fic: like you for always 3/5
The kid’s got to be getting close to getting sprung from her canister and frankly, Clint cannot wait. He likes Bruce’s lab well enough but he’s starting to feel hemmed in, as though he’s been on edge too long, restless to just take the shot that ends the mission, whatever happens.
Clint knows himself well enough to know there’s nothing anyone else can do about it, this is the sort of thing he has to clear up on his own, but he’s not sure how to go about it.
He’s pretty sure he can’t tempt the kid out into the world with, like, ice cream or cheeseburgers or a chance to hang out on the roof.
It’s really fucking frustrating, actually, worse still once Bruce starts sending him out to get some air so the other two can work and Tony figures out what’s going on.
Clint is going to hear nesting jokes for the rest of his life. The really sad thing is, he can’t even blame Tony; he’d be making them, too.
Then, out of nowhere, there’s Natasha stalking into Stark Tower’s living quarters like she fucking owns it, greeting Clint like it hasn’t been two long and restless months.
::
“Fury had me out on assignment,” she says, and Clint hears what she doesn’t say, her requests to be kept busy and Fury’s endless list of ways to accommodate her. She’s a little tanned and her hair is longer but she’s still exactly who and what he expects of her.
Still short and sharp with Tony, skeptical and baiting, still a little circumspect with Bruce. She greets the news that Pepper’s out of town as though it disappoints her but she settles herself at Clint’s side like that’s where she belongs and for a little while, he pretends it’s true.
It’s like getting his old family back.
Phil hangs between them, a name neither can quite say aloud yet, but when Natasha leans into him easily, laughs at Clint’s version of their latest prank war, Clint can’t help thinking Phil would approve.
“How long can you stay?”
She shrugs a shoulder elegantly. “They want us back in three days, but you know how that is.”
Three days off in their line of work is very rarely three full days. Chances are pretty good she’ll be called away early and there’s part of Clint that expects to go with her, because hell, that’s how it tends to go. Hands down his favorite missions have been him and Phil and Nat somewhere and as he remembers it, most of those didn’t come with a lot of notice.
Thing is, that’s not his life now. Isn’t supposed to be, anyway. “‘Us’?” he parrots, tense already.
“Sorry,” she says and she sounds it. “They have me training up a new team.”
“Replacing us already?” he jokes. Fuck. Tries to joke. He knows it’s gone badly by how soft and careful Nat’s eyes look, how very fucking gentle she’s about to be with him, but there’s not much he can do to call it back. “What would Coulson think?”
That gets the softness out of her eyes, at least but fuck, it’s still stupid.
“I think he’d be proud,” she says, and she sounds so certain of it, Clint just knows.
Fuck Clint’s life, he’s been replaced by Captain America. There’s nowhere for him to go back to now even if he wanted and shit, it’s not like Clint’s the perfect soldier.
“How’s that working out for you? Cap treating you right?”
“Of course. He’s not you, so it’s different, but no concerns yet.”
There’s more to the story, of course - there always is with Natasha - and Clint’s pretty sure she’d tell him at least some of it if he asked, but he finds he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to hear how easily she’s moved on.
::
Having Natasha around changes things, because she doesn’t like the lab and Clint knows he’s going to miss her when she takes off on him again, so for the first time in recent memory, Clint’s not in the lab much, either. He gets in a few hours while she’s working out, one eye on the clock so she won’t have to come down to find him, and he tells himself - and Flip - that he’s not skipping out on her.
He’s just…doing adult things. With his best friend in the whole world, who’s trying to be happy for him - probably - but who still doesn’t want to hear about it.
Funny, he thinks, that the things making them both the happiest lately are things they can’t share without hurting each other, poking at old wounds, but it’s never been a given he’d have Natasha that close forever.
If anything, it’s been a fluke he’s had her this close, this long.
And it’s different now but it’s not impossible, they’ve dealt with unshared secrets before, they can work around this if they want, so Clint feels guilty leaving Flip alone in her canister in her corner of the lab but he thinks he’d feel worse if he lost Natasha. He’s not…He can’t have her thinking Clint’s trying to replace her with the kid.
So Tony rubs his palms together gleefully and says it’s an excellent time to start working on Flip’s musical education, and Bruce just shakes his head fondly and promises to make Tony behave, and really, they’ve all agreed this is good practice for everyone, that Clint can trust the other two to canister-sit for him for a few days.
::
It’s been a while - too long, maybe - since Clint’s been properly out on assignment and having Natasha back just underscores how very rusty his skill set’s getting kicking around in Stark Tower like this.
She hikes a brow at him that just says spar and he doesn’t even think about it, he just grins and does, and not terribly long later, he’s flat on his ass, achingly contorted and wondering what the hell just happened.
Natasha helps him up, offers a hand and a carefully neutral look, and Jesus, either she’s gotten a lot better at this while she’s been away or he’s gotten a whole lot worse. He thinks unhappily that it’s probably a bit of both.
Cap’s been good for her, he thinks, but he’s not thrilled about admitting it.
“Getting old on me, Hawkeye?” she asks, because she’d never call him soft, but he knows what she means.
He means to say he’s going easy on her, a welcome back sort of thing, but instead, he hears himself say, “Had to happen sometime.”
They can’t all be genetically enhanced warriors, and Clint’s only ever just been himself.
“Again?” he blurts, clapping his hands to pump himself up, and the way she doesn’t look at him when she nods, he knows she’s going to go easy on him this time.
He has the uncomfortable sense he couldn’t keep up with her in the field, and maybe he’d have to work a little harder to get back up to her standard, but he finds he doesn’t want to make it a priority.
Not like he’ll need to disarm Natasha in three moves or less while he’s on Flip duty, anyway.
Once he gets over the fact that Nat’s going easy on him -- not her natural state at all -- he feels like it settles into what he remembers. He’s not trying to prove anything to her, doesn’t really have to, and she’s long past proving herself to him, so it’s an awful lot more like playing than either one of them will ever freely admit.
Master Assassin Twister, he thinks as she flips him again and he hooks a foot behind her knee to bring her down right along with him. Master Assassin Twister is pretty fucking awesome, all things considered.
::
Clint limps upstairs and wonders how much more he can do this shit to himself without turning into the old fart who can tell when rain’s coming by the ache in his dodgy hip; a little more, he thinks, but not nearly as much as Natasha needs from him.
Still, it’s good to have her there, flushed and pleased and familiar, bumping his shoulder with hers as they walk because Nat does most of her talking non-verbally, sneaking little sidelong looks at him like there’s the best secret bubbling up just under her skin, keeping pace and baiting him because they’re both in that mood.
They’re in the living room, holding mugs of coffee they’re both pretty much ignoring and having the sort of quiet Clint’s only ever had with Nat and Phil and Bruce, when Nat breaks the silence with a question more loaded then either one of them seems ready to admit.
“So if you’re not training, what have you been up to?”
She probably figures he’ll have another round of prank war stories for her, only he doesn’t. For a moment, he lets himself forget. “Not a whole lot, really. Bruce keeps me pretty busy in the lab.”
He even grins at her, gets a knowing look in return, because it’s no secret between them how Clint gets around pretty, personable scientists. Nat was there for the Bobbi Morse disaster and all the random hook-up mistakes Clint made in the aftermath.
“Really,” she hums, pursing her lips slightly in thought. “Is that what that is?” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Fury told me you were on assignment.”
“I am and I’m not.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Hasn’t really started yet, you know? But he’s...yeah. It could be. Will be, I think. Hopefully.”
She’s wary, but she wouldn’t be Natasha if she wasn’t. “Should I have a word with him?”
Clint laughs, nerves and relief. “Not really there yet, I don’t think. But thanks. I’ll let you know?”
::
“I don’t know what Fury said, if he mentioned...” She looks away, can’t quite meet his eyes until she’s braced herself. It takes her a deep breath and a stolen moment before she can. “I talked to Phil about it before Loki, a little. Not much, I didn’t want details and I still don’t, but enough. He knew where things stood and I’m not sure you do.”
Talking to Natasha is always more about body language than it is about words, so Clint notes the unsteadiness in her tone, the resolve in her posture, and nods for more. It’s Flip, it has to be, and she doesn’t think he’ll like what she has to say.
Not that he needs to hear it, but he thinks maybe she needs to tell him for her own reasons and hell, he can sit through whatever if it helps. “He didn’t say much, really. Just mentioned paperwork and said Phil asked for me. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m not involved. I can’t be, and I don’t want to be.” She gives him a heartbeat to let that sink in, not that he needs it. “I’ll sign whatever you need, say whatever needs saying to whoever needs to hear it, but that’s it. At the end of the day, Clint, I don’t want any part of this and that’s not going to change.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he says, and knows it’s only almost right as soon as he hears the words. “Nat, I don’t expect a damned thing from you. Not...You sign the birth certificate so the kid’s all nice and legal, sign custody over to me so no one gives me grief about it later, and that’s it.” He has to look away from her then, rolls his eyes to cover how unsettling this is, him finalizing plans to remove Natasha from what’s clearly going to be a big part of his life. “Hell, Nat, I wouldn’t even ask that much but it’s not like anyone’s going to believe I just grew her on my own.” He takes an unsteady breath of his own. “Flip needs a mother but I think we both know all that has to be is a name on a form somewhere.”
It’s a low blow, reminding her of their less-than-stellar parentages, but it’s a necessary one.
“And you’re all right with that?” She’s still so tentative. Clint fucking hates that. “Coulson seemed pretty sure I’d change my mind eventually.”
Clint snorts. “We both know you won’t. Look, I get it. Kids, roots, a family, that’s not your thing. Didn’t think it was mine, either, but maybe...” He shrugs again, hopes it hides how deeply this matters. “It’s working out, right? I’m happy, you’re happy, things are good? So who am I to start fucking with that now?”
Natasha sags like all the air’s gone out of her. Takes him a moment to be sure it’s relief. Christ, she really did think Clint was going to expect some sort of maternal instinct to kick in.
And because he knows this is it, the point where their longstanding partnership turns into little more than memory, he can’t help but add, “Don’t you fucking dare be a stranger,” voice rough with intent.
And even when she lays a hand over his and swears she won’t, eyes bright and smile warm, it still fucking feels like goodbye.
::
It’s almost a relief when she leaves. Not a good one, not really, but it’s a chance to start getting used to the new normal and without Natasha there to tie Clint to his past, he gets to hide out in the lab, let Bruce and Tony try to draw him back into how things were before she showed up to break his heart.
The guys let him get his sulk on -- Tony actively encourages it and Bruce is so sweet, so gentle when he leads Clint to bed -- for almost a week. Then there’s a change in the hum Flip’s canister makes and Tony fires up with science and not terribly long later, the canister’s hissing open and Bruce is playing obstetrician, lifting her carefully out of her canister and putting her through her newborn checks before he hands her to Clint.
And maybe Clint’s said a lot to her since she showed up in his life, maybe he’s covered more with Phillipa Nicole Barton than he has with all his SHIELD-appointed counsellors combined, but this is the first time he gets to talk to her while he’s got her in his arms and that makes it new.
Makes it feel like they’re starting from scratch.
“Hey, baby,” he tells her tiny, scrunched face, brushing a careful thumb over her soft little cheek. “Hi.” She squirms a little, shifts in her blanket and lodges a knot of disbelief in his gut. Christ, she’s here. She’s here and she’s perfect, there is not one single thing about her Clint would change, and all he can get out for a moment is a few babbled his, utterly entranced by how she responds to his voice. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and “hey, Flip” and finally, finally, “So in case you’re wondering, I’m your Clint, okay? You need anything, ever, I’m your guy. Deal?”
And she doesn’t make any noise or look at him or anything, but she curls sleepily into his chest and lets him hold her while his world rights itself.
::
“Okay, kiddo, here’s how it’s going to be,” Clint says, glancing around to make a show of scene control, then again to make sure no one’s watching him pull this shit with an infant. “You’re still, you know, sorta on the small side so tragically, no trip to Vegas. I know, I’m disappointed, too.” He waits a beat, realizes he’s waiting for her to laugh at the punchline, and wonders exactly how long it’s going to take before he’s one of those impossible assholes telling everyone who gets caught all about their kid’s bowel movement.
He silently promises Flip he won’t ever care. Shit any colour you like, kid, he thinks, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t say it aloud.
“So Uncle Tony is down in his workshop fu-messing around with his freeze ray or whatever, and your…Pepper was real clear we’re not allowed to go bother him unless we’re sure nothing’s going to explode. So no go there. Your Uncle Bruce is doing, I dunno, science again, and I’ve got an override code, so we could totally go see him, but he gets a bit…shaky still. About you. Not your fault at all, promise, he’s just like that around new people.” Clint eyes her, finds her making a face that’s both very serious and ridiculous, terribly close to blowing spit bubbles or something.
“Yeah, I hear you. He’ll grow out of it, though. Just you wait and see.”
He taps his fingers lightly on her belly. The spit bubbles disappear; her little limbs wave. Clint decides that’s happy baby and soldiers on. He snaps and points at her. She bats at his fingers. Fuck what the baby books say, she is so aiming. “So looks like it’s just you and me, huh? It’s cool, though. We’ll be fine. Right? Of course we will.”
He rubs her belly again, drags a finger up to stroke over her tiny chin, her little nose. Her big eyes widen at the touch. Seriously, screw the baby books, man, this kid is already extraordinary.
“Ordinarily I’d suggest a movie but I’m guessing you wouldn’t see much of it in your car seat.” He touches her nose again, taps it gently to watch her react, her little toothless mouth moving like she can’t find words, her little hands waving and tensing again as though she’s trying to work out how to catch and hold his hand. “That’s right, that’s your nose,” Clint says, delighted by her all over again. “Pretty awesome, huh?” That is definitely smiling. Clint can’t help smiling back. “So movies are out and TV’s boring - don’t tell your Uncle Tony I said that, okay? - our best bet’s probably laundry.”
He decides the little foot-waves then are kicks of protest, thumbs gently over her nose again to make them stop. “Yeah, not real fond of that one myself,” he confesses. “Not even my turn in the rotation.”
Hanging around Avengers Tower by himself this time mid-morning comes with its own routine for him; if Flip weren’t tucked in her car seat baby carrier thing, looking up at him impatiently, there’d be no question at all what he’d be doing with his time. He’s sure there are lots of reasons this is a bad idea and he trusts the people around him to ‘correct’ him in detail later, but none of that matters at the moment.
If they didn’t want her to do Clint-ish things, they shouldn’t have left her with him, he figures, and he cocks a brow at her, issues an invitation he doesn’t issue often. “Firing range time, you think?”
And because she’s taken to lolling her head around like she’s been wiggling limbs, Clint figures that’s a yes.
::
“You sure you don’t just want to hire a nanny, Legolas?” Tony’s making faces at him over coffee and Clint’s so bleary-eyed, he can’t even really tell what they are. Clearly Hydra’s real plan with Flip was to kill Clint slowly through sleep deprivation, he thinks, and fuck, he is going to hate himself so much for cracking jokes about that later.
Tony’s still talking. Clint’s trying to remember why blinking is such a bad idea. He knows it is, he’s sure it is, but his eyes are burning and his eyelids are so heavy. Clint could nap right here at the table. Shit, it’s probably still early; it probably wouldn’t be too weird.
Something starts banging viciously to his left, startling him awake. Oh God, it’s Flip. Awake again and making some sort of do-a-thing-for-me-now overtures.
It better not be a diaper change. Those things are complicated enough as it is.
No. She has a spoon. She is armed now, someone armed her, the banging is just going to go on forever unless he takes it off her.
“You know what? I’ll just get Pepper on it.” Tony’s, fuck, Tony’s already got his phone out and he’s talking to JARVIS about Miss Potts and Clint knows that’s as bad an idea as the blinking is.
He mumbles a protest and tries to wave Tony off as he moves in to coax the spoon off his little monster, who’s looking far too pleased with herself for Clint’s sanity. “C’mere, baby, you kept me up all night, that is not a fun noise right now, okay?”
She looks up at him as though she’s startled by his audacity. Part of him wants to delight in her attitude already, his kid takes no shit from anyone; part of him wants to thunk his head down on the table and maybe catch a nap. Clint’s run long missions before, gone without sleep for extended periods and held his shit together. He’s never been this bad, but he’s not exactly working off the adrenalin rush of a life-or-death situation now.
It occurs to him belatedly that Flip is in her high chair, that there’s nothing that looks like Flip food anywhere in sight and that tired as Clint is, he might well have slipped into the chair beside her to fasten her safety straps.
He wonders how long he’s been sitting here doing nothing, then wonders if he really wants to know. Probably not.
“Come on, Pep, you should see him,” Tony says, waving wildly in Clint’s direction and getting all excited into his phone. Clint doesn’t even understand how excited works right now. “He looks like a Romero extra. It’s terrible. He was drooling on my table.”
Wonderful. Now Tony’s pouting.
“Potts, the guy needs help. No, I don’t care, you don’t need maternal - What? There has to be a service out there somewhere and if not, we’ll start one.”
Clint groans. “Stark, wait, what are you doing?”
“Getting you a nanny, Katniss, so you stop looking like you’ve just crawled out of the Walking Dead.”
“No!” Alarm wakes Clint up, leaves him better able to re-orient himself. Christ, this lack-of-sleep thing sucks. “Christ, Stark, this whole thing is eight different kinds of classified. Hell, even I don’t have clearance to cover this, let alone some nanny whatever Potts pulls out of the Yellow Pages.”
Tony moues. It is not adorable.
“Barton, you drooled on my table. You’ve been dragging your ass for days and it’s not getting better. Can you really tell me you can keep this up?”
“I have to,” Clint says simply. “What choice do I have?” Flip’s palms thump against her high chair tray. Jesus. “She’s not going to stop needing shit just because I’m sleepy.”
“Which is my point, yet I don’t feel I’ve made it. Huh.” Tony’s distracted again, distancing himself. Clint wants fucking Jedi powers to get Flip’s breakfast going. “So what is it she needs?”
Clint stares balefully through one burning eye, pretends the eye he’s got closed is completely intentional. “Just shit, Tony. Food, bottle, soother, diaper. Blanket or…Just stuff.” Clint snorts at himself, gives up his delusion he’s managing parenting to tell Tony straight. “At this age, it’s pretty much all fetch and carry anyway.”
And that, apparently, is what gives Tony his first bright baby-raising idea.
::
“Uh, I don’t think this is the best idea ever,” Clint says warily, trying to keep an eye on Tony without bumping into anything or upsetting Flip. Tony’s already tried to cover Clint’s eyes and lead him into the workshop but Clint’s had to put the kibosh on that, because Flip is physically attached to him - hands-free mode, fuck yeah - and Clint remains leery of Tony’s workshop in general.
Tony wouldn’t mean to hurt her, Clint knows he wouldn’t, but that workshop explodes pretty damned regularly; that is not a safe place for babies.
Tony waves off Clint’s objections, though, urging Clint forward with a hand on Clint’s back, almost vibrating with that smug excitement that comes when he’s invented something. Clint is almost afraid to ask.
“You’re worrying about nothing, Momma Katniss,” Tony promises, grand as ever, and Clint glares at him, glances questioningly at Bruce.
Bruce just shakes his head sadly, bites down on a smile. That is not encouraging, but it is adorable. And hell, Clint figures, there’s no way Bruce would let him in here with Flip if it was too dangerous. Bruce is good like that; Bruce looks out for her, even if he keeps his distance.
“Keep it up, Auntie Tony, and I’ll aim her your way when I burp her,” Clint mutters.
Tony only sputters indignantly a little.
“The baby’s not a weapon, Hawkeye,” Bruce tut-tuts, still battling that smile, and God, the man’s gorgeous. “And don’t worry. Tony might wet himself from excitement before he gets around to showing us why we’re actually here but I’m pretty sure JARVIS helped him with the planning.”
Tony snaps and points at Bruce as he rounds his workstation, heading for the herd of bots that tend to chill out in the corner. One, the mechanical arm Tony insults most often, whirrs to life and approaches, puppy-eager.
“Mister Stark’s plan is 69.74 per cent his own doing,” JARVIS says. Clint hikes his brows and looks at the ceiling. “I merely assisted with optimizing safety protocols.”
“That is a lot of safety protocol,” Clint points out, but Tony’s back to ignoring him, fussing with the mechanical arm bot, keying something in on his tablet and muttering science. “Well? We’re here? What’s up, Stark?”
Tony waves him off again, bats a hand over his shoulder and says, “Working here, quiet now,” with familiar impatience.
“So on a scale of one to what-the-fuck, how much do you think we’re going to regret this?” Clint asks sotto voce, sneaking another look at Bruce.
“Baffled amusement,” Bruce answers, as though that’s a point on the scale. Actually, knowing Tony, it probably is.
Clint takes that into consideration. “Blackmail potential?”
“Oh yeah,” Bruce agrees. “Pretty high, I’d think.”
Clint lets out a slow breath. “Well, that’s something.”
Then the mechanical arm’s whirring up again, making sounds Clint wants to call happy and maybe excited, and Tony’s turning back with a victorious look.
“A-ha!” Tony declares, holding his arms out to present his own majesty. “O ye of little faith. Come, non-believers. Bask in my brilliance.”
The mechanical arm’s moving in on Clint. Waving its pincher claw at him and spinning it as it whirrs. Clint wants to take a few giant steps back and stick Flip behind him, just in case this is some sort of AI incident waiting to happen. There’s a running bet at SHIELD that Tony’s going to actually make Skynet at some point and from the way he looks now, that time may have arrived.
“Um, what are we basking in?” Bruce asks.
“Stark, that thing gets any closer, I’m shutting it down.” Clint is okay with Tony’s Skynet potential for himself but not when he’s got Flip strapped to him. That shit is just not okay.
Tony looks crestfallen, then almost plaintive. “Dummy won’t hurt her. That’s why he’s got his safety protocols. Dummy, stop for a minute? Barton’s getting squeamish.”
“Squeamish about what, exactly?” Clint asks.
“Tony,” Bruce cautions. “We talked about this. You can’t make things for people and not tell them what it does. Remember?”
Tony blinks. For a moment, he looks like a little boy.
“Squeamish about what, exactly?” Clint repeats steadily. “Tony, what did you make?”
“Not make, reprogrammed. Barton, meet Dummy. He’ll be your new nanny.”
The mechanical arm - Dummy - whirrs again, soft and almost plaintive. Clint has definitely spent too much time with Tony Stark if he’s projecting emotional responses on the bot herd but he’d swear the arm is, well, responding. Emotionally. Fuck.
“My new…nanny,” Clint repeats, trying to make it fit somehow, but of course it doesn’t. Tony Stark and technology means sometimes feeling three steps behind, but Clint’s getting used to that. Thinks maybe they all do, the people Tony actually lets into his life.
“You said it’s all fetch and carry at this age. Dummy’s a great fetcher. It’s his favorite game.” Tony sounds…fond. Of his bot. “He’s pretty good at the carry, too.”
“Stark, he’s not human,” Clint points out, and the dimming enthusiasm - dammit, Tony - pulls out of him, “No offense, little guy. The baby books don’t exactly cover this and I’m trying to keep her safe, too, you know?”
The mechanical arm flaps its claw twice and beeps softly. Clint refuses to ascribe any emotional reaction to it.
“You’re right,” Tony says, and something’s put that mad genius gleam back in his eyes. “Dummy’s not human. He’s better. He won’t hurt her, he will protect her, and he doesn’t need sleep. He can check on her in the night or if you’re doing something, and if he has to, he’ll have JARVIS find you.” Tony’s gone quiet now, almost pleading Clint to understand. “He can make bottles and find toys and do laundry. He…You can watch him at first, set your parameters and work the bugs out, but he’s everything you said you want in a nanny and none of the things you said you can’t have. So…” Tony shrugs. “Happy birthday?”
It’s not Clint’s birthday, not even close, but Jesus, if any of that’s true - and it would be, coming out of Tony Stark’s workshop - then holy shit, Clint’s life just got easier. A lot easier.
“You serious, man?” The prospect of not doing laundry - or, hell, maybe not changing diapers - is unreal, a utopia Clint is not expecting. The prospect of actual sleep…Yeah. Okay. Okay, Clint can do this.
::
Dummy actually makes a decent nanny once Clint’s got the bugs worked out. There’s a whole awkward moment where Clint thinks maybe Flip’s going to be afraid of it - him? Clint doesn’t know, man, Dummy - and he’s having projection problems again because he thinks maybe Dummy’s nervous, too, but it all goes pretty smoothly, really. Dummy cranes in its-his hand-claw thing in a way Clint ways to call tentative or, shit, skittish, and Dummy’s whirring softly at her, moving slowly so Flip has time to react.
Flip just blinks up at it, eyes so bright it hurts, and waves-kicks her baby limbs all happy-delighted baby.
Dummy hesitates again when Flip bats out at it but then Flip’s laughing, definitely delighted baby, and she makes a coaxing coo Clint has never heard from her before that spurs Dummy back into motion.
Jesus Christ. His kid’s still an infant and she’s already a total, shameless flirt. With Tony’s bots, God help him.
“Flip, that’s Dummy,” Clint says, and has to clear his throat. He glances up at Tony to threaten him into ignoring the blackmail potential and finds Tony just as nervous as Clint feels, straining not to do anything that might break the moment.
Clint can’t tell if Tony’s nervous for Flip or Dummy or what; realizes he’s being ridiculous, because obviously it’s both.
At the sound of Clint’s voice, Flip’s turned her delighted baby on him, wiggling and trying so hard to grasp Dummy’s claw as though she means to show him off.
“You like him, baby? Good, because he’s going to help me out sometimes. Right, Dummy?”
Dummy whirrs again, which startles Flip and sets off a round of happy baby kicks again. Clint knows babies this age aren’t supposed to be this responsive to their surroundings but fuck the baby books, man, this kid is.
“Dummy, fix her sock?” Tony asks, and he has to clear his throat. Clint feels better when he hears it.
Dummy does, moves its crane-hand thing to catch the edge of Flip’s baby sock and nudges it a little higher on her ankle, slips it back on her foot where she’s kicked it loose.
Flip takes that as a challenge, maybe, because she kicks it down again. Dummy fixes it and, well, Clint can see where this is going.
“Nah, Dummy, it’s good. She’s fine. Thanks, though, buddy.” And yeah, Clint feels ridiculous talking to a bot like it’s a person but, well, he doesn’t want Flip to grow up thinking Clint’s left her to a machine.
Not when all available evidence says she’s been touch-starved so long.
“What about her soother?” Tony asks, and Clint realizes Tony’s trying to do that parameters-setting, bot-testing thing. Huh.
Clint nods. “Yeah, that works.”
“Okay. Dummy, find her soother?”
Dummy does.
Clint doesn’t even have words for what he feels when Flip takes her pacifier from her nanny-bot, except that relief isn’t even the half of it.
::
Dummy’s not perfect, though. Tony shrugs and says there’s a reason the bot’s name is Dummy and Bruce mostly just raises his eyebrows and keeps quiet until Clint holds a demonstration of what he’s calling the diaper bug.
Because Tony’s programmed Dummy to do all sorts of things - and really, Clint is unbelievably fond of the laundry and the bottle-making parts - but diapers remain a complete disaster no amount of troubleshooting seems able to correct.
The first diaper Dummy puts on is so loose, it slides right off her when Clint picks her up. Clint decides that’s a good thing, better than the alternative, but only once he sees what the alternative is. He’s glad in retrospect that he’s cornered the bot for practice on a watermelon, because Christ, that fruit just explodes.
Tony says that’s not even possible, he wouldn’t have programmed Dummy to behave that way, but Bruce points out the experiment’s repeatable under similar conditions and, well, the long and short of it is that Dummy can’t do diapers.
“It’s okay, D,” Clint says tiredly, patting Dummy’s claw. “I sucked at them in the beginning, too.”
And clearly Clint’s been drinking the Tony Stark kool-aid or some shit because when Dummy whirrs this time, Clint swears it sounds grateful and appeased.
::
When Clint goes to the firing range with Flip, Dummy follows him, carting the diaper bag of shit Clint’s baby books think Flip needs to haul with her, whirring happily when Clint sets Flip up in her baby carrier so Dummy can help her rock.
::
The sleeplessness situation gets a little better with Dummy around to help but Clint’s still living with a pair of scientists and Pepper Potts, which makes three determined workaholics, and whatever AI wizardry makes Dummy so determined to take care of Flip also covers Tony.
Clint thinks maybe that’s how Tony knew what Dummy could do, but he never asks. Instead, he has a word with Dummy one day while they’re in the kitchen trying to handle some sort of lunch, asks if Dummy would mind keeping an eye on Bruce and Pepper, too.
Flip’s got Clint and always will; he’s grateful for Dummy’s help but she is Clint’s responsibility and she always will be. Still, Clint can’t haul all his workaholics to bed on time or make sure they eat properly - these are big concerns with his scientists but he’s noticed Pepper pushing herself, too, when she’s around - but Dummy totally can.
Dummy takes his new assignment like a boss.
::
Bruce finds him while Clint’s getting his ass kicked at chess, because Dummy has skills Tony forgot to mention, and it says something about life in Stark Tower that Bruce apologizes to Dummy for the interruption and offers to come back later.
Flip’s sleeping now, though, a slump of quiet baby in the Jolly Jumper thing Tony’s ‘tweaked’, and Clint’s done enough of this parenthood thing to appreciate the opportunity that presents.
“No time like the present,” he says, grins at Bruce in gratitude for the reprieve, and pats the table twice to draw Dummy’s attention off the game. “Mind giving us a minute here, D? Promise, you can kick my ass again when we’re done.”
Dummy whirs and chirps, as close to Tony’s trash talk as Dummy gets, and Clint rolls his eyes fondly as Dummy waves him off.
Bruce looks amused. He’s leaning back by the door, arms folded patiently across his chest, and he watches Clint like there’s still some mystery to figure out there. Relative to the whole rest of Clint’s life, he’s an open book in Stark Tower but sometimes, he swears Bruce sees something to sort out.
It should be irritating, the lack of trust when Clint’s giving this emotional vulnerability thing a try, but it’s not, maybe because Clint thinks it’s not Clint Bruce doesn’t trust.
“Does Tony know you two have teamed up on us?” Bruce asks, mild.
Clint shrugs. “I tried teaching him dirty limericks but apparently he doesn’t talk. Loses the sting if it’s all just whirring, you know?”
“Dirty...?” Bruce blurts a laugh and looks away. “Of course you did, of course.” Then the smile fades as Bruce looks him over, strictly serious, oddly solemn. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Corrupting the robot?”
Bruce flushes. Mumbles, “Looking after us.”
Clint feels his eyebrow hike. “Some reason I shouldn’t?”
Bruce doesn’t say so, but Clint doesn’t need to hear it, not when it’s right there in Bruce’s flustered face; it’s not so much that Bruce objects to someone looking after him a little, it’s that Bruce isn’t sure what to do about it, that Bruce doesn’t have enough experience with it to understand.
Clint wonders what Bruce would make of how Clint and Nat and Coulson had been, the way Fury’s field kids had had each other’s backs like this and more. Clint liked that and he misses it, knowing there’s someone out in the world who’ll pull him back from his own worst tendencies, and he suspects he’s trying to recreate it in his way here at Stark Tower.
He figures no one who’s been part of Fury’s field kids could really do team any other way, not for any team that mattered.
“You don’t have to,” Bruce says finally.
Clint’s pretty sure he does. “And if I want to?” He lets his mouth tug up at a corner, eases back cocky-lazy-alert. Looks Bruce over long and slow, lets frank appreciation heat his gaze, color his grin until it’s probably a smirk. “Maybe I like it, enabling the science.”
Bruce stills for a moment, breathes unsteadily as he lets it go. “Well then, thank you,” he says, soft and so very tentative, and because Clint can feel Bruce trying, warring with his own damage to get this far, Clint tips his head slightly, murmurs, “De nada” in his shitty Portuguese, getting the accent wrong enough to tug a smile out of Bruce.
::
And for a while, things are good. Flip is growing, Flip is sleeping, Flip is the best kid in the world. Clint has maybe got this whole baby-raising thing down and he thinks, when he gets a moment that’s not all adorable infant and robo-nanny, that this is working out.
Maybe he doesn’t get much time with Bruce but it’s okay, he thinks; it’s temporary. Baby drool and formula vomit probably aren’t that appealing and for better or worse, Flip sort of owns him, but there are better times ahead. She’ll sleep through the night, his baby books promise; he’ll get to the point where he can take some adult time without feeling guilty.
All he has to do is wait.
Well, in theory, anyway.
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