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Clint angled his head till he was horizontal with the canvas and phantom-traced the edge of each paint stroke, humming to himself. “I think it’s a tree.” He said— and Sam laughed, leveling his phone and taking a picture of the five-by-five canvas.
“You know you've been saying that for the past three displays, right?"
“Cause they looked like trees, Sammie.”
"Uhuh." Sam stepped back a bit, looking for better lighting.
Clint tried to follow the general lighting of the open gallery to guide Sam and ended up back-turned to him. "Alright, what’d ‘you think they are?" He asked.
Sam looked at the scratches of yellow paint, back-dropped by a green canvas, again. "I don't know, planes?" He said. "I came for the nice photos and The Honey Well across the street."
"Well, then can we go to The Honey Well?" Clint lamented, spotting a plate-glass window overhead. “Hey, babe—” He called.
“Actually, they’re houses." Someone said. "But I was never good at those."
Clint turned to face the conversation.
A tall, squarish man who wore dreadlocks tussled into a ponytail and rounded faux glasses was smiling at Sam.
“Leon,” Sam murmured, and the man’s lips crinkled into his eyes. “Sam.” He said.
“Uh—” Clint began.
“I didn’t think I’d see you back in Harlem,” Leon said jauntily. Sam’s shoulders stiffened by a degree only Clint could notice, and he slipped his phone into his topcoat pocket— burying his hands there when Leon stretched his own out.
Leon aptly put his hands into his own pockets.
“I didn’t think you’d come by my art gallery,” He continued. “It’s a good surprise, though. The crowds were getting thin and I thought I’d have to call my first opening a failure. But then you: how’ve you been?”
Sam skirted his eyes to the ground and then back up at Leon. “I didn’t think it was yours.” He said in a shallow voice Clint strained to hear.
Leon shrugged. “Pseudonym, sorry. If I knew you were coming, that you’d be back at all, I woulda sent an invite. But it’s good. It’s good you’re back home.”
The ridge of Sam’s brow creased then slackened, and he opened his mouth then closed it. “Yeah.” He said eventually.
Clint didn't know what he was watching, exactly.
It was like someone filled in to play Sam all of a sudden, stumbling into view with the wrong stage direction and dialogue, interpreting Clint's boyfriend as unsure and fragile.
“How long are you here? A week?” Leon pushed.
“Dunno yet,” Sam said.
Leon laughed then, loud and detached. “Always hard to tell with you.” He chuckled, and Sam’s shoulders dropped enough that Leon could see it, too,— see it and perk up a little, widen his smile a modicum and stand straighter.
“But while you’re here, we should see Douglass. He works just down the road now, he’d love—”
“Actually,” Clint languidly put his arm over Sam’s shoulder. “We were stopping by Sarah’s place after this, so no can do. Maybe next time.”
Leon looked stunned.
“…sorry, you—?”
“Clint. You?”
Leon seemed relieved at the answer, an easy-going smile inching back on his face.
“Leon; Sam’s ex. Five years actually.” He said.
“Oh?” Clint pitched his voice.
He could tell Sam was watching him from his peripheral, and reassuringly pressed the buds of his fingers into his shoulder.
“I’m his husband. Haven’t heard of you.” He lied.
“Husband?” Leon mouthed, and Sam gawked at Clint with a deafening sort of incredulousness he hid in a poker face.
"But what do titles matter, right?" Clint continued.
Leon hitched a smile, less buoyant than before, and cleared his throat. “Oh, well that’s…congratulations, Sam.” He said.
“Thanks,” Sam said, directing himself at Clint who continued to press the buds of his fingers into his shoulder; keeping Sam’s taller frame close to his.
“I never thought I’d see you settling down, though, if I’m honest.” Leon began, bringing Sam’s attention back. “You know you always said that kind of thing wouldn’t work with you. With me. I just thought—"
“Yeah, well you—” Clint interjected, but Sam caught him before he could take a step toward Leon. “We should get going. Good seeing you, Leon.” Sam said.
“Yeah…you too,” Leon said, smile waning. “Tell Sarah I said ‘hi’ when you see her. And don’t disappear, Sam.”
“I won’t,” Sam said, facing Clint toward the exit and walking. When they were outside, the car in view, Sam slowed his gate enough to look at Clint head-on.
"Your husband?” “What the hell was that?” They asked in sync.
“You first,” Clint argued.
“No, cause I’m the guy who had to see his ex. You first.”
Clint groaned. “There was an old married couple I spotted on our way in; first thing that came to mind.”
“Right."
"Would you shut up, it's your turn."
"So, was I gonna be Mr. Barton, or were we keeping our last names?"
“Oh my god." Clint opened the passenger door; he knew when Sam wanted to avoid questions, so he didn't mind playing more aggravated than curious while they drove to Sarah's place.
It was 3:20 in the afternoon when they reached the house near Harlem Meer, porch lights on and 'The Temptations' playing from a small Bluetooth speaker on the open windowsill.
“Uncle Clint!”
AJ and Cass ran out into the lawn barefoot, Clint lifting them onto his shoulders. “Can we shoot this time? Please, please, please—” They begged.
Sarah came out after them, cardigan tight around her frame.
“You boys better finish your homework before you even think of shooting out in the yard. And Sam, you know I only have one tiny guest bedroom.” She said.
“I know, but I saw the old fishing dock and thought of my little sister.” Sam picked Sarah in a bear hug that made her laugh.
In the evening, they washed up for dinner and sat out on the lawn; cobb salad, braised rib, and mashed potato were passed around in conversation— Clint pointing to each scar on his arm, telling AJ and Cass a thrilling yet kid-friendly explanation while Sam pocked and prodded Sarah for every detail of her week.
Later, when AJ and Cass went to bed, Sarah would open a bottle of Port Wine and laugh with Sam and Clint until it hit midnight. All dinner Sam kept a mirth smile and joked— loud enough that Clint could tell he was faking it some.
Sam finished his glass and pulled Sarah in for a kiss on the forehead, “We’ll clean up, go to bed.” He said.
Sarah hummed, lightly stumbled out of her chair before kissing Sam's hairline, muttering 'I'm glad you're home' and walking to bed. She doesn't catch the frown that pinches the corner of Sam's mouth; the one that Clint notices.
"You okay?" Clint asked when they were in Sam's old bedroom, an olive-colored 10x20 that had been partly turned into a storage space; from the mattress, Clint could spot handwriting next to the overhead port window— 'I saw a Sparrow today! October 5th, 1985’.
Sam hit the bed and sighed.
“Yeah.” He lied, looking up at the worn ceiling where he used to have glow in the dark stars, now just scuffed silhouettes he knew Sarah tried to scratch off. “Yeah, just tired.”
Clint eased into the mattress, and quietly roped Sam’s fingers with his own.
“You don’t have to tell me about Leon, or any of that stuff, but I don’t think you’re okay Sammie.” He said.
Sam chuckled like it was an afterthought, and for a second Clint thought that was all he was getting.
“I haven’t been in this room so long, I forgot how the glare on the window used to keep me up. Or how the crickets in the lawn always skipped a note or two, and it used to bother me, so I’d hum when they went quiet. Or how many times Sarah used to sneak in cause she knew I was scared sleeping on my own.” Sam squeezed Clint’s knuckles. “Just feels like I missed everything when I didn’t have to.” He sniffed, “I guess he was right about me.”
“Leon?”
Sam chewed the inside of his cheek till he knew he could speak without crying. “He thought that when I left to be a superhero, I was looking for an out, again. Like when,” He took a shaky breath. “My folks died, and I became a pararescue.”
Clint circled the underside of Sam’s hand with his thumb. “From what?” He asked.
“I didn’t wanna marry him,” Sam said quietly. “He asked, I said ‘no’, then I moved to Manhattan. It sucks cause I really loved him…but not enough to quit what I wanted, and he never stopped blaming me for that.”
The bed shifted, and Clint looked down at Sam from where his arms propped him up, nose scrunched into a glower Sam hadn’t seen before.
“I’m sorry, and I know I said we didn’t have to talk about Leon and I know I said you didn’t have to tell me anything— but how could he think you leaving to help people was some out?!” He half-yelled. “You care about people, and you wouldn’t just use that as some flimsy excuse to run away from your feeling and he just thinks— God!”
“It’s fine, baby—"
“No, it’s bullshit, Sammie. And you should know that.” Clint softened his tone. “You’re none of the things Leon says you are.”
Sam knew he’d be cautioned by Sarah because he let Clint shout so much when AJ and Cass had school tomorrow, but he wanted to hear Clint mouth off; he wanted to hear Clint discipline every notion Leon had drilled into his head since he left Harlem. Instead, he cupped Clint’s face before he could talk more and kissed him, tear-stained and laughing with unexpected relief.
“Thank you,” He muttered, between kisses. “Thank you.” He nearly sobbed.