Once again, thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed the story! It means a lot to me! Your comments are so much fun to read.
"I cannot believe that I'm actually doing this right now."
To say that Tony was being dramatic about his current situation would be an understatement: after a short but one-sided argument with Steve (the rest of the team—save Natasha, who had quietly slunk out of the room after the incident—had been almost too eager to agree with the Star Spangled Man with a Plan,) the billionaire huffily stomped up to his room, only to come down dressed in full gear, including scrubs, a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, and a hospital mask.
Clint, who actually seemed rather nonplussed about the whole vomit-on-the-table thing, continued to wolf down his meatloaf and mashed potatoes combination with a ferocity akin to that of a bear stranded in the desert for a week.
"Quit complaining, Stark, you're acting like a two-year-old," Clint said between bites, spewing small bits of chewed-up food particles onto the floor.
"Yeah, well, I don't take maturity advice from someone who talks with their mouth full, Barton."
"Touché." Clint finished the last hunk of meat with an audible gulp and slid the plate to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "Look at it this way, at least it's Natasha-vomit."
"Dude, that's the worst kind of vomit. It's assassin vomit. It's the kind of vomit whose fumes will worm their way into your bloodstream and kill you while you sleep."
"I don't know. Could be worse. Could be Rogers' puke."
Tony paused his work and grimaced. "Well, when you put it like that, I might as well be sitting in a puddle of chocolate pudding right now. Rogers' vomit would leave a permanent stain and nag you to death every time you came in the room. I bet it smells like barbeque and Uncle Sam."
"How much do you bet it's actually red, white, and blue?"
"Heh, I bet he spews glittery stars when he gets sick."
"Did you know he has trading cards?"
"No he doesn't."
"Yeah, man, Coulson collected them. He never showed you?"
"Who, Phil? Yeah, he didn't really have the time between finding ways to override my security system and getting on a first-name basis with my girlfriend."
"I'm sorry, who got on a first-name basis with me?"
Tony froze mid-wipe at the sound of the husky, matter-of-fact voice coming from none other than Pepper Potts herself. Frantically, he shifted his weight so that he hovered in an awkward push-up position over the half-cleaned slop.
"Just act casual," he hissed to Clint over the clicking of Pepper's heels.
"You know, just because your name is on this building doesn't mean that I don't get one, and...what are you hiding?"
"Hiding? What do you mean? I'm not hiding anything," Tony said, looking desperately over at the marksman seated in the corner. Clint just shrugged his shoulders and said, "You're on your own with this one, buddy."
"Tony..." Pepper said, her voice sounding dangerously threatening.
"Okay, fine! But I would just like to remind you that this was not my fault!" Hesitantly, Tony moved his body so that the half-cleaned puddle was now fully exposed; Pepper's eyes opened so wide that it was almost comical.
"I don't...how did this...I swear to God...I'm going to kill you, Tony!" Pepper sputtered; Clint swore he could use both hands to count the veins visible in her forehead.
"I'm cleaning it," Tony mumbled lamely, his eyes turned towards the ground in an uncharacteristic display of insecurity.
"That's NOT the point!" Pepper spat. "I have had that table for fifteen years, Stark—fifteen years —and I lend it to you for two hours and you manage to get puke all over it. 'Come on, Pepper,' you said, 'just let me use it for this one team meal! I swear I'll be careful with it!' So I said, you know what, he loves these little dinners so much, why don't I give it to him this time? Never mind that he's never cared about my art before, he's been so much more mature these last few months. Now I'm going to have to call my table stain guy to come all the way from Brooklyn to fix your mess."
"You have a table stain guy? Where can I get one?" Clint chuckled. One glare from Pepper effectively erased any trace of a grin on his face.
"Seriously, Tony, do you have any idea what you did?"
"It's a table, Pepper! It's made to keep stuff off the floor!"
"It's Amish, Tony! It's not made to keep your vomit out of the toilet!"
"It's not my vomit—it's Natasha's!"
Pepper's expression quickly deadpanned.
"Natasha's? Is she all right?"
"Oh, so when it's my vomit it's all fine and dandy, but when it's Natasha's it's time to call the paramedics."
Ignoring her boyfriend, Pepper turned to the silent archer who was doing his best to blend into the wall. "Clinton?"
Clint shifted nervously; he hated when people used his full name. "Nat's got really bad digestive problems, actually. Sometimes it all just builds up and explodes. She gets kind of embarrassed about it; I usually wait a few hours to check on her."
The redhead's mouth twisted into a frown that seemed both disgusted and sympathetic. "Poor thing." She glanced once more at the hardening glop and shook her head. "Well, I'm going to call my table guy."
Tony's eyes lit up and he opened his mouth to speak. Pepper placed her index finger over his lips.
"Keep cleaning, Stark."
With a dissatisfied grumble, Tony fell back to his knees and began to scrub at a particularly stubborn stain; smirking, Clint flicked his wrist and made a whipping sound out of the side of his mouth.
"You know, Barton, I'm sure Tony would like a helper. You look like you've gone a round or two with the mop bucket in your days."
Clint's expression turned serious. "No, thanks, Miss Potts. I actually have to go somewhere; busy schedule, you know how it is."
Before Pepper could form a retort, the archer had practically sprinted out of the room, leaving Tony as the sole target of the woman's anger.
Sighing, Pepper collapsed onto a loveseat sitting in the corner of the room.
"Finally," she grumbled, letting her head fall back and hit the wall with a painful-sounding thump. "I have been looking for a moment of peace for too goddamn long."
"Shh! Don't say that! It's always when it's the quietest that he—"
"FRIENDS!"
"—finds you," Tony finished.
Thor made his way to the loveseat occupied by Pepper and squeezed in next to her, holding a plate piled high with meat, potatoes, and an assortment of other foods he had found while he was away. Smiling amiably at Pepper—whose face was a mere two inches away from his—he began to eat. Along with the whole "indoor voice" issue, Thor was also having a little trouble understanding personal space.
"Hello, Miss Potts. I have come to enjoy my meal with some company. Would you like a Poptart?"
Tony dropped his rag. "I'm sorry, am I the only one who's just a little grossed out at this vomit on the table thing?"
"Oh, I am," Pepper said.
Thor just continued to smile and squeeze inhuman amounts of ketchup onto his meat. "Indeed. I feel for Miss Romanoff; the first months of pregnancy are always the most difficult."
It was as if something had pressed the freeze button on an invisible remote. Tony stared at Thor, his gaping mouth evident even under his mask, while Pepper's head snapped up so quickly that bones could be heard popping.
"Hold up there, Muscles—pregnancy? As in with a kid?"
"Yes. That is the process on Earth, is it not?"
"Well, yeah, with normal people, but not Romanoff! She's barely even human—she uses, like, mitosis to reproduce!"
Before Thor could let loose a string of questions, Pepper intervened.
"Thor, don't listen to him. Now, did Natasha tell you this?"
"No, she did not have to." The demigod looked between the other two flabbergasted faces with a confused expression. "Is it not obvious to you?"
"No!" The couple chorused.
"Hm. Then perhaps you should study with midwives." Thor shrugged nonchalantly and continued to shovel down his dinner. The genius and his girlfriend exchanged glances.
"Thor...are you sure? I mean, absolutely sure? Like not 'just a hunch' sure?" Pepper asked, turning awkwardly to meet his eyes.
"You people are amused at the most interesting things! Yes, I am sure; I have a good friend and mentor on Asgard who studies gestation. I have not made a wrong assumption since the age of fourteen."
Tony and Pepper continued to stare at one another.
"JARVIS, do a full scan on Natasha Romanoff. I want the results ASAP."
Sitting with his back against the wall, Tony shook his head in wonderment. "I could have sworn she used mitosis."
00000000
Natasha Romanoff lay face-down on her bed, head buried in the crooks of her arms. Her legs, now covered by a pair of yoga pants (the closest thing she had to sweats) were splayed apart, each bare foot touching an opposite end of the twin bed. Breathing deeply in an attempt to overcome some of the lingering nausea, she squeezed her eyes shut; maybe if she kept them closed long enough she would just disappear.
Natasha was not one to care much about what people thought of her; she was who she was, and if people had a problem with it, then they didn't have to talk to her. Plus there were so many opinions surrounding the infamous Black Widow and her alter ego that she didn't even bother to keep track of all of them.
She did, however, take her pride very seriously. Russians in general were a very proud people, and although Natasha had done her best to shed all remaining connections and associated stereotypes to her mother country, she could not help but hate that shame-induced burning feeling that started in the pit of her stomach and worked its way up to her face. God, she was so embarrassed—why didn't she slip casually out of the room when nobody was looking? Instead she just sat there and stuttered .while the "big men" argued if she was allowed to leave or not. Since when did she care what they thought? And then, as if that wasn't humiliating enough, she managed to lose her lunch in front of her entire cast of teammates—teammates who probably still labored under the impression that she lived on nothing but vodka, coffee, and the still-beating hearts of her victims. At least her secret was still in-tact—Clint had probably explained to them about her digestive issues and blamed the whole thing on that.
She groaned. Maybe she'd rather that they know she was pregnant. Tummy problems were not exactly the most fear-inducing characteristic for an assassin.
A timid knock echoed from the door.
"Natasha?"
The agent released a breath she didn't know she was holding. It was just Steve. She felt a little guilty for thinking it, but Steve was probably the only person she could deal with right now—his lack of questioning and inherent gullibility just made him so much easier to lie to.
"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?"
Sighing, Natasha rolled over and punched a set of numbers on the keypad installed in her nightstand. The door whooshed open to reveal an awkward Steve Rogers tapping his foot in an attempt to look at-ease. Upon looking at her, he quickly turned his head away and shaded the side of his face with his hand.
"Sorry, I didn't know you were indecent."
Looking down at her body confusedly, she noted her legwear and resisted the urge to roll her eyes—to Captain, the idea of women walking around freely in skin-tight pants was still a little hard to grasp.
"It's fine. Did you want something?"
"I just wanted to know if you were feeling better," he responded, keeping his eyes locked on the ceiling.
"I would if you actually looked at me when you talked."
Reluctantly, Steve lowered his eyes to meet Natasha's and started to walk towards her. "Sorry, old habit," he said, an odd smile on his face. "Anyway, I wanted to apologize for what happened back there."
Natasha felt a mixture of anger and gratitude blossom in her stomach, but she pushed it down. "It's unnecessary. You didn't do anything."
"Yeah, but I kind of feel like it's partly my fault. It shouldn't be up to us to decide whether or not you get to leave the dinner table."
Steve's blue eyes were still locked with Natasha's green ones, making the feeling of gratitude grow a little bit more. The assassin just stared blankly at him.
"Well, anyway, my mother used to make this tea for me when I was sick—it's some kind of honey-rhubarb-mint mix. I know it sounds gross, but it's worked pretty much every time. It's been about ten years since I've had it but I think I remember the recipe okay. Weirdly enough, the only ingredient Pepper didn't have was honey so I had to substitute cinnamon. Is that all right?"
Natasha felt a lump forming in her throat. It was unfamiliar and foreign, and for a moment, she thought that she was going to get sick again. Then it hit her: she was about to cry.
Was she serious? She hadn't cried in over eight years and now she was turning on the waterworks because of a cup of tea some man with a spandex sweater and go-go boots made her?
Seeing her expression, Steve began to back away. "Is that not okay? I'm sorry, Natasha, I can make another one. You like coffee, right? Or no, you like hot water with lemons! I remember you said that once when everybody was arguing over where to go for breakfast one time."
That did it. Natasha burst into tears, her breath coming out in short, audible sobs. At the same time, her shoulders shook and large droplets of water ran down her face into her open mouth.
Steve was officially in full-panic mode. He had never been particularly able around dry-eyed women; crying ones practically made him break out in hives.
"Oh my gosh, Natasha, I don't know what I did, but, um...I'm sorry, and...do you...what can I do?" He was practically begging, making Natasha bawl even harder.
"No...Steve...it's just...that was so...sweet! I don't...even know...what to say!"
"Oh...then why are you sad...?" Steve cautiously took a step toward the blubbering Natasha, then decided it was probably best to stay where he was.
"NO! I'm.happy! You remembered I liked hot water with lemons! I didn't even know anyone was listening to me! I just...thank you!" She let out another strangled sob and buried her face in her hands.
"Well...it's actually just because you have kind of a loud voice and I was standing right next to you, but you're welcome, I guess..." Steve said, timidly leaning over to awkwardly pat Natasha on the shoulder. "But if you're happy, why are you crying...?"
"I'm crying because I'm happy, you idiot!" Natasha suddenly looked up at him with fiery eyes and angrily slapped his hand away. "And what the hell do you mean my voice is loud? You think that you're the picture of perfection? Is that it?"
Steve looked as if he were about to short-circuit. "Yes...I mean no...I mean...what?"
Suddenly, Natasha leapt off the bed as if to hug the floundering man standing in front of her but stopped, her arms raised awkwardly halfway in the air; she would not let her hormones get total control over her.
Realizing what she was trying to do, Steve took a hesitant step and motioned towards her. "No, it's okay, you can have a hug if you want."
After a pause, Natasha pressed herself against him and let his arms fold around her while she continued to whimper into his chest. She felt a strange calm wash over her; she normally hated hugs—they made her feel sappy and vulnerable, like she was surrendering any source of power—but the warmth of the Captain's strong arms encircling her mid-back—however awkwardly—was almost comforting. She had never had anyone hold her so innocently before.
"Is everything okay here?"
Even with her face buried in Steve's shirt, Natasha could recognize Bruce Banner's soft, slurred voice echoing from the doorway. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Captain frantically mouth "Help!"
With a start, she realized how much she must be scaring the poor guy. She felt another wave of embarrassment wash over her—only a little over a month of pregnancy and already this thing was turning her from a stone-cold assassin into a vomiting, blubbering, well...girl.
She turned her back to the two men in order to wipe away at some of the tears remaining on her face. She felt the familiar weight of a hand on her shoulder.
"Are you okay, Natasha?" Bruce whispered, his breath brushing the hairs on the back of her neck. Natasha just shrugged.
"I'm sorry, this may not be any of my business, but is something going on here?" Natasha could feel the Captain's curious stare boring into her back; Bruce didn't move from his position near her ear.
"Just tell him, Natasha. It'll be okay."
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Natasha squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her fists together.
"I'mpregnan."
There was a pause.
"Pardon?"
"I'm pregnant."
Another pause.
"Like...with a baby?"
"Yes. Like with a baby."
"Does anyone else know?"
"Well, Bruce, obviously. And I suppose it's only so long until Stark goes snooping around and finds out. Just...don't tell Barton. Please."
"And you're doing okay?"
"I'm..." Natasha stopped. There it was again, that queasy feeling in her stomach surging on with a vengeance. "I'm going to be sick."
Leaping into action, she sprinted clumsily to the bathroom and slammed the door, the sound echoing off the walls of the room.
Faint sounds of retching could be heard as Bruce and Steve stood and stared uncomfortably at one another.
"So...just to be clear," Steve finally said, breaking the silence, "she, you know—fondued?"
There's Chapter 4! I have to say, this was a lot of fun to write; I hope I managed to keep all of their interactions in-character. Tell me what you think!