Clint seemed pleased with the suggestion, and Natasha was glad for the distraction.  The words would give her something else to focus on, to think about.

It wasn’t long before he returned with the book and took his seat behind her.  Settling back in his arms, she threaded her fingers through his and rested her head against his shoulder.  Fixing her eyes somewhere out on the ocean, she listened to the soft litany of his voice and while she was definitely interested in the story, she still found her mind wandering.

What kind of father would he be?  She suspected he would be the best kind, and nothing like his own.  He would tuck his children in and read them bedtime stories in a soft voice that lulled them to sleep.  He would kiss them good night whenever he was home to do so, and fix them breakfast in the mornings, making sure they got enough fruit.  He would be everything his own father wasn’t, if given the chance.