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You looked up from the stitching you were fixing on the sleeve of your costume as you heard the caravan door open and bang closed, listening to the quiet clatter of a quiver full of arrows being propped against the wall. You smiled as the tapestry you’d hung as a makeshift curtain was drawn aside, and Clint returned it tiredly. He groaned as he turned and collapsed on his back on the cramped little bed beside you, his hand reaching automatically for your thigh. He found it after a few blind attempts, squeezing the muscle affectionately.
“How was the rest of the show?”
He shrugged a shoulder non-committedly, planting his foot on the edge of the mattress, heedless of the dried mud clinging to the tread of his boot. “You missed the final bows.”
“Yeah, well, our esteemed Ringmaster can chew me out about it later,” you replied blithely, sticking your sewing needle in the pin cushion you had stuck on the wall and setting your costume aside. When he looked up at you with a raised brow, it was your turn to shrug. “No one’s going to miss acrobat number three during the curtain call.”
“I did.”
You smiled softly, covering his hand with your own. He turned his hand under yours, interlacing your fingers. In the low light of the lamp above you, shadows were cast over his face, and you could see the tiredness etched into his features. Even after three weeks in – God, you’d lost track of whatever town in whatever flyover state you were in this month – you were drawing big enough crowds for matinee performances and two shows a night on weekends, and it was wiping the troupe out.
“You’re sweet.” you told him affectionately, leaning down to kiss him. Clint arched his neck up to meet your lips with his own, reaching up to tuck hair behind your ear. He smiled almost dazedly as you pulled away, his hand sliding down your arm. “I ordered in if you’re hungry. I got a little tired of Murray’s cooking.”
“Smart. I think he was making that fish curry thing tonight,” he said, and you wrinkled your nose in distaste. Murray didn’t have the best track record with certain spices. Or fish. Mixing them together, he was liable to make you sick. Or blow the tastebuds off your tongue. Still, he cooked for the entire troupe, and as long as he stuck to American cuisine, you were fine, if not a little bored. “Pizza?”
“With the stuffed crust.”
Clint gave you a lazy, lopsided smile, his hand squeezing yours. He sat up with a groan, stretching out a kink in his neck as he slid back to lean against the wall. He pulled you into his side and you curled up against him, your knees resting on his thigh. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and you inhaled the faint scent of sweat and sawdust and popcorn from the vendors outside. You could still hear the cheers and laughter of the lingering crowds by the big top, no doubt milking every penny’s worth out of their admission price among the performers that hadn’t yet managed to escape the tent. “You’re the best.”
“Y’know, I had my suspicions about that,” you replied jokingly, leaning your head against his shoulder. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing lulled you into relaxation, your own exhaustion from today’s shows creeping back in.
Clint retook your hand, drawing it into his lap. His thumb traced soothing circles into the back of it, his eyes closing as he rested his head against the wall. He sighed heavily, and you felt a crease form between your brows.
“You okay?”
He nodded, opening his eyes and looking down at you with a reassuring smile. “Tired, is all. It’s been a hell of a long day.”
You fell silent for a moment, contemplating your next words. It was a thought that had been plaguing your mind for almost two months now, but you’d been struggling to find a voice for it. And now… crossing that threshold was more necessary, a precipice you needed to let yourself fall over now that new doors had been opened. “…We could run away, you know.”
“Don’t people usually do that so they can join the circus?” Clint joked. When you didn’t reply, he shifted, leaning back to meet your eye. His expression was a mix of light amusement and confusion, and his tone mirrored it. “…You’re serious, aren’t you?
You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to your hand in his lap. There were band-aids wrapped around two of his fingers, and another on his wrist. Despite the callouses brought on by years of archery and hard labor, his palm was soft and warm in yours. Reassuring. An anchor. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
There was small curve to his lips, the hint of a curious smile. “What brought this on?”
“I… I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been thinking, is all.” you said, tucking hair behind your ear. You straightened, shifting in your seat to turn and face him properly. Your legs bumped against his as you did, and he took hold of your knee, hooking your leg over his. You sat on his thigh, his hands coming to rest just above your knees. “Do you really never think about it?”
Clint met your eye for a long moment before shrugging non-committedly, his gaze on your lap. He smoothed his hands up your thighs at a glacial pace, mapping out the skin like he had a hundred times before. “I guess I’ve never really had to. I’ve got work, I’ve got a roof, four walls. I’ve got you. I haven’t really needed anything else.”
You smiled softly, warming at his comment despite yourself. Leaning forward, you caught him in a kiss. Clint’s hand found yours, holding it against your inner thigh. Breaking away slowly, you pressed your lips together as you collected yourself. He reached up with his other hand as you did, brushing his thumb over your cheek, wiping away remnants of your show make-up. You swallowed, pulling a business card out from under your pillow where you’d tucked it when you’d returned to the trailer and changed, holding it out to him. “I met a man today.”
Clint stiffened as he read the name on the card, his jaw tightening for a moment. “You spoke to Nick Fury?”
You nodded, your fingers twisting in the edge of your shirt. “He came to see me before the last performance today. Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Because I thought I’d taken care of it.”
“Clint, he offered you a job.” you pointed out, holding his gaze. You kept your tone light, but you studied his face for a reaction. “He wants you to work for the Strategic… well, for some fancy government agency with a really long name I can’t really remember. And you didn’t even mention it?”
“I don’t want it,” he told you, hand on your thigh again. “I told you, I have everything I need, right here.”
“But what about what you want?” you asked. “It’s okay to want more than what we have, Clint. It’s okay to not want to spend the rest of your life in a tiny trailer, cutting coupons so we can afford decent coffee.”
He sighed, turning and flopping back against the mattress, his eyes on the ceiling. He took hold of your hand, pulling you down on top of him. You rolled your eyes with a smiling, curling up into his side instead, your arm wrapped around his middle. Resting your chin against his chest, you studied his face for a long moment before speaking again, your voice soft.
“Clint?”
“I don’t want to lose what I’ve got if I take this,” he admitted quietly, his gaze still turned towards the ceiling above you. There were those cheap, glow-in-the-dark star stickers plastered all over it, made up into your own private constellations.
You’d found them in a dollar store shortly after the two of you had gotten your own caravan, and had spent the greater part of an afternoon sticking them up there. When Clint had questioned you, you’d told him it was so the two of you could always sleep under the stars. He hadn’t bothered pointing out that you could just drag the mattress out of the caravan and set it up outside. No, instead he’d just smiled, wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple.
You raised a brow, bemused. “You mean Murray’s bad cooking, stale popcorn for breakfast and getting grabbed by drunks and sticky-fingered kids after every show?”
His arm tightened around you for a second, and you straightened slightly as you realized his meaning. “Clint, you don’t think that if you take this job I’m just going to take off, do you? Or that we wouldn’t…” you bit the inside of your lip, brow furrowing. “You don’t seriously think I’m with you just because of the circus?”
Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, swallowing as he felt your fingers curl in the front of his shirt. When he opened them again, he tucked his arm behind his head, propping himself up to meet your eye. His tone turned to an attempt at humor, a small, self-deprecating smirk touching the edge of his lips. “Well, you can’t say you’ve got a wide range of options here, Y/N.”
You raised a brow. “Clint, if I wanted ‘options’ I could still be sharing a trailer with Delores and following her into town every night to find some random guy at some random bar.”
When he didn’t respond, you shifted onto your elbow to bring your face level with his, your other hand cupping his cheek and gently turning his gaze back to yours. “Hey. You’re not just a port in a storm here, Clint. You’re the best option everywhere. And I’m not going to give you up that easy.”
Clint smiled softly, bringing his lips up to meet yours. You kissed him; the warmth of his lips only rivaled by that of his palm as he threaded his fingers through your hair. The embrace lingered, gentle and sweet, until Clint pulled away with a quiet chuckle.
“You’re so dramatic.”
You scoffed, pushing at his chest. “Well, excuse me for communicating.”
A playful smirk curved his lips, his hand tightening on your waist as he teased you. “You sounded like a Lifetime movie.”
Rolling your eyes, you made to climb off the bed, lips pursed to hide your smile. “God. Next time, sooth your own ego, Barton…”
He caught hold of you and pulled you back on top of him, his lips capturing yours before you could come up with a protest. His fingers bunched in your hair, your knees on either side of his hips, his tongue sliding into your mouth. You squeaked against his lips as he rolled you over, your back meeting the sheets as his body covered yours.
He pulled away only when you found yourselves breathless, pressing soft, fleeting kisses to your lips, your chin, your cheek, before moving to meet your eye again. He ghosted his fingertips over the side of your face, raw affection burning in his eyes.
“I love you.”
You grinned, touching your fingertips to his lips. He pressed a kiss to them softly, eyes still holding your gaze. “I love you too, you idiot.”
Clint’s smile widened, and he brought his lips back down to your own.