Author's Note: Written for the 2021 Be_Compromised Summer Promptathon (our 10th!), for redbirdbella and her inspired prompt, "Alexei walks in on Nat and Clint sharing a bed. … Chaos ensues."
Set after Civil War and Black Widow; contains spoilers for the latter and absolutely no trace of The Farm, because I can only deal with one family at a time. Unbeta'd; all glitches are mine. Non/AoU compliant.
All in the Family
By
Alpha Flyer
The Montreal safe house is a considerable step up from their usual sordid little walk-up or decrepit beach hut – a quasi-Victorian, two-story detached place in a leafy suburb; worth a pretty penny, too.
Best of all, it's actually their very own. Some long-forgotten mark had met his timely end atop a stack of blank, pre-signed deeds and transfer documents, which he'd been minutes short of passing on to his equally dead, gimlet-eyed lawyer. Whoever he'd been planning to sell the place to they never bothered to find out; after that mess in Bogota, SHIELD owed them a safe house. And so Natasha had pulled the papers out from under the guy's head before he could bleed all over them, said something that sounded like "carpe diem", and filled in the blanks.
After all those weeks in the Raft and hours on the Quinjet listening, respectively, to Ant Man and the Falcon bickering about some old meet-cute and Steve opining (or is it just pining?) about whether the Avengers can survive as a team and should he call Tony, Clint is particularly looking forward to the Jacuzzi.
There's a light on upstairs, meaning she's already here, which will make this as close to a homecoming as Clint will ever get.
He checks for the spare keys – this being Canada, security is an oiled rag wedged behind a drainpipe - and lets himself in the side door.
Inside everything is quiet; she's probably asleep. A mouthwatering smell lingers in the kitchen - roast chicken? Probably from the local St Hubert, but still, the mere thought makes his stomach growl; he can't remember when he last ate something that wasn't a hangnail.
Clint sets the key down on the kitchen island and heads over to the fridge to see if he can score some leftovers; may as well pick up some extra stamina before heading upstairs to a bed full of warm, welcoming fellow outlaw.
Opening the fridge door and rummaging around inside, he makes a bit more noise than strictly necessary, because nothing brings Natasha's inner assassin out faster than someone moving in silence. And so he is a bit surprised to hear the click of a gun safety being pulled back while his upper body is pretty much inside the fridge.
Clint freezes.
Okay, ouch, bad metaphor.
Hawkeye wills his heartbeat to slow down.
Better.
"Yo," he says to whoever is pointing a gun at him, hoping it's Natasha. "I thought that text about 'poutine' meant you wanted me to come here?"
"Why would we be wanting you here?" a voice growls from across the room. The accent is definitely Russian, but it sure as hell isn't Natasha. Have the original owners moved back in? The voice's owner clears his throat. "And what does Vladimir Vladimirovich have to do with anything?"
Clint raises his hands, spreads his fingers to show there's nothing in them (unfortunately, not even the plate of chicken legs he'd been reaching for) and slowly turns around - to his instant regret. As visuals go, the chicken and six-pack of beer had been infinitely preferable.
The man with the gun is huge, both in height and girth, with a shaggy mane of hair and a beard that would have done Gimli's wife proud; he's also half naked, and his considerable gut hangs over a pair of checkered flannel PJ bottoms. Much of his visible hairy skin is covered in lurid tattoos that loudly announce the victory of boredom over art.
Given the state of his hair, the guy had obviously been asleep, but he sure looks awake now. Clint has the strong feeling that he knows how to (a) throw all that weight around and (b) use that gun.
Time for a charm offensive?
"Hi," Clint says brightly. "Name's Clint Barton. I occasionally live here, Poutine is an important Quebec food group, not an evil autocrat. Gravy and cheese curds over French fries. Looks like someone's already eaten it and thrown it back up so maybe there is a resemblance to ol' Vlad - not my call to make. Which reminds me, I'm starving and I really want that chicken."
He realizes he's babbling, but the delay gives him a chance to size up the Russian bear in front of him. You can practically see a flock of moths circling what might once have been a truly impressive body, but there's an indefinable glint in his eyes – not your standard thug, this. Thor might end up like that some day, if he doesn't cut back on the mead, but Clint would still not want to mess with him if he does.
"You still have not said who you are," Bear Guy growls. The gun hasn't moved an inch. "'Clint' tells me nothing."
Clint tries again, looking longingly back at the fridge.
"This is kind of my house, so technically it's me who should say, 'Who the fuck are you, and put down the gun?'"
"This house," the guy says, unconvinced, "belongs to Natasha Romanoff. We are expecting her. I hear sounds and think it is my daughter, but it is you. Not Natasha. So I keep the gun for now."
Now there are moments in life when reality splinters into a thousand shards, and you end up slicing your thumb on the one you really didn't see coming.
"Wait. What?"
Clint snaps to attention, the gun and need for slow movement all but forgotten. His inner Maria Hill voice tells him he will need to examine that response as a major protocol fail, but it is what it is. Luckily, the guy doesn't seem to regard him as a serious threat, which should really piss him off. (Clint has been underestimated before; it's kind of a trademark.) But anyway.
"Daughter? That is total bullshit. Her parents are dead," he says, accusingly, before remembering something else. "She was raised in the Red Room. Also, my name is on the deed, together with hers. I watched her write it in after we knocked off the owner. Also, who the hell is we?"
Big Guy takes all this in stride. Something suddenly seems to have convinced him that Clint is on the level; he sticks the gun into the waistband of his hideous PJs, making them sag precariously. He stretches out his arms, in what could be an invitation to a bear hug, which Clint is not inclined to accept on account of the still-cracked ribs from that frolic at Leipzig Airport.
"Ach," the Hairy One says, his voice booming and his face wreathed in a terrifying smile that cries out for dental floss. "You must be the Eagle Eye my little girl mentioned. Business partner from Budapest, no? Where you failed so miserably to kill Dreykov and then spent a week in the sewers? Glad to see you had better success with other missions. It is a nice house. Melina likes it too."
As endorsements go this is pretty mixed, but Clint will take it. There are bodily needs to be attended to; everything else can wait, including a mysterious new character: Melina who…?
Clint opens the fridge again, reasonably confident that turning his back on the guy won't get him killed (for now). He retrieves the plate of chicken pieces and a beer – no, better make it two – and plonks them down on the island, sliding one of the cans in the other guy's direction. The plate with the chicken he keeps out of reach on his side.
"Yeah, well," he says, popping the ring on his beer. "Hawkeye, not Eagle. And from Iowa, not Budapest. Budapest was just a temporary…"
The thought peters out as what the guy said about Dreykov sinks in. Fuck. Seriously? After all they'd gone through, including him holding Natasha through countless nightmares about that little girl, and having to account to SHIELD for several rounds of expensive exploding arrows - and that asshole didn't even die? Clint files the thought in the 'Melina' drawer for future discussion, preferably one with Natasha present.
"And you are who, or what, exactly?"
"I am Alexei," the big man says, reaching for the second beer. "Alexei Shostakov. My enemies know and fear me as Red Guardian."
He makes a little bow at that last bit but Clint just nods, because really, what do you say to something like that? He grabs a drumstick and briefly succumbs to the primal pleasure of teeth meeting protein. Gotta hand it to those French-Canadians: their junk chicken is miles ahead of KFC.
"And you're here in our house with… who else, this Melina person? Nat know you're here?"
"Of course she does," the Bear booms. "I needed a place after our girls broke me out of jail. Also, Melina's pigs all died in the explosion and she lost her job when we killed Dreykov. So Natasha, like a good daughter, gave us some Canadian passports and invited us to come here. It reminds us of Ohio, except the food is better and most of the people speak French. Which likely explains the food."
There's a lot to unpack in that answer. That daughter thing in particular sticks in Clint's craw, especially as it seems to come in plural now, but now is not the time to dwell on any of it. He is pretty close to crashing; getting the Red … Whatever to not stand between him and a bed is top of the priority list.
"So you've been in jail, too? Then you know how tired you can get from being sprung. Tell me which bedroom you're in, so I can avoid that. 'Cause I need a bed. Now."
He yawns without bothering to cover it up and heads upstairs without encouraging any more unexpected revelations, carrying a last drumstick up with him. Luckily, the unwanted occupants have had the decency to leave the master bedroom free; the shower in there is pretty nice.
Alexei watches him leave in silence, shaking his head as he downs the last of his beer.
Hopefully, Natasha will get here soon, bearing a few explanations.
A mere couple of hours later, Clint feels someone sliding under the covers beside him. He surfaces from his coma just enough to confirm that the intruder is a slinky, small assassin, not a hairy giant, and manages a soft, not-too-grumpy, "Hey".
"Hey," she says back brightly. "So glad you got my message."
She wriggles out of whatever top she is wearing, tosses it over the side of the bed and buries her head – blond? that's new – under Clint's chin.
"I'd hoped to see you at the Raft," he says, trailing his fingertips across her soft skin. The little shiver she gives in response to his touch dispels what remains of his fatigue in an instant. "Too busy to come get me in person?"
"Someone had to take out the operational centre on the mainland," she says into his chest. "Plus, Steve thought I might be too hard on the guards, after what Ross did to you guys."
Clint gives a low chuckle and buries his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. It's been a long time... Their last meeting had been bruising rather than fun, but as far as he is concerned that's ancient history. He tilts up her chin and opens his mouth for a deep, slow kiss; questions about their unwelcome guests can wait. He's free, she's here, and that's all that matters.
Almost.
The blissful reunion lasts about a minute, tops, when the door to the bedroom bursts open.
Both Clint and Natasha go from horizontal to vertical in a split second, weapons in hand. It's only the very specific outline of the intruder against the hall light that stops Clint from pulling the trigger before his feet hit the bedroom floor.
"Who is in this room with you, Mister Eagle Eye?" Alexei's voice echoes. "You said nothing about other people. Show yourself, intruder and face the wrath of the Red Guardian!"
"Jesus, Alexei," Natasha lowers her Glock. Keenly aware of their mutual state of complete undress, both she and Clint slide back into bed and under the covers. "You have no idea how lucky you are that I remembered giving you the keys. I take it you and Clint have met?"
She flicks on the light on the night table. For a moment, Alexei stands there, looking like a half-melted statue. Clint watches in fascination the range of emotions that plays across the man's face, ending in what can only be described as a scowl.
"Natasha!" Alexei growls accusingly. "You did not come to see us first, to tell us you had arrived? And now you are in bed with this man, and both of you without any clothes on? What is the meaning of this?"
Natasha sighs deeply and wraps the duvet more tightly around her chest.
"First, I didn't know whether you'd made it to Montreal. Second, I came here to see Clint, not you. And third, you remember the thing about the birds and the bees, or has it been too long? Now go back to bed, Red Guardian - we are busy in here. I'll see you at breakfast."
Alexei hesitates, his scowl deepening.
"You and your sister said the Red Room took your… your lady parts. You were very clear on that. Clinical, even. So I repeat, what is the meaning of you being in bed with this man, this so-called Eagle Eye?"
Clearly this is the continuation of a conversation he's not been a part of. Besides, under the protection of the quilt, he finds certain parts of himself to be rather excited by the whole situation, and surprisingly keen on Natasha's explanation; his body's response is not discouraged by the hand he can feel holding him down by pressing on his chest. All things considered, Clint decides to keep his mouth shut.
Natasha breathes out slowly through her nose, evidently gathering her patience.
"Not all my lady parts, you idiot. I still have a clitoris and a g-spot, and Hawkeye knows how to use them. And unlike most men, he never misses."
Alexei's eyes instantly fix on the middle of the duvet, which has started to spontaneously rise up a little. Clint pulls his hand, still holding the gun, under the cover, both to discourage exploration and to provide a plausible explanation.
"Don't try anything funny, man," he says with all the bravado he can muster, although even to his own ears it comes out as a croak. Natasha throws him a sideways look; her single, appreciatively raised eyebrow is not helping. Or maybe it is, depending on your perspective?
Alexei puffs himself up into the image of paternal indignation.
"This man says he was in jail! Natasha. How can you be in bed with a criminal?"
"Hey," Clint says. "So were you, you said so yourself. And judging by all that facial hair, you were serving a pretty stiff sentence. Me, I was never even convicted of anything before Steve got us out."
"That… that is different," Alexei hedges a bit. "I was betrayed by the State."
"Yeah, well, join the fucking club," Clint mutters. The prolonged conversation is beginning to wear on him a little; he can feel the duvet deflating again. Alas, Alexei is far from finished.
"Tell me that your intentions towards my daughter are honorable, Gospodin Barton, or suffer the consequences."
"I was rather hoping they weren't," Natasha mutters, running her fingers down Clint's abs under the duvet in a gesture that returns his anatomy to full attention. To Alexei, she says, "And I don't know where you get off, but you are not my father, and I'm an adult. Now, shoo."
Alexei starts opening his mouth but is silenced by a pale hand that appears on his arm from just outside the doorframe.
"Alexei Alanovich," a soft but steely voice inserts itself into the conversation. "I cannot possibly sleep with all this ruckus you've been making."
A slight, dark-haired and extremely attractive woman who must be the mysterious and pigless Melina peeks into the bedroom, past Alexei's broad shoulders. She runs her eyes across what is visible of Clint and gives Natasha the tiniest of nods, complete with appreciatively pursed lips. At least, unlike her large buddy, she doesn't seem to completely disapprove of his existence.
"You must be Clint," Melina says. "Natasha told me about you. Nice to meet you, finally."
Alexei stares at her, the look of betrayal causing his beard to droop.
"How is he 'Clint', when you have not even been properly introduced? I almost killed him earlier this evening."
"Of course you did, dear," Melina says soothingly. "But that would have been terrible manners, given that this is his house too, not to mention it would likely upset Natasha. And besides, we're in Canada, where you can't just go around shooting everyone. People are nice here."
"He's American," Alexei points out. "And I am Russian. We are sworn enemies! I have license to kill. Or, I used to. It may be expired. But I could get it back, now that Dreykov is dead."
"Hey," Clint says. "I'm right here, you know."
He points at Natasha, who has started to giggle. Giggle. The bed is practically shaking, and not in the way in which Clint had intended.
"And that enemy thing?" he continues, because she is clearly not about to help him out here, "that's a matter of circumstance. And we are not. Not anymore, anyway. We're…"
Shit. What are they, after Leipzig, the Raft, and those goddamn Accords?
His voice peters out. Luckily, with Natasha still incapacitated and making a move to disappear under the duvet entirely, Melina comes to the rescue.
"Alexei. They are…" she waggles her eyebrows suggestively and waves her hand in a vague gesture. "Ach, you know. I'm sure you can figure out what they are. So let's leave them alone."
"How do you know what they are?" Alexei asks accusingly, apparently forgetting that he had appointed himself defender of Natasha's honour just a few seconds ago. "The Avengers are divorced and angry at each other! Natasha said so herself."
Melina sighs in exasperation and tries a new tack.
"Three days in a small room in the underground in Budapest, all that adrenaline, and you really think all these two did is play hangman and tic-tac-toe? Don't you remember – we were in Ohio barely a day when we…"
Is the Russian bear blushing?
"I had not forgotten," he says, his voice suddenly a bit scratchy. "But I thought you had."
She places a hand on his arm in a gesture that somehow seems to shrink him a little.
"I never did. But we better not talk about this in front of the children," she chides indulgently, winking at Clint and Natasha as she starts pulling him away from the door. "Let's discuss this somewhere else. My room, maybe?"
For a moment it appears as if Alexei is ready to take the bait and follow her, but then he pulls himself up to his full height and wags his finger at Clint.
"I will go. For now. But no monkey business, understand? And tomorrow, in the morning, you will tell me exactly how you plan to provide for my daughter. I will not forget."
One more tug from Melina and he finally turns away.
"Night," Natasha manages, her voice muffled under a layer of fabric and goose down. "Dad."
Alexei can be heard grumbling as he and Melina head down the hall, something about, "I thought she would at least get Captain America! Or that God!"
"Now, now," Melina says just before a door closes. "It could have been worse. At least she didn't pick that ugly green thing in the ripped pants."
Clint gets up and first firmly closes, then locks, the bedroom door. On second thought, he wedges a chair under the doorknob; he briefly eyes the chest of drawers but decides to leave it.
"Man. What in the ever-loving fuck was that?" he says as he turns back towards the bed, where Natasha has emerged from under the duvet, wiping her still-streaming eyes with a corner of it.
"Long story," she sighs. "Really, really long story."
He knows by the tone of her voice that she's not ready to tell it, at least not tonight. Probably just as well, given the predatory looks she gives him through her long lashes; his attention span moves south in a matter of nanoseconds.
"Alright then," he manages to get out as he heads back to the bed and pulls the covers off her luminous body. "Let's just skip straight to the bit where I don't miss?"
"Illustrations only, please," she purrs. "No more talking."
Later – although not that much later, because they're tired and they both know how to find their targets – Natasha allows herself to be spooned.
"You know, I needed that," she says softly.
Clint twirls one of her blond strands of hair around his fingers and gives her ear a playful lick.
"This?"
"This, yes. You." She pauses for a moment. "People who know who I am. And who care anyway."
He chuckles.
"You mean, people who'd happily murder me in my sleep to protect your maidenly honour?"
Natasha turns in his arms and buries her face in the crook of Clint's neck; he can feel her smile widening into a grin.
"He probably wouldn't, now that Melina has put her foot down. But it's the thought that counts."
Her breath slowly becomes deep and regular, pulling Clint towards sleep with her. He is almost gone when she speaks again, drowsily but clearly:
"Oh, before I forget. If you think Alexei is ready to kill you at the drop of a hat? Just wait till you meet my little sister."