Work Text:
Breathe
Clint watched as her chest rose and fell in her sleep. He couldn’t not watch her sleep; it was terrifying knowing that she might stop breathing and he wouldn’t know.
They had been home from the hospital for less than 2 weeks and the fear of losing her hadn’t left.
Natasha had told him everything was fine, that she was going to be okay but he wasn’t convinced. So day after day, night after night Clint would be by her side, awake and keeping an eye on her.
On her eighth night home Clint couldn’t tell if she was breathing anymore and he’d had done everything in his power to not freak-the-fuck-out. He remembered what Bruce had told him: periodic breathing, he called it and that if he was concerned, to just nudge her to see if she responds or wakes up. She did and Clint took a deep breath of relief.
He stroked a finger down her cheek and she whimpered in her sleep before rolling over and taking his finger in her hand. She was so small, so fragile.
Tony had laughed when he found out. He didn’t know how terrifying it was; and he didn’t understand until his own daughter was brought into the world and Clint had found him spending the nights in the rocking chair checking on her.