Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Cliff Waltz

Fly to me

"Light Up"

He's proposed to her three times, and she said yes each time.

"Natasha," He starts, getting right down to it.

The camera light is blinking red, recording.

He knows Natasha is somewhere outside this very room, scanning the hallway for him because they need to be leaving soon for the mission. He's long since gotten over the secondhand embarrassment of making these kinds of tapes; he's had to rerecord them before and after every mission and it's practically written into his morning regiment to film this.

But it doesn't get any easier, putting yourself in the shoes of the Widow and imagining what are the last words you'd want to hear from your partner; your friend.

"I..." He rubs at the bridge of his nose, calculating, "don't know...how many takes I've done of this tape. I've made this tape at least a hundred times. Once before every mission I've ever been on, since meeting you-"

437. He knows exactly how many damn times he's redone this tape. He just doesn't want her thinking he does.

"-And if you're seeing this one—finally- then...you know why." That's such a cliché line, but how else is he supposed to word it? He keeps thinking about the mission they're about to go on; sounds easy enough. This is just a precaution. He's always been one to be overly prepared.

You've got to be when your weapon is as outdated as the technology of today and of gods; how else would he keep up if not being prepared for every situation with an arrowhead of only one spectacularly specific use?

"You and I both know the risks, so don't say anything." What is she going to say to a video monitor? "I know you're probably outside the door, or hiding in the rafters in the hall-you've been trying to get a peek on me since at least six years ago-"

He thinks he can hear her boots; she doesn't make a sound when she's sneaking, but he still knows she's there, and it's close enough to hearing her.

"-but...I think I still got you beat, seeing as you haven't hit me yet for doing something so stupid," he motions to the camera. "So...I guess I win, eh?"

Who really wins, if he does die today?

"...I really didn't want you to see this, Tasha," He reminds himself to speak this way, in this tense, because he needs to sound as much that he's speaking to her now as it'll be if she is to play this tape years from now. "Hopefully you aren't..." 437 is a pretty impressive streak.

"Don't get too down about me, alright?" He chuckles. There's something twisted about talking in terms of your own death. He has to consider the basics; don't blame yourself, don't spiral into a depression, don't go dark or do something stupid like that. But he also has to sound as believably himself as he can, because that's what she needs; she'll need a personal video. If she wants to hear protocol, she can talk to Fury.

"What am I saying? You're the professional one, here. You were the better agent, you know? If you'd have asked me, I'd admitted that to your face, but...you never asked, so here's me answering you," He nods, smiling reassuringly at the camera. At Natasha.

"I'm full of surprises, aren't I?" He smirks a little, cause even after 437 times this part always gets to him-

"Here's another one," he winks.

"I love you." He tries to keep his eyes focused on the camera, counting enough seconds to drill the meaning home, bearing into Natasha's own eyes before he finally can't any longer and looks away, bringing his hand quickly up to the back of his neck.

He fumbles with his pocket, considering drawing its contents out—hesitating—and then finally shrugging, thinking why the hell not. He pulls out a ring; his fake college ring, from the mission in Europe, and he turns it so the gem and emblem are hidden.

"I meant every word I told you, that day in London? Maybe not the part where I called you 'babe', but…I really can't see myself with anyone but you." Cheesy. He scoffs.

"And I really wasn't that drunk the night Stark dragged me in. You said yes that time again, too. You thought I'd forget, and I know you just said it so I'd go to sleep, but…you did say yes," he suggests, smirking to the camera. He can imagine Natasha yelling at him from the other side 'is this some kind of joke to you?'

"Even though you've said yes twice now, I thought I'd go ahead and ask one last time, in case you've changed your mind since…"

He can't look at the camera.

"Will you marry me?"

That's cruel, he realizes, and a knot slips up his throat. He turns the ring a couple times in his hand before shaking his head, tossing it back in his pocket.

"I would've used the ring you really like-the one I got you in Africa that you keep using as our cover wedding ring when missions call for it? But…you'd notice if that one went missing."

He sniffs and realizes she might mistake him for crying, so he quickly raises his head as if to prove his eyes are dry.

"And I get it. You're going to hate me for this, you're going to curse me to hell and spit on my grave; you're going to do whatever you need to do to forgive me for leaving you like this, and for leaving you this-" he motions to the camera, to the space around him; this video message, this confession that's coming too late if it comes at all. This proposal that she can't ever say yes or no to.

In his head, he hears her say yes for a third time and smiles because it's not like she can say no to him—not that he'll ever know of at least.

"But…you'll be alright." He nods, reassuring himself more than her. A quick run through of his hand through his hair and he stands. That's it, he thinks.

437 takes and that's the best one yet, even if he still didn't deliver his 'last words' flawlessly or he still managed to choke up a bit at the end. It's still a shame she won't see this.

He cuts the camera off, ending it with one final awkward shot of his torso covering half the frame. The CD burns and ejects and he slips it into the envelope that's crinkled and yellowed considerably since seven years usage. It doesn't stick closed anymore, not after over four hundred reseals, but it hasn't ripped completely apart and he'll take that.

And he slips the CD in his jacket, keeping it hidden before slipping out of the room to his locker. He hides the CD in a false bottom that Natasha has yet to find, and before he closes the locker he glances at the only photograph he's ever kept.

It's of Natasha, and her eyes are dull and he isn't in her life yet in that picture. He grins to himself, because he takes a bit of pride that the woman before him is so much different than this picture of a shell of a Russian, even though they're one of the same and the photograph is, albeit hardly, a younger her.

Then, he shakes his head and sets the photo back. That message always gets him too touchy-feely, too nostalgic, and he needs to be more focused on the mission.

Just as Clint closes his locker, Cap comes up from beside him, clapping his back.

"I'm coming with you and Romanov. Meet on deck in fifteen, Bucky."

Clint just nods, wondering if Rogers even noticed that he called Clint 'Bucky'.

Natasha is waiting for him outside. He took longer than he'd meant with the video, but they're still good on time before the mission.

"Where've you been?"

Like she doesn't know.

He winks, "Miss me?"

And we can start again

"Stampede"

He's sitting in a chair that's surprisingly comfortable—they don't have these chairs on his floor- when the overhead speakers come on and a man starts reading a prayer. He isn't paying enough attention other than initial shock, so he doesn't catch the number or name, or obtain any of the words really.

He only catches the first few words and some mention of 'hope' in the psalm before he thinks to himself what if someone finds this offensive? Like an atheist or some other religion?

No, he doesn't think about someone feeling religiously offended. He thinks of someone who just doesn't want to hear this. Someone struggling, about to die, that hears this and thinks I don't care. I don't want to hear this.

He doesn't want to hear this.

He reminds himself that this is supposed to be comforting—that someone listening needs this and that that outweighs his desire to not hear this.

He tries closing his eyes and laying his head back; maybe he needs more religion in his life. He gets the feeling he didn't have much before…

"Excuse me, sir? Are you waiting on someone..?"

Nate's eyes shoot open and he jumps, thinking someone has caught him. It's an old man in a doctor's coat with a clipboard and Nate chews at the inside of his lip.

"No-"

"Oh, alright," the man continues, moving on.

Nate blinks. That man didn't…

He shrugs. He isn't about to push his luck; he got away, no need to question it.

Nate watches the old man continue on to the next woman, sitting at another set of couches. He asks her if he can get her anything—she tells him she's a little cold, a blanket would be nice. The old man nods and returns a moment later with a cream comforter to wrap about the lady.

It's early in the morning and the waiting area is practically empty. There's the lady beside Nate and a couple on the set of couches beside her. The woman of the couple there is also wrapped in a blanket, leaning against what Nate assumes to be her husband, asleep the both of them. The old man in the doctor's coat sits at a desk just at the entrance of the intensive surgery hall, while beside this waiting area the entire hospital is quiet and empty.

Nate scratches at his leg and slumps further in his chair.

The occasional nurse passes by, and Nate is careful to make eye contact with only a select few should they recognize him. He slipped out during Andrea's watch (never during Lucy's; he wouldn't want her to get into trouble) and has spent the past twenty minutes wandering the hospital. There's a vending machine and Nate debates asking the lady or old man for a few spare quarters. He has an increasing fear, however, that by the sound of his voice they'll be able to instantly recognize that he's a patient with amnesia and he's escaped the ward.

(Maybe there's a code word that all visitors are given upon entering the hospital, and each new day they change the word, so if an escaped patient says 'quarter' when in fact all visitors were taught to replace the word 'quarter' with 'frosting' then he'll be found out should he go up to anyone asking to borrow a few 'quarters' rather than 'frostings').

Is 'frostings' a word? He thinks. The plural of frosting…

"Are you here for…Mr. Rodgers?"

Nate's inner musings are interrupted by the soft voice of the old man carrying over to him. He feels bad for listening in, but it's so quiet that he naturally is going to hear every word spoken. He tries to avoid looking directly at the couple, now being shaken awake by the old man in a lab coat, but none of the party is looking his way anyway so he glances at them.

Something about the name, too, but Nate pushes that aside.

"How is he?" The woman of the couple asks. The man puts a hand on her knee, over the blanket, and for a second Nate's heart goes out to them. Just by the tone of voice the old man speaks to her with his next few words, he could destroy or save this woman.

"He's doing fine," the old man nods and visibly the woman's tension drops. The man closes his eyes briefly, nodding slowly before the doctor continues with his update on the surgery. It's here that Nate excuses himself from the conversation.

The other woman, now wrapped in a blanket, is staring at the couple, the same thinking as Nate, but she continues to stare after them even into the diagnosis. Perhaps she understands the technical terms the doctor uses more than Nate does, and can follow the conversation better. Perhaps the person she's waiting on has the same ailment.

A nurse canters by Nate, in some sort of a rush and mild panic, so Nate bows his head, trying to appear asleep.

Once she passes, Nate contemplates standing and finding a new, better hiding spot. One not-so public. Perhaps the men's bathroom, or some corner spot. Hell, he could walk out if he wanted to. Just walk right through the glass doors into the parking lot, the streets; the real world.

That's right, he can't. He's waiting on someone.

He doesn't know who, but Lucy insists someone is coming to claim him. Will come. Has to come.

He won't walk out of the hospital because, yes, it's been two months, but that doesn't mean someone isn't looking for him. That they won't find him.

And maybe he doesn't get up to hide better within the hospital not because he doesn't enjoy the freedom of having gotten out of the ward, but because he's looking forward to the moment when a nurse recognizes and finds him. Because it meant they've been searching for him, and now they've come to claim him.

Someone will do that one day, right? Recognize and claim him. And then he won't have to sneak out of the hospital.

Another ten minutes go by and Nate bounces his knee. Maybe he should just go back. What if he's causing an unnecessary panic within the ward, but no one knows he's still in the hospital, and so they aren't searching in the right places…

No, he needs this, he thinks. He needs someone to find him, to be looking in the right places. He needs someone to recognize him and call him by his goddamn right name because Nate isn't it, he's sure of it!

Another minute…another two…another…

The lady in the blanket by herself stands; she looks upset. Nate is suddenly aware that he hasn't been paying attention, listening, and it's possible the old man just spoke to her. The old man isn't at his desk, or anywhere Nate can see. The woman covers her mouth with her hand and storms off towards the bathroom.

Did her friend or person not make it? Were there complications?

It occurs to Nate that maybe waiting is simply stressing her out; taking its toll. Waiting can do that to a person, Nate assumes. Maybe she can't stand waiting, so she's getting up to leave.

Don't leave, Nate thinks. What if she leaves, and whoever it is she's waiting on comes out (it's unlikely, but still) and he or she sees that the woman is gone. Is the person the woman waiting on expecting her to be out here, waiting? What if they don't know? And if they come out now and see no one waiting for them…

Nate's thoughts are spiraling. He wants to go after the lady; tell her to come back-wait. He wants to run into all the surgery rooms, asking if someone in there knows a woman is waiting on them; he wants to find that person and tell them "she was waiting on you, don't worry! She stepped out for a minute but she'll be back, I'm sure!"

She'll come claim you, I promise!

Someone was there, I promise.

Nate puts his hands on the arms of the chair, lifting himself up-

"Nate!"

Nate blinks, turning to see Lucy running at him. She's flustered and even angry.

"Nate, you cannot do that! Come back with me, right now-!"

Nate wants to tell Lucy, warn her, that the lady stepped out for a moment. Someone needs to wait for her to return, in case whoever she was waiting on comes out. He wants to tell Lucy to let him stay here a little longer. Earlier, he couldn't wait to be found, but now he needs to stay hidden a little longer.

He wants to tell Lucy he doesn't think anyone will come claim him.

"I'm sorry, Lucy."

Lucy nods slowly, her anger dissipating.

"It's alright, just…don't wander off again like that, alright?!"

Nate smiles bitterly, "yes, Lucy."

"Visiting hours already began! Someone might come see you today! Come back with me and we'll wait together, alright?"

His heart lurches.

"Alright."

Maybe that red haired woman will be there today at least, he contemplates.

Oh I try harder

"Chemical Reaction"

"What you got there?"

Banner caves, curiosity finally winning over him. He knows he shouldn't pry at the reclusive spy, but there's a chance Banner's caught him in a decent enough mood.

"Paper," Clint answers, and it's a snarky answer but it's not all-together unwelcoming. Maybe if he tries again, Barton will let up because in all honesty he does trust and like Banner. Had he been Stark, the conversation might have gone differently...

"I can see that. What're you doing with it?"

He silently hopes the agent doesn't respond with some bullshit answer like, "holding it; reading it" or something of the likes. Not that it'd kill him not to know what's in the hands of the agent, but he's just trying to make small talk.

"Ah..." Barton hesitates a second, caught between what to say and how to answer and finally he shrugs and drops the papers on the coffee table in front of him.

"I was...well, I was trying to recall-" He scratches his head, "a mission."

Banner raises a brow, because this sounds like classified territory and he can't expect to get much out of it. Still, Barton isn't shutting him out, so he supposes he can try to wean whatever conversation he can out of it.

"Why would you do that?"

Barton sighs a bit, and runs the same hand that was scratching the back of his neck through his hair, pausing again with it clasped behind his head.

"At Shield...for psych evaluations, we're required to try and remember every detail possible of every mission. It's all purposeful, for records and tracking and everything." Barton smiles a bit, "Not to brag, but I'm pretty good with details, actually."

Banner can imagine. Barton tends to pick up on things better than most.

"So, you're having trouble because..?"

Because it was apparent he was having trouble. The paper was blank, and Banner had been lingering across the room in the kitchen for quite some time now. So much, in fact, that his coffee had gone cold. He sat on the arm of the couch, watching Barton fumble with words.

"It's, ah...well, on certain missions, your memory gets a bit skewed, and details are harder to pick up on…"

There was no real tip off to what he was referring to, but all of a sudden it was clear.

Torture.

"Ah, those kinds of missions," Banner nodded, to which Barton appreciatively smiled back at.

"Are those...all that necessary? To report, I mean-"

"They're probably the most important," Barton cut off, his voice steady and bitter.

Banner frowned.

"So...you're sitting here trying to remember one of those missions?"

Barton glances sideways.

"Everything is a bit jumbled. Not the clearest moments, you know? I just have to focus, try to remember-"

"-Relive?"

"-Return to that memory, what was going on...Then I start writing it as coherently as I can, and submit it to the records for Shield.."

Banner wasn't all that pleased with the idea, but Barton knew what he was doing.

"And...this mission?"

"Well, you have to write these reports as soon after the mission as you can, else you'll forget things; details."

Banner pieced two and two together.

"Barton, I thought you just got back from a mission. What was it? Around four..?"

He looked at his wristwatch. It was seven in the morning, and only by chance was Banner even awake.

"Barton, you were tortured?!"

Barton jumped a bit, because Banner's voice had risen and with Banner, any fluctuation in mood was a frightful thing.

"Have you even been to medical? Hold on a second-"

"Banner, I'm on three different pain killers, I'm pretty much numb. They've performed a basic evaluation on my injuries, I'm in no danger-"

"I'm worried about shock, how long ago has it been-? Barton, step into the light."

Bruce had never seen Barton flinch as quickly as he did to avoid the light as when Banner flipped the kitchen switch.

"Barton, get in here now! You look pale, how come I hadn't noticed-?"

Barton looked caught, like a child. Slowly, he dropped the papers, sighing before stepping towards the counter where Banner leaned.

Banner had drawn forth his pocketed glasses, squinting at Barton.

"I told you, I already had a physical evaluation. This isn't necessary-"

"You were gone how long for this mission, Clint?"

Barton frowned. "That's classified."

"How long did you spend in what could be classified as the enemy's hands, and therefore subjected to torture, Agent Barton?" Banner asks, switching to a more professional tone.

"That's classified."

"Agent Barton, to what extent were you physically subjected to what could be classified as torture; a rough estimate of hours per day; no exacts if-"

"That's both classified and what I'm trying to recall for my written evaluation, Banner—I told you that. This is ridiculous, may I be excused-?" Barton mocked, but Banner continued to pry at his waist and arms, lifting at Clint's shirt to try to observe his bandaged abdomen. Clint had spent nearly forty minutes having those wounds dressed; to hell Banner was going to mess those dressings up, he thought, swatting the man away.

"Banner, I'm fine! I'd like to just finish this report and catch up on some sleep—"

"When is this report due? Don't you think your order of doing things is a bit skewed? Perhaps, maybe, you should sleep first…"

"The fresher the memory is, the better I'll be at reporting it."

"How fresh can your mind be with no sleep after-"

"Banner I've done this before. Just…let me get through this, alright?"

Banner doesn't nod but he also doesn't argue. Barton sits at his papers once again, holding them in his hand a minute before slamming them down, cursing, "Fuck it." And rising, waving his hand off to say 'goodnight'. Banner isn't completely satisfied, but he's content.

Barton stops outside Natasha's room before his own, hesitating at the door. Before he even decides whether to knock or not, he hears from within, "Come in."

Barton opens the door as slowly as he can.

Natasha hasn't looked up, laying stomach down on her bed with a book in hand.

"If it's breakfast, I'm not hungry-"

"You know I can't cook," Barton leans against the doorway, trying to appear collected and cool as he folded his arms. Natasha glances up and there's possibly a moment where she believes him before her eyes address how he favors one side and leans cautiously.

"You're hurt?"

What? No 'Welcome back' first?

She brings her legs under her, pushing herself to stand, but he motions for her to stay, making his own way to the bed before folding slowly onto it, seated by her. She pulls at his shoulders to have him lay on his back, beside her, where she curls up next to him. Her hands fumble with his shirt, pressing lightly at the bandages as she scowls at his wince.

"I just got treated…Banner already beat you to the lecturing. Couldn't finish my report-"

"You're tired, I bet. Go to sleep," she decides for him, sitting back up and returning to her novel.

He sighs, debating whether he could fight his way to sit up with her. He can't.

Natasha will make sure of that.

"If I sleep, you'll wake me up in a couple of hours, right?"

She scowls, "Why? You don't have another mission, do you?"

"No," he admits, but he regrets it. He should've lied. "I just don't want to sleep for too long. I need to get that report written."

She nods, returning to her book nonchalantly, "Alright."

She's not going to wake him.

"I mean it."

"Sure."

He should've lied.

He closes his eyes, mumbling, "Should I die in my sleep, I l-"

"You're not in that bad of shape. Banner was over exaggerating."

He smirks, "At least you agree with me."

"Get some sleep or I'll put you to sleep myself," she warns.

"In that case, my last words are I lo-"

"Sleep, Clint."

To please you

"Say Something"

"Sir! Sir, you need to get down-! C-come inside, we-we'll talk about this! You can talk to me! Sir?!"

Barton doesn't even flinch at the woman's voice from behind him. He hears her cautious footsteps crunching in the gravel of the roof, yet heeds her no attention. Its lunch hour, so he can only assume she's decided to take her break this afternoon on the roof. A nuisance for him, but not an overall game changer.

His bow is perched against the conditioning unit, hidden from her sight. He scratches behind his ear, waiting for Nat to declare the operation a go.

"Ma'am, go back inside," Barton offers, calmly, without glancing back.

"Sir, come inside, now. Please, sir. Y-you can talk to me, alright? Trust me, please sir—just don't-"

"Ma'am, I'm not going to jump," Barton laughed.

He glances back at her, which is a mistake.

The woman looked on the brink of tears.

"Oh, please don't say something like 'I'm going to die'! Sir, please, I know things can get bad, I understand! But they're never this bad-"

"Ma'am, go back inside. I'm fine, I-"

"Barton? What's going on?"

Shit. Barton tapped at his earpiece, glancing at the target across the scaffolding.

"Ma'am, I promise everything is fine."

"Barton, since when do you call me ma'am? What the hell is going on, Barton-"

"Sir, don't jump! Please, t-tell me what's your name?! My name is-"

Barton glanced between the woman and the target, only half hearing what she said.

The target hasn't moved, but the meal is ending. He pats his mouth down with a napkin, smiling before offering a hand, which his latest business partner takes. Barton narrows his eyes, searching the staff from what he can see through the glass panes for Natasha.

"Ma'am, I'm asking you, please, go back inside and-"

"I won't leave you!"

Barton hesitated at this. Was it loyalty? Pity? Why was this woman showing such compassion..?

That's right. That's what humans did.

Barton was constantly reminded of how he was a mere human amongst Gods: Super soldiers, monsters. Barton didn't have iron skin or regenerative properties, or the strength of storms. He always thought his greatest weakness was that he was just human.

In that moment, though, he doubted he even could claim that much.

He couldn't comprehend the fear this woman had, and for a stranger she knew nothing of. She was so eager to convince him to live.

This woman feared for his life; even he didn't do that.

"Ma'am…why do you want me to live?" He found himself asking. He was compromising the mission right now, risking everything. He'd completely turned from his view of the target, facing the woman. She was mid-thirties, a plain face, with blonde hair and a boring suit. A quiet woman who keeps to herself, lest she'd have been at lunch with coworkers rather than alone on a roof.

"We all have something to live for," She answered, bumbling with nerves. Her eyes were wide, pleading, and Barton momentarily forgot completely about Natasha, screaming in his ear, and of the target who had since disappeared from the view of the window.

"Barton! Barton, report!"

"Don't you?" The woman asked.

"…What do you live for?"

To this, the woman almost smiled.

"My family."

"Barton, the target is moving!"

Drawn back to reality, Clint whipped his head around to see the target exiting the hotel.

"On it," he muttered into his com. Without glancing at the woman, Clint pulled the bow and quiver from behind the unit. He leapt, gripping his bow and notching an arrow, aiming across the street. The woman screamed behind him, just as the arrow zipped ahead of him, securing his suspension on the opposite roof.

"The hell was that?" Nat yelled the moment she found Barton, knelt by the unconscious body of their target.

He'd relocated himself and the target to a back alley, losing any tails in the crowds.

"I got distracted," he admits.

"I heard. Who was she?"

He shakes his head, "Some woman. I'm not sure."

"You almost compromised the entire mission-"

"We did it." He counters, brushing past Natasha. Before she can respond, he's calling in their position to HQ for extraction.

"Clint-"

Before she finishes, two gun shots fire from behind them. Barton has enough sense to kick Natasha down, already notching and releasing an arrow by the time she's rolled to the side. She jumps up again, two pistols in hand and aimed, but the target's reinforcements take cover behind a dumpster.

Natasha does the same, bracing behind some crates, only to glance from her cover in horror.

Clint remains in the open, without any cover. What's worse, he hesitates.

"Clint!"

Jolting into awareness, in one swift motion Barton clicks an option on his bow, drawing an arrow with a specified head and sending it at an upwards angle. Just as the target's support lean out to take a shot, the arrow lands on their side of the dumpsters.

Before they take their shot, Barton detonates the arrow.

When Natasha looks up from her cover, she sees the crackling fire and Clint standing just in front of it, calling in to HQ for an update on the status of the extraction.

"Where's that extraction, HQ? Don't even need coordinates; look for my signal."

Natasha frowns. Clint's 'signal' is now a forty foot smoke signal and the enclosing sounds of sirens.

"Do you want to tell me what the hell that was about?"

Barton ignores her, pretending to not hear her as he sets his bow into its case, but Natasha has no quarrels with forcing herself to be his first concern.

She snakes her way between the case and him.

"First the roof…Clint, you didn't even jump for cover. They would have shot you down; you were a sitting target."

"I got distracted."

"Do you think I want my partner out in the field to be distracted? If you get shot down, it's me against them and those odds don't favor me-"

"You'd have been fine."

She decks him.

"That's not the point! If I want a solo mission, I'll take one! But I wasn't on one—I was with you, and you were a hazard to the mission!"

He doesn't say anything, doesn't look at her, so she turns on her heels.

"I'm going to ask Fury to decommission you from the field."

"-What?! Nat-"

"-Or tell me what's wrong! You said you'd tell me, one day, but that you couldn't at the time...now is the time. I'm making now the time. Before I go on any other missions with you and you choose to go ahead and let me handle things on my own because 'I'd be fine'. So either start talking, or get ready for a desk job."

Clint opens his mouth to speak, to start, to say something—nothing comes out. Natasha stares at him, waiting, with her arms crossed. Behind them, Shield agents are performing clean up and warding off any media or eyes; wrapping up the loose ends. Clint thinks how he and Nat probably need to get out of here.

Nat is still waiting.

Clint raises his hand, as if using gestures and motions will make words easier. Nothing comes out. He keeps darting his eyes around them. They can't talk here—

"Christ, Barton," Natasha yelps insufferably, rolling her eyes and turning on her heels. "When you want to talk, I'll be at the Tower." She yells over her shoulder, and she doesn't sound as angry as she is, he knows that much.

Barton doesn't follow her.

Barton spends the night walking the city. Hours to think and he still hasn't found the right words. He's pushed the confrontation from his mind because what does she want from him? To confess he's never been the same since the Chitauri? To revisit every nightmare? To confess how human and small and insignificant he feels? To tell her he feels indifferent to dying? Haven't they always?

His wanderings find him walking through three parks, several alleyways, one hotel lobby and, finally, as the morning sun just peeks above the horizon and yet not quite through the sky scrapers, a graveyard.

Before that, he finds himself in a department store that's open til midnight. Somewhere in his wandering thoughts, he decided getting Nat a gift might calm her down. Except he'd wandered to the back of the store, by the dressing rooms, where a collection of kitchen ware and plant pots were stacked undividedly on shelves.

A small boy walks by him, and Clint finds himself looking to the boy more than his options of gifts. The kid wanders a bit aimlessly before suddenly becoming aware it his lack of a chaperone, hastily picking up the pace between the same few aisles. Clint considers walking to the boy, asking where his parent is. Then, the kid disappears and Clint, his opportunity missed, returns to the choice between a spatula shaped like a pig and a blue ceramic flower pot that matches absolutely nothing at the tower.

As he reaches for the spatula, a woman frantically passes him, calling out, "Yorgo?"

Her accent is thick and she mutters a few others words he doesn't understand.

He almost sticks his hand out to point out to the woman the direction the boy, because he assumes the two are a match, went. However, he hesitates, and she's already moved onto the next aisle.

Clint steps out from the aisle to watch the drama unfold. The growing fear in the woman as with each aisle comes another disappointment; none of the stands are any taller than her, giving Clint a clear view of her, yet the boy doesn't quite stand at half the height, easily falling out of sight.

Finally, the mother runs into the little boy, sweeping him up in her arms and continuing with her shopping as if nothing had transpired. The boy picks at his bottom lip with a blank expression, too young to recall the event from a moment ago. Like that, everything is settled.

Clint grabs the pot and checks out, still trying to decipher what language the woman spoke.

Hence, he now finds himself at a graveyard with a four-inch wide pot under his arm.

He finds a random grave and sits in front of it. A flat stone and a name he reads over and over yet can't retain to remember for a second. It just has a date and Clint thinks for a minute to try to calculate age before giving up; it's too much thinking.

He crosses his legs and leans back, propping himself on his hands; the pot is set beside him. The grass is coated in dew, but he doesn't mind. He's still dressed for the mission, with a layer of dirt and ash smeared on his exposed skin. No one has stopped him, though, and he wonders if Shield knows where he is right now.

He's more afraid of Nat, though, to be honest.

"Sir?"

Clint jumps because he honestly didn't hear anyone approaching and he's more so surprised to see the woman from yesterday standing, horrified, looking at him.

"Y-you're not a ghost, are you?"

He'd laugh, but he's afraid a sudden cackle will cause the woman to feint. She looks pale and wide-eyed, like she can't believe he's here, at a graveyard. She probably can't.

This must look awful, he thinks. He must look awful.

"It's…" He hesitates, because he doesn't remember her name. He didn't quite catch it.

She nods slowly, then smiles. She just looks relieved that he's real.

"Don't worry about it…" She cautiously approaches the man, kneeling beside him and pointing at the grave with a smile, "Did you know him?"

"No." Clint answers, too quickly.

Her smile twitches and she slowly looks away. He can almost imagine what she's thinking.

Strange guy jumps to his death the day before, then shows up in a graveyard simply to sit there, not visiting anyone. How he looks, what transpired yesterday…he's surprised she hasn't pulled out the phone in her pocket and called the cops.

"Did you follow me?" He finally asks. She jumps a little, and he assumes she must have been thinking the opposite.

"W-would you like to come with me for a moment?"

He nods slowly, except he isn't quite sure why. He'd much rather sit here, undisturbed, so he can think up what he's going to say to Natasha. If she'll listen to him.

Except now he's standing and following the lady, bundled up for the crisp morning in a cardigan, as they cross the cemetery.

"Don't forget your pot," she points out.

Of course.

She stops in front of a grave and points as though it's an accomplishment; like she's expecting him to be proud.

"This is my brother," she beams.

Well, that is cause for pride, he thinks.

"Heart complications. He had a stroke, bout a year before…I was there. I was playing him the piano when it happened" She shrugs, like she's playing it off but he can tell she's eaten up on the inside.

"Y-yesterday, you just…reminded me of him. I couldn't sleep last night, I-I thought…So, I came here. To talk to him. Sometimes I just need to vent out everything, and he's always here to listen." She admits, hurriedly like she can't believe she's telling him this but he knows she's ecstatic to talk to sometime who can actually respond.

Clint looks to her for permission before kneeling at the grave. He tries to bring his fingers up to touch the engraved name, but can't. He can't even read past the first letter, so he still doesn't know her name, or her brother's name. He isn't thinking about names.

He's thinking about this woman who comes to this grave, talking to it and expecting it to talk back.

Is this how Natasha feels? Is he just a tombstone to her, with words engraved on the surface that she can't even read?

"How long ago?" He finally blurts.

"Last spring."

Clint nods, but doesn't look up.

"It was really hard, at the time. No warning…" She doesn't finish, and Clint waits for her to continue but she doesn't. When he finally looks up, she's rubbing at her eyes and smiles at him.

"You know, I'm an Avenger," he blurts.

To his surprise, she nods slowly. He stands, to try to be more at her level, but he's so much taller than her that it doesn't matter. "Yesterday, I was—"

"I saw, the…" she motions what he assumes is a bow and arrow and swinging and when she laughs off her terrible charade, he simply nods.

"I wasn't up there to-"

"Were you, though?" She questions, smugly, and for a moment it's demented how she can smile and laugh off the subject matter of their discussion. Why is he talking to this woman, anyway? Trying to explain himself to her like her interpretation of that afternoon means anything to him, a stranger?

"You told me, yesterday, that you lived for your family. Do you-?"

"-I have a sister. And my parents. We all live for each other, now; that's the thing about family. Do you not have..?"

He doesn't think of his parents, or of his brother, and their graves.

"Yes. Yes, I have a family."

She steps up to him, but her eyes are still on her brother's grave.

"So what are you doing here, talking to a stone, when you could be at home, talking to them?"

He doesn't thank her, or say goodbye. She steps past him and when he finally has the courage to turn, she's long gone.

He's left, standing with a pot in hand wondering why exactly he is here and not with his family.

He carries the pot like a football, sprinting back to the tower in order to stop his 'family' from writing a decommission recommendation letter. To apologize.

To finally say everything.

I catch you staring after me

"Endless Sleep"

Just before noon, Barton stirs. It's a quiet twitch of his fingers, followed by a shift in his neck. Natasha is alert and practically jumps him, until she remembers he's injured. Stark tenses in his chair, and Banner jumps to his feet.

A moment later, Barton jumps awake, coughing. Natasha jumps, too, and now everyone is at his side, gripping a hand or a shoulder or sheets.

They all want to bombard him with questions, concerned, but say nothing-they leave the talking to Natasha.

"Clint. Clint are you alright?" It's an uncharacteristically soft voice, and she hardly ever calls him by his name in front of the others. Even on their level of familiarity, it's always just 'Barton' without the 'Agent', but here and now, it's 'Clint'.

Clint doesn't answer right away, so the others hold their breadths, waiting until finally he shakes his head. His mouth opens to answer her and prematurely Stark lets out a sigh, but just then the sniper hesitates.

A moment later, he coughs, and something tugs at the back of Stark's mind. A growing anticipation, a gut feeling that he can't shake nor confirm.

"Clint? Hey, are you okay? You nearly took that blow head on, are you sure-?"

Natasha's grip tightens and it's just then that Clint looks up, his eyes wide and grey and watery. Stark bites at his cheek, watching as Clint's face pales.

"Clint, come on, say something. Throw me a bone, here, are you alright?" Natasha smiles, but it's so forced and so painful to watch that Stark almost forgives Barton for not saying anything. Barton looks between his gathered team, his eyes searching for some kind of recognition. Like he's waiting for someone to yell 'surprise!'

If Barton's face is painful to look at, in all his dawning confusion, Natasha's is the twist in the knife. She whips her head accusingly at the others, just as hurt and confused as Barton, only she's freely letting tears gather, because this is the one moment of vulnerability she'll allow herself.

Everyone is dumbstruck and drawing a blank, until finally Banner steps forward, everyone's attention, including Barton's, turning to him. In a voice that's raised a bit louder than Stark finds appropriate, Banner mouths slowly, "Agent Barton, can you hear us?"

Barton's reaction is delayed, and recognition hits the others. Without saying anything, he's answered the doctor's question. Natasha pries herself slowly from Barton's side, standing with a look of horror struck that is reflected like a slap across the face in Barton's eyes. He's confused and hurt and suddenly everything is moving too fast for him.

"Steve, find a doctor! Get a doctor in here, now!" Natasha yells, Steve already bolting out the door after her instruction.

Banner leans into Barton's face, fixating his eyes directly in front of the man, speaking slowly and elongating the motions of his mouth.

"Clint, can you hear me?"

Tony stands there, tense and waiting. Of course he can't. He didn't answer the first time, what'll make him magically answer the second? Stark wants to vomit.

For a moment, Barton looks to Natasha, as though asking for permission (or forgiveness).

Slowly, he shakes his head.

It's an hour later after testing and scans until the doctors finally confirm and release the statement to the team that Barton is, in fact, mostly deaf. It's roughly around dinner time when they all file back into Barton's ward, gathering around him slowly and making large motions that he can make out. Steve leans against the door frame, ready to bolt for whatever reason. Stark and Banner take the two visitor's chairs under the window, and Natasha slips onto the bed beside Clint. Thor mumbles something about being hungry, and Stark tips him a few quarters with instructions to the vending machine down the hall.

Banner has the great idea of a notepad, writing all questions down on it and explaining everything through pen and strokes to Clint. There's a pang of insult in Barton's eyes, watching Banner draw out every other action. Eventually, Barton just turns out the window, pretending to not notice Banner so the doctor stops and sits as quiet as everyone else.

Natasha is subtle and quiet, but her fingers pet Barton's hand, running along the veins and bones to his wrist, and for a long time that's the only motion in the room.

Stark tries not to, but all he can do is stare. He watches Barton like he's prey. Intrigued, he catches all the nervous twitches of his eye, the way he purposely avoids Banner. Or the way he looks longingly at Natasha, who whips her head away just as he turns to her, for reassurance or comfort or something. Barton catches his eye once or twice, but when the billionaire refuses to release his gaze, the archer breaks it instead. Stark knows the agent could hold the staring contest and draw it out far longer than Stark ever could hope to, but without the will to do so-to look his own teammate in the eye-it's an easy victory.

Stark glances at Steve, who is even more obvious in avoiding Barton than Natasha. He uses every excuse to jump or flinch or whip around his head, or step into the hallway or out of people's ways that he's not in.

Thor walks in but Stark is too busy watching Barton, who is still sulking at the window.

"How does one retrieve the contents of this casket?" Thor booms, his eyes quizzically fixated on the soda can in hand.

"Hand it to me, I'll get it."

Stark jumped, as did everyone, when Barton spoke.

Whatever composure is drilled into an agent from day one was thrown out the window as Natasha leapt up, hope filling her eyes at a painfully quick rate. Stark himself felt relief wash over, and Steve jumped, for the first time tearing his gaze on to Barton.

But their questions remained unanswered as Barton shook his head quickly, pointing to Thor and motioning his ear expanding, then making some shuffling jerk about the floor and shaking his hands.

Banner sighed, sitting back.

"Thor's voice...he can hear Thor because it shakes the whole damn floor."

Natasha kept her eyes on Barton a moment longer but the hope had long since fallen. Stark saw it, and so did Clint, and both tore away from her, uncomfortable in the pain it caused.

The moment they arrived home, Barton bolted. He didn't wait for Banner to try to write some communication, some question, and he didn't want to be bothered by Natasha clinging at his arm but acting like he was a burn make and wincing every time he shifted to catch her gaze.

They all stood around the entrance for a moment or so, before Stark pushed past them all.

"Where are you going, Stark?"

Stark kept walking, surprising the others as they almost thought he'd ignore Banner.

"Jarvis, pull up all the reports on Barton's ailment, disability, whatever you want to call it, diagnosis," He commanded, while walking, his phone in hand already receiving the files.

"Stark, what are you going to do-?"

"You really shouldn't worry about me, Natasha," Stark snapped, turning around. "The doctors said he was mostly deaf-I can deal with that. Leave the 'mostly deaf' part to me. You, however, need to worry about the 'him' component of the equation."

Natasha felt irritation rising, but Stark ignored it, briskly exiting the room.

"What can he do..?" Steve questioned.

"He's Tony Stark. His entire corporation was built upon weapon engineering, and he created the Iron Man suit in a cave while under war imprisonment. It's not a matter of what can he do..." Banner scoffed, almost bitter as well as admiring as he admitted the statement.

Natasha shrugged against her better nature.

Barton storms down from the roof, and Steve raises a brow. Because he swore he saw Natasha walk up there a minute ago and he wasn't even aware that Barton was up there.

"Barton, are you al-?"

He winces when Thor looks up at him, eyes wide with realization. Barton keeps walking, and Steve wants to kick himself for his mistake.

And that's it.

"If you would just try to take care of yourself-" She spits, her motions wide and exaggerated as he tried to follow her. His glare was saying more than he could, though occasionally he'd yell at her with his voice, fluctuating uncontrollably as he couldn't grasp what volume or tone to use on her.

"Leave it, Natasha-" He warned, but it came out more exasperated than she imagined he'd meant it. She ignored him.

"You lost your hearing, you didn't lose us! We're still here for you! But you have to help us help you. Eat, that's all I'm asking! Get out of this damn cave and be with us! With me!"

She wasn't sure how much of her words he was catching because his face was readable only with confusion.

"Please," she begged. He said nothing, and Natasha heard the others forming at the door, in the hallway, peering in to check on them.

"Is everything alright?" Steve asked. Barton and Natasha ignored him, though it was only purposefully on Natasha's behalf.

"Stop pushing us away-"

"Just leave, Tasha."

Anger flared up and in an instant, Natasha had flung herself at Clint, landing a quick punch to his shoulder.

"Natasha-!" Stark jumped.

"Don't call me that, you fucking-!" Clint throws up his hands but Natasha already had jumped back, running a hand through her hair before pointing accusingly at Clint.

"Don't fucking call me that! Not now, not when it isn't you! What are you doing? Letting this bug you..! We're here for you, we want to help you, and we're trying to help you!"

She was pacing, throwing her hands wildly about her.

"Nat-" Banner warned, but Natasha cut him off.

"This pity party crap has to end! Please, just go back to how you were! We've been partners for how long, and I don't know you when you're like this-"

Natasha froze, catching the horrified looks on her fellow teammate's faces. Slowly, she turned around.

Barton didn't look mad or upset, or troubled or stirred any which way by her words.

He looked lost.

He had no idea what she was talking about.

Natasha's words caught in her throat, a mild choke gurgling out as Barton continued to just...stare.

Finally, she turned on her heels, brushing forcefully past the gathered audience.

"If he wants to starve, let him."

"Greetings, Barton!" Thor boomed. Clint smiled faintly. Natasha had been about to make her escape from the kitchen, to head off on her latest assignment, but decided to delay a moment as this was the first time Clint had appeared in the last four days. He looked tired-heavy, dark circles under his eyes. Natasha cleared her throat, approaching him just as he sat at the counter.

Despite the advantage of sound she possessed, he still beat her to questioning.

"You're going on a mission?" He asked. His voice was soft, in mimic to how Thor had sounded in his head, and Natasha nodded, but glanced away from him. He looked her up, sizing her, before asking, louder, "What has Fury said?"

She pretended to be ignorant.

"Nat, about me? What has Fury said?"

Suddenly, she regretted her decision to delay her departure. She shrugged and moved on.

Funny how she did none of the talking.

Hurry up, Stark, she thinks.

"Right. Now, hold still for a second. I worked it in so it should amplify the sound waves and frequencies, help you pick up on them, and it's a damn sensitive piece of equipment. Expensive, too. Keep that in mind. It's waterproof, heat resistant, the basics-nothing my suit didn't already test run for you. You fall into lava and this thing will go nowhere, though I can't say the same for you. Quit looking at me like I'm stupid, Barton, aren't you listening to a word I'm saying?"

Stark knew Natasha didn't appreciate the joke, tapping her foot and elbowing him a little too sharply in the side. Stark coughed.

"Right, well, let's not keep the missus waiting-hold still, I told you-"

Barton flinched as Stark darted for his ear, cramming the device in before giving the knob a quick twist.

"The least you could say is thank you…"

He had three days to adjust, and as far as the team could tell, he did exactly that.

It was a solid, towering mass of solid metal with a slit of a landing opening at the top, perhaps two floors down from the roof, looming in front of them. The rest was a solid structure with no windows or entrances other than a back one that Barton himself scouted.

The structure was built over a cliff of rocks and water, only half built on the solid ground. It looked unstable as it was and no doubt the experiments taking place inside weren't aiding the case.

"Right, Natasha and I will enter from the ground. Stark, take Barton up to the roof, enter from the landing point. Thor, cause the distraction and attract their snipers and eyes to you, as a diversion. Banner, you're with us until we reach the inside-we'll split, try to stay yourself, but if all else fails, work upwards. Last thing we need is the supports on this place to crumble while we're all inside."

Banner had his doubts about this plan.

"Barton, pick up the strays and tails from Thor, but don't get spotted or caught. We're counting on you to keep the roof clear, it's our ticket out of here."

Barton nodded-their ride was expected one minute after Steve called in the order. It was a quick get in, set the detonators, get out. Casualties minimal-it was a race of a mission, time of the essence.

Barton nodded, shooting Natasha a quick glance before feeling Stark grip around his shoulders. He didn't know what to expect in that look, but it was comforting to share it with her, at least. She didn't have a moment to react; the next second he was gone.

"Cap's made the call. Still holding that landing for us, Barton?"

The sound of an arrow striking through bone was his response.

"Stark will love it; it's a party up here." He grunted as he swung the bow around, snapping a neck in the process. He quickly flipped it back into an arch, letting fly a second and third arrow easily.

"Where is the tin can?"

"Not...doing too well, myself-" Stark muttered.

"Stark? What's wrong?"

"They've...got some kind of device, its impulses are charged…a quick jolt, pure and raw-"

"You're muttering, Stark." Natasha warned, her breadth coming out quickly as she and Rogers made a sprint for the exit stairwell.

"-They've got these...weapons, they jolt electricity. It's nothing in comparison to our god over here, but it's enough to jolt the system and circuit a few of the weaker wires. I haven't exactly performed maintenance on this suit in a while..."

"Like my Widow's Bite?"

"Yes, except a little less appealing," Even Barton heard the wink through Stark's com.

"Thor, how far out are you?"

Thunder cracked in response.

"One elephant...two elephant...I'd say he's about a quarter mile out," Barton grinned.

"Good to see you're back to your old self," Banner snickered.

"What? This party was too boring for the 'other guy'?"

"Let's just leave now before they switch up Djs."

The exit door swung open and Barton trained an arrow on it, only to drop when he realized it was Natasha, with the Captain on her heels and Stark between them.

"Found this one hanging by on the seventh floor."

"That was definitely not just the seventh floor."

"Hang on, company!" Barton yelled, signaling the trio to duck. An arrow loosed just as Natasha bent to dodge it.

Propellers of the Quinjet could be heard.

"Right, our ride's here, sorry! Due back by midnight, you know how it is, Cinderella and everything-" Stark smiled. Thor, expertly timed, also appeared.

"Where's Banner?"

"Don't wait up on my account," Came Banner's response from the opposite end of the roof.

"Right, all accounted for? The explosives?"

"Set to go off in twenty seconds."

"Then what the hell are we doing still standing around here for?"

The deck dropped, just as more 'hosts' filed in. Barton took to the back, being advantageous with long range.

"Right, everyone on!"

Rogers aided a limping Stark onto the gap, Banner stumbling behind. Natasha reached it at just the same time as Thor, whipping around the call Barton in.

Before a word was so much as out, a flash of black appeared at her side. She threw a punch by instinct.

"Clint!"

Clint twisted around, catching the glimpse of Natasha's attacker. For a split moment he held an arrow notched for the man, but decided it was too risky with Natasha thrashing between him and the target.

In two quick steps, he was at her side, landing an aiding punch.

"Tha-" She stopped mid-sentence as a fist upper cuts from nowhere, socking Clint in the jaw just as he pushed Natasha forward onto the jet.

At that moment, a spark ignited from the man's fists, like a tazer, and Natasha could hear the small explosion occurring in Barton's ears as the devices snapped, broken.

"Clint-!"

But he didn't hear her. He only felt the ringing in his ears as everything grew silent and his feet tripped over themselves. A second later, he was tumbling backwards, the man still in his grip, his ears bleeding and his mind screaming silently that he'd been hit.

Then, the whole tower was imploding on itself and Barton only saw black smoke and black sky and then everything was black and he saw and felt nothing, except the creeping coolness of water engulfing him as he hit it like a slab of marble.

"Land this craft right now!" Natasha demands, her attention whipping to the Agent in control. He looks just as panicked and shaken as the rest of the team felt, and quickly began punching away at paneled buttons, shaking his head violently.

"Th-this ground isn't stable enough, we'll have to land a safer distance away-"

"I said land this thing right now!"

"-The target, t-too close, we can't-"

"Put this Quinjet on the ground or-"

"Natasha, stop, we can't breach protocol like that. He's just trying to do his job, we need to get away from this mess-"

"Barton is down there-"

"No he's not."

Everyone turned to face Stark, who in a voice several levels more relaxed than Natasha, proclaimed, "He's probably miles off shore by now," Then he shrugged, because that probably wasn't true.

"Excuse me?"

"Assuming he's still in one piece and managed to avoid hitting rocks, I'd say the current is drifting him away from shore. Let's hope it's not dragging him under, because I doubt he's conscious at the moment. Hell, I'm not sure if he's ali-"

Natasha decks Stark, her knuckles catching the edge of his mask.

"Natasha-!"

"Shrapnel exploded in his ear- that's a point blank range and it imploded within his ear! Natasha, if his brain isn't damaged from that, then I-"

She refuses to listen to Stark anymore. It's a moment like this she envies Barton. Barton could've dialed Stark out, not have to listen to him—hear him. If Barton was just here, she wouldn't have to hear Stark in the first place, muttering on about how Clint is-

"Shut up!"

There's a dog in the apartment across from Clint's.

He's holed up in some dingy complex with a loft apartment on the second story.

Being the second floor, Clint has a small balcony with double doors and blinds; it's a nice apartment. The kitchen counter space is dismal, but it's cozy and two floors and a large walk-in closet.

Across the way in a loft apartment, in the duplex that's completely taken up by thugs and traffickers, is a dog. Clint has never seen it outside the apartment. He does see it, however, when it pokes its head around the blinds at the balcony door to stare at Clint as he walks the steps up to his apartment. Clint waves at it, acknowledges it, stares at it.

The laundry room is at the end of the complex. Only Clint is dumb enough to try to do laundry on the coldest, most miserable day while it's raining. He sprints between his apartment and the laundry mat room, throwing in five coins and tossing his clothes in for the forty-five minutes before sprinting back to his apartment and the cover of the small overhang in front of his door.

When he looks to his left, across the way, he sees the dog staring at him, its head poking from behind blinds. He smirks and waves at the dog, wondering what its name is.

He woke up on a boat, surrounded by wrinkled sailors who nearly threw themselves overboard when he 'revived from the dead'.

When they finally unknotted their tongues enough to ask Clint basic questions, he had to blink his vision into clarity enough to register what was being asked. When he couldn't adjust quickly enough, a sailor correctly concluded he was deaf and paper and a pen were brought to him.

Clint's writing was shaky, his head still processing what just happened and how he shouldn't be alive, how is he alive, and the ghost image of Natasha horrifyingly watching him push her forward and falling himself. He wonders what became of the man that toppled with him, but the sailors say they only found him.

Fate is on his side; that, or Death lost Clint in the current.

Clint demands a phone before anything else, but the crew overrule him in favor of a hospital. He agrees, so long as the hospital has a phone.

It doesn't. Not one that has the connection for long distance that he needs.

There's no service in the town he docks at, though one sailor promises a trip to the capital in a week's time. It isn't ideal, but Clint will take one week over hitch-hiking his way through the desert now. While he feels fine enough to stand, it's only briefly and he's not quite over the shock yet of….everything.

"These results suggest that re-operation for removal of retained fragments is unnecessary."

The doctors tell him, and Clint wants to call "bullshit" but the mind works in mysterious ways and his breathing and living is proof enough of that. He'll have Banner take a look when he gets back to the tower (He knows Banner isn't that kind of doctor, but Barton already trusts him more than the staff at Shield. That, and he's curious at what face of grief Stark will pull when he sees his latest invention embedded as pieces in Barton's skull).

Don't give up on me, he thinks. Give me a week.

Natasha sits, fully suited up, in the siting room of Stark's tower. Two loaded pistols are laid out before her, ready to be belted, but she makes no move for them. She stares across the room, glancing at the lift. Remembering Clint falling, out of reach, with his eyes rolling back and blood trickling from his ears.

She remembers him tripping over himself the day he'd been too close—the day he'd become mostly deaf.

She remembers the day they brought him home.

She didn't bother detouring to his room or anywhere else in the tower, because she knows him and she knows where he'd go to think. She finds him on the roof, though oddly enough he's lying on his back and sprawled out. There's a jump in her heart because for a moment she fears he really is dead, but she sees his chest rise and fall. It's rather obvious he's asleep-the most normal and peaceful he's ever looked. She can't remember the last time he allowed himself to be this relaxed.

She approaches him but all too late she remembers that he isn't so normal, so relaxed, and the moment her hand touches his shoulder she curses herself for being so ignorant because he flips her and in an instant he's pinned her. His free hand reaches behind him but hesitates, and in that instant she realizes he had the full intention to kill her. The only thing that stopped him was the absence of his weapon.

If she is horrified, then it must show because he jumps off her like she's on fire. She doesn't mean to, but she can't pull her eyes away and they're just burning into him, wide and of terror. He turns away before she can, her lingering eyes still glued to him, and before she can say anything (She can't) he's walking away.

Even if she called out after him, he wouldn't hear.

He's gone then, just like he is now, and she can't call after him. She shakes her head, because she can't pin what's more pitiful—how he moped then, or how apologetic he looked falling, or how gullible she's being.

He isn't dead. She refuses to believe that.

She stands, attaching each pistol to her hip and storming from the couch to the lift. There's a Quinjet waiting on the roof.

She's going after Clint this time.

There's one or two families in the complex, with small children. A group of them play just before the sun goes down throughout the complex; some form of tag, with the single tree and flower bed serving as safety. Clint walks by them one day, nearly being run into by the tallest, and presumably oldest, of the boys. The boy mouths a sorry, though Clint doesn't hear it. Nor does he react to it, which catches the boys' attention. He stops to stare at Clint and his grocery bags; curious as to why the man is just standing there, staring at him.

He starts to say "sorry" again, but Clint frees up his left hand, tapping his ear and the edge of his mouth. With two more quick motions of his hand, well aware the boy won't recognize the signs but might pick up on the message nonetheless.

He does, but the expression in his face is of realization, and with that, Clint moves on, smiling a "goodnight" to the children. As he reaches the door, he spares a glance across the way and, sure enough, the dog is staring at him.

Clint wonders if the dog witnessed what just transpired. In his head, he's convinced the dog understood the exchange and perhaps will go to sleep that night and dream of the stranger who can't hear, who doesn't speak.

Clint pulls out a beer from his fridge, sitting in darkness on the coach and staring at Lucky (That's what he's named the dog, in his head, because it's a generic dog name and he's never been very creative with names-Boomerang arrow?) through the open blinds of his window. The dog is staring back at him, as if aware that he and Clint are having a moment. It's not unusual that the lights at the dog, Lucky's, apartment are on, giving Clint a clear view of him and the interior of the apartment.

"It occurs to me," Clint mutters, "that I really don't know anything about you."

He hasn't heard his own voice speak since waking up on the boat. His form of communication has been through signing obviously or writing on paper. He hasn't needed to communicate with anyone outside the sailors, the doctor, and the son of one of the sailors who has allowed Clint to house, temporarily, in the loft apartment above his own.

It's not like anyone can hear him, though, so what does it matter if he does speak out loud this time.

"What's your favorite color, Lucky?"

No response.

"Purple. What a coincidence! That's my favorite color, too!"

"Wait a second, aren't you color blind?"

The dog adjusts its head away from Clint; not intentionally. Just because he is a dog.

Clint finishes off the beer and tosses the bottle aside, sighing.

"Have everything?" The sailor's son nods to Clint's bag. It's a canvas sack with a few shirts lent to Clint by the man's wife and a souvenir or two. He nods. He's ready to call the Tower, to get the hell off this continent and to have Stark take a better look at his head—the doctors may have 'assured him' that he wasn't in any immediate danger, but…fuck that.

The second the two men step outside the apartment, however, there's a line of thugs waiting. Their accents are too heavy for Clint to completely follow in lip-reading, but he assumes it's some money-dispute and that the sailor's son has found himself in deep with the wrong kind of people.

None of the kids from before are out and about. Clint glances up—Lucky is at the window, motioning what Clint assumes is barking.

Clint drops his bag just as one of the men steps forward, and suddenly that 'easy trip home' is looking less and less promising.

Calm down, Lucky, he thinks. I'll be alright.

The dog nudges at Clint's hand with its nose. It's dry, not wet, and Clint remembers once hearing that that means a dog is sick. He thinks, at least. He's no expert on dogs.

He feels something (He's surprised he can still do that) brush his hand and this time it is wet; a tongue. The dog licks him, nudges him again and then stares at him.

It hurts Clint's eyes to look at the dog, because he can't turn his head, move his neck, to properly face the dog. But he doesn't want to close his eyes. He twitches his fingers, trying to reach the pet's face; to pet it, to scratch behind its ear.

He can't get his wrist up, or his arm, or anything.

Clint can't remember half of what just transpired. He sees the outline of a figure crying over something on the ground—he thinks it's the wife—widow now?—and the sailor's son. Clint remembers having a decent fight, then his head ringing, then an explosion.

Which one of those bastards was carrying a grenade? And to a petty dispute such as hounding a man for money? When did Lucky get loose, he thinks. Did the blast shatter the window? Lucky didn't jump from the balcony, did he? Did someone release him? What's Lucky's real name? Clint wonders if he could reach the dog's tag, now that he's physically in front of Clint—

The dog blinks once, and then winks. Clint smirks, or tries to, but only half his face is functioning. He blinks the eye he can still control, and it's a wink in return.

The dog bows its head and Clint can see its shoulders tense and relax, clench then relax. It's whining.

"Shh…" Clint mutters, or thinks he does. He isn't sure if what he thinks is physically happening, or if it's an illusion. He doesn't know if the dog even heard him; he doubts it can understand him. He starts to think no matter how quiet his voice is, the dog will hear—they can do that, can't they? Hear really quietly.

No, that's frequency, he reminds himself. They can hear a higher frequency.

The dog can't hear him. Doesn't understand him.

No more than Clint can hear or understand it.

The dog stretches and sits, pawing at Clint's arm. It nudges him again and Clint honestly believes the dog is telling him to get up.

I can't. Clint vouches, coughing. The dog's expression doesn't change. It's still waiting for Clint to stand up.

All around him, there's lights. Some look to be flashing; sirens, he imagines. There's a spotlight from above. The streets, the city, is alive.

He tries to imagine what it must sound like. He tries to hear sirens in his head, and screams and car honks, and clerks asking him "paper or plastic?" and the dog barking and guns and fire crackling and New York (This isn't New York) and Natasha saying nothing but sounding perfect all the same.

Sorry, Tasha, he thinks. He tries to imagine her in front of him, in place of Lucky, and tries to put sound to her lips as she yells at him, "You lost…hearing…didn't..! …still here...! ...With me!"

She's fuzzy and he gives up on trying imagining her. He needs to focus on what's actually in front of him.

Lucky.

Or, whatever his name is.

"…'ood boy…"

The dog lays its head over Clint's arm. He doesn't feel the weight, though, because he can't feel anything. He stares at the dog, watching lights flicker and reflect in its eyes. He sees the world and hears it through this dog, and he never blinks to close his eyes.

He just stares at the dog and wonders what he's thinking, or what he would say if he could talk.

What would he sound like?

The dog whines, but Clint doesn't hear it, or feel the vibrations. His eyes are dead.

And when a paramedic approaches Clint, the dog growls.

(Do paramedics dress like that?)

Even when she lowers a hand, encouraging the dog to allow her near Clint, because she swears up and down that she's a friend, that she can help, and there's tears in her eyes and if Lucky could understand her, he'd believe her. And if he could see in color, he'd see her red hair, and maybe think that is his favorite color.

Is it that hard, Johnny?

"When We Were Young"

Barton takes to temporary leave perfectly.

He swipes a card from Stark and manages to max it out, along with three others, before Stark can even notice (He's got enough money; that's not what irks Stark the most. Clint easily could have gotten away with embezzling from Stark to fund his vacation, except for the multiply subscriptions to unwanted magazines that he'd made in Stark's name. That'd been the last straw, or the first so far as Stark was aware)

He finds the tower too stuffy to take up residence in; he opts for an apartment. A twenty minute train commute outside of the city. He's saved up enough money to buy out the place for a nine month lease, even if he only suspects to be here for half that.

He doesn't buy furniture. He picks up a couch left at a street corner, febreezes the shit out of it and calls it good enough. There's only beer, milk and bread in his fridge, and he refuses to eat the bread or drink the milk. He drives to the store every other night to stare at his options for a home cooked meal for twenty minutes before announcing "screw it," and opting for drive thru of the same burger joint instead. The other nights, he doesn't eat.

He spends mornings shooting at targets the back field behind him. He spends the afternoons jogging, and nights sitting up and not sleeping. He's only seen his neighbor from next door once, when they happened to retrieve their mail at the same time, but hasn't spoken a word to anyone since moving out here.

He's surprised, then, when there's a knock at his door. Considering its three in the morning, he grabs at a plastic knife (left over from the packaged plastic utensils form his latest eating-out excursion), posed ready to strike, and approaches the door cautiously.

"Barton, hurry up and answer the door."

Natasha.

He still opens with caution, until she forces her way in. She gives the knife a 'necessary?' look and he tosses it unceremoniously at the counter.

"No TV?" She motions, giving the blank apartment a look around.

"Your hair is longer," he muses.

"No phone," she sarcastically adds, looking at the disconnected land line. He shrugs.

"Who would I call?"

There's a moment where he thinks she'll say, "me" but doesn't.

"How do you keep up with the world?"

He shrugs again. He doesn't need to.

"Hear anything about this Mandarin scare?"

He spreads out on the floor, not even bothering to politely offer her to 'take a seat'. If she wants to sit, she will. He lays back, shrugging again. He's on vacation—well, suspension, but they're the same thing.

"Shield kept eyes but didn't engage—turns out, they didn't need to. Stark took care of it all."

He raises a brow but doesn't inquire more about the details.

She continues anyway.

"Which is just as well, since he started it. Sort of. It…" she trails off, "doesn't matter."

Clint closes his eyes. He's been having trouble sleeping, but maybe now he can doze off…

"Thor came back."

"Why are you telling me all this?" He opens one eye.

"I'm sorry. Did you want the Banner treatment? Where we shadow you but from a distance, make you think you're alone and lost to the world when you're really not?"

He just now gives her a proper look, taking in her apparel.

"You're off probation?"

"Three weeks now."

"You're on assignment?" He sits up. Was this the council's verdict? Reinstate his partner and have her excommunicate him? Was she here to off him? Or to give him fair warning before someone else came to do the job..?

"Clint, what are you doing out here?"

He frowns.

"I'm sorry, Romanov, but I don't think I understand what the purpose of you coming here is..?" He has his theories now, but…

"Romanov?" She spits.

"—I get it. Shield is keeping their eyes on me, but it's not exactly like I've gone into hiding. Buying a bit of property just outside of Manhattan doesn't exactly scream 'going ghost'-"

"-But never calling does. Don't you think?!"

He stifles a chuckle, about to remark some crack "no," but realizes a joke at his expense might not be well received right now. Not with this audience.

She's standing over him and he realizes he should probably stand, too. He's tired, though.

"Nat, what is this about? I've been on missions with no communication before. What does it matter that I'd rather spend my vacation not feeling like I'm on some op-"

"This isn't a vacation." She reminds him.

"Until the verdict is in-"

"The verdict was released the same time as my reinstatement. You're back in the field. You're prolonging your return on an extended medical leave." She snorts, briskly before adding, "you look fine to me."

He winces. So, she knows about that.

"Guess I'm going soft," he muses.

Natasha squats so they're at the same level, leaning into him.

"Selvigg came back different."

The hairs on the back of his neck rise, because he can see where this is going.

"Nat…"

"He was on the news. He was raving and raging and…nude," she mutters the last bit humorously. Forgive him that he doesn't chuckle too, he thinks.

"Stark is the same."

"Stark's always being caught with his pants down. That doesn't mean-"

"Not that. But he's different still. Not whole, or…he wasn't. Reports were coming in that he was experiencing PTSD."

Clint wants to make an argument that Stark wasn't a soldier. That he isn't trained for combat or for what they saw, but he knows that's not it. Soldiers can be scarred.

"Why aren't you after Banner then? Why not the Cap? Are you just making your rounds, making sure we're all okay, tucked in safe and sound?" He snarls, standing up abruptly. "Or is it just me? Am I getting this special treatment house call because I had Loki in my brain for a few days and I might still be a risk? Because you'll think I'm expose myself indecently like Selvigg, or because you think I'll be worse off? That when I snap, people will get hurt. And that Shield fears I'll become a bigger problem than this Mandarin; than Stark ever could be?" His voice cracks with disbelief.

"Clint, I'm on your side-"

"There are no sides, Natasha! There are orders from the council, the director. There are orders and there are missions; hits. Is that what I am? A hit?"

"Clint, you're being ridiculous! I came to check on you—to make sure you're alright."

"Do you have your answer?!" He snaps.

"I do!"

Their voices are raised and he wonders if they'll disturb his neighbor. What if his neighbor comes over here, introduces himself and tells them to please keep the shouting down.

"Clint. You're blowing this out of proportion. Shield wants—needs-you back in the field. They've lifted the bans on you, on both of us. Just…come back to base with me. Prove to me, prove to them, that everything is fine. That you're alright."

She's softened her voice but Clint still feels anger swelling in him. It takes a moment to calm his own words to a quiet mutter, "I'm sorry, Tasha."

She nods once, accepting.

"…But I can't come back to Shield yet."

It takes a little longer, but she nods once again.

"…Soon, though," she pleas, but it's not a question or an offer. It's a warning.

"Soon," he agrees.

They don't say anything more until she turns to leave, her extended welcome into his home now overstayed, and he calls out to her finally, "The Captain."

She pauses, "Pardon?"

"You didn't mention how the Cap was."

"Adjusting."

I want to see you smash

"No Return"

"What's that?"

He turns his head to see some bratty teen; a girl with dark hair and a dissatisfied scowl, like she just ate something bitter. Her coat is nice, though; she's got money. That, or quick hands and little conscience.

He looks between what's in his hands and the girl.

"What? You gonna steal from me?"

She glares at him, "N-no!"

He raises his hand.

"Good. 'Cause this is my dinner." He shakes the bag, like she'll be able to identify Chinese takeout from inside a brown bag.

She looks away quickly, offended, only to glance back briefly, "you live nearby?"

"Why? You gonna rob me?" He smirks, and this time she's a little less offended.

"I've never seen you around."

He sighs and watches his breath; he hates the cold, but he'll forgive it for a moment just for this small miracle. Because when you think about it, isn't it nifty to see your own breadth? He's amused by little things like this.

"I like this part of the city. When I am home, I try to make it out here if I can."

"So...you're some kind of business man? You don't look like the kind of guy who travels a lot-"

He chuckles, "You're not a good sense of character judge, then. I've probably been to more countries than years you've been alive!"

She scrunches her nose at him, "So then...you're the opposite. You don't travel in suits, you...back pack through Europe or something? You're like a wandering musician, or artist?"

He laughs again, "You should see what I can do with these hands."

She tenses and he shakes his head. "Not...n-not like...never mind." He frowns and looks away, wondering how cold his food is getting.

"...Are you going to travel again, anytime soon?"

He looks at her, finally shrugging.

"Not sure...I should be home at least 'til the end of the week."

"...We should have dinner sometime, then. You can show me what you can do with those hands of yours...not like that," she teases, before stepping off the curb.

Lord help him, that girl will be trouble.

She's in an apartment that isn't hers (She doesn't remember half of last night, but if she looks hard enough she's sure she'll find some mail with the owner's name on it, if she cared). Whoever he is, he calls from the bedroom that she can make herself coffee; she was going to anyway.

She catches a glimpse of the morning sky and finds it odd—red, glowing over the tops of the surrounding buildings. She remembers the old sailor's rhyme, "Red morning, sailor's warning."

It's a childish suspicion, but something feels wrong and she flips the television on as she fills the pot with water.

Sure enough, every station is covering some immediate danger present. The news anchors on every channel are reeling in fear, cowering and using large words to cover up how little they know or understand of the situation, urging everyone to stay indoors.

There's 'breaking news' and suddenly they have ground footage. Whatever the calamity, it's unidentifiable, but what is confirmed is the siting of them; the Avengers.

She sprints back to the bedroom, gathering her clothes and shoes together before she even starts the coffee (Something her nameless partner notices when he stumbles from the room himself, shouting back as much).

She can't find her boot—that damn boot! Crawling, she finds it under the bed, chucks it on, and grabs at her purse and keys. Once she's gathered, she sprints through the living room to the apartment door.

"Hey, are you seeing this? Hey, you're not supposed to go outside-!"

She isn't listening. She needs to find him. He told her he was an Avenger, didn't he?

"What the hell are you doing with that stuff anyway?" He scolds, confiscating the kid of her cigarettes and lighter, eyeing the latter for its unique design and inscription. He squints to read it, but it's Spanish and he frowns in surrender.

"Hey-!"

"Don't. I'm an avenger," Clint offers, motioning the kid to stay seated on the curb. The kid slowly obliges.

Clint scratches his scalp, frowning in thought before adding, "Seriously. You're still in high school, aren't you?"

"I'm old enough to buy those on my own-you're stealing."

"Oh yeah? Or maybe I'm asking if you could spare me a cig and a light and you agreed. Whoops!" He mocks, purposely dropping the fresh cig he'd pulled from the package; he followed up his 'blunder' by stepping further on the cig, twisting his heel for good measure.

"Sorry, looks like I could use another. Ah! You've got three left!" Clint smiles, pulling forth all three, "It's a nasty habit I've got; I'm really trying to work on it," he mocks, lighting all three cigs at once, bundling them, and stashing them in his mouth.

"Come on," the girl's shoulders shrink. She sighs, irritated as Clint chokes on the smoke, coughing nearly immediately.

"Do you even smoke?!"

"Nope."

They're quiet for a while. She's settled, enjoying her last cigarette because she might as well. Clint goes on another three minutes, smoking the bundle until he finally can't take it and puts each individual light out. He takes a seat beside the girl on the curb, but refuses to look at her.

"I've got cocaine in my purse. You gonna steal that and do a line right here in front of me, too?"

Clint shakes his head, "No...I'd confiscate it and sell it back for a higher price. I know somebody at my apartment who's addicted." Old apartment, he corrects himself. He lives at the tower now, at Stark's insistence.

"Wow." She shakes her head, "Unbelievable. You said you were an Avenger?"

"Yeah, I'm Captain America," he winks at her. She rolls her eyes, standing. "Didn't know he was such a douche under that cowl. Guess he does stand for this country-"

"Watch it. I know Captain America, and I personally don't appreciate you mouthing off about him."

She eyes him down, "So who are you? If you're not an Avenger, but you know Captain America?"

"I never said I wasn't an Avenger."

"So, you are one? You don't look like Tony Stark to me. Are you the big green thing?"

"Do I look like the big green thing?"

She shrugs.

"You've probably never heard of me," he glances away.

"Is that some kind of hipster thing?"

"The hell 's a hipster?"

"You are something else." She smiles, bending her chest to her knees.

"Don't smoke, stay in school," he quickly lectures, before standing and walking off in the opposite direction.

"You're an ass!" She calls after him.

He waves.

She only needs to take one step outside the apartment building to see which direction she needs to be heading in—the one where everyone is coming from. There's screams and feint distant rumbles of commotion. She isn't an Avenger, she knows that, but she can't sit by and do nothing. There is something she can do, she thinks.

And to start, she needs to get her bow.

"Where've you been?"

"Do you just stand at random street corners waiting to see me again or something?" He smirks, teasing, but the look in her eyes give away that that's exactly what she's been doing and his smile fades, ashamed.

"Not random street corners..." She mutters, because she knows he knows and she's not ashamed. He's interesting to talk to. Just this corner, is what she means.

"I had to go somewhere-"

"An Avenger thing?"

"...Yeah."

"Did you kill somebody?"

"..."

"That's a yes."

"That's a 'I didn't say anything so don't assume anything'...is what it is..."

She smirks, not because his comment is clever but because he's back.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"You're not my type."

"Fuck off. I didn't mean that. Do you have a girlfriend? Or a wife? Like, a family somewhere?"

"Nope. No family." He answers too quickly, almost cutting her off.

"...Who do you go home to?"

He stares across the street.

"That's kind of sad."

"I don't need you-"

"You don't." She cuts him off. "But, I kinda need you. So don't just drop off the earth again like that, alright? Tell me when you go, so I don't waste an hour every night standing out here in the cold."

"You could just stop, you know. Don't stand out here wasting an hour every night in the cold yourself-"

"Tell me when you're going to leave." She reiterates, forcefully.

He slowly nods.

"Alright."

A silence grows between them before he steps from the curb, pausing only to mutter back, "I guess I do owe you that dinner, huh?"

Her hands are shoved in her pockets but she raises her shoulders high to express her agreement to food—especially if he's going to pay.

"What's your name, anyway, kid?"

"Kate."

"Katie. Nice to meet you."

He buys her takeout but he stupidly suggests they take the fast food outside to eat. Kate follows him because she thinks maybe he'll lead her back to his place; she just wants to see where he lives. Does he live with the Avengers?

He takes her to an apartment building, which is promising for only half a second, then leads her to the roof. She wonders if she's read him wrong all along; he's actually going to murder and rape her. He could be that kind of nutcase. No family, wandering this time of night several nights; claims to be an Avenger. Maybe she should run now.

If he's going to kill her, he won't do so on an empty stomach. He sits on the generator on the roof and bites into his burger; after three bites, it's gone. Only when he's almost through his fries does he finally motion to her, "Don't make my money go to waste. If you're not going to eat, I'll take it-"

"—I'll eat!"

When they're both done, or rather she is because she quickly caught up to him and he's slowed down his fry intake, she begins to stare at his hands. The knuckles are black from bruises; his hands look calloused and rough.

"You promised you'd take me to dinner to show me what you could do with those hands, remember?" She motions to them. He doesn't even look up at her, so she doubts he'd ever forgotten.

"Why d'you think I brought you up here?"

He sets his trash in the bag and stands up, whipping his hands of salt, before walking behind the generator to pull forth some kind of case. This would be, she thinks, where he kills her, but all of sudden she finds herself trusting him enough not to kill her.

He pulls something out and she doesn't immediately recognize it. Not until he gives it a shake and it suddenly springs into a bow.

"You're an archer?"

He lets that sink in for a moment.

It occurs to her she doesn't know his name still. He just pulls forth a quiver from where the bow was set, notching the arrow and pulling it back.

She's suddenly overcome with fear; this is it. He's an avenger but he's some kind of dark one, that's going to shoot and kill her where no one will witness; on this roof, and—

He drops the arrow and walks towards her, outstretching the bow.

"Here. Give it a shot."

She blinks at him a few times.

"I-"

"Go ahead," He drops the bow in her palms and walks aside, as if he could care less. Probably could.

She looks between the bow and him. She isn't sure the stance to take, or…

"Will you at least help me get started?" She demands haughtily, though there's a hint of embarrassment in her voice. Why should she be embarrassed? For asking for help? She's never done this before…

"Here. Raise your arm, pull—notch the arrow, don't dry—there you go. Hold it—here, like this…Y'know, I think-"

"I don't care what you think."

"Well, that hurt my feelings," he rolls his eyes.

"Don't you have something better to do? You're an Avenger, didn't you say? Go...Avenge something." She snaps, irritated. She's grateful for his tips, but there's so many and he's just grabbing and pulling at her arm, pushing her shoulders back or in—she feels like a child.

"I am."

"What exactly?"

"Your parents. They called me, you know. Said you're disgracing them. I'm avenging them."

"Fuck off."

They spent nearly every night for weeks on that roof. They stopped initially meeting at the street corner even. She'd go straight to the roof and he'd find her there, and then they'd start practicing. She was a fast learner with potential. They hardly ever talked about anything but the bow. She never mentioned where she came from or anything about her family; he never mentioned where he'd go, when he'd tell her he would be gone for a few months.

She never mentions his injuries that always multiply when he returns from 'trips'. She doesn't ask him anymore questions about killing anyone, or about being an Avenger. She does find herself once asking what Captain America is like.

"A goddamn boy scout," he tells her.

"And the Hulk?"

"What? No longer the 'big green thing'?"

She shrugs. She's been doing her research.

"He's not always like that."

"What's he like when he's not…big and green? A girl scout?"

He shrugs, "An average guy. Maybe not average…"

"Iron Man?"

"A diva."

"Thor?"

"A god."

"What about-"

"Do you want me to profile every hero from every comic book you've read, or can I get back to showing you how to take this shot?" He motions, irritated.

"How come there aren't any female Avengers?"

He lowers the bow again. "You thinking of becoming an Avenger?"

She knocks her heels together, looking to the side, "Maybe…"

"Don't."

He aims and shoots before she can even get another word out.

"Why not?"

"You don't want to be an Avenger; a super hero. It's not all it's cracked up to be."

"You help people. That's pretty noble if you ask-"

"-I'm not." He cuts her off. "It's not easy, trying to save people and always do the right thing. If you've got a chance to be normal, take it."

"Then what's the point of all this?! Why even show me how to use a bow, to train me, if not to become an Avenger?"

She's on her feet and genuinely angry, but he sighs and suddenly looks too tired to argue.

"There is one."

"Excuse me?"

"A female Avenger. She's called the Black Widow. Me and her…"

"Her and I," she corrects. He rolls his eyes.

"Her and I, we aren't heroes. You won't see us plastered on buildings."

"Are you two like secret spies?"

"Sure."

He takes aim again and lets an arrow soar to the neighboring billboard, hitting square in the eye of the giant face promoting its product; some knock off brand of toothpaste, featured just below a gentleman's club add.

"If she's the Black Widow, who are you?"

He hands her the bow; it's her turn.

"Hawkeye."

The bow and quiver are where Kate always leaves them; the roof.

She slides down the fire escape, blistering her hands carelessly. Bow in hand, she's sprinting through the streets now, avoiding the wave of panicked people. She follows the sounds of screams, the smoke; she doesn't know what they, what he, is up against, but she's got to help. She's been waiting for this; training. He's taught her, months now, how to use a bow. She'll show him!

The streets are alive and cops are trying to guide everyone in one direction. There's too much going on, too many scenes calling for their eyes and attention, so she slips by them easily enough. She turns a corner and suddenly the streets are empty; everyone has been evacuated, pushing further back. She knows she's close.

A loud boom calls her attention to the left and she's sprinting off that way before she can even question what the hell she's even doing out here.

Kate takes a turn where the center of plume of smoke seems to be coming from and sure enough, there before her in the open scene is a levitating figure, glowing with power and resonating chaos. Kate has her bow in hand and without hesitation notches an arrow, taking aim. She doesn't see him, or any of the Avengers, nearby, but in this moment she can help them; give them an opening or-

"Kate!"

She lets the arrow go just as a weight collides into her side, knocking her down. The attention of the chaos, this super villain that Kate only assumes is some alien of sorts, is on her now, and just barely does cover save her. When she opens her eyes, she recognizes the anguished and angry face staring down at her.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd visit the east-side shops. Early Christmas shopping, y'know?" She smirks. He isn't smiling. "What? No quips today?"

"Get out of here!"

"I came to help you!" She looks around, noticing a sprinting figure towards them. She doesn't recognize the woman, but she's dressed like he is and is wielding two guns, taking aim above them and shooting.

"You really are an Avenger, aren't you?"

"Came all this way just to see that for yourself? Katie, you have to-"

"-help you. So let me," she finished firmly.

He sighs.

"Stay out of sight. You provide cover and nothing else."

The woman, a fiery red head, dives at the two of them. Her eyes instantly fall on Kate, looking between the two with disbelief.

"Clint, get the civilian out of here!"

"She's not a civilian…she's here to help."

The woman gives Kate a quick look, "She has powers?"

"She's got a bow."

The woman frowns.

"That doesn't-"

"-I think I've put to rest how useful a bow can be. Katie, cover us."

"Kate. Nice to meet you."

Katie already knows who this woman is; she's the female Avenger. The Black Widow.

Natasha nods once in acknowledgement of Kate before following after Clint.

Kate watches after them briefly, thinking to herself, his name is Clint.

Kate has no grasp of the situation. She has her instinct and her training and the simple knowledge that whatever they're up against, it's not human. Buildings are being torn at the atoms and the fabric of everything around her is shifting.

It's terrifying.

She's never felt so afraid, so face-to-face with fear and the inevitability of death.

It's exhilarating. Her adrenaline kicks in and she takes another shot, but her arrows never make it close before they're shredded into particles. Kate ducks and winces. Absolutely no effect!

Above her, Iron Man is zipping around. The Hulk is to her left, chaotically and sporadically smashing at everything. Kate hasn't seen the Black Widow or Hawkeye—Clint, she reminds herself- since they darted from where she was left.

Suddenly, someone jumps behind the debris with her, panting to catch their breath.

It's Captain-fucking-America.

"Barton caught me up on you. He says you're as good as him with a bow?"

Kate can't find words, so she nods. How modest of him, she thinks. Barton, huh? Is that his name? Clint Barton?

She never knew his true name, other than Hawkeye and that guy.

"Right. You shouldn't be here," the man suddenly admits, switching from praise to scolding. Before Kate can argue, he flinches away, gripping at his ear.

"Stark? What happened—Romanov?"

He glances over the debris and starts screaming at someone. A moment later, the Black Widow has dove beside Kate.

Her leg is bleeding and she wastes no time in dressing the wound herself, though Kate can see how she flinches with every move. Kate catches sight of white and recognizes it as bone. She suddenly feels like a small child caught in a war zone, sitting in everyone's way.

"Where's Barton?"

"Back there," the woman nods back, then glances at Kate, "You're still here?"

Kate nods, trying to tear her eyes from all that blood.

"Cap, we're not doing too good out here. How do we-?"

"Stark has a theory. She's got a weakness, we just need to exploit it-"

"She?" Kate blurts. It never occurred to her all this damage and catastrophe was being caused by a person; a person with a gender, and a name.

Funny how people apparently had those all of a sudden.

There's another blast and suddenly their cover is being crowded as a fourth figure crams beside the Captain.

"Barton!"

"We need an opening, a distraction." The Captain continues, as if Hawkeye's appearance is nothing unexpected.

Barton smirks at Kate, "You're still here?"

"How is that so surprising?"

"Cap, tell me what you need," Barton returns his attention, but the soldier shakes his head.

"I don't…I don't know. If we distract her, get all her attention gathered in one spot, we could counter from behind…Her magic takes build up; get her focused on one thing, leave her vulnerable from behind."

"I've got an idea," Barton nods slowly. "Nat, can you move?"

'Nat' bites her lip, shaking her head.

"Cap, get positioned behind the witch. Give me the word and I'll get you your distraction. Kate, stay by Natasha; cover her."

Kate nods slowly. Her gut tells her she doesn't like this plan. What can Clint do? Surely he's as useless as she is—what can bows and arrows do to this woman?

The Captain is gone without Kate even realizing it, leaving just the three of them. Barton squats, preparing to run, before remembering something suddenly.

He pulls off his quiver, handing it and his bow to Kate.

"Hold onto these."

Just as he lurches to make a run for it, Kate blurts, "Be careful!"

He looks back, winks at Kate, glances at Natasha, and then is gone.

"You trust me?"

He scoffs, slowly opening only one eye simply to roll it and shrug his shoulders, "Maybe. Or, I'm just that damn tired…"

She raises the bow, watching the target, before dropping it.

"I can't. W-what if I miss? That's your head! I could hit you in the eye, or the neck, or—"

"Do you trust me?"

Well, for months she'd met him on a secluded roof in the middle of the night and he hadn't killed or raped her yet.

"Sure."

"Then I trust you. So, go ahead," He settles back, sitting against the brick wall with the cup balanced on his head.

She frowns.

"But what if I miss?"

"Then all this training was for nothing. See your target, forget everything else, and shoot."

She inhales, aims, and exhales.

Kate tries to dress Natasha's wounds, but the woman keeps swatting away her hands. Kate doesn't know what she's doing, glancing feverishly around for sign and sight of Barton, of Captain America, of anyone.

"How do you know Clint?"

Kate jumps a little at the woman's voice.

"Clint? That's his name right?"

Natasha's brows raise.

"I guess I don't know him…"

"What's it look like?" Natasha nods to above their cover. Kate risks a glance. Kate can't make out much more than that the basic outline of a figure, of the enemy. I guess, Kate thinks, from this angle is could be a female. Her back is to where Kate and Natasha are positioned, though.

"What are you all up against?"

"Just an average weekday," Natasha counters. Kate smiles; this woman sounds like Hawkeye—Clint.

"Do you—?"

"Barton, now!" breaks through the com in Natasha's ear, and she quickly hushes Kate, throwing herself to peer around the concrete slab. Kate is right beside her, looking on in horror as Clint steps out, weaponless.

"Clint!" The Black Widow screams; she's hours ahead of Kate, who isn't quite sure what's happening. Everything plays out in slow motion and it's a car crash Kate can't look away from.

"Oi! Over here!"

Everyone's attention is drawn to Clint, standing with his arms spread wide. The opponent doesn't hesitate, raising an arm in his direction, and suddenly time catches up to Kate.

Clint glances back, and for a moment his eyes meet Kate's.

Kate doesn't hesitate. She lunges for the abandoned bow, raising it and taking aim. It doesn't matter that she's grabbed one of her own, useless arrows that haven't done anything yet. The witch isn't looking at her; she can make this shot, Clint trained her to-

"Kate, wait!"

Kate stiffens and does just that. She hesitates; she waits.

And in that second, she sees Clint smile, relax and disappear.

Pulled apart and dissolved by reality itself.

Kate doesn't feel air.

For months, she waited for Clint. Every night at that damn street corner, she'd wait for him. All this time she'd thought he'd only taught her how to shoot a bow, to have remorse and to help others rather than always just herself.

What he'd taught her was to wait. On his beck and call; she was his to command, like a damn dog that followed him.

She's still holding the bow, aimed at the witch except she's not there anymore. There's screaming-mostly from the Black Widow-and everything is hectic. The Avengers find the adrenaline, the motivation, to move again and they're counter-striking; they're avenging.

"Kate, wait!"

Her hand is trembling but she holds the arrow.

He called her Kate this time.

And Natasha watches with wide eyes as it happens. She's helpless. She can't do anything. She can't run to anyone claiming, "That's my husband. Let me see him, that's my husband!" Because there's nothing to see and no one to explain that to. Steve can't drive a car to him. Stark doesn't have a strategy for bringing back the dead. They can't do anything.

Clint is gone, and all they have left is the memory of him and what he taught them.

Open wide

"Hiding Out"

"Oi, you gonna sit 'ere, or 'ive me a han', eh?"

"Sorry, right!" Barney bounces to his feet, setting aside the post and bounding to reach the old man.

"…Where's 'ur bruther?" Gary spits.

Barney shrugs.

"Europe, I think."

"Europe? The damn country?"

Barney winces. This is the world Clint didn't mind staying in for the rest of his life?

"…yeah." The country. Right.

"Wha's he 'ere fer? How'd he git te money..?"

"Family friend," Barney covers. "He'll be back, though, in time for the weekend show…" So don't cut his paycheck just yet, Barney thinks.

The old man grumbles something about Europeans before limping off on his own, leaving Barney.

Barney scratches at his head, a habit he'd seen Clint pick up on nowadays. He wonders what that kid is up to right now. (He's not a kid, Barney reminds himself).

Barney has some money saved up, he thinks on a whim. He could buy a ticket to Paris right now—go chasing after his brother.

There's no guarantee he'd find him. He has no idea, in a city and a country so big that he can't navigate in, where his brother would be. By the time he ever possibly found any trace of where Clint might have been, Clint would probably be back at the circus. Barney was worrying too much.

He chuckles, contemplating that he might have some sort of brother complex.

Fuck that noise—Clint's probably fine.

Barney sleeps alone for the first time in years. No Clint in the bunk beneath him on the train compartment. The chugging of the engine keeps him up all night when it hasn't bothered him in years. Clint said he'd be gone for the weekend—then he'd corrected himself "maybe a week."

It's only been two days. Barney reaches at the barrel beside his bunk, used as an end table, for a cigarette and a lighter but finds neither. He won't find any sleep tonight, he thinks bitterly. He tries to imagine that Clint is on a flight to Louisiana right now and will wait at the fairgrounds for him in the morning.

Barney tries to close his eyes and whistle a tune like a lullaby to lull himself to sleep. It eventually works when he slips asleep, dreaming of Clint and him sprinting around the tent as children.

Barney sits in a hammock that he's set up behind the tent. A show is going on, but without Clint's act, Barney isn't needed backstage or for any prop set ups and has this one off.

He's gripping one of Clint's arrows, tempted to just snap it so he can use the excuse "you took too long getting back" when Clint –indisputably—inevitably came back. Because he was going to come back. 'Cept he wasn't that mean of a brother.

He knows there's nothing to it. He's the one who said it was fine, didn't ask any questions. He's the one who let Clint go.

He closes his eyes, dropping the arrowhead and trying to nap, but Clint appears in his mind and he looks troubled. He starts mumbling bout this dream he keeps having. It's been weeks.

Barney tells him as much, laughing it off, but it's unnerving. He's never known anyone to have the same dream, and so consistently.

"Well…what do the voices sound like?" He'd asked Clint.

Clint shrugs.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help. If you talk to me about them-"

"Just drop it."

"Don't get mad at me!" Barney yells, suddenly standing. "I'm just trying to help, Clint!"

"Well, don't. Forget it, okay?"

"Barney?"

Barney's eyes snap open and it's just Clarice—one of the trapeze artists.

"You alright?"

Barney just nods, not trusting his throat. He feels like throwing up.

"Is Clint coming back soon..?"

Whatever is knotted in his throat comes up and he has to swallow it down, irritated, before snapping at Clarice, "I don't know! Forget it, alright?"

"Barney?! Forget..?"

But he's already stormed off. He knows he didn't make sense. Just…leave him alone, Clarice. Everyone.

He wants Clint back.

What right does that bastard have? He's the one who wanted to leave the circus! It's not fair that it's Clint who gets the opportunity to leave it, and he doesn't take his brother with him? Barney wouldn't have left Clint—he wasn't going to! Barney would have stayed at the circus for the rest of his life if Clint meant to, too. Why didn't he do the same?

Barney wonders if Clint left because he was angry that Barney kept pushing him to change the final act. Clint couldn't be that petty.

Could he have been?

Barney's eyes are red and swollen when the weekend comes and Clint doesn't show up. A beer bottle, emptied in hand, suddenly finds itself smashed against the wall across from him.

"Ye can shove that souvenir up your ass," Barney grits, slurring, but his nostrils are flaring and he starts to choke out sobs. He tries to purse his lips together to whistle but gives up instantly, throwing his face in his hands and bawling outright. He slumps forward, his chest to his knees, because he's just got a feeling.

The same feeling that told him to trust Clint to go ahead and leave without any explanation as to why him and two strangers were all of a sudden flying to Paris. Paris, France; not Texas.

The same gut feeling that has told him something is wrong all week long, and has been ever since Clint started having those dreams.

The feeling that told him maybe he and Clint should have left the circus. He's starting to think he should have knocked Clint out and dragged his sorry ass from the circus a week ago. Taken him to a train station, up and root somewhere in an actual home and get actual jobs.

Those strangers would never have found him had he just done that.

Clint would still be with him right now.

It's just been a week, he tells himself. Clint is running a little late, but he'll be back.

Except, Barney has a feeling that, no, Clint won't be back.

Barney took his eyes off of him, and now he's lost him.

Wide

"Troubled Waters"

She looks stunning.

He's been watching her change dresses for the past ten minutes. He could've made his presence known, but for some reason she hasn't noticed him yet and he doesn't mean to interrupt her.

The first dress she's in is a green cocktail, with an A-line skirt. The strap shoes are gold as are her bangles which clink as she runs fingers through her hair.

She gets all the way to earrings before pausing, sighing, and throwing the dress off. She casts her bangles on the bed and storms to the closet, returning moments later with a new dress half zipped.

Clint almost moves to offer finishing the job, but her hands already beat him to it and this dress is a longer, floor length navy blue dress yet still as body hugging as the last one. She doesn't have shoes on, or bracelets. She pulls all her loose hair over one shoulder, contemplating this style choice before frowning and pinning it up with her hands in a loose up do. Neither option satisfies her, and she throws her hair once again over her shoulders.

She shakes her head privately to herself in annoyance and returns to the closet.

The third dress is red and that's all Clint sees.

When he does finally shake himself from his trance, several seconds behind in viewing, she's moved on and he's pretty sure she's selected some heels this time.

She bends at the mirror, applying a coat of lipstick as bright as the fabric on her hips, and when that is done, she steps aside from the vanity and over to the wall.

In one swift, daft moment she draws the lipstick along the walls, spelling something out. He really should be alarmed then and there but isn't bothered, and a moment later she's reaching for a clutch and stepping towards him, unabashed as if she's known he's been there the entire time. He glances at the wall, at the words, but nothing registers to him until she's tapping her hand purse at his shoulder, motioning him out of the room.

"Are you about ready?"

Hilarious, that that should be coming from her directed at him.

His fingers stumble around his neck, tying the bow tie (His original reason for approaching her). The collar keeps getting in the way, he hates wearing formal attire; these shoes are uncomfortable—

"Do you need help?"

He surrenders instantly, wordlessly pressing his arms at his side awaiting Nat to come save him.

"You know how to tie this," she murmurs. He shrugs, because yes, if he really wanted to and really tried, he could probably do a decent job. But, she would've found some criticism in his work and redone it herself anyway-they both know it- so they might as well skip step one.

"What'd we get the happy couple?" He asks, motioning to the box she's set aside. It's wrapped in light blue paper with a white ribbon. A sizeable box. If he had to guess, he'd say some appliance or other.

"A blender."

He nods slowly, in that moment trying to distinguish the difference between a blender and a mixer because for a second he's forgotten which is which.

She finishes up and straightens the folds on his shoulders, admiring her work.

"You look good," she compliments and he nods, opening his mouth to tell her the same until he doesn't.

She's already turned around anyway, gift in hand and tossing the keys back at him.

"Lock up on our way out."

With a click, the apartment is locked and she offers to drive. He says that's fine, because he wants to catch some sleep before the whole thing, but she makes sure he's awake the entire drive there. He keeps thinking about whether he's DVRing that program on television or not.

When they arrive, he slips from the car, loosening his collar as his feet grind in the parking lot gravel.

"Oh-! Your tie…it's messed up again!" She pouts, exasperated, quickly making her way around the car to fix it. He bats her off.

"Leave it," he grumbles, but of course she isn't going to.

She re-ties it three times before he finally starts walking forward and she's forced to accept it's as good as it'll get.

He opens his mouth to mutter how much he doesn't want to be here, but her pace is impressively quick and they're already at the door, being greeted by the receptionist and he won't risk having someone overhear him. Suck it up, he thinks.

"Are you here for the wedding?"

"Yes," they both agree, though on differing levels of enthusiasm.

The woman hands them each a pamphlet, though Clint tosses his the second they're inside.

Natasha snakes a hand around his arm and tugs him along like an accessory. She seems taller, though he supposes its heels.

The clicks of them are strangely unnerving and echo oddly in Clint's ears. He winces.

The wedding itself takes too long to get started and then goes by too quickly, so it's not worth the wait at all.

And yes, yes- the bride looked lovely. The bloke standing at the end of the aisle stumbles over his vows and Clint doesn't hear a word that the priest or father or whatever he is says; he speaks too softly and Clint isn't about to strain to listen because he doesn't care.

He tries to fall asleep but sure enough Nat bops him on the chest and he has to sit up through the whole ordeal, eyes wide open.

He settles on closely observing a groomsman try to silently flirt and communicate with a bridesmaid, unaware that anyone is paying their exchange any attention. The groomsman winks and the bridesmaid swoons.

When the ceremony ends, Clint thinks that's it.

Of course it isn't.

There's a reception.

An hour later, Clint has made his round of an appearance at the dance floor and tables and taken a slice of the cake and warded off drunken singles making a grab at his suit. He spends a minute admiring the happy couple as they slow dance and clearly mutter some private conversation between themselves. He'll admit—the bride really does look pretty.

After sixty seconds of mushy thinking, he slips from the ballroom and into the bar of the hotel they're at, motioning to the bar tender for a hit.

Beer in hand (open bar) Clint takes a swing at it and sighs, questioning the bar tender's choice of channel at this hour.

"The nutcracker? Seriously?"

The bar tender isn't even within earshot of Clint. It's an empty bar, but he's still managed to find some excuse to be as far away from attending to Barton as possible. Clint tugs at his collar and the bow tie falls loose. He doesn't bother picking it up.

He doesn't have to—Nat catches it, throwing it at him (It floats, being as light and fabric-y as it is, he muses).

"I give up on you," she smirks. She raises her brows at the television, smirking, "nice choice."

"…I'm missing the game so you can relive your glory days-"

"Shh." She hushes him, like she'll miss any dialogue. He frowns. It's all background music that she has memorized—hell, he has it memorized. So long as he doesn't block the television, what harm is it for him to talk?

"Nat…"

"Clint." She warns, with her eyes glued to the television. He sighs and waits patiently for commercials, because there's no winning.

When the bottom logo of the channel fades and the screen goes from leaping tights to a refrigerator commercial, he hands her the beer and tries again in vain to get the mixer's attention.

"We could've gone and seen this live, you know. Stark could probably pull us tickets…"

"Save it for next time," she shrugs without looking at him, but something about that preposition seems wrong to him.

"Besides," she continues, tipping her bottle to him, "Would the theatre have allowed you to drink beer?"

He scoffs, "I could've snuck it in."

"Would I have allowed you to?"

He's less confident about that.

"Which one is this, anyway," he frowns, trying to recognize the theatre. "It's not the Bulshevik…"

"It's a San Francisco troupe, actually."

He nods, but it's not like it makes a difference. He's just trying to keep conversation. Trying to make her happy.

The commercials end before he can bring up anything else and he settles into silence once again, stretching his legs out underneath him. It's then that he realizes he should have asked her to dance. He didn't dance with her during the reception.

She props her feet up on the coffee table and she's wearing the socks. That's the first give away.

The second, he realizes, is that they're no longer at the hotel. They're back at the apartment, not Stark's tower but an apartment, the apartment.

And the music. There is none.

It's silence. He looks frantically between her and the television, trying to see if she recognizes that nothing is playing. If she recognizes that a second ago, they were dolled up and at a wedding. They're still dolled up. He didn't see her feet before, when she first tried on that red dress—she's wearing the socks.

He's still in his tux, with the uncomfortable shoes.

She looks indifferent, like it doesn't bother her or she hasn't noticed.

The television isn't playing the ballet anymore—it's a camera feed of some woodland area, and two figures just walked into view. One is shot down and suddenly someone else is running on screen, trying to reach the figure now sprawled on the ground.

"Na-"

"I got you something," she suddenly blurts, and he pales. No, please don't let this be a dream. Please let this be real. Let him be with h-

"Go on, open it," she urges, turning her attention to him.

There's no gift to open. Nothing magically in his lap; she isn't handing him anything. He shakes his head slowly.

This is all just another hallucination.

"I'm sorry."

She smiles, "I don't understand. Why?"

He lays his arm across her shoulders, reaching around her back and gripping her arm. He wants so badly to feel the fabric of her dress, her skin. No matter the pressure, he feels nothing.

The writing on the wall in lipstick the shade of blood—'Don't go'.

"Because I didn't listen to you."

"It's never too late."

"This time. It is this time."

Her smile fades. "I-it's never-"

"This time it is," he repeats.

"You're awake? That took a while, for a second I thought you'd really left us."

"Wouldn't that be a shame," he spits.

"I don't know what I'd do without my favorite pastime," she mock pouts, rolling her shoulder. His eyes come into focus, clinging desperately to the after image of Natasha from his dream but losing it. Taking her place is the ever-unfortunate face of the masked woman; the click of her heels replacing the feint buzz feed memory of the nutcracker instrumentals.

"Remind me that you and I should have a talk later," she muses, pacing slow circles around him. "For now, though, I don't feel much like talking. And I'm guessing you don't either."

It's halfway through the latest torture, replaying the dream over and over in his mind, that he realizes the music wasn't from the nutcracker; it'd been from Swan Lake. Damn Tchaikovsky.

Wide

"Persuasion"

The bubbles are nearly all gone. She hasn't moved or stirred—her finger tips and toes are wrinkly but she hasn't noticed. Pepper drew up this bath for her—told her she needed to relax. There's even candles and the aroma of the bathroom is fantastic—what else should she expect from Stark's master bath.

Him and Pepper stepped out for the night, giving her space. The others are hanging around, somewhere in the tower. She doesn't know where, or what they're doing. It doesn't matter.

One candle goes out, having burned so low. This startles her enough to move, waves emitting as the water stirs with her movement. She reaches for a towel, but catches herself.

He's sitting there, at the end of the tub. Not looking at her, but he's there.

She doesn't want to startle him; she freezes. He's like a rare bird perched at a fountain, and she's afraid if she jerks too quickly he'll fly and be gone.

He shakes his head, hearing her thoughts because what else is he?

"I'm not going anywhere."

"But you did. You went somewhere I can't follow, you left me-"

"I never left you." He shakes his head, just slightly. His eyes are trained on the window. "Til' the end I was by your side; I had your back. I've been here the whole time. And I'll never leave."

Her lip quivers but she tries to smile, because that's true. He was by her side, with her, until…

It was she who left him, she recalls. Rogers dragged her away and she left-

"Don't," he warns, softly, so she nods. She won't revisit that memory. Not tonight, not now. He's here—he's back.

She wants to whisper to him, tell him that she lied. When he asked her last if she'd been alright without him. She'd said "I'll survive."

No. No, that's not quite true.

Except she doesn't need to say anything out loud, because he hears it all the same. She's watching him so intently, refusing to blink in fear he'll be gone, that she catches it—the slightest twitch of the corner of his mouth. The quickest, faintest shake of his head.

"Don't." He warns her. Don't go down that path, don't think that way.

Despite herself, she smiles. She knows he won't leave her now—he can't. It's true she thinks. If he leaves her again—

"I'm here. I've got your back."

"Still?" She smiles; her voice cracks but she's smiling, pleading.

He looks in pain, still refusing to look at her. But he nods.

He still never looks her in the eye but he reaches his hand to grip the edge of the tub as though offering it, almost as if to take her hand to comfort her, but doesn't touch. She looks at the hand and almost reaches for it herself but doesn't.

Doesn't break the illusion.