Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve was in sensory overload. Sights, sounds, colors and textures all swirled around him like a kelidescope. Everything about the 21st century seemed brighter, bolder, spicier, louder. Even the temperature outside seemed warmer, balmier, as if nature was trying to insinuate herself into his very pores.
It was dizzying. Overwhelming. Mind blowing.

Once he accepted what happened, wrapped his head around it...how he had survived, that he really had in fact survived...he reveled in it.
----

He had been so cold for so long. And even though he couldn't actually remember anything about those long frozen years, couldn't remember what happened after the plane hit the ice, his body, his nerves, his cells remembered. Those years were now imprinted in his DNA. The cold, the darkness, the frozen silence were part of him now.

The worst of the nightmares weren't about Hydra scientists torturing Bucky, or about that train speeding away from the place his best friend and love had fallen (and these were horrible enough, leaving him sweating and screaming out in the night) No. The worst were about icy silence pressing all around him, entombing him alive.

He realized pretty quickly that he had to fight this cold deadness that threatened to consume him. That his eventual ally in this fight was completely unexpected only made Steve appreciate it all the more. Maybe he was getting used to the unexpected.

-----
Steve really didn't know Clint very well. They met under the terrible circumstances of Loki's mind control and attempted take over of the World. The murder of Phil Coulson, Clint's longtime handler and fiancé, while Hawkeye was under said control didn't help the two Avengers become what you might call friendly. They were polite. But they were both struggling with their own demons and losses.

Of course, Hawkeye was superlative as the eye in the sky for the team, and while he didn't have Cap's stamina, Steve had learned through sparring in the gym, that in a quick close quarters fight He had better watch out for Hawkeye. He was fast and sneaky. Good man in a tight spot. Steve was glad they were on the same side. But they weren't buds, bros, or mates. Just team members.

So while Steve didn't actually know enough about Clint to say for sure, he was taken aback to one afternoon find him sitting in a Renaissance era herb garden a sprig of rosemary in hand, breathing its spicy scent deeply, like it was the only thing keeping him from tears.
----

They had just completed a mission. A Hydra cell had been holding intellectually and super powerfully gifted children in the castle's dungeon and the Avengers had been called in to eradicate the cell and free the kids...in that order.

The mission's priority hadn't sat well with any of them, and their new SHIELD liaison didn't have Coulson's skill at managing the team. So it was probably inevitable that the mission went sideways. Tony and Natasha were both badly injured and two children were dead. Even Maria Hill's personal appearance and assurance that the handler had acted outside the scope of the briefing and would be severely reprimanded for endangering the children didn't begin to alleviate Steve's feeling of guilt and failure. He could keep the cold at bays do he started to panic.

Without a word, cutting Hill off mid sentence, he left the castle, putting distance and afternoon sunshine between him, cold stone walls and the death of innocents. He strode around the grounds for a while, trying to let his anger warm him. It wasn't working and he was getting frantic. He was almost hyperventilating when he stumbled through the garden gate and saw Clint.

The sight of him was jarring. Still in his tactical gear, dirty and sweaty, with the blood of one of the children soaking into his suit, he looked completely out of place in this calm place.

He looked up when Steve stumbled in. Their eyes locked and Steve froze, aware that he'd intruded. He made to back up, but Clint surprised him by waving him in and scooting over to make room on the stone bench. Steve went, something thawing just a bit at the idea of a moment of human companionship.

They were silent together for a long while. Clients eyes were closed and his head was thrown back. He was soaking up the rays of the sun. He was also methodically shredding a sprig of some spiky green herb. The spicy, piney scent filled the air. It was clean and sharp and cut through the lingering odor of cordite and blood.

Clint noticed Steve noticing it and plucked a spring for him. He pressed it into Steve's hand. They both breathed deeply. Steve felt something shift inside him. Grey, ice, numbness replaced with green and sunshine and the hum of bees.

He breathed deeper and his senses opened up even more. He felt the rough stone of the garden bench. It was old...older even than he was, hewn from an ancient boulder centuries before. It had absorbed countless days of sunshine and rain. It had endured.

He listened to a songbird singing to his mate; caught a flash of a scarlet wing in a cherry tree. He heard the soft steady breathing of the man sitting next to him.

Steve again lifted the herb to his nose an inhaled deeply. Beside him, Clint shifted a little bit and glanced over at him.

"Rosemary. That's what it's called." A faraway look clouded his expression, light blue eyes fading to gray. "Rosemary, that for remembrance. Pray, love, remember." Clint looked at Steve. "He...Phil taught me that. I didn't get much Shakespeare growing up."

Steve's mouth quirked, "Yeah, me neither." He studied the garden; he studied the man sitting next to him. "But it's appropriate here. Here and now."

He paused before saying, sincerely and genuinely, like only Captain America can, "Thank you. Thank you for letting me in. For giving this to me." He paused again, not sure if he should continue, but needing to. Needing someone to hear it. "I think you saved me today. With this."

And as he said the words aloud, rather than shame, he felt relief. He felt the icy pressure sliding off his chest. He breathed in, the deepest breath he'd taken in 70 years.

-----

Chapter Text

The taste of the plum almost brought him to his knees.
How...how had he lived for so long and never experienced this?
He looked at his friend, and said, voice, low with need, "More."
--------

After watching Steve unenthusiastically sip a protein shake for the 12 morning in a row, Clint broke his own rule about criticizing other people's culinary choices.

"Why do you drink those...things, Cap?" He asked curiously, trying his level best to keep his tone light and not judgmental. "You don't actually need to drink raw eggs and seaweed and Stark stocks a pretty good kitchen." He paused, considered the wry look on Steve's face, and decided, what the hell, "Ummm..unless you, uh enjoy them?"

Steve looked a little bit embarrassed. If anybody else had questioned him, he'd have gone into full on Captain America mode, providing a lecture on nutrition and energy and electrolytes. It was Clint, though, and the two had become close after the disaster that was the Castle Mission. Close enough that the archer could easily distinguish between team leader, mission ready, brilliant strategist-Cap and using my reputation as a shield so I don't have to fess up and face something unpleasant -Cap. And close enough that he knew when to call bullshit and drag Steve out of himself.

Like now. Clint eyed the green sludge distastefully.

Steve sighed,"Well, I was never much of a cook. I had my mom, and then Bucky's mom...and in the Army there was a messhall and cooks and now...well ..." He trailed off a little pathetically.

"Ok. Go grab your gear. I'll meet you by your bike in 10 minutes. Don't ask. Just move. It'll be worth it. Promise."

----
A short while later, the city was behind them, the sun was above them, and they were headed southwest, into Pennsylvania. Steve really had no idea where they were heading,but not knowing, ceding control and responsibility to somebody else was refreshing. So he didn't ask, he just drove where Barton pointed, enjoying the warm air, the pretty countryside flashing by and the press of Clint's arm around his waist.
He realized he felt ...happy.

A few hours later, he saw the first had painted sign: Sweet Corn-Picked 2day-3 miles on Rite.

Clint made a happy sound as the drove past and he shouted to Steve, "Almost there!"

There were more signs at irregular intervals:

*****Homemade peach pie-the best on the mountain****

******Cukes-Lopes-Strawberries*****

**UR getting close!****

****Heirloom tomatoes+peppers****

*****Fresh baked bread*****

*****Our own honey.*****

Steve's stomach was rumbling by the time they pulled into the dirt parking lot next to the roadside farmers market. They left the bike parked in the shade, under the biggest oak tree Steve had ever seen.

He followed Clint up a gravel path, past enormous hanging baskets of red and white wave petunias, small terra cotta pots of basil and parsley and flats of marigolds sitting outside a small glass greenhouse. One window was cracked, and Steve peeked inside to rows and rows of flowers and vegetable seedlings.

The market itself was in a ramshackled wood frame building that,once upon a time, had been painted red. There was a wrap around porch with few picnic tables, and an ancient black and white mutt dozing in a sunny spot.

They climbed up the creaky wooden stairs, through a screen door into the market. There was no air conditioning, but it was cool inside. Not frigid, like a modem supermarket, just comfortable after the long ride. Joan Baez was singing softly on the radio. Steve smelled freshly baked bread.

A woman wearing an honest to god pair of denim overalls was carefully putting cherry tomatoes into wicker pint baskets. They were red and yellow and orange. Steve thought they looked like precious jewels. She smiled at them friendly and welcoming.

"We have samples set out all 'round the store, " she told them. "Help yourselves and let me know if you'd like to try anything else. Honey oat loaves will be out of the oven in about 20 minutes, and Trina Sibels delivered fresh butter this morning. It's a bit late in the season for strawberries, but the stone fruits: peaches, plums, cherries and nectarines are ready."

Clint smiled, "Thank you. To start, we're gonna pick a few things for lunch. Eat over the by the creek there." He gestured to the back of the store. "Then we'll load up for the ride home."

She nodded and told Steve and Clint to take their time and went back to her work.
----
Clint was striding purposefully around the market, filling his basket with all manner of fruits, veggies and other treats. He'd clearly been here several times, asking for "some of your famous cherry cider...2 bottles...cold if you have it."

Steve didn't make it past the peppers. Clint just laughed at him, the owner's teenage daughter took Steve under her wing. She taught him about the fiery orange habaneros, tiny bird chilis, sweet Hungarians, spicy jalapeños and row after row of bell peppers: green, red, orange and yellow "the sweetest of them all," she whispered shyly.

She fed him samples of garden fresh salsa with homemade tortillas. The tomatillos and cilantro in the salsa verde made him think of Bruce, the smokey chipotle of Natasha. Tangy and spicy and hot and complex. He didn't realize his tongue could feel like this.

He wandered through the aisles, past aubergines and asparagus, peas and peaches. He wanted to come back with his sketch book and capture all the colors and textures. He wanted to remember the feast with his eyes as well as his tastebuds.

"Ok, Cap," Clint called from the doorway, "let's go have lunch." He had a huge basket filled with bread and honey and the much anticipated cold cider. There was a piece of farmhouse cheddar and a jar of sun-pickles. A selection of tomatoes, candy striped radishes, and rainbow baby carrots rounded the spread. It all looked and smelled fantastic.

But Steve couldn't take his eyes off a pint basket of the most luscious looking fruit he'd ever seen: a basket of the most perfect plums. The purple of their skin, so dark as to appear almost black, reminded him of Hawkeye.

They put the basket down and spread out their bounty at Clint's chosen spot, under another massive oak, by a curve in the stream. He couldn't wait any longer. Steve reached for a plum.

Clint was watching him, his eyes delighted. He watched as Steve unselfconsciously rubbed the plum over his lip...smooth over smooth and licked it curiously. Then, delicately, he nibbled, his teeth barely piercing the fruit. It was so ripe, however, that just that tiny bite was enough to send sweet juice gushing and running down his chin. Steve laughed and took a proper bite. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the taste, the feeling on his tongue. It was so.....

How?How had he never tasted such...his mind shutdown and words failed. He looked at Clint, who was still holding the basket, and moaned.

-----
A while later, Steve was sprawled out on the picnic blanket soaking up he fresh mountain air and the warm sun. Clint was a short distance away, skipping stones, whistling a half remembered song from the radio. Steve couldn't remember ever feeling so....content. He really owed Clint for this. Next time, he'd be the one doing something special. But what? Oooooh....yeah.....Clint would love that. He fell asleep, right there - under a tree, in the middle of the countryside, in Pennsylvania ... smiling.

Chapter Text

Here's another installment of Taste, Touch, Feel- after a bad mission, Clint takes Steve to the beach. WIP.
------

The mission to the Hydra base deep in the Atacama Desert had gone spectacularly wrong. The only saving grace was that Maria Hill aborted the op almost immediately, so Captain America and Black Widow only had to stay hidden at the extraction point overnight. They only had to stay hidden from roving bands of Hydra death squads ....while Widow was bleeding from a stomach wound... with dry desert winds and gritty sand and sharp stones scourging their skin raw...in below freezing temperatures...without survival gear.

Steve fucking hated the cold.

-----
Clint waited a whole week before he dragged Steve out of the Tower,into a low slung midnight blue roadster and headed out of New York City. He didn't tell and Steve didn't ask. After finding his friend huddled under a down comforter in the middle of August in Stark's perfectly climate controlled penthouse, he just acted. Clint told JARVIS to give them an hours head start, then to tell Bruce and Hill that the two were taking a couple weeks leave.

"We'll be in Point Breeze," Clint told JARVIS, "But that is need to know only. And I will be very put out if anybody disturbs us for anything less than intercontinental mayhem, interdimensional devastation or thermonuclear war." Or, he added silently, as he did every time he gave JARVIS the do not disturb protocol, "or if Phil Coulson returns from the dead."

Less than an hour later, the city was behind them. The top was down on the convertible and they were headed south. The sun was blazing, but Clint didn't put the top up or use the AC. His only concession to the heat and brightness was a baseball cap, sunglasses and some SPF 45; the kind that smelled like coconut. He wondered if Steve had ever tasted fresh coconut. He didn't ask. Not yet.

------

About 100 miles into the trip, with the temperature hovering somewhere around 88 degrees, that frozen something deep inside Steve started to thaw.

He'd been so tense and so cold ever since Chile. He'd been withdrawn and short tempered. He felt brittle. Frozen. When he was able to sleep, his dreams were plagued with images of the frigid desert, Tasha's bloody lips, and the cold pressing down on both of them. In his dreams the world was cold and gray. When he woke, shivering, the grayness gradually receded with the sunrise. The icy feeling in his veins, in his soul remained.

He didn't want to talk about it. He couldn't talk about it. But somehow Clint knew. And somehow, Steve found himself speeding down a secondary road, somewhere on the Eastern coast of North America with the sun shining and a warm breeze blowing...and for the first time in a week he felt warm.

Steve wasn't ready to talk, but knew that Clint would be ok with the silence. He was, however, ready to start noticing his surroundings. They left the rolling greenness of the Pennsylvania woodlands. The air grew hotter, heavier. The humidity soaked into his pores, gradually pushing away the sensation of dust, sand and dried blood that had seeped in his skin. The warmth from the sun slowly began to relax his shoulders, let his spine unbend, his jaw unclench.

As they turned directly east, the air changed again. He breathed deeply, catching a whiff of salt and brine...the sea. His heart sped up, just a little bit. Outside of missions that took him to military, SHIELD, or Hydra vessels, he hadn't been to the sea sincere came out of the ice. But this wasn't the cold, dark waters of the North Atlantic. It smelled different. It felt very different.

He looked over at Clint. It was the first time in hours he'd bothered to look at his traveling companion... who was smirking right back at him looking extremely self satisfied, but a bit flushed and sweaty. For the first time since the Avengers got the call to head to South America, Steve grinned.

-----
Just before sunset they turned down a narrow drive that wove through sand dunes and some scrubby beach pines right down to the sea. Clint parked next to a weatherbeaten plank cottage nestled between the dunes. Steve thought little house looked like something out of a fairy tale. It was welcoming, but a little bit unkempt and wild. He wanted to draw it...pastels or maybe water colors. Beach roses and honeysuckle were climbing all over the front and there was creeping rosemary by the garden gate. Clint plucked a piece as he went through, holding the door open for Steve to follow. The herb's scent drifted on the breeze.

Clint went inside to check that the supplies he'd called ahead for had been delivered. Yep, all was well. Fridge and cupboards stocked. House aired, beds made. He smiled and made a mental note to thank Daniel for helping him out.

Daniel... A few years ago, Clint had helped one of the local kids out of some nasty trouble with one of the drug dealers in town. The kid wasn't really college or military material, but he'd followed Clint's very unsubtle hints about doing something with his life and had become a paramedic and lifeguard. He...Daniel...also kept his eye on the cottage and kept it stocked with food and booze and other sundries. He was discreet, idolized Clint and was utterly trustworthy. He also made a mean flourless chocolate cake with whiskey and...Yes! There it was in the pantry.

Clint climbed the stairs into the big open loft that doubled as his bedroom. French doors opened out onto a balcony that wrapped around 3/4 of the cottage. At the peak was a stained glass window, blues, greens and golds swirled together calling to mind sunlight on the waves. He thought that Cap would like it. He hoped Cap would like it here at the cottages: that the balmy sea air, the warm water would soothe the hurt left by the last mission.

This place, this quirky cottage perched precariously on the edge of the world was Clint's sanctuary. He came here to rest, recover and simply be. The sky and the sea stretched to infinity. With that distance came clarity and sense of peace. He hoped Steve could find a semblance of the same.

Clint shook himself out of his reverie and quickly peeled off his "city clothes" pulling on a faded lavender t-shirt of the softest cotton and a pair of cargo shorts. Feet bare, he stepped out on the balcony to see where Cap had gotten to.
-----
He spotted Steve right down by the water's edge. He'd removed his heavy boots and socks, rolled up his jeans and was standing ankle deep in the surf. He was facing almost due east. The late afternoon sun lit him from behind, setting his blond hair alight. Clint couldn't see his face, but his posture was more relaxed and he believed he saw Steve wiggling his toes.
-----

The beach...sultry, humid air, briny smell, rough sand on bare feet...Steve drank in the sensations, letting them all wash over him, feeling in a way he hadn't allowed himself since the desert. Once again, he had Clint to thank for pulling him out of that dark cold place. God, Clint, he thought guiltily. He hadn't exchanged a dozen words with the man all day. His mother would be ashamed. Steve turned back to the cottage and caught sight of Hawkeye perched on the railing of a wrap around balcony high off the ground. He waved and headed back up the path. He hadn't paid much attention to the surroundings on his way down to the water. Now he noticed the wild beauty of the place. He wished he had a sketch pad.

At the top of the path, the grounds were a bit more tended, but weren't manicured within in an inch of its life. The gardens blended into the natural landscape. He recognized more roses a few fruit trees and the ever present rosemary. He wondered if Clint and Phil had come here often; if they'd planned their future here on the beach, or in the cleverly concealed hot tub that looked like a hot spring. He wondered if Clint had needed to escape here after Loki and Ultron. They'd never talked about it. Steve wondered if maybe they should?

Clint had come down from his perch and was waiting for Steve in a pretty patio area. He handed Steve a beer, the green bottle was frosty,but the chill was refreshing, not...the other.

"Come on. I'll give you the tour." Clint led Steve through the French doors into the cottage. The inside was surprisingly spacious with hardwood floors the color of new honey and huge windows that let in the light from all directions.

There was a stone fireplace and a modern kitchen. There was no tv, but there was an impressive sound system and floor to ceiling bookshelves. In a sunroom, just off the main area, Steve was a bit surprised to see a baby grand piano.

A spiral wooden staircase led upstairs. Clint nodded to one of the rooms," You can bunk here." He opened the door and ushered Steve inside. The room was furnished simply, with comfort in mind. A huge sleigh bed with a white down comforter and about a hundred pillows dominated the room. A dark cherry bureau stood in the corner. The only decorations were a few sea shells and a stained glass ceiling fan. The room smelled like bees wax and oranges.

"Everything you need should be here, but if Daniel forgot anything just speak up (he knew Steve wouldn't) and we can run into town."

Steve started to say thank you when he caught sight of the easel and art supplies in the corner. He stared at Clint, who was trying not to look sheepish.

"Clint..."
"A www, Cap, it's no big deal. We don't have wifi or cable way out here so gotta have something to fill the hours." Clint was actually blushing, as if embarrassed to be caught having done something incredibly thoughtful. Steve found it delightful. His impulse to grab his new pencils and capture the flush in shades of pinks warred with his (surprising!) desire to touch Clint's face to see if it felt as warm as it looked. Suddenly Clint wasn't the only one blushing.

"So, ummm...You hungry?" Clint quickly changed the subject. "Go ahead and shower or change or whatever. Stuff's in he bathroom. Beach clothes in the wardrobe. I'll go fire up the grill."

For the first time since he woke in he 21st century, Steve voluntarily took a cold shower.

------

Chapter Text

By the time Steve emerged from his room -wearing a pair of sand colored drawstring linen shorts, a tee shirt of deep, deep midnight blue, feet bare - Clint had dinner waiting. They ate the perfectly grilled steaks and a delicious cherry tomato and goat cheese salad outside on the shady patio. The evening air smelled like roses and honeysuckle. The sun was setting behind them and they gazed out over the water. The tide was coming in and the breeze was balmy.

They chatted easily. Clint telling Steve about the cottage and the little town a few miles down the shore. He told him about Daniel and how proud he was of the kid. They were both feeling mellow thanks to bottles of dark Irish beer and some of Thor's Asgardian liquor.

Then Clint brought out the whiskey cake and Steve thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

The chocolate was dense and rich on his tongue. It practically melted in his mouth, and was saved from being too sweet...cloying...by the whiskey. By the second forkful, Steve was moaning appreciatively. He looked up to see Clint smiling fondly. He thought briefly that he should be embarrassed, but .....meh...fuck it. The cake was delicious, the setting idyllic and the company captivating. Steve hadn't felt this relaxed and happy in...well, ever. He grinned right back at Clint.

After they cleaned up the dishes, Clint suggested a walk down to the water. The sun was very low on the horizon by now and the long shadows were shades of violet on the dunes.A gibbous moon was rising in the east, out over the ocean. The sea birds had gone to their roosts for the night and the only sound Steve could hear over the surf was Hawkeye's soft breathing.

Steve had been worried that he'd react badly to the sea at night. That the sound of the waves and the darkness would trigger the panic he felt when he thought about pointing the Valkyrie towards the ice.

But the panic never came. Instead, he felt an unexpected longing to immerse himself in the warm water; to feel the waves lap against his bare skin. He wanted the water to bear him up. He wanted to float, to gaze up and see the stars.

Steve was stripping out of his fine new clothes and moving towards the water before he made a conscious decision to act. He was hip deep in the surf when he turned back to see Clint watching him with such an expression on his face. Was it hope? Longing? Desire?

Steve laughed and shouted back, "Well come on! What are you waiting for?" And then he dove into the waves, laughing with joy.

-----
When Steve surfaced, he could hear Clint splashing a few yards to his left. He was irrationally pleased that the man had joined him. He glanced over and saw Hawkeye splayed out like a sea star, floating on the water. His eyes were closed and he wore nothing but a soft smile.

Steve mimicked Clint's position, but kept his eyes open. The stars were coming out. The sky was ablaze. For a moment, the heavens dancing above him and the weightlessness of his body in the after was disorienting. But before he could panic, something bumped his shoulder. It was the solid, reassuring body of one Clint Barton. Clint took Steve's hand. They were still floating, but tethered. Steve took a deep breath and relaxed again.

Then Clint started talking softly. He pointed out the constellations, telling Steve funny stories about the old circus fortune teller who'd taught him long ago. He pointed out Mars and Antares; spoke excitedly about the meteor showers that would peak in a few days.
Steve just floated, enjoying the sound of Clint's voice.

They drifted together for a long time that night. Eventually, the high tide pushed them back to the shore. They hopped out of the water, shivering a little in the night air. They used the t shirts to dry off, laughing at each other trying to gracefully dress in the dark.
Steve got a funny feeling in his chest when Clint said that he'd remember towels tomorrow night.

They said good night, each going to his own room, tired but content. As Steve lay down to sleep, he realized he'd covered himself with only a single crisp cotton sheet. It was hard to believe that just this morning he'd been bundled in flannel pajamas and a down comforter, unable to get warm. And that night he dreamed, not of blood and ice and loss, but of sunshine and starlight and happiness.

----

Chapter Text

Steve woke up to the sound of the surf. He lay there for a few moments, savoring the contrast between the cool morning air and the warmth of the fluffy down comforter. He briefly considered burrowing back down in the blankets, but the sea air hadn't actually given him a personality transplant, so he got up instead.

The cottage was silent, Clint still sleeping deeply. So as not disturb his friend, Steve padded carefully downstairs to start the coffee. The sun was rising in the east, making the water sparkle. The quality of the light was bright and pure. He itched to capture it, so after the coffee was done and he'd filled a gigantic travel mug, he grabbed his pochade box and headed outside.

He hiked a ways over the dunes and rocks until the cottage was out of sight, heading for an inlet that Clint had mentioned as being a good place to explore. When Steve arrived, he laughed in amazement. If he'd felt like he'd tumbled into a fairy tale upon seeing the rose covered cottage, it was nothing to the sight of the inlet...lagoon, he corrected himself. It was a mermaid lagoon right out of the Barrie novel he and Bucky read as kids.

Some quirk of nature had carved a crescent moon shape into the rocky cliff to form this secret haven. A few small barrier islets blocked the fiercest ocean waves, keeping the blue-green waters of the lagoon calm. The waters were so very clear, and Steve could see dozens pretty fish swimming lazily near the bottom. The tide had gone out, but it left behind pools of sea water, filled with strange creatures. The hot pinks, oranges, and purples of the anemones and sea stars surprised him. For so long he'd thought of the sea as grey, lifeless. This color was shocking. Glorious.

The sharp cry of some sea bird drew Steve's attention upward. The craggy cliffs were old, crumbling and dotted with nests. Scrubby vegetation, the tough things that could survive the salt and spray, covered the walls. There was even an honest to god waterfall. Steve laughed again ... And what was it about the magic of this place that allowed this laughter to bubble up so easily and unselfconsciously?

"For once in your life, Rogers,"he told himself in his Captain's voice, "don't fucking overthink it."

*****
Steve spent the rest of the morning at the lagoon, drawing and painting. The sun was fully up and it was starting to get hot when his stomach gave a very loud grumble. Steve realized he was very, very hungry. So, he packed up and hiked back to the cottage satisfied with his morning, but hoping Clint had the ingredients for pancakes.

*****
As it turned out, Clint not only had the ingredients for pancakes,but he had a huge stack all ready and keeping warm in the oven. Pancakes, bacon and a huge bowl of plump, sweet blueberries: Steve made happy noises and dug in.

The conversation over breakfast was light and easy. Steve told Clint about finding the lagoon (leaving out his whimsical thoughts of mermaids) and painting the tidal pools. Clint told Steve that he'd gone for a run along the beach and checked in with Daniel before making breakfast.

"You'd never guess it from living with me at the Tower,"Clint said, "but I really like cooking. Doesn't have to be fancy, just tasty. So if you have any requests, just let me know."

Steve thought there was plenty he wouldn't have guessed about Clint based on life at the Tower, but just nodded and thanked him.

They spend the rest of the day swimming and goofing off on the beach. The waves that day weren't really good for surfing, but Clint had a few boogie boards. They road the waves, challenged each other to perform more and more elaborate stunts. Steve had the clear strength advantage, but Clint was no slouch ... and his acrobatics were both powerful and graceful. He was so clearly enjoying himself, grinning madly. Steve had never seen him so carefree.

Hours later, with the hot sun beating down on them, hungry and tired, they headed back to the cottage. The elusive Daniel had made a huge platter of sandwiches for them. They ate hungrily and then sprawled on the shady patio.

For a while they just lay there. Steve was relaxed and happy. When glanced over at Clint, he smiled. His friend was dozing lightly. There was a dusting of sand on Clint's legs and his skin was already turning a warm golden brown from the day on the sun. In repose, the minuscule worry lines around his eyes smoothed out and he looked young.

Suppressing the urge to reach out and brush his fingers lightly across Clint's brow, Steve instead stood up silently and went inside to retrieve his sketch pad and pencils. He'd drawn Hawkeye several times before: the archer with his bow; the sniper waiting patiently for his shot; the eye in the sky covering his teammates, but he'd never captured this relaxed facet of Clint.

He sketched quickly but carefully, feeling a bit vouyeristic, but not willing to stop. He was caught up in the art, in Clint. He needed to do this.

When Steve put down his pencil, the last bit of shading a round the eyes finally done to his satisfaction, he was startled to see that Clint was wide awake. The other man was gazing at him curiously and fondly. Steve slid the pad over to Clint. He was proud of his work, but wondered how Clint would react. Steve usually drew only for himself (it was the one bit of selfishness he allowed himself) and didn't worry about pleasing an audience or what his subject thought of the result. This time, though, he felt oddly shy.

Clint studied the sketch silently for a long time. His face was impassive. Steve watched him nervously, hoping that their budding...whatever this was becoming...didn't suffer a setback. It had happened before when a subject didn't care for how Steve portrayed them.

Steve had just drawn breath to apologize, when Clint looked up at him. "Steve. Man, I just don't know what to say. This... It's...just thank you." He grinned bashfully (and that's a word Steve never expected to use in conjunction with Hawkeye) and tucked the drawing away carefully. "Ummm....can I keep it?"

"What? Yes, of course," Steve stammered, "I was worried you might not like it. Or maybe find it ..." He trailed off not wanting to say 'I thought you might find it too intimate.'

"I like it," Clint stated firmly, looking Steve right in the eye. "I like it more than I expected. I like that the artist sees me this way, in this light. Not many do. They see the clown or the killer. The archer. The pilot. They see the bow, the arrow, or the jet. And sure that's part of me...but not all of me." He shrugged, blushing a little. "So, yeah. I like it."

A sudden gust of wind caught the patio table's canvas umbrella, making the furniture rise up and thump back down with a noisy crash. The sound broke the mood and Clint hopped up to secure the table.

"Looks like a storm's coming. Better batten down the hatches."

It didn't take long for the two men to put away the lawn furniture and anything else that might blow away in the approaching thunderstorm. Steve had just pulled the convertible into the small detached garage when the rain started. He and Clint raced back to the cottage, laughing like kids.

Clint started lighting a few candles. "Just a habit. It's almost inevitable that the power will go out. Better to get a few going now before it's too dark to see." Before he even finished speaking, there was a loud boom. Thunder followed lightening in a display that would make Thor proud. The lights flickered bravely for an instant before going out.

Steve was captivated by the storm. He stood at one of the big bay windows and watched the lightening dance out over the ocean. The surf was pounding; waves crashing on the shore. He could smell the ozone in the air.

He looked over at Clint, who was staring rapturously out at the storm as well. He bumped shoulders with Clint, who poke him in the side in return. Then the two settled down together to watch the storm, to revel in its electricity, to feel it all deep in their bones.

Steve felt exhilarated. Alive. Excited. And for the first time in decades, he felt desire. He shivered with delight as the the thunder crashed and the rain poured down and Clint Barton sat pressed against him on the smallish love seat. And with his enhanced senses, Steve felt Clint shiver in return.

Xxxxx

Chapter Text

Clint Barton has always been one to embrace how things feel, to trust his senses. As a small child, the smell of beer meant shouting, but the scent of cheap whiskey meant "better hide or suffer a beating." Seeing the thick pancake cosmetic case on his mother's dressing table meant she hadn't been able to hide. The whisp of a thick leather belt being removed screamed RUN! Run now as fast as you can.

A few years later, in the circus, he learned that crowd noise or a few degrees temperature difference under the big top affected him in the same way as the lions and elephants. Happy clapping and encouraging cheers meant an easy performance and a hot meal afterwards. Jeers and catcalls meant he'd have to pull off some crazy shots to satisfy the audience. One false move, one less than perfect shot and there would be no supper, only punishment. So he learned to pay attention to these things.

Trickshot would have scoffed at this, called him pathetic and probably bloodied his nose if he'd ever dared say it aloud. But Clint knew. He felt. Rather than tamp down the sensation, ignore it, he gave himself up to it. He embraced it. He used it.

Clint earned the name Hawkeye because of visual acuity, but all his senses were just as finely tuned. It's why his arrows find the mark even in gale force winds; why he rarely looses his footing; and why no one, not even Black Widow, has ever caught him unaware.

It makes him an excellent spy and a superlative sniper. A lot of people think it must be excruciatingly dull to sit in a perch for hours "just waiting" for the target. How very, very wrong they are. Hawkeye isn't merely sitting there "waiting." He is constantly evaluating the field.

He notes how the wind has picked up: no longer soft southerly puffs, but a steady breeze from the north west that will bring colder temperatures and possibly rain by nightfall. He rearranges the arrows in his quiver, moving the waterproof set closer to the front.

He clocks the rumble of the subway cars as they arrive at the station. He is perched across the street, but can feel the vibrations of the heavy cars. They are running late and getting later ... And since the target always arrives by subway, the mission timeline gets adjusted, pushed back, gives analysts extra time to run stats and crunch numbers.

When he smells spicy barbacoa, he lets his handler (no longer Coulson, not even Sitwell) know that the target will probably linger outside the subway station longer than usual to indulge in his favorite street food. This gives Natasha extra time to take out the Hydra contact he was meeting.

And when Miles Von Hoffman, human trafficker and weapons dealer, finally comes into view, Hawkeye observes just how his Kevlar vest shifts ever so slightly under the bespoke suit and places the tranquilizer arrow just where it needs to go- in a 2 centimeter gap by his clavicle.

He was on the roof across from that station for 18 hours, but he was never just waiting.

xxxxx

So when Steve Rogers, whose leg had been pressed against his own for quite a few minutes as they sat together watching an incredible storm, shivered, of course Clint felt it. He felt the way the tiny, golden hairs on Cap's arms tingled with electricity. He saw how the pulse in his wrist started beating faster. He heard Steve's breath catch, just for an instant, before he bit his lower lip and got himself under control.

Something about Steve forcibly pushing these feeling aside really pissed Clint off. He wasn't irritated with Steve...god how could he be? The guy radiated sincerity and was clearly at a loss at how to handle the situation.

No, Clint was angry with whatever power-that-was-or-ever-had-been that left Steve feeling like he had to hide how he felt around Clint. Whether it was narrow minded social norms of the 30s and 40s, or the embedded notion that self-sacrifice was always necessary, or just that Steve himself didn't deserve to feel this way...well Clint wasn't having it.

No, not after years lost, pining after Phil, not trusting the evidence of his senses that proved his feelings were not unrequited. Not after losing that love after far too short a time together. Not again.

But Clint's senses also told him that Steve was jumpy. He trusts his body and instincts in battle, but not with people, not with this. Clint would have to take it slow.

Even though Steve had his breathing under control, Clint could still see his pulse jumping wildly in the artery at his wrist. He slowly, slowly reached over and clasped Steve's hand.

For such a big man, Steve's hands were not thick and clumsy. They were strong and capable, certainly. But they were still an artist's hands, long, strong fingers, clever and nimble. They would never bear scars or become calloused, unlike Clint's own, but would remain smooth.

Clint waited a moment, giving Steve a chance to pull away, and then he slid his thumb down to Steve's wrist. He paused one last time, and then pressed down. Immediately, he felt Steve's heartbeat begin to race. Clint traced the vein up to the soft inside of Steve's elbow. His own rough fingers raising goosebumps as they went.

Then, back down to explore each finger, each knuckle. He carefully turned Steve's hand over. He used his pinkie to delicately trace the long, deep life line of Steve's palm. He thought of his circus days and Madame Fortuna, who divined the future. What would she make of these marks, this flesh? After what seemed to Clint like an incredibly long time, he slowly, slowly raised Steve's hand, stopping just before bringing it to his lips.

Clint looked directly into Steve's eyes, silently asking for permission to go further. The blue eyes were wide, shining. Steve blinked and gave an infinitesimal nod. His breathing was audible again, just on this side of harsh. Everything about his posture, his reaction screamed, "please do this thing....I trust you."

Seeing that trust made something in between Clint's heart and his stomach to bubble over with heat. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. He hadn't been sure he'd ever feel this again. His own heart was thumping wildly now and he was fairly certain that the groan hadn't come from Steve.

The kiss was divine. Clint's slightly rough lips, chapped from hours in the sun and surf, brushed gently against Steve's. He reveled in the smoothness, in the heat, the pressure.

When they eventually broke away from each other, Steve looked almost helplessly at him, overwhelmed. Clint whispered, "you ok?" and Steve nodded.

"Can I do it again?," Clint asked softly, not wanting to push too hard, but desperately craving more.

Now it was Steve who paused. Then, quicker than Clint could have imagined, he was kissing Clint with all the passion that had been frozen for 70 years. As the storm continued to batter the cottage, they came together and reveled in the sense of it all.

Xxxx