The Games We Play

Disclaimer: I don't own 'Harry Potter' or 'Avengers'. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: A witch walks into a bar, and right into Clint Barton's life. A passionate encounter follows, and after that, 40 weeks of unmitigated hell. AU. Clint/Gwen. Fem!Harry.

Rating: M for language, adult themes, and violence.

Author: tlyxor1.

The Games We Play

Chapter One

It had taken several days of string pulling, but she had eventually tracked him down at Stark Tower, a monolithic, overcompensation of glass and steel, and she exhaled an exasperated sigh.

Gwen didn't want to be here, in all actuality. She'd been entirely content in her own quiet, Long Island cabin along the coast, but Hermione was a persistent nag, and so the retired hero had called in a variety of favours, tracked down her most recent lover, and found her way to Stark Tower.

Impatient and anxious, Gwen paced the empty foyer, carted her hands through her short hair, and thought over what she'd ought to say. She didn't have long, however, before Clint Barton made his appearance, and Gwen crossed her arms over her NYU pullover, defensive and protective, and plainly terrified.

"Hey," Barton eyed her, wary, "How did you find me?"

"Called in some favours," she explained succinctly, "Is there anywhere we can talk?"

He nodded slowly, gestured to the lifts, and Gwen stepped in, Barton directly behind her. She'd pulled her sleeves over her hands, and in her yoga pants and ugg boots, she probably didn't appear much of a threat, but she rocked back and forth on her heels, and her dinner threatened to make a reappearance. In the mirror, she looked faintly green.

"You alright?" Barton queried.

"I've had better days."

Gwen faked a smile, tugged at the ends of her cropped hair, and followed Barton off the lift, into a brightly lit, spartan living room. A hallway veered away to the left, and the faint glow of a kitchen light could be seen from an open archway, and despite herself, the blatant display of wealth was disconcerting.

It was perhaps ironic, given that she was one of the richest witches in Britain, if not the western world, but she'd never been particularly comfortable with that truth, and nor had she ever felt inclined to flaunt it.

"Do you remember me?" She queried.

"You'd be difficult to forget," he answered dryly.

Gwen flushed red, entirely aware of what he'd just referenced. She didn't know too many women as flexible as she, and that wasn't taking into consideration how many times they'd each orgasmed that night.

That night had been unforgettable, in more ways than one.

"You've cut your hair," he observed.

He'd been fascinated by her silken curls, she recalled. They'd been a pain in the arse to deal with though, and Gwen had hacked the bum length curls off at the shoulder two weeks ago. She'd not had such short hair since she was a girl on Privet Drive, but it hadn't taken long for the new look to grow on her.

"I needed a change," she said simply, and the ensuing silence was awkward. She broke it. "I'm pregnant."

Barton didn't look surprised, but then, Gwen couldn't imagine that there would be many reasons for a one night stand to track a bloke down. Instead, he nodded silently, gestured for Gwen to take a seat on the available furniture, and excused himself to retrieve some drinks. He returned a few minutes later, that same neutral expression on his face, and two glasses of water in hand.

"I don't mean to insult you, but are you certain it's mine?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "You were the first in a while, and the last since."

He settled back in his seat, stared at his ceiling, and the lines on his face were creased. He was only 30, so said her favours, but he looked older then, a frown on his face, a furrow between his eyebrows, blue eyes squinted. it didn't deter from his attractiveness though, but rather, seemed to define it, in ways that Gwen couldn't describe.

She'd always been attracted to older men.

"What do you intend to do?" Barton queried.

Gwen was silent for a time, her thoughts on the selfish decision she'd already made. It was almost cruel of her to bring a life into a world where both their parents had a list of enemies longer than their respective forearms, but a family was what she'd wanted more than anything in the world, and she wasn't going to give that up for her own peace of mind.

She said as much, and Barton seemed to eye her in a new light.

"I've never really thought about being a father," he admitted. "But you'll be targeted twofold, if you're enemies are as relentless as mine."

"I'm aware," she admitted, "But I should be safe, at least for the next two months or so. And I won't be defenceless."

He nodded slowly, and seemed to wander off in his own thoughts, and Gwen sipped her water, thoughts on what she had to do next. She'd have to disappear from the magical community's public eye, which meant the anonymity of the mundane world, and really, that change had been a long time coming.

"I guess we should exchange contact information," Barton mused.

Gwen agreed, withdrew her iPhone from the pocket of her pullover, and handed it to the archer. He reciprocated, and Gwen tapped in her details: mobile phone, landline, email,work details, and once she was done, they returned phones, she glanced at the time, and pocketed the device.

"I should probably go," she informed, "It's a fair way to Long Island."

"Long Island," he repeated. "What were you doing in Brooklyn?"

"Graduation party," she explained, "I just got my Bachelor's degrees in Graphic Design and Information Processing."

"Congratulations," he acknowledged, "I'll walk with you to the subway. That is where you're going?""

She nodded, they entered the elevator, and the silence between them was relatively companionable. He saw her safely onto the train, returned to his apartment in Stark Tower, poured himself a scotch, and tried to wrap his head around the strange new reality he'd found himself in.

It was a work in progress, but he thought he could get used to Gwen Potter in his life. At least he hoped so, if only for the sprog's sake.