Happy holidays, my lovelies!
Sometime in 2017
They're getting older, the pair of them.
Clint begins to notice their age in the increasing softness of Georgia's hips and belly and thighs. Whenever they make love, her softness surrounds him, cradles and comforts him. His fingers skim along the inside of her thighs and over the tops of her breasts, and he counts her age in the sound of her sighs. When they lay in bed together after, he sees the years they've spent together in the deepness of the laugh lines that spread out from her round lips. Those lines and her too-wide blue eyes and her never-ending legs...these are his favorite parts of her, of his wife.
For Georgia, Clint's age shows in the crow's feet that gather at the corners of his beautiful eyes, those endearing crow's feet which make themselves known whenever he smiles or laughs. Her fingertips brush the little patches of gray which have cropped up near Clint's temples over the last few years, her thumb stroking the deepening lines by his eyes. He's getting just a touch slower these days, the aches and pains of his job following him home into their bed. Georgia eases his pain with tender caresses and deep-tissue massages, and when his pain has passed, Georgia brings him pleasure with more devious hand maneuvers.
And how Clint loves it all. Loves growing old together. Loves being able to mark the subtle changes over time in laugh lines and crow's feet.
Before the Battle of New York—before other galaxies, superhumans, and the hurricane that is Georgia Downes—, Clint had never so much as dreamed about spending his life with someone. In his line of work, love was dangerous because love made you vulnerable. Clint had never truly given it a passing consideration, much less dared to hope for it, until one day when he met a sweet woman with too-wide doe eyes and a red scarf at a coffee shop in New York City. Five years later, he now lies in bed with that wonderful woman, gazing adoringly at the curve of her lip and the set of her mouth, laugh lines and all, and he knows he is home.
December 20th, 2014
It was Christmas time in New York.
Europe may have world-renowned Christmas markets, but there was something magical about December in New York City. As early as the first of November, the famous city became an illuminated winter wonderland fully equip with the Rockefeller Christmas tree, pop-up ice skating rinks, truly beautiful holiday window displays in store fronts, a few Radio City Rockettes, and all of the thousands upon thousands of twinkly lights.
As it was the season for giving, the Avengers and their loved ones had all sign up for a day of charity work the weekend before Christmas.
Tony had donated nearly twenty-thousand dollars worth of cool, high-tech gadgets and equipment for kids in underprivileged schools across the five boroughs, and he was hosting a Science Day at a school in Harlem with his best Science Bro Bruce.
The two had designed all kinds of fun experiments for the kids, two of which included small (but safe) explosions. They'd been at it all morning, and the kids—Tony and Bruce included—were having a blast. There was one boy in particular who seemed especially keen. He was quick, often guessing the next two or three steps in the experiments before Tony or Bruce gave the instructions. Maybe it was the boy's aptitude for science or the overly—and obnoxiously—floppy quality of his hair, but the boy reminded Tony of a friend of his. A kid with a potato gun and a Dora watch. A kid named Harley.
"Ahh..." Tony paused his demonstration. He glanced over a Bruce, murmuring, "I gotta make a phone call. Take it away, Dr. Banner!"
Stepping away, Tony withdrew his phone and called the kid. The boy answered on the second ring. "Hey, Harls, it's me." Tony quipped, "How's your Christmas going? Has your dad come back yet?"
Without missing a beat, the kid chirped happily, "Hey, Tony. How's your Christmas going? Has your receding hairline grown back yet?"
Stark huffed in annoyance. "It's not receding. It's not. It's called a hair cut. It looks like this on purpose because, you know, style. Anyway, listen, I'm calling because I wanted to let you know I'm not sending you more lab equipment this year for Christmas."
"What'd, you run out of stuff?"
"No, I didn't run out of stuff." The billionaire fought a smile. Man, this kid was a smartass. "I have plenty of stuff. I'm just not sending it to you. See, Pepper's gotten this crazy idea that it would be nice if you and your mom came to spend Christmas with us in New York. The city's great. Trust me, you'll love it."
"Your girlfriend invited us to spend Christmas with you? She does know you're not my dad, right?"
Tony practically heard the smirk in Harley's voice and rolled his eyes in return. "Oh, no, sorry. I didn't realize I needed to make that distinction with her. I'll get right on that." Cue another annoyed huff. "So, are you coming or not?"
"I don't know," Harley replied simply. "I gotta ask my mom."
"Okay, well ask her like, now, and let her know I'll send the jet."
"Are the other Avengers going to be there?"
Pause. "Maybe."
"Sweet!" And then Harley was yelling into the background, and Tony cringed. "-hey mom! Mom-! Tony's invited us for a sleepover at his house for Christmas-"
"It is not a sleepover," Tony promptly corrected. "And I told you, Pepper invited you. It was Pepper."
"No, it wasn't. You're lying to me about Pepper, just like you're lying to yourself about your receding hairline, old man."
"You're right. It was me. And now, I'm retracting my invitation for the 'old man' crack."
"You can't do that."
Honestly, Tony felt the kid rolling his eyes. "Why not?"
"Cause I already asked my mom."
"What'd she say?"
"She said okay, I think."
Tony scoffed. "You think?"
"She's in the shower. It's hard to hear."
"Whatever. Talk to your mom and call me back."
"Sure, okay."
"Later," and with that Tony unceremoniously ended the call and turned back to the room full of science-deprived children. He clapped his hands together. "Right! Who's ready to blow more stuff up?"
His call was met with an uproar of cheer.
While Tony and Bruce were nerding it up in Harlem, Steve and his good buddy Sam Wilson were spending the day in Brooklyn teaching free boxing and self-defense lessons. That morning, they'd held a self-defense course for women, complete with appearances by Maria Hill and Sharon Carter to make the women feel safer and more at ease. That afternoon, however, was spent teaching kids from high-risk neighborhoods—kids often bullied or recruited by street gangs—how to box. With every lesson, it was important to Steve that he stress that fighting and violence were never a person's first choice. That physical violence should only be used to defend yourself and to protect others.
For the most part, the day had gone off without a hitch. During each session, he and Sam gave an introductory speech, followed by a few demonstrations, then they weaved their way through the crowd, assisting individuals. They corrected stances, fixed fist formations, and so on, before allowing for some safe sparing among the attendees.
During the afternoon session, there was one kid who Steve paid special attention to. She was scrawnier than the rest. The moves were difficult for her uncoordinated limbs, and when she did eventually complete the moves successfully, there was little strength behind the follow through. With each failed blocking maneuver and lackluster punch, Steve saw the frustration building in the tense set of her shoulders, the pinch of her eyes.
"You know," Steve said casually, coming up beside the young girl. "-when I was a kid, I didn't look like this. I wasn't tall or strong. I was little and not very tough, but I was never hard on myself, and I never gave up."
The kid ceased her practice, arms going limp at her sides. She was already perspiring heavily—a sticky, shiny mess—, though most of the other participants had yet to break a sweat. Her breathing was heavy, and Steve felt a wince of sympathy. He might have missed a lot of things about the old days, but he did not miss his asthma. The girl fixed him with a rather pointed look for someone who couldn't have been more than eleven years old. "But it's not like some scientist is going to make me like you."
A sympathetic smile tugged at the Captain's lips. "No, it isn't. So you know what you gotta do? You gotta beat 'em here-" He pointed to the kid's forehead ."-and here." Then, he pointed to her heart. "You've gotta be faster, smarter, and you've gotta want it more."
The girl frowned. "It's hard to be faster when there's five of them and one of you. Even harder still when they know where you live." Her chin quivered, but she held Steve's stare boldly, adding, "And when they know who your family is."
Steve's stomach tightened. So the gangs were using scare tactics in her neighborhood, threatening the kids' families if they didn't do the gangs' bidding. Withdrawing his wallet, Steve thumbed through the fold and plucked out a business card. He handed it to the scrawny youth. "Tell you what. The next time you have trouble, you call this number and ask for Steve. I'll take care of it."
The little girl's eyes widened with something akin to hope and wonder. She accepted the card slowly, glancing it over in disbelief, before suddenly flinging herself at his midsection and squeezing for dear life. With a small grin, Steve returned the girl's hug, squeezing a little bit tighter when she murmured, "Thanks, Captain."
One borough and about half a dozen subway stops over from Steve's and Sam's street boxing day, Georgia and Pepper were busy running the annual Stark Industries soup kitchen in northern Manhattan. Open to anyone and everyone seeking company, warmth, and food that Christmas, the Stark charity soup kitchen offered a large buffet prepared and cooked by celebrity chef Roy Choi. The buffet hosted a festive array of holiday foods—nice, hearty soups, including a stunning New England clam chowder; turkey, ham, and roast beef; stuffing and cranberry sauce; turnips, parsnips, carrots, and potatoes; and, of course, classic desserts like fruitcake and Joe Froggers cookies.
Pepper, on behalf of Stark Industries, also arranged a canned-food drive and several warm-clothing donation centers across the city, the proceeds of which were dispersed to families in-need throughout the harsh winter months.
As per usual, Pepper and Georgia, as head of the PR department, had gotten a handful of celebrities to volunteer their time at the soup kitchen that Christmas. This year many of the usual participants had shown up to work the food line—footballer Tom Brady, actress Susan Sarandon, and actor Tom Hanks. There was still no word from Beyoncé and Jay-Z, who had helped out last season, and HBO star Lena Dunham had flat-out refused. There were also a few surprise volunteers who showed up at the last minute, like The Tonight Show host Jimmy Fallon.
"Jimmy, hi!" Pepper created the talk show host cheerfully. "So good to see you again."
"Looking lovely as always, Peppermint." Jimmy grinned. After a brief introduction to Georgia, Jimmy snatched up some gloves and a hair net and got to work, nestled in the food line between the celebrity Toms, Brady and Hank.
Grinning like a fox, Georgia nudged her good friend. "Jimmy Fallon calls you Peppermint. How did I not know this?"
Pepper barely suppressed a groan as she greeted an incoming family. She directed them to the drinks table before muttering to Georgia, "Oh, don't let it catch it. Please."
Her friend snorted. "Catch on? Pepper, I'm gonna make tee-shirts."
Of the Avengers family, Pepper and Georgia had the most conventional and the busiest service day. The women had to manage not only the production of the food in the kitchen and the distribution line in the eating hall, but also the steadily incoming donations of canned-foods, coats, scarves, blankets, and gloves. While overseeing the entire operation, both women also served in the food line and spent time moving about the families and individuals eating in the soup kitchen that day. They shared holiday greetings, words of encouragement and advice on other charity services that winter, and lead the room in a Christmas carol or two.
It was nearing three o'clock in the afternoon, when Georgia suddenly appeared at Pepper's side. Her fingers were a vice-grip around the strawberry blonde's arm. "Pepper. Pepper. Is that Elton John?"
"Oh, he made it! Aww, he's wearing the Santa hat again."
"Why didn't you tell me Elton John was going to be here?" Georgia hissed, seriously regretting that she didn't have her Goodbye Yellow Brick Road album with her. But Pepper merely shrugged away Georgia's over-the-top reaction. "I wasn't sure that he was coming today. It's been a few years since he's usually in London for the holidays."
"...you think he'll sign my purse?"
And so, just as Elton John was signing Georgia's purse, Clint and Natasha were signing posters and trading cards for the kids at the 54th street orphanage.
Spending the day with orphans—with kids like themselves who had grown up without or had lost their families—had been Clint's idea. He'd nearly lost an arm trying to convince his partner to go with him. The holiday season was always rough for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deadliest duo. Although things had gotten easier since Clint's marriage to Georgia, Christmas always brought up memories of the families Clint and Natasha had long lost, so the two usually actively avoided holiday reminders of their dead parents and siblings.
But, apparently, not this Christmas, Natasha thought dryly as she scribbled the words "Black Widow" on some kid's notebook.
The pair of assassins had arrived at the orphanage that morning with two SUVs full of gifts for the kids. Hasbro had just come out with a new "Hawkeye"-themed Nerf bow and arrow toy set, and Mattel had created kids' fingerless gloves, modeled after the Widow's, that glowed light blue and emitted a static noise when kids deployed the "stun" mechanism. Clint and Natasha handed out toys and played with the kids for a few hours. Well, Clint played; Natasha supervised. Then, they spent another hour or so signing anything and everything the kids could get their hands on—posters, trading cards, notebooks, tee-shirts, baseball caps, lunch boxes. It took every ounce of self-restraint the redhead had not to whip out the hand sanitizer every ten-to-fifteen seconds from the sheer among of kids stuff she was touching. She knew how much bacteria their germy, grubby little fingers carried.
But despite her internal moaning, Natasha could admit to herself that she wasn't having a completely awful day. Only a partially awful day. Besides, if the eye-wrinkling smiles were anything to go by, her partner was enjoying the hell out of himself, and Natasha guessed that made it all worth it. Oh, and of course, the kids' happiness mattered, obviously. Sort of.
Yet, despite the commotion and cheer the two seemed to inspire among the other children, there was one child, a lanky teenager, who clung to the shadows with an air of disinterest.
Now this I can handle.
Natasha cornered the boy before he could bolt. "Someone's not in the holiday spirit."
The teenager shot her a droll stare worthy of Director Fury. "I'm Jewish."
The Russian smirked. "No, you're not."
He didn't offer anything by way of reply, except the folding of his arms over his chest and the evading of her gaze. Natasha leaned against the wall to his left and followed his stare. He was watching the other kids, the other orphans, as they played merrily with their new "Avengers" toys. Maybe they were fooled by the appearance of Hawkeye and the Black Widow, by he knew better. The superheroes would be gone tomorrow and everything would be back to normal—the kids would be forgotten and alone once again.
Natasha recognized the bitter, painful tightness in the teenager's jaw. The dead look in his eyes as he tried to make himself not feel. Sighing, Natasha spoke, "Look, I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you, kid. Life dealt you a bad hand, but you don't have to be in this alone." She jutted her chin towards Clint. "We both lost our families, too, when we were younger than you are... But family doesn't just mean the people you're born to. Family's also the people you choose."
She thought about Clint—how he saved her when he chose not to kill her the very day they met. She thought about Phil Coulson—how he helped Clint bring her into S.H.I.E.L.D. and gave her a new place to belong. She thought about Bruce and Tony and Thor—the brothers she never knew she needed. She thought about Georgia—how she not only made Clint whole, but made them both her family, forcing the entire Downes clan of crazy, loving, wholesomeness onto the pair of orphans. She thought about Steve—how everyone he'd ever known had been lost to him decades ago, and how he chose the Avengers. How he chose her, and how she let him.
Natasha looked at the kid pointedly. "Hawkeye is my family because I choose to let him be. We chose a family in each other. You lost the family you were born to, but that doesn't mean that you'll never have a family again—and I don't mean that you'll be adopted one day, or that you'll marry and start a family of your own. Kid, you get to choose you who surround yourself with. You get to choose who you call family and what that means to you."
The boy was quiet for a moment, before thoughtfully asking, "What does it mean to you? Family, I mean."
The redhead started. She swallowed thickly. "It means..." She closed her mouth and glanced back at Clint. He was tucking and rolling, lazily dogging the Nerf arrows that a hoard of little Hawks were shooting his way, and Natasha felt her heart clench. He was her best friend, her brother, her partner, her father, and her savior all in one, and she loved him dearly for that. "It means doing whatever is necessary to keep the ones you love safe and happy. It means giving them yourself and not holding back, even though its the most difficult thing you've ever done."
"How do you..." His words failed him. His eyes fell on her hopelessly. "How do you know who to trust?"
How do you know who won't hurt you? Who won't let you down?
Natasha laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Time." It wasn't the answer anyone wanted to hear, but it was the only answer she had.
Nonetheless, the troubled boy seemed to understand because he nodded, gifted her the briefest hint of a smile, and joined the other orphans in the playroom.
Like Clint and Natasha, Thor and Jane were also spending their Saturday with children. That day, they had gone from room to room, from floor to floor, reading holiday stories to sick kids at a children's hospital in New Mexico. Jane's assistant Darcy had tagged along, trailing behind the couple with a cart full of hot chocolate, marshmallows, candy canes, and other nurse-approved festive treats.
Given the rich, Asgardian tradition of oral histories, the God of Thunder had a knack for storytelling—"Yeah, and a killer accent," Darcy had rather helpfully pointed out—, so the women had instantly nominated him as storybook reader. The day had started out innocent enough, but had soon spiral into what Darcy thought was a hilarious reminder that Thor was, in fact, an alien from outer space.
It all started with the Asgardian's running commentary on each of the classic holiday tales. While reading Twas the Night Before Christmas, Thor began a rather confused rant about this Santa Claus figure and the logistics of his gift-giving business. "But how does the fat man get down the fire stack? He is so large, and it is so small...I do not understand."
Then, when reading Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, he decided to teach the sick children a lesson in self-worth. "This Rudolph should not seek acceptance from others. He should learn to find worth within himself, even if his nose is so red in color. You know, when my brother and I were young..."
The god also had plenty to say about Frosty the Snowman—"I once met a man of frost, though he was not as friendly as this Frosty."—and Dr. Seuss's The Grinch—"Where is this Whoville, Jane? I would rather like to visit. Perhaps, we can bring the others..."
But Thor's confused side comments were nothing in comparison to what happened when Thor discovered the book on Norse mythology that Dr. Eric Selvig had cheekily snuck into Jane's stack. "Well, now! These, children, are tales from my childhood. Stories that I know well and which are near to my heart."
Eric had marked one of the pages with a sticky note that read, A little holiday story about mistletoe.
It was the story of Loki and Balder. Thor flashed Jane a bittersweet grin, feeling a brief ache in his chest for his brother, but the moment passed in a flash, and the thunder god smiled broadly at the circle of children. He began to read the story in his most mesmerizing delivery yet—only, he stopped a mere two sentences in. "No, no, no, " he shook his glorious, golden locks. "This is all wrong. Balder isn't our brother—I mean-" He cleared his throat. "Frigga is not Balder's mother, you see."
Clamping the book shut, Thor set the offending object aside and asked the kids, his voice so tender and full of love for his people, "Do you want to hear a real holiday story about Asgard? About the King Odin, his beloved wife Frigga, and...and their children, two boys, the sons of Odin?"
The children agreed unanimously with cheers and giggles and smiles.
When evening fell that day, all of the Avengers and their loved ones returned to the warmth and comfort of their homes, their hearts a little lighter and their smiles more genuine.
July 3rd, 2017
The Bartons were celebrating the 4th of July with a picnic at the Downes' Los Angeles beachfront home that year, and the house and yard were quietly humming with activity.
Allie, Georgia's little sister, was taking a nice afternoon stroll along the beach with her latest beau, their hands intertwined, their bare feet kicking up sand. Clint, meanwhile, was preoccupied humoring his father-in-law. The men were surfing in the little three- and four-foot waves dotting the west coast, Clint maneuvering his board over the water with all of his usual skill and grace, Georgia's father becoming more impressed by the minute. Inside, Natasha and Georgia lounged about in the Downes' family living room. Natasha was teaching her a few poker tricks, the Ellen DeGeneres show playing in the background, and Georgia kept sneaking peeks out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, not so subtly lusting after the sight of her husband in a wet suit.
In the kitchen, Georgia's mother Catherine, had just made her famous banana pudding cheesecake and was pulling the pan out of the fridge. "Well, hopefully, it's had enough time to chill now," she murmured to herself before calling for her daughter to come and make sure the dessert had set properly for tomorrow's cook out.
Georgia was off the couch and in the kitchen before the refrigerator door had shut. Then suddenly there was a spoon in her and a giant scoop of banana pudding cheesecake in her mouth. Instantly, her eyes closed in delight, and she began mewling like a kitten in the back of her throat. "Holy shit. Natasha. Nat, you have got to get in here and try this. God, it's even better than the one she made last Christmas."
With a smirk, the redhead joined her friend in the kitchen. She fished a spoon out of the drawer beside the stove and took a small bite. "Oh. Oh."
"Right?" Georgia murmured, spoon already back in the dish to take another bite. "This is good that I want to name my first born child after it."
Natasha arched an eyebrow at Georgia's excessive excitement, but nonetheless scooped up a second spoonful. She had to agree with her so-called sister-in-law. Catherine Downes made a mean dessert. Reveling in the deliciousness, she found herself echoing Georgia. "This is so good that I want to name my next alias after it."
"This is so good-" Georgia mumbled through a mouthful. "-that I want to knit a sweater out of it, and then eat the sweater while I'm wearing it."
Nat snorted. "This is so good that I want to marry it."
"Hey, hey, you two! That's for the barbecue tomorrow," called Catherine as she swept back into the kitchen. She swatted the girls away from the sweet dish, snatching it up and stowing it away in the fridge. "What were you two doing?"
Georgia shrugged at her mother. "Solving Tasha's commitment issues with banana pudding cheesecake...?"
Natasha flashed the mother and daughter a wicked grin, her lips still wrapped around a spoon.
May 7th, 2015
Steve goes to church.
He attends the service at a modest, two-story church in Brooklyn, the very church where he, his mother, and the Barnes family used to spend every Sunday morning. He doesn't go every week, but he makes it when he can and always makes it a point to attend on holidays. Sometimes, he visits the church in the late hours of the evening on certain occasions—like after a particularly nasty mission, or when he's been made to witness another brutal horror of humanity, or if he's missing Bucky or Peggy more than usual.
One such evening in May, Steve goes to church and Natasha follows.
She slips in the double doors with all the silent ease of a trained spy. She sits two pews behind him and watches. He doesn't move very much, just looks forward at the altar and eventually dips his head in prayer. When he's finished, he half-turns towards her, and she dutifully rises and joins him.
They are silent. Steve sits and reflects, Natasha observes the other late-night visitors who consult their bibles, pray, and light candles.
Darkness has fallen outside. They'll leave soon, but not before Natasha asks how.
"After all we've seen, how can you still believe?"
November 30th, 2016
None of the Avengers or their significant others are happy with the results of the 2016 US presidential election.
Natasha keeps murmuring about the potential assassination plots she may or may not be orchestrating.
Tony keeps hacking into Russia to see if Putin really did hack the election, despite Pepper's warnings to "just stay out of it, Tony."
Bruce keeps Googling immigration requirements for Sweden.
Clint keeps having to calm and cajole his furious wife, who keeps ranting with rage about the patriarchy and systematic white supremacy.
And as for the God of Thunder, Thor keeps trying to figure out just what sort of pitiful orange creature dwells atop president elect Donald Trump's head.
February 1st, 2017
Even now, Clint cannot forget the sensation of being unmade. The sensation of another presence in his mind, tinkering and toying. The sensation of an absolute lack of control. The fear. The self-loathing. Even now, Clint wakes up in the still hours of the morning, his heart hammering inside his chest, his breathing ragged and deep. He wakes paralyzed, seized by fear, frantically trying to remember that it's over. That he is himself again. That Loki's gone.
When the terror passes, he bolts to the bathroom he shares with his wife. He moves automatically to the mirror. He has to see. He has to be sure. Clint confronts his own reflection in the mirror to see if his eyes are normal. Not black. Not cobalt-ice blue. Normal.
When he sees that his eyes are his own, he nearly collapses from the relief, slumping pitifully against the bathroom counter. Time passes, sometimes only a few minutes, sometimes an hour, and despite the confirmation that he remains in control, he cannot shake the night terrors. He begins to play a game with himself. Loki is gone. You are in control. You are Clint Barton. You are a soldier and a secret agent. You are married to Georgia Downes. You are in control. At this point, he usually rises to his feet and moves quickly through the apartment in search of his stack of home movies. He selects the very first video that he ever made and pops it in the DVD player.
The video plays and he sees his younger self sitting on their old couch. "Your name is Clint Barton. You were born in Waverly, Iowa, and now live in New York City with a woman named Georgia Downes." His younger self holds up an old photo. "This is her. She's your wife and you love her very, very much..." Then he's holding up another photo, one of him and Natasha in Budapest. "This is Natasha Romanoff – the best damn assassin the twenty-first century has ever seen. She's a damn smart kid and the closest thing you have to family. You and Tasha work for a government agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. along with a team of…well, of superheroes..."
When the DVD is over, he retrieves his beloved Nikon and begins to film a new video. He sits on their new couch now, the one they bought last summer on their trip to Vancouver, and trains the camera on himself. His voice hoarse and sleep-laden, he begins.
"Your name is Clint Barton, and you have nightmares. You are a soldier. You have seen over a decade of war and battle, and you've seen it all. There are things in this world that we never knew could exist—gods and monsters and men who are more than men. One of those monsters is named Loki. He came to earth in 2012, and he broke us."
He tells the camera about his PTSD, about his triggers, about his coping mechanisms. He confesses that his learned behaviors only go so far, that on days when its truly bad only Georgia and Natasha can bring him back. He shares all of this bluntly and without shame, and when he's said all that he can, he closes the Nikon, sets it aside, and treks back to bed.
He is exhausted, and he falls into bed. Georgia doesn't wake, but she curls towards him in her sleep, and he clings to her in return. He buries his face in her hair, presses kisses to her temple, and breathes her in.
His name is Clint Barton. His eyes are not black or artificially blue. And he loves his wife with all that he is.
Allas, I'm not dead yet, and this story is still on my mind. I've already written the next chapter-two words: Santa Smut. I'll get that out before the New Year, and will continue to write for this story in 2017. I haven't decided if I'm going to incorporate the newer movies into this story. The events of Winter's Soldier and Ultron don't fit with my timelines at all, but I'm considering tweaking some of it. Would you guys like to see Wanda brought into the story as Clint's newest protege? Let me know what you think!
Also, I think I should make the distinction that while I support Bruce/Natasha more than I anticipated, I began this story with a Steve/Natasha pairing in mind and I'll keep moving it in that direction.
That second section about Christmas was supposed to just be something short and festive about the Avengers' various charitable acts, and somehow it spiraled into a massive "Tony, Steve, and Natasha get sentimental with children, Jimmy Fallon makes a cameo, and Thor is a hilarious alien." It ran away with me, but I hope you enjoyed it.
Until next time! Love!