You really hate hospitals.
You're sick of them and you're jealous of your two week old son; he's allowed to leave the hospital before you are.
He's a quiet baby you're told; except when his big brother wakes him up, jealous that he is getting the attention.
All of them cannot wait for you to come home.
You can't wait either; you're pretty sure your doctor has been bribed with state of the art technology courtesy of Stark Industries to spring you from your prison early.
It's nap time when you walk through the door; it smells like home and you feel yourself relax instantly.
The hands kneading your shoulders and neck definitely help too.
Your wife has a surprise for you; she takes you upstairs to Noah's room.
It's navy blue with a crib similar to his brother's, the cartoon animals are there standing in for his initial's above, and there is another rocking chair by the window.
You're told that Clint helped because she didn't have any time to decorate; you remember a comment about him being covered in paint.
It's perfect.
You back your wife out of the room and across the hall to your bedroom.
You're Maria Hill and it's been a long time; you've been craving being able to be close to her physically on anything that is not a hospital bed or a couch.
She raises an eyebrow; the doctor said no over exerting yourself until you're cleared at your one month check-up.
You just have to be really really careful; you smirk at her and she falls to the bed.
You moan softly; your afternoon is spent doing nothing but kissing your wife softly.
You've never felt anything so perfect; you've missed this.
She begs you not to do that again.
You promise; you don't plan on it.
You kiss her silent and break away slightly breathless; you hear a cry over the baby monitor.
Someone is awake.