Work Text:
When Clint wakes up, he doesn’t feel Natasha’s presence in the bed.
He makes a note of it, since it’s not something that unusual— she’s probably up before him at the small dinner table, or gone to a debriefing at HQ. Clint doesn’t smell any tea, doesn’t hear the burner, so he assumes the latter.
There’s something that doesn’t sit quite right with him, though: the way a familiar space might feel if something had been moved a couple of centimeters or something.
It’s then Clint opens his eyes, senses on elevated threat alert. He trusts his intuition.
It could be nothing (read: paranoia inherent in the job).
Or it could be that he doesn’t have to look or listen long for The Moved Thing in his Familiar Space, because he finds himself staring into inhuman golden eyes, surrounded by red fur, a black wet nose and large ears.
Clint’s mind goes from I’m Probably Dreaming to What The Shit and Oh, Shit in the space of a blink, and in within the next blink he’s scrambled up out of the bed, clutching his pillow for a shield in one hand and the knife he keeps under it in the other.
Clint stares, eyes wide, partly because it’s still close to dark at 0500, and being that close to the thing had made it look much, much larger than his observation at a more respectable (and safe) distance now allowed.
It’s a fox.
Ok.
It’s not that big, compared to other dog breeds (or whatever the heck foxes are), thankfully. But it’s moved— from curled and laying down to sitting complacently on the mattress and staring back at him.
The archer’s gaze doesn’t leave the animal, and he’s got a shit ton of questions lining up in a queue, but he takes a peripheral sweep of of the studio floor (his peripheral vision is kind of awesome). Tasha’s not in. He tries anyway.
“Nat?” Clint clears his throat when it comes out a lot more uneven and higher pitched than intended, because that’s what happens to peoples’ voices when they wake up next to a wild animal in their bed. Ask anyone.
He’s not surprised when the fox’s ears pitch forward at the sound of his voice, but he is surprised when it makes an eerily familiar head-canting gesture accompanied by narrowing eyes.
Eerie-as-fuck familiar.
If it hadn’t been several months since the attack over Manhattan, Clint wouldn’t have thought to make the connection, however crazy it seemed, on something as little as a behavioral quirk. But a lead weight drops into the pit of his stomach as he clears his throat again, posture changing from this is a fight to uncertainly tense and I have no idea what’s going on. A voice in the back of his mind laughs at him for now directly addressing the fox.
“Nat?”
Clint holds his breath, throwing silent pleas to the universe, hoping he’s not correct in his connection because a.) is this going to be a Permanent Thing, b.) how the fuck is he going to tell Coulson and Director Fury that his partner is a fox??? the kind that eats house cats and grapes, and c.) if he’s being really honest, the stupid shit almost ALWAYS happens to Clint. Because the universe might suck. And this definitely ranks up there with Stupid Shit.
The fox remains still and unblinking, except for a lazy and fluid swish of its tail.
The fox also seems to suddenly be aware of said tail, and turns its head to regard it. After a second or two, it shrugs, neatly leaps out of the bed and all but sashays into the kitchenette.
Clint throws a silent ‘fuck you’ to the universe, because he’d be lying if that fox wasn’t at least damn good at impersonating Natasha and knowing where shit was in their floor of the Tower.
***
Clint does some freaking out, because clearly this fox form of Tasha is not doing any, at least that he can tell. So he freaks out for the both of them. He’s been watching the fox carefully since it… she? started nosing around the counters, picking up an apple from the fruitbowl and bringing it to the table to eat. She doesn’t appear to be hurt or favoring limbs or anything, so he supposes general health isn’t an immediate concern, besides not being a human.
He texts Thor first, asking if he knows about these magic-y, shapeshift-y concerns. It’s a no-go, and Thor suggests contacting his brother.
He hesitates for exactly half a minute before texting Loki, because someone gave him a phone. He’s greeted with a surprising and yet unsurprising reply: I am ever in the service of romance. Does your partner consent to what you have in mind?
Clint carefully doesn’t throw his own phone across the room.
***
The archer’s reluctant to believe this mess wasn’t actually Loki’s doing, but believes him anyway— It could have been an artifact or something on Delta’s most recent deployment.
He seats himself across from fox-Tasha with a glass of water and a banana.
“So,” Clint starts, peeling the fruit. “What the hell?” He asks conversationally, and maybe only a little hysterically, because if Nat’s that calm about this, he can be, too. He thinks fox-Tasha looks up from her apple and swishes her tail again, regarding him with amusement; He knows that look. Alright. Two can play this game.
“Yeah? So what’s your take on this—?”
Fox-Tasha blinks slowly, eyes partially lidded. She licks her paws boredly. The amused expression seems to have morphed into an exasperated hybrid.
Right.
“… “
There’s no form of ticking clocks in their flat, but Clint knows when three minutes is up. It’s three minutes he’s formulated some sort of plan, and a backup, and— he really hopes things don’t have to go past Plan C.
He excuses himself, pulls on some clothes and makes sure he’s got some money on him.
“You’ll be okay here by yourself, right? Be back in a sec.” Clint tells fox-Tasha as he makes his way around the floor, picking up his pack, clearance badges, shoes, and a pistol. It’s habit. He’s at the elevator when he turns back to add, “Don’t set anything on fire I wouldn’t.”
***
He comes back from the firing range, accompanied by a slightly more substantial breakfast, and a couple grocery bags filled with approximations of things an internet search told him consisted a fox’s diet, to find fox-Tasha relaxing on the small dining table before two neatly poured cups of tea. Still hot, too, by the way.
Clint looks incredulously towards the stove burners, all safely off, and the surrounding kitchenette— Nothing’s out of place or has hot tea staining the floors, no wet floor hazards. He shrugs and nods to himself (read: more internal freaking out and maybe part of an existential crisis), puts the groceries away, and sets aside the brush and lint roller (his brother figured out how to help hide evidence of strays for at least a day until dad found out).
He considers his cell again.
Coulson picks up after the first ring.
“Coulson, Nat’s a fox—”
“I don’t want to hear about your sex life, Barton.”
“No—” Sigh, facepalm. Coulson hadn’t missed a beat. “—An actual fox. Like eats housecats and lives in the woods fox.”
” … … … “
Coulson has the best long-suffering sighs.
***
Fox-Tasha nudges the other cup of tea towards him when he sits down heavily in the other chair. Clint thanks her and takes a cautious sip. “S’ good. Got paws and no thumbs and you can make— and pour— a mean cup of tea.” It’s the first he’s smiled all day, and it’s a little relieving. Moreso is when he thinks fox-Tasha manages to look a perfect balance of content and smug.
“So why’re you not flipping out about this? You’ve got giant ears now, Tasha.”
He knows she’s distressed about this woodland creature thing on some level, at least sort of distressed, and he’s always admired her aptitude for playing nearly any situation so damn professionally. Extra impressed, as of this morning— ranks right up there with the Natalie Rushman from Legal working for Tony Stark almost-snafu. Clint trusts his partner, and her judgement of herself and this mess, and like always, will back her plays.
***
At some point in the day Clint’s stray-henning starts to override the this-is-actually-Natasha-but-happens-to-be-a-fox-right-now worries and he tries to brush her fur when it stops looking pristine.
At another point he ends up calling her “cute”.
He later finds two dead birds in his sock drawer for his troubles (why is it always the Important Garments Drawer) (also you still don’t have thumbs, Tasha, how did you open that).
***
It’s well into nighttime, and information regarding a certain Strike Team: Delta member turned actual fox has been contained to the local Asgardians, Coulson, and Director Fury. Some old fashioned research, and SHIELD archive /file-snooping— warranted and not-so-much— Clint shuts the top of his computer in resignation and goes about his night routine. He doesn’t see fox-Tasha in the immediate area, and some part wants to police his dresser to make sure she hasn’t put anything else foreign there, probably as payback for the Disney movie jab from earlier.
Only after he’s settled back in bed, the dark heavily blanketed on their floor, does he feel fox-Tasha’s slight weight on the comforter, shifting it, as she picks her way cleanly to her spot, cat-like. Scratch that, not so cleanly. Fox-Tasha walks over and on Clint’s chest to get to her spot, and while she’s the size of a small dog and considerably lighter, he snorts in both annoyance and amusement.
Clint turns on his side and mutters a ” ‘Night, Tasha.”
He feels a cool, wet nose tap against his, and a warm, fox-shaped bundle of fur settle beside him.