Work Text:
“Mommy, why does daddy hit us and yell at us?”
“Daddy doesn’t like to hit and yell, baby. The alcohol likes to hit and yell.”
“Then how come he still drinks it when it makes him do bad things? Doesn’t he love us?”
“Of course he does, baby…He just…He’s…”
“Mommy? Mommy, why are you crying?”
Clint opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling of his bedroom. The sounds of New York City drifted in through the open window, horns blazing and sirens wailing in the distance, while dogs barked and people shouted about one thing or another. Lucky was laying out on the bed beside him, breathing steadily in sleep. He was in New York in his apartment; he was home.
Just a dream. It was just a dream.
More like a nightmare.
He sat up with a groan, running a hand over his face and Lucky opened his eyes, lifting his head to look at him. Clint reached out, giving the dog an affectionate pat before throwing off the covers and getting out of bed. He shuffled into the kitchen, Lucky following quickly behind a few moments later.
Natasha was already up; she was always the early riser. Early to rise, the first to grab the paper and the first to start the coffee maker. She glanced up from her reading, giving him a once over before abandoning her place entirely so she could pour him a mug of coffee. She slid it over the counter to him as he sank into a stool, wrapping his hands around it carefully.
“Thanks.”
“You look rough. Did you not sleep well?”
“Bad dreams.” Clint said as means of explanation, knowing she would understand. “More like bad memories.”
Which was strange; he only ever had dreams about his mother when…Clint turned his head, glancing at the calendar hanging on the fridge and counting the days. It couldn’t be that time of year again, could it? So soon?
Huh. Two days away. He hadn’t even realized.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asked, voice pulling his attention from the calendar and drawing it back to her. “Your dream?”
“Not really.” Clint said honestly, finally taking a sip of his coffee and letting the bitter taste rouse the rest of his senses. “It’s just one I haven’t had in a while. I think it’s that time of year again.”
Once a year, Clint had a period of time where he’d take a vacation. He wouldn’t go to work, he wouldn’t leave the apartment, and he wouldn’t take visitors. He called it his ‘mental health week’, but after a couple of years of this, Natasha started to notice that this vacation happened on the same week every year. She never asked him why he always took that week in particular to himself, but he figured she did some digging and found out on her own.
He never went anywhere, just spent a week feeling sorry for himself, mourning the loss of an amazing life that he hadn’t been able to save. It never got any easier and as the years went on, Clint found himself forgetting more and more about his mother. He remembered what she looked like; blonde hair and blue eyes, just like his own, but that was about it. What did her smile look like? What did she even sound like? What was her favorite flower? Was she even as great as he remembered her to be?
He spent so much time alone, feeling sorry for himself, but he never went to visit her. He’d been to her gravesite maybe once since she died and that was probably the day after the funeral; it hurt too much to go back and face the reality of her death, though Barney had said several times it might give him some closure to just go and talk to her.
Barney had been several times to see her; he wandered so much he just decided to pass through every now and then. He’d check on the headstone, make sure it was still nicely kept, and he’d always leave flowers. He wouldn’t visit every year, but he made sure it was whenever he was in town.
It wasn’t like Clint didn’t think about his mother, in fact, he thought about her a lot. When he finally started making enough money to live off of being a superhero and an agent of Shield, he bought her a nicer headstone, something that would keep forever and never wear down. Half of his monthly paycheck went to organizations that supported abused spouses with children, so that other families would never have to go through what his went through.
But as much good as he tried to do in his mother’s memory, it just wasn’t enough. Maybe Barney was right; maybe he needed to go see her and finally get his closure. He didn’t know how though; his mother was dead and talking to the dead wasn’t going to bring them back.
“You’re late this year. I was wondering if you were going to remember at all.” Natasha observed, studying him. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No. I think I’m going to leave this time.” Clint admitted, surprised at how readily he said it. “Take a trip. Just for a few days. I’ll be back so fast you won’t even miss me.”
Natasha hummed, moving around the counter to stand at his side, winding an arm around his shoulders. He tilted his head and she bent hers, pressing her lips into his hair. “I think I might.” She murmured. “Do whatever you have to do. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Mama, don’t go!”
“It’s alright, Clint. It’s alright. We’ll be right back, I promise.”
“Mama!”
“Edith!”
“Get your brother into bed, Barney. Pick out a book and I’ll read it when I get back. I’ll be home soon.”
When his mother died, Clint had been eight years old and Barney had been eleven. Both too young to lose their parents, both too young to have gone through anything they had gone through already in their young lives. Oddly enough, he remembered the night she died more vividly than he remembered anything else about her.
It had been raining; their father was drunk, shouting at their mother about the lack of alcohol in the house and demanding she go out to buy more. When she finally agreed, he announced he was going with her and that he would drive to make sure she wasn’t trying to pull any funny business.
The road was slippery to begin with and it probably didn’t help that their father was so drunk he couldn’t walk in a straight line let alone drive in one. The liquor store had only been a ten-minute drive away; how could he have messed that up?
He did.
The car hit a tree, totaled it; Harold and Edith Barton died instantly. Their two sons, Clinton and Charles Bernard Barton, waited at home in their beds for a bedtime story that was never coming.
Maybe if Clint had begged louder for his mother to stay, she would have let Harold go on his own. Maybe if he’d cried harder when his father first struck him across the face or pushed him down a flight of stairs, she would have had more incentive to pack their bags and take them far away from that terrible place.
Maybe he’d been at fault, but after some time, he realized that he’d only been eight years old; a child. Even if he had tried, there was nothing he could have done. Not in the time they lived or even in the area; if he told anyone, Edith would deny the abuse and Clint would just be making up ‘wild stories’.
After that, he spent a long time being mad at his mother.
He’d done the reading, gone through the counseling, and after a long time of being angry at his mother for never leaving Harold when she could have multiple times, Clint realized how difficult that would have been for her. A single mother with two boys, no job, no family or friends to turn to; there was nowhere for her to go. Even if she had packed them up and run, it would have only been a matter of time before Harold hunted them down.
It took a very, very long time, but Clint finally stopped being angry at his mother and finally started focusing all of that anger on the man that had taken her away in the first place.
“Shh…Shh, sweet boy…Everything is alright.”
“It hurts, mama! It hurts!”
“Shh…I’m here…Everything is alright. Mama is here.”
“Mama…! Mama…!”
“Hush little baby…don’t say a word…”
Waverly, Iowa hadn’t changed much since Clint had last been there.
It was still flat farmland that went on for miles with assorted animals here and there. Maybe there were a few more houses, a few less families, and a few less corn fields, but this was home.
Clint had rented a car after he landed, driving the familiar dirt roads like he’d done it every day of his life. It was something ingrained in him; you never really forget where you come from no matter how much you try.
He didn’t bother to see if the old Barton farm was still standing; he didn’t care and frankly, if it were, he’d just light a match and burn it to the ground. No, he just drove straight to the cemetery because that was his business today. It wasn’t some fond walk down memory lane, it was a chance to say goodbye.
When he pulled into the cemetery and finally stopped where he needed to, Clint couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car. He just sat, staring at the flowers he’d brought with him, and wondering why his heart was pounding so loudly.
It was funny. He’d come all this way to get closure and yet, he couldn’t make himself get out and go get it. He didn’t know what he was so afraid of; it wasn’t like she would be there, crawling out of her grave to nag him about never visiting or tell him how she didn’t even like the gladiolus flower, she liked some other flower.
“I don’t want him to hurt us anymore, mama...”
“Oh hush now. Everything is alright. I’m here.”
“Mama…We should run away! We should go, right now, while he’s gone and…!”
“Oh, my brave boys…You are so much braver than I am…”
Edith was probably the strongest of them all, the strongest and the bravest. She’d done so much to protect her children from a man who hurt them and ended up dying at his hands. All she’d wanted for them was a better life, happiness, and despite how her death had crippled her children, in a way, she’d freed them.
Clint swallowed, turning off the car and stepping out, flowers in hand as he marched his way to the polished marble tombstone. He had all of the words in his head, everything he wanted to say and he would just put down the flowers and be done, but when he stopped in front of that stone, his mind went blank.
Edith Barton. Beloved mother and friend.
An inscription he’d come up with, one that Barney approved. Her original script had read ‘beloved wife, mother, and friend’, but the idea someone had thought putting that on her tombstone after what had happened made him want to vomit. But now that he was here, staring at it with his own two eyes, he’d forgotten what he wanted to say.
What did Barney say when he came to visit? Did he say anything at all? What would he say if she were standing right in front of him? What would he want to tell her?
“Hi, mama…”
That was a good start.
“It’s…It’s me. It’s Clint. You probably know that though, don’t you?” Clint continued. “I’m really sorry I haven’t come to visit. I’m…I don’t really have an excuse. I just…I don’t know what I was supposed to say.”
He swallowed, mouth dry, and he wanted to look anywhere but at the giant rock with her name on it. It was too hard; why was his chest so tight? Why were his eyes burning?
“I brought you some flowers. The lady at the flower store told me that the gladiolus flower is for remembrance, so I brought you some of those. I wanted you to know that I remember you, even though I don’t always act like it.”
He set the flowers down, positioning them just so on the ground before finally taking a seat on the grass himself and pulling his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them.
“I’m a superhero, mama. I protect people and keep them safe. It’s kind of my job.” Clint began with a weak smile. “You wouldn’t believe the world now, mama. Superheroes and super villains, it’s all real life. Every day stuff. They call me Hawkeye; I never miss a shot, mama, I’m the best in the world.”
Clint swallowed again, vision blurring, but he hurriedly blinked it all away.
“I have a beautiful girlfriend. Her name is Natasha. She’s so strong, mama, so brave. She keeps me in line and keeps me safe. I’m incredibly reckless; that hasn’t changed. I’d be lost without her.” He continued, voice rough. “And no, I don’t have any kids, but…I have a protégée, Katie and Wanda who are a lot like adopted daughters. Can you believe it? I keep them out of trouble.”
“I have a dog too. His name is Lucky. He probably thinks that he’s lucky, but I think I’m really the lucky one, mama.” Clint swiped a hand over his eyes, surprised to find it came away wet. “I’m so lucky that I have the friends I have, the job I have…I do so much good every day and it’s all because of you.”
He sniffed, wiping his eyes again and again. Why couldn’t he stop crying? “You taught me how to be good, you gave up your entire life for me and I can’t even remember what you sound like. I can’t remember your laugh or your smile.” He choked out. “I’m an awful son, mama. How could I forget you? You must hate me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.” A voice said from behind him.
Clint started, turning around quickly and was surprised to see Barney there, watching him with a sad smile on his face.
“Barney? What are you doing here?” Clint asked, scrubbing at his face again because the last thing he needed was for Barney to make fun of him for crying and kick him while he was down. “How did you know I was...?”
“Natasha told me you were coming. She thought you might need me.” Barney said simply, coming over to take a seat on the grass beside him, setting a rose down next to Clint’s flowers. “She was right.”
“Like usual.” Clint agreed, though he had no idea how Natasha had known where he was going or when he’d be there. She was so damn smart; he owed her one for this. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this. So helpless, wishing she was here. I thought I was over this.”
Barney sighed, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the sky. “I remember the day you were born. The day you came home from the hospital.” He said quietly. “I looked down at this small wrinkly thing that mama said was supposed to be my brother and she said, ‘protect him, sweetheart. Keep him safe. That’s what big brothers do.’”
Clint turned his head to look at him curiously and Barney continued to stare at the sky. “I haven’t always done a good job at being a big brother. For a long time, I thought she’d be ashamed of me because of all the shit that I caused you.” He said honestly. “Everything I’ve done wrong, I tried to make right.”
Barney reached into the pocket of his coat and dug out a folded piece of paper which he handed over to Clint who took it with a frown. Once it was in his hands, Clint realized the piece of paper was actually a photograph, old and faded under closer examination, fraying at the edges.
“What is this?” Clint asked with a snort, unfolding it carefully so not to ruin it further. When he saw what the photograph was of, his breath caught in his throat.
“You need it more than I do.” Barney said quietly.
It was Edith, seated in a room and smiling at the photographer with every bit of kindness that Clint remembered her having. Her hair was done up all nice in loose curls and her dress was yellow with white polka dots. Clint suddenly remembered that his mother’s favorite color was yellow; she loved sunflowers, sunshine. There had always been an overabundance of yellow in their house when he’d been growing up.
At her side was Barney; red hair a mess and a big grin in place. He couldn’t have been more than five or six in the picture judging from his size. He still looked like a punk, even when he was young.
In his mother’s lap sat another little boy with a mess of blonde hair and big blue eyes almost identical to their mother. It was obvious this little boy was her son, even their smiles were the same. “That’s…Is that me?” He asked.
“Yeah, that little twerp is you.” Barney snorted, shaking his head as if asking who else would it be. “You look so much like her. You’re really lucky. You look so much like the nicer parent we had.”
Clint bit his lip, still staring down at the photograph in his hands, eyes starting to blur fresh again. “Where did you find this?” He asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“I had to do some digging, but when I found it, I thought you should have it.” Barney said simply, bumping shoulders with him gently and turning his head to give him a smile. “She’d be really proud of you, you know.”
Clint smiled, shaking his head and nudging him back. “I think she’d be really proud of you too.” He said quietly. “Punk.”
“Twerp.”
“I think I want to be a superhero when I grow up, mama.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“Yup! I’m going to save all kinds of people from the bad guys! Just like in the comics!”
“Well, you’re going to need a cape then, so you can fly.”
Clint went home feeling a lot lighter than he had in a very long time. After Barney made his appearance, they sat and talked for hours, sharing what they remembered of their mother. They only shared the happy memories; songs she sang when she was cleaning house, stories she’d tell when they were ready to go to bed.
Tears were shed, but they both ended up going their separate ways feeling better than they ever had and with a lot more memories than they had arrived with. Clint kept the photograph close to his heart the entire way home, not wanting anything to tarnish the happy memory any more than it had been already by natural wear and tear.
When he walked into his apartment, Lucky was the first to greet him, jumping up excitedly and rewarding his face with lick after lick.
“Hi, buddy. Did you miss me?” Clint asked with a laugh, ruffling the fur on his head before helping him down.
“He’s not the only one.” Natasha said from the kitchen, leaning in the doorframe to smile at him. She was studying him, calculating as if she were looking for something, but whatever it was, she seemed to find it after a while. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
“I feel a lot better.” Clint said honestly, moving over to her and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you. For sending Barney my way.”
“I’m just glad he could help you.” Natasha murmured, returning the kiss to his cheek lightly. “Maybe we can talk about it later. I invited the girls over to welcome you home. Figured we could have some kind of movie night.”
“I’d like that. Really. Oh, but first…” Clint dug through his pocket, tugging out the photograph and hurrying over to an empty picture frame standing up near the television. He took out the stock photo before sticking the one of his mother inside, smiling with pride.
Now she’d always have a place close to him; he could see her every day.
“Who’s that?” Natasha asked, coming over to his side to examine the picture.
“That’s…my mother. My mother, Edith.” Clint explained with a fond smile. “And me and Barney when we were younger. He gave me this picture, said he found it. Isn’t she pretty?”
“Oh, Clint. She’s beautiful. You look so much like her.” Natasha observed, a smile of her own in place. “She looks like she was a very kind, loving mother.”
Clint wound an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.
“She was. Believe me, she really was."