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As he sits at the table with Yelena, Clint is surprised by how normal it feels. Two days ago, he wouldn’t have expected her to stick around this long, let alone settle into his kitchen like she belonged there. But here she is: calm, quiet, nursing a mug of coffee like she’s got nowhere better to be.
She hasn’t said much about returning to New York, and Clint’s starting to wonder if she’s checking in with her team—or if he’ll have to call Bucky himself. Not because Yelena’s a problem, but because she doesn’t look like someone planning to leave anytime soon. And if she’s still shutting out the team she left behind, he’s not sure he should be making that any easier.
Still, they’ve fallen into a rhythm, of sorts. She helps with the chores, disappears on long walks, occasionally lectures him about the dullness of his knives. Last night, she beat a home-for-break Lila at cards and taught Nate three Russian phrases Clint really hopes he misheard. It’s not what he’d call restful, exactly. But it’s steady. Peaceful, even.
This is exactly why the slam of the screen door makes him sigh before he even turns toward the sound. He has a sense of who it is before he hears her voice, and much as she’s always welcome, peace is… not exactly her strong suit.
“Hey, so, funny story,” Kate says, breathless, like she’s sprinted here from New York, which honestly he wouldn’t put past her. “I was being followed. Probably. Okay, definitely. So I’m just gonna go hide in the guest room for, like, an hour. Or a week. Ish. That okay? Great.”
She’s halfway to the hallway when she freezes.
“…Yelena?”
Clint glances over.
Yelena’s calm as anything, cradling her coffee like this is just another Tuesday. No surprise there. Given who she lives with now, Kate crashing through the door, flustered and panicking, probably counts as normal. Relaxing, even. Nothing like the life-or-death chaos she’s used to, hell, that she grew up with.
He should’ve known better, not much rattled Nat, and Yelena’s no different.
Kate, though, is flailing. Loudly.
“Seriously?” Kate says, voice pitching up. “I’m gone for five minutes and you replace me?”
Yelena doesn’t blink. “You left an opening. I took it.”
Clint exhales through his nose. “Nobody’s replacing anybody.”
Kate waves him off. “Uh huh. Sure. Look at you. Farmhouse power duo. Bet you didn’t even miss me.”
“He did not say you were coming,” Yelena says, glancing over at him. There’s a hint of accusation there, like Kate showing up unannounced is somehow his fault.
Clint sighs. “I didn’t know, Yelena. I don’t exactly have a tracker on her.”
Yelena hums, perfectly serious. “Perhaps you should.”
Kate drops her bag like she’s staging a protest and glances between them. “Wow. Is this what betrayal feels like? Team up on Kate day. Should’ve known. I’ll get out of your—”
Clint rubs a hand over his face. “Kate, for god’s sake—you’re not going anywhere. Laura’s on her way back with the kids, and if they saw you trying to leave Lila would take you down in the driveway. And honestly? I might beat him to it.”
Yelena lifts her mug. “I would pay to see that.”
“I bet you would,” Kate mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just the tone she has when she doesn’t know how to say she’s tired, doesn’t know how to admit she’s in over her head.
“You’re not hiding in any guest room,” he says. “You’re gonna sit down, tell me what kind of mess you got yourself into, and we’ll deal with it.”
She flops into the chair like it’s killing her. “Okay, so, maybe, hypothetically, we were tracking an arms deal. Black market. Bad guys with a lot of grenades they shouldn’t have. Nothing I haven’t handled before. But someone I’m working with—she’s new, very enthusiastic—might have dropped my name. Loudly. Several times.”
She waves her hands generously. “Not her fault. Rookie mistake. But now some very unfriendly people think I was in charge, which is ridiculous; I was barely consulting. And then things got grabby. And then there were—” she gestures vaguely, “smoke bombs. Chases. Property damage. You know how it goes.”
She grins like she’s proud of the story. Clint just stares.
Yelena tilts her head, looking unimpressed. “You left quite a trail,” she smirks. “At least now you’ve learned when to run.”
Kate huffs. “Have I? Took me three near-death experiences to decide I needed to get out of there.”
Hearing this, Yelena looks over at him, one brow raised, as if she’s asking him what he’s going to do about it.
Clint meets her look. He doesn’t need her to say it. He sees it too.
Kate’s making a habit of this. Charging in, getting lucky, walking out with new bruises and a grin like that makes it okay. Like surviving by inches is just part of the job. Like it’s fine, as long as she walks away.
It’s not fine. Not when it keeps happening. She’s reckless. Has been since the day he met her. But lately, it’s not just cocky. It’s careless. It’s dangerous. And if she won’t slow herself down, someone’s got to do it for her.
He’d meant to give it a minute. Let her talk through whatever happened in New York first. But one look at her—shifting in her chair, eyes still scanning the room like she’s bracing for the next hit—and he knows that won’t help. She doesn’t need a debrief. She needs someone to steady her before she spins out.
“Kate,” he says calmly, “Upstairs.”
Her head snaps up. “Wait, what? I just got here! Don’t I get coffee? A snack? Maybe a ‘hey, glad you’re not dead’?”
“You’ll get all of that, but first, we’re going to deal with this. Upstairs, now.”
She groans, pure theater, but there’s no real fight in her, as if she knew exactly what she’d be getting by coming here. She should, Clint thinks, it’s hardly the first time.
Still, she puts on a show, shoulders slumped, feet dragging, muttering under her breath, making sure they know how inconvenient this is. Classic Kate.
“Unbelievable. Betrayed. Ganged up on. Replaced. I’m telling Lucky you’ve all turned against me.”
Clint points toward the stairs. “Go. Before Laura gets back, and you make me do this in front of the kids.”
Kate stomps off, muttering all the way.
Yelena watches her go, then looks at him, perfectly calm. “You are going to spank her, yes? Otherwise, I am perfectly capable of—”
Clint exhales through his nose. “Yes, Yelena. I’m going to spank her. Thanks for making me say that out loud.”
Yelena sips her coffee, unbothered. “I was not sure. Americans can be so soft with their children.”
Clint huffs a breath. Doesn’t bother correcting her. Because hell, at this point, Kate might as well be one of his.
He pushes back from the table with a sigh. “Soft, huh? You weren’t saying that when it was your turn. ”
She exhales sharply, confirming he’s hit the mark, but he doesn’t look back, already making for the stairs.
---
The stairs creak under his feet, loud in the quiet Kate’s left behind. He doesn’t rush, keeps his pace steady, giving her a moment to breathe. No point in cornering her too fast.
When he reaches the landing, he can see her standing in the middle of the guest room, arms folded tight across her chest, chin tipped up, doing her level best to look unbothered. It’s a decent effort. Almost. But not enough to fool him.
He stays where he is, leans a shoulder against the doorframe. No rush. No reason to crowd her.
“You want to tell me what that was downstairs?” he asks, voice mild. He doesn’t need to raise it. She hears him just fine.
Kate’s jaw tightens. She flicks a glance toward the stairs, then quickly away, but Clint’s seen what he needs to understand.
He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed with a quiet sigh. “She’s not here to replace you, you know that, right?”
Kate huffs, arms still folded like armor. “I’m not sure I do know that.”
She jerks her chin toward the corner. There’s Yelena’s jacket slung over the back of the chair, her boots tucked neatly underneath. Like she’s settled in. Like she belongs.
Clint follows her gaze, amused. “You did give me her number, you know.”
Kate scowls. “Not to rent out my room.”
“She’s here because she needed a place to land. Just like you are now. This isn’t a contest.”
Kate shifts her weight, fidgety. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Clint breathes out slow. “You think I’m keeping score? You think I’ve got room for only one reckless stray at a time?”
That earns him the smallest, reluctant twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but close.
“I let her stay because she’s family. Same as you.” He lets that settle for a beat before adding, tone dry, thinking of Yelena across his knees in the barn. “You’ve got more in common than you think.”
Her eyes widen, and he can tell the implication lands when the corner of her mouth turns up in a smirk.
“Besides,” Clint says, tilting his head, “this isn’t about her, is it?”
Kate doesn’t answer. Her arms are still crossed, chin still up, but the silence says plenty.
He exhales through his nose. “What the hell were you thinking, Kate?”
“I don’t know!” she bursts out, sharp and sudden. “I was trying to keep Kamala alive, get the bad guys, stop things from going completely sideways.” Her hands are moving now, punctuating every word. “And, yeah, maybe I didn’t exactly have a plan, but it’s not like anyone else was stepping up!”
Clint watches her, lets the words settle, but part of his mind is already catching on something else. Kamala. She said her name like it’s a given. Like this isn’t a one-off. Like this is normal now.
He knew they’d been working together, but Kate talked about it like it was casual, a few joint missions, nothing serious. Hearing her now? He’s not so sure. It sounds like she’s been shouldering more than she’s saying.
He files that away, it’s a problem for later. Right now, there’s a more immediate one.
“You trying to protect people, that’s not the part I’ve got an issue with,” he says, voice low. “Trying to do it by taking so many risks that you had to run out here just to stay in one piece? That’s where we’ve got a problem.”
Kate’s still breathing hard, arms now hanging loose at her sides. She’s out of excuses. And he thinks she knows it.
“Look, Kate,” he says, staring up at her, “I get it. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you plan. You make a call, it goes sideways, and you’re left cleaning up the fallout. I’ve been there.”
Kate raises an eyebrow at him, sharp and questioning. She doesn’t say it out loud, but he hears it anyway. Then why are we here, Clint?
He exhales, slow, then answers. “Because this isn’t about one bad call. This is about how you’ve been taking risk after risk like they’re nothing. Acting like being in over your head is just part of the job description.”
She looks down at the floor.
“You’re not wrong for stepping up,” he says. “You are wrong for thinking you’ve got to do it alone. For thinking pushing yourself to the edge is just how it goes.”
He leans forward slightly, voice steady. “That’s not handling it, Kate. That’s gambling with your life.”
At this, she looks up, and for a moment, the fight flickers in her eyes. But it doesn’t last. She knows what he’s saying, and deep down he thinks she knows he’s right.
Clint shifts, sitting back slightly. “Alright, Kate. Let’s go.”
Kate steps forward and, predictably, tries to get ahead of him. She bends over fast, like momentum might save her some pride, leggings still firmly in place.
Clint lets out a quiet scoff. “Not this time, Bishop.”
Before she can argue, he catches the waistband and gives a pointed tug, working them down himself.
Kate huffs, sharp and annoyed, but it seems more at herself than at him.
“This isn’t going to be a gentle reminder, kid,” Clint says. “You’ve been pushing your luck. You’re going to feel why that’s a problem.”
Clint’s hand settles at the small of her back, steady and firm. Beneath his palm, Kate’s tense as a drawn bowstring, holding herself together by sheer force of will.
He brings his hand down. The first swat cracks through the quiet, sharp and clean. He sees her shoulders flinch, the quick hitch of breath she tries to swallow.
Another follows, just as deliberate. She doesn’t make a sound this time, but her fingers tighten around the edge of the bed, white-knuckled.
“You keep stacking the odds against yourself,” he says, each word paced, calm, punctuated by another sharp swat. “One of these days, they’re gonna topple, and you’ll get hurt in a way you can’t come back from.”
She’s stubborn as hell, but not made of stone. He sees it every time his hand lands—the jaw clenched a little harder, the subtle shift of her stance, the breath she can’t quite keep steady.
“You came here because you knew you needed this.” He brings his hand down again, lower this time, across the tops of her thighs. That one earns him a sharp breath through her teeth, too quick to hide.
Good. Maybe now she’s listening.
He keeps going, no faster, no harder, just landing consistent, measured swats, just enough apart that she feels every single one.
Kate’s holding on to her control, but it’s slipping. Her fingers curl tighter around the bedspread, knuckles pale. Her breathing’s faster now, sharp little exhales she’s trying, and failing, to even out
“This isn’t just about today, though we’ll get to that in a second,” Clint says, bringing his hand down with a sharp crack across her sit spots. “It’s about every time you’ve shouldered more than you should and told yourself it was fine.”
Another swat lands, low and deliberate. Her hips twitch, barely a shift, but enough for him to see she’s starting to lose her footing.
“You’re not made to carry it all alone, Kate,” he says, quieter now, but no less firm. “You’ve got people. You’re not proving anything by driving yourself into the ground.”
He gives her one last swat, then stills his hand, resting it firmly against her back.
“Alright,” Clint says, voice low, steady. “Now you’re going to get the hairbrush.”
That makes her go still. Not fighting. Just… pausing. Like she was hoping maybe they wouldn’t get to this part.
He doesn’t push. Just taps her behind lightly, a warning. “Go on, Kate. You know how this works.”
She twists to glare at him, as if hoping he’ll change his mind, but whatever she sees in his face shuts down the argument before it starts. She mutters something under her breath as she pushes herself up, and he pretends not to hear, amused despite the situation by the sheer range of her vocabulary.
Her steps are stiff as she stomps across the room, and it’s clear the swats have started to get through to her.
At the dresser, she pauses, as if she’s considering making a run of it.. Clint can see it, the set of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw. But after a beat, she yanks the drawer open hard enough to rattle the contents and grabs the much-hated brush
She turns back, brush in hand, her glare still fierce, but there’s less weight behind it now.
Clint holds out his hand. She slaps the brush into his palm with more force than necessary, a last little act of defiance.
“Thanks,” he says dryly, patting his thigh. “Come on back over, please.”
Kate huffs, but yanks her pants back down herself and bends over his lap. Clint settles her back into place with ease.
“Okay,” he says firmly, I think it’s time to talk about today.”
She shifts under his grip uneasily, as if she’s not looking forward to what comes next. “You said it yourself,” he continues, resting the brush lightly against her backside. “It took you three near-death experiences before you even thought about getting out.”
He doesn’t rush. Lets that sit with her. Then he brings the brush down, sharp and deliberate. The crack echoes.
“That’s the problem.”
Another swat lands, measured. Not punishing. Corrective.
“You knew it was bad. You knew it was going sideways. But you wouldn't let yourself back off.”
He watches the tension ripple through her, the breath she pulls in tight.
“You’re not here because things got messy, Kate. You’re here because you didn’t walk away when you should have.”
The next swat lands across her sit spots, deliberate. Her hands tighten in the bedspread, but she stays quiet.
“You don’t get points for waiting until the third close call to pull back. That’s not grit. That’s you being too damn stubborn to know when enough is enough.”
He keeps going, slow and relentless, covering her behind with solid swats that begin to paint the already pink skin a vivid crimson.
Kate shifts, hips tensing under his hand, breath sharp through her teeth. She’s trying to hold it together—he can see it in the tight set of her jaw, the white-knuckled grip she’s got on the bedspread.
He brings the brush down again, lower this time, where it’ll sit with her for the rest of the day. She jerks, breath catching, but doesn’t pull away.
“You knew it was bad,” Clint says, voice low. “You knew it was getting worse. And you wouldn’t pull back.”
He lands another flurry of swats down low, emphasising his point, making sure she’ll remember it.
“You can’t afford that kind of pride out there, Kate. You don’t get extra credit for staying in a fight that should’ve been over.”
Kate shifts again, a sharp breath ripping through her teeth. Then, voice tight and strained, she snaps out, “I know!”
But it’s not a challenge. Not really. More of a confession, an acknowledgement that they’re getting somewhere.
Clint’s hand stills. He rests the brush against her backside, giving her a moment of respite.
“Do you?” he asks, calm but pointed. “Because knowing and doing are two different things, Bishop.”
For a beat, she doesn’t answer. Just breathes, shaky and uneven. For a beat, she doesn’t answer. Just breathes, shaky and uneven.
Then, voice rough but dry, she mutters, “Yeah, well. I never claimed to be a fast learner.”
Clint’s mouth twitches. There it is. That’s as close to you’re right as she’s going to give him.
“Lucky for you, I’m patient,” he says, “one more set and we’re done here.”
He lays down the last set in a slow, steady rhythm, two dozen sharp swats, each one driving the point home until Kate’s breath hitches and finally gives out, the fight draining from her with it.
At that, he drops the brush onto the bed and places his hand on the small of her back, grounding her, not restraining.
“We’re done. You did good, kid.”
Kate lets out a groan, muffled into the bedspread. “Whoever said you’d mellowed in your retirement is a liar.”
Clint huffs. “Retirement’s a myth when I’m stuck wrangling two superheroes with no common sense.”
As he says it, he gives her hip a light nudge, more of a cue than a push, and reaches to steady her elbow, helping her upright with practiced ease.
“Between you and Yelena, I’m busier than ever.”
Clint’s still got his hand steady on Kate’s elbow when a quiet voice cuts in from the doorway.
“Is it over, or do I need to get in line?”
Both their heads snap toward the door. Yelena stands there, arms crossed, leaning casually against the frame like she’s been spectating the whole time.
Clint huffs. “That silent thing is getting old.”
Kate groans, slumping a little. “Seriously. Invest in louder shoes or something.”
Yelena just shrugs, amused. “You should both be more alert. It keeps you alive.”
But when her gaze settles on Kate, there’s something quieter under the smirk. She tips her chin toward her. “I see you’re still in one piece.”
Kate snorts. “Debatable.”
Yelena’s smile widens. “You will be sore, but alive. That is not so bad.”
Kate squints at her, wary. “That almost sounded like concern.”
“I am very concerned,” Yelena says, deadpan. “Who else will make such terrible decisions if not you?”
Kate groans, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re the worst.”
“Da,” Yelena agrees cheerfully, stepping into the room. She gives Clint an appraising glance. “You do good work, Barton. Very thorough.”
Clint sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t Yelp, Yelena.”
Beside him, Kate lets out a snort of laughter. “It felt like it.”
Clint shakes his head, already turning for the door. “Glad you’re both amused. Get moving before I decide you both need another turn.”
That wipes the grin off Kate’s face. She straightens up fast, muttering, “Moving. Definitely moving.”
Yelena, of course, just smirks. “You would have to catch me first.”
Clint doesn’t bother with a comeback. He just jerks his thumb toward the stairs and starts walking, fully expecting them to follow.
They’re only halfway down the stairs when the front door bursts open, and the noise hits like a wave—the unmistakable chaos of returning Bartons.
“Kate!”
Nate’s voice cracks with excitement. He comes flying around the corner like a missile and slams into Kate’s legs before she’s even halfway down. Clint winces, but she just laughs, steadying herself against the wall.
“Lila!” Kate beams as the older Barton follows close behind. “How’s college?”
“Better now,” Lila says, already moving in for a hug. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” Kate wheezes.
“Language,” Laura says mildly as she comes in last, setting grocery bags on the counter. Then she gets a proper look at Kate. “Jesus, Clint. You break her again?”
He opens his mouth to protest—not this time—but Laura's already turned back to Kate, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t know what you’ve been up to,” she says, voice sharper now, “but you be careful, hear me?”
Kate blinks. “What—?”
“You heard me,” Laura says, and Kate ducks her head, grinning like a kid who just got caught red-handed.
Lila snorts. Nate still hasn’t let go of Kate’s arm.
Clint smiles, but then his gaze catches on the edge of the stairwell.
Yelena hasn’t moved. She’s a few steps back, still in shadow, arms crossed tight. Over the past few days, she’d started to relax, leaning into the rhythm of the house, laughing more, letting her guard slip, teaching Nat what he’s sure are some less-than-legal ways to build an improvised smoke bomb out of kitchen supplies.
But now, watching their reunion with Kate unfold, she looks just as closed off as the day she arrived.
Clint steps back and climbs toward her, slow and steady. She watches him come with that blank expression she uses when she’s not ready to let anything show.
He doesn’t say a word—just reaches out and hooks an arm around her shoulders.
She stiffens but then exhales, almost too quiet to catch, and lets him draw her down the stairs, into the chaos, into the warmth, into the family.
They’re not all his, not in the way people usually mean. But when he looks around, at Nate’s grin, Lila’s eye-roll, Kate tucked into the middle of it like she’s always belonged, and Yelena letting herself be pulled in, it feels close enough.
And seeing her there, shoulder to shoulder with his kids, Clint’s reminded she has people of her own back in New York. The ones she walked out on when they forgot the anniversary of Nat’s death. She promised she’d talk to them. So far, she hasn’t.
She’s been here two days. He’ll give her another. Maybe two. Then he’s calling Bucky.