Chapter Text
(this is the way)
(the world ends)
It’s not with a bang, nor a whimper. The lights do not blink out, fluttering, as he careens himself off a building, nor does he fade into the familiar icy cocoon of void that had come with Loki and his staff. There is no explosion of debris, no bite of shrapnel digging itself into warm, yielding flesh. He knows the burn of poison, and this numbness creeping into his limbs is nothing at all like that. This is not what he planned for; this is not what he wanted.
The world ends on a Tuesday.
-- His world,
ends.
That’s arguably the worst part, really-- that the world, as a whole, keeps on turning around him, like nothing happened at all.
“Have you checked your mail?”
And that one’s the funny part: that he never checks his mail. Sure, there are probably rent checks in there, so outdated the bank would reject them immediately and send him a fine instead for even trying. But he doesn’t cash them, and none of his tenants mention it, so --. They go untouched, unrealized, uncashed. It’s not like he needs the money; he’s got months and months and months of income sitting in savings accounts that he barely ever touches.. Some portfolio officer in SHIELD had been insistent he set up a 401K, so that’s just ticking along too, collecting interest and kicking ass and taking names along the way.
He never checks his mail. On Mondays, on Fridays, when Kate comes over and puts her feet up onto his couch (Don’t make that face. It’s not that nice, Barton), she brings the mail in with her. Sometimes stacks of it, sometimes a couple letters. Clint sometimes stops to wonder if she throws most of it out on the shorter days, before making her way up the stairs, but then always decides he doesn’t care either way. If it was something important, Kate wouldn’t toss it. He trusts her like that, with that.
It has turned into something that might qualify as modern artwork on his kitchen counter: stacks and stacks and stacks of papers he hasn’t bothered to touch, magazines he hasn’t thought to read. It’s a surprise that his magazine spread makes him look fairly normal: Dog Fancy (he’s pretty sure that’s Kate’s doing), Cosmopolitan (he opened that once to find it’s all in Russian), Bon Appetit, and Better Homes and Gardens (the last two, failed attempts by Kate to better Clint as a homeowner and probably as a person, too). He gets others, too -- shoved in his box (by residents, he figures), usually with dog-eared pages to articles he might find interesting. On occasion, he’ll actually touch those, unable to turn away from personal notes from people who matter to him, even on the periphery. The magazine stack is tall -- so is the one full of newspapers, cross-stacked like Lincoln-Logs in the middle of everything. The pile full of personal letters isn’t bad, it’s probably actually manageable, but it’s all mostly checks, anyway. And Clint’s not so strapped for cash that he can’t get away with ignoring it.
So, when Coulson calls him for the first time in months --
(because coulson is alive. he’s alive.
a l i v e
he’s alive,
and clint can finally breathe again)
-- and asks, with a smile in his voice, if he’s checked his mail, the obvious answer is to laugh, and ask “What mail?” Like old times. Like nothing ever happened, like no one ever died, stopped breathing -- no brain function. So he does, grateful for the throwback, the distraction. For a wonderful, blissful moment, it’s like nothing ever happened. They can laugh and joke and nothing’s even changed, why would Clint have ever thought any differently?
He’s still laughing, when his hands find a beige (ivory, egg-shell, tan, linen?) envelope, tucked at the bottom of the stack of rent checks, addressed to one Mr. Clinton Francis Barton in unfamiliar handwriting. It’s -- it’s the shape. The size. The weight. He doesn’t need to open it to know what it is. He’s held enough of these envelopes in mission-briefings, ever forged, getting fake-fingerprints all over them, to know what it is. Without doubt.
He’s supposed to -- supposed to say something. And it feels like forever until he can, until he can get his vocal chords to warm up from the icy trap they’ve frozen into.
By now, the laughter has died from his throat and that moment of warmth feels miles and miles away. “Congratulations?” That’s what you’re supposed to say, right?
The conversation must turn at that point, shift into pleasantries or mundane talk about upcoming nuptials, but Clint doesn’t remember it minutes later. He can’t recall anything other than the buzz of static in his ear, the way his heart still can’t stop hammering in his chest. It was like his first free-fall as a rookie all over again, before he found the reassuring beat of Coulson’s voice in his ear to steady him. For the first time in his life, his handler’s (ex-handler, now) voice had done nothing to tether him, to ease the anxiety burning in his veins.
The static, ringing in his ears, doesn’t fade away. Instead, it climbs steadily upwards into a dull roar.
Later, when he’s shoved into forced wakefulness by the cold nose of a hungry (and worried) dog, he’s shocked (not shocked at all) to find that hours have passed, slipped through his fingers with the ease of a nocked arrow flying effortlessly from his bow. Hours, and he’d been sitting on the floor of his kitchen, torn envelope in hand, staring at the poor excuse for carpentry that are his kitchen cabinets. He should really think about replacing them. He gets splinters every time he goes for the waffle maker,
The dog, to his credit, doesn’t leave Clint alone for the rest of the evening, save for the two minutes it takes him to scarf down his dog food. Barton can’t even be upset about the general sort of emotional-perceptiveness (that’s what they do, Clint, that’s what animals are great for, Kate had told him) because while Lucky’s nosing at his hand every three seconds and shoving his face into Clint’s armpit, he’s too distracted to even think about the wedding. Or how stupidly broken up over it he is.
The next day, Wednesday --
even though the previous day felt like lifetimes ago
a g e s, actually,
(the world ended on a tuesday)
-- brings Kate with coffee and a selection of unpronounceable pastries, because Kate cannot leave tiny stores with even tinier baked goods alone. Kate, despite not being a house pet, has goddamn emotional-perceptiveness anyway, and immediately zeroes in on the circles under his eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched. He follows the path of her eyes, takes in her little hmm’s and oh’s, and just throws the invitation at her, preempting any sort of discussion.
The paper’s worn, crumpled from being clenched in his sweaty fist for too long -- but it’s unmistakable, and Clint knows that Kate knows what it is immediately when she lays eyes on it. But, to her credit, there’s no cooing or hugging or apologies made, just an, “Aw, Hawkeye. That sucks.” It’s perfect, or as close as anything can be right now, and he’s not sure why he ever thought she would be anything less.
Then it’s scones and coffee and handfuls of tiny gourmet donuts that cannot possibly be good for you with how much awesome they’re filled with, and Clint realizes it’s been a while since he’s eaten. Because Katie Kate’s great that way, always knowing what he needs. She even sticks around for Thai delivery.
“I can’t. That’s --”
“You can’t cut everything that reminds you of him out of your life, Barton.”
“I know, Katie, but --”
“No. You’ve known him too long. You wouldn’t be left with anything for you.”
It’s good Thai. It’s not the wonderful, mouth-watering food he ate from a cozy little place on the outskirts of Bangkok with Coulson on a warm and breezy night back in ‘03, but it’s solidly good. It’s not like Coulson ever went to this place with Clint, anyway. It’s not like Clint offered, either. So Coulson never stood him up and Clint never had the balls to make that gesture after Coulson came back from the dead. So, so. This is his place. And he and Kate eat their weight in spring rolls in an effort to reclaim it.
Kate’s got perfect aim, every time.
A couple days later, he comes home to two former Russian assassins, stretched out on his couch, so close to and wrapped around each other they look like they’re in knots, two parts of one whole. They’re both reading Cosmo and drinking tea. Clint doesn’t even own tea.
But he now understands the Cosmopolitans that keep coming every month, always in Russian. He’s not sure he ever thought to question it, because it’s not like he can’t read them himself, as he knows enough Russian to get by. It’s probably the terrible “sex tips” that deter him more than anything, even the cyrillic -- but then again, he hasn’t actually tried to read one in a long time, so. Maybe he was hugely missing out.
Turns out, “Did you know that pizza is one of 11 Seemingly Unhealthy Foods That Aren’t So Bad For You,” Natasha informs him with a smile, which of course, sparks the three of them ordering a hell of a lot of pizza with enough toppings to certainly negate any health benefits of the cheesy bread.
Lucky lucks out too, sneaking food from Barnes who seems more than happy to occasionally “drop” his last few bites of each piece of pie he goes through. “I see you there, buddy -- you’re a goddamn professional sniper, I know you don’t have butterfingers. Stop that, don’t make my dog fat.” The dog, however, decides he loves Barnes, no matter how many angry faces Clint makes in his direction, and worms his way into James’ lap for the rest of the night. Traitor, Clint mouths, as he runs a palm over Lucky’s head, but he feels warmer, overall.