicle to return them to Avengers Tower. The archer pulled at his tie, unbutton the top few buttons of the starched white oxford shirt of his tux. He really wanted to tell Fury that Natasha was equally as pissed at him for discussing his concerns with Captain in front of her as if she wasn't in the room or privy to the conversation. He bit his tongue and kept walking. He could feel the anger radiating off of her in waves from wherever she was. He would bet a new bow that she had locked herself away in the training facility at the tower doing merciless combinations on a punching bag.
"I am sorry. When the Director mentioned her pregnancy, I forgot we were there in such a professional capacity. I see him as a friend occasionally, and I forgot we were not in that context."
"I know, Captain. I do. I get it. I understand why you're worried. She's my wife and it's my child. I trust her not to run head first into a dangerous situation without considering the life she carries. I also trust her decision if she decides to take on that situation. She is more than capable of protecting herself. She can hold her own. She always has."
"I know that, Barton. I'm just saying we can't always control the situation. Sometimes, missions just go to hell in the blink of an eye. I would feel endlessly guilty if she were to be injured in such a way that the baby is jeopardized under my command."
"We're assassins. We know the risks we take every time we suit up. The job defines us. This is what we were each trained to do. Having a child doesn't change the fact that we'll still do these jobs. It just means we'll have something more to look forward to when we come home. We all will. We're not moving out of Avengers Tower. This baby is going to grow up around family."
"If Natasha still considers me family after I betrayed her," Captain mumbled dejectedly.
"Give her time. Let her beat out most of her frustration on the punching bag before you talk to her, but you should talk to her, Cap. She won't cut you out of the baby's life. She does care about you. She wants this child to be safe, to be loved; we both do," Barton confided as they drove through darkened Manhattan streets. He was trying to reassure the other man that one mistake wouldn't put him on the outs with the growing family. "She knows you are worried about your future nephew or niece. She also knows you care about the child, and that means more than you know. Just talk to her. You may want to talk to Thor too. Give him a heads up that treating her with kid gloves will get him stabbed with a fork."
"She really likes to throw cutlery at unsuspecting people enjoying their breakfasts," Captain laughed.
"You? Unsuspecting? You're a superhero living with two other super heroes, a demi-god, and two resident assassins. You should be prepared for a lot more than flying cutlery. Plus you're practically immortal. You can't say you're scared of a fork."
"Wrong, Barton. Very wrong. When an irate Natasha is the one behind the fork, I'm scared of the silverware. I've seen her take down too many enemies with a throwing star or blade. I have a healthy appreciation of her aim as long as I'm not the one at the business end of any of her weapons, kitchen cutlery included." Barton's deep laughter filled the car as a quick retina scan let him into the garage of Avengers Tower. "So I should wait to talk to her then? Maybe tomorrow?"
"Well, I would bet money that not only is she destroying your hoard of punching bags downstairs but she's also fully armed. She'll shoot you if you talk to her now, not fatally because ultimately she's grown fond of you, but still, she'll shoot you nevertheless."
"Ah, I will approach her at another time when she doesn't have numerous loaded guns strapped to her person. Thank you for the insight, Clint," he said appreciatively as he stepped from the car and into the waiting elevator. The archer gave him a nod before heading to the stairs to find his partner.
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Glancing at his watch, he figured it was going to be a long night, and yet he still wanted to kill Stark as he could feel the remnants of his hangover floating around him. It took him five minutes to pick the electronic lock on the door to the training facility. When it finally slid open, he stepped inside quietly, opting to perch on a table close by to watch before interrupting her. Given the sheen already coating her body, he figured she broke every speed limit in getting home and was pushing herself considerably hard for a nighttime exercise bout.
Forty-five minutes passed quickly as Barton continued to analyze the fluidity of her moves as well as her maintained intensity. When he could see her muscles quaking gently, he slid off the table and walked towards her, his dress shoes making a new sound against the matted floor. "Tasha, let's go upstairs," he tried to coax her away from the bag.
"I'm fine, Barton. Go back to watching quietly or leave."
"Natasha," he sighed. "Look at your hands."
"Really, you're going to pull me away because I bloodied up my knuckles. You're just as bad as they are."
"No, I'm not pulling you out because you bloodied your knuckles. I'm pulling you out because your muscles are quivering in the tell tale way that says you're done for the day unless you want to pass out from exhaustion. Come on. I'll give you a massage," he encouraged.
"Barton, I am fine. I'm going to finish my workout. I'll be up in a bit. I'm sure you want to get out of your tux and go to bed. Your hangover is still bothering your head."
"I'll wait." He didn't move from where he was standing. He watched her carefully. Her swings started to get wild, more and more of her frustration controlling the punches as opposed to her control. Her form was still impeccable, and most would not have been able to notice the slight change in her fighting as her muscles trembled with exhaustion and her anger kept her driving on. Having been her partner for ten years, he could read her body like a book whether she wanted him to or not. He was as observant as she was, and they knew each other too well.
After a particularly intense combination, she stopped, gripping the bag for support. Her shoulders quaked and her thighs trembled. She took deep breaths, stabilizing herself and finding her center of balance again, before stepping back just slightly and back into fighting stance. Before she could start the next sequence, Clint reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She turned and swung at him. He easily caught her punch, holding her wrist and bringing her to him. Her name tumbled from his lips in a request full of concern and love. As she noticed her hand shaking in his loose grasp, she nodded. Leaning a good amount of her body weight onto him, he led her into the elevator, glad to have the chance to help his usually stubborn and overly independent wife.
After a quick shower and freshly bandaged knuckles, the two lay in bed quietly watching the sunrise.
"Do you realize," she mumbled against his chest, "that our sleep schedule is going to get even more screwed up than it already is when we have this baby?"
"Sleep has already become a figment of my imagination. How could it possibly get worse?" She rolled her eyes at him softly, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips as he continued his sarcastic train of thought. "I mean think about it. This bed and I, we are perfect for each other. It understands me and fits to my body and is oh so comfortable," he crooned happily. "This bed and I should be together forever. It would be the perfect love affair. Then the phone rings. The phone doesn't want the bed and I to be together. The phone's a jealous whore," he stated very seriously. "So the bed and I have fleeting affairs always interrupted by the phone's shrill jealousy. It envies our love. How can it possibly get any worse?"
"Well, from what I've heard, babies tend to cry. A lot. Your so-called fleeting affairs with the mattress…" She paused to mock him mid sentence. "By the way, you're an idiot. Anyway, your so-called fleeting affair will be interrupted nightly, probably hourly, by the lovely sounds of an infant wailing for food or whatever."
"Great. I love loud noises when I'm sleeping. It's comforting like I'm sleeping in a war-zone. It's exactly what I want my time at home to be like."
"Tasha," he murmured moments later as she was just on the cusp of sleep. "We should probably invest in some baby books." She nodded against his chest, not really hearing the idea, only agreeing because it was the fastest way to silence him. "Love you," he whispered into her hair before finally drifting off himself.
