THIS CHAPTER DOES NOT CONTAIN MIA AND ALYA CUTENESS, IT CONTAINS THE TWELVE YEAR OLD ZOLA FROM MY OTHER STORY "MISSION IMPOSSIBLE"
"Papa?" Zola whispered quietly as she opened the door to his room. He was reading one of the books that Natasha always had, laying sprawled out across the the sheets. He lifted his head a bit when he heard her call him, and turned to look at her.
"Yeah, honey?" He studied her expression a bit and could tell she was in pain. He studied her stance and looked at how she was clutching her stomach. "What's wrong?" He asked, jumping from the bed and landing by her side. He placed his hand on her hip, and turned her in a circle. His eyes widened when he saw blood on her shirt, but none was visible on her black shorts. Why was there blood in the first place? She had no wound.
"Where's Mamuluya?" She suddenly began to choke on her words. Clint reassuringly pulled her into an embrace and rubbed his hands up and down her back, even if some blood did stain his hands. Zola gripped his shirt in her hands as she hid her face as much as she could. She hated crying, but she was in too much pain and had no idea what to do.
"She is busy moya lyubov. Whats wrong?" He asked again, running his hands through her bright red hair, as he watched her pull her face away from his chest. She looked up into his eyes tearfully.
"Папа. мой период начался ," She whispered slowly, her green eyes shining through the walls of tears built over her irises. He recognized what that meant, hearing it from Natasha a few times when she had to deal with one herself. All he knew about it was that it was his job to buy a woman on "that thing" chocolate. Natasha told him a synonym for that was "gentlemen".
"Uh.." He mumbled, looking around the room. He saw his phone on the nightstand, and pulled away from Zola. " I'll call mama, and while you wait, go sit in the bathroom. Khorosho? " he explained, waiting to see his sobbing daughter nod. When she did, he kissed her forehead and sent her into the bathroom connected to his room.
Dialing the number he had memorized for some time now, he waited as the cell began to ring, and sighed in relief when his wife picked up. He had no idea what he was going to do right now.
"Tasha come home please. " he said quickly, having his own little panic attack. He wanted to be there for his daughter, but in this moment, he wished he had listened to Natasha's complaining when she had to deal with this as well. He could hear her scoff on the other end.
"What do you want?" She rushed in a whisper. Natasha was on a solo mission and kind of couldn't talk right at that second. Clint took a breath on his end.
"I don't know what to do." He told her, not answering the question that she had asked. Natasha rolled her eyes. He was overeacting. But nontheless, she thought it was kinda cute. She smiled a bit, knowing he couldn't see it. She knew what this call was for due to his panic attack.
"Go be a good dad and help her. I won't be back for hours." He whined silently, dramatically falling backwards onto the bed. Turning onto his stomach, he held the phone with both hands.
"Can she talk to you?" He's questioned, dropping one of his hands and tracing patterns on the thrown around white sheets that used to cover his bed. Natasha laughed.
"No!" She smiled, quickly recovering. "No. I have to go. Use the internet or something. Just know that I'm not washing any bloodied sheets." She explained, as he rolled his eyes. He didn't want to do this by himself.
"Fine. Be like that." He said playfully in a childish way, before dramatically slamming his pointer finger into the "end call" button. He placed his phone on his nightstand, slowly walking toward the door to the bathroom. He was stalling. He didn't know if Zola would let him help, but he honestly was too afraid to do anything.
