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Kate watched the sun come up over Brooklyn on Clint's rooftop, chewing a mouthful of cold pizza.
She'd sidled up to the lowest rung of the fire escape just before six, a dirty glow starting over the sky to the east. Jump, grab the ladder, and then she swung up smooth as could be to the first landing and took the stairs two at a time to the roof. Outside Simone's window, Kate found an arrow shot clean through a satellite dish. It was standard issue, old school, not one of the fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. heatseekers. She shook her head and ran a fingertip over its purple fletching as she passed.
It had been a bad night, for no reason and for a bunch of reasons, and she was ready for it to end.
Up on the roof, a greasy grill and a couple empty beer bottles stood sentinel. "Shift's over, boys," she muttered. "Hawkeye reporting for duty." She stretched, palms flat against the lightening sky, then sat, tucked behind a heating duct with her arms hugging her knees. She waited for the light to make it over the buildings opposite, to shine full force into her eyes and make them water. A motley troupe of pigeons landed on the edge of the roof, cooing and puffed up fat against the chill.
"Those'd make for some pretty sweet target practice,” said a voice from behind her. “Don’t think Captain America would approve of shootin’ up the neighborhood, though.”
She smiled into her knees. "Didn't stop you taking out Simone's DirecTV."
She could practically hear him wincing, running a hand through his hair.
"Oh yeah, that. I'm…working on that." Clint sat down next to her, handing her a paper plate. "Food?"
"I hate leftover pizza," she said, taking a bite anyway. He leaned a little closer. Their arms were touching, just barely, black leather and black leather.
"So how's it going, Kate and Barrel?" He nudged her shoulder with his own.
She sighed, not bothering to deflect the question. It was late, or early, and she was tired. "It's… going." She looked out over the rooftops, jagged black teeth against the beginning of the day. "Thanks for asking."
They sat together in silence for a long time after that, watching the sky. Clint tossed a pizza crust at the pigeons, missing deliberately, and got to his feet to retrieve it in the flutter of their wings. He reached out a hand to Kate. "C'mon," he said. "I want some coffee."
In the kitchen, she traced the H on her mug with her forefinger, listening to the drip drip drip of the coffeemaker. It was cold on the roof, but here in the loft it was warm, and when Clint took her mug, filled it, and handed it back without a word something crept into her bones that felt a lot like the beginnings of contentment. Lucky sighed in his sleep, a dun-colored lump on his bed in the corner of the room. His paws scrabbled against the fabric.
"Dreaming about chasing tracksuits," Clint said, nodding at the dog.
"Or pizza for breakfast," she added. She shook her head. "That guy." She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a piece of card. It had been pristine once, thick cardstock the color of crème brulee and just as rich. Now it was creased and grubby, blueish from the bleeding indigo of her jeans. She unfolded it on the counter and snatched her hands back like the card was something disgusting and possibly poisonous.
Clint looked from the card to Kate and back.
"This," she said, "is eighty-five percent of why my day is going to be shitty."
Clint poked at the card with a fingernail, like it might self-destruct. Which, come to think of it, was probably a legitimate concern in their line of work. Note to self, she thought. Pay more attention to suspicious letterpress cards.
"It's a wedding invitation."
She nodded. "Yup." He looked back at her blankly.
"Look where it is," she said finally. He looked back at the card. She could see him mouthing "Atlantic City, New Jersey" to himself.
His head snapped back up, half a grin already on his face. "This is the--"
"The not-wedding. Yeah. Because apparently a raging hurricane wasn’t enough of a harbinger of doom and they decided to go through with getting married anyway."
She exhaled, puffing her bangs off her forehead.
He scratched his head. "Wait, aren't you in this or something?"
She groaned and covered her face with her hands. "Make that ninety-five percent." She dropped her hands threw her head back theatrically.
"Sorry, Cass, but at least no one cared what I wore to your funeral," she said to the ceiling. "And they definitely didn't promise me I'd be able to wear it again. Which is a complete lie, by the way."
She turned back to Clint. "Seriously, this dress is hideous, you're going to piss yourself laughing."
He took a sip of coffee, and gave her a long look over the top of his mug. He swallowed and put it back down on the counter. "So," he said eventually. "You got a date for this thing?"
She felt a hot flush of blood creep into her face. Oh god, she was blushing. Why was she blushing? She studied her reflection in the mug of coffee. "I, uh…no. That is, I thought about asking someone, but he's…he's out of town."
Clint chuckled. "Out of town, outer space, same difference, right?"
"Wait," she said slowly. "I told you about that? When did I tell you about that?"
She caught Clint's strange expression before he hid it behind another sip of coffee. He muttered something indecipherable into the ceramic.
"What did you say?" she asked.
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. "You, uh…you might have called me one night? It was kind of late. And you were kind of hammered."
"I drunk-dialed you?" She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Shit, it was Teddy's birthday party, wasn't it? I got all maudlin, and then stupid Loki was getting me to take shots…goddamn it." She shook her head. "I can't believe I drunk-dialed Hawkeye," she said to Lucky, who responded unhelpfully by wagging his tail in his sleep and snoring even louder.
"If it makes you feel any better, you spent most of the conversation breathing really heavily into the receiver while I debated the pros and cons of parabolic versus helical fletching. Which is what you asked me about when you called. I think the Noh-Varr thing kind of slid in there at the end."
"Oh God." She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or mortified.
"Do we need to talk about your drinking, Kate?" he asked with mock concern. "As my ward--"
She punched him in the arm. "Don't worry," she said. "I think I've just been scared straight."
"So," he said. "About Jersey."
***
Kate shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat of the Bug, craning her neck to try and catch a glimpse of what exactly was causing the massive gridlock they were stuck in. She was unsuccessful. "Maybe a car broke down," she said hopefully. "And as soon as we pass it, things'll pick up again."
"Don't count on it," Clint said. "And welcome to New Jersey, by the way."
She rolled her eyes. "That stopped being funny after the first hour of traffic," she said. She looked at the clock on the dash. "Ugh, we're going to be late, aren't we? Mary-Beth's going to kill me."
"Don't bridesmaids of honor or whatever spend the entire weekend waiting on the bride hand and foot?"
The traffic lurched forward again, and Kate lifted her foot off the brake. "I get a pass," she said. "Dead mom, you know. Besides, she's not…we're not super close. It's an 'old family friend, promised to make me a bridesmaid when we were ten' kind of a thing." She smacked the steering wheel in a sudden burst of irritation. "But that doesn't mean it's cool for me to be late to her wedding! We should have taken the train. Tell me you don't wish you had powers right now. We could just fly there, or I don't know, alter reality so Brooklyn and Atlantic City were across the street from each other, or mess with the timestream so Mary-Beth and Steven never met and we didn't have to schlep all the way out here in the first place. Wait, no, that's kinda mean. Maybe not that last one."
He looked at her sidelong, faint amusement on his face. It irritated her all the more.
"Easy there, Katie-Kate," he said.
She sighed angrily. "Sorry. Traffic makes me edgy," she said. "I know, I know, why do I have a car in New York, then. Sure comes in handy driving getaway for your sorry ass, though, doesn't it?"
He held up his hands as if to ward her off. "I didn't say anything!"
Kate just made a strangled, inchoate noise of frustration and turned her attention back to the road.
***
In the end, they made it to the hotel with minutes to spare. Kate made Clint switch places with her and changed clothes in the passenger seat, shimmying into pink organza while trying to project an air of not giving a crap that she was practically naked in front of her…boss? Mentor? Erstwhile friend? Whatever, Clint stripped with her in the car that one time, and she barely even noticed. She was just slipping into her heels when they screeched to a halt. Kate barely spared a glance back at Clint as she threw the door open, jumped out, and bombed up the hotel steps, clutching a handrail for dear life because running in heels was the actual worst. Inside the hotel, she slowed to a trot, figuring she hadn't come all this way just to break an ankle and not be able to walk down the aisle anyway.
She followed the signs declaring VAN ALLEN/FRANGLINGSENTONSMITHE WEDDING until she found the bride and attendants lined up along the wall outside the nearly full ballroom. Inside, a string quartet was playing something soothing. Mary-Beth looked like a nervous meringue.
"Sorry sorry sorry sorry," she said, leaning in to kiss Mary-Beth on the cheek. "There was a ton of traffic. You look perfect," she added, because it was true. And then the string quartet stopped the milling-around music and started the wedding march, and a passably cute groomsman offered her his arm. He was probably a sophomore at Harvard or something Kate might care more about if she wasn't Hawkeye. Being a superhero was pretty great for combating post-high school existential malaise. Everyone should try it, she thought, beaming a genuine smile out at the audience as she one-two stepped up the aisle.
Kate never saw Clint come in. She just looked up halfway through the second reading there he was, smirking at her from the tenth row. Somewhere along the line he'd changed into a slightly rumpled suit and lavender tie and he looked…well. Damn, he looked really good.
In retrospect, she thought it was probably that damn suit that saved them. Because if she hadn't been checking out her…partner? Work husband? Ugh, whatever- if she hadn't been checking out Clint instead of staring lovingly at the picture of matrimonial bliss that was the nascent Van Allen-Franglingsentonsmithes, she probably wouldn't have seen the tracksuit before he saw her.
Kate suddenly felt like she was moving through syrup. Now her eyes flicked from the tracksuit to Clint and back, now the tracksuit was moving down the aisle, not even bothering to be subtle, striding--no, ambling--like he was taking a walk in the fucking park, now he was reaching into his jacket and now she was screaming "DOWN!" and the room was exploding.
She dove for the floor, rolling and popping up on the balls of her feet. She was in a fighting crouch, hands already twitching toward the quiver that wasn't strapped to her back. "Dammit," she muttered. Unarmed. Stupid, stupid. What was she thinking? That you were going to a snoozefest society wedding where the most dangerous eventuality is that someone will drink too much champagne and knock over the chocolate fountain, she thought. And then there was Clint, and God bless him, he was tossing her her bow and quiver, turning and running for the door before she even caught it.
"Much obliged, Hawkeye," she shouted over the crowd, hurrying after him. At the head of the aisle, she saw Mary-Beth trying to cover her head with a floral arrangement the size of her torso.
"Any time, Hawkeye," Clint called over his shoulder. "You know, that's really not getting old."
"Nope," she called back, grinning. She caught up to him. "The tracksuit--he bail?"
"Yeah, as soon as you yelled, far as I could tell."
"What the hell was he doing way out--fuck!" Her heel had snagged on the aisle runner and she kicked it free, stumbling. "Don't suppose you grabbed my boots?"
"Sorry," Clint said. "But you're going to have to book it if we wanna find out what's up with the wedding crasher." He took off as they reached the door, running in earnest now.
"Good try on the reference," she huffed as she ran. "Little stale, though. How old are you again?"
They made it to the street in time to catch the screech of tires as Tracksuit made his getaway. Her mind was suddenly clearer than it had been in days, and she let the momentum carry her out into the street where she wheeled to a stop, heedless of traffic. She snatched an arrow from her quiver and nocked it in one fluid movement, said a silent prayer to Diana as she aimed, then shot the arrow home straight into the fucker's rear passenger tire. The car fishtailed into some trashcans at the end of the block.
"Call the cops, would you?" Kate said to the dumbfounded valet guy. "Don't worry," she added, jerking a thumb at Clint. "He's an Avenger."
"Idiot might have actually valet-ed his getaway car," Clint said, sidling up alongside Kate and clapping her on the shoulder. ""This is the best wedding I've ever been to," he said. "And that includes my own."
“I didn’t get any wedding cake,” she said. “Buy me a milkshake from that diner we passed on the way in and I won’t tell your ex you said that.”
***
Kate kicked off her heels and sunk onto the hotel bed with a sigh, crossing a leg in front of her to inspect the angry red creases crisscrossing her foot. "I think my big toe is broken," she groaned, wiggling it gingerly with her thumb and forefinger. On the nightstand, her chocolate milkshake slowly melted in its styrofoam cup.
“Sorry,” Clint said absently. She knew he was going over the police interview in his head. It hadn’t been very forthcoming. Either the tracksuits sent someone relatively low in the pecking order to do their dirty work, or this guy was good at holding out. “Cop interview’s not going to get shit,” Clint had grumbled. “Give the Black Widow five minutes with this asshole and he’ll be singing like...like...” He gestured fruitlessly.
Kate shook her head. “Like a canary,” she said, patting his arm. “Let’s just go for a classic.”
“So, someone’s trying to kill you,” she said. “The question is why.”
Clint leaned across, plucked her milkshake off the nightstand, and began stabbing at it with the straw. “I might have done a thing.”
“Oh god,” Kate said. “Do I want to know about--wait. Wait. It’s Cherry, isn’t it?” She sighed. “Clint, look. Nothing personal, I’m sure she’s great, but that whole thing was like watching a horror movie and yelling at the girl not to run upstairs but she can’t hear you, and...” She stopped, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands until she saw spots. “Why did you run upstairs, Clint?”
“Her name’s not really Cherry,” Clint said.
“I am such an idiot,” Kate said. “I should never have agreed to take you guys to that stupid, sketchy club. I’m an enabler, aren’t I? God, I’m your enabler! I--”
Clint reached over and put a hand on her wrist. Kate stopped talking.
“Pretty sure I’d have found a way to get there and screw things up without you,” he said.
She looked up at him. He was still wearing that stupid lavender tie. She realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him without a mess of assorted bandages on his face. They didn’t call it getting into a scrape for nothing; Clint Barton was proof enough of that. Stop staring, Kate.
“Thanks, I think,” she said.
“You’re right, though,” said Clint. “You shouldn’t...you’re too...I’m not a good role model.” His hand was still on her wrist.
“Shut up,” Kate said. “You’re Hawkeye. That’s...that’s good enough for me.” Her throat felt tight, and she swallowed against it. “Besides,” she added, “I prefer ‘cautionary tale’." She got to her feet. The toe throbbed in protest, but she would live. She looked at Clint's hand, splayed on the splashy floral-print comforter.
"Let's get out of here," Kate said, sighing. "I miss Brooklyn."
Clint nodded. He tossed her the keys to the Bug. "You drive," he said.