A Gift From: franztastisch
Title: A Solid Foundation
A Gift For: paperairplanesopenwindows
Rating: T
Warnings/Choose Not To Warn: No warnings apply
Summary/Prompt Used: Clint and Nat are celebrities and news of their relationship has just leaked. Bonus points if it’s epistolary/has a social media element.
Author's Note: Only one of them is a celebrity, but I think it counts. Beta'd by the wonderful alistra <3


A Solid Foundation

‘Hollywood is a series of closed doors if you look like me, so I thought; f**k them, I’ll do it my own way.’
The Observer Interview: Director of Una M’Baku Jabari talks pretzels, casting unknowns, and what it’s like working with Natasha Romanov
Interview by Ned Leeds; Photographs by Joaquim Torres

*

“This is going to be,” Barney says as he hipchecks the door open, his arms full of Christmas shopping, “a very stupid question but,” he drops his bags on the table and leans over the back of the couch, basically forcing Clint to actually pay attention to him, “are you dating Natasha Romanov?”

Clint feels himself freeze up, his hands going still on the little house he’s building out of Cooper’s Lego blocks. “Um.”

There’s a long silence.

“See,” Barney continues, his voice carefully level, “that’s not a denial. Which makes me think that my baby brother is, in fact, dating Hollywood actress Natasha Romanov and didn’t fucking tell me.”

“Er,” Clint says, looking over to meet Barney’s accusing stare.

“What,” Barney says, “the fuck?”

Clint guppies a moment, unable to think of a single thing to say in his defence. “Wait.” He frowns, realisation dawning with mouthing horror. “How did you – ?”

“My lovely wife,” Barney says flatly, “saw you on the cover of InTouch while at the hairdressers.”

“What?” Clint’s feet, which up until that moment had been comfortably propped up on Barney’s coffee table despite Laura’s many requests to the contrary, slam down onto the floor, causing them to throb dully. “Fuck.”

Clint scrabbles under the couch cushions for his phone before remembering that Barney’s place has no signal and he’d left it upstairs. Stumbling upstairs, he almost trips over the stupid IKEA rug outside Barney and Laura’s room in his haste to reach the stairs, bouncing off the wall and the doorjamb before flinging himself into his room.

He snatches his phone from the nightstand. Eleven percent battery. Fuck. He’s barely bothered to charge the thing since he got here due to the lack of signal, but that seems like a grave oversight right now.

“Barney!” he yells as he shoves his feet into his sneakers, “where’s the nearest place to get signal?”

Barney’s reply is indistinct but Clint’s already racing back down the stairs, only narrowly avoiding stepping on his own laces and faceplanting into the floor.

“What?” he pants, phone clutched to tight in his hand that his knuckles are white. Everyone always makes fun of his shitty pink flip Motorola, but it does everything he needs of it. He doesn’t need a fancy little pocket computer, what’s the point? Apart from, right now, literally anything that actually connected to the internet would be really fucking useful.

“This really isn’t an elaborate joke, is it?” Barney asks instead of answering.

Clint stares at him. “You’d think I’d panic over someone else dating Natasha Romanov?”

“How the fuck did you even meet!?”

“Barney!” Clint almost never yells, but his phone feels like a live wire in his hand, the cracked plastic of its casing slippery in his sweaty palm, and he’s fairly sure he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. “Signal?”

“It’s Natasha Romanov, Clint!” Barney says, throwing his hands wide. “I think I’m allowed to ask!”

“I installed her kitchen,” he replies shortly, figuring it’s easier to just answer the question so they can move on. “Now where can I get fucking cell reception?”

“But – ”

“Barney.”

Barney blinks at him. “Down by the lower barn,” he finally says, and Clint has to work very hard not to slam the front door closed as he leaves.

*

BREAKING: Red Room Hottie Natasha Romanov Spotted In Brooklyn With New Squeeze! Click For Exclusive Photos!

*

His phone starts going mental as soon as he gets in range, vibrating fit to burst in his hand before finally going silent. Jesus. Thirty seven missed calls and ten text messages. He feels like he’s got off lightly with only ten texts until he notices that one is the automated message telling him his inbox is full and he needs to delete older messages before more can come through.

The earliest ones were sent over twenty four hours ago. Fuck.

Clint sighs and scrubs his hand over his face, staring vacantly at a line of leafless trees in the distance before taking a deep breath and reading through the only messages he cares about; the ones from Natasha. They mostly consist of apologies and are clearly written by someone whose days of inbox and outbox limits were left behind sometime in the mid-2000s, but he’s comforted by her familiar language and her obvious concern for him, apparent even in such short messages. While he dreads what will happen when he frees up space in his inbox, he nevertheless dutifully clicks through anyway, emptying his inbox in one fell swoop only for it to fill again immediately with a flood of texts from mostly unknown or withheld numbers.

Shit. His phone number is on the little website Kate made for him.

Shit. Kate.

He scrolls through his inbox, ignoring any texts from unknown numbers which ends up being basically all of them. There’s one from Bucky though – saying simply ‘call me if you need anything’ – and one from Kate saying she’ll look after Lucky for as long as he needs and that Simone is on the offensive with the paparazzi outside his building. She doesn’t say ‘call me’ but Clint will anyway, as soon as he knows what’s going on and if he needs to do anything other than probably hide out on his brother’s farm for the rest of his natural born life.

There’s also more from Natasha.

Nat <3
Maria’s working on damage control
Don’t talk to anyone
We need a strategy
Fuck Clint
I’m so sorry I’ve landed you in this
I know you hate this kind of thing
Please, please call me
Please Clint
Wait, does your brother even have signal where he is?
Fuck.
I’m starting press junkets now. Call Maria when you get this. She’ll help.

There’s an LA phone number attached. Clint wants to ignore it and just call Natasha, but if she’s in press junkets there’s no point right now. So with a sigh he sits down on a discarded tractor tyre propped up against the barn and slowly plugs Maria’s number into his phone. The ringtone as the call connects is tinny through his shit speaker.

He’s never met Maria. He’s never met a lot of the people who keep Natasha Romanov The Brand going because he’s never had any reason to. He’s got nothing to do with Hollywood, or acting, or general celebrity life. The only reason he even met Natasha was because he’s known Bucky since he moved to New York and when she asked for someone reliable to fit her kitchen, Bucky recommended Clint. So Maria is a name he only really knows in passing and from one intense over-the-phone grilling that resulted in an NDA. She’s Natasha’s scarily efficient PA-slash-agency-rep who gets Natasha where she needs to be at the right time and in the right outfits. She’s got about as much to do with Clint’s life as Tony Stark.

The ringtone cuts off abruptly, replaced with a terse, “Hill.”

Clint’s guessing that’s Maria’s last name.

“Er,” he says. “This is… Clint Barton? Natasha said to call you.”

There’s a clatter and a thump on the other end and then Maria says, “Oh thank Christ, where the hell have you been?”

“There’s no cell reception here.”

“Where the fuck are you?” she demands. “Siberia?”

“Iowa,” Clint replies curtly, stretching his legs out and looking out over the green fields of Barney and Laura’s farm. “I’m home for Christmas.”

He always gets defensive when people sound like they’re going to disparage where he grew up. He gets it in New York all the time; people talking like coming from the Midwest automatically makes you backward and dumb and Republican.

“Right,” Maria says. “Natasha mentioned something like that.” There’s more sounds like shuffling paper. “So,” she continues, because apparently that’s the extent of the introduction he’s getting, “I’m guessing you’ve seen the news.”

“Not really.” He tips his head against the side of the barn and stares at the eggshell blue sky instead. He should have brought his coat, it’s fucking freezing outside. “My brother just said I was on the front of… InTouch?”

Maria makes an exasperated noise, though whether it’s due to InTouch or Clint being severely behind the curve, he’s not sure. “Yup. And you’re all over the internet; Just Jared, Twitter, MSN News, you name it. The photos aren’t incriminating but they’re… clear.”

Dread curls in Clint’s stomach. “Clear as in how? And where were they taken?”

“Clear as in you’re easily identifiable,” Maria says. “And Brooklyn. Specifically; Luciano’s Pizza.”

“Ah fuck.” Poor Luciano. Clint hopes this isn’t fucking up his life too bad. He thought it would be nice, taking Famous Natasha Romanov to his favourite family run pizza place, but now he’s worried that he’s brought all manner of trouble down on their heads. And his own, apparently. Fuck.

“Well, brace yourself,” Maria says, matter of fact, “because it gets worse.”

“How?” he asks warily.

“You’ve been doxxed.”

*

F**K @ colin1831
#NatashaRomanov slumming it. Is anyone surprised? :eye_roll: :eye_roll: :eye_roll: http://www.intouchweekly.com/posts/natasha-romanovs-new-squeeze

Mischa @ mischaaa
Not gonna lie, the guy’s kinda cute tho. Surely he could find a better job than builder, right? #NatashaRomanov #IdTapThat

MAHV371 @ MAHV371
He’s a BUILDER!? AHAHAHAHA! How porno was their first meeting, do you think?? #NatashaRomanov

MAHV371 @ MAHV371
“Heard you need something screwing hard” :splash:

:tongue: :tongue: :tongue: @ tastyprincess
the hammer is my penis #NatashaRomanov #DoctorHorrible

Drama Llama @ noxx_the_llama
#NatashaRomanov gets her downstairs kitchen fixed :joy: :joy: :joy:

Read more

*

Hours later and Clint had done everything Maria had asked of him. He’d removed his phone number from his website, promised not to post to social media (not that he had any), and given permission for someone (Bucky) to secure his apartment. He’d also given her the password for his emails so they could be turned over to some poor intern who’d screen them, separating out the valid requests for kitchen fits from the opportunistic tabloid hacks. He doesn’t envy that kid their job.

So now, with nothing better to do than maybe setting up a new email address not in any way linked to his name, he’s sat on the couch using the family tablet to doomscroll through the Natasha Romanov hashtag on Twitter because apparently he hates himself.

He’s reading through replies to someone called ‘MAHV371’ when Laura’s voice cuts through his numb horror.

“Stop it Clint.” She sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Even I know Twitter’s a cesspit, and I’m a butcher’s wife.”

After reading pages of tweets denigrating his chosen profession, Laura’s self-deprecation grates on Clint like a broken nail. He tears his gaze from his borrowed tablet to frown at her.

“Hey, you’re not dumb,” he says.

“And neither are you,” she shoots back. “That,” she nods at his screen, “helps no one. And,” she continues, barrelling over Clint’s attempts to defend himself – though using what arguments he doesn’t know because she’s so clearly correct, “you’re supposed to be picking Cooper up from the Barlow’s, don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Something like ice slides into Clint’s gut. What if they know? What does he do if some farmer’s wife confronts him about his relationship with a famous and weirdly divisive Hollywood actress? Something of his worry must slide across his expression because Laura sighs and sits beside him, the click of her mug on the coffee table oddly loud in the silent house. Last few days of school before Christmas. Clint should be enjoying the quiet while he can.

“I doubt they know, and I doubt even more that they care.”

Clint looks at her a moment, then sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “This is so messed up.”

There’s a rustle of fabric and then Clint tilts into the weight of Laura as she sits down beside him. “Hey,” she says, rubbing a comforting hand down his back. “We’ll work it out.”

Clint sighs again but doesn’t reply, and they sit together in silence for a while, the tablet lying discarded on the couch cushion beside him with its screen reflecting the ceiling like a dark mirror. Her presence beside him is comforting, the repetitive motion of her hand on his back doing wonders to calm the hamster wheel of his brain. Clint can’t help but feel a swell of affection for her and all the support she gives him.

Eventually he sits up, and Laura’s arm falls around his waist to give him a little squeeze. In return, he presses a kiss to her hair.

Barney sometimes likes to joke that Clint is trying to steal his woman but the truth is much more mundane. Clint and Laura were in middle school together and close enough friends for Clint to be both thrilled and weirded out to be introduced once again to Laura some years later, this time as Barney’s girlfriend. She’s good for Barney though, softening his rough edges and cooling his easily flared temper, and she positively blooms under his awkward affection. It’s sweet really; Clint would never have imagined Barney falling for someone like Laura but they just work together so well. He’s not sure he’s ever really known his brother to be truly happy before her. And their relationship meant that Clint could rekindle his and Laura’s friendship, something he’d never even thought to want after moving to New York. So yeah, she’s as much his friend as she is Barney’s wife, and maybe that’s odd to other people, but it works for them.

“Is she worth it?” Laura asks eventually.

Clint thinks of Natasha’s perpetually falling off socks, of her unguarded laughter and unpretentious home, and the answer is so obvious that he feels silly ever doubting it.

“Yeah,” he says.

*

Reactions to Natasha Romanov’s Potential New Partner Manage to be Both Misogynistic and Classist, and Are We Even Surprised?
By Michelle Jones
Editor, TheMarySue

*

Laura gives him her old iPhone. It’s battered and needs charging every five minutes, but it has a number no one back in New York knows and it connects to the internet, so Clint can WhatsApp Natasha between her press junkets and his uncle duties.

Clint might, begrudgingly, understand the appeal of smartphones. He can video call her on this thing. They haven’t managed yet, because life’s a bitch, but he could.

It’s been four days since the news broke. He hasn’t bothered to go back to the lower barn for signal and he has been banned from going on Twitter by Laura, so he’s not really sure what the world outside Barney’s farm thinks about it all. Not that it matters all that much; he has more important things to do right now.

“No, Lila-baby, don’t put that in your – shit.” Clint swoops in at the last moment to pull the handful of pulpy leaves away from Lila’s mouth.

“Shit!” Lila repeats happily, pressing her grubby hand to Clint’s face instead.

Clint refrains from cursing again only through supreme self-restraint, instead catching Lila under her arms and hauling her into the air, making her shriek with delight. He rests her on his hip and sets off again, pointing out trees and odd rocks and anything else even vaguely interesting as he goes.

He’s looking after her for Laura, who’s has to deal with some very tardy contractors on the farm and needed her out of the way for a little while. And, as Barney’s at the shop and Cooper’s getting hopped up on sugar (probably) while celebrating the last day of school before Christmas, Clint decided that, despite it being fucking freezing, bundling Lila up into her cute winter coveralls and taking a walk through the woods by the creek would be a great way to pass the time. More fool him though, because he’s spent most of the time preventing the world’s most curious three-year-old from putting various unsavoury things on her mouth.

“Bird!” Lila cries, pointing at something in the trees.

“Yeah, Lila-baby. Bird,” Clint replies, watching a crow take flight with a mournful sounding croak. “Well done.”

Lila grins at him and then launches full tilt into a garbled explanation of something, her voice loud and animated, her fist tight in his hair.

On a whim, Clint pulls out his new-to-him phone to take a selfie. He’ll send it to Natasha once he’s back within Wi-Fi range of the house. Laura’s already said it’s okay to send her photos and Clint likes that he can share this with her. His childhood was so messy and painful that he clings to this; this ability to be a good uncle, to help provide stability for his niblings.

Plus, now that he can, he sort of wants to send Natasha photos of everything; Barney’s dogs, the ancient John Deere in the barn, his old archery trophies that Laura found in the attic. It’s nice. For all that he hates how their relationship went public, he likes that he doesn’t have to lie to Barney and Laura, that he doesn’t have to hide. Before, it was only Bucky and Kate that knew about it; Bucky because he essentially introduced them and Kate because someone had to look after Lucky when Clint was away. Wanda and Pietro didn’t know, Simone didn’t know, none of his family knew. Everything happened in either Natasha’s Manhattan apartment or in the hotels and restaurants Natasha insisted on paying for. It should have felt secretive and clandestine, but it mostly just felt unexpectedly exciting; like something from a movie. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it had worked for almost a year and Clint had been prepared to make it work for longer.

It’s only now that he realises how tightly they’d drawn the circle around themselves, how much of a restriction that had been. It hadn’t felt like it before because they both had jobs to work around but, now that the holidays have given Clint the time, he realises just how much he wants to spend it with Natasha and just how much he doesn’t want to hide. From his friends and family at least; the press can go hang for all he cares.

He hitches Lila higher up his hip.

“Smile, Lila-baby,” he says, tilting the phone up for the best angle and Lila, by now well versed in selfie etiquette, tilts her head into his and grins big.

He pressed the button and the obnoxious fake shutter sound rings through the wood. He looks at the photo and smiles. There’s him in his hat and scarf, nose red and eyes startlingly blue, and Lila, grinning, hair wild and face dirty.

He turns and head back, Lila bouncing happily in his arms. Yeah, it’s a good photo. He’ll send it to Laura and Barney too.

*

From The New York Times
Una Tipped For Oscars Glory
M’Baku Jabari’s Debut Feature Film Already Making Waves

From Vogue Online
See Photos from the New York Premiere of the Hotly Anticipated Una
Coverage by Janet van Dyne, Photos by Peter Parker

From Just Jared
Natasha Romanov Dazzles In Oscar De La Renta, But Where Is Her New Man?
Natasha Romanov Stuns in Custom Gown at Una Premiere but New Man Clint Barton is Nowhere to be Seen

*

“I liked the photo of you and Lila.”

Natasha's face is laggy and pixelated, and her voice weirdly distorted. Laura’s iPhone might be new to Clint, but it’s definitely an old phone.

Clint grins. “She’s cute, isn’t she? Poor kid got Barney’s ears though.”

Natasha’s laugh comes a little delayed, but the sound makes Clint practically giddy with joy. He hasn’t heard her laugh in almost a week. It’s far too long to go without such a beautiful sound.

There’s a jerk on Natasha’s end, the picture jarring, and for a moment all Clint can see is her ceiling, the light fitting he fixed and the top of her curtain rail. Then she’s back, sitting on the couch this time, her hoodie pulled up to her mouth like a teenage delinquent.

“How was your thing?” Clint asks, propping his borrowed iPhone against his coffee mug.

It’s how he usually asks about her projects. He’s learnt, from her and Steve and Sam, the pattern of Hollywood film making – studio meetings and rehearsals, filming and post-production and press junkets – but he’s never pretended to care overmuch. He wants to know his friends are happy and fulfilled; he doesn’t need to know what George Clooney said to Alicia Vikander or why such-and-such producer is on thin ice.

He has a feeling it’s why Natasha and Steve and Sam like him; he’s not interested in their fame.

“It was fine,” Natasha supplies. “Exhausting.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Unsurprisingly. The film’s good though, and I really think you’d like M’Baku. How about you?”

Clint shrugs, dismissing the question. He needs to know. “But no one gave you shit?”

Natasha frowns, clearly confused. “About what?”

Clint opens his eyes wide, his entire expression saying you know what.

“Oh, that,” she says, soft and fond and maybe a little sorry. “Not really? The press are briefed beforehand on what they’re allowed to ask and most outlets we were talking to weren’t the type to care anyway. Plus we put out a statement which appeased most people it seems. It’s not news, really, outside the internet.”

“You put out a statement?” Clint had no idea.

“Yeah, Clint. On my Instagram. Respect my privacy blah blah blah. Did Maria not tell you?”

Clint hasn’t been back to the lower barn for signal and his email is still in the hands of whichever unfortunate intern Maria palmed it off on. He’s only spoken to Maria that one time. She sounded like she had everything under control and didn’t need more of Clint’s input, so he’d left her to it. It’s her job to deal with shit like this after all.

“She told me I’d been doxxed,” Clint says, fiddling with the corner of one of Cooper’s drawings left abandoned on the table. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Natasha grimace at that but he continues before she can do something stupid like apologise. Again. “And to take my number off my website and to hand over my email password so someone could screen my inbox. Then she said she’d handle it.” He shrugs. “So I let her handle it.”

Natasha smiles at that. “No wonder Maria likes you.”

“She does?” he asks, baffled.

“Keep hold of that one, Romanov,” Natasha says, and even Clint hear the resemblance to Maria’s brusque, no nonsense manner. “He takes direction well.”

Clint blushes bright red and Natasha laughs delightedly.

“But seriously Clint,” she continues, sobering slightly. “Don’t worry. Maria will make it so no one can bother you and then you’ll be able to continue as you were. I’ll have someone pick you up from JFK when you land on Wednesday and bring you to mine, but past that, I think we’ll be okay until we can make it official, as it were. A picture on Instagram or something. Maybe on New Year’s.”

“So I don’t have to… Do anything?”

Natasha shrugs. “Not yet. It’ll die down eventually. And even after that, you don’t have to. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” She grins then. “Though I wouldn’t say no to getting you into a tux for some fancy event.”

Clint grimaces at that. He honestly can’t think of anything he’d enjoy less. He knows people who love that shit but Clint can’t muster any enthusiasm for it. He’s not even sure he has dress shoes any more, not since Lucky chewed the pair he bought for Viz and Wanda’s wedding. “Yeah, no. I’ll pass thanks.”

She smirks and takes a sip of wine. “Shame,” she says.

Clint searches her pixelated face. She sounds teasing, comfortable, but… Maybe she does want him to come to a premiere with her. Who would want a partner who doesn’t want to be involved with the important events in their career? But the idea of going makes him feel panicky and anxious. He’s fine with holding court, with being the centre of attention. But with his peers, at a bar or a cookout, not surrounded by people whose weekly income is more than Clint makes in a year. Rich people kinda make him itch. But it’s Natasha, so maybe –

“Clint.” Natasha gentle voice cuts through his impending anxious spiral. “It’s okay, I promise. We’ll do what you’re comfortable with and nothing else, yeah?” She waits until he nods – more as an indication of trust than anything else – before blessedly changing the subject. “So, I’ve been thinking about New Year and you better buckle up, my friend, because I have plans.”

*

From The Sunday Times Review
‘A triumph of small scale filmmaking and the drama of the everyday’
Una
:star: :star: :star: :star: :star:

‘The musical equivalent of both a hangover and it's cure’
Leaving Las Vegas
:star: :star: :star:

‘A fitting tribute to a literary titan’
Being Ursula
:star: :star: :star: :star:

*

Speaking to Natasha relaxes something in Clint. A formless anxiety he was only peripherally aware he was carrying lessens. It also helps that he finally gets his act together and traipses back down to the lower barn, this time with a better coat, to check the messages on the Motorola and to call Maria again.

Maria reiterates what Natasha told him; it’s less bad than it could be. Apparently the release of both Natasha’s movie, and the press for some highly anticipated movie musical that’s due to be released the day after Christmas, has pushed him from people’s minds. Apparently the only reason it hit so hard in the first place was because all his information was easy to find thanks to his little work website.

She suggests a work phone and a work email address with the patient air of someone explaining something to a particularly dumb child.

There’s also a text from Wanda, in amongst the unknown and withheld numbers, and Clint feels a flash of guilt for not contacting her sooner. I hope you’re okay, it says. Call me when you can. He transfers her number to the iPhone and video calls her on WhatsApp as soon as he gets back to the house.

Talking to Wanda also turns out to be good. Unlike Bucky and Kate, she hadn’t known about Natasha until the news broke, and Clint can hear the vague sense of hurt in her voice when he explains himself. But she’s also understanding and accepting, having clearly decided to approach this from a “Clint has a new girlfriend” angle, rather than a “Clint’s girlfriend is a Hollywood actress” one. She teases him and tells him to being Natasha over sometime, using the same tone he knows she uses on her brother.

She makes it a non-issue and it’s such a relief that Clint could kiss her.

“You really do worry too much sometimes,” she says with a laugh. “It’ll be fine.” She gives him a sly look. “Pietro wants to be introduced to Yelena Belova though.”

“Of course he fucking does,” Clint says with a roll of his eyes. “Tell him I don’t know Yelena Belova.”

Natasha does mention her occasionally though; they worked together on Red Room and were both repped by the same incredibly questionable child talent agent when they were younger. The way Natasha tells it, Yelena was the only person worth keeping in touch with. And thankfully, the agency has since folded.

So things are a little easier now. Clint’s fallen into a pattern now Cooper’s finished school; he gets until about eleven to himself, and then he’s on uncle duty until Barney gets back from work, leaving Laura to work uninterrupted on the farm.

Not that looking after the kids is necessarily easier.

“Again!” Lila yells, delight evident in every molecule of her being. “Again Clint!”

“You’ve watched it three times, Lila. Don’t you want to watch something else?” Clint would certainly like to watch something else.

“No! Again!” She grabs for the TV remote, randomly smashing buttons until Clint pries if out of her hands. “Again again!”

“It’s going to rot your brain.”

“Again!”

“Jesus fuck,” Clint mutters under his breath. “Fine.” He navigates out of whatever weirdass thing Lila accidentally set playing and selects Bear and Duck again. “Gonna die hearing this fucking song.”

Lila screams in delight as the theme music starts up again and Clint almost buries his head in the couch cushions. This show is the worst.

They’re about ten minutes in, Lila tunelessly sing-yelling along with the musical numbers, when a call comes through on the iPhone. Clint scrambles for it, desperate for any kind of distraction, swiping Accept only half registering that it’s Natasha calling.

“Hey you,” she says when the call connects, voice soft and fond.

Clint’s reply is almost wildly desperate and from the little image of himself in the corner of the screen, he can see he has a bad case of crazy eyes. “Kill me now.”

Her expression falls, a frown marring her lovely face before she clearly recognising something of what she’s hearing and bursts out laughing. “Are you watching Bear and Duck?”

“Oh my god Natasha, it’s the worst. She’s obsessed and I am going to die with these f-” he cuts himself off just in time. “These fudging songs in my head. We’ve watched it three times already and I’m just about ready to smash the TV.”

Lila yells “Neat!” along with the goddamn bear on the TV and Clint contemplates justifiable infanticide.

Natasha’s grin is entirely without sympathy. “Aww, I think it’s cute.”

Clint glares at her. “It’s not cute; it’s rage-inducing. Clearly you need to spend more time around toddlers.”

“Poor baby,” Natasha coos.

In lieu of swearing at her like he really, really wants to, Clint gives her the finger. Natasha just laughs.

“Why are you stuck watching Bear and Duck anyway?”

Clint sighs and collapses back onto the couch with a groan, uncaring of the fact that Natasha can probably see up his nose now or something. “Like I said; she’s obsessed. And I’m a good uncle.”

Lila yells, “Bubbles!” as the stupid goofy giraffe appears and Clint winces.

“This has to be the last time I let her watch this. It’s awful.” There’s more delighted shrieking as some other stupid animal appears and Clint sighs heavily. “Anyway, hello.” He gives her a small smile, sitting up properly again so he can see her better. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Steve is having a shower and Peggy and Bucky have gone to the store for food.” She shrugs. “I was bored. And also I miss you.”

Something in Clint’s chest feels alarmingly soft at the casual admission, but he tries to cover it with an exaggerated aww. “You miss little old me?” He clasps his hand to his chest. “Oh my. I’m swooning.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Natasha replies, laughing. “God, you’re so annoying.”

“Naw, you love it.”

Natasha makes a see saw motion with her hand. “Eh,” she says. “Debatable.”

Clint sticks her tongue out at her. God, he’s been spending too much time around children. “How was the flight?” he asks.

Natasha’s spending Christmas in the UK, at Steve and Peggy’s place outside of London. He’d actually been invited, but Christmas at Barney’s is traditional at this point and he doesn’t want to break it until Lila’s able to actually remember him from one year to the next at least.

“Long. Fine.” Natasha waves her hand. “It’s just rolling hills and tiny country lanes here. I feel like I’m in an Austen novel. The house is really nice though.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

“And Bucky’s already planning Christmas dinner. Steve’s been banned from the – ”

The front door slams open and there’s a yell of, “Uncle Clint!” which is all the warning Clint gets before an insanely energetic six-year-old slams his entire weight into the back of the couch and shoves a handful of battered mushrooms right under his nose. “Look what I found!”

“Cooper!” Laura scolds from the door. “Shoes!”

With practiced ease, Cooper ignores his mother. “Look!” he insists instead, shoving the mushrooms still closer. “Mom says we can eat these ones!”

“Cooper, buddy. I’m on the phone.”

Cooper squints at the tiny, laggy image of Natasha lit up on Clint’s borrowed iPhone. He frowns. “Who are you?” he demands, momentarily distracted from his mushrooms.

“Don’t be rude, Coop,” Clint admonishes, just as Natasha replies, “Hi Cooper, I’m Natasha.”

Cooper contemplate this a moment, before clearly deciding the mushrooms are more interesting. “Uncle Clint, help me make mushrooms!”

Clint sighs. Clearly talking to Natasha will have to wait. At least frying mushrooms for dinner will get him away from fucking Bear and Duck though. He can’t goddamn take any more of that shit. He shoots Natasha an apologetic look, but she just waves him away with a smile, mouthing ‘it’s okay’ at him.

Clint nods. “Okay, Coop. I’m coming. Just let me – ”

“Cooper Barton!” Laura’s voice cuts through the room. “What have I told you about shoes on the – oh.” Laura cuts herself off, clearly recognising Natasha despite the smallness of the iPhone screen.

She shuffles a little, acting very un-Laura-like, and there’s a brief silence punctuated only by Lila warbling along off-key to Bear and his song about fucking rainbows. Then Clint decides fuck it. They can’t be weird about this forever. Yes, Clint is, incredibly, dating a celebrity, but she’s also just a person.

He looks down at the image of her, dressed in a chucky knit cardigan, small and pixelated on his phone. Looks back at Laura, raising an eyebrow almost in challenge.

“Hey,” he says. “Stop being weird and come say hi to Nat.”

*

Liked by jbb, dr_mj, mmmbaku :tick: and 414,363 others

natasharomanov :tick: #HappyChristmas everyone! And thank you for making this year such an amazing one. Looking forward to a year full of exciting opportunities and good friends. Like this guy! I highly recommend spending Christmas with @ steverogers and the lovely @ mscarterqc. Food to die for!! And the eyecandy’s not bad either :heart_eyes: :heart_eyes:

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kaytee_2003 Brazil loves you Natasha!!!! :brazil: :brazil: :brazil:
steverogers :tick: Why are you tagging me, I’m literally sat next to you
tayto638 Yasss queen!!! Looking :fire: :fire:
_witchbitch Can’t wait for #TheRainHeron next year!!
rogersismyking daddy vibes are STRONG today :heart_eyes:

*

“He’s asleep.” Laura’s voice is soft as she makes her way back to the couch and Barney’s side.

“Oh thank Christ,” Barney sighs, shifting over so Laura can curl into his side. “He’s as bad as you were, fussing and complaining.”

Clint cracks an eye, fighting against the warmth and fullness and contentment that’s threatening to pull him into sleep despite it being barely half past nine. “Like you remember me when I was five.”

Barney gives him a contemptuous look. “I was ten, of course I fucking remember. You were a little shit.”

Clint snorts. He probably was, to be fair.

It’s Christmas evening. Presents have been opened and Christmas dinner eaten and now, thankfully, the kids are in bed. Clint’s sprawled on the recliner after a whole day of corralling his niblings to keep them out of the kitchen while Laura and Barney cooked, thoroughly enjoying the fancy artisan beer Barney got him.

“Hey Laura, you want a drink?” He could probably rouse himself to get her a gin or a whiskey or something. She’s worked hard today. She deserves it.

Laura hums, leaning against Barney’s shoulder, her fingers hooked between the buttons of his shirt.

“Is that a yes?” Clint asks with a smile.

Laura hums again and Clint grins. It sounds like yes to him, so he hauls himself out of the recliner and slopes his way to the kitchen to get her a gin and tonic. If she doesn’t drink it, Barney will, so it’s not like it’ll go to waste.

“When is it you’re leaving?” Laura asks when Clint returns. “Wednesday, right?”

“Oof,” Clint deposits the gin and tonic into Laura’s waiting hand, “want rid of me already?”

“Always,” Barney replies with a grin, dropping a suggestive kiss on Laura’s head. She elbows him in the stomach in reply making him grunt out a pained laugh.

“No. I just want to know. Cooper’s got a playdate with that Jamie kid – ”

“Little shit,” Barney mutters.

“ – and I was just wondering if you’d be able to take him or not.”

“When’s that?” he asks, collapsing back into the recliner and grabbing his beer once more. “And why?” Three days after Christmas is too early for doing things.

“Tuesday,” Laura takes a sip of her gin before relaxing back into the couch. “And because Jamie was getting some” – she waves her hand vaguely – “thing for Christmas, and Louise thought Cooper might enjoy it too.”

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, should be fine.”

They lapse back into silence and Clint stares vacantly at the lights on the tree, at the fire burning in the hearth. That’s the good thing about living out in the country; you can have shit like open fires. He misses that; it’s nice and way more Christmassy than Clint’s own space heater. Even Natasha doesn’t have an open fire, posh as her place is, though she has a fancy gas thing that’s almost like an open fire. It’s behind glass though, so it’s not really open at all. Still, it’s better than a space heater.

Wait, Clint’s a joiner. He could fit his own nice gas fire.

Huh. There’s an idea.

“You celebrating New Year’s with Kate again?” Laura asks suddenly, knocking Clint from his musings on how much a gas fire would cost and whether or not his building is set up to take that kind of flue.

Clint doesn’t reply, but his attempts at stoicism are undermined somewhat by the fact that he can’t quite fight back the smile that threatens to take over his face. Natasha has very detailed plans for their New Year’s celebration.

Laura hums knowingly as she takes another sip of her gin and tonic, like Clint’s confirmed something she already guessed at. Barney, on the other hand, has that half constipated expression on his face that he only gets when he doesn’t know how to react to something. Clint’s fairly sure he wants to make a dirty joke, the crass type that is both insulting and unfunny because that’s exactly the type of person his brother is, but he’s holding back because he’s learned better. Or at least because he knows Laura will scold him if he does.

Lucky for him, Laura comes to his rescue. “How did you two meet, anyway?”

Laura already knows that he fitted her kitchen, so what she’s really asking is, how did you become the kind of person who fits kitchens for celebrities.

“You remember Bucky?” he asks.

“Menacing guy with the hair?” Laura replies, making Clint snort out a laugh.

“Yeah. Well, he’s – ” What’s the best way of describing what he does? “He’s basically Steve Rogers’ bodyguard” – there’s more to it than that, but that’s essentially correct – “so he knows Natasha. One day she was apparently asking around for reliable joiners,” Clint shrugs, “so he recommended me.”

Laura and Barney boggle at him, both of them apparently now far more awake than they were only moments before.

“You know Steve Rogers?” Barney demands.

“Not… Really?” Clint shifts, puts his now empty beer down. “I know Bucky. I’ve met Steve, like, twice.”

“You’ve met Steve Rogers.” Barney’s voice is now flat with disbelief.

“Like, twice,” Clint repeats. “In passing.”

Admittedly, one time was more than just in passing, but Clint was so drunk at that house party than he barely registered that Steve was there past (apparently) very seriously telling him how much he enjoyed his character in Crowthorne. Which was embarrassing because Steve wasn’t in Crowthorne.

“What the fuck. Steve Rogers? That’s wild,” Barney says. “Who else famous have you met?”

Clint’s casts around, unsure as to why Barney’s so intensely interested, though he’s got a suspicion that it’s mostly to do with the amount of beer he’s had. There are a lot of bottles of the coffee table now. “Sam Wilson?” he offers. Sure, Sam Wilson isn’t as big as Natasha, and definitely not as big as Steve, but his TV show about a VA centre has been an awards darling for two seasons. He’s still pretty famous.

Barney frowns. “Don’t know him.”

“Yeah you do,” Laura cuts in. “He’s the guy from Missing Peace.”

Barney frowns down at her. “The military thing?”

“Yeah, the VA one. With Claire Temple and,” Laura waves her hand, “you know, whatsherface.”

“Princess thingy on – ?”

“No, no, not her.” Laura snaps her fingers. “You know, whatsherface. With the legs.”

Barney looks to Clint for help, but Clint has no fucking clue who they’re talking about. Sam’s nice and all, but Missing Peace sounds super depressing and he doesn’t need that in his life. He watches Dog Cops and The Office.

He shrugs.

There’s a long silence, the kind you only get when people who have drunk more than they probably should have are thinking really hard about something really insignificant. Then, “Pepper Potts!” Laura suddenly cries, smacking Barney on the chest. “She’s Pepper Potts. You know, with the legs.”

Barney lets out an Oh of realisation. “Yeah, I remember now. Great fucking legs.” He sounds almost wistful. “You know her, Clint?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nope, sorry,” he says. He’s honestly not sure he’d even recognise her if he saw her. Is she the one who played the secretary in that noir, or the one who’s dating Tony Stark?

“Shame.” Barney takes a long pull on another newly opened beer, “She’s gorgeous. Though,” he continues, and Clint’s just thinking he’ll need to be cut off soon when he says, “Romanov’s not bad either. Great fucking t--”

“Barney,” Laura hisses, just as Barney snaps his mouth shut, cutting himself off abruptly like he’s just realised he’s not only talking about a random celebrity but also Clint’s girlfriend.

There’s a slightly stunned silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the grate.

“Sorry,” Barney says after a moment, placing his beer on the table and deliberately scooting it out of his own reach. “That was…” He trails off, clearly unsure how to finish that sentence.

It’s weird, is the thing; dating Natasha Romanov. Clint spent about two months convinced it was some kind of joke. Shit like that doesn’t happen to normal people. So he gets Barney’s confusion, his inability to marry this new information with what he already knows. Perhaps if Clint was a personal trainer or a stunt guy the cognitive dissonance would be less. But he’s not; he’s a joiner from Iowa.

“It’s okay,” Clint says eventually, because it is, mostly. Barney wasn’t being mean. “I found it weird at first too.”

Barney shifts uncomfortably, that way he does whenever he has to deal with emotions. “Yeah, but…” He trails off again, clearly at a loss as to how to explain himself, and Clint feels a sudden rush of fondness for his brother.

Barney’s changed so much since he was a shitty teenager. And sure, some of that is thanks to Laura, but most of it is just him. Him realising that his kids deserve a better father than he had. Him realising that moving with the times doesn’t mean erasing the past. Him realising grumpy old men in Waverley bars don’t hold a monopoly on opinion. He’s crass and bullheaded and emotionally constipated, but he’s trying.

And, well, it’s not like Clint’s not all those things too, sometimes.

“Hey,” he says again, as gentle as he figures Barney can deal with. “It’s okay. I promise.”

Barney looks unsure but nods once, probably more as a means of quickly ending the conversation rather than in any kind of agreement.

But then, because neither of them are capable of leaving well enough alone, Clint grins and says, “And it’s not like you’re wrong; they’re great fucking tits,” and watches in satisfaction as Laura bursts into raucous laughter while Barney turns bright red.

*

lemon yellow @ lemonyellow
Just met nromanov in central park with a dog?? :heart_eyes: :heart_eyes: :heart_eyes: #HappyNewYearToMe

DO LITTLE @ eliza33
SHE HAS A DOG?? #ConfirmedDogPerson

lemon yellow @ lemonyellow
She was with some guy. I think the dog was his.

:pride_flag: @ haileybell
She has a GUY!? My wife, why would you do this to me?? :sobs:

so homo @ matimatmat
if it’s that builder guy then I DON’T BLAMER HER. that guy is :fire:

Read more

Natasha Romanov @ nromanov :tick:
It was lovely to meet you, @ lemonyellow. And I can confirm that the dog is not mine. He *is* a good dog though. #CatPerson

lemon yellow @ lemonyellow
OH MY GOD!!! :blushing: :blushing: :blushing: