Work Text:
Clint,
I don’t know where you are right now. The news says you’re in custody, but they won’t tell me anything. That’s not a first, but usually, I get something from you or Natasha that lets me know you’re okay. I can’t reach Natasha. That’s a first, but I’m trying not to be nervous about it, because, well, it’s Natasha. She’s probably just stopped for a drink while bleeding from a shoulder wound -- that’s what you would tell me if I could talk to you about this.
I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter. You’ll make fun of me, because it’s what I used to do when you started at SHIELD and I couldn’t sleep at night. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m being silly, writing like this. It’s not like I’m going to send it. But Cooper and Lila are asking when you’re coming home, and I can only tell them so many things before I start to worry myself. So, if I write this letter, maybe it’ll help me, too.
P.S. I love you. Never forget that, okay? I know I can be a little bitter in these letters, but it's only because I worry about you.
P.P.S. Natasha just showed up and told me what happened. You’re in JAIL??????
Sam asks, “What do you think is going on in the world? I mean, like, right now, while we’re rotting away in this underwater hell hole?”
Scott says, “Our pasts are probably being dug up so they can exploit us over the news...oh, god, I really didn’t want people to know about Baskin-Robbins.”
Clint says, “My wife’s writing me a letter.”
Sam snorts. “What, you can see the future, Barton?”
Clint shakes his head. “No. I just know my wife is writing me a letter. That’s basically what she does every time she’s worried about me or when she gets scared or when she doesn’t know what to do.”
“Huh.” Scott sounds interested. “That’s very domestic.”
“That’s very Laura Barton,” Clint corrects. “She once wrote me a three-page novel when I got lost in Taipei on a mountain and passed out due to dehydration. Wasn’t even a mission, just a trip I took for my own amusement because I had free airline miles. I missed taking the tram back down with everyone else in my tour group, ended up in a ditch, and no one could find me for two days.”
“Did she mail the letter to the mountain?” Sam asks dryly.
“Nah.” Clint sits up on his cot, stretching his legs forward. “She doesn’t mail these letters. She just writes them and keeps them. I think it helps her feel better, if she can yell at me or talk to me or whatever when I’m not around. I keep them in a box at home -- well, the ones she shows me. I’m sure there’s some I haven’t seen because she’s either ripped them up or thrown them away.”
“What the hell is she going to yell at you about?” Sam asks grumpily. “I mean, we didn’t know they’d put us here.”
Clint smiles wryly. “You’d be surprised.”
Clinton. Francis. Barton.
JAIL? Are you absolutely freaking kidding me? No, I’m writing this, I don’t have to censor myself for the kids. Are you fucking kidding me? Not just jail, but A MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON? WHAT in the name of all things holy did you DO?
No. I don’t want to know. Because Natasha told me enough already and I want to KILL you. I cannot BELIEVE you. I can deal with a mountain in Taipei and I can deal with a car chase in Bogota but JAIL? How STUPID are you?
Gggggggggutnf7dfk ---------------h
Sorry, that was Nate. I’m interpreting it to mean that he’s angry at you, too. I know all my letters are always handwritten but I'm writing this one on the computer, because I need to do my banking today and it's easier to just open a word document. Don't think I've gone to the dark side in terms of technology where these letters are concerned. I'm going to be eighty years old and sitting in my rocking chair and I'm still going to be writing you letters by hand. My stereo will be playing that stupid punk music you got me into last year, the one that Cooper made us buy the CD for. Natasha will be FaceTiming me and drinking wine at nine in the morning from somewhere across the globe and laughing at how old fashioned I am, at which point I will kindly remind her that I have a tattoo on my left hip and that she didn't even know how old Taylor Swift was until Lila lent her the complete biography last year.
The point is, if I'm still writing you angry letters about how you've gone off and disappeared when I am past the age of retirement, I'm going to write you out of our will. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Did I say I’m going to kill you? Because I’m going to kill you.
“I didn’t know you had a wife,” Scott says. He’s practically hanging out of his cell, pressing his face to the bars as he stares at Clint, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“And three kids,” Clint clarifies. “Kind of don’t like to air that laundry in public, though. There’s a reason no one knows about them.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Scott backpedals quickly. “Uh, you know, I got a kid, too. Ex-wife, though. Her name’s Maggie.”
Clint raises an eyebrow, even though he knows Scott can barely see him from his vantage point. “Does she know you’re here?”
“Maggie?” Scott shakes his head. “Hell, no. I didn’t even tell her or Cassie -- that’s my daughter -- that I was taking off for this. Just jumped at the chance to be a part of Captain America’s crew. Kind of regret it now, honestly. Who knows how long it’ll be before I see her again.” He nods towards Clint. “I take it Laura doesn’t know you’re here. I mean, in jail and stuff.”
Clint smiles wanly. “Not exactly. But I have a feeling she’ll find out.”
Clint,
If you see watermarks and stains on this letter, it’s not because I’m crying. It’s because condensation from my Dark and Stormy is dripping, and I don’t want to get up and get another piece of paper. Well, that and the fact that if I get up right now, Nate might kill me, because he’s fallen asleep in the baby bjorn. (Yes, I’m wearing it inside. There’s only so much I can do alone and I’m not leaving him to sit by himself in the living room while I walk around the house.)
Also, yes, I am writing this while drinking. Because I spent the morning cleaning the house and sorting mail and the kids will be home from school soon and I can’t let them see me drink later. Coop has been terrible about going to bed lately. I can barely get him down to sleep without him staying up and reading under the covers. He says ‘daddy does it all the time’ and Lila backs him up on it, so you can guess how happy I am about that. When I ask about Natasha, all they say is that she taught them how to eat clean their plate after dinner. Do you see a pattern here, Clint?
Instead of being upset that you’re in jail and instead of realizing that I have no idea when you’ll get home, I’ve decided I’m going to start thinking of things you can catch up on. Did you realize that you left the wall in the barn half-painted? Coop went to get a shovel the other day and almost killed himself tripping over a paint can in the dark. I had no problem with you going off to help Wanda, but really, Clint. I had to call my dad and get him to come help.
I’m ordering you to fix the porch when you get home.
Don’t even THINK that you can get out of diaper duty or pass it off to Natasha.
Don’t even think about it.
“I’ve been in prison before,” Scott offers after an hour of silence, or almost-silence. Sam’s been humming a version of Hallelujah under his breath (the Jeff Buckley version, Clint surmises, because everyone always uses the Jeff Buckley version) and Clint can’t decide who he wants to punch more in this moment.
“So have I,” Clint grouses, because Scott’s okay, but the whole “positive attitude combined with overwhelming eagerness at having friends” thing is seriously getting on his nerves. “Do you want me to give you a medal?”
“This is way nicer than San Quentin,” Scott continues, as if he hasn’t heard Clint at all. “I mean, sure, it’s a maximum security lock-up, but at least here they give you your own cell and you don’t have to worry about someone coming in and beating you up while you sleep.”
“Count your blessings,” Clint mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “You haven’t tried any of the food yet.”
“Yeah, well, nothing’s gonna be as good as Maggie’s cooking. I mean, I can do okay, but one of the things that I miss most about our marriage is that she knew all the good recipes. Cassie’s okay with the simple things, so I’m getting by for the moment.” Scott glances at the next cell over. “What about you, Wilson?”
“Me?” Sam stops humming. “You asking if I can cook?”
“No,” Scott responds. “I’m asking if you’re eligible to join the ‘been to jail before’ club.”
Sam laughs bitterly. “Nope. This is new terrain, tic-tac. Never been in prison before now. My only parent was a single mother who raised a kid who liked to jump off of the monkey bars and save friends from fights, but other than that, I was clean. I guess I should’ve figured I had it coming, working with Captain America.”
“Especially working with Captain America,” Scott agrees sagely, as if he holds all the knowledge in the world.
Clint stares at the ceiling and wonders how pissed Laura is right now. He realizes he doesn’t want to find out.
Clint,
For the record, I’ve given up on being angry. I mean, I’m still angry, but I’m also sad. I miss you. I miss you sleeping in bed next to me, I miss snuggling with you in the morning, I miss your random kisses during the day. I miss you singing to the kids, and adhering to their outlandish requests, and tripping over my shoes in the morning. I almost tripped over them myself because they weren’t already knocked over. Your work boots are gathering dust because they haven’t been used in so long. I had to clean them the other day.
Natasha came over and brought more whiskey. I didn’t really need it -- I’m not that much of a lush, even though you’re making me push it -- but she told me I probably would, because she didn’t know when you were coming home. She said it’s all complicated, now...something about fugitives and assassins and the government?? And that I have to keep you safe. She said that in order to keep you safe, you need to stay away. At least, for now.
But, you know Natasha. She also hinted she had something up her sleeve, and that something might have you home sooner rather than later. I’m sure it’s not legal, but she won’t confirm. (I know it’s not legal, but I’m being nice about it, because she’s sparing me the details.) Anyway, I want to believe her, but I also know how this job goes, and so right now I’m trying to just stay positive. That’s all I can do, right?
(Natasha promised me she'd get you home. I trust her.)
Here, Cooper wanted to write you something. I told him he could, so I’m including it:
Dad -- dunno if you’re gonna read this, cause mom said she might not send it. Anyway, I miss you. You should come home soon. Nate’s getting really cute. Mom said he looks like me but I think he looks like Lila more. Also, I got an A on my math test. Mom said to tell you that, too. If you were here and not working, she said you’d take me for ice cream as a reward. Can we go when you get home?
Love,
cOoP (and Laura)
“Your kid knows you’re, like, a superhero, right?” Scott asks after another hour and at this point, Clint’s too tired to feel annoyed.
“My kids kind of know,” Clint says, shifting so he can see Scott’s face better. “Not the specifics. They know that I fight, because they see me on the news, and they know that I shoot a bow and arrow and wear a uniform. They don’t know that I kill people for a living.”
“Yeah,” says Scott with a nod. “Cassie got into the superhero thing once she saw me in action -- by accident, it’s a long story, but my kid’s safety came first. Anyway, she asked for all the costumes this year. I bought her Iron Man’s mask for Christmas, and for her birthday, she wanted the Captain America suit.”
“Welcome to my life,” Clint says with a small sigh. “We had a run-in last year where everyone kind of had to come back to my house. It’s also a long story. And all my kids want to do now is wave around plush hammers. The only thing worse than that is my daughter has decided she wants to dress up as Black Widow for Halloween because this year they’re actually selling Black Widow costumes. So we tried to be funny and we thought maybe my son could dress up as me, but surprise, they don’t make my costume.”
“Seriously?” Scott’s mouth falls open and he stares at Clint, agape. “But...you’re an Avenger. You’re Hawkeye.”
“Yeah,” Clint snorts. “And honestly, I’m pretty sure my wife’s my biggest fan.”
CLINT. Clint. CLINT BARTON.
I’m back to being angry.
The back deck broke again.
AGAIN.
And the washing machine broke.
And when I went to fix it, it was leaking, which means I both stepped in a puddle of ice water AND soaked my favorite pair of pajama pants.
You are in so much trouble when you come home.
It’s Sam who hears it first, the soft click of what Clint recognizes must be the facility’s power system shorting out, followed by darkness. He's up in an instant, staring straight ahead at the heavy steel door, and Clint, along with Scott, perks up. Bright emergency lights flash overhead, and the more Clint listens to the noises coming from the other side of the door, the more he's able to zero in on the yells and screams of what he supposes are other Raft workers. He can also detect a familiar grunt that he recognizes as belonging to Cap.
“Rescue,” Sam mutters, his face a mask of relief. “ Finally.”
“Aw, man.” Scott looks crestfallen. “I was just getting comfortable. This cot actually isn't half-bad.”
“Lang, you need to sort out your priorities before we let you on any more missions,” Sam decides as they crowd around their cell bars. “It’s been two days in here, and that’s two days longer than I wanted to be in jail.”
“Two days longer than I wanted to be yelled at in letters,” Clint adds from his own cell, and Sam nods towards him.
“Just how many letters do you think you have waiting at home?”
Clint gives a half-smile as Cap appears on the other side of the door. “Honestly, I’m not sure. But I’m hoping I get some downtime after this jailbreak, because I think I need to write one back.”
Laura,
Hey, look, it’s me writing you a letter. I guess this is a first. Well, not my first letter obviously, but my first letter to you like this. I mean, I’ve been beaten up, thrown in jail (not the maximum security jail, that’s another thing altogether), I’ve been kidnapped, I’ve been brainwashed. And this is the first time I’m taking a page out of your book. Maybe Natasha’s rubbing off on me after all. Just kidding. You know that I answer to you.
Anyway, I’m sorry I worried you. I’d say it won’t happen again, but you know I can’t promise that. I do have a knack of getting myself in between a rock and a hard place a lot. But the last thing I want to do is make you or the kids upset. Natasha, well, I can deal with her because if I ever pissed her off enough, she’d just punch me. I speak from experience. But you...damn, Laura, you’re my whole life. Cooper and Lila and now Nate, you all are everything to me. I know I said last project, and I’m sorry that my last project ended up like this. But I am coming home. I promise. You can put away the whiskey.
(Or don’t, actually. I really need a drink. I’m not even asking for sex, I just need a drink. Do you know what it’s been like to be locked up with Wilson and Lang? Talk about ANNOYING. I’ll take Cooper’s never-ending stories any day.)
I have a feeling a few things probably broke while I was gone. I’ll fix them. I promise.
Love,
Clint
P.S. I love you. Always. Never forget that. I will always come home.
P.P.S. um, so any chance that while I was gone, child #3 started using the toilet??? Just wondering….