NOTES: Thank you, Kate, for the beta.


Natasha felt guilty for taking advantage of her teammates' generosity with their newly-implemented Nightmare Duty schedule, but the guilt didn't stop her from using it on some nights. The first time she'd given in was the time she felt the most uncomfortable. It was Bruce's night, and when he opened the door to his quarters, it was obvious he'd been in a deep sleep. She then remembered he'd been absent from meals for the last couple of days and concluded he'd just finished a long series of experiments in his lab and probably hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in a while. "I'll just go—" she'd started, but was cut off when he loosely wrapped one hand around her left wrist and gently tugged her inside. Wordlessly, he pointed to one of the two couches in the living room before moving off to his bedroom.

He came back a moment later with pillows and extra blankets. "I'd offer you my bed, but I can't remember the last time I changed the sheets," he said, voice thick with sleep. "You want to talk about it?"

She shook her head no and quietly thanked him as she took a pillow and afghan from him. Bruce stretched out on the other couch in the living space, and the two silently spread blankets over their bodies and adjusted themselves into a comfortable position. She laid there for a few minutes, memorizing how the lights reflected from the city below played on the ceiling. "Bruce?" she called quietly and received a muffled noise in response. "Do you remember what happens to you when you're him?"

Bruce rolled onto his back with a sigh. "No. Not really. I'll get flashes sometimes. But that's it."

"How do you know if the memories are real?"

He paused before answering her. "I don't. But I do know that whatever I see in those images—the damage that was done—it wasn't my fault because I wasn't the one in control."

She turned her head to study him in the dark. "You really believe that?"

He smiled a little. "No, but I'm trying to."

Another night she'd fallen back asleep on one of Thor's oversized and overstuffed chaise lounges listening to him describe the landscape of Asgard. And the following week, she'd used Tony's ceaseless rambling about calculations and efficiencies to JARVIS and the bots in order to lull her to sleep on the couch in his workshop.

The first week of March saw the end of her first trimester and the confirmation that this magic wasn't going to fade. The night those two things became official, both in reality and in her mind, she didn't even bother trying to sleep. Instead she grabbed an unopened bottle of premium vodka and two glasses and headed for Clint and Coulson's floor.

Clint was the one opened the door. His eyes caught on the objects in her hands, and he hung his hand in resignation with a vicious swear.

"What's wrong?" Phil called from further into their quarters.

"Natasha needs a proxy drunk," Clint answered as he moved out of the way so she could walk into their common room.

Phil stepped out of the kitchen with a carton of leftover Chinese in one hand and chopsticks in the other. He pointed the latter Natasha's direction. "You get him drunk, you're the one who's going to put him to bed. I'm too tired to deal with his handsiness tonight."

"You weren't complaining about my hands this morning."

"That was before I knew they were going to make me late for everything for the rest of the day," Phil shot back.

Natasha ignored them both and sat at the end of the dining room table that was clear of files and paperwork. She placed the two crystal tumblers on the table and poured a shot in one. She raised an eyebrow at Phil. "I'll have one," he answered. She nodded and filled the second glass before pushing them across the table to the men who took seats next to and across from her.

"Do I at least get to find out why it's necessary for me to get wasted tonight?" Clint asked.

"Why do you think?" Natasha answered in a harsh tone.

Clint ground his jaw but took the shot anyway. Phil took his seconds later, and once they were both done cringing and huffing air through their nostrils, the handler announced he would be in his private office, working on paperwork. "And try not to kill him," he added.

"I'll keep him on the safe side of alcohol poisoning. Barely."

"Ugh, I'm so unbelievable screwed, aren't I?" Clint moaned.

"Quit whining," she chided as she poured another shot and pushed it in front of him.

He pushed it back in front of her. "Nope, I need to at least be able to have some sort of defense against your vodka onslaught. We're playing Drink the Truth."

She gave him a look. "I can't drink. That's why you're doing it for me."

"You can have shots of water."

"I have to pee often enough these days, thanks."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're making it sound like it would be easy for me to detect your truths. Guess you're going soft in more ways than one." She spat a Russian curse at him as she rose from the table to grab a clean shot glass and a flask of water from the kitchen.

Drink the Truth was a game they'd developed years ago. It was how they got to know each other, and how they each learned the other's tells. The premise was simple: you made a statement about the other person; if the statement was true, they took a shot, and if you were wrong, you were the one who had to drink. Whoever was still awake when the alcohol was finished was declared the winner.

"Go," she ordered as she poured herself a shot of water.

Clint leaned back in his chair and began to scrutinize her face. "You've been acting like you'd be okay with this whole thing fading away, but really it would wreck you."

She pursed her lips and traced the rim of her shot glass with her index finger as she weighed his words. Giving into the truth, she took her shot and poured another. "My turn," she declared.

The best and worst part about this game was that Clint and Natasha knew too much about each other. They'd fought for, against, and with each other. They'd sparred, screwed, and spent too many hours pushing the other's buttons; they each knew exactly where the other's soft spots lay. "The real reason you threw a fit about having exes come join the team wasn't because you were worried about them swapping stories with your boyfriend. It was because you were worried they'd bring their bad relationship ju-ju or whatever back around, and you'd be unable to do anything but screw things up with Phil."

He flipped her off while taking his shot. "The reason you hate the magic not wearing off is because if something goes wrong now, it's your fault and no one else's."

She glared him down while taking her shot. "You've never told Phil 'I love you.'" She watched Clint lean back in his chair with a smug smile, but she raised an index finger to hold off his silent bragging. "Immediately before, during, or after sex doesn't count." It was then Natasha's turn to lean back in a chair with a grin when Clint took his shot.

He shook his head as he refilled his glass. "Okay. We're playing it that way. When you wake up in the morning, the first thing you think about where you're going to run away and hide to raise this kid."

"Nope."

"Oh, c'mon," he cried as he had to take a drink. "Ugh, it tastes like burning."

"The first thing I think about in the morning is, 'Don't puke.'" She shrugged and went back to running her finger along the rim of her glass. "Besides, I know, as crazy as it may sound since it's Stark's tower that we're living in, but this may very well be the safest spot on the planet right now.

"My turn again," she continued. "You think you're unworthy of Phil."

"Nope. I know I'm unworthy. There's a difference—drink up." He used a sigh to buy him some time to plan his next challenge. "You're worried you're going to screw the kid up royally."

She rolled her eyes before taking her a second drink within a minute. "I didn't know we were going the obvious route."

He leaned forward in his seat. "Natasha, parents screw their kids up all the time. Pretty sure it's the definition of parenting. It's normal."

"Since when are people like us ever normal? And it's my turn." She paused to look him over in order to find another weak spot. "You still have nightmares about being under Loki's control."

Clint snorted. "Who's taking the obvious route now?" he asked before downing another shot. "It's killing you not knowing who the father is."

Natasha threw back another drink of water and sighed. "What's the betting pool looking like on that one?"

"What makes you think there's a pool?"

Natasha leaned forward. "When I'm not in the room, I'm all you boys talk about." Clint cringed and drank his shot causing her to roll her eyes. "You guys are the worst gossips alive."

"Thank God you didn't let me have a turn. That shot would've been too hard to deny as truth."

"You didn't answer my question."

Clint ran his hand over his face, a well-known stalling tactic in Natasha's eyes. "I put money on Bruce."

She felt her eyebrows knit together at his statement. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Thought it'd be nice if the two people who can't have kids had one together."

"And everyone else?"

"Steve and Bruce refused to participate. Tony's betting on me. Thor said Steve. And that's just our personal pool. You know there's another, larger pot for the rest of the SHIELD agents."

"Put my bet on Loki, no matter what Thor says," she told him in a cold and quiet voice.

"I'm not the only one having nightmares about him having control over the rest of my life?"

Natasha saluted him with her glass before taking her shot.

An hour later, Natasha helped Clint aim his fall for the mattress. He'd put a sizeable dent into her bottle, and she was going to have to owe him big time for the hangover he'd volunteered for in the morning. "Thank God you love me," she told him, and she meant it.

"I do. Dunno why. You're mean t'me."

She was in the process of unlacing his boots when Phil came into the bedroom. "You staying the night?" he asked Natasha.

She shook her head. "I think I've disturbed enough of your evening."

He waved off the comment. "It's late. Staying down here won't hurt anything."

Natasha sat on the foot of the bed and weighed her options, but was distracted at the sight of Phil removing his dress shirt and pulling on a well-worn SHIELD t-shirt. "Your scars didn't come back?"

He nodded. "Yours isn't the only body that didn't have the magic spell fade. No more scars, no more residual pain."

"He can swim his laps again," Clint slurred. "He's s'happy as a fish in a clam."

Phil rolled his eyes. "How badly did you break him?"

"I've left him in worse conditions before, and we both know it." Her comment caused Phil to shake his head as he grabbed a pillow from his side of the bed along with a spare blanket. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Couch. I swore to myself after Munich that I'd never voluntarily share a bed with both of you if I could help it. Besides, when he's had this much to drink, he snores like a chainsaw. Have fun with that." Phil leaned over the bed to give Clint a quick kiss good night that was immediately followed by slapping away greedy fingers. "Handsy," Phil muttered as he left the room.

Clint chuckled before turning back to Natasha. "You gonna stay? You could stay. I don't think you want to. I think you wanted to get me passed out drunk 'cuz you're mean and then run away."

"I thought we were done with the game."

"Shot!" Clint cried out in victory.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Where are your clean clothes?"

"Take Phil's. You steal mine and never give 'em back. I think you have half my closet is in yours."

"Normal people would buy new clothes at some point." Clint blew a raspberry at her in response. She shook her head and dug through drawers until she found a shirt she was sure belonged to Clint because of the holes in it and a pair of jersey shorts with BARTON scrawled into the waistband with a permanent marker. "You write your name in your clothes? What are you, a college student?"

"No, just know vicious redheads who steal things."

She exchanged her ever-tightening jeans, top, and bra for Clint's clothes and crawled into the bed. Natasha was barely settled between the sheets before an arm wrapped itself around her waist and pulled her against Clint's body. "Seriously?"

"I'm cuddly when drunk. And since you got me this way, it's really your own fault."

She sighed, closed her eyes, and tried to calm her mind enough to sleep but was distracted Clint's hand wandering down her torso and then creeping back up towards her chest. "Unless you want to lose that hand, I suggest you keep it still."

"Sorry. Just wanted to see what's changed."

"You could ask, idiot."

"I'm a tactile learner. Blame the booze and again, therefore, yourself. And don't tell Phil."

"I wouldn't tell him. I'd tell Cap."

"No, God, please don't do that. He'd cut my hand off with his shield like it's one of those—" He pulled his hand away from her body and out from under the sheets to swing it up and down in the air. "One of those things that go shonk and cut of your head."

"Guillotine?"

"Yeah, that. Only it'd be my hand and not my head, which would be sad because I like my hand better."

"Clint?"

"Hmmm?"

"Shut up and sleep."

"Mmmkay," he answered, snuggling back up against her.

"And keep your hands to yourself."

"Fine. But that means I'm going to steal all of the covers."

"What's new?"

The room was silent for a moment before Clint took in a breath. "Tasha?"

"What?" she sighed.

"You may be a mean, vicious, evil ginger, but you're still going to be a good mom even if you haven't realized it yet."


A few days later, Natasha spent the evening in her quarters looking over data from a fight that started the night before and went on into the early hours of the morning. It had spanned over several areas of New York and required assistance from both some of the new recruits to the team—Carol Danvers and Bobbi Morse—as well as a few members of the X-Men. The rest of the day had been spent bouncing back and forth between meetings to assess collateral damage and checking in on Clint and Tony, who had spent a few hours in medical due to injuries.

She paused in reading Coulson's debrief when the chime sounded. "Come in," she called out.

Steve walked into her quarters with a tablet in his hand. "Wanted to give you a copy of my report before calling it a night."

"Thanks," she answered with an outstretched hand to accept it. "How did you think it went today?"

He shrugged. "Not too awful considering the circumstances. Today was the first time I felt like I had a good handle on how Mockingbird moves in combat. That made things easier. Although I'd like it better if she and Barton stopped sniping at each other so much on comms."

"That's never going to happen."

Steve nodded. "Danvers is a good option to have, just don't tell her that I think she's a little intimidating."

"Only a little?"

He smiled. "She does outrank me, so part of that feeling of terror she inspires in me is somewhat natural, I suppose. But neither of them are you."

"There are some other Black Widows out there somewhere; I could track one or two down to add to the rotation list if it would make you feel better."

"I don't think Tony would ever take off a suit if there were multiple Black Widows prowling around New York."

She watched him stick his hands in the pockets of his khakis and rock back and forth gently on his feet. "Do you need something else?"

"Just to ask you your least favorite question."

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Have you slept at all in the last day?"

"Coulson made me nap for a couple of hours on the couch in his office this afternoon."

"Good. Have you eaten dinner?"

Natasha shook her head. "No, but that actually does sound good right now."

"Your nausea isn't as bad?"

"Somewhat, finally. I'd forgotten what it feels like not to be queasy all of the time."

"How does that Vietnamese place sound?" he asked.

"Fantastic."

"Good," he said as he moved to step back out into the hallway. He returned a moment later carrying a couple of paper bags that immediately filled Natasha's quarters with the smells of spicy goodness. "I may have ordered half of the menu. Haven't really had a chance to eat anything today. Pick whatever you want."

She felt a small smile cross her face as she watched him lay out the bags' contents on the kitchen counter. "What if I'd said I wasn't hungry?"

Steve shrugged. "I would've had whatever was left over as a midnight snack."

Natasha shook her head as she pulled a pair of plates from the cabinet. They dished out food and then moved back to the couch where Steve recounted his point of view of the battle in between bites. Whenever he was too busy inhaling his food as politely as possible, Natasha took her turn to speak and made observations and suggestions about how future cross-team operations could be improved. Once she'd finished her plate and Steve had finished his third, he grabbed their dishes and began to clean up their mess. She started to rise and follow him, but he told her to stay put. "It must be nice," she commented, "to eat as much as you do and still look like that."

Steve smiled. "It is nice, especially since my suit isn't too forgiving."

"You should try mine sometime."

He laughed. "Have you, umm, with your stomach? The bump or whatever people call it now?"

She crinkled her face in confusion. "Are you asking me if I've started showing yet?"

"Poorly, yes."

"No. I guess the parasite isn't big enough just yet." Steve quirked a blond eyebrow at her in response to her comment. "What?" she asked.

"I've just never heard you refer to it as something—anything—before."

She turned her focus to her fingernails. "Seems like it's going to stick around, so I might as well try and wrap my brain around things."

"Have you thought of names yet or anything?"

"Baby steps, Rogers," she ordered before cringing. "Pun not intended."

He smiled. "Do you want any of this?" he asked sweeping a hand over the food. She got up from the couch and crossed the room to the counter. She sniffed around at the cartons before selecting a couple to stash in her refrigerator. Steve began to load the rest of them up in one of the paper bags the food was delivered in. "You going to be okay? Sleeping, I mean. It's my night after all."

"I think I'm too exhausted to dream tonight. That's the hope, anyway."

"Well, if that doesn't work out, you know where I am."

"I promise to come up and make you sing me a lullaby to go back to sleep if things don't go as planned," she said.

Steve grimaced. "Pretty sure my singing would make your dreams worse, not better."