The shortest of the parts, and the last of Clint's.
5.
"Clint?"
He bolted awake at the sound of Natasha's voice.
"It's time," she said, and he didn't hesitate, just sprung into action, going through the motions of the plan they'd laid out weeks ago in preparation for this moment. He helped Natasha change out of her damp clothes and into something clean, and grabbed the go bag. Scanning the room for anything he might have forgotten, he led her out the door to elevator, calling for a car even as the metal doors slid closed.
Natasha was calm for the ride to the hospital, only showing any sign of discomfort during one especially nasty contraction, and even that she weathered by breathing a little deeper and gripping his hand.
He, on the other hand, was the one panicking, the one who had trouble keeping it together. Wasn't the driver going to slow? What would happen if they didn't get there in time? Couldn't they go a little faster? You know, if you took a left here, they could probably cut at least two minutes off the drive . . .
And so it went.
Later, Clint wouldn't remember much of this night, just images really, flashes of frenzy interspersed with lapses in action that bordered on the boring.
He did remember, however, with crystal clarity the moment that he first heard his daughter squawk, a thin, piercing wail as the doctors suctioned her nose and swaddled her. He remembered the press of her slight weight in his arms as they handed her over to him. He remembered the way he looked down at her reddened, raisin-like head sticking up out of the blanket, and the way his heart shattered into a thousand pieces before being reformed from the love he felt for this perfect, pointy-headed creature.
And when the doctors finally finished with Natasha, he'd brought their daughter over to her and laid the tiny form gently on Natasha's chest and watched the two of them relax into each other, learning each other from a different angle. He would never be sure how long he spent there, staring down at the pair from his perch on the side of the bed, just as he would never be sure when he'd started crying, but he knew that he did because at some point someone shoved a tissue into his hand. And it was so absolutely fucking perfect that he was pretty sure he would never recover.
He didn't want to.
Eventually, real life intruded on their nest, and Natasha started to fall asleep, tired out from the exertion. He took the baby from her then, dropping a kiss on her forehead as she nodded off. He stepped out of the room for a moment to look for the doctor (superheroes got private rooms, apparently, even in crowded hospitals), and he discovered the rest of their team in various states of wakefulness had made camp right outside the door. Though it was well outside of visiting hours, he had a feeling no one had figured out how to say no to the Avengers.
The baby in his arms made a mewling, smacking noise, and Steve and Tony shot to their feet, followed almost immediately by Thor and Bruce.
"Hey, guys," he said, but he hadn't really planned this part, hadn't thought that he would have to do this yet. "Uh, well," he stammered, then shrugged, feeling an overwhelming surge of parental pride. "Meet our daughter."
And as Steve clapped him on the back and Thor offered his congratulations, Clint was pretty sure that he'd never been happier.