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Kate likes to think she's got a high tolerance for bullshit. She's had plenty of practice; her teammates are a handful, and quite often her family leaves her exactly two choices: letting things go or developing an ulcer.
None of that prepared her for being friends with Clint Barton.
***
Her escape to L. A. isn't just about him. Contrary to popular belief, her world doesn't revolve around Clint alone, thank you very much. But he's the straw that breaks the camel's back, the last drop in a well that's been close to spilling over for a while already. He's self-destructing, biting away everyone who tries to help, and she won't – can't – stick around to watch him spiral.
She collects her things and makes her dramatic departure. He hardly acknowledges her, barely looks up from his bowl of fucking cereal. Not until she's already at the door and chances a last glance back.
There's hurt in his eyes, and the very fact that she's almost relieved he can still feel something means leaving is the right decision. But there's something else, too, something resigned and endlessly sad, and she doesn't think it's only about her. What she's seeing is an old hurt, a wound that existed long before they met. Kate's seen him look that way at other people, Jess and Bobbi and Barney, and it hurts to have him look at her the same way.
She doesn't slow her steps and put her stuff down. She doesn't stay. She wants to tell him that she won't be gone for good, she'll be back. But she doubts, right now, anything she could say would penetrate, and so she marches out the door and doesn't stop to catch her breath until she's out of the building, puts down one of the bags and hails a cab.
***
They help clean up the rubble after the battle with the tracksuits, heaving remains of burned furniture out of the stairwell with the other tenants. Kate feels Clint's eyes on her now and then; he stops and watches her for a moment, then goes back to what he'd been doing, too quickly for her to catch his eyes and raise an inquisitive eyebrow.
She waits until they're in the backyard and alone, fixes him with a glance until he notices and turns away from the scorched old afghan rug he'd been depositing into the trash container, facing her.
“What?” he asks, flinching a little when the rug hits the mess of litter already in the container with a whoomp. “Something wrong?”
There's concern on his face, and Kate hurries to shake her head; they're both a little worse for the wear, and she doesn't want him to worry that she might be injured. “You were looking at me, upstairs. I've never seen you look at me like that.”
He lowers his eyes, picks up half a kitchen chair next. She can see his chest rise and fall with a deep inhale, waits him out. Eventually he looks back up, says, “You came back. For me. You came back for me.”
The repetition and his tone, full of wonder and a leftover tinge of doubt, makes her chest ache. “Yes,” she says, voice steady and sure; reassuring. “I came back for you.” She smiles. “Boomerang, right?”
It's more than an allegory, it's a promise. Meaning she will always come back, will always prove him wrong, will never leave for good. It's supposed to say everything he would never listen to if she'd wrap it in long speeches.
He lets out another breath, slowly smiles back. “Boomerang.”
***
The kids are hard. They're a loss they both shoulder, a failure they committed together, and that makes it harder to bear, not easier. She can't look at Clint without seeing them, hearing them say her name like she's their savior. She wanted to be. She couldn't. Blaming that on Clint is the convenient way out. It stands between them like something physical, a wall of frosted glass that contorts the way they see each other.
When she explodes at him outside the warehouse and tells him they're done, Kate means every word she says.
She still means it the day after, and the day after that. A week passes, and she means it a little less. Another one, and the fog of pain and regret has cleared enough that she sees everything that she's lost.
All in all, this time, she manages to stay away for almost a month.
***
He doesn't expect her, that much is obvious. It's also not really a surprise; he never expects anyone to come back. The shock in his initial expression shuts off quickly, jaw set and brows drawn together, and that's all she needs to know about his emotional state. But he steps aside to let her in, and Kate marches into the apartment like she’s never left.
Standing in the middle of the wide space, they stare at one another. He won't say anything, and so Kate swallows her pride. “I'm sorry.”
Clint doesn't react, stands there, rigid as a statue and eyes her up. The words don't penetrate, and Kate considers that maybe she needs to be a little more precise, tell him what exactly she's here to apologize for.
Then it occurs to her that she won't need more words for that, but fewer. Just the one.
“Boomerang,” she says, and his eyes go wide.
He picks up another couple of arrows and carries them over to the kitchen counter, where he's already set up glue and fletching utensils, and Kate lets him have that escape. She waits a minute or two before she walks up to the counter as well and sits down next to him, quietly watching him work.
She's still pissed, and finding their way back to what they were won't be easy, but she made a him promise. And even though both of them have screwed up the last few weeks – the mental image of blood trickling from his nose after she hit him still haunts her – he's right. At the end of the day, they work. They're the same. They're worth fighting for.