Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

*~*

Clint decides the world's fucked. Everyone's back, but Natasha. Tony's gone, made the sacrifice play. Yet here Clinton Francis Barton sits, but Hawkeye's not coming back. In his place they get Ronin. Ronin who can't keep his mouth shut, apparently.

"What do you mean, 'Cap's gone'?" he asks, throat tight with worry, eyes narrowing at Sam. He can't lose anyone else.

Sam shrugs, looks almost sheepish, but there's a brand new shield at his side which speaks volumes. Banner shifts in the doorway, eyes not settling. "He chose to stay," he says, awkward and hesitant. "Nothing went wrong with the machine," he tacks on quickly.

Clint glances around the room at the remnants of their team. Wanda's eyes are wide, but she seems resigned to it. "Chose to stay? How the fuck do you know that? Did he send a note?" Clint's voice is a hard rasp. He's trying to keep the anger from boiling up, taking over, engulfing and destroying everything.

Clint sees Rhodes wince, but he doesn't care. He glances at the others, then out the window and sees Bucky out in the yard, talking to someone. He turns back to the others. "Well?" He crosses his arms over his chest, grips his biceps with white knuckles.

Sam glances at Banner and then out to the yard, but still doesn't answer.

"What?"

Bucky steps into the room, pushing past Banner. "Well, that's that."

"What's what?" Clint still hasn't gotten a straight answer. "Who were you talking to?"

"Me?" Bucky replies, but he's closed off, eyes hooded.

And that just sets Clint off. He's barely holding back, needs to punch something.

"It was Steve," Sam answers before Clint can do something stupid like provoke the Winter Soldier.

"What?" Clint asks, sounding like a broken record.

"That's how we know what he did. He stayed. Had a life."

Bucky straightens. "He'd earned it," he says, eyes going hard. As if Clint was going to challenge him on that. Well, Clint might be itching for a fight but he's not stupid. Or not that stupid. Although part of him wants to ask, 'why not you?'. A bigger part, a part that's hollow and aching wants to ask, wants to demand of the universe: 'why not Nat?', but he doesn't dare. He's not going to be able to say her name without breaking down and he's quite broken enough.

"So what does that mean?" he asks instead, eyes turning to Sam. "You the leader now, Wilson?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Banner answers.

"Well, shit." Clint can't think of anything else to say so he stalks out.

Wanda finds him at the edge of the water. Her hug brings tears to his eyes, but he swallows them and wraps his arms around her. It's not enough, he understands, but he's still got to try.

They're both dry-eyed when they pull apart and Wanda presses her palm to his cheek, her eyes insistent. He swallows at the understanding and concern he sees. "One day at a time, right?" she says, voice quiet. "That's what you told me. What you kept reminding me."

Clint nods, draws in a shuddery breath.

"That's all we can do," she says, not nearly as confident as she's trying to convince him she is.

"Yeah, okay." That's all he can do right in this moment.

It'd be good if Clint would take his own advice. He does try. He just sucks at it.

He'd gone back to the farm, fallen to his knees and hugged the kids hard. Lila and Cooper squirmed away pretty quickly. They were still trying to make sense of some of their friends being in high school or older than that. They're resilient, still laughing and happy; life hasn't changed for them and Nate, well, he's a cuddler and content to be held for as long as Clint likes. Laura just stands by, gives him all the time he needs. Life returns to a semblance of normal for them, but it doesn't for Clint.

He's so far from normal, even he couldn't hit it with a rifle and a scope. He can't stop himself from scanning every room he walks into, checking for exits, making sure he has accessible weapons and even then he'll whirl into battle mode at the simplest of sounds. He needs to see the kids, know that they're still here. After the third time each of the kids catch him staking out their respective schools, Laura sits him down, tries to get him to talk about it.

Clint desperately wishes Barney were here. Even if he hadn't been snapped, he'd handle this new reality better than Clint is. And Laura, well, she could use someone more reliable than Clint to keep the farm and to raise the kids. Barney should be here, but the idiot had to go and get himself killed, leaving Clint to pick up the pieces. And he is not in any way qualified to do that, now less than ever. But Laura trusted him, believed in him and asked him to stay. He never thought he was good enough, always feared he was too much like his own father. But Laura knew her mind then and she knows it now. She sits him down and tells him she trusts him.

"You've been there for us, Clint, and we're here for you."

Just like that. As though nothing has changed. That Clint hasn't changed.

"Thanks, Sis. I," he starts, struggles with the words.

She pats his hand and smiles gently. "It's gonna take time. Just let it," she says, voice soft. "But no more stalking the kids at school!" she chastises and Clint knows she's right, but he can't help the need driving him. He's got to make sure everyone is where they're supposed to be.

He has to.

He tries. He does. But nothing helps. It's been too long, too much death and darkness. Feels like he's still in a neverending black tunnel. He sleeps fitfully, trips over shadows, flinches at sharp noises. And when sleep is too fraught, he spends nights pacing or out on the range.

He likes to pretend he's making progress, that the hollows under his eyes aren't growing deeper. The kids aren't oblivious, either, but they won't walk on eggshells around him. They wrestle and tease and drag him into their fusses. Nate's a cuddler when it's storming and his baby soft hair and chubby hands petting at Clint keep him grounded. Laura's a blessing. Always has been too good for any Barton man, but she doesn't push, doesn't judge, just makes sure he eats and doesn't forget the goats or finishing repairs he starts.

It's a good life and he's an asshole for not being more grateful. But he can't help thinking that he should have been the one broken on those rocks. He was already more broken than that and sure as hell isn't getting better.

He storms into the barn and tears into the old tractor. It's never worked right, was a piece of junk when Barney first bought it, but Clint's got to have something to take out his anger on besides himself and he'll never stay near Laura or the kids when he's feeling like this.

Then the impossible happens.

He hears a car turn into the drive. It's not one he recognizes and thanks to StarkTech hearing aids, he knows what Laura's SUV sounds like, knows the rumble of the Patterson's truck, hears every squeak from the Laghari's Mazda's springs, knows when Linda the USPS driver is dropping by; he even knows all the FedEx and UPS drivers' trucks, the individual grind of the gears. It's too much, he knows, but hypervigilance kept him alive all those years. This car has him immediately stepping into bright sunshine just as Laura stops dead at the bottom of the steps. She's white as a sheet, eyes wide, trembling hand covering her mouth as Clint turns to see just who pulled up.

For a moment, there's a flash of hope in his chest. Maybe Bruce had figured out a way to bring Nat back?

But no. It's a man stepping out of the sedan; one far more impossible than if it had been Natasha.

And Clint's moving, feet carrying him without thought, fist flying before he even realizes.

Barney.

He doesn't lift his hands, doesn't dodge the punch that Clint telegraphs worse than when he was ten. Just takes it. Clint would probably punch him again, but Laura's somehow between them, her shout ringing in his aids even as her arms wrap about Clint's asshole -- very much not dead -- brother.

"What the fuck?!?!" Clint growls, but Laura's glance silences him.

"Not here," she says, then tries to drag Barney into the house, but he's not moving.

His eyes are firmly on Clint as he holds Laura with one arm around her waist, the other rubbing at his jaw. "Still a pussy, lil bro." His eyes are bright, not challenging, almost mocking, but missing by a hair. "Thought I taught you better'n that." Then he grins, sweeps Laura up into his arms and tucks his face into her neck.

And Clint's just struck dumb. Can't move. Brain's stuck on How? What the fuck? And mostly Why? Why him? And not her?

Clint finds his voice just as they're about to turn away and head into the house. "Who the hell are you?" he spits out.

Barney turns, smirk fully pasted on his face. "I'm your brother, you fuckin' idiot! Who else would I be?"

"Bullshit. My brother is dead," Clint hisses, hands clenching into fists at his side. "Laura, this is not Barn. It can't be!"

Barney's eyes go sad as he shakes his head, tightens his arm on Laura, denying Clint's reality of the past decade. "It'd be better if we do this inside," he says. "No sense on the neighbors getting all up in our business 'fore they have to."

"No," Clint shakes his head, points at the ground. "We'll do it here where I can kick your ass."

"Please, Clint. Don't do this," Laura pleads.

He looks at her and gets it. "You knew," he accuses.

Shaking her head, she answers, "No. I suspected and hoped. Tried to get word…" Her eyes shine as she looks up at Barney.

"Fuck!" Clint sags, all fight gone.

"Inside," Barney orders and Clint's having none of that shit. He storms past them, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Clint rages at being lied to, at Laura and the kids being lied to. But, really it doesn't matter. They'd all been snapped. Hadn't lived in that world, hadn't known, couldn't know what it had been like. And that's when Clint realizes that there's a gulf between him and them, one that he hasn't found a way across.

Barney'd come back to a world so changed it was impossible to process. But he doesn't give a rat's ass about taking down the cartel now. Ronin had done a thorough enough job that the ones returned didn't stand a chance in hell of saving themselves or rebuilding what they had. Barney had given up too much, tried so hard to clean up his act, make his past 'right'. But what's right in the face of the snap?

He just told the FBI to 'fuck it' and resigned, eager to return to his family. The one Clint had kept warm for him.

Clint is gone before the kids get home.

Clint drops into his newly acquired, dumpster sofa and stares at the bare, cracked-plaster walls, his hands itching, thoughts so loud that he feels like the cacophony is leaking into the room, stealing the oppressive silence, turning it into condemnation. Words like "Failure", "Murderer", "Liar", bouncing off the walls and echoing even without his hearing aids in.

The phone rings; it's Laura. She's given him time and space, but he owes her and the kids, so he answers.

"We need to talk."

"Fuck you!" It's not Laura. It's Barney. And he's the last risen-from-the-dead person Clint wants to talk to. He's about to hang up the phone when he actually hears what Barney has to say.

"I know hiding's your thing, but I'm not letting you get away with it this time. I'll come to New York if I have to," he threatens. But Clint knows it's not a threat. He knows his brother. "You don't want that. I don't want it," he continues. "Can we please talk?" he asks. Fucking asks. Barney's never asked Clint's permission for anything.

Dammit.

"So talk," Clint answers, voice thick.

"This is your home, Clint. I didn't come home to run you out of it. I came home so we could all be together. I've seen the news. But I know more than that," he says, voice careful. Like he actually gives a damn about any of what he's saying. "I know things they don't show on the news. I know who's gone and I can put two and two together."

"Having a clearance doesn't make you a fuckin' genius."

"No, but caring about you means I pay attention," he retorts. "Now, stay away if you need. I get that. But don't you dare abandon our kids. If you don't call at least once a week and Skype a couple of times a month, I will come over there and beat your ass and drag you home. If I haveta chain you up in the barn, I will." It's a threat and a promise and so much concern for Clint, that he can't reply.

Clint's throat's thick and his eyes sting as silence rings on the line, but he finally manages to say, "You're a fucking asshole."

"Always have been, but I have learned how to take care of people I care about."

"Yeah? Who the hell taught you that?" he sneers. "It sure wasn't that alphabet agency that lied to your wife and kids."

"No, you doofus. It was you."

"Oh."

The line goes quiet again.

"Hug Laura and the kids for me and don't forget to read to Nate," Clint finally says.

"I will," Barney replies and Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

It doesn't take long for Clint to get into trouble. He's not cut out to be a civilian after all. He doesn't know how to live that life. He finds himself patrolling Brooklyn, a masked vigilante stalking the night, his Ronin gear feeling like coming home again even if he's disappointing everyone in his life. Natasha wanted him to live, be happy, do the white picket fence thing, but he screwed that up. He couldn't sleep at night, couldn't deal with the silence; every creak, every groan, every whisper of the wind made his heart leap and he'd be up, swords out.

He packs away the fancy StarkTech hearing aids, boxes up everything from his life from SHIELD to now. The only concession he'll make is one photo. Strike Team Delta standing together, bruised, battered, and bleeding, but their smiles wide and ridiculous. All three of them glad to be alive. They made it out then, but he can't. Not in this now.

The asshole Russian mafiosos, what's left of them, think he's an easy target without the Black Widow guarding his six. He proves them wrong, with prejudice, and ends up with a dog. A one-eyed mutt he tells everyone he saved, but Lucky'd saved him if the truth were to get out.

And then the Russians decide to play hardball. Ronin isn't playing. Clint ends up owning an apartment building as battered and banged up as he is. What is his life?

It's not anywhere like what Natasha had imagined for him, not what she sacrificed herself for, but he is living, albeit shabbily and sometimes barely able to get by. But he thinks this could be progress.

He calls the kids and they insist on a Skype call, only Nate gasping at his bruised face. He talks them down, convinces him that the 'bad guys' look much-much worse and then he changes the subject. The call goes even better when Lucky noses in to investigate, tongue lolling at the squeals on the other end. Clint actually signs off with a real smile for the first time in a long time.

Wanda calls, asks him to come check out the new HQ. Clint tries to demur, but he can't make Wanda beg so he goes.

She greets him with a smile that almost reaches her eyes and a hard hug, her arm wrapped in his while she gives him a tour. It's a flipping mansion. Nothing as ostentatious as the old Tower. Nothing as sprawling as the compound. Something more like Strange's sanctum. More circumspect. Safer for the neighbors. They hope.

Everything's scaled down, but it feels better for it. As they walk, he glimpses a few new faces in passing. He recognizes most of them, but can't always put a name to the face. That's fine, better than. They don't need him if they've got all these other heroes crawling out of the woodwork.

They stop by the lab which looks similar enough to the one in the tower to give Cint the heebie jeebies. Before he starts looking for a sentient robot over his shoulder, Bruce steps around a partition and waves. Clint tries, but he's still not used to seeing Bruce Banner all big and green. He never did get Natasha to tell him what she thought of the change.

"Bruce," Wanda says, pulling Clint from his thoughts. "You are coming for team dinner tonight, right?"

"Um," he says, clearly not want to outright refuse.

"You have to," she says, voice too cheerful. "Clint's staying." She tangles her arm with Clint's before glancing between them. "Aren't you?"

Clint rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "Yeah, I guess I am." He meets Bruce's eyes and can't get a read on him. In for a penny, in for a pound. "C'mon, it'll be a bit like old times, except without murder robots."

Bruce's lip curls up and his eyes lighten, shoulders easing as he glances around. "Let's hope not, anyway."

"We'll see you soon," Wanda says and tugs Clint out. It's as if she's afraid if she stays any longer, Bruce will back out of coming to dinner. Clint turns back to nod at Bruce and see what's behind the partition. It's the time machine; smaller than before and definitely not built for all of them to go at once, but Clint'd recognize that tech anywhere.

Before he can think too long on it, Wanda's continuing the tour. The mansion's pretty great, actually. Clint kind of wishes they had a place like this instead of the tower, which was too much of a target. It might as well have had a flashing neon sign saying "come get us". And the compound was little better. Sure, it was more isolated, not in the middle of Manhattan, but it was still a too-visible target.

"How'd you guys manage all this?" he asks after seeing their range and gym in the basement. "Seems awfully rich for all you non-salaried supes."

Wanda snorts. "Miz Stark set us up," she says, voice catching. "Apparently, this was given to us in Mister Stark's will."

"Us?"

Wanda just shrugs. "The Avengers. The team. Whoever that is, I suppose."

"Oh." Clint has no words. He and Tony might have been on opposite sides on the Accords, but they were a team. A dysfunctional family. His stomach grumbles saving him from dwelling on any of that shit.

He gives Wanda a sheepish grin. "Seems my stomach's ready for food."

"When isn't it?" she retorts, but her smile is warm and her eyes even sparkle a bit. "First," she begins, stopping him from heading back up.

"What?"

"Take this." She hands him an ID card. His ID card, which proclaims him an Avenger and doubles as some kind of signal. He looks at it for a long time before shaking his head and handing it back to her. "I can't."

She doesn't take it back. "Yes, you can." He shakes his head, but she's looking at him, jaw set and eyes challenging. "We won't call you in unless it's something world-ending, but you're still on the roster."

He tries to argue but she won't hear of it. He was never good at saying no to Wanda. Just like he could never say no to Nat.

"Only for end of the world shit, right?"

"Right," she agrees.

Clint tucks it into his pocket and hopes he hasn't made a mistake.

Team dinner is more boisterous and comfortable than he expected. It's more of a potluck with some sitting down at the table to join them, while most pop in and out. Clint listens to Sam and Barnes snark at each other, their banter easing something in Clint. He'd doubted that they were going to work out as the de facto team leaders. There's a clear fondness and shared understanding between Sam and Bucky despite the continuous barbs passing back and forth without all the underlying tension there'd been between Steve and Tony.

Clint swallows. Hides his frown behind his beer. Wanda's too perceptive and he doesn't want her asking questions about what's going on in his head. None of the thoughts are flattering and it'd bring up feelings when he'd rather hide from those.

He doesn't say much, just mostly watches, takes in the new dynamic. Where Sam and Barnes seem to fit well, the rest are still a work in progress; rough edges scraping against smooth. Despite their win, the losses are still haunting more than just Clint. He hopes for their sake they can forge a real team.

It's nice, better than he imagined. But it doesn't feel like home. Doesn't feel like his team. How can it without Nat? Hell, he even misses Tony and Steve.

Months pass and Clint's mostly in denial, just meandering through life, no real purpose, not anymore. Seems like everytime he thought his feet were on the right path, he either gets betrayed by those closest to him or he finds out he was working for the bad guys all along.

He tries to be a good super for his tenants, and is thankful for Lucky every single day. He gives Clint a reason to get up in the morning and not be a hermit. His tenants make him use real words on an almost daily basis. It's all better than he was doing.

He keeps his promises; calls the kids twice a week, like clockwork. They even Skype once a week and Clint gets to referee whatever argument Lila and Coop are having. And Simone has worn him down, insists he eat with them every Sunday and makes sure he ends up with her youngest in his lap while they watch a Disney movie after dinner. He tries to beg off every single week, but Simone's no easier to turn down than Wanda is. And Clint finds himself even looking forward to it, though he works hard to not get used to it and to not ever forget that he doesn't deserve it.

His dreams still run red and "failure", "murderer", "waste" still echo in his brain when he should be sleeping. It's then, in the middle of the night when he can't sleep, when he won't even try, when he's spent too many nights drawing blood and making people pay for his mistakes -- making them bleed -- that the lab will pop into his head, unbidden. That stupid fucking time machine with its idea that he could go back. That he could fix all this. Get Natasha back and have the life that Steve got. The want settles in his gut, in the dark corners of his blackened heart.

By day, he passes, fits in for the most part. He doesn't stop watching the news, keeping his ear out, making sure he's on top of anything that might come since they "won". The world's still off kilter, equilibrium not restored along with the people. They all lost too much, some, like Clint, lost themselves, but everyone else that made it out seems to be doing okay. Moving on. Building or re-building their lives all while the world reconfigures itself around all the changes. They just might end up better off than when this started.

Sam's taken to his role as the team leader. The shield looks good with his wings and he seems to work well with Hill and the newly reconstituted mini-SHIELD. Even that secretive asshole, Fury, is out there, doing whatever it is that he does. Probably facilitating all the political changes.

And Barnes, well he's the White Wolf now, with the same glower and swagger; his arm no longer bright silver. The matte black with hints of gold and a subtle purple sheen promotes a fetish Clint had no idea he had. And Barnes smiles now, making Clint's problem worse. He doesn't take questions during their press conferences, won't mug for the cameras with the rest of them; even in the background, standing behind Sam, he's smirking, not solemn. He's seems to be lighter. Freer. It's a good look on him.

New Avengers keep popping up in the rotation. It's hard for Clint to keep up. It might be easier if he'd show up to the mansion once in awhile, but he's on 'reserve', isn't a regular. And he's not joining in unless it's another universe-ending threat. Feels like he's seen enough of those for many lifetimes. All of the new faces, just seem so young. Or maybe it's just that Clint is too jaded and cynical, too blooded, too dark. Someone who doesn't fit anymore.

Hell, even Wanda seems to be doing good. Far better than Clint himself. He's watched her on the news. He's so proud of her. She's focused and determined and unbowed. And terrifyingly strong. That's the other thing. The new team has serious firepower on it. What's a damaged guy using a paleolithic weapon got to offer?

The "anniversary" of that day is barreling down on Clint. He can't avoid it. It's been declared a worldwide holiday, with celebrations and statues and dedications and fireworks and speeches, so many fucking speeches. He tries to ignore it, keeps himself busy; fixes the boiler and the plumbing without too many trips to the hardware store or urgent care. And at least if he exhausts himself, he doesn't think or dream.

He figures he's almost gotten away with not commemorating their "victory" until reality slaps him in the face.

The tenants want to have a party on the roof and Simone's been tasked with getting his okay and inviting him, since he was one of the ones being honored. He swallows and the look on his face must have been something bad because she puts her hand on his forearm, her big brown eyes sympathetic, voice quiet but firm. "It's okay if you can't come. We'd love to have you, but I get it if you can't."

He shakes his head, throat closing tight. "You can't--"

Her frown silences him. She takes a breath, then starts talking, matter of fact, like they're chatting about the weather. "Me and the kids were snapped away, but Gordon," she pauses, then keeps going in the same tone, "well, he was stuck here, alone. He lasted six months before he committed suicide."

Clint wants to say something but the words are stuck in his throat. Simone's story isn't unique. The world's still reeling. The ones who came back didn't all get to come back to the same life they'd left.

"I-- I'm sorry," he stutters out.

She just looks at him, as caring and perceptive as ever. "I don't know your story, Clint, and you don't owe it to anyone, but we'll listen if you ever feel the need."

He ducks his head and blows out a breath. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he finally looks up. Simone pulls him into a hug and he'd be lying if he doesn't admit how good it feels. He hugs her back and when they part, something passes between them. They're still on opposite sides of a chasm, but maybe they've started building a bridge.

It helps steady him. Until he gets an email from Bruce.

Vormir is nearing a year ago. Bruce wants to have a small memorial for Nat, just the two of them to dedicate a nearly invisible "pocket park" hidden away in Manhattan, something that's special because so few know its true depths; because so few will ever know what they are missing as they pass it by. Something utterly fitting for one of the most amazing women Clint's ever known. And far away from the overblown celebrations everyone else will be having.

It knocks Clint on his ass, makes him want to scream or punch something. All he does is sit there with tears on his cheeks and Lucky nosing at him until he replies with a shaking hand, 'I'll be there.'

Chapter Text

Clint's looking at himself in the mirror, trying to see someone other than the monster he'd become. He knots his tie with deliberate movements, pulls on his coat, and all he sees is a fraud looking back at him. Nat forgave him, but she gave her life so he could have a real one, so that he could retire once and for all; and he fucked that up. Couldn't do the one thing she needed him to do. And now he's supposed to stand in the sunshine, under a fuckin' tree and say something meaningful?

He's swearing at himself when the buzzer sounds. He's no longer wearing the suit coat, his tie is hanging down, knot crooked and loose, while he stares at his toes.

Whoever is down stairs -- it's Bruce, c'mon, get it together -- is insistent, leaning on the buzzer a little harder, a little longer.

And Clint can't. He's been many things, but this, this lie isn't him. And he's not going to sully Natasha's memorial with his presence.

Of course, Bruce isn't the same guy that could hide for years from Ross and SHIELD. Now he's big and green and fucking gregarious and apparently not above conscripting one of Clint's tenants to let him in.

There's a hard knock on the door making Clint grit his teeth.

"Coming, dammit. Keep your stretchy shorts on."

He opens the door and leans on it, glaring up at Bruce's face. "I told you I'd be there."

Bruce shrugs and then Sam and fucking Barnes step out from behind his bulk.

"The fuck?" Clint swears and would slam the door in their faces, but Bruce has shifted slightly and Clint would just end up breaking the door on his foot.

"We thought we'd all go together," Sam says, his tone not one bit apologetic.

"Well who the fuck asked you to come?"

It's Barnes who replies. "You're not the only one that lost her, Barton."

"Don't be an asshole, Clint," Sam adds.

But it's Bruce who intervenes before Clint can get pissed. Or more pissed. "Clint," he starts.

"What?" he hisses into Bruce's big green stupid face. "They weren't there! Didn't live through--"

"We're not comparing pain," Bruce interrupts, voice final. As if that is going to stop Clint. "We all miss her."

"Fine," he grinds out, turns away. "Let me get my coat."

"Hey," Sam says, voice soft, "maybe let one of us fix your tie?"

Clint's busy tightening it, pushes it against his throat where it halts the words. Barnes steps up, eyes searching for permission even as his hands are reaching out. Clint huffs out a breath, his shoulders sag, and he nods.

Barnes steps in, hands unknotting and fixing Clint's tie with sure motions. Clint's transfixed, breath caught as Barnes works. He's warm, slightly taller than Clint with dark and long lashes shielding his gray eyes. Apart from Simone's hug, this is the closest he's been to another human since he left the farm. He swallows as Barnes steps away. "Thanks," he rasps out, but doesn't meet Barnes' eyes.

"Yep," he answers and then they're leaving.

The park is bigger than Clint imagined, hidden between three buildings and behind a stone wall. When you enter through the gate, you leave the city behind as you meander in the shade, passing by benches and chairs and ledges. The air is filled with birdsong and the bouquet of wildflowers until you reach the center where there's a single statue sitting on a circle of white stone. It's abstract, but clearly feminine with soft lines and generous curves. The figure's staring forward, back straight, shoulders set; ready to meet any challenge head on. It's the perfect embodiment of Nat making Clint's breath catch.

"It's beautiful," Clint says, voice hushed. "But how?" he asks. "Tony again?"

Bruce shrugs, doesn't really meet Clint's eyes. "Partly? I guess, we worked on a few things, patented them without thinking." If it's possible he hunches in on himself even more. "Made some money for SI, so, um, I could do this." The explanation is very simple and probably 100% truthful, but it doesn't tell the full story, not by a long shot. Because not only had Bruce purchased the land, but he'd built all this. For Natasha.

Clint swallows, takes a breath to steady himself. "Thank you."

"I'll go first," Sam cuts in and starts talking. His stories about Natasha are achingly familiar, twist the knife in Clint's gut a little bit deeper, but he finds a smile in all the right places and doesn't cry. He swears he isn't going to.

Then Barnes starts talking, and it takes all of Clint's long honed skills to keep the tears at bay.

"Um," he begins, tentative and shy, eyes fixed on the statue instead of the others standing nearby. "I, well, I didn't remember that I knew Natalia before--" He hesitates, struggles with finding the words and his eyes dart up to Clint before they flit away.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the silence is killing Clint. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to hear what Barnes is going to say.

"The Red Room had me, um, the Winter Soldier, for a long time. I was used as a hand-to-hand instructor and, oh shit," he swears under his breath and closes his eyes and Clint knows he doesn't want to hear any more of this. He's going to say something, to stop it, but Bruce catches his eye and shakes his head, glaring at him with green eyes. Clint swallows and grits his teeth to hold back the words.

Barnes swipes at his eyes and starts again. "I was used as punishment and reward, carrot and stick, and the, uh," he's stumbling over his words and Clint aches because he's pretty sure he's heard this from the other side. "Well, the masters were ruthless, cruel, and determined." There are tears streaming down his cheeks now and Clint wants to hug him, to tell him Natasha understood, but he just stands there unable to reach out.

Barnes closes his eyes again and takes another breath to steel himself. "When I remembered what they'd done to those girls, what they'd made me do to them," he grimaces, and his face transforms, goes hard and there's the deadly assassin. "I'm still not-- it was monstrous what they did, but at least Natalia got out and I hope like hell she didn't remember any of it. Especially not me."

Clint purses his lips. He's not going to be the one to tell Barnes that Natasha remembered Yasha very well. She tried to hide how it hurt that he didn't remember her, but she couldn't hide it from Clint.

There's a pause and Clint's about to fill the silence, but Barnes starts talking again. "We all heard of the Black Widow, her reputation legendary. But I knew her before, before the Red Room took her apart, deconstructed her and rebuilt her. She was the smallest Widow in her class, her very essence fiery and larger than life, barely contained by her small form." Barnes is staring off into the distance and probably doesn't even notice that he's smiling.

"I think she reminded something deep inside of me of Steve. That indomitable spirit that couldn't be put down." He's shaking his head, his smile soft and fond. Clint's eyes are stinging, but he's smiling, too, because that was Nat to the core, and fuck but he misses her more than ever.

Barnes continues, "She bested them all, used her stature to her advantage. And she even managed to evade the Winter Soldier for twenty-four hours in the depths of Winter in Novosibirsk." Barnes sighs then and finally meets Clint's gaze. "We were partnered together, were wildly successful until we were separated. They took Natalia from me then and it wasn't until Wakanda that I had any idea who Natasha had been to me."

Clint notices that Barnes doesn't go into detail about why or what happened to him, but Clint was there when Natasha remembered her Yasha and remembered losing him, told Clint what that cost her. Barnes never saw his Natalia again, not until she was an agent working for SHIELD and he shot his target through her. Clint almost wishes those Red Room fuckers were still alive so he could have the pleasure of taking them apart piece by piece. But he guesses that Natasha doing it herself, burning the organization to the ground is better vengeance anyway.

Barnes swipes at his eyes, his voice gone raw. "And now, well, she's gone, and she'll never know that I remembered her and she'll never get to hear the apology I've been rehearsing for awhile now." He licks his lips. "We never got to talk after I got these memories back, about our shared history, about how she managed to get out, but I'd like to think she'd be glad I remembered." He glances at Clint. "So that all of her life can be memorialized. Even the parts that we all wish she didn't have to live through."

Ducking his head, Barnes steps back and Sam drapes an arm over his shoulder. Clint swallows, nods his agreement. That's probably his cue, but Bruce steps up and starts instead.

"Um, I'm not good at speeches," he starts, voice soft and unsure. "But I owe Natasha," he says and then looks up to pin Clint with a pained gaze. "She trusted me when I didn't trust myself. She believed in me when I couldn't. And she's the reason we figured our shit out." He stops and swallows, takes a breath. "I left her just when we could have had something, maybe. But really, it was for the best since I was a mess. It's just," he stops and ducks his head, wipes his eyes and Clint presses close, puts his palm on a large forearm.

"It's okay, Big Guy."

Bruce shakes his head and looks up, eyes wet. "No, it's not. None of this is." His voice gets louder and stronger, grows hard. "She should be here! Not a damned statue!" He flings an arm out and barely misses taking it out.

Clint ducks back, stung. "I know. I wish she was here too. Believe me. I fucking tried!"

Barnes jumps between them, his left arm out, ready to defend Clint, but Bruce is staring at his fist in horror. And Clint doesn't need defending.

He moves back, steps up to Bruce and wraps him in a hug. "I miss her, too." The tears he'd swear he wasn't going to cry start streaming down his face. "She was the first family I had that never betrayed me." A large hand pats Clint's back very carefully.

"I'm sorry, Clint," Bruce murmurs, head bowed.

Clint straightens. "I was going to make a joke, say something about Nat being the only family that hadn't stabbed me in the back, but she did. She fought dirty on Vormir. Just like always, the world bowed to her way." He swallows. "I'm an uneducated carnie merc who might know all about trajectories and angles and shit, but I don't know crap about 'using my words'." He makes air quotes as he swallows and wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. "I do know she'd be pissed as hell to see this, though."

Bruce looks up at that. "Yeah, you heard me." Clint licks his lips. "Natasha Romanoff made her choice." He meets Barnes' eyes. "When she first got out, she wanted to be put down."

"But you didn't," Barnes whispers.

"No." Clint shakes his head. "I'd seen that look in the mirror and someone gave me a second chance. Thought I'd pay it forward."

"You did, Clint," Bruce says, voice firm. "You saved her."

Clint snorts and shakes his head. "No. Natasha saved herself. I just stopped her from going out in a hail of bullets before she could." He swipes at his nose. "She'd be pissed that we're standing here crying over her choices instead of celebrating that she made the decision to sacrifice herself. She'd always wanted to clear her ledger and she sure as fuck did."

Ducking his head, he adds, "But I fucked up. My ledger's dripping and standing here pissing and moaning ain't fixin' that."

"So work out your debt by returning to active status," Sam says, voice chiding as he channels Steve.

"Does that tone actually work for you?" Clint snarks. "I'm not--" he starts, but changes tactic mid-thought. "I can't, Cap. I'm not that guy. Not anymore."

Sam's lips draw into a straight line and Clint glances at Barnes for help. "You tell him. You get it, right?"

Barnes startles, but then he straightens. "Not a team effort, Wilson. Some things are a one-man job."

Clint nods at him, but then Barnes adds, "Not sure this is one of those, but I'll take Barton here at his word." He lightly punches Sam in the arm. "Seems like he deserves the choice."

"Low blow, Barnes," Sam says. "That's a low blow."

Bruce wraps the two of them in a hug. "But he is right." He looks at Clint, far too much understanding in his green gaze. "You have to swear that you'll call us if you need help, yeah?"

Clint hesitates and Barnes' steely blue gaze is daring him to be stupid. "Right, yeah. I promise to call."

"Thanks, buddy," Bruce says. "Should we go get drunk on Russian vodka now?"

Clint snorts. "Um, think only Sam and I stand a chance in hell of that and I'm gonna bow out. I got a dog to look after and one of my tenants has a leaky faucet."

He starts edging away, makes it to the gate before Barnes stops him.

"I get it, you know I do," he says and Clint knows he does, more than anyone else ever could. "But don't be an idiot about this. You get yourself killed or maimed and it'd be shitting on what she did."

Clint's jaw tightens. "I can take care of myself."

"Sure, Ronin. You do you."

"Asshole!" Clint hisses before stalking away.

Clint hates himself for the bender he goes on, but he can't stop himself. He knows he's throwing a pity party and if Natasha were here, she'd kick his ass three ways to Sunday. But that's the problem, isn't it? She's not here. She'll never be here to kick him in the ass again.

He groans and takes another large swig of the fucking rotgut vodka, hating himself as much as the booze.

When Clint cracks his eyes open, he winces and regrets every life choice he's made up to this point. The roaring headache, weak knees and spinning walls don't keep him from sprinting to the bathroom where he proceeds to throw up all of his insides clear to his toenails. Lucky whines at him, licks at his face where he sprawls on the floor.

He pushes the dog away, or tries to, but his arms aren't working right and he ends up halfway patting Lucky's chest. "Just leave me to die, buddy."

Lucky doesn't listen. He never does and Clint finds himself upright and staggering down the stairs, feet bare, wearing only threadbare sweats and a ratty hoodie. He tips into the wall next to the stairs on the first floor, energy flagging and head swimming.

"Clint?"

He slowly turns his head, sighing and ducking his head when he sees Simone standing there.

Before he's really aware of what's going on, Simone's oldest has scooped up Lucky's leash and Simone herself is rustling him back up the stairs.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," she mutters. Clint realizes she's probably not being quiet, her voice is close to his ears, but his aids aren't in. He's not sure where they are.

"Gross," is another invective and she's wrinkling her nose at his bedroom. But she still pushes him to the bed, head shaking when he opens his eyes.

"Sleep, and then we need to talk," she says, words deliberate and carefully shaped before she covers him with a quilt and walks away.

He doesn't dream or doesn't remember them if he does. Small mercies that he doesn't deserve.

Simone has tidied the place some. It's still a disaster but at least his clothes aren't scattered everywhere and all the takeout containers are in the trash. Lucky's nowhere to be found which should be troubling, but Clint trusts Simone and her kids adore his dog. He's probably better off there than with Clint, honestly.

Clint sees the photo of Strike Team Delta and just freezes when he spots his reflection in the glass. He's let them both down. Hell, he's let everyone down. He turns the photo toward the wall before he drags himself into the shower. If he's going to get yelled at by Simone, he should at least not reek of booze and vomit.

If only Simone had yelled at him. That would be easier than this. Instead, he's trudging up the stairs, a casserole carefully held in his hands and a card for a grief counselor tucked in his back pocket.

His cell rings almost the moment he returns to his apartment and he glances at it, throat tightening. It's Laura and he's just not ready to listen to her chew him out, too. He sends the call to voicemail, pins the therapist's card against the outer circle of one of his many targets with an arrow, and then tries not to think. If that involves less alcohol and more bloodshed, well, at least Simone can't see him when he's pulling himself up the fire escape and in through his bedroom window. Ronin's a shit coping strategy, but the adrenaline-fueled nights keep Clint's brain offline and he sleeps through most normal interactions. Simone will catch on to what he's doing eventually and then he'll have to do something else, but this works for now.

Until it doesn't.

Clint hisses as his thigh rubs against the window sill as he clambors in. Fucking Akihiko. The guy is dead but his son thought he needed to track Ronin down and make the vigilante pay.

Clint strips out of his gear, tossing it into a pile in the corner before he limps into the bathroom. He refuses to look himself in the eye, just reaches under the counter and grabs his med kit. Who indoctrinates their kid into the Yakuza at fifteen? And then what kind of idiot kid gets undusted and can only think about vengeance?

Whatever. He's not Clint's problem now. And even if the brat got in a lucky shot, Clint doubts Ronin's message was unclear. If there are others like Akihiko's kid, Ronin's ready for them.

The gun shot carved a thin stripe across his thigh, and the thing's more painful because it's long and only surface deep. It's a bitch to clean and too shallow for stitches so it's going to hurt like a motherfucker for days, dammit. He growls as the antiseptic sends wave after wave of pulsing pain down his legs, toes curling with the sting. Biting his lip he finishes cleaning the wound, daubs too much antibiotic gel on it, then winds gauze around his thigh. It's awkward and he misses Natasha's snide commentary when she used to do this for him.

Instead of showering, he downs a couple of pain pills from the kit, chasing them with four fingers of vodka. He's cursing aloud as he maneuvers, trying to get comfortable on the bed, but it's not working. Even though there's bone deep exhaustion on top of the booze and pills trying to make him loopy, he's so fucking tense and still too goddamned angry that he's tossing and turning and grumbling as the movement sends sparks down his leg, pain pulsing with every heartbeat. Everything's hovering too close to the surface and every time he closes his eyes, a host of the dead assail him.

He knocks his cell phone off the nightstand and remembers he never listened to Laura's message. What if something happened to one of the kids? Guilt swamps him and he reaches for the phone and his aids, retrieving Laura's message as soon as he has them settled in and turned on.

"Clint, it's Laura," she starts and Clint groans. "Simone called and I, we miss you, and I need to say this out loud since I know how you are." She huffs out a breath and Clint can tell there's nothing but affection behind her words. "I know things are tough out there and that you're doing what you think you have to, but never forget that this is your home, too."

She's adamant and Clint nods. "I know, sis," he mouths.

"It's hard, we're all still getting the hang of having Barney home." She laughs. "It'd be easier if you were here. Your brother's the worst handyman ever."

Clint chuckles wetly, swipes at his eyes.

"Just because we got Barney back doesn't mean we deserve to lose you," she finishes, that shot hitting a bullseye. "Love you, little brother."

Then there's only dead air and Clint fights back a sob.

Another pain pill to try to make his leg shut the hell up and another swallow of vodka to wash away Laura's words before he collapses back into the bed. He tosses his BTEs on the night stand and pulls a pillow over his face, searching for silence because he sure as fuck doesn't deserve peace. The burn in his gut is the only warm point on him and he focuses there, forcing himself to stop fidgeting, to stop thinking, to just fucking get on with it.

He must finally fall asleep because he awakes at some point, swearing and sweating, leg burning where he's tangled in the sheets, copper and ash in his throat.

"Fuck it!" he growls, more vodka chasing the bile away.

Before he's thought about it too much, or at all, really, he's got his Hawkeye gear on, his StarkTech aids in and a full complement of arrows and knives. It's the middle of the night but Uber's cheap and there's a young guy from Honduras who always seems available when Clint needs a ride no matter what time of day or night. And he never looks at Clint twice even when he's bruised or bloody. Just smiles and shows Clint more pictures of his pregnant wife and young daughter back home. He's one of the happiest people Clint's ever met and Clint's going to support him best he can.

Eduardo doesn't blink when he pulls up to the curb, not even when Clint fumbles opening the door and ends up sitting leaned up against the window. They're off and Clint's listening to how Maria's pregnancy is going during the ride. He's still drunk as shit and grateful that he doesn't have to make small talk, just hums and smiles as Eduardo talks, his accented English soothing Clint's nerves. The car's pulling up to the mansion before Clint realizes. He must have spaced out there for a bit so he tips very generously on the app. Really, a fifty's more like something Tony would have done, but Clint's trying to help the guy and he's got money to spare.

His ID card lets him in without comment and Clint's not sure if the mansion not having an AI overlord is a good thing or not. But at least right now, in the middle of the night, it feels good to know that there's no one to rat him out.

He's blearily contemplating the console, trying to remember the impromptu "lesson" Bruce had imparted when he'd sent Steve on his way. Clint's memory is rock solid, nearing eidetic, but he'd still been mourning and wasn't paying as much attention as this forey needed. Still, he's no slouch at math despite not having the degree to say that. Despite not having any degree. But the interface isn't complicated, was purposefully designed to be intuitive, thanks be to Bruce and Tony for that.

Once he's certain he's got the date and place set correctly, he strips out of his Hawkeye gear and steps into one of the quantum suits. It fits for the most part, if a little tight in the arms and chest, so that means it's probably Scott's. Whatever. It's not like Clint's supposed to have one, being a reserve Avenger and all. Come to think of it, what do any of the Avengers need with quantum suits?

The delay's set and Clint checks that he's got more of the particles as well as the device on his hand. He's as good to go as he's ever gonna be and if he ignores the voice in his head that sounds like Natasha telling him this is a bad idea, well it wouldn't be the first time. He takes a deep breath and steps onto the platform, bow in his left and quiver on his back.

"Here goes nothing," he mutters to the empty room, just as the room goes dark for an instant and then the emergency lights come on.

Startling, Clint looks around before ducking behind one of the pillars. "Who's there? And what the fuck?"

"Barton?"

Clint stands, a bit too fast, if the way the rooms spins is any indication. And, yes, right there in the doorway is James Fucking Barnes holding a very large pistol in his left hand.

"What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I've taken up being a 'Science Bro' in my spare time," Clint snarks. "Now turn the power back on and go bother someone else."

"No," Barnes says instead. As if Clint had really asked him. "You are not authorized--"

Clint shakes his head. "Clearly you're wrong about that." He whips out his ID card and waves it at Barnes. "This says I am."

Barnes pinches his nose and closes his eyes for a brief moment. It looks like he's counting to ten. Clint's kind of used to that response. Natasha was one of the few who never visibly lost it with him. "I'm not sure what's going on in that skull of yours, but no one is authorized to use this machine without the full consent of the entire team."

Pursing his lips, Clint stands there, trying to find something that will get Barnes off his case. Something where Clint isn't forced to attack a fellow Avenger.

"Barton, please, just get down and we can talk about whatever you've got planned in that fool head of yours." He sounds weary and now that Clint's actually looking, he looks it, too, even by the dim lighting. Or maybe it's the red that's stealing all color from Barnes.

"Fine," Clint lies. "Turn the lights back on and we can talk." He crosses his arms over his chest and glares.

Barnes' brow furrows and he gives Clint an assessing stare.

Clint raises his hands. "Just me."

Barnes frowns. "I know it's you, dumbass. Just," he points at the ground with the barrel of his pistol, "come down."

"What? You don't trust me? How am I supposed to do anything from here with you at the console?"

Clint can almost see Barnes thoughts whirling in his head. But he's clearly tired and in no mood for this. "Fine, but don't try anything."

He grins, looking as innocent as he can. "Who me?"

"TADASHI, restore power, override Alpha-6176126*," Barnes orders and the lights come on, including power to the console. Clint hopes anyway. If he can keep Barnes distracted for another fifteen seconds, if he counted correctly, everything will still go down like he planned.

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Just… you know what? I don't care. Get off the damned platform and out of the lab," Barnes growls. "It's three in the morning. Why the fuck are you here, anyway? Bored with being a vigilante?"

"Something like that," Clint says, his aids picking up the last five seconds of the countdown. He wriggles his fingers at Barnes. "See you on the flip side!" when he hears 'two'.

"What the hell!" Barnes shouts and Clint knew the Winter Soldier was fast. He's legendary and a ghost for a reason, but there's no way in hell he should be able to leap onto the platform in one and a half seconds to grab Clint.

But he does.

And then they're both flying through quantum space and only Clint has on a protective suit.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Clint grips Barnes' hand and reels him in tight, wrapping his arms around the other man as tight as he can. The ride is rougher than he remembers with Barnes shouting in his ear. Clint keeps his eyes open, to meet Barnes' gaze, but the other man has his eyes squeezed shut and Clint fears that something truly bad is going to happen to the Winter Soldier on his watch.

He squeezes Barnes tighter and hopes to god he hasn't killed Captain America's best friend.

They're spat out in the grass somewhere and Clint rolls upon impact, instincts kicking in as they land.

"Man, that was a bitch," he says, shaking his head and opening the suit.

"You fuckin' asshole!" Barnes swears at him and when Clint turns to defend himself, he sees Barnes on all fours,throwing up.

"Oh, man," Clint says. "Um, sorry?" He cringes internally, but is grateful that Barnes is in one piece and not a puddle of goo or something worse. He's probably watched far too many B movies if that's where his mind goes.

Barnes rolls away from the mess and flops onto his back, his face still tinted slightly green in the dappled midday sun. But he's alive, so Clint's gonna count that as a win. With his eyes closed, limbs thrown wide, chest heaving, and hair fanned out beneath him, Clint thinks 'he's gorgeous' before shutting that train down faster than a brick wall.

"What did you do?" Barnes asks, voice gravely and he doesn't open his eyes, but Clint can hear the accusation clearly.

"You didn't have to grab onto me, you know. I had this."

"Sure you do. That's why I'm pretty sure my stomach's been turned inside out." He finishes the thought by leaning up on his elbows and opening his eyes to turn a withering glare on Clint. "We're not in Kansas anymore, are we?"

Clint just blinks. "Nope," he answers. "Should be New Jersey near a SHIELD facility, 'round about 2004."

Clint glances around. He'd been too intent on Barnes, hadn't actually noticed where they were.

Barnes snorts. "If this is Jersey, then I'm the Scarecrow."

Clint swallows. "More like tin man," he retorts without considering his words. Oops.

Barnes rises, he's unsteady as a newborn foal, but jerks away when Clint offers him a hand. "You've done enough."

"I said I was sorry."

Barnes' glare could cut steel. "Well whatever you have planned, call it off and get us back home."

Raising his chin, Clint returns Barnes' stare. "No. I'm here to get Natasha and that's what I'm gonna do." He squares his shoulders, widens his stance just a bit. "You can wait here."

"What?!"

Barnes starts advancing on Clint, doing that murder strut Clint had seen in surveillance videos. Barnes doesn't make it far, he staggers, metal arm going around his waist just as he seems to be going down, but Clint catches him. Or tries to. They both end up sliding to the grass, Barnes clearly unwell.

"Fuck!" he swears. "What did you do to me?"

"I don't know! I always had a suit, maybe because you didn't--"

Barnes blinks up at Clint. "I think I'm going to throw up again."

Clint helps him turn, even holds his hair.

"UGH."

"Yeah," Clint agrees.

Barnes flops back onto the ground, he's still a bit green around the gills and Clint's honestly not sure how that's even possible with his serum. A niggling feeling hits him in the gut, but he's not going to feel guilty. Barnes chose to jump on the platform. This is all on him.

"Hey, Barnes," Clint starts as he stands.

Barnes groans and cracks open one eye. "What?"

"I'm going to scout around a bit. See if I can figure out where we are."

"You're gonna leave me here to die? Just like that?"

"I'm not leaving you here to die, dammit! I'll get you some water. But I'm pretty sure your weight knocked us off course and I need to figure out when and where we are!" Clint fires back; that guilt he was not going to feel reaching up and grabbing him by the balls.

Barnes staggers to his feet, metal arm still wrapped around his stomach. He must be hurting pretty bad then. "This is not my fault, asshole," he grits out. "You're my ticket home. We stick together." He's going for intimidating, but the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the slight tremble in his flesh arm means that he misses by a mile.

"You can barely stand, not sure you'll be too helpful on reconnaissance."

Barnes amps up his murder-stare. He's shooting for menacing but only achieves weak, angry kitten. Fuck. Clint rationally knows that James Buchanan Barnes is a handsome man. But right now, even with his ice-blue eyes masked by pain, he's hotter than the sun. Clint swallows and glances away, right arm going to the back of his neck.

"Let's go," Barnes says, shakily moving to stand next to Clint. "I can reconnoiter better than you even when I've been gut shot and bleeding out."

Clint startles, then growls. How the hell does Barnes do that? Even Natasha couldn't get the drop on him when he's wearing his Starktech aids. He turns to level his own glare at the other man and has to take a step back. Barnes is too close. Too fucking close. A part of Clint wakes up and wants. Now is not the time he tries to tell his libido.

Irritated and frustrated with himself and with Barnes, he blurts out, "Whatever. If you can't keep up, not my problem." He turns and starts striding through the surrounding trees, unwilling to look back to check on Barnes no matter how much his conscience is shouting at him to do so.

The trees and clearing they land in are part of a large homestead on the outskirts of a small town. They carefully make their way to an old-style gas station, taking their time to give Barnes a chance to recover. Clint notices a blue Ford Taurus getting gas has Iowa plates dated 1995. A rock settles in his gut and he frowns. "Wait here for me."

"And do what exactly?" Barnes mutters. "It's not like I have a car that needs gas!"

Clint rolls his eyes. "Just give me a minute. I don't want to spook anybody."

Barnes frowns. "You saying I'd spook the attendant?"

"Well, duh. Dude, have you looked in the mirror? You ooze menace."

Barnes blinks at Clint. "I ooze?"

Clint slaps his palm to his face. "That's not--" He groans. "Look, let me just buy a paper and a Gatorade for you." He starts walking away, leaving Barnes leaning on the side of building.

"Make it the blue kind!" Barnes calls to Clint's back.

Clint gives him a thumbs up without turning around.

Of course, when Clint sees when and where they are, he contemplates ducking out the back. He'd never do that to Barnes, but it's embarrassing to have missed by an entire decade and half the country. He nods at the bored teen behind the counter, buys Gatorade, snacks, gum, water, and the local paper. He's dawdling, but has to face Barnes at some point.

When he returns to the side of the gas station, he hands Barnes the Gatorade with a sheepish shrug. "Here, this should help."

Barnes downs half the bottle in one go and Clint is not watching the man drink for fuck's sake. He's not. "Thanks."

"You're looking better."

"Still feel like I was flattened by one of those steamrollers in the cartoons."

Clint cocks his head and stares at Barnes. "Is that some old timey thing? Steve would do that, too."

"Fuck you," Barnes hisses, but he's looks less green, a normal color has returned to his cheeks. "Bugs Bunny is classic."

Clint shrugs. "Whatever." He's glancing at the paper. "Looks like we're in Garner, Iowa." That name rings a bell, but he can't figure out why. It's just another podunk town in Iowa, even smaller than Waverly.

Barnes pokes at the paper. "Hey, there's a circus in town!"

Flipping the paper over, Clint swears, unwilling to believe his own two eyes. "Well shit!" What are the odds? "Fuck!"

Carson's is here? Clint sees the date and he flashes hot all over and then freezes. His hearts beating double time and he almost misses Barnes' question.

"What? You don't like the circus?" Barnes asks. "Who doesn't like the circus?"

Clint sighs. "It's a long story." He shakes his head and tries to ignore everything. "Let's head back." They need to get out of here.

"I thought we were here for Natasha?" Barnes is keeping up better so Clint picks up the pace.

He shakes his head before admitting, "It's too early. Natasha's probably still in Russia--"

"Oh," Barnes huffs. "So we'll be going straight back?" He doesn't sound all that eager, confusing Clint.

Before Clint can answer, his words are drowned out by a calliope. It's a parade announcing the opening night of Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders. And instead of speeding up, Barnes stops.

Clint ducks behind Barnes, keeps his head down and makes sure no one in the circus can see him. "Barnes," he hisses.

Barnes doesn't answer and when Clint risks looking at him, he's got an honest to God smile on his face. He looks lighter, decades shorn away by childlike excitement.

"Barnes!" Clint repeats.

"What?" he asks, but doesn't turn to look at Clint.

"We need to go," Clint says, voice firm, bordering on desperate.

"Ah, c'mon, it won't hurt if we watch the parade."

"It might," Clint says. "I'll explain it all once we're out of here."

"Fine," Barnes reluctantly agrees and Clint sighs with relief.

They make good time getting back to the clearing. Then Barnes turns to look at Clint, steel blue eyes hard.. "So talk. Tell me what's going on with you. Because I'm pretty sure there's more to this than you've let on."

"It's just like Stark was saying. You mess with time and it's gonna mess back."

"When and where did you plan to be?" Barnes is asking how far off the mark they are, and Clint knows better than to answer.

He shrugs and turns his back on Barnes, a fatalism creeping into his thoughts as he begins to pace. He shouldn't be here, especially not now. This is beyond not good and he has to figure out how to get them back on track and away from Carson's before someone sees them or Barnes sees a much younger Clint.

"I thought you were called Hawkeye because you never miss?" Barnes asks, from right behind Clint's right shoulder, tone almost teasing as his breath brushes Clint's cheek.

Only long years of training keeps Clint from jumping ten feet in the air. He whirls on Barnes and hisses, "Hard to do the calculations correctly when I had a stowaway!" Clint takes a step forward, teeth clenching as he says, "I'm gonna put a bell on you."

"Force of habit," Barnes replies and it almost sounds like an apology.

"I get that," Clint answers, tone softening. "But c'mon, we need to get out of here."

Barnes stops Clint with a flat metal palm on his forearm. Clint's stuck staring at that point of contact, no words coming out.

"You still haven't explained anything and It's been nearly a century since I saw a circus."

"And?" Clint asks, butterflies taking up residence in his stomach.

"We've got all the time in the world to find Natalia. How about we see the show?" He actually sounds hopeful and a bit excited about it and Clint thinks that he hasn't seen the "Amazing Hawkeye" posters yet so it's genuine interest, not just Barnes stirring up shit.

Clint shakes his head. "No can do, buddy. We definitely cannot mess things up here and now."

Barnes is looking at him with a puzzled expression on his face. "Why not? What's it gonna hurt if we see the show?"

Clint takes a breath to buy himself time. There has to be something he can say to dissuade Barnes. Nothing good comes to mind so he blurts out the truth instead. "It's me," he starts, "down there. Headliner. And tonight, according to this flyer would be a great show but one we cannot stay around for."

"Wait," Barnes says. "You were in the circus? That wasn't in Hydra's files."

Clint wants to roll his eyes. Like he was some open book that Hydra could exploit. It's a damned good thing he's always been a paranoid motherfucker and an even better thing that he was recruited by the most paranoid motherfucker in the universe.

"Fury made my history disappear when he recruited me. Built me a story from the ground up. Made it good," he explains. "Now can we go?"

"Oh hell no!" Barnes says. "I've gotta see this!"

"You can't! We can't."

"Why not?"

"How am I going to explain who I am? And have your forgotten your arm?" If Clint didn't know how much it'd hurt he'd be banging his forehead against the trees.

Barnes does something under his t-shirt and his arm visibly morphs, changing from sleek black to skin tone. It matches his right arm and Clint gapes. "You could do that all along?"

He looks a little sheepish and awkward before meeting Clint's eyes. "It's taken me a long time to square in my head what happened to me, what I did. I'm not going to hide from any of it." He purses his lips and straightens just a bit, looks Clint straight in the eye. As if Clint would argue with him on that. He's just impressed as hell at how good Barnes is coping, better than Clint and he wasn't a captive for seventy fucking years.

"Not any of it," Barnes continues, "Shuri made it do this and I've never used it in public before."

"Well, shit, Barnes!" Clint exclaims and he's reaching for Barnes' arm before he can stop himself. His palms rests on Barnes' forearm and it still feels like cool metal as he strokes along the surface plates.

"It's just basic chameleon tech," Barnes answers and doesn't move his arm from where Clint is still touching it.

"It's fucking amazing!" Clint says and then he looks up and finds he's mere inches from Barnes face. Swallowing, he takes a step back, his palm suddenly bare. "Yeah, uh, that's cool, really cool and all," he stammers, "but I don't have chameleon tech for my face!"

"You're what? Nearing forty?" Barnes asks. "And just how old are you down there?" He points toward the big tent. "Do you really think they're going to recognize you in the crowd?"

"Thanks for that, dude. I'm forty-five and it's too risky. And what do we get out of it?"

Barnes crosses his arms over his chest and turns on the murder-stare again. "Were you not listening? I haven't been to the circus in nearly a century. It's the least you could do for dragging me here in the first place."

Clint wants to argue, but Barnes' smolder does something to his insides, turns them into jelly or mush or maybe he swallowed some quantum butterflies. "I didn't drag you." It's a shit answer, and Clint kind of did drag him into this.

"C'mon, Barton," Barnes says, tone cajoling. "Aren't you curious?"

He has Clint there. "Oh, fuck it!" he hisses. "But we're waiting until later so that there will be crowds we can blend in with."

Barnes shrugs, says, "Sure. I just wanna do something normal for a change."

Clint sighs. For a ruthless vigilante, he sure tends to be a pushover.

It's a couple of hours until the crowds pick up and during the wait, they lounge in the shade of the trees, eating beef jerky and cool ranch doritos, which Barnes adores, talking about nothing and everything.

Clint should have known that Steve Rogers' best friend would be a snarky SOB to put up with Rogers, but he had no idea how dry Barnes' humor is. He finds himself laughing aloud more than a few times and marvels at it. He's not sure he's laughed like this in years. It feels fucking amazing.

It doesn't hurt that Barnes is relaxed and settled in his skin in a way Clint hasn't ever seen before. It's a good look on him and, not for the first time, Clint wonders why Barnes stayed, why he didn't go back and live whatever life Steve went back to.

So he blurts out the question. "Hey, uh, why didn't you go back with Steve?"

Barnes glances up, surprised by the question.

"Sorry. It's just… you guys are like inseparable. Steve fought the world for you."

Barnes snorts and shakes his head. "Stevie has been fighting the world from the day he first took a breath. I was just another reason to fight."

Clint licks his lips and cocks his head "But he was right. All that shit with the Accords was straight up wrong. It stunk to high heaven and the Raft fucking proved it."

"Not gonna argue with you on that. Steve always was an idealist and usually right." He looks at Clint, eyes a warm blue-gray, and Clint feels his heart skip a beat. "Not like me, or you. Or any of the rest of us."

"So doesn't that mean you should have gone back to watch his six?"

Barnes sighs. "It's not my story to tell, Barton, but you know Steve's as stubborn as they come. When he gets something stuck in his craw, he ain't gonna let it go."

"Well sure--"

"He failed."

"What?" Clint asks, not following.

Barnes looks away, throat working. He takes a long drink of Gatorade, finishing off a second bottle. The silence draws out and Clint wishes he'd never asked, but Barnes takes a deep breath and starts talking again.

He doesn't make eye contact, though, and Clint swallows, feels worse.

"Steve dove the Valkyrie into the ice certain he'd won. That he was avenging me and putting a stop to Hydra. He didn't manage either of those things and it ate at him." He's toying with the lid of the bottle, putting it on and spinning it off, again and again, and Clint wants to say something, but has no idea what won't make everything worse.

"He's not going back to marry Pegs," he snorts. "He's going back to change the world. To do what he thought he'd done the first time."

"What?"

Barnes turns and looks at Clint then, a small smile on his lips. "Yep. He knows it won't change what happened here, won't fix the damage Hydra did, but he wants a chance to build a better future. Change all the things that happened."

"You didn't want that?" Clint asks, voice tentative.

"There's a Bucky back there just waiting to be rescued. He needs Steve. He can watch Steve's six, while I am gonna stay right here and atone for what I've done."

"You know it wasn't on you, right?" Clint says, insides twisting up even as he's trying to reassure Barnes.

Barnes looks at him, lips quirking into a slight smirk. "Oh, I know it, 'bout as well as you do."

It's Clint's turn to look away, to stare off into the distance. "It's different for me."

"How'd ya' figure that?"

Clint's hand flaps a little, before he drags it down, laying it flat on his thigh, fingertips digging in. "I did what I could, after--, well after."

"And?"

Clint sighs, keeps a growl from bubbling up into his throat. "You didn't have a self to lose for all those years. They stole your identity, made you nothing but the Asset. I tossed mine away. Gave up the idea of atonement and embraced vengeance." He meets Barnes eyes, soft expression giving Clint pause. "I chose to do bad shit, Barnes. I chose my victims, fully aware every moment."

Barnes looks unimpressed. "That's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

Barnes shakes his head. "No. There's no telling what I would have become if it'd been Stevie snapped and me left holding the bag." He reaches out, presses his palm to cover Clint's. "Hey," he says, voice soft, and Clint looks up, away from where the warmth of his palm is settling into Clint's skin.

"Yeah?" Clint croaks.

"I get it, but at some point, you have to forgive yourself if you ever want to move on."

"Who says I deserve to move on?"

"Me for one and Natasha for the other."

Clint swallows, has to look away as his eyes prick. And fuck him if he doesn't miss her so goddamned much right now. He sniffs and Barnes tangles their fingers together and squeezes.

Clint squeezes back. "Thanks, Barnes."

He stands and tugs Clint up with him. "Call me James."

They're of a height, standing close, fingers still tangled, and Clint can't stop staring at his lips. "Whew," he says, taking a step back and releasing their grip. "Yeah, okay. You should probably call me Clint then."

"Better than 'Agent Asshat' that I'd been saying in my head."

Clint laughs. "I think you've got asshole cornered."

"Maybe so, but you'd give me a run for my money," Barnes -- James -- says, voice dry. "Can we go to the circus now?"

"Right," he nods, feeling lighter. "Give me your hoodie."

They trade jackets and Clint purposefully doesn't think about the way his leather jacket looks stretched across Barnes' shoulders.

The sun's setting in the west and the circus lights up the sky over the crest of a hill. Clint finds himself both eager and wary as the neon of the carnival comes into view.

Even though it's been nearly three decades and so much life lived, the moment Clint steps under the arched entryway to the carnival, he's transported back. The feeling's so strong, he nearly can't breathe from the memories assaulting his senses.

A hand wraps around his wrist and he's dragged off to the side, James' voice in his ear. "You okay?"

Clint nods, but he really needs to get his shit together.

"You're a shit liar," James responds.

"Sorry. Sorry. It's just been so long, I'd forgotten--" He doesn't say everything, but that's what it is. Everything is just the way he remembers, from the aroma of caramel corn and candy apples to the sounds of the games and the audience shouts from the freak show.

James is giving Clint a worried frown. "Look, if I'da known this was that bad for you--"

Clint raises his hand to stop him. "It's fine. I guess the whole time travel thing was never this real before, you know?"

"Kinda like feeling yourself disintegrate and then waking up five years later?"

"No," Clint gave James a stunned look. "Did you really feel it?"

James shrugs. "Something was happening. I felt 'off' and then my legs gave way."

Clint shudders. "That's the stuff of nightmares, man."

"So is this place, apparently." He says it so deadpan, sounding completely serious that it takes a minute for Clint to get it.

"Oh, fuck you!" he snarls, but it's with a smile. "Was any of that true?"

"About feeling me get dusted?" James asks.

Clint nods.

"Yeah, it was freaky as hell. And then reappearing in Wakanda… well, that was a helluva reunion to see."

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For distracting me. For dragging me over here. For understanding the shit that goes on in my head," Clint explains.

"Don't worry about it," James says. "I owed you for holding my hair while I lost everything I've ever eaten."

"I thought I owed you for dragging you here and causing that?" Clint asks, chuckling as he nudges James' rib with his elbow.

"Oh, we're not square on that front."

"I brought you Gatorade!"

"That was for your own protection. Saved you from having to watch me get sick everywhere again," James says. "Now, are we going to stay here in the shadows gabbing or are we going to the circus?"

"All right, all right," Clint says raising his hands in surrender. "It's the least I can do, I'm sure."

"Nah, the least you could do is deny me games."

"You wound me!" Clint says.

They start walking through the crowds, beelining it for the midway. Everything is the same, but so much less than Clint remembers. The tents are patched and dirty, the whole place threadbare with the barest veneer of glitz hiding the griminess underneath. It's been decades, but he didn't recall everything being so seedy.

"So this was home?" James asks, tugging Clint's attention back to him.

"Yeah."

"That means you have the home team advantage right?"

Clint blinks at him, not following.

James points to a booth lined with red stars on white paper. It's called 'Machine Gun Fun'. Clint remembers it well. "Since this is your turf, you gonna spot me a handicap?"

"Now why would I offer the world's greatest sniper a handicap?" Clint asks, getting into the spirit of James' teasing.

"Because loser buys the peanuts and popcorn."

Clint puts his hand up to his chin and strokes it as though he's deep in thought. "I'll shoot leftie. Is that a good enough 'handicap'?"

James looks like he wants to argue, but he shrugs. "It's not a bow, so I'll accept it." He holds out his hand to shake and Clint grips it tight while giving him a wicked smirk. Clint always did wonder who was the better shot of the two of them, not that this piece of shit game is an accurate test.

"Make mine caramel corn when I beat your ass."

James' grin turns smug. "Mighty big words there. You sure you're not all talk?"

They step up to the rickety wooden slat booth and Clint slaps a five dollar bill down on the counter without making eye contact with Bartolomej. "Two," he says, then takes one of the guns he's handed, passing the other to James. It's supposed to be a semi-automatic, but the trigger's super sensitive and there's no way to control the shots well enough to aim around the outside of the star. Clint's gonna try anyway.

Cocking his head at James, he chuckles. "You're doomed, you know that, right?"

"I'm a better shot than you with one hand tied behind my back," James retorts.

"Maybe," Clint allows, then he leans closer. "But these things aren't exactly standard Army issue."

James snorts. "Wasn't born yesterday," he says. "Now are you gonna talk my ear off or are ya' gonna shoot?"

In the end, it costs Clint twenty dollars before either of them get the hang of the shitty guns. The sights are off and the trigger takes a lot of finessing. They're laughing and shit talking each other the entire time, trying to distract each other. Clint doesn't remember the last time he did something like this just for fun. Even shooting leftie, Clint comes out victorious, but just barely. He's grinning madly, pumps a fist as he takes a bow.

He points to a teddy bear and ducks his head as he takes it from Bartolomej It's a teddy bear, one that's supposed to be a Captain America bear, but the colors are more pink and purple than red and blue. It makes Clint grin just to look at it. He tugs James away from the booth before he hands him his "prize".

"What's that for?"

"I definitely had an advantage on this one," Clint explains. "I practiced with these guns a lot. They used me to show people it could be done."

James snorts. "Then I think you owe me caramel corn." He gives Clint an appraising look, but just shrugs and takes the bear, giving it a pat before tucking it inside Clint's leather jacket. "I woulda beat your ass in a fair game."

"You keep telling yourself that." He bumps James' shoulder with his as they line up for snacks.

James insists they try the water guns next, but Clint makes him stand back and watch for a bit to see which guns to choose. It's close between them, but James is declared the winner. He gets a four-inch rag doll, stares at it for a long time.

"Didn't think you were the dollie type, Barnes," Clint razzes, just to wipe the lost expression off Barnes' face.

It works.

He snorts and shakes his head. "You've got the asshole market cornered don't you?"

Clint shrugs, then winks. "How about best two out of three?"

James straightens. He tucks the doll into a pocket. "What'd you have in mind?"

Clint points and Barnes rolls his eyes.

"Nope."

Cocking his head and trying for innocent, Clint asks, "What? You conceding that I'm the best shot already?"

James wavers, Clint can see his indecision. "Fine, but you have to give me another handicap."

"It's a crossbow, not--"

James holds up a hand, shutting Clint down. "It's a bow. I get double the rounds."

"Fine," Clint concedes.

The game's possible to win, it's just damned unlikely. But Clint worked this booth every day it was open. Even giving James six bolts to Clint's three doesn't help. Clint takes the win as gracefully as he can and gives James another teddy bear, this one is supposed to be Robin Hood. James' mouth curls up into a small smile when he sees the toy, his eyes bright as he tucks it into his jacket beside Captain Ameribear. Clint swallows. James Barnes is far too attractive and charming, especially when he's being a bit shy. It's unfair.

After that they wander aimlessly, Clint's brain trying to align people and places with his memories, so he almost doesn't notice when James stops. He turns back around and James is pointing.

"Let me at least tie up the score."

"I hate to tell you this, but there's no way in hell you're beating me at darts," Clint explains, but Marek is working and he might hand James the good darts. He always was a sucker for pretty eyes.

"You chicken, Clint?"

Clint shakes his head. "Whatever. It's your reputation, man."

James smirks and Clint is far too pleased by his smile. This is not going to end well and he needs to get a better grip on his emotions.

Marek does give James the good darts and the balloons are slightly underinflated, but Clint gives James a run for his money even throwing shitty, dull darts. They both win a prize and Marek hands James a piece of paper along with the unicorn and Clint can barely hold back his laughter.

"Seem like you made a friend," he teases as they start heading for the big top.

"Not my type," James says, a smirk in his tone.

"Right. I forgot, you are the consummate ladies' man."

"And that right there is as much bullshit as Rogers' being the rule-following, straight-laced, all-American boy."

Clint stops, hand over his heart, eyes wide, and mouth gaping. "What? Say it ain't so!"

James shoves him and they're both laughing as they walk.

Clint isn't paying attention to where they're walking. He's enjoying James' company far too much.

"Oh! A fortune teller!" James says, pulling Clint from his thoughts.

And Clint looks up to see that they're at Madam Vanda's tent. He stills, reaches for James and tugs him backwards, hisses as he goes, "No! Not that one!"

James blinks, but follows. "You don't believe in all that, do you?"

When they're far enough away for Clint to be absolutely sure Vanda can't hear them, he replies, "No, of course not. She's not even the original Vanda."

"So, let's have some fun."

Clint shakes his head. "That woman practically raised me, James!" He realizes he said the last too loud and steps in closer. "She's no fortune teller, but she has a knack for knowing things. I just… it's too risky for me to go in there."

James nods. "Got it. Sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Nah, man, this is weird."

James chuckles. "You can say that again."

The music swells and Clint recognizes the cue. He starts nudging them toward the big top. As they near, they can hear the Barker's patter. When Ephraim turns his attention in their direction, Clint has to fight not to run away or run forward and hug the man that helped raise him along with his wife. He starts in about the greatest show under the big top and James joins the line of people. Clint begins to reconsider. Something is going to go wrong. The voice in his head that's never wrong -- and sounds like Natasha -- is warning him that going to the show tonight is a terrible idea.

Just as he's about to tell that to James, he turns back to Clint and he's outright grinning, eyes sparkling, and clearly eager to see the show. He looks happy, happier than Clint remembers ever seeing him before and Clint figures he's going to regret this, but he will not take this from James.

They're almost to Ephraim, James has the money for two tickets ready, while Clint keeps his head turned away. No sense tempting fate. But just as James takes their tickets, Clint hears "Barton!" shouted from between the tents and he freezes. He recognizes that voice, knows he's about to get slapped or, worse, punched by Buck Chisholm and the years melt away. Once again he's that gangly orphaned teen desperate to do whatever it takes to keep this, no matter how shiity it all is, no matter how much abuse Chisholm and Duquesne heap on him. Barney's here so Clint stays.

Suddenly he's inside the tent, the commotion outside fading behind canvas and muffled behind calliope music.

"You okay?" James asks, dragging Clint back to the present.

He licks his lips and nods. "Sorry, just--"

"Memories? I get it."

And Clint believes he does. James is so matter of fact about all the shit that's happened, taking everything Clint's said to him in stride.

"Thanks," Clint replies. He's suddenly so grateful that James is here. His presence makes this both more grounded and less real at the same time.

Clint's fidgeting must get to James, because a warm palm is pressed to his knee to stop it. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. We can go if this is too much," James offers.

Clint turns sharply and narrows his eyes at James. "I told you I'd take you to the show and I'm a man of my word."

James lifts a hand. "Alright. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

Clint is about to argue, to point out that he's going commando, but the music stops and the lights go out. When they come back up, all the spots are centered on Carson himself. He's standing in the middle of the largest ring, top hat and tails surprisingly well tailored. Clint knows it's the magic of the lighting, but he's swept up into the show, finds himself watching everything with a less critical eye, even if he still remembers how everything is done. He evens gasps along with the crowd when little Idania does a triple somersault, flying through the air and into her dad's waiting catch. He gets so caught up in the show and in James' reactions that he forgets what's coming.

When Carson returns for one last time, Clint suddenly wants to be anywhere else but sitting here. He wants to go to his trailer, wait in the dark and warn himself what's going to happen, keep his younger self from following Barney. He wants to fix it and his agitation must have shown because James leans close and whispers, "Be cool, Clint. Changing your past wasn't why you brought us here."

Clint inhales and holds his breath until the thrumming under his skin abates. He ducks his head, but doesn't meet James' eyes. He can't, not for the duration of his routine, it's just too weird. Watching from the objective remove his decades have given him, Clint can still see every mistake, knows when the shot isn't as perfect as he wants, but he can also see just how good his performance is; one of his best. It's ironic that it ends up being his last under the big top.

When the Amazing Hawkeye finishes by shooting three arrows, each a bullseye, after somersaulting off the back of a galloping horse, the crowd leaps to their feet, including James. He's dragging Clint to stand, makes him join in the cheering. It feels hollow because Clint knows what's to come.

"What's wrong?" James asks.

Clint shrugs. "It's my last performance."

James turns sharply. "Why? You're amazing?" He sounds almost indignant. "They'd be crazy to get rid of their biggest attraction."

Clint appreciates the vote of confidence, but they really need to leave. "Let's get out of here."

He joins the crowd streaming toward the exits, insides twisted up in knots before he notices that James has caught up to him and is pacing him step for step. He doesn't argue or ask questions and the silence is good, except for where Clint strains to hear what he knows is coming. His heart begins to pick up its pace and he ducks sideways, moves out of the throng and into an alley between tents.

"Where are we going?" James asks, voice barely audible even to Clint's StarkTech aids.

Clint stops, shoulders drooping. "Just thought--"

James crowds him, gets up close. "Thought what?"

"Ah, hell, it's stupid, but I think I should save, well me."

James looks at him, eyes intent, mouth drawn into a thin line before he softens. "You don't know that saving him will make things better. You can't know that."

Clint does know that, but the shit that happens tonight, well, it still gives him an occasional nightmare, still means he has abandonment and trust issues a mile wide. Tonight starts him down the road to hell, one he's not sure he ever stepped off.

"I'd like to give him a fightin' chance at least," he says, voice a dry rasp.

And just like that James nods, doesn't question. "Okay, what's the mission?"

Clint's so grateful he could kiss him, but there's a teenaged Clint to save.

As Clint looks around, he's struck by just how small Carson's really is. It'd always loomed large in his memories, larger than this and far more intimidating. Now it's just a bunch of dilapidated tents, beat up trucks, and broken down trailers, separated by too many shadows and dead ends. The setup makes it too easy for them to creep around without being seen or heard. Then they're standing under the back window of Clint and Barney's trailer, listening to them argue.

Barney's voice dredges up a lot of memories Clint had thought he'd dealt with and moved past, especially after Barney got clean and went straight, but this Barney was neither of those things and his anger makes Clint flinch. He's barely older than Clint, but he's a helluva lot meaner. He had to learn to be to protect them both from their shithead dad and he lost something early on, trust maybe. Innocence is nothing either of the Barton kids got to keep for long.

Clint swallows down the flush and the way his stomach is roiling, memories too close to the surface. He hates that James has to hear this, but instead of looking at Clint with pity, he motions left and nods Clint to go right. Maybe they can save Barney tonight, too.

They round the trailer just as the cheap aluminum screen door slams open, banging back against the trailer to find Barney dragging a seventeen-year old Clint outside. The kid's putting up a good fight, but at this point Barney's got thirty pounds on him and Barney's not holding back.

"Leave him alone," Clint says, surprised by just how low and dark his voice is.

Barney shoves younger Clint behind him and lifts his chin, eyes hard. They're the same height, have the same crooked Barton nose, but Barney's still got a bit of that softness of youth on his cheeks, his sneer more bravado than earned. "Who the fuck are you? CPS?"

Clint chuckles, all Ronin in the depths. "Oh, hell no," he says voice gravelly. "I'm your worst nightmare if you lay another hand on the kid."

"That kid's my brother," Barney says. "I'm his guardian, so you can just fuck off."

James steps up to the kid, presses a finger to his lips when it looks as if the kid is going to alert his brother. With James there, Clint has the rest handled.

Clint drops his arms to his sides, puts his left in the hoodie pocket where he feels a small knife and a garrote, before he takes a casual step forward, pushing into Barney's space. "I'm going to do you a favor, Charles Bernard Barton," Clint says, voice cheerfully threatening. Barney's throat works and his eyes widen in response. "Tonight's gonna be a real clusterfuck and it'll be for the best if neither of you are anywhere near Chisholm or Duquesne."

"Who are you?" the kid asks, voice suspicious.

James stays silent, just lets Clint lead. His confidence is misplaced, but Clint's grateful for it nonetheless.

"He's clearly a G-Man," Barney sneers over his shoulder at his younger brother. "And he's warning us off. The question is why? What's in it for him?"

Clint's had enough and he grabs Barney's arm, tugs him close. "Look you jacked up little shit, you're getting a second chance here, one where you don't lead a life of petty crime and drugs until you end up dead somewhere, shot by your 'buddies'. Take it or not, I do not give a shit, but you're not dragging your little brother down with you," he threatens, voice low and menacing. "Not this time," he adds.

Barney thinks he's tough, but he's just past nineteen. He's scared and tries not to let it show. He doesn't do a very good job, not to Clint's eyes.

"You can fuck off," he spits out. "You ain't nothing. Buck and Duquesne hear about this, they'll rip you a new one."

"Barn!" the kid chastises his brother before swallowing. "What's the plan instead, mister?" he asks, flinching away as Barney rounds on him, but James is there. Barney backpedals furiously, his eyes darting between them, hoping for escape or help.

"Yeah, mister, what's the plan?" James echoes the kid, all sarcasm and Brooklyn vowels.

If Clint had a plan he would have led with it. Clint rolls his eyes at James before pulling out his wallet. He grabs all of the visible cash he's carrying, gets up in younger Clint's space and presses the money into his palm, curling the fingers over it. "Look kid, Chisholm and Duquesne are bad news. They don't care who they hurt and they won't leave you alone if you don't cooperate. It won't be safe here for you." Clint purses his lips, doesn't add in the 'literally'. He hopes to hell he's not making things worse.

"I like doing the show!" the kid protests. "I don't know anything else," he finishes softer. "I suck at school."

Clint takes a breath. "I know, but you've got something called 'dyslexia'. It makes numbers flip and words scramble on you, but you're not stupid."

Barney approaches, hands on his hips and glaring, but his eyes are glued to the money in the kid's hand, avarice gleaming bright. "This is your plan? It's bullshit. Just how are we supposed to live on a few hundred bucks?"

Clint has an urge to clamp his hand over Barney's mouth just to give himself a moment to think.

James signs to Clint and Clint has to take a minute to process what he's seeing.

"You know ASL?" the kid asks, both of them looking at James, even more confused than Clint. James just shrugs. "Good with languages."

The kid has edged toward Barney, thinking Clint's distracted. He's not wrong, but Clint knows himself too well. He grabs Barney and James grabs the kid. "So what's the plan?" he asks aloud this time.

Clint runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't get that far."

James mutters under his breath, but Clint can hear him anyway. "Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, spare me idiot blondes."

The kid's staring up at James, taking in his hair and Clint knows without a doubt that he's checking James out. LIke he said, he knows himself very well.

"You got any ideas?" he asks James.

"The army. It'll fix 'em both right up."

A wicked smile blooms on Clint's lips. He turns to Barney. "That's perfect. A little discipline will do you some good."

"I'm not enlisting!"

"And I'm not old enough," the kid just has to add.

"So lie about your age, not like you're exactly legit here, right?" James asks.

Clint wants to chuckle since James had to get that attitude from Rogers. "Look kid," he says, "you can't stay here and Barney's right, I don't have the time or money to properly set you up. The army's not so bad. Three squares a day and, with your aim, you could get into an elite squad. They'll get you fixed up with a GED and you'll have skills, you'll be legit when you get out."

As he meets the kid's eyes, he sees a spark of recognition in them. Always did have the best eyesight. "I know you, don't I?"

Clint steps back, shakes his head. "Nah."

"You look like our ma," the kid continues. He always was a stubborn cuss.. "Are you a relation or something?"

"Or something," Clint answers. "Don't trust your brother, not yet. He's still looking for the easy path, but he'll figure himself out eventually."

"Hey!"

Clint turns back to glare at Barney. "You resent your kid brother because he's a headliner and you're not. You're angry that your dad beat on your both, but you were older so bore the brunt of it." He stalks closer. "Except that one time, ain't that right?" he asks, menace in every vowel.

Barney swallows. "How do you know all this?" He glares, but he's also nervous, more than a little scared by Clint's knowledge of the things that no one else should know. "Who are you?"

"Just figure your shit out and that means getting a real job," Clint repeats the advice he'd been told, but never took. "Yeah, it sucks, but thievin' ain't no way to live. The army'll treat you right, too, Barn."

He gentles his tone at the end, trying to get the kids to agree and get moving.

"We need to talk about it," the kid pipes up. "Just cause you know stuff doesn't mean we gotta listen."

Clint's patience is wearing thin and Trickshot and the Swordsman are going to be looking for the kids soon. He snaps, "If you don't get the hell out of here, you're going to end up in a pool of your own blood tonight!" The kid flinches back, eyes wide, lips parted. He's terrified and Clint swears at himself. "Sorry, kid. You have to leave. That money'll get you into the next town over. It'll get you food and a room and then you can hit the recruitment center first thing." He places a palm on the kid's shoulder. "This is sudden, but you can do it." He finally glances at Barney. "You both can. Now go on and git!"

The kids exchange glances, but they return to the trailer and Clint can hear their hard whispers.

James moves toward Clint, rightly figuring that they've done all they can. "We doing anything about this Swordsman and Trickshot?" he asks under his breath. Clint notices that they're already walking, moving away from the boys who are now arguing about what to do. It should delay them long enough for Clint and James to stop Buck and Jacques.

Clint gives James a wicked grin. "How do you feel about a little B and E?"

"Sure."

"My kinda fella," Clint snorts. "I know where they're going and I think we should get there first."

James glances around. "And how're we going to do that?" he asks. "We don't exactly have wheels."

"We'll borrow one."

"Who's gonna loan--?" he stops himself. "Oh."

"You ever hotwire a car, James?"

The Winter Soldier just rolls his eyes at Clint. "I was doing shit like that long before you were born."

In the end, their interference is pretty anticlimactic. Clint had geared himself up for a hard fight, but their skills had been exaggerated in his memories. Even together, Trickshot and the Swordsman are no match for Clint alone, let alone Ronin and The Winter Soldier. They make sure they're still breathing when they tie them up.

They call the police from an honest to god phone booth and Clint spends far too long playing with the door and then pretending to be Superman. "I haven't seen one of these in forever!" he exclaims.

James is just leaning against a street lamp, shaking his head at Clint, but he's got a small smile on his face and Clint's gonna count that as a win.

"What?"

"It's a phone booth. We even had those back when I'm from."

"Yeah, but nowhere has them now. Everyone has a cell phone."

"We done here?"

"Oh," Clint says. "Right. Sorry. Got distracted."

"I think that's your perennial state," James says, but he softens the words with a shoulder bump against Clint's.

"Hey now!"

"How do we do this?" James asks. "I'm hoping the return trip's a little easier."

Clint scratches the back of his neck. "Um, well, we probably need to be as close together as possible." And dammit if he doesn't blush.

James steps up to him, wraps his arms tight around Clint, one around his waist one settling against the back of his neck. And then, oh god!, he moves one leg in between Clint's! Clint tries to speak, but it comes out a breathy croak. "Yeah, like that."

He takes a breath and presses the button.

Chapter Text

Even though James has experienced and recovered from time travel before, he's still on his knees swearing at Clint when they arrive.

"Next time, I'm wearing the suit," he gasps out.

Clint's not going to argue, just holds back James' hair and hands him a bottle of Gatorade when he's done.

He scouts around, but doesn't go far. He's not ready to let James out of his sight. He knows they jumped, he felt the weird twisting sensation, and James is dealing with the consequences, but he'd swear they were in the same damned clearing as before. He shakes his head and sighs, more reconnaissance is required. He says as much to James who tries to glare at him, but he, once again, looks about as tough as a wet kitten. He's actually ridiculously attractive all the time, but he's even more so right now. It must be that he's sick enough his defenses are down.

Clint just wants to cuddle him.

Where in the hell did that thought come from?

"I'm just gonna do another circuit," he stutters out as he hightails it, this time purposefully removing himself from James' line of sight.

"Shit!" he hisses and sags against a tree. "Now is not the time for this shit!" he tells himself. "Pull yourself together and quit perving on the guy!" he hisses.

"Who're you perving on?" James asks from behind Clint and Clint does jump. He flails and swears when the back of his hand hits a tree.

"Ouch! Goddammit, James!"

All he gets is a weak smirk in return.

"I swear to god I'm putting a bell on you!"

"Look, I don't know if you've noticed, but I heard some voices and a car drive past," he explains and Clint marvels at super soldier hearing and healing. He's still green and shaky, but he seems to be recovering faster this go round. "And, Dorothy?" he starts, "we're still not in Jersey."

Clint's heart rate is slowing, trying to return to normal, which is elevated around one James Buchanan Barnes on a good day. He can't help smiling at the teasing. "I think we're still in Iowa."

"No shit, Sherlock," James quips. "Did we at least make it to whatever year you were shooting for?"

"Well, let me just look at the nearest calendar-- oh, right! There isn't one!" Clint can be an asshole at most times, but now he's just using sarcasm to deflect from earlier. He hopes James will let it go, but suspects he's just waiting for the worst time to bring it back up.

"Can you walk?"

"I followed you well enough, didn't I?"

"Ass," Clint says, shaking his head but he's smiling despite it all. "Well c'mon then, let's see just when we are, shall we?"

The road, when they get to it, is patched black top, lined with rusty barbed wire fencing, overgrown grass and shrubs tangled up in the wires. It's probably mid-day, but the tall trees overhanging the road shade them from most of the afternoon sunshine. Clint thinks it's still summer here instead of early Fall, but it's hard to tell. This all feels a little too familiar and he wonders if all of Iowa is basically the same? He doesn't remember paying much attention to the landscape when he lived here and now he's just doing it to distract his thoughts from his partner in crime.

They meet no other cars as they walk, which is good because there's no sidewalks here, just ditches thick with reeds and wildflowers. It's almost pretty and that thought makes Clint wonder when he turned poetic.

They walk in companionable silence for at least half a mile and Clint's obviously distracted since he recognizes the mailbox and battered fence they arrive at as they follow a sharp bend in the road. He gasps and stops.

"Clint?"

"Shit! Fuck! Goddammit!" he rails, raising his fist at the sky. "Why do you hate me?" he whisper-shouts. Sagging, he drops his arm and ducks his head. "Fuckin' don't answer that."

He reaches for James' arm to tug him away, but the guy's looking at him with deep furrows lining his forehead and his eyes shadowed and worried. "Clint? Talk to me."

"Don't. I grew up here and this is one place, no matter the year, that I never want to revisit, k?" his voice cracks, betraying more than he wants, but James nods.

"Sure. Okay." He nods again, like he's trying to convince himself not to worry. "Well, we should go--"

If Clint was a believer, he'd know that the gods were laughing at him, that all of this was some kind of cruel, cosmic joke, because before James can even finish speaking, a tow-headed boy riding a rickety bike that's far too big for him practically runs them over as he comes around the bend pedalling too fast, like demons from hell are chasing him. And, really, seeing the kid and knowing just what's already happened to him, that's probably not too far from what he feels.

"Whoa!" James jumps free, pushing Clint aside and grabbing the handle bar to stop the bike. Just like that. Clint tries not to think about the strength that move takes.

"Hey!" the boy shouts and Clint winces. His voice is too loud. He probably can't hear himself. "Let go, mister!"

James goes still, eyes darting between the kid and Clint. The kid who has a bruise on his jaw, a scab over his left eyebrow and finger shaped bruises on both wrists, not to mention scabbed knees and scraped shins. It could all be 'accidental', but it's not.

"Yeah, it's what you think," Clint answers the unspoken question.

Clint swipes at his face, shoves away every thought and feeling that's trying to swamp him before turning to the boy. "Hey, Clinton?" he asks. "It's Barton, right?" He makes sure he's looking straight at the boy and enunciates slowly and clearly.

The kid's eyes go wide and then they narrow. "Who're you?"

"We're with the school district," Clint lies. "Just checking on you and Charles."

He snorts. "No one calls him that. His name is Barney," he says and then stiffens as though he realizes he shouldn't be talking to them.

"Okay," Clint says. "Is Barney around? Or your folks?"

The gears are whirring in the kid's head. He's old enough to know what a bad idea it is to tell 'the authorities' anything. He shakes his head. "Not supposed to talk to strangers," he mutters before looking up at James. "Let me go, mister."

"What's your hurry?" Clint asks. "Isn't this your home?" he points past the crooked mailbox, past the overgrown yard and gravel drive, to the small, weather beaten house whose porch leans alarmingly. It'll take more than just paint to fix the place up.

"How about we just go inside and wait for your ma?" James adds. Clint thanks the same universe he was just shouting at for what a quick study James is.

"We just have a few questions," Clint tacks on, pushing the 'official' business narrative.

The kid bolts. Clint should have expected it, because it's what he's always done, but he really doesn't need to be chasing down another past Clint.

"Shit!" James doesn't hesitate, leaping to follow the kid.

Clint's left standing there, holding the bike, feet leaden.

It's James' G-rated swearing that finally forces Clint to move. "Clint! Get down here, darn it!"

He leaves the bike propped beside the porch and follows the increasingly inventive cuss words.

"Ow! Futz! Stop that!"

"No! You better leave 'fore my dad gets home!"

"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! You're a--"

"A hellion?" Clint finishes for James.

There's a red mark square in the middle of his forehead and about ten sycamore seeds surrounding him. Clint has to bite back his laughter as James rubs the spot. "That's a nice way of putting it."

Clint pivots, takes a small hop and reaches for a large branch to swing himself up on.

"Hey!" both James and the kid shout in surprise, but Clint just grins and clambers higher. He could climb this tree in his sleep when he was a kid and now he's got the height and muscle to make it effortless.

Of course, his younger self is a hellion and moves higher. He's smart enough not to taunt Clint, has at least learned to keep his mouth shut by now. Too bad he didn't figure that out before his asshole dad beat the hearing out of him.

The kid's awestruck and barely holding on as he watches Clint follow him up. Clint only stops when the next branch won't take his weight.

"Don't c-c-come any closer!"

The glare Clint directs at himself is nothing short of lethal. "Get your ass down," he hisses. He glances at the branches, maps out his advance and, moving carefully, continues on.

"No!" the kid shouts.

Clint's too caught up in screwing up the coordinates again, and that embarrassment, combined with knowing that James is witnessing this clusterfuck of Clint's formative years, and he doesn't stop to consider how his advance must seem to his six-year old self. It's only when he hears a loud crack and two shouts, one from nearby and one from the ground that Clint stops.

He sees the kid flail for a thin branch, but it comes off in his hand. Clint tethers himself with his leg wrapped around a branch while reaching to grab with the kid with his outstretched hand, his fingertips barely brush the kid's shirt before he's falling.

"Fuck!" he shouts, diving after the kid without thinking.

Clint rolls as he lands, but the impact drives the air out of him and makes him see stars for a minute. "Ow," he moans.

The ground is hard against his back, the grass pricking at his skin, while he's sure there are those accursed stickers stuck probably everywhere.

"Clint!" James hisses, prodding him with a toe as Clint opens his eyes.

"Oh shit!" he gasps shitting up. James is holding the kid in his arms. "Is he--"

"He hit his head against the arm when I caught him," James explains, brow furrowed with worry. "He's breathing, but he's out."

Groaning, Clint struggles to stand, wiping off as many of the burrs as he can. "We should take him into the house, make sure he's okay."

"What about his parents?"

Clint snorts. "His dad is 'working'," and he makes the scare quotes, "and his mom really is working." He glances at the position of the sun. "And from what I can tell, she's probably starting her second shift of the day."

James looks like he's going to ask more questions and Clint just shakes his head. "Barney's most likely at school. He'll be there for awhile after, too."

The confused frown James shoots Clint, makes him shrug, shoulders going up to his ears. "He was in little league before all the shit went down. Had the potential to be a damned good pitcher." Just one more thing that Harold Barton took from them.

The house is in surprisingly good shape, most of the dishes are clean in the dishrack, not piled in the sink or on the counter. All the beer bottles are gathered up in the large trash can on the back porch instead of strewn everywhere. It's tidier than he remembers it being. James doesn't comment on the shabby furniture, the small television with the tinfoil antenna, or the peeling paint and faded wallpaper. Clint glances around, makes note of a large ding in the wall above the sofa where his dad had thrown a full beer bottle at his mom. Under the guise of getting some water, he steps into the kitchen with its cracked and wonky linoleum, the old metal cabinets dingy and bent.

Clint doesn't want to examine the blast of fear, anger, and loathing the memories of this place set to burning in his gut. He unconsciously runs a finger over a rusted dent on the cabinet under the sink. That answers the question of whether this Clint had already been deafened by his dad or not.

He shakes off the fury. It won't do him or the kid any good here with no outlet. And they're not sticking around long enough for Clint to confront his dad, no matter how tempted he is to beat the shit out of the guy now that he's no longer a scared little kid.

A deep breath and a few stretches settle his nerves. He walks back into the living room and hands James the water. "How's he doing?"

James glances at the glass like it's a snake. He's hovering protectively over the kid, eyes a bit wild. "I don't know," he hisses, in a harsh whisper. "What the hell were you thinking? Chasing him up a fucking tree? What if he never wakes up? What if he's got a--"

"Whoa," Clint interrupts, holding up a hand. "That kid right there is me. Do you know how many times I fell outta that tree? And there was never anyone to catch me. He's fine. Could still be suffering from a beating. Could simply just be malnourished and exhausted." It's far too easy to keep his tone level, voice neutral as though he's talking about traffic in Brooklyn.

James goes still, eyes growing large and Clint feels himself flush. "Don't make it a thing. It's not a thing, okay?" He swallows and tries to unclench his jaw. This all was too long ago now for him to get all defensive about it.

"I-I wasn't," James stutters. Then he lifts his chin and meets Clint's eyes. "Not a thing. Got it," he says. "But what about the kid? We can't leave him here like this."

Clint reaches down, feels a steady pulse under his fingers and lifts an eyebrow at James. "Why not?" he wants to ask, but keeps quiet.

The kid starts stirring and Clint backs off when he gets a heated glare. James goes into full-on mother hen mode, issuing orders that Clint is helpless to argue against. The blanket he snags off his -- the kid's -- bed is old and worn, a soft cotton in pale purple that reminds him of his mother. James wraps the boy up in it and Clint can see the mistrust on the kid's face. Watches as he wars with himself, torn between fear and a desperate need to lean into the strong arms wrapping him up.

It's a scene that eats a hole in Clint and he has to turn away. "I'm gonna walk the perimeter," he says to the room before striding out, the screen door slamming behind him.

Their place was on the edge of town, the house sitting at the end of a gravel drive on a neglected ten acres that his mom had gotten from her folks. Clint doesn't remember it when the yard was mowed regularly and the house was maintained, but he does remember seeing a couple of photos of his mom and grandparents, the homestead with its flower garden in the background. That house had always seemed warm to him, a place a kid could be safe. It had never matched his reality.

And now he's having trouble making this place fit his memories. Logically he knows he's home, that he spent eight years living here and only the last three were spent ducking his dad's fists. But everything is smaller than he remembers; shrunk down, a miniature set instead of real. He circles the perimeter, long legs making quick work of the circuit, only stopping once, at the large oak on the edge of the property. This had been the tree he'd wanted to climb, that had always been his goal. He'd known his dad couldn't follow him up here, but he hadn't lived at the house long enough to grow into the climb. Now he takes a running start and leaps up, large palms wrapping around the lowest branch. He swings up, his boots brushing the heart still carved into the bark: HB+EK.

The tree is warm at his back, the height soothing his unease. He zones out, just breathes as he drifts.

"Clint!"

The shout startles him, his first instinct to run and hide from whatever his dad wanted. The adrenaline kicks in just as James comes into view and Clint slips higher, ducks behind thick leaves.

Some of James' hair has slipped out of its tie and he's taken off the leather jacket. He's got his sleeves rolled up, taking full advantage of Shuri's tech. He cocks his head and pauses directly under Clint. Clint swallows, tries not to breathe.

"Goddammit, Clint!" he swears before stalking off again.

Clint sags, lets out a relieved breath before carefully making his way down and back to the farmhouse.

He beats James back and stops, makes sure no one else has returned before he pulls the screen door opens and steps into the house.

"Hey, mister?" Clint says, then looks up. His smile falters and his gaze turns guarded. "Where's Mister James?" he asks, far too much bravado for such a small kid.

"He'll be back," Clint answers, voice raspy and throat dry. He moves past the sofa where the kid is still wrapped up in the purple blanket, half-eaten sandwich and a glass of milk held on his lap.

"You look like my mom," the kid says to Clint's back. "Your eyes are the same color."

Clint stiffens. He barely remembers his mom, only has one photo of her and it's from before she met Harold Barton, when she still wore a bright smile and stood straight. The black and white image never did tell him what color her eyes were, just light was all he knew. Her hair was long and wavy, a light halo around her head. Barney'd always said Clint reminded him of their mother, but those words never really hit home like they do now.

He fills a brightly colored, but battered metal cup from the tap, swallowing it all before he turns around to lean against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

"We could be cousins or somethin'," Clint answers. "Waverly's not that big, probably lots of us are distant relations."

The kid is eyeing him over his glass of milk. "So what're you doing here, really? Mister James said you weren't from the school."

"He did, did he?"

Clint hears James approach, just watches his younger self when James stomps up the steps and nearly wrenches the screen door off its hinges. The kid startles, nearly loses the glass of milk while the remains of his sandwich drop to the floor.

"Clint!" James shouts and two heads turn to look at him. He freezes at the kid's wide-eyed, terrified expression before dropping to his knees to clean up the crumbs.

"'m sorry, Mister!" The boy gets out, voice shaky and thick.

"What?" James looks up at the kid. "No, this isn't your fault. I shouldn't have shouted." He pats the boy on his knee. "Finish your milk."

Clint's leaning against the kitchen door frame, watching. James stands, the mess cleaned up, plate and now empty glass held in one hand. Clint would bet he doesn't even notice the kid's gobsmacked expression. Clint knows for a fact no one had ever apologized to him like that.

The glare James levels on Clint is one hundred percent earned. "And where were you?"

Clint might have earned James' anger, but he's not going to apologize, not when he's standing in his childhood home staring at himself. It's so obvious that the kid is being abused, why didn't anyone do anything about it? Why'd they wait until his dad was drunk and wrapped the car around a tree? How could he even begin to explain all that to James?

James shoves past Clint and washes the dishes quickly and efficiently while the silence grows oppressive.

"We should go," he finally says to James' back.

James turns, the expression on his face unreadable. "No. We have all the time in the world. I think we need to stay and meet Mister Barton."

"No!" the kid shouts, echoing the word Clint barely manages to choke back.

James crosses his arms over his chest and meets Clint's gaze. This time his expression is very clear: he's enraged. And for a second Clint thinks James might be angry at him.

"I don't think that'd be a good idea," Clint croaks out.

"Why not?" James hisses, coming close to Clint, his voice going low and icy. "Car accidents have taken far better people than him."

Clint sucks in a harsh breath. "Nope. No way in hell!" he seethes. "He ain't worth it! I'd never let you--"

"I ain't asking."

Mind whirling as fast as his heart is thundering, Clint moves closer, pressing their chests together, his hand cupping James' cheek. It's intimate, might get him punched, but it's all he can think to do. "James," he starts, "I appreciate the sentiment. And I get it, but I can't let you do that. As bad as that man is, he's not worth giving up who you are now."

James hasn't pulled away and Clint's caught by his gray eyes, the way his lips are drawn into a hard line. His thumb slides along a stubbled jaw and James cocks his head into the touch.

"It'd be my choice."

"I know, but maybe we can try to help without doing that."

"You have an idea?" James asks and they're still so close, Clint can feel James' breath on his cheek.

"Yeah, I do. We'll need to get some money for my-- um, for Missus Barton, then we can call CPS ourselves."

"By the way the kid greeted us, CPS has already been called," James protests.

Clint gives him a wicked smirk. "Yeah, but not by an investigative journalist before."

James licks his lips, nods, his face lightening and Clint has to pull away, not far, but if he doesn't he's going to kiss the guy. And Clint's one hundred percent sure that's a terrible idea.

"That might work," James agrees. And Clint would swear that he's leaning into Clint, just a bit, chasing his hand. But he can't be.

"Hey, Mister James," the kid interrupts and they're both spies and professional so they don't jerk back or act surprised, but they do fully separate.

Clint shrugs before turning to look at the kid. "It's a fighting chance and that's better than I ever had."

"Are you going to stay for dinner?"

"Nah, kid," James answers, then bends down and picks the kid up in a hug. "We've got other business to do and can't wait any longer."

Little arms wrap around James' neck and Clint blinks, stunned into silence.

"Okay," the boy says, voice reluctant and his arms wound tight.

James leans back, looks the kid in the eye. "Hey, you have to promise me one thing."

"What?"

"If CPS does come around, you tell them you want to talk to them alone. And you tell them everything you told me, you got it?"

The kid shakes his head. "Dad'll--" he pauses, eyes dart to Clint before he leans closer and whispers far too loudly in James' ear. "Well, you know what'd happen. Dad'd be so mad."

Maybe they should wait around. Clint might not let James do anything, but he owes his dad more than one ass whooping, it'd only be fair right? Now that the odds are more even?

James looks at Clint, then back at the kid. "Just tell them that, too."

"I don't think I can," the kid says and he's scared and so damned small.

James lifts his chin and gives him a soft smile. "Just try, that's all I can ask."

The kid takes a deep breath and squares his shoulder before nodding. "'k. I'll try."

"Good man," James says, giving the kid another hug before setting him down. "Now we do have to get going."

The kid looks up at Clint, stares at him silently for an uncomfortably long few seconds. "If'n you're mom's cousin, then you owe her to save her."

"It's a deal." Clint kneels down, holds out a hand for the kid to shake.

"It is?" At Clint's nod, the kid presses their palms together and shakes, so much bravado in such a small body. He could give Tony a run for his money.

"Yeah, kid," Clint ruffles his hair as he stands. "And now we really do need to get going."

James trails Clint out the front door, turning back to the kid before he closes the screen. "It's probably best if you don't tell anyone we were here," James instructs.

"Sure, not like anyone would believe me anyway."

The "save" is pretty anti-climatic. James recalls every last one of Hydra's bank numbers, even from before the internet, and it's the work of less than an hour and James' endearing charm to get the head teller of the local savings and loan to set up an endowment in the name of Edith Keeler, financed by a distant great uncle for whom James makes a believable agent. It takes Clint far longer and his snarkiest New York city accent to make any headway with CPS.

They keep trying to dump his call over to public relations and he's this close to losing his temper when James puts his palm over the mouthpiece. "Try telling them that it's all fine, you'll go to press without giving them a chance to make it right, photos and all. See if that lights a fire under 'em."

James is so close, standing in the phone booth, pressed against Clint's side and Clint's mouth goes dry. He nods dumbly, is still nodding when James gives him a nudge and a crooked smile, eyebrow lifted, head tilting toward the phone.

"Oh! Yeah! Shit!" Clint replies.

A harried bureaucrat finally picks up and it takes no time at all for Clint to impart on him just how serious the situation is. He wonders ever so politely, of course, what would happen if the youngest Barton were to suffer a fatal injury while CPS quoted regulations and process.

With a tense, "We will not let that happen, sir, I assure you," the bureaucrat disconnects the call and Clint hangs up the receiver, holding onto it for longer than necessary as he pulls himself together.

"Well that's that," he says, finally, when he's steady enough to meet James' gaze.

A cool palm cups his cheek and Clint leans into the touch, lips parting at just how good a gentle brush of fingers can feel. He'd almost forgotten what simple human kindness felt like.

"I think it's time to grab a bite to eat," James says as he pulls away. "Apparently Mel's is the can't miss diner."

Clint blinks, his eyes opening slowly and when did he close them? He snorts. "Never could afford to eat out, let's give it a shot."

"Probably best if we meet Natalia on a full stomach," James says and Clint trips as they cross the street.

"You'll come with?" he asks, walking backwards on the sidewalk, needing to make sure James is serious.

"Idiot, of course, I'm in," he winks and Clint nearly swallows his tongue. "Seems like the only way I'll ever get a chance to apologize."

"Okay, right, yeah, that," Clint says, heart doing somersaults in his chest.

Chapter Text

"Now this is more like it," Clint murmurs as he takes in their surroundings. They're still in a heavily wooded area, the highway just out of sight judging by the rumble of traffic in the distance. "I do believe we have arrived," he declares as he turns back to check on James.

The poor guy's still green and doubled over, but at least he's keeping his lunch down. Clint steps up and offers him a hand, which is accepted with a soft groan. "Oh, yeah, now this smells like Jersey."

Clint chuckles, charmed by James' humor that somehow persists despite the gut-churning quantum travel.

"I offered to let you wear the suit this time," he says, just as James does lose his lunch. Guess he spoke too soon.

"Oh, god," James swears and Clint tries to be as comforting as possible without becoming intrusive; holding his hair, passing him water, and then offering a shoulder to lean on. It's a hard line and he's afraid he over steps because just how touchy-feely is James with someone he barely knows? The guy wouldn't be puking if it wasn't for Clint.

"If it affects me like this, it would only be worse for you," James grits out. "Might kill ya'."

"Um," Clint wants to disagree, but he doesn't have any enhancements. His stomach lurches in sympathy and with gratitude.

James cracks open one eye and silently studies Clint for a few moments. Clint wants to fidget, but he holds his breath and doesn't move.

"You really are just like Stevie, aren't you?" James asks, voice wry.

Clint protests. "What? No! I am not like Captain self-righteous America!"

James snorts, eyes closing as he sags on Clint. "Not the self-righteous part, the self-sacrificing idiot part."

"I don't know what--"

"Clint."

His tone makes the words dry up.

"I'm glad I inserted myself into this escapade of yours." James' palm is warm on Clint's thigh and Clint can't stop staring at it.

"I appreciate the company," he admits.

"Any idea if we hit the target this time?" James asks.

"Well, as you noticed, we're definitely in the right area."

"Right time?"

Clint shrugs. "We got time to figure it out, right? No sense rushing in while you're recovering."

"K," James says, voice going quiet as he settles more fully against Clint.

They sit in companionable silence for nearly an hour while James recovers and Clint repacks all the shit from his childhood into a tight little bundle he shoves deep, buries it where he can ignore it for the rest of eternity.

James shifts, but doesn't pull away. He's a warm weight on Clint's side, reassuring and oddly comforting. After everything it's what Clint needs, a bit of peace and quiet, but not so absolute that he can get lost in his head.

"What's the plan?" James murmurs against Clint's shoulder and then he sits up and stretches, like a damned cat. Clint can't take his eyes off the way he moves, how graceful and sure his motions are.

"Um," he manages. "Oh, uh, well," he continues, like an idiot and he still can't take his eyes off James' shoulders and chest.

James waves a hand in front of Clint's face and he startles, shakes his head, hand going to the back of his neck. "Sorry."

"You okay there, buddy?"

Clint pushes his hand away. "I'm fine." He doesn't sound fine even to his own ears. "I just, well, I assumed I'd just walk in to SHIELD, talk to Tash and then we'd be off."

James snorts. "That's not a plan, that's begging for trouble."

"What? Why?" Clint's frowning. "I have my ID, if we've arrived when I planned, then this me is stuck in the New York office, so no chance of us meeting me, uh him, and I am allowed to be on site," he explains, talking too fast. "Unless Fury revoked my access like he threatened, but he wouldn't do that. I mean, he's a hardass, but not a dick." He's probably trying too hard because he's babbling now. "I know this base, know Tash, know the agents here. It'll be an easy in and out."

"If we arrive at the right time?" James asks, eyebrows going up. "You haven't managed that yet."

"Hey now!" Clint protests. "Third times a charm!"

James just looks at him.

"Fine," Clint concedes, crossing his arms over his chest. And, no, he's not pouting.

"So, let's find out if we arrived at the right time first and then go from there." James is calm and matter of fact.

"But we don't need some super complicated fourteen step plan. In and out. That's all."

"Fourteen step plan?" James chuckles. "Keep It Simple Stupid," he says and Clint grins. "I get it."

He stands and offers his left hand to Clint who takes it and allows himself to be pulled upright.

"Too close now to delay," Clint says as his eyes fixate on James' lips. He licks his own and slowly lets go of James' hand.

"Fair enough," James says and starts walking. If Clint hangs back to watch his ass as he walks, well, no one's around to catch him.

Clint pumps his fist and does a little tap dance when they learn that they arrived within a week of when Clint'd planned. James just rolls his eyes, a soft smile on his lips as they make their way to the SHIELD base.

It's quick work for Clint to pop onto base via a side entrance, snag a newb's badge, and then return to hand it over to James. They're strolling through the main entrance in no time, Clint pretending to be giving a new hire the 'tour'.

This base is smaller than the one in New York, mostly handles admin and Ops, coordinates comms. Natasha's here on admin and field support duty until she's cleared by medical after a severe injury in Thailand. Clint remembers hating the two months they were apart; he always worried that Natasha would figure out that she'd be better off with almost anyone else. He'd kept popping in, checking on Natasha, three, maybe four, okay five times a week until Fury warned him off showing up again. He was distracting and disrupting, apparently. Clint believed if you can't handle Natasha and Clint in your own offices, how could you call yourself a field agent?

Of course, most of the personnel at this base were not field agents, but that's beside the point.

James nods as Clint speaks, the duo working their way through two levels, no one the wiser until they turn a corner and nearly run into Agent Phil Coulson.

"Barton?" Phil frowns for an instant as he eyes James, then his expression smooths over. "Agent Barton, your partner is just fine." He glances at James one more time, probably trying to match his face with the badge he's wearing.

"I, uh," Clint's frozen in place. "Phil!" he says, grabbing the other man and wrapping him into a tight hug. "It's so good to see you."

Phil's eyes go wide as he's engulfed. He pats Clint's back a time or three, but Clint's shaking and still holding on so tight.

"Barton? Are you okay, did something happen?"

Clint shakes his head, but still clings, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Do you need medical?" Phil asks. "Was Agent Barton exhibiting odd behavior earlier?" he turns his attention to James. "When he roped you into this scheme of his?"

Clint swipes his eyes and takes a deep breath and reluctantly releases Phil. "It's okay, sir. Just hadn't seen you in so long."

Phil cocks his head. "It's been two weeks."

"Right," Clint nods, straightens his shoulders. "Well, um, you're looking good, sir. Is that a bit of a tan?"

"I just got back from the Mexican Riviera," Phil explains.

"A vacation? You?" Clint gapes.

The tips of Phil's ears turn pink. "Not exactly."

"You dog!" Clint claps him on the shoulder. "You mixed business and pleasure!" Clint crows. "Told you we'd rub off on each other."

"Yes, well, it wasn't supposed to be bi-directional," Phil straightens his tie and shoots his cuffs. "You really shouldn't be here. I promised you that Ms. Romanoff would be well looked after." His tone is dry, but earnest and well-meaning. "She is doing just fine."

"I know. I just… I'm here now?" Clint cajoles, eyes still drinking in Phil. A very alive and well Phil.

Phil rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Do be quick about it. If Fury finds out you showed up again when he expressly ordered you not to, you're going to be spending the next few months at the Antarctic base."

"I'll be quick, sir. I promise." Clint gives Phil his best 'who me' innocent face.

"And that's my cue," Phil says. He cocks his head at James. "Have we met, Agent Carpenter?"

James' eyes go a bit wide. "Um, no, sir. This is just my first week." He straightens and tries to hold himself like a novice.

Phil holds out his hand for James to shake. "You remind me of someone," he says. "It'll come to me. I never forget a face," he continues and Clint's mouth opens into an 'O'. "Welcome to SHIELD," he says and strides away.

"Fuck!" Clint hisses, reaching for James' arm and tugging him toward the stairs.

"What the hell was all that?" James asks. "And how did he recognize me?"

"I can explain,"Clint says, slamming the stairwell door behind him as they start up the three flights, eliminating more chance encounters.

"Well, you can start right now," James says voice terse.

"Phil, uh, Agent Coulson, he's a fan. A big fan of Cap and the Howling Commandos and, well, you." Clint tries to explain.

"Me?"

Clint stops and looks over his shoulder. "Yeah, you. He always told me that you, Peggy Carter, and the Howling Commandos are underrated by the historians. They concentrate on Cap without paying attention to you, all average joes, out there doing everything Cap does, but without the serum."

"That they knew of," James snorts.

"Well, sure, but that's not the point."

"Huh?"

"C'mon, we can have a philosophical discussion about all this once we get back to our time."

James follows dutifully, but Clint can see the gears whirring in his head.

Natasha's on-base quarters are in a corner with easy access to the stairs and other less-obvious escape routes. Clint sticks his head out, checking for foot traffic. When he sees none, he motions James out.

"Her room's right here."

"I know we didn't discuss it, but I think I should just keep watch out here."

Clint nods. "Yeah, buddy, good plan."

"I bet your hair's going to cause enough questions without adding me to the equation," James gives Clint that almost-smile and Clint has to drag his eyes away.

"Here goes nothing," he says, knocking just as James ducks back into the stairwell.

"Clint?" Natasha says, then she's pulled a gun on him, aiming it straight between his eyes. "Who are you?"

"Shit! It's me, Tash!" Clint swears, but raises his hands. "Just tryin' out a new haircut."

Her stare is intense as she takes in all the changes Clint's been through. "No," she cocks her head, eyes assessing. "This is more than a ridiculous haircut."

Clint swallows, hands still in the air, his eyes lingering on her face, too. "It really is me," he says, voice soft and earnest. "God! I missed you, Tash," he breathes out.

The gun doesn't waver, but she softens minutely. "Prove it."

"Budapest is a lie," he says immediately. "We finished the op in half a day and had time to kill, so filed false AARs, so exaggerated that they became instant legend."

Her grip on the gun softens. "How could we have done that?" she asks.

"Phil, uh, Coulson, he was in on it the whole time," he says, his grin spreading. "There's a lot more under Phil's suits than most people know."

She engages the safety and drops the gun to her side. "Who are you?"

"Clint," he answers, beginning to get frustrated. "It's really me."

"I think you believe that you are Clint Barton, but you're definitely not the Clint Barton that I know."

James steps up behind Clint and presses them back into the room, Natasha's gun is immediately back up, safety off and pointing at him.

"Sorry, I didn't plan on interrupting the reunion, but there are two people coming up the stairs that cannot see me."

"Yasha?" Natasha stares. The two seconds it takes to regain her composure tells Clint just how affected she is. "You're alive."

"Natalia," he replies, voice so full of emotion, Clint aches for them both.

She rounds on Clint. "Do you know who this is?" Her eyes are intense over the thin line of her mouth.

"I do," he sighs. "It's a long story." He points further into the room. "You are gonna want to sit down for it."

She crosses her arms over her chest, back to the wall, gun resting loose against her forearm. The safety's still off.

"We're from 2023," James opens with, blunt and straight to the point.

"I was going to ease her into it!" Clint protests.

James shrugs. "She knows you're not her Clint. There was no reason to draw it out any longer. And I really don't want to be overheard."

There's an undercurrent of tension in his voice. "Just who is it that cannot see you?"

"Rumlow and Sitwell," he answers, voice resigned.

Natasha's watching them carefully, assessing.

"Ugh, Rumlow's the worst and Sitwell," Clint starts, then he gives James an evil grin. "He got what he deserved."

"Excuse me," Natasha says. Her voice is carefully neutral, so perfectly modulated that Clint realizes his mistake and now she's pissed.

"Oh!" he turns to his partner. "Sorry! I got distracted… future shit," he finishes as if that explains it.

"You expect me to believe you are from nearly two decades in the future?" She shakes her head. "Is this some sort of test? To see if I'd crack?" Her eyes dart to James and Clint worries that Natasha might think she has.

"No test, Tash. It's the real deal."

He slips off James' hoodie and rolls up his left shirtsleeve to reveal his tattoo.

When he holds his arm out for her to inspect, her fingers skim lightly over his skin. She's standing so close and Clint can't help himself. He blurts out, "Can I give you a hug?"

And, dammit, he isn't going to cry.

There must be something in his expression that gets through to her. She gives a short nod and then Clint is wrapping her up and holding tight, the tears falling freely. "I missed you, so, so much. Come back with us. That's the fastest way to show you."

"She doesn't have a suit," James says. "And we have no idea how much protection her serum offers."

"Do not get ahead of yourselves," she scolds James. "How about you tell me what happened to me, then we can discuss whether I'm coming with you or not," she looks between them, face calm, gathering intel, but she always could pick up on the things Clint wasn't saying.

"I didn't say anything happened to you!" he protests.

"If not, why come back here to get me?"

"She's got you there," James says and he's got a half smirk on his face that Clint can't decide if he wants to punch it off or kiss it off him.

"Do you need an organ donor? My blood? What exactly?" she demands.

Clint swipes at his eyes, but he can't meet her gaze. He collapses onto the uncomfortable chair and buries his face in his hands.

"You sacrificed yourself to save half the life in the universe," James says as if he were discussing the weather.

Clint's throat closes. He shakes his head. "You sacrificed yourself, but it should have been me!" he cries, voice an anguished, broken rasp.

Natasha sits down beside him even though there's not room for two. She wraps her arms around him and rests her chin on his shoulder. "So explain it to me. Tell my why you think I should have let you sacrifice yourself." Her voice is soft, almost tender, or as tender as Natasha ever is and that makes everything hurt even more.

"I've done bad things, Nat," he tries to explain, but his voice catches.

"So have we all," James adds and Clint startles, far too caught up in Natasha. He looks up sharply, meets James' steely gaze.

"Yeah, but I did all those things intentionally, of my own volition. No one else here can say that."

"Free will is a lie," Natasha says in answer.

Clint shakes his head. "No."

"Of course it is. No one is so free of encumbrances that they can be fully rational in all situations," she says, completely certain. She pats his thigh, runs her fingers through the long hair on the top of his head. "I like this. It's very soft."

Despite himself, he leans into her touch.

"This isn't a philosophy 101 class, Tash. It's real life and I lost myself. Became a monster." He tries again.

"Alright," she says. "Let's start there then. I accept your premise. You became a heartless killing machine."

Clint startles and turns to look at her. Her eyes dart to James, but then settle on meeting Clint's confused frown.

She shrugs. "It's a good place to start. You'll get no argument from me," she explains. "Do continue."

"I have a family," he starts, then stops. "Um, well, it's Barn's wife and kids, but we thought he was dead and Laura needed help and I, well, things went very bad for awhile so I retired."

"You gave up SHIELD?" she asks and that's the most clear astonishment he's ever heard in her voice.

He hunches in on himself a bit, because his championing of SHIELD was mostly responsible for Natasha agreeing to come in with him.

"Just be glad you'll get to miss all of the bad bits."

"Me," James adds. "Hydra is SHIELD."

"You're Hydra?" Her fingers tighten in Clint's hair and it's his turn to offer his support. He presses his palm on her knee.

"Tash, you and Cap burn it all to the ground," he says. "You save everyone."

"I still don't see what any of this has to do with me coming back with you," she says, deflecting from the way their words punch the air out of her. "It sounds as if the world has been set to rights."

"But I haven't," Clint says, breath hitching. "I need you, Tash. Phil's gone, Tony's gone, Cap's gone." He sniffs, swallows thickly. "You left me."

"My hawk," she huffs out. Shifting in the chair until she's sitting across his legs, she reaches for him, takes his face in her hands. "You are the strongest, most resilient person I have ever known. You will be fine."

He shakes his head. "I'm not fine."

"He is reckless, angry, and an adrenaline junkie who does need someone to watch over him," James says and there's that little half smirk again. "He's very much like Steve, though he is less self-righteous, but no less self-sacrificing."

Clint's eyes dart to James and they would linger there, but Natasha taps him on the nose, forces his eyes back to hers. "And who is this Steve? Is he the same man you call Cap?"

"Um, yeah. Captain America's alive." He doesn't mention anything about Cap's time travel shenanigans.

"Did Phil faint when they met?" she asks and Clint grins. He knows she's distracting him, but it works.

"Worse, he tripped all over his tongue and said stupid shit and kept at it," he snorts. "I think that's more than sticking his foot in his mouth. He stuck his whole leg in."

She chuckles, pats his cheek gently. "You don't need me to come with you. And I think you are coming to that realization."

"I don't--"

She interrupts. "Clint, James here will look after you. And I couldn't ask for anyone better suited to do so."

"But, we're not-- he's not--"

"I'm not what?"

"Clint, one of these days, you will believe me when I tell you that you deserve all the best in the world," she says. "Devotion, care, compassion, love."

"Love is for children," he replies, the only response that he can come up with because he's pretty baffled at what she's saying. If she's hinting that Clint could have James' devotion? Well, that's bullshit. Isn't it?

She taps him on the nose pulling him out of his thoughts. "Are you back with me?"

He swallows. "Yeah, but we should probably talk about what you just said."

"No need. You do quite well if I drop crumbs here and there. Better, in fact, than if I tell you straight out."

Clint frowns. "Are you managing me?"

Her grin is small and fond. "Of course I am. And that's why I cannot go with you. I cannot leave my Clint here, unmanaged."

Clint splutters while James chuckles.

"You hit the nail on the head, Natalia," James says, grin in his voice. "He's a disaster magnet without an ounce of self-preservation."

"But- but-"

"I would like to hear all of the big items, things like SHIELD is Hydra," she says. Then she stops. "Oh, if I do that, will this not destroy you? Your lives won't happen the way they're meant to."

"Time travel doesn't work like that."

"Oh? And how does it work?"

"This past is my future, or well, by coming here anything I change won't change my timeline, it just creates an alternate one. So we'd return to 2023 and this timeline would have a Clint without a Nat. But nothing changed for me. My past hasn't changed."

She's looking at him, hanging on every word and Clint can see the gears turning. "So not Back to the Future?"

"Right. I think Tony called it Dragon Ball rules," he scrubs at his face. "The 2023 we return to will be the same one we left, even with you with us."

"I guess I should watch this movie," James interjects.

Clint looks up at him. He's leaning against the wardrobe, all loose-limbed easy grace. "Yeah. It's a ton of fun. Perfect for pizza and a movie night."

Natasha nudges him with an elbow and lifts an eyebrow. "What?" he blurts out and she snorts, rolls her eyes.

"Smooth," she says. "The way you look at James, that's what."

"Wait, what?"

"James is very attractive, isn't he?" she asks out of the blue.

"Yes, I mean, no! No! I mean, yes of course!" Clint stutters out.

"And you couldn't have a better partner."

"No?"

She chuckles. "For one of the smartest people I've ever known, you can be terribly dense."

"I don't mean to be!" Clint protests, but it's more of a whine.

James chuckles, the rumble settling at the base of Clint's spine, warming him down to his toes. "Hey!" he points a finger at James. "I should leave you here."

The way James goes from smiling to murder stare is terrifying. "It would give me a chance to settle some scores," he says as he flexes his metal fingers and Clint shudders, grateful that James is on their side. "But then I'd miss this pizza and a movie that you've promised me."

When he looks at Natasha, she's amused, and a bit sad.

"So, aren't you curious? About the future, about all the stuff that happens?" he asks, needing to change the subject from the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

"I will see it," she replies, tangling their fingers together. "I will simply take the long way around."

"Ta-aaash," Clint cajoles.

She shakes her head. "I cannot, Yastreb."

"But why? What do you have to keep you here?" He's trying not to whine, but fails.

"I have my Clint, who is a disaster, but the best man I've ever known."

"That's me."

That draws a sad smile from her. "You know it is not."

"But--"

She shakes her head, giving him that look, the one where she's decided to do something ridiculously dangerous and expects Clint to back her every move. "It seems there are things that need to be taken care of here and who better to do it than Strike Team Delta?"

It's a low blow, bringing their team up. They were legends, still are for some. But it was so long ago and there's only him left now.

"So it's settled."

"It is?" he tries to argue.

"Could your team use a fourth?" James asks, voice tentative and so soft Clint would miss it without his StarkTech aids.

Natasha grins. "Tell me all you know, Yasha, and we will find you and then finish them all this time."

Clint sighs, swipes at his eyes. "Might as well pull Cap out early, too. Phil always went on about that jazz quintet."

"That's the spirit," Natasha says as she stands.

From then on, Clint is mostly just a bystander, watching as James tells her everything he knows. Clint should be shocked at how extensive Hydra's reach was, but he'd seen the aftermath, felt the pain of seeing so many gone, either taken out or traitor. It was the one time he'd almost been grateful for Loki, otherwise there's no telling where he would have been when it all blew up.

"Do you know the coordinates where they found Steve?" James asks, pulling Clint out of his reverie.

"Not exactly, but give me a map and I can show you the approximate area."

The search area is still pretty large, but it's doable unlike before. "Oh, and Pegasus, don't let them do it."

"What is that?" they ask almost in unison, both turning to look at Clint. He wants to duck, but manages to keep his eyes up.

"They're experimenting on the Tesseract, but end up allowing it to be used as a portal," he says, voice surprisingly steady. Huh. Time and much worse shit do make clusterfucks seem less severe. "Look, just tell Coulson and Fury that the fate of the world depends on them giving the Tesseract to Thor at the first opportunity. He needs to take it to Asgard where they can protect it." He's nodding at his idea.

"Thor?" Natasha repeats. "Asgard?" She blinks, but dutifully records the information. "As in Norse mythology?"

"Yeah, I know."

"You've dealt with some shit, Yastreb."

He chuckles without mirth. "That's an understatement."

"Is that everything?" James asks Clint.

"I think so. Or as much as I remember in enough detail to be useful," he answers. "I think this is more than enough to change everything." He waves at the desk with its notebook full of coordinates, crude maps, and list upon list.

"And you are certain that when you return to your own time none of this will affect you?"

Clint shrugs. "Pretty sure. It seemed to work that way before."

Natasha has her hand on her chin, she's studying him and Clint's starting to fidget under her stare. "May I take a photo of you? Both of you?"

"What?" Clint asks. "Why?"

"The hair has grown on me. I'd like to show Clint," she explains. "Besides, how am I to prove all of this is real and not a psychic break?"

"Oh. Sure."

James moves to stand beside Clint and wraps an arm around his waist. The first picture Natasha takes is far too revealing. Clint's making literal heart eyes at James who is smirking and looking far too good for Clint's sanity. Natasha sees it and cracks up. Her laughter is contagious and Clint drags her into the pictures. In most of the photos they all look like goofballs making rabbit ears over each other, pushing and shoving until there's one when Clint looks at it his eyes sting. He doesn't get to keep this.

Natasha presses her palm to his shoulder, then leans down and drops a kiss on his temple. "I am sorry I can't go with you," she whispers. "I hope you'll understand why."

He lays his hand over hers. "I already do, Tash. It doesn't mean I have to like it."

He looks up at her and she smiles back at him. "I wouldn't have expected anything else."

She straightens and Clint nods before wrapping his arms around her middle, squeezing tight. His eyes close and he steals a few more precious seconds of this, of having Natasha again. "Right. It's that time," he says, and pokes his finger into that one spot in her armpit that makes her jump and squeak. He cackles and she swats his head, but it serves its purpose, helps him shut down all the things he's feeling. He'll deal with them later. Or maybe never.

The old tech makes it challenging, but Clint isn't leaving without every single photo they took. His phone is dead so he's forced to write CDs and he groans, mutters at the PC and tries not to eavesdrop as James takes Natasha aside.

There's no real privacy in temporary on-base quarters, but Clint glances over his shoulder, meets James' eyes, and visibly turns his aids down. This whole endeavor was for him and about him, but James deserves some closure, too. And the CD drive is slow as molasses so gives them plenty of time.

A light tap to his shoulder makes him turn. Natasha's usual composure is shattered, her eyes a bit red-rimmed, mouth quirked in a half-smile that can only be described as melancholic. She tugs him up and he stands only to have his arms filled with a petite redhead. The hug lingers and James eventually joins in and Clint absolutely does not have to hold back a sob. Except he does and Natasha just holds him tighter until his breath stops hitching.

He turns up his aids then says, "Okay, okay," as they part. Natasha's eyes are suspiciously bright, too. Even James is affected. Clint has no idea what he did to deserve friends like this, but he must have been a saint in a previous life.

"This is stupid," he swears, but is smiling with wet eyes. "It's not like it's the end of the world, right?"

James nods. "Been there, done that," he says, tone dry and Clint barks out a laugh.

"Fair enough," he says. "I think it's going to be safer if we just leave straight from here, if that's okay?" he asks Natasha.

She's visibly pulling herself together and Clint is touched by the trust that demonstrates. She nods. "I'd like to see how it works, maybe take a movie, if I can?"

"Course," Clint agrees. "You ready?" he tilts his head to James.

James nods and steps close, wraps his arms tight around Clint who reciprocates.

Natasha looks like she's about to break into laughter. "Is that required?" she asks.

"Well, James doesn't have a suit, so this is the best we can do."

"If you say so," she says, still amused, then lifts her hand, camera starting as Clint presses the button.

Chapter Text

They end up right back on the platform in the lab and almost before Clint can remove the suit, James covers his mouth and is bolting from the room. He shrugs, feels bad for James, for what each trip put him through, but they're back and no worse for the wear, or not visibly anyway.

"TADASHI?" Clint speaks, tentative as he sits in an untidy sprawl on the edge of the platform.

"How may I be of service, Master Hawkeye?"

Clint just blinks for a minute, wonders who programmed the damned thing to sound like a young Asian from the bay area? And which joker decided he was Master Hawkeye? This just feels like something Scott would do. Sam just wouldn't bother and Bruce would never consider taking away someone's right to name and pronoun themselves.

"Did you need something, Master--"

"Stop!"

"As you wish, Master--"

Clint holds up a hand. "Look, let's get one thing straight, it's just Clint. Not Barton. Not Hawkeye. Not Mister or Master or Agent or sir. Just Clint."

"Very well, Clint. How may I be of service?"

"Thanks, man. I just… how long were we gone?"

"The machine was activated the first time four minutes and 47 seconds ago."

Huh. Clint scratches at his beard which sports more than a couple of days growth. "So, nothing's happened while we were gone?" It's a stupid question, but he's still processing.

"Everyone is asleep, just as they were five minutes ago."

"Okay, right. Thanks."

He stares after James, wonders what the rules are for this kind of thing. Does he wait? Will James even be coming back? Clint sighs, sprawls on his back, and stares at the ceiling. Taking a few deep, slow breaths, he works through a meditation routine Bruce showed him years ago, forcing his brain to calm and center while he waits.

After twenty minutes, there's still no sign of James and Clint frowns.

"You idiot," he mutters to himself.

"Clint?"

"Ah, no, sorry, TADASHI, I was talking to myself. I'm just gonna head out now, k?"

"Do you wish for me to inform Sergeant Barnes of your departure?"

"Nah, that's okay. Don't bother him."

The hallways echo as he walks, lights turning on just as he gets to an area, clicking off just as he departs. It's unsettling in a way that's hard to put his finger on, it feels automated in a way that the tower never felt with JARVIS running things. His shoulders sag as he steps into the cool night. Only when he reaches to tug the zipper up does he remember he's still wearing James' hoodie.

"Son of a bitch!" he swears, glances back at the door, but he can't make himself return.

When he steps out on the sidewalk, he blinks. "Goddammit, Clint, you idiot." He'd forgotten to ask Eduardo to stay. And his phone is dead so he can't call a ride. It's the fucking middle of the night, he'll never be able to get a cab. Jamming his hands into James' pockets, he begins walking toward the nearest station.

When he finally makes it home, it's nearly dawn. He takes out his aids, sets them carefully in their charging case, kicks off his shoes and faceplants on the bed. He's out between one breath and the next.

The next couple of days suck. He wakes a few short hours after collapsing, Lucky slobbering all over his face and Simone signing to him that she has to go to work, but there's coffee and her apple crumble in the kitchen. Clint trips over the blankets in his haste to get some of Simone's famous crumble. At least he's fully dressed and doesn't flash Simone. He's done that more than once and it's embarrassing as fuck.

She's laughing as she leaves and Clint is drinking blessed black goodness and eating the manna of the Gods: Simone's legendary apple crumble. It's the absolute best and goes a long way to patching the hole in Clint's heart. There's just something about the crunch of the topping with the cinnamon and the way her apples are baked to perfection. If he can keep from thinking about what a disaster the last days or hours or whatever the fuck amount of time he spent in the past was, he'll be better for it. Just put it all behind him. Ignore, compartmentalize, bury, pretend it never happened. That's the only way to move on.

Problem is, he's still wearing James' stupidly soft hoodie with the garrote in the pocket. And there's a CD in the other pocket with the photos.

Clint takes the pot of coffee, the entire pan of apple crumble, and wraps himself up in a blanket, making a burrito of himself on the couch, Lucky resting on his calves as they start binging "Dog Cops" over from season one.

He's still on the sofa when Simone returns from her shift. She frowns at Clint, points to his ears and taps her index finger against her watch. Clint's tempted to ignore her, but he doesn't need to piss off the one person looking after him right now.

Since he refuses to unwrap himself, it's slow going up the stairs to his bedroom, but he's too stubborn to stop and change it up now. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes his aids from their case and seats them carefully before turning them on with a double tap.

"Clint? I'm gonna take Lucky down so Charlie can let him out, but I'll be right back!" she calls from downstairs.

"Sure! Thanks!"

Clint resettles on the couch, all tucked up and cozy, except without Lucky, his feet aren't overheating. He starts the show again, leaving on the sub-titles even though he doesn't need them now.

He must have dozed off because Simone is shaking his shoulder and when did she get back?

"Whuh? Huh?"

"Wake up," she says.

"I'm awake!"

"Of course you are."

"What do I need to fix?" he asks while peering over his shoulder at Simone.

She tilts her head. "I'm thinking you need to fix you," she says. "What happened? You are looking…" She pauses and Clint knows she's reaching for a polite way to tell him he looks like shit. "Very lived in."

When he doesn't say anything, just hunches further in on himself, she presses a palm to his shoulder and leans close, her voice quiet but firm. "Maybe it's time to head back to the farm for a few days? Take a break from protecting the neighborhood."

He tries to protest and she shushes him. "You're not that silent and I am no one's fool. But I also know that you are not getting better. Your usual ups and downs are too little up and too much down. I've already spoken to Laura and she and the kids are excited to see you. They expect you to bring Lucky."

She's planned his whole life out but didn't think to include him. He should be pissed, but he's relieved. If he goes back to the farm for a visit, he'll be able to put one thing behind him at least. The rest, he might tell Barney about what he'd done. Of anyone, he'd get it.

Simone's still looking at him, expectant. "Oh! Um, Okay?"

She chuckles. "You don't sound so sure."

"I'm not, but it's better than turning into a mushroom here."

"A change of scenery is always helpful," she agrees. "Now, I have kids to wrangle and you should pack. They're expecting you tomorrow by dinner time."

"You were awfully sure I'd agree."

She just gives him an enigmatic smile that sends a chill down his spine. "I knew you would," she says.

Every single woman in his life is a terrifying badass. What does that say about him?

The farm itself no longer feels like home, like his home, but the kids adore Lucky and Nate clings tightly to Clint's neck and even Barney hugs Clint hard enough to squeeze the air from his lungs. And maybe he doesn't have Natasha anymore, but he hasn't lost this.

He's not as alone as he thought.

Clint's watching the kids and Lucky chase the goats and each other, their bright laughter echoing off the trees and clapboard siding.

"We'd love to have you back for good," Barney says as he joins Clint, their shoulders brushing.

"You just want someone else for Laura to turn her penchant for remodeling on."

"She's a menace."

The chuckle that bursts out of his chest is fond and pleased. "She's too good for you, always has been, always will be. Count your blessings and do whatever she asks."

"Like hell I will. I'm not you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Clint bristles.

"Don't get your panties in a wad, little brother," Barney says. And he's such a condescending asshole Clint wants to deck him, but he takes a deep breath and waits.

"I'm shit at appreciating what I have. Took it for granted, nearly got myself killed and for what?"

Clint's pretty sure that's a rhetorical question.

"Nothing as important as this. Took the universe breaking for me to pull my head out, but you," he stops and turns to meet Clint's eyes. "You know, knew from the first." He shakes his head. "I don't know how you do it, but it's a good thing." He shrugs. "That's all I was tryin' to say."

"You're shit at words, you know that?" Clint rolls his eyes at Barney, but then he wraps an arm around his neck and blows a raspberry on his cheek.

"You dick!" Barney splutters, swipes at his face while Clint cackles and darts out of his reach.

Barney gives chase and the adults join the kids, all of them running around the meadow laughing.

A couple of nights later, Clint can't sleep. Dust and rivers of blood that run an icy blue keep him awake, make him reconsider just how ready he is to return here, to try to live a quiet, normal life. He's never done that, never fully embraced anything but his bow and being an Agent. Always held himself back and now he's not even sure he's capable of being a safe, normal uncle.

He pads out to the porch in sock feet, avoiding the creaky stair as he heads down. He gazes longingly at the porch swing but it needs oiling and the slats need tightening. He'd wake up the whole house the minute he takes a step toward it. Instead, he sits on the steps and stares at the stars. It's odd to think about, but he'd been out there. Been to outer space and another planet, yet that fact doesn't even register as something real.

Not for the first time, he wonders what's wrong with him, wonders when he got so bent by life that he turned to murder and mayhem to settle the score when he could have done something positive instead.

The screen door opens and then closes behind him and Clint sighs. He doesn't want company, wants to wallow for a bit longer, but when does he get what he wants?

"You got your aids in?" Barney asks, voice quiet, testing.

"Yeah," he says, because it's a habit he's gotten into when he's around the kids, just to make life easier.

"You think too loud," Barney says, voice sleep rough and grumpy. But he's sitting down next to Clint, brushes their shoulders as he settles.

"Was trying not to think."

"Well, you suck at it."

"Great, thanks," Clint says. "You can leave now."

"Nope, I can't. Laura's worried about you and that means I have to be worried about your sorry ass."

"You can tell her I'm fine."

Barney makes a disparaging noise. "You're not fine. Never been, if'n we're honest."

"Fuck you, too, 'Mister fake his death and abandon his wife and kids'," Clint growls. "Oh, and left his brother for dead!"

Barney wraps an arm around Clint's shoulder, holding on tight so Clint can't wriggle out of his hold. "I've always been a dick, try too damned hard to live up to you and I will never manage it."

"What? Me?" Clint huffs, tries to push away, but Barney's got his arm wrapped around Clint's shoulder, tightens it around his neck.

"You really don't see it, do you?" Barney asks right into Clint's ear. "First at Carson's, then after. You've always known who you were and aimed for the stars and you never miss."

Clint snorts. "I don't have the first fucking clue about who I am."

"Lie to yourself if you need to, but you can't lie to me."

Exasperated, Clint finally pushes away from Barney and stands, back to his brother. "I'm not," he says, takes a breath, "whatever you think I am."

Barney shifts behind him, but Clint's not going to look at him, can't face him. "Whatever. You're a fucking Avenger for a reason, little brother. And were SHIELD before that. Even now, after everything, you've saved people's homes, are keeping the streets safe, and I know damned good and well that you'd answer the next world crisis in a heartbeat, no matter the toll it takes on you."

Clint's eyes burn and he shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, just stop. I don't need a sales pitch." He manages to keep his voice from wavering.

"Okay, so let's start there then," Barney says and he stands, moves next to Clint. "What do you need?" he asks and his voice is gentle enough to rend Clint's insides.

"I--"

"You don't know, do you?" Barney says, following up. "Of course you don't. Because you never take a breath long enough to figure out what's good for you, Clinton Francis Barton. Not Hawkeye, not the Avenger, not Ronin, the vigilante, not the SHIELD agent, not even the merc. It's always about the next mission, the next thing to do, the next person to save." And Barney's voice is still soft and deadly, but it's growing hard with frustration bleeding in at the edges. "Ask for something for yourself and we'll do everything in our power to get it for you."

Clint shakes his head, wraps his hands around his biceps and squeezes. "Nothing for me."

Barney sighs. "Oh, Clint, dammit," he says. Then against all odds and against the way they interact, Barney wraps Clint up tight.

It takes a few moments, longer than it should for Clint to accept the gesture and unclench himself and wrap his arms around Barney's waist. They don't do touchy-feely, haven't ever been those brothers, but Clint needs this more than he ever could admit.

"If you can't figure it out for yourself, we'll be here to do it for you," Barney murmurs.

Clint should worry about what he could possibly mean, but right now, he really just needs to be hugged and he's not going to worry about the rest.

By the light of mid-morning and fresh coffee, with the house quiet and the kids in school, Lucky at Clint's feet as he stares outside, the world looks brighter, or at the very least, less bad. He's no less alone, no less lost with no clear idea of what he's supposed to do now, but at least he's processed most of the shit from his past. Again. Changing it all up, giving the alternate Clints a different outcome, a better start, feels positive while sitting in a warm, lived-in kitchen. No matter what happens, he does have this. And maybe he should stop wanting more.

"Hey, Clint?" Laura interrupts his thoughts, drags his attention away from himself.

"Yeah?"

"Barney and I are going out for a date night--"

"I'll stay with the kids, you know you don't have to ask," Clint doesn't even let her finish. As if she ever had to ask him to stay home with the kids.

Laura shakes her head and smiles at him. "Thanks, but that wasn't the question."

"Oh."

"Lila's got a sleepover at Priya's and Coop's asked to spend the night over at Randall's," she explains. "I hope his mom doesn't let them stay up all night," she mutters. "Cooper'll be a pain to get to his game on time."

"So it'll just be me and Nate?" Clint clarifies.

"Oh!" Laura chuckles at herself. "Yeah, if that's okay? I mean, he has that new friend, Trina, and I'm sure her dads wouldn't mind having Nate for the evening," she's rambling. "I should call."

"Laura." Clint tries to get her attention.

"And it'd be really good for Nate, he's such a homebody--"

"Laura!" Clint cuts her off.

She blinks, smiles sheepishly, then shrugs. "Sorry. There's a lot going on."

"And you keep everything in your head instead of on that perfectly fine calendar hanging on the fridge." He points, then takes a sip of coffee to hide his smirk. Laura bought the calendar and yet she's the one that never uses it. Hell, even Clint uses it. It might be just for a grocery list and for reminders for feed and things from the hardware store, but he uses it.

Laura ducks her head and blushes. "You got me. I'll do better."

"Sure you will," Clint answers, teasing and light. "But as I said, don't force Nate to socialize if he doesn't want to. We'll be fine. Have a Disney marathon, some pizza, a perfect evening."

Laura bites her lip, amusement dancing in her eyes. "If you say so," she says. "And Barney wonders why you're a bachelor?"

"Hey now! Everyone loves Disney!"

"Only because they have Star Wars now."

"Traitor!" Clint mimes being stabbed in the heart.

Laura drops a kiss on his head. "The kids aren't coming home after school. We'll just drop their things off on the way out, k?"

"K," Clint replies, mind humming with possibility. Which movie hasn't Nate seen? He snorts to himself. What a stupid question. Clint's been very thorough with the kids' education. There's not a Disney movie he hasn't seen. Maybe they should watch the 'Goonies' instead?

Lack of sleep, lots of pizza, and two cuddly bodies conspire to drag Clint deep into an early doze. He wakes to the television repeating the DVD menu screen over and over and over; his legs hot thanks to Lucky and one arm asleep thanks to Nate. Disoriented, he looks around, wonders what woke him. He squints at the clock. It's not that late, definitely not late enough for 'date night' to be over.

Then he hears a car door and the crunch of boots on gravel.

With quick, silent moves, he tucks Nate under a blanket on the sofa, makes Lucky stay with him, grabs a gun from the thumbprint locked end table, and moves to the window by the front door.

The doorbell rings and then someone's banging on the screen door, waking the world. Lucky goes apeshit and rams into the back of Clint's legs, knocking Clint into the door just as Nate shouts at the top of his lungs, "The movie's over! I havta pee!" He's bounding up the stairs and Clint bangs his head against the wall.

"Barton?!"

"What the f-- futz?" Clint swears. He knows that voice. Been dwelling on that voice and the neck, shoulders, eyes, lips and everything else that voice belongs to.

"Clint? Are you in there? Is everything okay?" James calls out while banging on the screen door again.

"Hold on! Hold on!" he shouts back.

The safety is re-engaged before Clint tucks the gun into the back of his pants. Then he calms Lucky, gets him to sit as Clint unlocks the door and opens it, to find James on the other side of the screen, brow furrowed and metal fist about to pound on the frame again.

"Barnes?"

"Clint!"

"Want to come in?" Clint asks, trying not to gape because he can't wrap his head around James being here. And then he's looking everywhere but at James because otherwise he'd be staring. His legs twitch and his stomach does a somersault as he flips up the tiny hook on the screen door and opens it, waving for James to come inside.

James steps into the foyer, then they just stand there, Clint's hand on the back of his neck as he realizes that he's in a very old, very tight tee that was once Natasha's and his sweats are threadbare and only stay up on his hips because the knot is welded into place. His feet are bare and he tries not to think about that as his eyes drink in the sight of one James Buchanan Barnes standing here in his house looking like everything Clint's ever wanted and always knew he couldn't have.

The silence stretches for too long, both men stealing glances and then looking away. It's awkward and borderline uncomfortable before they both bumble out questions at once.

"How'd you--"

"Are you--"

Lucky whines, reminding Clint he is right here.. "Oh, sh--, um, shoot!" Then he looks at Lucky. "Go ahead, but no jumping!" he reminds his dog.

And Lucky walks up to James, sniffs him carefully, and, no, Clint is not thinking about James' crotch just because Lucky tries to stick his nose there. Then he sniffs James' outstretched hand and ducks his head under it for pets.

James' eyes light up with delight and he kneels down, gets a face full of slobber for the effort, but he's laughing and Clint breathes out. At least James seems to like dogs. That'd be a deal breaker right there, if he didn't.

"Who's a good boy?" James croons and Lucky barks in delight, basking in the attention.

"Next movie!" Nate shouts as he thunders down the stairs, interrupting Lucky pets. Lucky barks and rushes to greet him, his nails clacking and scrabbling on the wood floor.

"Nate!" Clint barks. "Careful! I told you no running down the stairs."

Nate draws up short, eyes wide as he looks at James. "Who's that?" he asks, suddenly shy.

"Um, Nate, this is James Barnes. He's an Avenger," Clint introduces them.

"You're the Winter Soldier, right?" Nate asks, hand held out for a proper handshake and Clint's so proud. He knows how hard it is for Nate to talk to anyone that's not his immediate family. He still has nights where he's not sure who Barney is, as heartbreaking as that is, but he's coming around.

James takes the small hand and grips it gently. "Yeah, I am sport. Sorry for interrupting movie night."

"Eh, it's no big deal. You can watch it with us," he says, heading for the sofa, as unconcerned as only a child can be. It leaves Clint blinking for a long minute, trying to grasp how easily Nate accepted James.

Shaking his head, he asks, "What movie you have in mind, kiddo?"

Nate looks over the sofa at Clint. "'Robin Hood', the one with foxes!" he shouts, smile wide.

Clint returns the grin. "On it," he says and, yes, it's one of their favorites, in rotation with Errol Flynn and 'Brave'. The 'Lord of the Rings' movies are required watching, but Clint won't let Nate or the others when they were younger watch without him. He has all of the movies memorized and knows when to cover little eyes and ears. Hell, the orcs and Uruk-Hai are unnerving for him.

Before he changes the movie for Nate, he turns to James. "The kitchen's through there," he says, pointing past the den. "I'll get Nate here set up and then make coffee?" He doesn't mean to end on a question, but he hadn't actually considered if James even liked coffee when he started asking.

"Or we have juice, milk, and, um, iced tea?" His voice pitches higher at the end, and he wants to kick himself. To save his pride and to save him from saying anything else ridiculous, he just points and heads to the television. "I'll be right in," he says without turning to look at James. His face is bright red and he needs a minute.

"You okay, Papa?" Nate asks and Clint nods.

"I'm fine, but we're gonna be in the kitchen."

"I know, talking 'adult stuff'." He even makes the scare quotes and Clint really needs to talk to the other kids. Nate's too young to be so adept at sarcasm.

Clint ruffles Nate's hair, giving him a fond smile. He's grateful he hadn't utterly screwed this up, that Laura and Simone and even Barney hadn't let him lose the one good thing still left in his life. "Let me know if you want some more pizza or kool-aid, k?"

"K," Nate says, eyes glued to the opening sequence.

Clint shakes his head and turns toward the kitchen, swallowing down trepidation and curiosity. James is standing in the kitchen leaning against the island, eyes searching until they widen, just a bit, as Clint walks in. He gives Clint a relieved smile as he straightens.

"Um, so you're not--" his voice trails off and he starts to look sheepish and awkward. It's ridiculously endearing and Clint bites his tongue to not say that out loud.

"I'm not what?" Clint asks. "So, uh, coffee? Or?" Maybe he's the only one that drinks coffee at nine at night? Are super soldiers affected by caffeine?

"Coffee, yeah, that'd be great." James gifts Clint with that half smirk, half smile thing he does and Clint's legs turn to jelly. He doesn't even notice that James never finished his question. He is so gone on this guy and he needs to get a handle on himself before he chases him off just after he arrived.

"Right, yeah, coffee," Clint says, moving to make a pot; keeping his back to James so that he can concentrate on the task and not on the stubble on James' jaw. Or his eyes. Or his thighs. Goddamn.

"You always keep a gun in your pants?" James asks just as Clint starts the coffee maker.

"What?" Clint whirls around, hand going to his gun. The gun he left in the back of his pants like an idiot who shouldn't be licensed, let alone have a gun around a child. The gun he pulls out and is holding; at least he's got the safety on and the muzzle pointing toward the floor.

"Shit! Sorry! I didn't mean--" James says, hands going up. "Am I under arrest or something?"

Clint closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them to glare at James. "You're still an asshole," he says pointing with his right index finger because he does know proper gun protocol, dammit.

"Guilty as charged," James says, lowering his hands. "But, seriously. Do you need a gun in your own kitchen?"

"No!" he barks. "No, I don't," he says, softening. "But I do when strange cars show up here in the middle of the night unannounced." He crosses his arms over his chest and taps the muzzle of the gun against his right shoulder.

"Nine is not the middle of the night."

And there's that dry humor, James' smile is sly, tempting Clint into doing something incredibly stupid. But he's stronger than that; likes the guy too much to do that.

"It is for a kid," Clint argues.

"Right. But no one told me you had a kid." James slumps a bit, leans against the counter again, his eyes darting everywhere but to meet Clint's gaze.

Clint frowns. "You… wait, what?" Clint asks. "Maybe we need to start over."

James nods. "Probably," he says, holds out his right hand with a panty melting smile. "I'm James Barnes, nice to meetcha."

Clint looks at James, looks at his outstretched hand, looks back up at his face which seems to indicate that he's serious.

"What the fuck?" he asks aloud, then whispers because he knows better than to swear around the kids. "What the fuck?"

But James is still holding out his hand and Clint takes it in a firm grip, not too tight because even if he's an asshole, he's not that kind of asshole. The touch lingers, goes on until it's way beyond awkward before they let go.

"I know I don't have a concussion, but seriously? What are you doing here?" he asks, then holds up his hand. "Hold that thought. I'm pretty sure I need a lot of coffee for this."

James just watches, bemused expression on his face as Clint fills a huge mug that says 'I ♥ Hawkeye' on it with coffee and then adds a carefully measured amount of cream. He then fills a normal sized mug and hands that to James, indicating the cream and sugar before he takes a long sip.

Clint closes his eyes and savors the coffee, dark and rich with just the perfect amount of cream to smooth off any bitter edges. He hasn't opened his eyes when James remarks, "You really like coffee."

"Like you wouldn't believe," Clint answers, small smile on his lips and eyes still closed. He takes another sip, then another. The warmth and the routine begin to chip at the stone in his gut, eases his anxiety, just enough that he can finally blink his eyes open.

"Hey," James says soft and fond, his eyes sparkling. "So I think I've, or maybe we've, been had."

"We have?"

"TADASHI informed me that you've gone off the grid and he and Wanda feared foul play."

"Foul play?" Clint has to purse his lips to keep from laughing. He's pretty sure James is serious though so he holds it in.

He leans back, waves at Clint with his free hand. "Go on, get it out of your system."

"What?" Clint asks, all innocence and naiveté.

"Laugh it up. You want to, so go ahead."

"I'm not--" he says, trying to play it straight, but he just can't. "An AI and Wanda got one over on The Winter Soldier?" He chuckles. "I so have to tell Sam." He reaches for his phone, tugs it out of his pocket.

"Nope! I will murder you in your sleep!" James swears, lunging for the phone. Clint lifts his arms out of reach forgetting his giant mug of coffee. Mug and phone go flying opposite directions and only super soldier reflexes save the mug from shattering, James catching it before it hits the floor. Clint's too late to reach his phone, but he dives for it anyway and slips on the spilled coffee. He ends up knocking into James and that sends the mug clattering to the floor, sloshing the last of the coffee out as it slips and slides on the wooden floor.

"Aw, coffee, no." Clint says, ignoring the fact that he's flattened James and is practically laying on top of him, both of them drenched in coffee.

James begins to laugh and it's such a warm sound Clint joins in.

"You are a disaster," he says.

Clint shrugs. "Always have been."

James is staring up at him, gray eyes flicking from Clint's eyes to his mouth. "Fuck it," he swears under his breath and uses those amazing abdominals to lean up and kiss Clint.

"Papa? You okay?" Nate chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen.

Clint groans and James laughs as they separate, rolling to lie on their backs on the floor. Nate hops onto Clint, nearly gets him with his knee, but Clint deftly saves his balls. He's not fast enough with his ribs and Nate's elbows are sharp. "Ow! Watch it, buddy!"

He shifts Nate all the while laughing until he catches Lucky lapping at the spilled coffee. "Lucky! No!"

"Bad dog!" Nate scolds and Lucky sits back on his haunches, eyes wide and miserable.

"Nate, please take Lucky outside so I can clean up in here. The last thing we need is a wired pup at nearly bedtime."

"Sure, Papa," Nate says, clambering off Clint before clicking his tongue at Lucky who follows obediently, if a bit slowly as he looks longingly at the floor.

"Maybe we can try that again?" Clint asks, hopeful and far too eager.

"We're covered in coffee, Barton," James says, head cocked and smirk firmly in place.

"It's Clint, right? Sides, what difference is a little more coffee gonna make?"

James leans in close, his lips hovering just over Clint's. "You owe me pizza and a movie first. I don't put out on the first date." His voice is husky and low and shorts out Clint's brain with the very idea.

Clint's trying to rub two brain cells together to say something, but James' eyes gleam and he leans in the rest of the way, presses their lips together. It's sweet and chaste but he's pulling back too soon and Clint is not having that. He reaches up, wraps an arm around James' neck and tugs on a lock of hair to reel him back in. "Oh, no you don't. Been imagining this for too long now."

He seals their lips together, licks at the seam of James' lips, demands more. James gives in with a soft moan and presses down on Clint. He should be uncomfortable on the hard floor, wary of being trapped, but James' stubble rubs Clint's cheek just right, his hair brushes against Clint's ears and it's perfect.

"You owe me a new tractor!"

Clint pulls back, shocked. There, standing in the door of the kitchen are Laura and Barney. She's gleeful, smile delighted while Barney's grumbling from her side.

"You couldn't have waited?" Barney asks. "He just got here!"

"You two had something to do with James being here?" he asks, trying to sound not quite as angry as he feels as he pulls himself together. He has whiplash from the abrupt shift in emotions, nearly dizzy from it as they stand; James at his side.

"Of course we did! Us and Simone and practically the whole of the Avengers!" Clint's anger is like a spark to Barney's kindling.

"Stop it, you two!" Laura orders, stepping gingerly into the kitchen. She stands with her hand over her mouth looking at the damage. "I had a lovely dinner, we split an entire bottle of wine and I am in no mood for your fussing." She sighs. "I'm also not cleaning this up." She always could shut them both down, guilt them into silence at the least.

"I'm sorry," James says sheepish and apologetic. "I can leave--"

"No!" All three adults echo at once.

Clint turns to him, ignores his meddling family. "I'd like it if we could talk? Maybe?" His voice is surprisingly steady. "Then we can marathon 'Back to the Future'? If you want?" He hesitates, despite what James had outright said.

"I'd like that, but I am gonna need to change."

Laura steps in before Clint can reply. "I'll show you where the guest room is." She's leading James away and Clint rounds on his brother. "By the way, I'm Laura." Her voice trails off as they leave.

"What.The.Hell?" Clint growls, anger ramping back up to one hundred.

Barney lifts his chin, anger cooling as fast as it lit. "Not gonna apologize. You--" and he points at Clint-- "Are an idiot. Wouldn't believe he wanted to see you again. Hell, you told me as much."

"I--," Clint stammers. "It's still none of your business, Barn!"

Barney wraps an arm about Clint and tugs him in. "Course it is. You're my little brother. Want you to be happy and you sure as hell weren't gonna do it yourself." He punctuates the end of his words with an attempt at a noogie, but Clint squirms his way out of the hold, elbow connecting squarely with his ribs.

"Ass," Barney grunts out.

"Dick," Clint replies.

"Children!" Laura scolds, silencing them both from the doorway. "Yes, your friends and family 'conspired' against you, Clint. Deal with it," she says, shaking her head at him. "Now, Barney and I are going to get Nate to bed and then go to bed ourselves and see about making a sibling for him."

Clint groans and slaps his palm over his face. "I did not need to know that."

"If you're smart, you'll do the same," Laura continues snickering. She is an evil, evil woman that he loves unconditionally.

Looking through his fingers, he sees them hug, both smiling sickenly sweet at each other. "You do know that's not how it works, right?"

She cackles. "Probably. Still got to be as much fun trying though."

Clint groans as they walk away. He glances around the kitchen and drags out the mop.

After a prolonged bedtime ritual that Clint knows Nate is dragging out because he's curious about James, Laura finally insists that enough is enough. Clint drops a kiss on the boy's head before Barney scoops him up one last time, Lucky following them up the stairs.

When Clint turns, James is staring, his face wistful.

"Something wrong?"

James focuses on Clint. "That's nice to see."

There's longing in his voice and Clint doesn't know James all that well, but Coulson'd been a fan and thus Clint knew a lot about who Bucky Barnes was. He takes a chance and asks, "You miss your sisters?"

James stiffens. "I do. Missed their whole lives. Outlived their kids, too."

Clint sees his jaw clench and wants to kick himself. "Um, want to go shoot at things?"

"What?" James asks, confusion in every line on his face. "Did you say shoot at things?"

Clint shrugs, looks away. "Sure. I've got a range out in the back field." His answer is as casual as he can make it, but really he could use an hour or three of shooting. He doesn't know what James does to get his mind off emotional shit. He probably has better coping strategies than shooting at targets, but maybe not.

"Is it just for a bow because I've never used one?" James asks and he sounds interested.

"Um, no?"

"You're not sure?"

"No! Um, yes." Clint takes a breath. "I'm sure and it's not just for my bow. I have a few pistols and a rifle in the gun safe in the basement. Not sure how much ammo I have, though."

"Oh, I've got what I need in the trunk of the car," James says and now he's smiling, eyes bright.

"Great!" Clint says and he wants to kiss that smile, taste it, but James turns away, heads toward the front door before he can lean in. "Meet me around back by the barn!" he calls after James.

He pumps a fist in the air and gives his hips a shimmy. He is so going to show James that he can shoot better than he did in the circus.

Clint changes as fast as lightning. The aroma of coffee lingers on his skin, but it's a good smell so he doesn't care. He drags on a hoodie, grabs his gear and rushes to the barn where James is already waiting.

"Is that the tractor your sister said needs to be replaced?"

"Yeah, it was a piece of junk when Barney bought it but he never let her get rid of it and after we all thought he was dead, she wouldn't."

James blinks. "Your brother was dead? Rewind that a bit?"

Clint tilts his head toward the barn and the four wheeler parked in it. "Get on. I'll tell you all about it on the way."

The 'back field' is at the farthest fence line of their 250 acres. It backs up to a creek with power lines running along it. Clint tapped into the lines, legally, even used an electrician and got all the right permits, so that he could light up the area. It covers ten acres, has an obstacle course within the trees, traps embedded along the way, but it also has long lanes ending with targets in front of a large berm. He loves it and comes here often, usually late at night when he can't sleep and when he won't be disappointing anyone by 'hiding'. It's how he keeps sane.

He explains all of it as he's showing James around and James nods approvingly before reaching for his bag. "I didn't expect an outdoor range," he says, voice hesitant.

"Um, yeah, my bow's not a problem," Clint says, the tip of his ears going a bit red. He puts a hand to the back of his neck. "I kinda forgot," he continues. "I only use live rounds during daylight hours."

Well, shit. This isn't going how he'd hoped.

"I don't know squat about shooting with a stick and a string, but I might have something that'll do," James says, then opens his bag and pulls out an honest to god WWII-era sniper rifle.

"Is that--?" Clint starts, puts his hands back down to stop reaching for it.

"Yeah," James nods, eyes and hands stroking the gun. And Clint's having trouble processing that James is holding an original Thompson M1928A1 rifle.

"Ho-ly shit!"

James grins, holds it out to Clint. "Wanna give her a try? She pulls to the left a hair, but she's got the sweetest action," he says, voice almost a caress. Clint really wants him to talk like that about Clint and maybe touch Clint the way he's touching the gun.

Clint holds up his hands. "I don't want to break it. Her."

James snorts. "This baby survived me and the Howlies. You won't hurt her."

Clint bites his lips and nods, then his shoulders droop. "No one lives this far out, but the sound from that baby's gonna carry." He is so damned tempted to try it anyway.

James hands Clint the rifle. "Hold her for me?"

Clint nods a bit dumbly, but does as asked, holding the rifle carefully as James digs in his bag. He pulls out a black tube and a receiver and then motions for Clint to hand him back the rifle. Clint just stares, mouth agape, as James disassembles the Thompson and then rebuilds her with a silencer.

"There, that should take care of the noise," he says. He glances around. "Not like you have neighbors in the immediate vicinity, right?"

Clint just shakes his head. He's trying to find words, but James surprises him at every turn. "Did Hydra make that?" he asks.

"This? Hell no." He pats the lengthened barrel. "I did it," he says, chest puffing out slightly. "Took some work and visiting some shady as fuck web sites, but it works like a dream."

"Wow." Clint would like to be more articulate, but he's impressed as hell and doesn't know what to say.

James just grins at him, eyes sparkling. "How do you want to do this?" he asks and Clint hops into action.

They set up on one of the longest range lanes, the widely spaced lights leaving the target a bright spot in the distance. Clint hands James a set of earphones and offers safety glasses before he puts a set on himself, turning off his aids first. James stands close, shows Clint all the tricks he knows with the rifle and then he cocks his head and mouths, "Go on."

Clint's body wants to follow James, lean into his warmth, but he's looking at Clint expectantly and Clint doesn't want to embarrass himself, so he settles, finds that place deep inside and centers himself, then aims and fires. James nods approvingly and Clint fires again and again. It's exhilarating and gratifying. It's not even Clint's weapon and yet James is impressed.

They trade and James gives Clint a grin that's a bit smug. Clint wants to kiss it off him. And then he does.

James looks a bit dazed when they part before his eyes narrow. "Were you trying to distract me?" he asks, lips carefully shaping the words.

Clint shrugs and points down the lane. "Let's see if it worked."

James snorts out a laugh, his smile lighting up Clint's insides as he turns. He fires almost before he's all the way around. And he keeps firing, taking no breaks to realign or re-aim. Clint's more than a little impressed and a lot turned on. Hot damn, the guy can shoot.

They take off the earphones, leave them hanging around their necks as they walk side by side down the lane to see who "won". Clint's pretty sure it was James without counting, but he's enjoying the companionship, the challenge, and just being beside James.

James taps his shoulder and points at his ear when they get to the target.

"Right!" Clint turns on his aids and looks. He knows where his shots went, can see the two head shots he took along with the rest of the center mass body shots. He's proud of that. But James, well, every last one of his shots went dead center straight for the heart.

Clint's caught staring for a minute, then bursts out, "So when you shot Nat you made sure you weren't going to kill her, didn't you?"

Clint slaps a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. "Forget I asked that."

James shrugs, looks away. "I remember everything," he says, voice low and raw, sounding a bit like he'd been gargling gravel. "But I don't always remember why. Usually I had no motivation besides 'orders'."

Clint ducks his head, searches for something to say where he won't chomp down on his foot.

"I have no idea if I recognized her, but I did get disciplined for missing."

Clint can't bear it any longer, not the way James won't meet his eyes, not the way he's drawing in on himself. He steps up to James and opens his arms. "Can I please give you a hug?"

The nod James gives him is short and sharp, barely there, but Clint sees everything. He pulls James in tight against him, wraps him up and rests his cheek against James'. James is stiff as a board at first, arms still at his side, but Clint hangs on, gives him time and gradually he relaxes, the tension in his body easing from brick and mortar to cardboard. He finally wraps his arms around Clint, reciprocating.

"Thanks, babe," Clint murmurs, lets himself enjoy holding James. He honestly can't remember the last time he held someone that wasn't the kids. Probably Natasha.

James snorts, but doesn't let go. "Babe?"

Clint blushes but doesn't back down. "Yeah. I like pet names, live with it."

"I can do pet names, sweetheart." He says it slow and drawn out, lascivious and hinting at so much more. Clint nearly swallows his tongue. Oh, James plays dirty.

Then he's turning, his mouth brushing the shell of Clint's ear. "You know what I think, doll?" he asks, voice a breathy whisper that sends a shiver down Clint's spine. "I think you are nothing but talk about being the best goddamned sniper in the world cause I've already wiped the ground with ya'."

Clint shoves him back, cursing. And James is grinning wide as the prairie.

Clint points his finger at James. "Challenge accepted. No handicaps granted this time."

James cocks his head at Clint. "So how we doing this so that it's fair?"

"Easy. Me on the bow against your rifle."

"You do realize that's not a fair test?"

"Why not?"

"You can't mean to shoot as far with a bow as I do with this rifle?" He sounds almost disparaging.

Clint crosses his arms over his chest. No one doubts his skill with the bow. "I will outshoot you. Further, faster, better."

James shrugs. "Fine, what do I get when you lose, sugar?"

Clint shivers again. Those stupid names are going to be the death of him. He steps into James' space, gets right into his face. "How about this? You win, I blow you. I win, you blow me?"

James swallows, eyes darkening as he licks his lips. "Yeah," he croaks, then clears his throat. "Yeah, we, uh, I can do that."

"Okay, champ, let's mark off a longer range," Clint says. "Give us both a challenge."

It takes more time than Clint wants, but they get two long range lanes set up side by side.

"How are we doing this? Round robin? Or what?" James asks.

"Nope," Clint replies as he checks his quiver and arrows. He's using the quiver at his waist for fast draw, hoping it makes the difference. "We have the same number of shots and we'll start at the same time. Winner is the fastest and most accurate."

James nods down the lane. "And you're sure you can hit that target?"

"Positive."

"Well then, let's get this show on the road," he says, confidence bordering on cockiness. "Pretty sure I haven't had a blow job since the 40s." He gives Clint that sly smirk, then bites his lip all the while looking a bit shy like he overstepped. Clint wants to throw him down and dirty him up.

Clint blinks and swallows. "Dammit!" he mutters under his breath, but shakes it off. "Ready?" he asks James.

"Yep," he answers.

Clint flicks off his aids, covers his ears and draws his bow. James lines up the shot, both of them waiting for the timer on their watches to go off.

It helps that Clint can't hear a damned thing so the moment his wrist vibrates, he looses the first volley. Dead center. Then he grabs two arrows, lines up his shot and they both hit the target, one on either side of the other. It continues like this, draw, nock, release, again and again until he's out of arrows; his eyes never leaving his target. The timer's still going, so he overestimated how long it was going to take, but when he drops his arms and turns, James is just standing there watching him.

Clint tugs off the earphones, flips on his aids and gapes at James. "No way you finished that much ahead of me!" He glances down the lane, but it's too far to make out the detail on James' target.

James carefully sets his rifle down on the ground and murder struts over to Clint. "Did I really lose that badly?" Clint asks, voice barely more than a squeak as James nears.

"I couldn't do it," he says, voice dropping.

"Whah?" Clint stutters out, eyes drawn up from James' thighs when James touches his cheek. He leans into his palm and sighs, eyes closing.

"Sweetheart, I couldn't take my eyes off of you," he says and Clint can't quite process what he's saying. "You are a fucking work of art, kinetic energy wrapped up in one of the most gorgeous men I've ever seen."

"Me?" Clint gasps out, his eyes flying open.

"Of course you, doll," James says. "Do I get to blow you here and now? Or was that just bluster?"

"Um."

Clint's blood is thundering in his ears and he must have fallen and hit his head at some point tonight. This has to all be a dream.

"It's all real," James says, somehow reading Clint's mind. "I'm real. Not a dream, not a hallucination. And I've never wanted someone quite as much as I want you right now."

"Oh shit," Clint breaths out. "I want that too. Fuck me. I want that. All of it," he says, "But--"

"But?"

James seems to be hanging on Clint's every word and that's almost too much, too enticing. Hell, everything about him is too damned attractive for Clint to think when he's touching Clint.

Clint steadies himself with a long breath. "Yeah, I do want all of that. You're the sexiest man alive and I still don't believe this is real." James is about to interrupt and Clint shushes him with a quick peck on the lips. "Okay, I believe it, but I'm not sure I deserve it." He pauses. "You."

James snorts. "You do realize what I've done?" His voice is dry, but there's a hint of insecurity underneath the disbelief.

"I know," Clint waves that off. "It's just." He sighs. "I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"Talking," Clint huffs. "I care about you," he continues. "And I sure as hell don't want your first blow job to be here on the ground."

James grins. "That's sweet, doll, and I'm not gonna argue." He pauses. "Wait. Not sure I'm comfortable having it be in your house, though."

"Why not?"

"Um, Nate? Lucky? Your sister?"

Clint barks out a laugh. "You don't know Laura very well! She's the least of your worries!"

He reels James back in. "But seriously. I'd like a chance to woo you."

"Shouldn't I be saying that to you, sweetheart?"

And then he leans in for a kiss, this one isn't chaste or short. James kisses with an intensity that makes Clint's head spin, little nips at his tongue, along his lips, then he draws Clint in, wraps him up tight. Clint just hangs on for dear life as his knees go weak.

"Fuck!" Clint swears. "Wooing's over-rated!"

James chuckles. "How about this then?"

Clint nods, agrees without hearing the idea.

"We try that pizza and movie date, then I take you out, then that'd be three dates…"

Clint narrows his eyes. "That's only two."

"I think this night counts as our first date, don't you?"

"Yeah, okay," Clint agrees. "Want to clean up here and sit in the hayloft in the barn and make out?"

"Thought you'd never ask," James says, moving swiftly to clean up.

The next few days pass in a dream-like haze. Clint's walking on air with James at his side; his presence is the only thing keeping Clint from drifting off into the atmosphere.

Lila and Cooper are fascinated by James' arm and Coop, especially, pesters him non-stop with questions about Captain America and he doesn't mean Rogers. If Clint didn't know better, he'd swear Cooper has a crush, but he's not saying anything. He remembers being that young and awkward and the littlest thing can be so humiliating.

Laura's forever smirking at him over James' head or behind his back. Clint just rolls his eyes before he finally corners her while doing the dishes after dinner. "Cool it or you're going to scare him off!" he hisses, glancing toward the den.

She rolls her eyes at him, then pats his arm. "If you haven't already done that, there's no way I will."

"But--"

"You should go rescue James before Coop starts asking more intrusive questions about Captain America."

"But, the dishes?"

"I'll finish up," she says and hip checks him aside. "Oh, and Clint, Simone wants you to come home, something about the boiler?"

"What?" he stops, turns back. "Why'd she call you?"

Laura gives him a shrug and a smile.

Clint feels a flash of anger at her meddling, then it fizzles as fast as it had flared. Still, he strides into the den, interrupting the questioning by dragging James outside.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" James asks, stopping Clint by the barn. He presses in close, backs Clint up against the wall. "You seem… off. Not exactly pissed, but something."

"I think Laura wants us… me… us out of here."

"Did she tell you that?"

Clint shakes his head.

"Then what gives you that idea?"

"Simone called her instead of me. Something needs repairing back at the apartment."

"Well, that doesn't sound unlikely. It is an old building. Things go wrong."

"I know. But--"

"What? Seems like something else's bothering you."

"You're scarily observant, you know that?"

"Probably?" he says. "Sorry?"

Clint wraps his hands around James' hips and tugs him closer. "Don't apologize for paying attention to me. I love it."

"And you still haven't answered the question," James says, not fooled in the least. "What's bothering you?"

It's best to just rip the bandage off, so Clint blurts it all out in one breath then ducks his head to avoid seeing James' reaction. "Will you still want to date if we go back to New York?"

"Hey, doll, look at me," James cajoles.

It works. Clint can deny him nothing.

"I'm not ashamed of you. I just thought you'd decided that this was home. Where you wanted to stay."

"Oh. No. I'm, I love it here. But this is their place." He tries to explain. "After, well, after we 'won', I didn't know how to be here, not with Barn, so I left." He sighs softly, then smiles up at James. "But somewhere along the way, someone helped me find my way back to me."

"Me?" James mouths at him and Clint nods.

"Yeah. And now, well I came here at first because I thought you blew me off."

James protests. "I threw up three more times and I needed a shower! Do you know how gross my mouth was?" He sticks his tongue out and points at it. "I wasn't gonna kiss you after that!"

"Wait? You wanted to kiss me then?"

"You idiot. I wanted to kiss you after your show!"

"Huh," Clint muses. "I had no idea."

"And I'm the one with memory issues?"

"Um, okay, do you want to go back to Bed-Stuy with me?"

"Are you asking me to sleep with you?" James asks. "Just so we're clear."

"I'd kind of like to see you in my bed and wake up with you."

"And not have to worry about kids who do not know how to knock?"

"Yeah," Clint breathes out, smile widening.

"Sounds perfect," James says, leaning in closer. "Thought you'd never ask."