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Bobbi knocked on the apartment door, careful to avoid the…humble wreath that adorned it. Cap had graciously presented it to Clint one December to hang at the newly-minted West Coast Avengers compound and Clint had looked ecstatic, as if Steve’s simple gift was a winning lottery ticket, a long-lost family heirloom. It hadn’t gone unscathed after its inaugurative holiday season, seeing a few battles at the headquarters, moves, burning down of mansions and shuffling through storage units, but it now hung proudly in semi-tatters on a nail Clint hammered onto his door.
Bobbi heard the door creak, and she didn’t have to be a spy to recognize it as the sound of someone’s weight leaning against it, probably looking through the peephole. The knob turned and the door pulled inward, revealing a face half-mottled in purple, as if to complement the interior.
“Gracin’ me with your presence again?”
“Hi there, sport. I brought you something.” Bobbi held up the giftwrapped box, complete with bow, in her hands.
Clint looked at the box quizzically, his hair a little haphazard to match (Bobbi hoped she hadn’t woken him up), then opened the door wide and gestured for Bobbi to enter. “C’mon in, Bobbi.”
“Hey, lemme take your jacket,” he remembered once Bobbi had already walked well across the room. Once he wrangled the coat off each arm, he briefly considered draping it over a kitchen chair before throwing it at the coat rack by the front door. A perfect landing, of course.
Clint grabbed a chocolate coin from the pile Kate had dumped onto his counter after Billy’s Hanukkah bash and held it out to Bobbi.
“Hors d'oeuvre?”
“My, my, such a gracious host.”
“Well with guests like these,” Clint said, eyes closed, eyebrows raised, as he flourished his hands in an exaggerated motion directed at Bobbi.
Bobbi smiled and studied Clint’s appearance. His wounds were coming along as well as could be expected, much to her relief. Sleep would help him heal and restore his strength (something she no longer needed as much help with due to the Infinity Formula), which is why she didn’t want to disturb it. It was 9 p.m., the TV was on, the curtains were wide open to drape the continuing snowfall outside, his hearing aids were in, and Clint was wearing jeans; but that didn’t necessarily mean “awake” with him.
She had been periodically visiting him ever since she caught on to his whole…situation with the Hood. The (new) Ronin fiasco. The first visit had been rough. It was right after…right after. He was still in his costume, his old (new-old?) costume, the one with the mask and breechcloth (not a skirt, “Bobbi, you’ll know one when you see one. My legs would look astoundin'.”). She had to admit, she missed the look. That was the Clint she fell in love with, after all, H on his head and all. It had personality.
What she didn’t miss was the sight she’d seen it in. Clint was sprawled on his couch, covered in blood, cuts and bruises and glass embedded all over, parts of the costume in shreds like its wearer.
That had been a few weeks ago. He looked much better now, though still a little beaten, a bit haggard. But not too out of place. Color (other than purples and greens) had returned to his face, a nice tan hue spreading from what she knew was a day’s work shoveling snow outside the apartment and around the block.
They sat down next to each other on the couch, Clint draping an arm over the back. Bobbi placed the gift on his lap.
“Hey, I got ya one too,” Clint insisted. “It’s, uh, stuck in shipping.”
Bobbi hummed. “It’s fine.” Even if he did, it’s not like this was scheduled; she just dropped by. Again. “Go ahead and open yours.”
“Man, feel like I should go an’ find my Santa hat first.”
“No need,” Bobbi assured.
He placed the present on the coffee table and inhaled deeply, expectant. On his exhale, Clint yanked the end of the bow to undo the knot in one swift motion and ripped the snowflake-patterned giftwrap with all the grace of a dog digging up a flowerbed. Once he opened the box underneath, he gingerly lifted the sheet of tissue paper covering its contents.
“Whoa.”
Inside was a felt hat—a Stetson, its color somewhere in between cream and tan, with a dark brown band.
Clint’s teeth flashed into a wide smile, just shy of goofy, Bobbi noted. He palmed the top of the Stetson with one hand, stood up, bowed his head, and flipped the hat on with a “fwoosh.”
“…Did you make the noise?”
“Hey, I’m still a performer.” Clint straightened his back and tilted up his head like he was in the center of the circus ring.
Bobbi took in Clint’s appearance, cowboy hat atop his head (thankfully well-fitting), swagger in his pose, and chuckled.
“Our very own Raylan Givens.”
The reference came to her instantly, having seen episodes of Justified with Clint and the others before.
Bobbi then realized what kind of comparison she had just made and laughed at the thought. Disregarding the whole “gunslinger” thing, Clint might very well be the opposite of the show’s whole premise. Raylan: killing in instances where it seems justified; Clint: always offering justifications for why Avengers shouldn’t kill. “Avengers don’t kill” was such a mantra of his that she, Bucky, and Natasha once joked about pooling together and getting the slogan slapped on some T-shirts. Sam had overheard, and wasn’t as amused. Though it was a harsh reality of espionage for the three of them, Sam was of a similar mindset as Clint: as an Avenger, you shouldn’t kill when there’s a choice. Or, as Clint perceived it, ever.
Until…until.
When he did it, she was speechless. She wanted to ask him the question he would always ask her, after he apologized, after he finally understood.
Obviously, there was no need to ask. But there hadn’t been time to anyway. He’d been whisked away just as quickly as it happened. Still, she felt compelled to ask, as if it was an illusion, a cosmic misunderstanding. She would never have expected this—from another costume, from herself, from anyone else, sure—but not from Clint. Not after everything…not after what they gave up.
He told the public why, he told his friends, in the courtroom. But there would always be something more to it, Bobbi knew there would be, something he didn’t let on. Something he kept inside even during the painful radio silence from Cap. When he returned from his cross-country crusade with Red Wolf, she went to his apartment, but didn’t ask the question, didn’t say anything. She just looked into Clint’s eyes and he crumpled up, put his head in his hands, sobbed in her arms.
They had split up (again) precisely because Clint didn’t want to follow that path, because that path was still Bobbi’s. She would have to do what she had to, and Clint wouldn’t be able to stop it, shouldn’t. But he might do it too, for her. They both knew it. But Bobbi didn’t want him to. Clint was different. Something in his being would change. Something would break. And she could see him starting to break, a crack in his essence.
He was so broken up about it that she didn’t even think he could take another step down that path, didn’t expect anything like this to happen again, at least not anytime soon. And then…the Hood.
Bobbi remembered that first visit, Clint beaten, trembling slightly from pain (which kind?) on the couch. She had opened the door with her spare key, called out to him because the lights were off, the daylight dim, then spotted him, and took slow, measured steps toward the couch. He saw her shadow flicker across the wall and sat up, carefully, so that they could be face to face.
She lightly stroked Clint’s left cheekbone, where a deep bruise was blossoming.
“Did you-”
“No,” Clint interjected as he quickly turned his gaze downward.
It was strange, being on the other side of the question. It was almost how he would ask it, once he accepted her “methods,” accepted her for who she was, her espionage, and how she went about this way of life. Whenever she’d come back from a mission Clint knew about, anything involving a person who was a major threat, someone who would put her or others at risk, he would ask the question.
“Didja? Didja?” He’d look at her with his blue eyes, shining with concern but almost...pleading. Not judging, not anymore. Like he was a priest desperate for her soul to be saved, her pestering pastor always praying for her salvation.
Neither of them were religious, of course. Bobbi’s mother had expressed a distaste of services and fervently encouraged her scientific studies, leading Bobbi to suspect the lack of religion in her household was purposeful.
Clint had spent time in a Catholic orphanage, but had told her how foreign the rituals were, how he had been unsure of what parts of them meant. “Thou shalt not get in his fucking way” was their only commandment before showing up at St. Ignatius, Barney had said. The place wasn’t doubling as a school, Clint had explained, so they really only said grace at mealtimes and were occasionally told to recite Hail Marys when being disciplined. He never did learn all the words (though mischievous Barney had it down pat), as the nuns often found it quicker to corral the kids with a swat of a ruler. That was the ritual that he expected to be most familiar, to know intimately, but had most confused him.
The swats were never very hard, by his standards, at least. The first time, he thought, “Well, this nun’s pretty old, she probably just doesn’t have the strength anymore.” The second time, he thought, “Well, Sister Grace was yawning earlier, maybe she was just too tired to put in the effort.” By the third time, he wondered, “Do they not know how to do it right?” It was never hard enough. He kept waiting for it to be. Eventually, he realized, though it stung, the nuns weren’t trying to hurt—not the way his father was—to inflict enough pain to send not a just a message but a demand. He had told Bobbi he found it so strange that nuns weren’t trying to strike the fear of God into him the way his father did. She had kissed his knuckles in response.
Although, he’d chimed in, one thing he’d always found funny was how the sign of the cross didn’t end up being how you would sign it in sign language.
Everything was its own brand of complicated.
Strangely enough, she was the one who had a funeral, despite not actually being dead, while Clint had always stipulated on his Avengers forms that in the event that he died (and he did), he never have a memorial or service (and he didn’t). Complications seemed to always follow them, even if they tried avoiding some.
Still. Giving each other presents was all in good fun. It’s nice, having little celebrations, especially in their line of work.
Clint kept taking the hat off with a one-handed flip and putting it back on, getting at ease with the motion, practicing the flourish. “Raylan was divorced too.”
“Well, we’ve all got role models.”
“An’ if I remember correctly, they crawled back into bed together…”
“Real subtle. Did you also happen to dig coal with anyone when you were nineteen?”
“Well, I joined up with the Avengers,” Clint beamed.
Bobbi raised an eyebrow. “Oh, such a similar career move.”
Clint gave a hearty laugh. “Y’know, I might’a been twenty. But I know a certain Agent 19…”
Bobbi smirked. “Oh? I’ve heard good things. Did she leave a good impression?”
Clint bent his upper body down, putting an elbow on top of the couch, and leaned in towards Bobbi. “I sure was impressed.”
Bobbi’s heart skipped a beat, and she tilted Clint’s hat downward to break his half-lidded gaze for a moment, before flicking it back up enough so he could see her lips again.
“Was her gift impressive, at least?”
Clint smirked. “Now, how’d this Agent 19 know I cowboyed ‘round with the Avengers?”
Bobbi smiled and rolled her eyes. Sure, Clint had informed her of all the time he spent in the orphanage reading old Wild West pulp novels, but she didn’t even need that knowledge to conclude Clint was almost obsessed with cowboys, considering how often he had hung out with Two-Gun and watched westerns. The message was clear.
“You’re sure you didn’t want a purple T-shirt instead?”
“Ha ha,” Clint quipped sarcastically, standing up straight again. He flipped his hat into the air and caught it. “Wait, do you have one?”
Bobbi crossed her arms. “I simply can’t give away such potentially critical information for future birthdays.”
“Hmph!” Clint backed up a few steps, briefly glancing at his surroundings until he was standing in the living area’s clearing.
“Maybe you deal in secrets, but I still got tricks up my sleeve.” Clint bent his knees slightly, held onto his hat with one hand, and did a backflip. He cleared it, ever the acrobat, his hat firmly in place.
Bobbi didn’t remark on the wounds on his mid-section that Clint had inadvertently revealed in the split-second he was upside-down. She was glad to see that they had healed so well. “No offense, sport, but everyone’s seen this trick more than once by now.”
“That ain’t the whole trick,” Clint said, stepping forward. He held out the hand not holding his hat, producing a small, rectangular white box.
Bobbi reached for the box. “Ah, misdirection.”
“What can I say? Once a carny…”
The box was a sleek, thick cardboard. She grabbed hold of the lid and lifted it up.
“I didn’t get a chance to wrap it,” Clint offered as the contents were revealed.
Inside was a chic pair of sunglasses, with a dark amber tint. Bobbi pulled them out of the box and analyzed them from all angles. “Wow, you go west and I go Hollywood.”
“See, I can be fancy-shmancy too,” Clint said as he unwrapped a chocolate coin, “even if I don’t have those little sandwiches.”
Bobbi tried the sunglasses on contentedly. “Now, how did this Hawkeye know I have eyes?”
“Heh,” Clint retorted. “You sure you didn’t want a trench coat instead? Somethin’ with bell sleeves?”
“Ha ha.” Bobbi looked to her right and admired their reflections in the wall mirror behind Clint’s punching bag.
“You know, Clint, as good as that hat looks on you…”
“Not exactly somethin’ I can pull off in New York, is it?”
Bobbi chuckled at the finished thought. “No, probably not.”
Clint took off the hat with his right hand and held it over his heart. “Ain’t it tragic? This might call for another trip out West.”
Bobbi got onto the arm of the couch and took the hat from Clint’s hand. She pushed it down onto his head, then swept a strand of hair sticking out from under the brim to the side. “I’m sure they’d be so lucky for you to grace them with your new silhouette.”
Clint looked to the far corner of the apartment. “What say you, Lucky? ‘Nother vacation? Bobbi come with?”
Lucky, who had been sleeping peacefully in his dog bed for the entirety of the visit, craned his neck up from his blanket and tilted his head.
“I’m takin’ that as a yes.”