A/N: My new favorite thing is baby Natasha. That is all.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any of the related rights.
Clint woke up because someone had kicked him in the stomach.
He started to tell Barney that, for the last time, this was not his bed and he couldn't climb in the covers every time it was cold because Barney slept like a maniac and threw punches just as often as he snored—but it wasn't Barney.
The kid was maybe two. Maybe. All red curls and chubby cheeks, and she was wearing what looked like an oversized purple tee shirt with a bird symbol on it. And she was sleeping soundly curled up in Clint's side.
He looked around and realized he didn't know where he was, which was rather unsettling, but he had a kid to keep track of, so he tried to sit up carefully and quietly.
This room was much nicer than any room he'd ever had, though it definitely looked like he could have lived there. Pizza boxes everywhere, video games stacked in the corner and half fallen over, and a dartboard in the corner. Some bandages and a makeshift aid station and a whole lot of archery stuff, too.
Clint pulled himself carefully out of the bed and covered the little girl in the blankets. He was wearing something similarly purple and bird-y, though it was a few sizes too big, and Clint looked for the closet in this place, thinking maybe he'd find a belt.
He passed a mirror and was surprised to see that he hardly had a scratch on him. He felt sore, like he'd just been compressed or stepped on or something, and everything hurt like it was brand new and not used to being used, but he looked fine. Well, you know, a little acne across his forehead, but that was about it.
He found a belt hiding in a whole lot of discarded arrows that looked probably too dangerous to be discarded and hitched up the pants. It didn't look like there was much else to wear around this place. He tried the door and the windows, but those were locked down pretty good, and he was trying not to wake up the sleeping kid, so he settled for a game of darts.
He heard someone at the door and gathered up three of the darts he hadn't thrown yet—they were at least pointy enough to do some damage—and made a break for the bed. He didn't know where he was or who was keeping him there, but there was a kid in play, and she didn't deserve to get kidnaped.
A tall, blond guy who dressed sorta like the American flag walked in, and Clint went right for the eyes. Guy had good reflexes, though, and he brought up a huge shield to deflect the dart. Clint aimed between the knees and then immediately for the eyes again, but the guy was fast. Unnaturally fast.
Clint looked around the room for something else he could use as a weapon and grabbed one of the bows propped up in the corner (those bows seemed to be the only thing in this place that hadn't been thrown around haphazardly). He held the bow out like a bo staff, ready to go down swinging. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How'd you get me here?"
The blond guy sighed heavily but kept his shield up. "Hey, Clint. I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."
"Nice to meet you," Clint said, keeping the bow out in front of him. It was heavier than he'd expected, so he wasn't quite sure he could draw it, but anything that would make a good blunt instrument was preferable to nothing. He tried not to think about what it meant that the guy already knew his name.
"Clint," Steve Rogers said carefully.
"Stay back," Clint said, trying to sound more dangerous than he felt, but the effect was kind of ruined when his voice squeaked. (He was definitely glad Barney wasn't around to hear that. Barney seemed to think Clint-going-through-puberty was pretty much the funniest joke anyone'd ever told.)
"Look, we're trying to figure out what happened to you. If you can remember anything—"
Ah, okay. Figures. Steve Rogers looked like some kind of uniform. Something must have happened last night when he and Barney went out to hit the mall and grab some new shoes (Clint was fast outgrowing his, though he was still shy of five feet tall, Barney was always reminding him), and uniforms got involved.
"Look, I was just hanging out with my brother," Clint said. This was easy—the lying part. "We thought maybe we'd catch a movie, and then next thing I know—wham!—I'm in a room with some kid and a guy with a weird patriotism fetish."
Steve Rogers flushed a weird color, but only for a second. "And that's it? You don't remember being in a building that collapsed three hours ago?"
Clint raised both eyebrows. "I think I'd remember something like that." He would have said more, too, but the little redheaded girl woke up, looked around, and immediately started crying.
Clint and Steve Rogers looked at each other, and Clint figured it was probably his job to do something about the crying girl. Figures. He crossed the room in a couple strides, sat down next to her, and swooped her up into his arms. "You're okay," he said, bouncing her on his knee. "We'll figure out where you belong and get you home in no time."
Steve Rogers didn't look so sure about that.
The redheaded girl babbled something in a language that didn't sound like English, but she reached her chubby fingers up to Clint's hair and started to play with his face anyway, pulling at his ears and his cheeks and giggling contentedly.
How had he gotten himself into this mess?
Clint shifted the redhead into his other arm and away from his face so that she instead grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and tugged on that instead. "So, if a building went down, what am I doing in this place?"
"Well, we couldn't break into Natasha's room, and Tony's scared of what might happen if she gets back to normal and we've broken the door down, so we figured we'd just put you two back in your room—"
"My room?" Clint narrowed his eyes. "I don't live here. You've got the wrong guy."
"I wouldn't be so sure." Steve Rogers looked Clint over. "Hope you don't mind we showered you off and got you into some new clothes. Bruce volunteered to help—said it would probably be a little less embarrassing for everyone involved."
Clint felt his entire face flush.
"We had to get that dust off of you. The more you inhaled, the worse you got," Steve Rogers said. He almost sounded apologetic.
The redhead gurgled at him and reached up for his hair. Clint pulled his head carefully out of harm's way and stood up, starting to hand her over to Steve Rogers. "Well, we're all cleaned up and better now, and I've pretty much told you all I know, so I appreciate the help, but my brother's waiting for me—"
"Clint." Steve Rogers put his hand on Clint's arm, stopping him in his tracks with strength that normal guys just didn't have.
Clint pulled out of the guy's grasp. He wilted for just a moment of defeat, then handed the bundle of energy over to Steve Rogers. And while she reached right up for his hair to play with, Clint dove for the door.