Would you write for Hawkeye? If so my song is ‘Que Sera Sera’. If not, please could you do it with Loki instead? :D x
Of My Own
This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!
Song Prompt: Que Sera Sera
Pairing: Clint Barton x reader (platonic, no pronouns used)
Word Count: 770
CW: Minor swearing, hospitals
Note: Thank you for your request! I thought this little story fit quite nicely with the feel and lyrics of the song. I hope you love it too 💜
“It’s gonna be okay, Clint,” you murmured with firm eyes fixed on the console and knuckles turning pale and sore around the controls.
One of Clint’s hands shielded his eyes, the other clutched his stomach. “This is controlled airspace, you-”
“You think I give a rat’s ass about controlled airspace right now?” You tensed further, pushing the chopper close to its limits. The cockpit rumbled with the speed. Air resistance felt different when it was holding you back from the hospital. It felt like an enemy.
Curse the atmosphere, you had places to be.
Clint made a concerning noise from the jump seat and you felt the weight of the moment. “We’re gonna make it,” you promised in a whisper. He clutched his stomach tighter. “Hold it in, Barton.”
You could sense his eyes were closed behind his hand. This was a new kind of anxiety - one you hadn’t seen from him in all the years he was your partner.
“Just get me there in one piece,” was what he managed to mutter out before you jammed a finger onto the comms transmitter.
“HAWK32, hotel-alpha-whiskey-kilo-three-two, requesting permission to land on MercyOne helipad. Two minutes out. Repeat, hotel-alpha-whiskey-kilo-three-two, requesting permission to land. Over.”
The silence that followed was unsettling but you surged ahead, knowing you weren’t really asking permission. You’d land this chopper on that hospital roof come hell or high water.
“MercyOne air traffic control to HAWK32. Permission granted. Can you advise condition of the patient? Over.”
You’d way overestimated the amount of time it would take to land since you’d never pushed the bird this hard. “Thank you, control. HAWK32 approaching to land. Patient is not with us. HAWK32 out.”
Your fingers found the volume and turned it all the way down before they could question you. Clint forced a wry smile from the corner of your eye. He was white as a sheet. “You’re gonna be okay, Clint,” you called over the whizz of the air shifting and swiping all around the cabin. “You’re gonna be great, in fact.”
The helicopter touched down with less finesse than usual, but you got the job done. Clint was frozen in place, perhaps a bit shocked. You didn’t turn the engine off, reaching over to start unclipping his seatbelt but he seemed to realise this was really happening. He freed himself, giving you one final and severe look before bolting out of the chopper and towards the hospital wards.
Your anticipating smile lingered after him. Only after he disappeared into the building did you take off again, on a mission to bring the helicopter back to a S.H.I.E.L.D-sanctioned hangar.
It was a couple of hours before you made your way back to the hospital, but that was okay; Clint was going to be great. You didn’t doubt that for a second. He was always great.
Still, that didn’t do much to ease the incessant bouncing off your leg in the waiting room as you tried and failed to focus on anything else.
After another hour or two, and a few cardboard cups of terrible hospital coffee, an older nurse entered the waiting room to call your name. You stood at once, almost spilling the granulated coffee remnants, and looked to her with something of a question in your glance. Her smile-framed brown eyes were warm and relieved behind her mask, and she said you were welcome to come in and visit.
The walk to the room was the longest you’d had in your life, but you’d climb Everest to live that moment all over again: that moment you entered the room to see the most perfect picture for the first time.
Clint looked over at you, beaming. Laura, from the hospital bed, looked over with the fondness of an old friend and welcomed you in. The image of the two of them was familiar enough, but there was something new to add to that portrait.
“Hey,” Clint grinned at you, though, mostly at the tiny bundle in his arms.
He turned to give you a better view of the little piece of heaven wrapped up in cotton. Something in you swelled at the sight of the tiny nose and the tiny rise and fall of steady breathing from beneath the white fabric.
You breathed out a “wow,” before taking a step forward, eyes beginning to blur with the joy of the moment.
Clint locked looks with you only for a second to say, “This is Lila,” before turning back to his daughter, cocooned in a love so tangible it reminded you of the way the sky wrapped you two up safely and delivered him here for this moment.
He already acted like the most natural parent in the world. You grinned.
