brandingproblem | open post

An entire floor in Stark Tower was a bit extravagant. Phil was used to his small office on the helicarrier and the slightly smaller apartment that he barely spent time in. A whole floor that was office/living space/hang out space combined done up with the best Stark's money could buy or invent was quite a change. Phil suspected that Stark missed him more than his snide comments and angry shouting let on.

Sadly, Phil found he had missed Stark as well. Maybe it was a side-effect of his resurrection. Which Stark and Banner were eagerly studying. He was fairly certain they had taken more of his blood and run more scans on him than all his years as a SHIELD field agent.

Tonight, he was working late. He always worked late. The semi-late night hours were the only time he could work peacefully. Mostly peacefully. There was no way to know when Stark or Banner might have a late night experimentation session. Small explosions and electrical problems were more common here. Fixed faster here than at SHIELD but more common.

Phil had his jacket on the back of his chair. His sleeves rolled up but his tie was still on. Casual dress for Agent Coulson. Soft jazz played in the background as he wrote reports and read through dossiers on potential operations for the Avengers. Being the whole team's handler was a familiar if daunting task.

When he heard the door to his office open he knew it was one of the two people who had unrestricted access to his floor at any time of the day. Even when he wasn't in his office.

He doesn't look up until Clint sits down in the chair in front of his desk and a cold beer also gets set down. Phil saves his work then sits back, studying the beer for a moment and then Clint, one eyebrow raised.

"What's this for?" he asks, a bit curious. Something has brought Clint to his office this late at night. There are plenty of things it could be spread out across the years they've known each other. Phil can wait until Clint wants to tell him.

Besides, the cold beer looks pretty good even though he's never been much of a drinker.

Obviously Clint has a home of his own, but on the job, this is home away from home. Almost no one actually lives here full time. Coulson runs the Avengers like a team, yes, and that means sometimes the individuals have their own duties. Nat's got missions. Cap's got missions. Tony pretends like he picks and chooses his own missions (and half the time he's right). Bruce doesn't really like the whole mission thing and is mostly allowed to stay in the labs, sure, but sometimes the brains need to be out there, too. And the brawn, whether he likes it or not. Thor says something about princely duties to the other realms and mostly shows up occasionally on the rooftop landing pad to spend time with his girlfriend, but if he sticks around too long, he gets roped into helping, too.

Clint obviously gets sent out, too. At least some of them are still fully SHIELD agents alongside running with the Avengers. He still manages to get home as often as he can. There's just the added hiccup of some of his missions being a little more intensive and to do with something more than the usual spy faire.

It's working pretty well. Fury's always someone very hard to read, so if he's annoyed at all this, or if he's proud, if he's taking the credit or if this was the plan all along, well, the man's holding his cards so close to his chest they might as well be embedded in the skin. So there's no sabotage, and in spite of the bad blood, it's all working as intended. He's pretty sure Natasha let Fury have it to some extent. Clint hasn't brought it up. Stay under the radar. Get the job done as well as he's physically able. Keep going.

Tonight is quiet. It's never silent, not with several floors of R&D always buzzing somewhere below, but Clint's done his training at the firing range, hit the gym, had a cold shower, and feels...like it's too quiet. Like something's buzzing under his skin, and he knows better than to try and convince some of the lab geeks to go have a night out with him.

So. Beer and Coulson.

They've talked. Sporadically, in stops and starts, in inconsistent chunks. Coulson's the type to also put his head down, not to hide but to push himself through every obstacle. Hasn't asked what the conversations/arguments with the others were like. They're all getting used to the man who was their reason for unity as, well, still being their reason for unity, but by being present and alive. For god only knows how much longer.

Like there's a ticking time bomb in Coulson's chest.

The answers from the sciences bros have been inconclusive, and Clint tries not to let that bother him. It is what it is, and they'll deal with things as they come. He's had to live with Coulson dead before, and he knows he isn't blamed by anyone whose opinion matters. No one here has treated him any different for what happened.

Had even joked that Stark should pour some gold or something special into the Loki-shaped dent in the floor, though that got overridden pretty quickly in the rebuilding and remodeling.

The door opens easily for him. Of course he and Natasha are allowed on Coulson's floor, all the time, anytime. And he tries not to feel bad about the fact that no one's got free roam of Clint's own floor. Not even Nat. Tony's the only one with access codes to everyone, something initially fought but eventually relented for the fact that it's his damn building. Jarvis makes some funny company and otherwise gives them privacy unless asked for or in case of a medical emergency.

So. Beer. Coulson. Coulson's not a big drinker, likes to keep his head clear, but a beer won't kill him. Probably.

"Company. And a break. World's not gonna end if you peel your eyes away from it for ten minutes." Clint kicks his feet up on the desk, sitting at a jaunty angle. "If you don't want it, I'll drink for both of us."

Phil considers, for a moment, pushing Clint's feet off his desk. This desk, however, is much better than his desk at SHIELD. There's room for Clint to put his feet up without putting his boots on paperwork or knocking his pencil cup over. So, he chooses to let it go.

"Now that you've said it, you've jinxed us." Phil takes the beer and sits back in his chair. No feet on the desk. His lower back can't handle that.

He lets the silence stretch for a moment. They can sit quietly together very well. Phil has patience and he genuinely likes the quiet. There's no air of expectation here. They can drink quietly together or they can talk. Phil's door is open to Clint for many, many reasons. That's one of them.

"Can't sleep?" he asks after those few beats of silence. He takes a sip of beer, swallows and after a moment it doesn't make him dizzy or feel strange. Things that effect his mind, which is already messed up, are an unknown now. He isn't sure what will unlock or what might get twisted.

Nightmares are not uncommon around the tower. All of them from Phil to Steve Rogers have seen terrible things. They've done terrible things. No one sleeps easily every single night in this building. Phil has had some good late night conversations with everyone. He finds Dr. Banner to be a good listener and funnier than most would assume.

But this is Clint. Phil knows some of his nightmares. They share some nightmares given their long history of missions together. It might be one of those shared nightmares.

"Oh no," drawled out unhurriedly, "jinxed us with more work, how terrible."

This quiet isn't too quiet. This is companionable. This is not alone. He probably could've gone down to one of the labs, see if Tony or Bruce were still up, asked if it was okay if he found a place to perch and watch. He knows that can be unnerving, and it's not like he'd understand all they were doing anyway.

And, hell, he doesn't really want to bother people. He barely wants to be here bothering Phil as it is. But he's pretty sure if he goes back to his room, he won't get much sleep. Will probably deal with the feeling of not quite right until he wants to rip his skin off, then go back to the gym and run and punch things until he's two seconds from collapsing.

Doesn't know what's got him all beside himself tonight. If he can't dig it out of himself, maybe Coulson can. Or, if nothing else, they'll both feel better just spending time together. Quiet companionship.

"I like it better when everyone's here buzzing around working on shit. Or playing beer pong in the living area."

Phil nods a little as he sips as his beer again. He reads between the lines of what Clint isn't saying, understanding that there are times he can't say what's really on his mind or what he really wants to talk about. This isn't particularly hard to figure out, not after knowing him for so long. He thinks the rest of the Avengers who don't know Clint that well could figure it out.

"You need a distraction," he says, eyes fixed on him to read his expression. "From what's going on in your head?"

That he understands more and more. His thoughts wander too easily to his resurrection and death if he doesn't have something to distract him. He's taken to leaving the news on at night for the background noise. Or working until he couldn't keep his eyes open which Clint has interrupted without knowing. Or maybe he does. Clint sees and understands more than people give him credit for.

"Talk to me, Barton." He doesn't order but suggests, offers up a sympathetic ear. They can, perhaps, untangle some of those knots that have twisted up their thoughts.

He's in the middle of a sip but points at Coulson. Need a distraction. Need something or he's going to be too alone with himself, and that isn't such a good thing anymore.

He's safe. He's pretty sure he's safe. SHIELD figured he was safe, and that's good enough for him. Or it used to be. Now it doesn't really matter what happens to him, does it, if Fury can flip a switch and bring him back from whatever.

And he knows that Coulson needs distracting sometimes. Yes. This isn't just for him; he really does think that the man needs a break, and sometimes that comes in the form of a friend bearing drinkable gifts. "Maybe what's going on in my head is wondering what's going on in your head."

It's a cop out and he knows it. They both do. But it's also not wholly incorrect. So instead of focusing on himself, he focuses on something outward. "You got all this space, and you barely use it. You play desk jockey all day. I'm serious, world's not ending if you take a break. You're not wasting your time if you aren't working."

Phil gives him a bland look, unimpressed by the obvious redirect. Clint came to him to talk and is now trying to get out of that. They're not going to focus on Phil all night just because Clint struggles to talk about his own problems.

Pot. Kettle.

"I like working," he reminds Clint. Phil genuinely does love his job and the good it lets him do in the world. That doesn't mean his hands are clear or that he doesn't have regrets about calls he's made but he does enjoy the work and the purpose it gives him. "And there's a lot that people want the Avengers to do which means there's a lot I have to look through."

They pick their own missions but Phil is the one who brings the missions to them first, already picking out the garbage.

"But... without a distraction sometimes thoughts about my death are all I can focus on." Phil frowns at his beer, thumb picking at the corner of a label. "It's not an enjoyable way to spend my time. And besides that spending time with all of you is hard. Some of you still treat me like I'm a walking ghost."

It's not often but it happens. Someone is surprised to see him. They look stunned then relieved and then remember he's been 'alive' for awhile now. Long enough that he feels no one should be surprised anymore.

Yeah, Coulson doesn't need to say it. His looks have always spoken very loudly as is. They'll circle back around to Clint Barton's Fucking Problems eventually.

But he's not the only one with problems.

Of course death is going to be a thought close at hand. There's really not going to be any stopping that, unfortunately. There are always going to be too-quiet moments too wrapped up in oneself, and Phil's got something huge to fall back on, constantly.

"You kind of are," Clint points out. "It...shouldn't happen now, and it sucks that it does." Does he do that? He's not sure. And now everyone knows, that this is tech that's out there, that if SHIELD could figure it out, maybe someone else (like Stark, Banner) can, too.

It should scare the shit out of everyone.

"Maybe it's a sign you need to socialize a little more."

There used to be a standing poker game between himself, Sitwell, Hill, and May. They don't play anymore because of a number of reasons but it used to be the way Phil socialized. He has not talked to the cellist because what could he say? It makes him very tired to think about reviving that relationship.

"I don't want to intrude on team nights," he explains with a small shrug of his shoulders. "It's important that you become friends, not just coworkers."

The Avengers would probably welcome him. Phil's at least somewhat confident they wouldn't resent him if he sat down to watch a movie or two with them. He feels like he's intruding because he's the ghost in the room. His relationship with these people has been strictly professional for years before his death. Crossing that line is... difficult.

For Phil. It might not be for the Avengers.

"And before you say anything about that I know." He doesn't need Clint to give him the lecture he just gave himself. "Did you like to socialize after you first came back from Loki's control?"

Socializing doesn't feel quite right when Phil doesn't feel quite right with himself. He wishes Banner and Stark would discovery some answers on what was done to him so he could stop wondering all the time.

"Fuck you." It isn't sharp, no fire behind it, but it does come near automatically to the question. Which also works as an answer.

He stares out the wall of windows instead, turning the bottle in his hands. "Point made." Clearly. Being social is hard when you're under heavy surveillance, sure, but even when his restrictions got lifted bit by bit, it was hard to feel like he was wanted or welcome, like he could let himself.

Of course, if there's going to be any comparisons made to that particular time of his life, it means he's going to worry about where Coulson's at. He's been doing great work. And he's got a strong disposition. But if he's suffering without any real outlet for it... "Anything you can think of I can do to help? Besides coming up to be a pain in your side uninvited. Drag you out to some bars? Fill your wallet full of ones and shove you at a strip club?" Joke answers. (But also don't put it past Barton to do it.)

He doesn't even blink at the answer. He knew it when he asked the question. Even though Phil was somewhere in a SHIELD facility getting his own mind twisted up he knew Clint well enough to know how he would have handled it.

There's a pointless surge of guilt for not being there for him. Phil was dead. There was nothing he could do. He pushes the emotion away and focuses on how he can be here for his agent and friend now instead.

"Please, no strip clubs." Phil makes a face, just a hint of a frown, which explains how he feels about that particular idea. "Stark will invite himself along and drag Captain Rogers just to embarrass him. And I don't know what Thor would do with that particular Earth custom. I don't need a spectacle to keep myself entertained."

Phil's not sure he'll ever want to try dating again. "Answers would help. You know I don't like unknowns. Now... my existence is an unknown outside of wildly experimental medical technology. I am relieved I'm not an LMD."

Stark's tests had proved that Phil's body was his own. SHIELD hadn't made a copy of him and his consciousness. He's himself... but he also doesn't feel like it all the time. "I might have to come to terms with the fact I may never get an answer besides what reports I was able to find when I first got suspicious."

"You really could use some company, Phil. What about that cellist? Invite her out, have a nice dinner, see where things go."

No, he doesn't think that line of questioning will get anywhere. Coulson's too unsure of himself in a physical sense; he's not going to subject someone outside of SHIELD's sphere of influence to his particular brand of weird unknown.

"Can't help you with answers," which they both know, unfortunately. "It's just gonna be up to the geeks downstairs. Unless you want to infiltrate our own people, see what we can dig up. Someone's got some data stored away somewhere. Has Stark been trying to hack in again?" They need certainty where there is none. It fucking sucks. "You really might have to live with it. But hey, you're alive to live with it. That's not nothing."

"I don't know if SHIELD told her about my death or not." Phil hadn't listed her as anyone who should be informed. Their relationship was still somewhat new when the invasion of New York happened. "It's just as likely that I stopped calling her for months and she's very mad at me with no idea of what happened."

Which means that relationship is another lost to his career. It might be the last if he can't figure out this disconnect between himself and his body. It's still his but he doesn't know how it's changed so it doesn't feel like his.

"Do you think Fury recorded anything of what was done?" Phil's genuinely asking. He would guess the possibility of records is low. If there are records they'd be heavily redacted. This level of experimental treatment is not something SHIELD writes down. Not until it's out of the extremely experimental stage and into reality.

He sighs before he takes a drink of beer. "I'm not ungrateful for that but... it's uncomfortable not knowing."

"Then you should call her and see if she's mad at you, and then you'll know. That's an unknown you can control. Don't know what you'd tell her, but that'd be up to you. Go be happy. Go try to be happy." And if it's lost, it's lost, but if it isn't...he's got a second chance.

But maybe that isn't the point, right now. Maybe Coulson has to figure himself out first before he can figure the rest of his life out. And what if that never happens?

Clint nurses the bottle and then straightens in his seat some. Not taking his feet off the desk yet, because he likes this casualness. But he's thinking about this. About what might or might not exist. "Far as I understand it, it's not really science if you don't write it down somewhere. Have a record of it somewhere. You need data, you need to understand how and why something happens, especially if shit doesn't work. Might not have any of that shit on SHIELD servers; whatever data there is, it's locked up real tight and probably spread over a lot of places. We're talking heavily redacted, eyes only, Level Ten kind of access if that. But you don't just fuck around with the human soul and not have things recorded, even if just a written account and some numbers I'd never understand."

"A relationship built on lies is not a relationship," Phil counters. It would bother him. How would he explain the scar on his back and chest? Anyone with any sense in their head would know a scar like that wasn't survivable. There would be questions he couldn't answer and that would cause resentment.

"Let the cellist go. I have." The ease at which he did that probably said a lot for that particular relationship. He understands, though, that Clint's worried and trying to help in a way that's tangible and real. He's always been good with direct action.

"It would be Director level. His eyes only." Phil agrees with a small nod, like they're planning any other operation. If Natasha had been there it would be like any other mission. "I assume that Stark is looking for it. The man is as brilliant as he says. And stubborn."

He makes a pained face to admit that even though he does occasionally like Tony Stark. He will never admit it to anyone. "If he can't find the answers in the samples he's taken, he's going to go to the source. That AI of his is hard at work combing every file it can and attempting to hack what it doesn't yet have access to. I'm pretending I don't know any of that."

Because if he did he would have to step in and put a stop to it. Stark would be looking through highly classified documents that could, if they leaked, cause a lot of international incidents. "I still don't think he'll find anything. If Fury wrote it down, it's on paper locked up tight somewhere. Not digitized. Not where someone like Stark could find it."

Okay. Let it go. Will he really? Maybe, maybe not. It's a physical, actionable thing. It's going to surprise the team, later, probably, when they all start figuring out that Clint's not a bad hand at the emotional stuff, too, in his own sense. But it's true that he prefers something to do. Something he can get his hands on.

There's an argument to be made that the relationship doesn't have to be built on lies, but he knows that's a very different situation.

"Yeah, wouldn't look good to more or less declare open war on your own people." A sentiment that's going to age very poorly in a few years. "Stark's already got a track record of digging up SHIELD secrets; it's expected, and he wouldn't want anyone else to take the fall for it when it blows up in his face. Hard to blacklist Iron Man. A lot easier to levy repercussions on the man behind the curtain."

International incidents, and probably interpersonal incidents. Clint...hesitates, a small furrow to his brow. But it disappears in a moment. The only people who know about the Bartons are Fury, Coulson, and Natasha. That's not anything that would be digitized anywhere in Fury's files. Probably not even a physical file. Personal intel and a promise made long ago. (Not that he thinks Stark would do anything with that information. There's far more potentially damaging and much more damning in Hawkeye's personnel file, mission reports, psych evals than that. But it's what's most important to him.)

"And Fury knows now that that's what he's going to do, go poking around. He'll have the best on his end re-encrypting and moving things around. Digital cat and mouse. It'll go on for a while."

And if Coulson's particular intel is hard copy only, then it'll all be for naught. It'll mean trying to find the breadcrumbs of where that kind of research would be. Backtracing any potential places where the experiment took place. Careful physical raids. And that, beyond some grey hat hacking, would definitely be a declaration of civil war.

"Maybe I should go bat my eyelashes at Fury and ask him pretty please."

"SHIELD is an organization built on good intentions. We know where it leads." Phil believes in the work SHIELD does and the work he's done over the years. His hands are just as bloody as Clint's or Natasha's. Often their hands are bloody because of his call. He's aware of just what sacrifices he's made and the choices he's made. Clean is not a term for SHIELD agents at any level.

Stark is protective in his own way. His own very grating and annoying way. He could tell him that digging wouldn't do any good but that wouldn't stop the man. He wants answers and will not be stopped until those answers hurt someone. Phil's not sure if those answers will hurt him or not.

He catches Clint's frown even though it's short and barely there. He can guess what that's about but he won't press. Clint will bring it up if he's really worried.

"I doubt even your eyelashes will do anything," Phil says in that same dry but weary tone. "I asked him and he won't tell me. It's my life and he won't tell me."

Not the full details, at least. Fury's answers had simply been that Phil's life had been worth saving. He was worth an Avengers level response. That's something he's still coming to terms with. He's never thought himself that important before. He's no Captain America, no matter how much he wanted to be as a child.

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment and then lets it go. "If Fury doesn't want us to know, we won't know. It's how he's always worked."

"It's smart." Something Fury has in god damn spades. The spy. At least twenty steps ahead of everyone.

(And Clint and Loki had been one or two more steps ahead of that. Maybe set that thought into a little box of its own, shove it under the bed.)

"Too powerful to risk letting it fall in anyone else's hands. If he's not sure he can trust it, then it never has to get used again. If he does have faith in it, it's only gonna come back out when one of us does something stupid and shuffles off our meager mortal coils. Whatever it is, he's waiting to see what happens to you. Means if he has to, it can get thrown back together in a hurry. And probably dismantled just as fast. If it's mechanical, anyway. If it's chemical, there'll be one sample stored somewhere, because the alternative is synthesize some up in a hurry and at that point it implies it's simple enough to synthesize in a hurry, which means someone else would've stumbled on it by now."

But they have Stark, and they have Banner, and the power of those two together will figure something out. Clint pulls his feet from the desk at last.

"I haven't really talked to him about it anyway. Know it won't change anything."

"All he needed was a guinea pig."

It's perhaps more cynical that he should be considering Fury is one of his oldest friends but it's because he knows Fury that he believes it. Fury will do what is best for SHIELD and Fury. He could risk an agent before he had to risk an Avenger. Whatever was done to him they're all watching and waiting to see if it goes horribly wrong.

Resurect an Avenger. It did feel good when Fury said it. It took him awhile to figure out what it truly meant, the underlying reason.

If it does, the method will be destroyed and Fury will try to find another way to keep the dead from resting peacefully.

"There's not one sample," Phil argues with a little frown. "There's more than one. Fury has backups of backups. He's not going to leave it to one sample. What if something took out all of you at once?"

At least six to seven samples of whatever the wonder drug is. Phil would prefer a nice round number like ten but it's hard to say if Fury wants that much sitting around. The more that exists the more likely it was to fall into enemy hands. Smart. Careful. Paranoid. That's Nick Fury.

"It won't," he agrees with a nod. "If you need to just do it when I'm busy so I can pretend like I didn't know what you planned."

"If it's some chemical wonder-drug," Clint reminds, because they don't even know that much for certain. "And you know even if it goes wrong," Coulson dies in some horrifying way, probably, "he'll keep one sample on ice, just in case."

Fury is a man of just in case.

"No," with a light scoff, waving the idea of talking to Fury about this whole thing off, "I'm not gonna get into that with him. I know Tasha already tried to rip him a new one; the man's unrippable. The fact that the man trusts me enough to keep me a high level agent is more than enough goodwill. Not gonna push that."

"It's a drug. None of me is mechanical. Stark and Banner confirmed that." Phil almost gestures to himself, hand twitching on his bottle of beer. He is his own flesh and blood. It has to be a drug. Whatever Tahiti is, it's a drug of some sort. That's the only thing that makes sense. "Unless you're suggesting that Fury has some sort of... flesh knitting machine."

Another statement that will be ironic in a few years. Natasha had certainly tried very hard to get answers. She took Fury's meddling with his memories personally, as she would given her own history.

The facts as they know them is that Fury brought him back with something called Tahiti and messed with his mind to make sure he didn't remember his death. Until Phil started to remember and went looking. All he'd been able to find is what Fury wanted him to find and when confronted had only said it was necessary.

"Barton," he says seriously. "I need you to keep an eye on me and make sure I don't... change. Physically. Mentally."

Phil can't shake the bad feeling he has about what was done to him. He doesn't know why because he doesn't know the exact details of what's happened to him. There are few people who know him as well as Clint does. If he starts to go wrong, Clint will notice.

"And if necessary..." Phil looks at him and waits for Clint to get his meaning. If he denies it, Phil will say it out loud. "I'm going to tell Romanoff the same thing."

"Okay."

It's easy to say. He'll know there are changes. He'll be the first to see it. And if necessary--

Well, that part won't be easy, and they're going to have to have a conversation about at what necessary means in this case. And Nat will also do it. Clint normally would be able to. Not easily, but he'd do it.

But now...

There is a sharp comment locked behind his teeth about how anyone that needs SHIELD agents put down should just come to him; he's already got experience in it.

"And we won't let anyone touch you ever again."

Clint and Natasha are the ones Phil trusts not only to recognize the changes but also know him well enough to make the call when the time comes. It's his mind he's most scared of losing. The memory tinkering is really... Phil is deeply unsettled and he doesn't know what else might have gotten lost.

"I don't think Fury would try it again." If dies the second time. "Unless he'd try an LMD."

Phil groans and pinches the bridge of his nose again. "Probably downloaded my consciousness while he was altering my memories. Don't know how I didn't think of that before now."

SHIELD even owns his mind, that's fantastic. Phil's pretty sure that wasn't in his contract but he's skeptical. It might be in there somewhere. It's been a long time since he read his actual contract.

He looks at Clint. "Has any of this made you feel better about your own situation with Loki?"

Because they still haven't touched on that. They need to get there. Clint has demons to exorcise just as much as Phil.

Clint sets his bottle down with a sharp sound. "Well, fuck, Phil, I'm sure if Tony stumbled on a whole human consciousness in his deep dive, we'll just delete it."

And while it is both plausible and crazy at the same time, it definitely seems like Coulson's deliberately winding himself up. With shit none of them can do anything about right now. "Trust that if there's ever another you running around, we aren't going to play the game of which one's the real one. We'll know."

And then turns it back around on him. Does it make him feel better? Does it make him feel any fucking better? Well, it doesn't alleviate the ball of guilt heavy in his gut. That all of this is happening because of him. Because he didn't fight the control hard enough. Because he didn't fight Natasha hard enough. Because he was too smart for his own fucking good.

"I feel like this needs more beer. Or something harder." Something that'll make his skull feel like it's got a jackhammer to it in the morning, which will be nice and distracting.

Phil gets up from his desk and walks over to the living area that's been provided. There's a very stylish couch and a very small bar because of course there is. Tony Stark had input on the interior design. It is also fully stocked with some of the best alcohol money could buy.

He gets a bottle of something expensive and twenty years old, grabs glasses, and then goes back to his desk. He pours for both of them and pushes a glass towards Clint.

"It's not your fault I died," he says, fixing Clint with a look. "We trained you to resist a lot of torture and interrogation but not magic. You fought in all the ways you could."

Phil chose to go after Loki. He put himself in that situation. That's not Clint's fault. That was his choice. They can't get caught in this argument. Clint needs to let go of some of his guilt. At least, over this.

He watches Coulson with careful eyes. He knows nothing's going to happen. And this is a man he can trust. And he's talked (and talked and talked and talked) about what happened until he was Tesseract blue in the face before.

Hasn't talked about it with Coulson, save to have the knowledge that he isn't blamed. Still feels like there's a sickness prickling at his senses in bringing it up.

Dulled enough he can sleep more nights than not. Managing the nightmares feels like just a matter of time and distance. Managing the dreams that ought to be nightmares but don't feel like one, well. That'll probably just be time, too.

"I know," but he says it with a frown, with enough of a pinch in his expression to suggest he doesn't wholly believe it. Stares at the glass. He flexes a hand under the desk before he reaches for it. "Monsters and magic." Like Nat had told him.

"But you still think there's more you could have done." Phil can read a lot from that frown and the troubled thoughts flashing, very briefly, behind Clint's eyes. "I'd like to hear how you think we could better prepare out agents to fight that sort of interrogation."

He could present the evidence. Clint missed shots which he never does. He did not fight Natasha as hard as he could have. Phil knows their skills and they are equally matched. He did not give Loki the location of his family. He kept plenty of secrets and fought back in many small ways.

Yes, his actions killed agents. It opened the door to Loki capturing Thor and thus the confrontation that led to Phil's death but if he's hanging onto that for his guilt it's a weaker argument.

"Do you have a ledger now that needs balancing?" He's aware of Natasha own idea of how she needs to atone. If both his best agents have ledges Phil's going to have to start making a spreadsheet. There's no way to eliminate all their guilt but he hopes they can find some peace with what they've done.

Technicalities. At least to Clint. He hadn't divulged (most of) his own secrets because Loki didn't ask. He'd wanted to know about Fury's team of super-fuckups and how to best take them out of the picture long enough to get the job done. Being a puppet on a string meant Clint was not one to worry about or plot against. Against Natasha, he had fought, tooth and nail, to kill if necessary. He hopes--he hopes that if it came to it, he would have treated her like Fury. Debilitate, not decapitate. Slow, not slaughter. But he can't say what would have happened had she not managed to knock his head right into some solid railing.

She's always been better than him anyway.

His laugh is not a happy one when he brings the glass finally to his lips. "Oh, we both know that's never gonna get balanced. You're not the accountant of my soul, Coulson." Tony's taste (or, maybe, even for someone who doesn't drink, might it be Phil's?) in alcohol is almost too good. It's smooth and smoky with a low, warm burn. Clint kind of wants more, acid burn and paint thinner kick. It seems too nice to be wasted on him. But. Not so wasted on friends.

"You've read my reports." The transcripts, the evaluations, the readouts from all the tests under the sun the docs could think of, videos of the interrogations he's sure were made. He knows Coulson's gone over whatever he would've felt pertinent. "I don't know if there's any more light I can shed on the whole thing. If what you wanna know is how to make me feel less guilty, well, psychology's a son of a bitch that isn't always rational."

They want to help each other. And neither's sure they even can.

"I'm your handler," Phil reminds him, simple and straight forward. "I give the order for you to kill. The red in your ledger is often because I put it there. Of course I'm the accountant."

He knows almost every crime Clint committed before SHIELD. Same for Natasha. He knows every target they've killed, captured, or interrogated since they joined up. He pushes them to see psychologists and come to him when that doesn't help. He's trying to help balance that ledger whether they see it that way or not.

"Your reports are insightful but thoughts and feelings change over time." Phil lets his hand rest on his glass but he doesn't drink. He's debating that within himself for the moment. "Clint, if you just need to scream about how unfair it was I'm here to listen. I'll shut up and let you get it out. I understand the feeling."

Phil had shouted at Fury and while it hadn't solved anything he felt a little better afterwards. Sometimes that urge to scream in existential dread sneaks up on him.

"I can't stop you feeling guilty, but I can try to make it easier for you to cope with that guilt," Phil reminds him. Clint doesn't have to carry it all on his shoulders. He can share that burden with his friends.

"So if my ledger's in the red, so is yours, and we're both okay with that." He spreads his arms. "I'm an assassin. I don't try and pretty up the things I do, because someone has to do it, and I can take it. We do what we do to keep bad things happening to innocent people. I sleep pretty easily most nights about it."

Not all nights. It'll never be all nights. Sometimes what gets done on the job is horrible, and the compartmentalization boxes can't stay closed forever. But most nights.

But the whole scope of his time with SHIELD is not what's in question here.

"I'm not gonna...I'm not gonna wail about having something in my head to someone who also got his brains scrambled up like eggs." The absolutely bizarre sensation of both being consciously aware, thinking the way he thinks, speaking the way he speaks, and also being trapped behind his own eyes. Screaming and not screaming. Being himself a little to the left versus being something else entirely. Their experiences are different. He remembers everything with perfect clarity. He wasn't played with by an ally, by a friend.

Might also be the best person to talk it out with.

"Thor says his baby brother's secure in an Asgardian jail cell for," a little handwave, "indefinitely, I suppose. Or until King Dad decides otherwise." Wonders if he'll be let out. Wonders if he'll escape.

Wonders if someone's going to come for him. Or come for the power he lost.

"Phil, where's the scepter?"

That's how they all sleep at night. They tell themselves the questionable and outright horrible things they do are for innocent people so they don't get hurt. So they don't have to make the hard choices and can remain innocent. "You're less of an assassin these days."

It's rare the Avengers have to kill anyone but sometimes there's other work SHIELD asks them to do. They did lose two of their best agents in the shift to SHIELD and it's fairly well known that their loyalty is to their handler, not necessarily the organization.

"Why not? I'd understand the feeling." There are times Phil questions his memories, even ones he knows are real and have been for years. How could he not when he knows Fury's been in there?

But if Clint wants to argue that, well, Phil's going to let him for now. He's trying not to burden Phil even though it's never been a burden to help him before.

"As far as I know Thor took the Tesseract and the scepter back to Asgard." He was dead when that return was made. Every file he's been able to find and read said it went back with Thor. "It's under lock and key in Odin's vault."

Loki would have a very hard time getting close to Clint a second time. Phil knows Natasha alone would make sure the "god" never got so much as a glimpse at Clint much less close enough to make trouble.

Clint's eyebrows raise slowly. "Is that what they're telling people happened to it?" Because Clint was there, and he knows it got put in some kind of attache case to be brought to some SHIELD facility or another for study, the way the Tesseract was. The cube of fuckery, that went back with Thor.

It has been made explicitly clear to Clint that he is under no circumstances to know the location of the weapon in question. Just in case. That's acceptable to him. He doesn't particularly ever want to be near the damn thing again, and in spite of the fact that everyone is as sure as can possibly be that he isn't some kind of secret surprise sleeper agent, it's safer not to take the risk. He supposes to throw people off the scent, a different official story would get written up. Need to know, and anyone not on whatever project it's being used for doesn't need to know.

Hopefully if someone does come looking for the disco stick, they start with Asgard.

"Whoever was behind Loki might want their toys back. I don't know which thought is scarier, that someone with that power would come for it, or that they'd consider it not powerful enough to find the endeavor worthwhile."

He's not honestly sure if he's necessarily afraid of Loki himself. There are complicated layers to peel back. But the glimpse of something, someone behind Loki? That's worth a bit of fear. And it's not fucking actionable.

Clint turns the glass steadily, slowly, around and around. "Do you really wanna talk about fucked up brain stuff? Cuz if we get into mine, we're getting into yours."

Phil frowns at his drink. "That is what is in the official reports I've read."

So, another lie he's stumbled on. Phil isn't surprised but he's... disappointed in himself for not questioning the story. For not seeing the lies typed up on the screen in front of him. It made sense to him, though, that Odin wouldn't leave a powerful weapon like that with Earth.

Maybe he didn't come back from the dead with all the same facilities. He should be able to recognize a cover story. He's written them in certain cases when the real information needed to be buried and buried deep. Usually, at Fury's request.

"What's there to get into?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Fury made me think I'd been in a hospital and then recovered at a spa in Tahiti. But I dreamed of something else and went looking. It's haunting me."

False memories. Mind wiping. Lies. Phil is aware of how intense and underhanded SHIELD can be but having it done to him is... it hurts a little bit.

"Coulson." Clint leans in a little across the desk. "I trust Fury to a point. He's always got his mind on some sort of end goal, and I do believe his intentions are good, for the safety and security of humanity, even if his tactics are underhanded at best and real fucked up beyond that. Also, if he wanted to hurt me for any reason, he'd know exactly how to do the most damage." He's not saying blackmail, and it's never been threatened before, he's just saying. That's there. In case. He does trust Fury. To a point.

"But maybe one of the things you have to grapple with here is realizing maybe you don't know your friend as well as you thought you did. That maybe this is someone who's at a point where he doesn't have friends."

And that can't be an easy thing, that kind of loss. Such a human loss. At least that would be something easier to contend with rather than the perpetual existential crisis of being brought back from the dead and played with.

His voice gets a little softer, then. Dealing with the delicate. With the difficult. "Tell me what you dreamed about." And then, maybe in the sense of fairness: "You tell me something that's eating at you, I'll tell you something. Or ask me something you want to know." Back and forth. Almost like a game. A game of truths.

Framed that way, it feels like something Loki might conjure up. He banishes the thought the moment he recognizes it.

"No, that's not fully true," Phil argues. "Fury has a very short list of trusted people and he cuts them out easily but he has them. He has friends. Not many."

I'm one of them, Phil thinks to himself. They've worked together too long for him not be among the trusted. Yes, Nick tampered with him and brought him back but there's a reason. They simply don't know the reason.

Finally, he takes a careful sip. It's probably the best hard liquor he's had in years. It might be worth unraveling his brain to enjoy this. He sets it back down very deliberately.

"I dreamed I was in a very beautiful beach front resort but I was in a hospital gown." He stares out the window, frown slowly deepening. He still remembers actually spending time in a spa and enjoying his time there. His first vacation in years. "And I always woke up with a migraine."

There was one night he woke up with a migraine and a bloody nose. Phil knew then that something was very wrong with him. He had to investigate his own death.

"I'm not sure what it means but it was strange enough to make me go look for the truth."

It's nice to think Fury has space in his life for friends. Clint's not so sure that's actually the case now. But Coulson knows the man better than he ever will, so he'll defer to experience on this one.

And focus. "Did you remember anything about--I mean, you remember what happened to you. Did you have any weird, inconsistent memories about actually surviving, getting on a plane to go take some dream vacation for your troubles?"

Which is not following his own arbitrary rules he just set up, but too bad, he knows so little about Coulson's actual lived (or fictional) experience.

"I remember my last words with Fury. Those are most likely my last genuine memories until maybe recertifying for field work." Those last words weren't even a complete sentence and about work. That's fitting for Phil though. He's always given SHIELD everything. "My memories then pick up when I woke up in a very nice medical facility before being transferred to the spa. I have memories of physical therapy there and other treatments."

His chest still gets tight and the scar tissue pulls uncomfortably when he gets tense. Phil, almost habitually, rubs at his chest right then over the scar he can feel through his shirt. "The doctors told me I died on the surgery table but they were able to bring me back by standard revival procedures."

Phil smiles ruefully at Clint. "You're probably familiar with the feeling of your mind not fully being your own, right?"

Time for Clint to crack himself open like Phil has done.

"Probably a little familiar, yeah."

He's been watching Coulson. Part of him is ready to vault the desk and snap him back to reality if need be, but the man has a pretty good hold on himself. Not perfect. No one is. Clint wasn't there, but he is aware of Coulson's injuries. Where he must have scarring. Or at least a phantom ache.

He hasn't had his memories played with, though. The only thing that gets fuzzy is the end of his fight with Natasha and coming to (strapped down and fighting it, his mouth saying something that sounds like him but isn't quite him, a haze of blue), and everything else is simply there for him to review at any time he chooses.

"Sometimes it isn't even like my mind wasn't mine. Maybe that's the real problem. It was me. It's all exactly what I would've said and thought and done if I'd ever been naturally inclined to switch allegiances at the drop of a hat. And it all felt right. Like that's what I was supposed to be doing." Clint stares at his glass like he could break it by thought alone. "But then there was the part of me that got shuffled around, torn open, mixed up. The part that was fully aware that something reached inside me and played around."

He had, when prompted, described the sensation that turned him as something grabbing him by the ankles and pulling him under a frozen lake. Drowning without drowning. An unnatural cold sliding under his skin, not really a physical coldness.

"The part that just had to fucking watch everything happen. I've been your right hand a long time. So obviously I made a real good one for him."

He savors the burn of the drink. The warmth it makes him feel.

"He saw the same potential I did," Phil murmurs softly. Back when they first met and Clint had been more likely to fight for money than a cause. Phil felt like the only one who saw something in the surly archer, not just in terms of skill, but in personality. Given the right push, Clint could become one of the best. He had become one of the best, worthy of the title Avenger.

He didn't like thinking he and Loki could think along the same paths and reach the same conclusions.

"I think the key phrase there is naturally inclined," he says louder, watching Clint staring at his glass before taking a drink. "You were not naturally inclined to change sides. What he did was unnatural to who you are and what you believe in."

It might have been easier on Clint if it was total control. If Loki pulled his strings like a puppet. The Asgardian had him on a leash but given him just enough freedom, just enough control that Clint would take his actions as his own once let go. Is Loki capable of such foresight? Phil's not sure but it's possible.

"My memories are changed but it doesn't feel like Fury changed anything else. I'm still myself." Except the parts that are changing because of dying and coming back. Knowing he's on an experimental second chance is changing him. How could it not? There is the fear, though, that those changes aren't his own choice.

"Did you see that I have heart?"

It's such a tiny, simple thing. It shouldn't haunt him. He knows why he was chosen. Survived the onslaught of violence and was the first one back on his feet, ready to fight. That's what it was. The obvious choice, lucky and smart and resilient and able to pull himself up and keep going.

But he doesn't think that's exactly what Loki meant by the comment. Did the power coursing inside him show him something in particular? Did Loki simply see something worthwhile inside him?

Clint isn't convinced Loki choosing his general very, very well was entirely a matter of happenstance.

At the end of the day, Phil's still Phil, and Clint's still Clint. But: "I don't know that we can be touched by that kind of power," whether alien or homebrewed science, "and not be changed."

"I saw that you had skills and were looking for direction. I did not see your heart at first." Phil didn't realize how deep and strong that heart was until much later when Clint started to trust him. That's when he realized just how great of an agent Clint could be. Not just good, but great.

And he was right.

Phil raises his glass in a toast. "We're only human. We're going to change otherwise, I'd be more worried."

Whether that change will be good or bad really remains to be seen. Clint is coping. Phil has not lost his mind. They're handling it even though sometimes it feels like everything is going wrong inside their heads.

After another drink he sighs heavily. "He did take my best agent."

No, he doesn't imagine how he was in the days that Coulson was scouting him out, and his early time in the agency, would have shown much in the way of heart. He's been a weapon for a long time. Kept the softer parts safe. (He's more liberal with that softness now, but that wasn't an easy journey.) So what did Loki see so immediately? Clocked him with a single piercing look.

Maybe it's the same way Clint likewise took him in with a look and saw beyond the megalomania--saw exhaustion and pain and desperation and something else that only became clearer with time spent around the godling.

Phil makes to toast. Clint does not follow suit. He gets it, what his handler-boss-friend is going for, and he isn't wrong. Stagnation is death, of ego if nothing else. It is human nature to change. Neither of them have irreparably broken from their encounters. Altered their perceptions, but they are, at base, still themselves. Changed, but themselves.

Hopefully.

Still. Not the kinds of changes, or impetuses for change, that they would've liked. Doesn't give him back the months being treated like a threat, the time spent wondering if he really had lost his mind, the paranoia and the guilt and the sleeplessness. Doesn't bring back the people lost, nor the trust. Doesn't quite ease how hard he goes on missions, harder than he needs to. Not sure he wants to celebrate their changes, even for irony's sake.

"No, your best agent reverse-interrogated him, so I understand it." It's a moot point; they are both very good agents, and they hold each other up as the better. (But they both know Natasha is, at the end of the day.) And he wasn't the only one fucked up about everything. She'd been compromised, too. He'd been afraid that was also his fault for giving Loki all that ammo. Turns out it was mostly being trapped and then chased in a small space by the Hulk that really did it. But no, she had admitted to him, hearing some of her crimes regurgitated back to her and fighting her best friend hadn't helped.

"Were you worried about me, or were you worried about the damage you knew I could do?"

Did do.

Loki's damage to the team might was effective. He saw the threat the Avengers could be to his plans and very nearly dismantled them. Phil isn't sure to this day whether is sacrifice was truly necessary or not. Confronting Loki was. He would have caused more damage if Phil hadn't shot him but his death brought them together after nearly being broken. Maybe. Hard to say when he trusts that the team would have saved the world anyway. The after is a bigger question.

"I was both," he says easily, no hesitation in the answer. "As a high level agent you know the ins and outs of SHIELD almost as well as myself. Loki had a wealth of information and could use that, did use that, to his advantage. Of course I was worried about how easily you could take us down."

That's the truth. Clint, with his loyalty shifted, was a liability and a high level threat. There's nothing wrong with admitting what they both know.

"But you're also my friend and I believed that friend still existed under Loki's influence. I wanted to help my friend. It's why I called in Natasha to help bring you in." Another agent would have simply put Clint down, eliminating the threat. Natasha owed Clint for saving her life. She would make a different call. She would make sure they got Clint back. Phil trusted that her last choice would be execution.

"If there was a way to bring you back, I wasn't going to stop until we found it."

"Should've put me down like a rabid dog." But who, frankly, would they have gotten to do that other than Natasha? "Glad you didn't. Obviously."

Clint and Nat are even now, if either of them were ever keeping score.

"I don't know what would've happened if I hadn't been intercepted. Don't know if I would've killed you to get you out of the way, or if I would've figured out how your death might've been used and just knocked you out. Or if the me inside my reprogramming would've spared you regardless. We'll never have to find out, but..." He shrugs. There's no use to it. "I think about it, sometimes." In the quiet. In the dark.

The thought makes Phil's heart seize in his chest for a second. He's lost too many friends. The other reason is... he'd do it. If there had been no hope of bringing Clint back to himself he would've given the order to put him down. And also taken it on himself to inform his family, let them take their anger, blame, and grief out on him.

It's his job as Clint's handler. It's his duty as a friend. It would be one of the hardest calls he's made but Phil knows himself well enough to know that he would do it. He could and would make the call. He might even take the shot himself if necessary.

"You shot Fury in his vest when the smartest move would've been to kill him," Phil points out like they're debriefing from any other op. "You made a choice to save him. Because you knew he was needed. I think you would've taken me out of play but not taken me out."

Unlike Loki who did not care and only saw a threat to be eliminated. He didn't have the forethought to think Phil might make people care.

And why would Loki have thought that? Even Clint hadn't seen that far ahead when explaining (in excruciating detail) everyone's flaws and faults and weaknesses. Coulson would only have met several of them in gathering them together for this united threat. The thought of 'if this man specifically dies, the plan goes to shit, because they'll all unite under a common banner' sure hadn't hit him because it seems a little ludicrous. Even now, it seems...wild.

"I think so, too. He asked me about it, you know. That I didn't kill Fury, because I admire the man. Told him that was part of it, yeah. And that I'm better with a stick and a string than a gun. That I was still fucked up from the initial attack and the mindfuck. None of it was a lie, but...excuses, I guess. To hide how much of that had been me. I don't know, the lines get...blurred sometimes."

"Yes, I can imagine."

Even Phil only sort of understands why his death united the Avengers. He's an every man. It's his greatest skill as an Agent. No one looks at Phil Coulson and sees a threat. They see an accountant. It's what he wants them to see.

The every man dying was a reminder of what the Avengers had to fight for. Who they were trying to protect. They were protecting everyone by saving the world. For all their superpowers and strength, a reminder of who those powers were meant to protect was needed.

"And you are better with a bow than a gun. It's remarkable, really. A gun should be easier." They can take a break from the deep heavy conversation if Clint wants. Phil is opening that path for him.

"It's too easy. I'm used to the full body physicality. None of this Tony Stark video game point your hand and shoot shit."

Meditative. His draw weight is frankly ridiculous, and even though he never even graduated high school, he can still do lightning fast calculations in his head, angles, wind speeds. It's not numbers to him, just feeling. Look one way and point the bow another. Breathe. Hold it tight and let it go with the whole of his self.

He's still good with a gun, of course. He doesn't miss. Knows how to pick his shots. Has been good ever since he was a kid.

It's a distraction if he wants it, he knows. He's not sure if he wants it, because if they veer off, he might not want to come back to this.

"Didn't really intend for this to be a therapy session, you know." Middle ground. Not veer off entirely, but accept this for what it is instead of something else vaguely awful falling out of his mouth.

"I'm not a therapist," he says dryly. "We're just friends talking to someone they trust."

Phil also can count the number of people he trusts on his hands. Clint ranks very high among them. It's also easier to talk to Clint about how damaged his mind might be. Clint knows what it's like to have someone mess around in his head.

No one really knows what it's like except Clint and Natasha. She hasn't been by to talk recently. She'll come eventually. They always check in on each other.

"I know we're supposed to tell the shrinks everything but... that's hard. Especially when you know they're reporting everything to someone else." That someone else was Phil very often in Clint's case. It's Fury in Phil's case.

"Hard to say everything when you're sort of still in the middle of it, too." Coulson's still in the middle of dealing with everything that he is, on top of the thin veneer of distrust that's hard to wipe away. Clint had still been in the middle of even trying to process it all. Hard to deal with trauma properly if you aren't even out the other side of it yet. "They say it's a marathon, not a sprint. But I needed to prove I wasn't going to snap, and then I needed to prove I was fit for duty."

So it is what it is. He is fit for duty. That doesn't mean he's okay, necessarily. Doesn't mean he could regurgitate every god damn feeling and pick apart every irrational thought on demand.

"Sure, I'd like to say I'm over it, and it's never going to be a problem. I can't guarantee anything like that, though." He kicks back the rest of his drink. Lets it burn slow, settle warm. Breathe out heavy. "Now's as good a time as any to tell me you're worried about my evals, you know."

"And you don't really understand what 'it' means. Just that someone else messed around with your mind somehow." Phil knows he's at the start of whatever this is. He's going to have to find out more details to really understand and come to terms with himself and what was done to him.

Dead. He was dead. It's such a strange thought when he feels so very alive.

He does not follow suit and finish his drink. Phil feels a comfortable warmth in himself from the alcohol and doesn't want to push his luck. Without knowing what unlocking his mind will do he's going to be careful of alcohol and other mind altering substances.

"If I was worried about your evals I would've called you up here today." Phil's not worried by Clint's very human reactions. He's allowed to have those. All other metrics are fine. He's still the world's best shot. Still a capable agent.

"At least I know technically what did it to me," he says with a humorless smirk. "For all the good that does when the damn thing's god knows where, and whatever the brainy scientists find out, I'll never know. I don't even know if what I know is what I know. You know?"

Better to laugh even if it isn't funny, because it's better than anything else. (Screaming and not screaming.) "It's easy to blame Loki, obviously. Thing was either made for him or," with a little wiggle of his fingers, "attuned to him or something. We carried out his will. But I don't...know." A frown. The skyline looks more interesting right now. "I don't know that it was necessarily him. I don't know if the scepter had a mind of its own or if even he wasn't entirely sure what it was or..."

Or if it was the Someone Behind Loki beyond any of them.

"We were touched by something bigger than ourselves. It's not Asgardian, that's why Odin didn't give a shit. Thor said the cube belonged in his dad's vault, but other than the staff having some nice aesthetics, it's not... I don't know what it is. But it's not Asgardian. It's not anything I think anyone knows about. And I think--"

Is he rambling? Jesus, is he making any sense? Clint shakes his head. "I don't know what the fuck I think sometimes. Think part of me's afraid no testing will show that maybe we're still somehow connected in some way because of that thing. Tesseract's a door, opens both ways. Who's to say the scepter isn't, too? Feel like it's hard to touch without being touched in return."

"There is something beyond Loki. I've read the reports of what Stark saw through the portal." He's also heard from Stark himself who is obsessed with what he saw, who is trying to make Phil do something though Stark himself doesn't know what that something is. "And my guess is the scepter was made for him by that entity. Put the right weapon in the hand of your agent and let them do their work."

It's how Phil's operated for years. He doesn't have to give orders in the field because he trusts Nat and Clint to know their own capabilities and what to do. He steps in when there's something they don't know or can't see coming for them.

"You could be right." Coddling Clint and telling him not to worry is the wrong thing. There is a lot to be worried about. Intergalactic threats are real now, though Phil's known about aliens for years given Fury's little trip when he was a rookie agent. "We haven't seen signs of a connection, however. The scepter is more a key to the door from what I've read. It can open and close it. Your mind isn't a key even after having the scepter poke it. If anything, we should be more worried the scepter is a tracking beacon."

That's a possibility that's come up in his conversations with Stark. They've got a big neon sign flashing "here!!" to whatever is out there.

"We take what you know, what Stark's scene and we start planning now for what's coming. Together."

Yeah. There's something coming. Stark might be running himself a little ragged with too many projects to keep up with, but he's not wrong in his paranoia. There's only so much they can do to prepare for what they don't know. There are too many problems here on Earth as it is.

So. Set that worry aside. It'll come when it comes, and they'll fight the good fight. Plan for it and hurry up and wait.

He tries to focus on Coulson's reassurances. There hasn't been any indication. No unnatural glow in his eyes, no posh Shakespearean reject voice in his ear, no phantom hand on his shoulder. No nothing that indicates that there's any open connection. It'll concern him until one day it doesn't anymore, and that day is not today, but he can take some solace in knowing that there's nothing provable.

But he's caught on the phrase put the right weapon in the hand of your agent, turning it over in his mind. The way Coulson said it. Thinks briefly about May, an ally, the interim handler that Clint consistently disrespected not out of any malice but because their styles hadn't meshed. What Coulson means is the scepter. But Clint sees something else.

"He knew how to use me." His gaze flicks briefly to his friend. "Like you do." What took years of trust building and trial and error, taken up effortlessly by an alien interloper. In a sense: Barton was the right weapon to put in Loki's hands. "That bothers you, doesn't it."

Phil frowns because yes, it bothers him.

"Loki had a glimpse into your mind. He cheated." Phil worked very hard to build a relationship with his agents. He tried with every agent he was tasked with handling to make a good working relationship. There were very few he had taken a personal interest in.

Like Clint. Like Natasha.

"I also trained you." He took the rough, raw talent Clint had and sharpened it into a finely tuned agent and weapon. He made Clint into the perfect tool for Loki to use. Not that he regrets helping Clint become who he is but he doesn't like that relationship... tainted in a sense. Someone took that trust they built and turned it against them.

He rubs his temple for a moment. "I don't know if it would've been better or worse if he grabbed me or Hill or any of the other agents there that day."

It might have been easier on Clint though.

That could be it. Got those long fingers flicking through the patterns of his mind, got shown the right way to handle his new weapon. In some ways, the thing masquerading as Clint had figured out how to handle Loki in turn.

"Could you imagine if he'd gone for Fury?" Should've, even. The apparent leader, that would've been a smart play. But Loki had come at the problem sideways. "Maybe he didn't have enough heart," added in a mutter.

Or too high profile. Hard to say. He'd turned Selvig, a handful of other agents and scientists. Useful. But not in charge of everything. Able to disappear. Not all of them have taken it too well. They say Selvig's slowly losing his shit. Clint wonders if it's a matter of time for him, too.

"Sometimes," and he hesitates. This isn't therapy. This is a friend. Clint leans his head back and closes his eyes to the ceiling lights. "Sometimes I dream that I'm with him, and it isn't a nightmare."

That he belongs there. That it's right. That it feels the way it's supposed to. Handler and agent.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Fury is immune to any sort of mind control." Phil has no idea what his friend is capable of. He could have some device in his mind. He could have a lot of training. He'd also be hard to get close to. Somehow, Phil feels that Fury wouldn't have been captured. He would've turned it on Loki somehow.

The last part makes him ache a little for his long time friend. He can't imagine what that's like. His dreams lately haven't been peaceful. But he does understand that Loki twisted a relationship Clint felt safe in and put a stain on it. One that might never come clean.

"I'm sorry. I know that doesn't solve the problem or chase away the dream but I know our relationship is important to me. I would hate for someone to twist that." They are family and more. He trusts Clint with everything because they've worked together for years, handler and agent. Clint's giving him the same level of trust in return.

"It's not...christ. We're okay. It didn't do anything to us. Or at least, I don't think so."

That can't be true. He doesn't treat Coulson any differently, but Loki did change things. Not, perhaps, their relationship. But things changed.

"Don't be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry." And he knows he doesn't need to be. Coulson doesn't blame him for anything, and it drives him up the fucking wall. Clint rocks to his feet, swiping up his empty glass and heading for the minibar ostensibly for a refill. "I'm sorry, and I know you won't accept that, but I am anyway."

They've changed. Those changes are going to effect them. Their relationship might change because of that. Phil can't see them ever not being close. It would take a great deal of damage to change things that much but... something might change.

He tracks Clint as he walks over to the minibar. "We're going to have to agree to disagree on that."

While he can understand Clint's sense of guilt, Phil doesn't think it's necessary. He doesn't blame him. Clint only blames himself because he was taken by Loki. If another agent had been taken, Phil still would have put himself in front of Loki with the gun. The choice he made had nothing to do with Clint being the one who helped attack the helicarrier.

"And we're going to be okay. I mean our minds. We'll eventually be okay." Phil is trying to reassure himself in that too. He wants to be okay and not be twisted into someone else. He had better not turn into a zombie either.

"Yeah." He's looking through the options of drink. Or he thinks he is. He doesn't really see the bottles. Now that he's up, he's restless, like he wants to fight something, like he's going to fight himself, and it might be a night where he beats a punching bag until his knuckles bleed, but at least it'll be out of his system. "We will. Both of us. We'll get out heads on straight and not be afraid of ourselves."

And until then, they'll lean on each other, trust each other. Coulson's himself even if he's missing parts (and if they can alter memory, why not other things, why not personality, history, why not rewrite a whole person just because you can) and Barton's himself even if he doesn't know the long-term effects of having something alien shuffle around his hardwired loyalties (and if it's as easy as a touch with magic they can't possibly understand, why not seed in the paranoia, why not leave something behind to quietly grow until the time is right, why not bide your time until you can bring the good little soldier to heel again), and they have to trust each other about it since they can't fully trust themselves.

"I wish you blamed me, though." It tastes as sharp and bitter as he knew it would. It tastes like blood in his mouth. "Even just a little, even if you knew it wasn't rational, I wish you would."

"And why? What would that accomplish, Clint?" Phil frowns at him, not sure why his blame matters so much. There are plenty of agents in SHIELD that still don't trust Clint after Loki. There are plenty that blame him for the death of friends and coworkers. Why does his blame matter?

"Is it because you think I'll be able to come up with some appropriate punishment? Do you want me to put a mark on your record?" If he points out how ridiculous Clint is being maybe the archer will see some sense.

His blame changes nothing. It doesn't change what happened. It doesn't change Clint's guilt or Phil's death. He almost rolls his eyes at Clint but holds himself back. He knows what those words cost him and he's not going to make light of them. He's going to try and help.

"Loki carries all the blame here. Not you. And one of these days, you're going to figure that out yourself."

It's stupid. It's nonsense. It doesn't change the feeling. Clint plants his hands down, shoulders flexing, head hanging. Of course Coulson's right, and it won't make anything better, and it won't change anything, and it's better this way. "Maybe I do. Want some punishment. Some consequences for my god damn actions."

It's not like he hasn't suffered repercussions. (It's not like he hasn't suffered.) (Screaming and not screaming.) So he needs all this reframed. What is it that he wants out of this? Why does it crawl around his brain that he needs the walking corpse of his friend to hate him? What use is that thought? Any of these thoughts? What does it accomplish, why does he think he wants it, why does it haunt him, why is he even here--

"I don't know!"

That was louder than he intended. Maybe to be heard over the pounding of his heart. He's facing Coulson and his arms are thrown wide and his skin feels too tight and the beating in his chest is frantic.

He takes a breath. Finds that, too, tight and difficult. Scrubs a hand down his face and tries to reorient himself. (inonetwothree outonetwothree) (only it ends up inonetwo outone-)

"The world got turned upside-fucking-down, and it scares the shit out of me, Phil. How am I even on this team? What use is a guy with a quiver of arrows going to be to the next alien invasion, or the next bit of out of control tech, or the next crystal ball of magic that upends everything we thought we knew about our cozy little existence in the universe? Hulk shrugs off bullets like they're snowflakes, Stark can fly in a tin can and shoot lasers from his hands, Thor's an alien god, Cap's got the strength of at least two and a half of me and the resilience to be a one man army. I'm good, I know I'm good, but I'm good for baseline human, not a super soldier experiment or a man that can summon actual lightning from the heavens. I don't think I know much of anything anymore."

The anger washes over him like water off a duck. Phil's dealt with Clint's anger before. He's even dealt with it directed at him especially in the early days of working together. He knows it's not about him and he knows it's not personal.

It's deeply personal to Clint, but the anger is not over something Phil did or didn't do. Clint's letting go of some of the things tangled up in his head and squeezing around his heart. Phil turns his chair so that Clint can keep yelling.

"None of us do," Phil agrees, still calm and steady like he always is. When Clint's adrift like this, Phil stays steady, his anchor point in all the chaos going on around him. "We're dealing with new unknown threats of levels that no one considered before. We have the technology to bring a dead man back to life. The whole world, not just you, is coping with this new reality. And the majority of the population are just normal people, baseline, not even to your level."

Phil sits forward, his gaze fixed on Clint with intense surety and confidence. "Now we need heroes who can respond to those unknown threats. We need skilled people willing to step up. And we need a baseline human who can fight those threats because other baseline humans are going to see him and feel safe. Iron Man is cool. Captain America is inspiring. You? Hawkeye is real. Hawkeye matters because he's human. And you are good enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with those heroes."

Things that will ring true in another almost 15 years.

Right now, it feels patently ridiculous. No, people are going to feel safe seeing Symbol Of Freedom Captain America fighting for them. They're going to see a flying metal suit and feel safe knowing that's fighting for them. How is an archer jumping around safe, how does that sound real and like he matters--

But also. Sure. Hawkeye is human and still is doing what he needs to do, alongside gods and monsters. Fighting aliens and weird shit even though he has no right to do so.

"Great," with a tired noise in his throat, "so I can inspire a new generation of suicidal idiots with nothing to lose and everything to prove."

That's unfair of him. He knows it. He rubs at his eyes, and Coulson is...a rock. A stable rock to cling to when things get too chaotic, and there's the little twinge of guilt thinking that Coulson doesn't need this when he's got his own shit to worry about, and then a whole team to boot. But Coulson's good at that. Always has been.

"Sorry." Small and quick. "For...that." The explosion of whatever all that was. Crisis. "I trust you."

"Captain America inspired me to be a suicidal idiot. I joined the Army long before the Avengers existed. People who want to fight for what they believe in, will." Phil had been an Army Ranger before joining SHIELD. He had always wanted to fight to protect people. "But it's more about hope, Clint. You give people hope as well as make them feel safe."

Phil gets up and walks over to him. He puts a hand on Clint's shoulder and squeezes firmly to ground him here and now. "I know you trust me. That's why you can explode like that. I've got your back."

Even with his own problems, it feels good to be there for Clint. Phil can still be the rock in a storm. He can still be the calm at the center. It's something he knows how to do and doesn't have to think too hard about doing.

"Do you want me to look into super soldier serums for you? The last one gave us the Abomination who was almost picked for the Avengers, by the way." Phil still can't believe how stupid the Wold Security Council was with that choice.

It's weird. A weird thing to tell a spy, someone who has always worked in the shadows, but it's true. He and Nat are in the limelight now. All of the Avengers, many of whom were unknowns or nobodies, are now in the public eye, all heroes. There's been talk of trademarks and merchandising that Tony's people are doing whatever the fuck they're doing with.

He's supposed to be a ghost. Does what needs done, and disappear. No one meant to know he exists to give hope, to feel safe with. And that all changed.

It's funny, in a way, because he wasn't part of the initial onslaught of media attention. Being locked inside having your head examined will do that. Spooks him a little when someone actually recognizes him on the street. He has not, yet, given any interviews, not because he's been barred from doing so, but because he doesn't stay still long enough for the question to even come up.

So that, and the grounding touch, both serve to reel him back inside himself. He'll keep doing good, the same good he knows he's always done, but now...more public facing. Standing alongside recognizable heroes. And mean something to people.

Intimidating as hell. But he can try to be worthy.

A scoffing laugh creaks out of him, leaning against Coulson for a moment. "Do not put anything in me that isn't an IV, blood, or caffeine. Much as it might do my ego some good to grow a foot and be a beefy dorito, that'll only leave Tasha to crawl around in vents, and we can't have that."

Phil has been in many of those meetings because as their handler and the SHIELD liaison he knows the regulations that the lawyers need to work around. There have been many meetings about handling identities, what can go public and what can't, and how should these real people be portrayed. There's a lot of meetings in Phil's life.

"I still wish the two of you wouldn't do that," Phil says with a heavy sigh. It's an old argument that he's never going to win but he has to keep trying. One day, the vents aren't going to hold their weight. One day, they're going to surprise the wrong person and get shot. There are other ways to infiltrate a building.

But it does feel like Clint's on a more even keel now. If he's making jokes about body shape and vents, then he's feeling more like himself. Phil lets him lean as long as he needs.

"You don't need it anyway. You're perfectly capable as you are." Phil means it. The serum worked for Steve Rogers and it would do fine with Clint but he didn't need it. "And with a bow in your hand you're a better shot than a man with a computer assisted targeting system and lasers. It annoys Stark that you can pull shots off that should be impossible."

Phil Coulson, unsung hero, national treasure, doing the jobs no one else wants to do.

"Sometimes it's the sneakiest way in, okay; I know everyone's seen Die Hard, but only the truly paranoid ever put traps in vents." He's pretty sure Stark hasn't, but also, those vents are not person-sized. Pretty sure that was deliberate.

"And if Stark wants a few pointers on shooting, he knows where to find me."

He stays right where he's at, eyes sliding shut, for several long moments. His breathing evens out much more deliberately this time. The terrible crawling sensation that makes him want to shuck his own skin recedes to just a very, very distant occasional buzzing. The beast beneath his breast calms its frantic and rapid-fire beating.

"Thanks." For being a good handler. For being a good friend. For being here. "And sorry. Again. Shouldn't have to be on babysitting duty for me."

"I'm getting paid to babysit four other people with varying cases of PTSD." Phil pats him on the shoulder. "It's different when it's you and Natasha. None of it is babysitting."

He's done actual babysitting when he was watching Stark the first time. With the others, it is closer to babysitting. He doesn't have the same sort of relationship with them that he has with Clint and Natasha. They're charges to keep track of and make sure are taking care of themselves.

Clint and Natasha are friends. They're the people Phil trusts with his own PTSD.

"I'll have a bad day soon and you'll have to put me back together." Hopefully not literally. Phil would not enjoy losing himself to whatever Fury did to his mind. "Don't let the others freak out too much. I'm sure they won't know what to do."

Because none of them had ever seen Phil fall apart before. It was rare but possible.

"Could be worse. Could've put you on literal babysitting duty for Laura. Our own resident battle nanny."

He can't even argue the cases all around of post-traumatic stress. He's got his shit, Nat's got a whole dossier of trauma, Tony's probably got so many things going on he hasn't realized are traumas but the nearly dying in space thing has very clearly got him freaked out, Bruce is finally working on his issues with the other guy, and Steve's got being a man out of time.

So no. Phil does not have an enviable job. And he's right. It's going to bubble up to a point where he can't hold it inside himself anymore. There's only so much that logic and rational thinking and friendly chats can do with something so enormous. It might be quiet or it might be loud, but however it happens, it won't be pretty.

He claps Phil on the back. "What they'll do is worry. I'll be here. And if I'm not here, someone better call me so I can be here."

These little chats are like loosening the pressure value just enough to let a little steam out. Phil feels better after talking with Clint. He's also pleased that the alcohol hasn't done anything to unwind whatever is holding his mind together.

Even with the talk of trauma, death, and losing their minds it's been a good nigh. Things are a little lighter. Clint seems steadier. Phil feels a warm sense of satisfaction helping his friend be more himself.

"If you're not here, Natasha should be." He trusts Natasha will know what to do. "And it's possible they'll be able to handle it if she isn't. Banner's reasonable."

Even if he has a huge anger problem. "Think you can get some sleep now?"

Natasha can help put Phil back together, sure, and Clint trusts her enough to do so. But still. He wants to be here to help.

Friendship isn't transactional, but still. It feels like the least he could do to pay his handler back. "Definitely gonna be able to try, anyway. Unless you wanna go a couple rounds with me. Otherwise, probably gonna kick my feet up, put on the tv, and doze off to some late night telenovela or something. If I'm lucky, I'll have the wherewithal to drag my sorry ass to bed before that."

He considers having another drink in actuality, a little nightcap. Decides against it. "You should get some rest, too."

"We can schedule a time for hand to hand training when the sun is up." Phil can hold his own but he's not particularly in the mood at this late hour. It is necessary though. The muscles in his chest could get tight if he didn't stick with his physical therapy. He would need to adjust his fighting style to the new restrictions.

He walks back towards his desk to make a very deliberate show of saving and closing much of what he was working on. "Jarvis will find time in our schedules that works best for both of us. You'll have a calendar invite in the morning. Try to remember to accept it."

Phil smiles fondly at Clint. Paperwork was not one of his strengths but he's gotten better over the years being immersed in SHIELD bureaucracy.

"Maybe call your wife," he suggests as he walks Clint to the door. "And think about going to visit. I can always make a solo op for you."

Because Clint's family is important and to be protected. Phil will make it so the other Avengers never question it.

Okay. So. Coulson is not, repeat not, a sugardaddy, and also that phrase should really just never be uttered, but he is willing to drop serious cash on Clint for fun. Coulson is also apparently a cute-if-expensive dinner date kind of person.

Hm. The word date feels loaded. Romantic dinner implies that, but saying romantic dinner date feels bigger and more complicated than just plain romantic dinner.

Set that thought aside for later. The important part here is that apparently something that Phil thinks will get him all hot and bothered is playing dress-up with his favorite agent in hand-picked fabrics made to suit him from an actual tailor and not off the rack. A flirty tailor, no less. It isn't as though Clint's a stranger to measurements and outfits that fit him like a second skin, but his SHIELD uniforms are intended to be practical for his job. That they show off his assets very well is an unintended bonus. And he doesn't pay for them.

And he does own a suit. It's a perfectly suitable suit for more important and fancier occasions. But it's definitely off the rack because that's cheaper, he doesn't have his own go-to normal clothing tailor, and because frankly it just seems like so much work for something he's not going to wear often. But. If Phil wants...

"You're gonna have to restrain yourself," Clint suggests with a smirk, even if he gives the place a dubious once-over. "I'm thinking with ropes, but if you need something sturdier, we can always upgrade to chains."

Leah's shop is a very simple place tucked between a Starbuck's type coffee shop and a tax accountant's firm. It didn't look like much from the outside though the suits and dresses in the window were clearly well made. It was called Stitch In Time and advertised itself as personal tailoring and custom suits.

"Behave yourself," Phil says with a hint of a smile. "And maybe someone will get restrained later."

He opens the door to the shop and puts a hand on Clint's back to guide him inside. The inside is unassuming as the outside and looks more like a craft store with bolts of fabric stacked neatly and a single sign that pointed towards the dressing rooms.

"Leah?" he calls into the shop. "I brought someone to meet you."

Leah is a woman in her sixties with wildly curly grey hair and coke bottle glasses. She's a little hunched from age but comes around the counter without hesitation, clapping her hands together. "Phillip. Who is this? You've never brought me someone before."

"This is Clint Barton. He wears off the rack," Phil says to throw Clint immediately under the bus of Leah's attention.

Bless, the flirty happily married tailor is a little old lady. That makes so much sense. She even calls him Phillip, which nobody does except in very Official manners. Oh no. Oh gosh. Oh this is cute.

Right up until Phil just casually chucks him under the bus. Normally this is not a thing that Clint would mind! Lots of suits come off racks! There is nothing to be ashamed of! But in front of a bespoke-making little old lady tailor? Leah seems momentarily aghast before then getting excited. The glint in her eye kind of excited.

"Uh," Clint fumbles for a moment, "this is just a--" Gift? God. That sounds really stupid and too intimate. Who does that? Gifts a wholeass suit. Besides Phil, apparently. He closes his mouth, effectively ending that sentence, before trying again, even as he awkwardly goes where Leah eagerly beckons. "It's for a special occasion."

Is it? That seems innocuous enough.

"What kind of occasion?" she asks, unfurling some measuring tape with practiced ease. "Funeral, wedding, red carpet? Different cuts and different colors for different tones."

Uh. Shit. "What do you normally do for Phillip?" Because he has to try it out.

She flaps a hand at him. "He has suits for everything; don't change the subject."

"I'll defer to your judgement, ma'am. And his. He has a much better idea of how this all works than I do." Technically. SHIELD uses a lot of scans and biometrics and shit more often than not these days, but they still have practical people who take measurements and pick fabrics and add stylized details.

While Clint and Leah get to know each other Phil starts looking through the bolts of fabric for something that will work well on Clint. He doesn't want plain old black, though it is a classic, he wants something else.

"It's a black tie dinner," Phil explains since Clint is clearly out of his element. "And will possibly be used for red carpets and other expensive events in the future but nothing formal."

"Black tie, good, good." She motions Clint to stand on a small raised platform with three mirrors almost wrapped around it. "Strand straight, young man, and put your arms out please."

She gives Clint bicep a playful pinch. "You must strain the sleeves of your off the rack jacket. How is it comfortable for you?"

"He wears it very rarely," Phil answers for Clint as he picks out an impossibly dark grey. It looks black but it's not. He puts it on the counter for Leah to look at later. "He'll wear this one very rarely but it's important he have one."

"He should have more. Once I get your measurements, I can make you any suit for any occasion." Leah moves around Clint with her tape taking measurements.

Phil steps in to answer some questions which is a blessing, and this is for him at the end of the day. But also he keeps going, and Clint tilts his head to look at his handler-agent-partner-something via the mirror. Because there feels like a line being trod upon here between helpful interjection and control.

Clint doesn't have any legitimate objections, but he's wondering how much he should just stand there like a T-posing doll and be quiet.

"I don't do quite so much flexing when I need to have a suit on," he says, eventually. Black tie is a good cover. Red carpet is a fun stretch. Does Leah think either one of them is a red carpet type? What an adorable and intimidating kind of lie.

"And I can't possibly believe you bought trousers off some Men's Warehouse shelf without splitting them." Clint's about to make some faux-offended remark asking if she's calling him fat when his ass gets the same kind of pinch his arm did. To his credit, forewarned is forearmed, so he does not make an undignified noise. Not much of one, anyway. "We need to show you off and let you breathe. Where did you even find this one, Phillip?"

Phil catches his eye and smiles at him. He's doing fine. He has no expectations for Clint to really understand suits because they're an interest of Phil's. He just has to stand there and be his usual charming self.

"We met at work," Phil says as he walks back towards the pair. "He happens to be my best. And my favorite but don't tell him that."

Leah has no connections to SHIELD outside of making suits for Phil. He can talk openly about the less than professional aspect of their relationship. Something they still haven't put a label on and that Phil is not pushing for. They are themselves.

"I'd like him to have something nice to wear." He shrugs and settles into a seat to watch. "I picked a fabric I like for him but he might have some opinions of his own."

Well. That leaves them in an interesting spot. Because they haven't suggested 'because we're going on a romantic dinner date and need to look good', but this is still much more casual and open than he's ever heard Phil about them to other people. It could imply something more or could just imply, hm, boss and underling turned good friendship? She hasn't exclaimed anything along the lines of 'oh is this the handsome young gentleman you're dating', so, that hasn't come up.

Feel it out as he goes, then.

"It is generally of preference that the person I'm tailoring for likes what they've got on," Leah intones.

Clint, for his part, mostly shrugs. "Sometimes I actually like wearing clothes. But only sometimes."

She pauses and regards him with a wry look, fingertips alight at her chest. "Bless, you're a difficult one, aren't you?"

"Not the first or the last to say so, ma'am."

She jots numbers down in a little notebook, tutting. "You'll call me Leah or you'll call an ambulance, young man."

"Understood, ma'am."

She adjusts her spectacles and levels a look at Phil. "I think I can see why he's your favorite."

Clint grins in the mirror. Nothing like being a little shit to someone who can appreciate it. He will probably be less of a shit once the pins come out and he has to stay still lest he get a surprise acupuncture treatment, but that's later. "Maybe we should go for a bright purple. Do suits come with racing stripes?"

"Nevermind, I can't see it anymore."

"It's certainly not his fashion sense," Phil says in his most boring tax accountant voice. It's not that Clint doesn't have a good eye it's simply that it doesn't matter to him. Phil understands that to some level but he also doesn't because he enjoys looking good.

"We could keep to the grey and a rich purple for the shirt or vest," Phil suggests, watching Clint's expression in the mirror to see what he thinks of Phil's ideas. "And something with a pinstripe to make him happy."

"A subtle pinstripe," Leah says firmly, "I don't care how good his ass is, Phillip, I'm not giving him 'racing stripes'."

She sounds so insulted that Phil has to hide his smile for a moment. Clint has that effect on people but he trusts Clint won't cross a line with his tailor.

"A purple vest is a bold choice. It would frame his shoulders nicely." Leah begins circling Clint again. "What do you think? Any opinions on vests?"

He won't push it; she just seems like a fun sort given she feels free to pinch asses. C'mon. Phil only looks like he's a boring guy. He would never pick someone with no sense of humor to be in charge of suits.

Clint supposes, anyway. He doesn't really know a lot of things. He knows he looks good, in general. He knows he looks good in certain pieces of clothing. He knows he likes comfort and has a collection of telling flannel at home, plain colored tees, some okay but nothing special jackets, well worn jeans, jeans that hug him in all the right places for nights out on the town--and sure, a suit he thinks he looks decent in.

He never wore things that made him stick out growing up. And on the job, he's for the most part not meant to be seen, dark, tactical. Doesn't have any habit of going to galas. Practical and comfy has always been the thing.

Anyway. He has no idea how serious any of this is being taken, and he's trying not to pout in the mirror. "I'm down for whatever you want to try so long as I don't look like a groomsman or like I'm going to prom." He can see the way this energetic old lady heaves upward like she's about to let out the longest sigh of frustration. "Which, obviously, you would never let happen." To placate. "Is a vest going to restrict my range of motion?"

The sigh has at least been set aside if not altogether aborted, and her eyes are frankly huge behind those distorting lenses. "We would, of course, make comfort a priority along with looks. It isn't a corset, and while that might be a nice choice for some fine young men, you don't seem to have the structure for it."

Clint blinks and looks down at himself. There's a structure? For wearing corsets? Is that a thing that even would have ever crossed his mind?

"How much motion are you planning on doing at this black tie?"

"Well," he says smoothly, recovering, "there's always dancing." Part of him thinks a vest is a little much. But also, he thinks a tie is a little much. But two things make him realize he should be open to the possibility: Phil's suggestion of a black tie event, and the fact that the more layers he has on, the more Phil has to put in the fun work of undressing him.

And maybe they don't have to potentially ruin so many of Phil's ties.

"I guess," with less confidence but actually trying this time, "if we're going with a dark color, a little color to pop so it doesn't look same-y makes sense. If we do that, though, pinstripes might make it look really busy?" That is a reasonable and vaguely fashion-conscious thing to say, right?

Clint is trying for him and that Phil appreciates. He could fight this tooth and nail. Clint is very good at making things difficult when he wants to. This could be a miserable experience for all involved but he's trying. Something very soft and warm blooms in Phil's chest. It takes all his self control not to rub at his chest and give away what he's feeling.

"Don't let him fool you, he's a very good dancer," Phil teases with some of that gentle affection slipping out. If he's not careful Leah's going to fully catch on to the nature of their relationship and start asking questions.

And by dancing Phil meant fighting but Leah thinks he's some sort of very important businessman who studies risks and market trends. It's a boring job from everything Phil's read about it.

"I can work with that," Leah says with a nod of approval. "A few more measurements and then you can have a look at fabrics. I assume you'll want something light and easy to move in. Phillip tends to prefer heavier fabrics."

Usually because they hid his weapons and made him look very boring and average.

"I've let you dress me in silks before," he says to give Clint something to latch onto besides how strange this experience must be for him.

It's not a bad experience! So far! He doesn't hate this, and he wants to be here for Phil to make this fun and sexy. It's just a lot less picking some fun outfits and putting on a fashion show in and out of a dressing room like an 80's movie.

And it isn't like he doesn't want any say in his looks. He wants to look at it and agree that he likes what he sees. He just also wants Phil to have a good amount of say and control in this. Lean into the idea that it might be terribly attractive to be wearing something that Phil picked out personally.

"I at least haven't had any complaints from my dance partners." By which Clint actually means dancing. And maybe if Phil would loosen up enough to spend some time at a club, he might find that dancing is a great prelude to other similar activities. "Yeah, I don't want to feel bogged down by my clothes. Light and breathable. I'm not going to the Arctic."

Silk just makes him think of silk boxers. Or silk ties. Remarkably sturdy material.

"I'm assuming you've got some very nice fancy suits, too? Besides your work clothes? I get he's a walking advertisement, Leah, but you have got to tell this man to take a vacation. With casual tops. Jeans. Cargo pants. Literally anything else."

Clubs were terrible in Phil's opinion. The music is too loud and terrible to begin with. What people call dancing is more like public sex. He simply doesn't see the same appeal that Clint does. But since Clint's humoring him like this maybe h can bend a little and spend a night at one.

If Clint asks.

"Cargo pants." Leah smacks Clint on the arm. "Bite your tongue. The man does not get to wear cargo pants. That would be a crime on his body."

Leah does give Phil a once over. "The right pair of jeans, though, you might be on to something."

Phil rolls his eyes. "Yes, I have fancier suits. Remember when I was in California for that job? They were required."

His fanciest suits were exclusively for events where Stark was involved. Now that Stark was aware of his identity he couldn't get away with looking like an unassuming tax accountant. Besides, Pepper liked to see him in nice suits. She always complimented him.

"Where would you take Phillip on vacation? I can't see him tanning on a beach." Leah asks, prompting a bit more from Clint as she got the last of her measurements.

"I have never seen this man in anything other than a suit." He's seen him outside of suits. Seen him put on tactical vests overtop his suit. Robes, Clint thinks, do not count as clothes and are inapplicable to the situation. "Imagine how wild he would get with a few drinks in him. He might loosen his tie. Unbutton a single top button. Really get wild and crazy."

Leah does not argue any of these points, which Clint is going to count as a win.

"Hey, who says I would take him on vacation anyway? And some sun wouldn't kill him. He doesn't have to tan; I'm not sure he's capable of it. Put on some sunscreen and go drink some maitais in a bright Hawaiian shirt at a tiki bar. Go swim with dolphins. Or," with a look at his partner, "are you more of a mountain guy, get bundled up and go skiing?"

"Where can I go to read quietly for a few days?"

"Phillip, you are no fun." Leah walks over and swats his knee with her little notebook. "You're young and need to do more than work. I'm going to pick some fabrics. You two behave yourselves."

She totters off into the store and Phil gets up to approach Clint. He gently touches the edge of his wrist, "How are you feeling?"

Is he still enjoy this? Because Phil is. He's excited to see what Leah picks for Clint and what will look good on him. Even in his imagination the tailored suit and vest is perfect to accent Clint's broad shoulders and trim waist.

"You need more than a staycation," Clint muses, even if Leah has already wandered off. "Go to a mountain lodge and curl up by the fire in a cozy sweater and drink hot chocolate and read, but at least it'd be away from here."

There's enough action in both of their lives as it is. And a lot of travel, too. Vacation can't possibly hurt, though.

"I'm good. I'm here to be your dress up doll, and you're gonna help me look all fancy and fitted."

"You're here." Phil keeps his voice soft but Clint's presence is enough to encourage him to stay in New York. There's also work which never seems to let up. There's always some crisis that requires his attention. Staying in New York is the better option.

Since Leah is not paying attention he smooths his hands down Clint's shoulders. "You have no idea how attractive the idea of a vest on you is to me. If you want me wrapped around your finger this might be the way to do it."

He can admit that much at this stage in their relationship. He trusts Clint won't take the wrong sort of advantage.

"And purple is a good color on you. With the right suit it'll be very good on you."

"I don't have to be here."

They could quite literally go anywhere they want. If Phil wanted it.

It isn't quite public, but it's a lot closer and bolder than Phil ever gets out of them being perfectly alone. Clint's sure hands are less sure now, not knowing quite what to do with them. A light touch at Phil's elbow. "Joke's on you; I'm pretty sure you're already wrapped around my finger." In a sense. "If you have a thing for vests, how come you don't wear one more?"

"Do you like cabins in the woods?"

Maybe it's time things changed a little. They're away from prying eyes at SHIELD where the rumor mill is endless and very creative. He wants to spare Clint any rumors that said he only made it this far because he's sleeping with his handler. His own reputation he's not worried about.

In the tailor's shop he can be a little more bold and a little more openly affectionate. If Clint takes it well. He can see there's a little confusion, a little uncertainty. He takes his hands back.

"My body shape doesn't look good in a vest. I'm boxier than you. It only makes me look broader instead of slimmer." He explains.

"You want me to chop some firewood and show off my arms while you stand at a window pretending like I don't see you watching me?" He's pretty sure specific destination doesn't matter overmuch. So long as it's cozy for Phil. "And a phone rule. Emergencies only. Actual emergencies, like world ending emergencies."

Which is all what he says to keep himself from furrowing his brow at how the brief touch is just as quickly gone. Clint shoves his own hands in his pockets, leaning back casually on his heels.

"I don't know anything about that. What vests do for shapes. Just seems like extra fabric." He'll wear it, though. He trusts the opinions of people who are much more knowledgeable on this shit than him. "She mentioned corsets..."

"If you're in jeans and I can look at your ass, yes." That's fairly bold and open for them too. They're usually more subtle about their flirtations in public. Phil's rarely so bold about his attraction.

And a vacation together would be a big step forward. It would be harder to deny they are lovers in a relationship and actually dating. It's an interesting step forward that Phil is willing to take if Clint is.

"Yes, some men wear corsets." Phil says with a little nod. "Sometimes it's to look slimmer than they are. Sometimes it's for sex. Sometimes they just like to feel pretty."

He tilts his head at Clint. "Why? Do you want to wear one?"

Clint is realizing that they're going to have to have a conversation, probably several ongoing conversations, and god, as usual, he's not going to want to have any of them while Phil needs to be sure everything is clear.

Hm. Like the idea of a romantic dinner and the implication of date being put in a box. Boxes for everything.

"I know guys wear corsets, Phillip." Will he keep using the whole name? Probably as long as they're here, yeah. "It just had never occurred to me that someone would even bring it up to me. Even if I apparently don't have the right shape for it."

"You don't need one." Phil is resigned to being called Phillip for awhile. Clint will draw that out until he gets bored of it. It doesn't bother him. Strangely it makes him think of getting in trouble as a child. "You're already slim."

He looks over Clint's shoulder as Leah returns with a few bolts of fabric, mostly dark greys and rich purples. He tilts his head so that Clint will turn around though it's likely he's seen her in the mirrors already.

"Come here," she orders as she sets the fabrics down. "Test the weight of these in your fingers and see what you'd like to wear."

Phil steps back and gestures for Clint to go. "I'll pick from what you'd like to wear."

Which seems to indicate that Phil as no particular fantasies or desires about Clint in a corset, so, he won't be asking about that. Not that he'd do so now anyway, not with the woman of the hour wrangling all kinds of fabrics with ease instead of looking bogged down by any of it.

"Here it comes, my hardest assignment," he jokes before stepping over to the table of Things To Potentially Put On His Body (For Fun And Profit).

Leah clicks her tongue. "Don't worry, I've seen plenty of people come in that don't know their bolas from their bowties. I'll make you look like a star."

"Yeah," he says a little absently, running fingers along a bolt of steely grey, "I was afraid of that. Not really built for a spotlight."

Built for Phil's spotlight, though. The intensity of his attention. Like nothing else in the world matters. He feels it all out, a few a little stiff for his liking, some light and fluid, touches cute paisley patterning and subtle pinstripe and black and dark grey stormy grey highlight purple dark and brooding purple. He doesn't really know what he's looking for, style-wise, but as far as weights go he indicates a few bolts that feel like he'll be able to move in them without too much restriction should the need call for it.

It might be not the greatest sign that he wants something nice and fancy like this to be combat ready.

"Jacket and pants and a vest are only part of an outfit, though. Gotta think about shirt and tie to go with. Maybe simple matching colors, let the vest stand out? Or match the tie to the vest?"

Leah hums. "And pocket square."

"...Is a pocket square necessary? It's just like...a handkerchief, right?"

"Phillip, dear, he keeps showing so much potential and then his mouth keeps going and ruins the illusion."

He watches Clint closely as he examines the fabrics. Clint will pick certain things, ones he can fight in if it comes down to it. And yes, that's a possibility with their job even on something simple like a steak dinner. Bad guys don't keep to a schedule.

But he knows Clint well at this point. He knows that there might be something he really likes but it's too fancy or too expensive looking and he won't let himself have it. Even though he wants it. Clint focuses on need and the practical. This suit isn't about practical. Phil plans to give Clint what he wants and needs. It seems to be his default around the other man more and more.

"All he needs is the potential," Phil says in Clint's defense. "He can learn the rest."

If Clint ever decides it's worth his time. He might not but he has a way of surprising people who underestimate him.

"But you're right. The shirt and tie should be muted so the vest stands out. Usually, the shirt will match the jacket to fade into the background. The tie can still stand out if you want," Phil explains with patience, like he's running through mission details and not the finer points of men's fashion.

As long as Clint's comfortable with the whole thing Phil's fine with it. Leah probably can't tell but Phil is excited for this. Clint, if he's paying enough attention, will pick up on the subtle signs of it. They know each other that well by now. More importantly, Phil doesn't mind if Clint knows.

This is, on a practical level, for Clint. But he knows that this is really for Phil, who expressed a desire and an excitement (even a sexual one) to get Clint all gussied up in very nice fabrics that he'd chosen for the archer and then play the game of trying very hard to keep his hands to himself until a more appropriate time.

All Clint really knows is he likes himself a cozy flannel, and beyond that, well, then things ought to be practical with a few standout sexy pieces. Nothing quite like leaning on a bar with a pair of jeans that hug every curve and a shirt that rides up just so when he stretches his arms, for instance. This? Is a whole new level. So yes, he's thinking practicality, but it's nice to know that Phil, who has more working knowledge of this area, who this is all really for, is going to be able to narrow things down and make other suggestions to make Clint look his best and set practicality aside as only a secondary concern. Or, at the very least, take it all into consideration and somehow whip up something that's exactly what Clint never realized he needed. Which seems a much better outcome.

Phil, who is definitely feeling that excitement. It's subtle, but Clint smiles in spite of himself, because he sees that light in Phil's eyes, catches a tone in his voice.

"Okay," he says with a little nod. "So it's more building an outfit around the piece rather than it being an accent piece."

"Mm, it can be just like that," Leah agrees, and reaches over to give his arm another pinch. "We'll need something that gives you room but also lets you show off, but attention will be drawn more toward center mass."

"Just what I need, a bright target."

"You're not a deer, dear."

"I'll get you an all black suit next time," Phil says with some amusement. Now that Leah has Clint's measurements he can get Clint a suit anytime he feels like it. Which, honestly, won't be often.

His job requires a suit but Clint's doesn't. They don't go out to fancy places often enough to make multiple suits necessary. The idea, though, that he could get Clint in any suit of his fancy is nice.

God, he really hopes this isn't a sugardaddy thing. Phil will feel like an idiot if that turns out to be a thing of his.

Leah scoffs. "Even in all black he wouldn't disappear. Not with how good I'm going to make him look."

Phil privately agrees. Leah's suits are Phil's favorites for a reason. Clint's going to never fade into the background with one of them on.

"You can get me as many suits as you want so long as it's on your card." Clint points at Phil. "This is going on his card, by the way." He has no idea how much this will run, and he isn't exactly poor (anymore), but he imagines the amount would still make him wince.

"I know he's good for it, every time. Every cent is worth it, I promise."

"He has to come to you for good reason. His suits are sure always snazzy." Clint motions for his partner in fashion to come on over. "Pretend I'm stupid, which shouldn't be too hard, and tell me what you think." He indicates a couple bits of fabric across the table. None of them are the subtle pinstripe promised for the whole racing stripe joke, thank god. "These feel like they won't weigh me down. I'm not worried about the feel of the vest since it's just a vest, worst comes to I'll just unbutton it."

"Just a vest," Leah tuts just loud enough to be heard.

"Look, given she's as good as she says, is there any chance I can't rock any combination of any of this put together? Hard to narrow things down at that point."

"You're not stupid," Phil says automatically.

He also means it. Clint is not stupid. He's intelligence simply isn't towards fashion. No one can do math in their head like Clint can. One of these days he's going to convince Clint of that.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Clint he considers the fabrics and picks out the one he likes the best. It's a lighter grey but it will still look good on Clint. Everything looks good on Clint, though, even if the archer doesn't believe him when he says it.

"This one for the suit itself," Phil says, setting it aside. Leah makes a little sound of approval too. He has had a great deal of practice with this. "And I think something darker to contrast..."

He picks up a bolt of purple that's so dark it's almost black. People won't be able to tell unless they're up close.

"Oh, Phillip, stop taking it easy on the man. Make it pop!" Leah rolls her eyes and picks a brighter, bolder purple from the bunch. "Here. Give him some color."

Phil looks towards Clint to let him choose.

Phil usually only lets Clint be self-deprecating when he's mad about something, but still, it will not kill anyone to let him joke and get away with it. "We're just pretending I'm stupid," he murmurs.

He's a little surprised at the choice given Phil had seemed interested in something darker. Could he, maybe, get away with two suits? To mix things up. Obviously. "Hey, if we're gonna go color, let's go color." Bold it is. He reaches for said purple and lays it by Phil's choice of suit. "You sure it's not gonna look too groomsman-y? Or like I'm a valet? Maybe go with a dark shirt and tie to make it stand out more, unless that's gonna be, I don't know, too busy."

"How black tie are we talking? Bow ties only, or do we have more wiggle room?"

"Uh." God, it's so much easier when he's getting his kit fitted for work; he doesn't have to do any of this finicky shit. "Wiggle room, definitely."

"Then we can work wonders. Black shirt, black tie, let the vest speak for itself as he centerpiece with the suit to frame it?" She's gone back to her notebook, scribbling and sketching. "Or we could really work the purple, match the shirt, dark tie to break it up, hm, or keep the whole outfit bright and cheery, white shirt classic, purple tie..."

He's pretty sure she's talking to herself at this point, actually. "And a handkerchief." Just to be annoying.

She flaps a hand at him without looking up. "I'll let my violence in the workplace policy go if Phillip decides to smack you."

"You're lucky he's not asking for a flannel suit." Phil can tell Leah's in the creative stages and she'll need time now. A suit isn't made in a couple of hours even from someone who's sewn and tailored their entire life like Leah.

"I'd throw him out." She considers Clint for a moment. "Though he could do well in a kilt."

"Let's go with two options," he says glancing only once at Clint to make sure that works for him. "Something that's bold and one that's more subdued. How long do you think it'll take before he can come back for the final fitting?"

Leah looks up from her sketching and stares at them for a moment. Phil knows she's going through her calendar and current workload in her head. "For you, Phillip? I'll make it in a week."

"Don't strain yourself."

She waves a hand. "I can tell this is important. A week."

Phil nods. "If you've got any last minute requests, Clint, I'd make them now. She'll be too busy for us in a few minutes."

Which was fine. They'd spent enough time here and two suits was originally more than they planned. It's been a learning experience, he's certain.

"I have no idea if I have nice calves, but let's leave the tartan aside for another time." Or never. Maybe never! Hm.

He glances at Phil and shrugs. Ask for some big inside pockets? Enough room for a shoulder holster and a pistol? Room for fun unspecified gadgets?

Focus. This is for nice events wherein there is no expectation of anything going wrong. Not for a mission.

"We'll see you in a week, then."

Phil bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from commenting on Clint's calves. They're nice. Very strong. Feel great when they're wrapped around his waist and trying to pull him closer. He's not going to mention anything about Clint's calves but he will think about them.

"Thank you so much, Leah. You're incredible as always." Phil leans forward and kisses her cheek. "Tell Calvin I say hello."

"Oh, Phillip, stop making him jealous." Leah swats Phil's arm and begins to gather up the fabrics selected to take to the back of her shop where the work is done.

Phil briefly puts a hand on Clint's back to get him moving towards the door. Once they're outside he looks around the street and then looks at Clint.

"Do you feel up to grabbing dinner or would you rather go home?" Because that was a lot of new things all at once and probably felt a little invasive. Phil will understand if he wants comfortable flannel and no one poking at him.

There's that implication in giving him the choice. It could simply be because this is new, with several more implications that are spinning through his head, but it rankles. Just a little. Not enough to say anything, because Phil's being Phil, and Phil loves giving him choices and making sure he's comfortable.

But for fuck's sake, it's not like this is post-mission being dropped off in the middle of fuck knows where doing some wild and crazy shit and needs a wind down from. It's clothes. He can handle doing something a little new in his personal life for the sake of making Phil happy.

"Split the difference," he says instead, "and grab dinner to go on the way home. You gonna pay for that, too? Am I gonna end up with a tab when we're all said and done?"

"You're paying for dinner." Phil turns towards home. They have a few favorite places along the way that they can stop at. He'll even let Clint pick since he's making him pay.

He puts his hands in his pockets as they walk, occasionally scanning the street out of habit. "What did you think of her?"

It might be strange but he wants Clint to like his tailor. He's getting sentimental or something in his old age. Or maybe it's comfortable. This is his personal life that he's sharing, something that's important to him.

Feelings can make things so silly sometimes.

"Good; I might've busted out the s-word again if you insisted on that, too." And they're not talking about that word.

"I can see why you like her. It's a nice place, small, out of the way, not some busy big name celebrities might go to. And seeing as we all know how your suits are, I know she does good work. Sassy old lady. I can dig it."

He glances at Phil sidelong. They should talk. They really ought to talk. What comes out instead is: "We're taking Lola to go to fancy dinner, right? Gotta show up in style when we're already in style."

They can talk when they get home. They were about due for a serious conversation given how long it had been since their last one. Things were changing again between them. It isn't major, he feels. Just a natural progression.

"Yes, we'll take Lola." Phil will get her detailed before then just so she looks extra beautiful. "She hasn't been out in awhile."

He holds up a finger before Clint can talk. "And no, you don't get to drive her this time."

He does, in general, trust his car to Clint. But for this fancy date he wants to drive because he likes driving. It's relaxing for him, especially when it's not a high speed chase through crowded streets.

"Yeah yeah. Someday I'm gonna convince you to let me fly her, though." He can pilot a quinjet like nobody's business; surely he can fly a car without crashing. Probably.

"Did you have fun? I mean, did you like doing this? Or is it kind of more the buildup for me actually putting the whole thing on?"

"Some day." He knows Clint can fly but Lola's special. Phil has a hard time letting go of things that are special. Also, he has control issues which just about anyone could guess about him.

He takes his hand out of his pocket to brushes his hand against Clint's. "I enjoyed this. It's odd to think of it like sharing a hobby but that's what it felt like. And you are going to look excellent."

Phil knows the suits will be perfect. Clint is going to be devastatingly handsome.

"I'm gonna look good in something you shared with me deliberately in some fancy digs you helped pick out. I like that you're getting a kick out of it whether it's something sexy or just cuz you think it's nice."

He appreciates it, the touch of hand. Clint refrains from holding on the way he wants to, but it's good enough that they're touching.

"This is good, to you, and I wanna be good to you. And, hey, anytime we do anything fancy, I'll have something genuinely nice to fall back on, and not rent tuxes."

"The power is going to go to your head," he teases lightly. The trust they have means that neither one will take advantage of the other. Phil trusts that Clint will enjoy how much he reacts to Clint in a suit.

And he'll enjoy it too. Wanting Clint has only ever been stressful when he was determined to keep professional boundaries and when they started to talk about feelings. Other than that it's been very enjoyable.

Fun. Clint reminds him to have fun.

"You should go to one of Stark's fancy events in it. He'll be stunned." Phil always does enjoy messing with Tony Stark in any way he can get away with. He has to get a little of his own back for how much Stark bothers him.

"Oh, you know I'm gonna go to one of his swankier shindigs and start a whole bunch of rumors. I can't wait to see the tabloids suspect that I'm his new boytoy." And hey, no real PR work to do, because nobody gives a shit about tabloids. They're funny, honestly. Clint loves to poke fun of the more unflattering Avengers photos, and Tony has a board keeping track of which one thinks who's sleeping with who.

He rubs his neck a moment. "Do we have to talk?" Just to put the idea out there. "About where we are."

"They'll be very surprised you've stolen him from Captain Rogers." Phil keeps on top of all the Avengers news. Sometimes hidden among the rumors are things people shouldn't know and the only way for them to know was if they had direct access.

He and Pepper have worked closely to find the people inside Stark Industries willing to sell Avengers secrets to make a quick buck. He is very protective of his agents.

"We should," he replies with another brush of his hand against Clint's. "If you're serious about us taking a vacation together. That's... more than what we've been."

Lovers and friends is probably the best definition right now. Something like an extended vacation... that's different. That's partners. That's something that can't easily be brushed off with a cover story.

"But we can talk about it when we're home. We don't have to have it right now." Walking to go get dinner is a very public forum.

"We should if you're serious about taking me out to a fancy dinner," Clint points out. A romantic dinner. "And straying unusually close to flirty in public." Well. Inside of a little shop in front of a friend of sorts. Which is still more public than they have been, traditionally. Phil has always been very sternly serious about separating work and play, and to not let his feelings be known or to interfere with the work. There's no flirting or commentary or undue touching when they're at work. And in public they are friends and coworkers.

It does mean Clint has to think of if he really is serious about a vacation. Together. Somewhere alone and secluded and romantic. It's entirely possible with some fun intervention from Phil that they could stagger certain dates and forge flights and rentals and all else so that it doesn't look like they're going somewhere together. But it would still be suspect. And that's also just...a step even further from a dinner date.

There's that word again. Date.

Alter the course, then. "You just want to see me strip down in front of a horny little old lady and then watch me stay perfectly still while she pins a bunch of fabric to me and makes her little tutting noises while she makes alterations. What a devious trap. No weapons and nowhere to go."

Leah has no connection to that other side of his life outside of the suits she tailors for him. He felt comfortable letting her see that side of their relationship though it was unexpected even for himself.

"I do what to see you at the tender mercies of my tailor, yes. And I never tire of seeing you strip down." Phil can play along with the joke. It's a comfortable routine to fall back in. Clint jokes. Phil responds like he's bored. That's the dynamic they've had for a long time.

It's only flirtatious when they're alone. Or on a crowded New York street where no one cares that an Avenger and a secret agent are flirting.

Or dating.

"I am serious about the dinner." More importantly he's serious about the romancing. Phil knows himself well and he knows he's courting Clint with this. He's clearly ready to admit this is a relationship and that he wants it. Wants something more defined with Clint. "And you, Clint."

It's very tender, the admission. And it's difficult to know how to react to it. Is he surprised? Well, if he's honest, not really. He has at times thought of Phil as his boyfriend, internally, on occasion, sometimes. It sounds less flowery and dramatic than lover, more specific than partner. But he doesn't say the word. Saying it is different.

Making it in any way official is also different. It isn't like it's new, the idea that there are feelings involved. It's been made clear for a while now that this is definitely something more than just physical. But had remained otherwise undefined.

So why is the idea so frightening? Oh. Right. Because when's the last time he had a serious, lasting relationship? All of never.

"Oh hey, I love this sandwich place, let's get here."

His way of tabling the waiting conversation for, yes, a more private time.

There are only two instances wherein Clint's stopped, being recognized and asked for a photo or an autograph before awkwardly scurrying along before some kind of crowd forms. Going to a Stark party and being photographed with Nat deep in some Starbucks and noticed from a distance for whatever little articles tabloid or legit, that's a different kind of fame than having it be seen and noticed and put in his face. He's still acclimating to it. But the nice thing about being one of the less marketable Avengers who is, in action, seen from a distance more often than boots on the ground, means it's only a few times when he's out. Not hounded like Tony or with a trailing gaggle of fans like Thor.

He's pretty sure if people even notice Coulson, he's written off as a bodyguard, which is deeply entertaining. So long as they don't talk shop about anything serious on the way, Clint is content enough chatting amicably, munching on a bag of chips, until they're inside and in safety. And privacy.

Phil smiles to himself as Clint flees the conversation before it can go further. That's fine with him. He doesn't want to have this conversation on a public New York street either.

It's the way he does it that Phil finds amusing. A simple statement and gone. No excuse. No explanation. Just done. Not forever, but for now. It's straight to the point and direct as Clint often is.

So, the conversation turns casual. Some talk of work in the vaguest sense and a bit about the shows Phil's currently watching that are just as awful as last season but he keeps watching anyway. It's the sort of conversation they'd have anywhere.

Home feels a bit more important now. Phil insists on getting plates out to eat their sandwiches instead of from the paper they're wrapped in. They're civilized people.

Once they sit down to eat Phil figures they can ease back into the conversation. Unless Clint brings it up himself.

"I am telling you," says the less civilized person, mouth half-full as it is, "they already come wrapped in perfectly good plates so you don't have to waste dirtying up an actual plate." That's just common sense! But, as ever, he defers to Phil.

Knowing that he can and will act like a bachelor caveman when he's alone in his own place. So there.

He should probably bring up the finely dressed elephant in the room. Is he going to? No. At least, not yet. Because he's not super sure how to without going 'so we should talk' and then not knowing what to say after that. God. Phil's better with words.

"I've bent to you and Natasha's habit of eating Chinese straight from the carton. I need to draw the line somewhere." He drapes his jacket on the back of a chair and then rolls up his sleeves to the elbow so he won't get oil and vinegar stains. He also takes off his tie for the same reason.

The plates get set out and Phil is very deliberate about putting Clint's sandwich on his and then presenting it to him.

When he's seated with his own he allows for a few bites before starting the conversation that Clint's clearly thinking about but not saying. "So, do you want to label this a relationship or no?"

Fine, neat and tidy it is. If he weren't eating, he'd probably stick his tongue out.

And, as usual, as planned really, Phil is the one to not only get back to the topic but do so directly, very bluntly. It's in fact so blunt that Clint nearly chokes.

"This is kind of already a relationship," he points out. Which isn't wrong, but given they both know what they're talking about, it's needlessly pedantic. "We're sleeping together and we give a shit. Presumably, that's a relationship."

"Do you want people to know it's a relationship?" Phil continues forward like Clint isn't being pedantic and arguing the semantics of what they are. "Because it takes one cellphone camera to catch a picture of Hawkeye out with the bodyguard to start a media cascade."

Their romantic dinner could be seen. There would be no way to pass it off as a casual dinner between coworkers. Not with everything Phil's thinking about planning.

"Because that's what comes next for us. We go public, in a sense." Phil suspects it will be a surprise to many people. Not everyone but a few. They are very close.

"I'm all for going out and having dinner, Phil. We don't have to make an announcement or send out wedding invites."

But if they become lax about when and where they show themselves, then yeah. That'll cause ripples. To say the least.

He tears at the bread a little anxiously. "It won't be a good look for you. There are bound to be repercussions. Me, I don't give a shit; what is anyone gonna do, fire an Avenger? But you're my handler. Much less public-facing. Means anything could happen. And what's the optics on you sleeping with one of your agents? Your favorite, even."

The dinner itself could be the announcement if the right fan in the right place at the right time with a cellphone camera notices them. Phil doesn't point that out again. Clint's clearly nervous about this. Arguing with him defeats the purpose.

"I doubt Fury's going to fire me over sleeping with you," Phil says reasonably. "He trusts me and there aren't many people who can say that. I might be sanctioned and have to take a leave for a time."

But leave SHIELD? Phil doubts that will happen. His reputation will take a hit, yes, because sleeping with an agent is unprofessional. There will be rumors around Clint too. It won't be clean.

"If he does fire me, I will probably agree to work for Stark even though the thought gives me heartburn," he says with a heavy sigh. "He's been trying to steal me for some time. Since California."

Fury is reasonable, sometimes. Lenient with those he likes, which isn't always great, but who is Clint to complain when Fury was someone who backed him, vouched for him, after Loki?

He can't see Phil working for Tony. Just...no. He'll still be SHIELD, yeah. Things will just probably be...a little different. "They'll reassign you. Or me. And you know how hard it was to get a handle on me the first time around."

He's much calmer these days. But it won't be the easiest transition.

"I'm just worried. About you."

"You will still be an Avenger and unless they want every Avenger up in arms they're going to keep me as a liaison between SHIELD and the Avengers." Again, Phil's sticking to the reasonable response. He knows SHIELD. It's been his life since he left the Rangers.

He reaches across the table and squeezes Clint's wrist. "There might be an official mark in my file. Maybe they threaten bumping my security clearance down. And maybe they force me to take unpaid leave for awhile. But they're not going to let me go."

Phil's confident and comfortable with that. He is ready to face the consequences of this relationship whatever they may be. As long as they don't cost him Clint. He wants to keep Clint fiercely.

He looks up at Phil, really looks, when his handler-partner reaches for him. Even if they couldn't still work together, somehow, Clint knows he'll still be able to fall back here, get the help and encouragement and debriefing, in a sense, that he needs. Phil's spent a long time getting to learn and understand what Clint needs. That's irreplaceable.

"And a next step, being public, that's what you want? You're good with everyone knowing?" It's a little terrifying to consider, actually. So much of his life now has been clandestine, and this most of all. He tries to mitigate that with a smirk and a joke. "You just wanna hold my hand everywhere we go so bad, you softie."

"Like you said I'm not saying we make a huge announcement," Phil says with a small smile. "But I would like to hold your hand in public. And flirt with you. And perhaps even do something entirely radical and kiss you."

He doubts that they'll be in any major way different from how they've always been. They won't fawn over each other or be overly physically affectionate. It's not in their nature just like pet names aren't in their nature.

"Do you think it'll change something between us?" he asks, curious if that's really what worried Clint.

"Gonna break a lot of hearts, taking Hawkeye off the market like that." Not that the tabloids will care, anyway. He'll be secretly dating the whole rest of the team within a month anyway.

"Won't it? Change something?" He gives a strained smile. "What we are is great. It works for us really well. Being more open and going to dinners and all, that does something different. Opens us up to being something a little more defined. Does that bother you? The lack of definition we've got?"

"What I would like is to stop wondering if I've crossed some unspoken line because I want to touch you while we're in public." Phil is thinking back to the moment in the tailor's. That hesitation, the questioning, Phil would really like that to stop.

"Or question that I want to treat you to a nice dinner out. We've been together, defined or not, for long enough that even if we haven't said it we're more than just casual." There are deep feelings here. Phil would have so many regrets if this relationship ended.

"If you don't want to label this, that's fine but other people will whether we like it or not. Especially if we're going on dates."

"I thought the line was pretty well spoken, until today." Clint frowns. He can read Phil pretty damn well by now, but even with his expertise, he misses the small details, the hidden ones. "Did I hurt you?"

"I think they were but the longer were together the more those lines blur for me, I guess." Phil squeezes Clint's wrist.

"No, you didn't. I thought I had made you uncomfortable, actually." He smiles a little bit. "You make very silly sometimes. In a good way."

"I'd like it. If we could just be us but everywhere, all the time. Obviously not the parts that would get us arrested in public." Roll it all into a lighter hearted joke.

"I think we'd have to renegotiate the lines, though. So we know where we stand for sure. And..." He hesitates, shakes his head. "I should know better than to ask and keep asking if you're sure. I don't really...date." Not very successfully, at least. And god, it's a little strange to actually say the word and to mean it. "Not a lot of...boyfriend history."

"I don't think our sex tape would be as popular as Stark's." More dry humor to keep things settled. They are still them even if they're taking another step forward in their relationship.

Phil brushes his thumb back and forth across Clint's knuckles because he can and finds it soothing for himself. "I don't think history matters too much. As long as we keep talking to each other, we should be fine. My previous relationships have usually ended because they figure out I'm not telling them everything."

And he can't because his previous relationships were all with civilians who didn't have the security clearance to know what he did. That's one thing Phil doesn't have to worry about. Clint generally knows exactly what he's working on because Clint's working on it too.

"And I'm not going to ask you to give up your bachelor apartment," he says, "I know you need space sometimes."

"If we ever start talking about moving in together, we're moving into one of the swanky stark tower floors and claiming it all for ourselves and pestering Jarvis at all hours."

But it's appreciated. They spend a lot of time together, for work and in bed, and it's cozy. But he does need space, needs to decompress on his own, stretch his wings as it were. The city feels too crowded sometimes.

"I don't know. We get on great. I'm just worried that if we escalate to something more, you're gonna see shit in me you don't like, or I'm gonna flake out and rabbit on you. Or that we might ruin what we've got already."

"I don't know if I can live with Stark." Phil frowns a little. It isn't that he doesn't like Stark. He sort of does like him a little bit. Spending all his time around Stark might change that though.

Phil doesn't consider himself clingy even though he does enjoy cuddling a lot. If Clint says he needs some time alone then he needs time alone. He doesn't worry Clint won't come back. He always does.

"Is there a side of you I haven't seen in all the years we've known each other?" Because they've known each other longer than they've been sleeping together. "I know how much of a bastard you can be. I remember when you first came in. And if you feel like you need to run then okay."

Because he will never demand Clint be with him. "I would try to talk you out of it. I care about you so much and I wouldn't let you go easily but if you really decided you were done with me then okay."

A furrow forms between his brows, and he pulls away. Ostensibly to clean up. He knows it'll look like the retreat that it is as he pads into the kitchen. "Okay," echoing the word.

And it just doesn't sit well. Yes, Phil will put in an effort to keep him, but it doesn't sound like much, especially when he knows that if he decides to leave--it won't be because of Phil. It'll be because of himself. Do either of them think it at all likely that Clint will ever just get sick of Phil and just want to end it?

And the fact that he can't see a way of this ending that in any way has to do with him being done with Phil should say a lot, right? That he's just as serious about this.

"You know this doesn't end well, right?" Said in the direction of the countertop. "Job like this, one of us is gonna meet some messy end. And I'm a lot of work. Wouldn't want it to feel like all that effort could go to waste."

"That's been a risk since we started sleeping together," Phil points out. "That's been a risk since we actually started being friends. I know what could happen."

And that's always been there. Phil's aware the risks Clint takes have gotten more intense because of the Avengers too. He's fighting things that he was never really trained to fight.

He stands and crosses to him, rubbing a hand gently against the small of his back. "Time with you has never been a waste. I want whatever time we get."

Clint has to be willing to take that risk with him. That's all Phil's asking him to do. He doesn't have to change or be whomever he thinks Phil should want. Phil wants what he has with a few more perks like a hug after a hard won fight. Or sit next to him when the Avengers hang out.

"Don't let Stark give my euology. He'll make it about himself, somehow. You and Rogers, you'll talk like soldiers, gun salute and everything, so you guys are out. Probably gotta be Nat."

This is not the time or the place for that. Remember to breathe.

Breathe in. Give Phil a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, back again. "Okay." Breathe out.

"Do we wanna save all the PDA for dinner? On our first official date?"

"I'll let the janitor who cleans my office give your euology before Stark says a word." Phil leans in and presses a gentle kiss against the side of Clint's head. Maybe they're being too casual about this but this is the reality of their lives.

The okay is a good sign. Clint will still be worried. Until he has proof that he doesn't need to be worried.

"I say we play it by ear. If the opportunity arises and we both want to..." Phil shrugs. It's hard to say right now when they're just talking about it for the first time. It's exciting and scary. He understands.

"Like walking down the street." Holding hands. "Or cluing in your tailor, if he hasn't gotten the gist already." More touching without any heed to who sees.

And getting to do that all the time, whenever they want.

He turns enough to face Phil. "Any lines we shouldn't cross here?"

Now that Clint's facing him Phil slides his arm around his waist holding him loosely. This is just how they are when they're home.

"We'll still be professional at the office." Because Phil's very strict about work and insists that line stays in place. "But after hours with the Avengers seems like it would be fine."

If the Avengers know, that's fine with Phil. It will stop Pepper from questioning him about his personal life. "I think we'll find some while we're exploring this."

"You know they don't mind having you around." He doesn't need to say it. He says it anyway. He'll keep saying it until Phil accepts that they're all friends, or friendly enough. There's an internal fight, brief, fluttering, where Clint thinks he might duck out of this barely-there embrace, need air, need some breathing room. And he shoves it aside so he can lay his arms around Phil's shoulders, hands loosely touching somewhere back from Phil's neck. "Hang out, watch tv, let me put my head in your lap while I kick my feet up on Thor's. Loosen your damn tie and roll up your sleeves. You'll look practically indecent."

Phil feels a bit like an outsider with the Avengers most of the time. He's not on the same level as them. He also expects that they see him as interrupting, bringing work into their private downtime where they don't have to be heroes.

"We can try that." He knows it will be chaos the first time the team sees them like that but once they get through that it should be fine in the future. "But since we're home we could do that now. Without Thor."

There's a couch and mindless TV to lose themselves in other people's problems. Or a nature documentary, whatever catches their interest.

It's the kind of chaos Clint likes. A little social chaos. That'll get a lot of really funny reactions.

"Mm, spend time laying on my favorite person while he pets my hair?" Because that is the request and the inevitability, that there will be hair petting. "How can I say no to that?"

"You sometimes offer other suggestions of what we could do with our time." Phil kisses his temple. "I'm even willing to wait to do the dishes until tomorrow just to pet your hair sooner."

He squeezes Clint's side before they untangle and grabs a beer from the fridge before making his way to the couch. He's already got his sleeves rolled up but he deliberately undoes the top three buttons on his shirt before he sits down.

Phil puts an arm across the back of the couch which gives Clint plenty of room to make himself comfortable. The beer gets set down on a coaster and the remote gets picked up to channel surf.

"Keep undoing your shirt like that, and I might actually come up with something better than lap time and hair petting."

Maybe. The important thing right now is watching his partner-something get comfy, and then coming in to fill the void left just for him. He even refrains from vaulting over the back of the couch to show off as he's done before. Deliberate in the way he settles on the cushions, head tucked in Phil's lap, angled to watch tv while knowing he's only going to pay enough attention to give some smart comments and not much else.

He rolls it over in his head. The idea of the word boyfriend. Not handler-partner-lover. Is that a word they want to use? Is that a definition they're going to reach for, for what they are? He'll have to ruminate on that.

He's tempted for half a second to undo one button just to see what Clint does but puts it aside. If Clint was serious about that he would've made a move already. He suspects that Clint needs time to think. In the field he'll throw himself at danger with very little forethought but he's going to think about this now.

Phil settles his fingers in Clint's hair and pets through the short stands slowly. It's soothing for him as well, actually. The weight of Clint's head in his lap, the warmth of where their bodies press together, and the steady rhythm are permission for him to truly leave Agent Coulson behind and just be Phil.

He slumps a little into the couch cushions and watches other people be absolutely terrible at solving simple everyday problems that aren't in the least bit serious. And he waits to see if Clint has anything else he wants to get off his chest.

Edited 2023-03-18 12:04 (UTC)

It seems, for a good while, that he might just keep it there, close to said chest, to deploy at a later time.

He's not sure how to approach it without being blunt. Phil's good at blunt. Clint's blunt when bluntness is called for. The spy in him looks for the angles. The archer, too. A good way to come at it obliquely. And nothing really sounds right. Maybe because it's hard to think too hard with those fingers in his hair and everything so calm and steady he could probably drop right off to sleep if he let himself.

"I'd take your last name," is what he says instead, in a joking tone. There's a very messy married couple on screen that's almost halfway entertaining. That's his excuse. "It'd be really funny for someone to ask for Agent Coulson and the both of us show up." It in no way hits on the actual thought bouncing around inside his head, but it's something.

He rolls a little, enough to be looking up at his partner. "Do you want to call us boyfriends?"

"Clint Coulson is a terrible name," he says as he glances down at Clint with a little smile. It's a bit of a surprise even as a joke. Phil hadn't thought about marriage. He thought about a label and officially saying they're dating to their friends.

Marriage is quite a leap forward. Phil knows it's just a joke but now the wonder, the question will always be in the back of his mind. The wonder if that's where this is going next.

"Sure." Phil rests his hand on Clint's chest while they talk. Talking while petting usually encourages sleep and Clint seems to want to talk right now. "Boyfriends is fine. I might use partner partially because I enjoy the confusion people get about the term."

Phil is very quietly a troll sometimes.

"Phil Barton isn't any better."

But that's for something maybe never, or at the very least later. Like, a while later, if that. Right now they are sometimes-boyfriends and definitely-partners. Clint lays a hand on top of Phil's.

"Partner's good. I like that one. Especially since Nat's also my partner. Confuses the hell outta people; I love it."

"Hopefully Natasha is alright with being in a polycue with us," he says with a little smile. He suspects she'll enjoy the joke until it actually interferes with what she wants.

He turns his hand over and laces their fingers together. "Our names don't exactly lend themselves to marriage. I guess we can never get married."

Hopefully he's not going too far with the joke. He's still keeping things casual and light even though it's a rather serious topic. They can't talk about being open about their relationship but they can joke around about marriage.

"Nope, you're right, not ever. We'll be bachelors forever, with each other." So long as it's all just a joke. They can joke about anything. "That's okay; I don't think Nat's all that cut out to be my best man. And we can't have Tony around the open bar unless we want to flirt with disaster."

Actually, that doesn't sound too bad. They can be who they are and be together like this for as long as time gives them. Phil really wouldn't mind that.

The bar comment makes him chuckle. "If Stark wants to pay for the bar he can have it open. I'll make sure there's a nice secure holding cell for him when he starts making trouble."

He rubs their hands over Clint's chest. "But... I say we sneak away and put LMDs in our place. I don't think we should watch the chaos up close."

"Watch the chaos?" Clint laughs. "Sorry, wait, you've met me, right? You think your partner's gonna be content to just watch the chaos instead of being part of it? In the middle of it? Instigating it? Is it even a party if there isn't a risk that you'll have to bail me out of jail the next day?"

"You can get arrested on your bachelor party but you're not getting arrested on our wedding night." Phil thinks it's very big of himself not to mention how Clint is a sniper and being out of the action is actually his whole role.

"I'll have plans for you that night." Phil squeezes their joined hands. It's almost too easy to imagine rings pressing against skin.

"I love you." He says because he can and there's no reason not to.

Oh. Oh, this all got very real very quickly. And he--does not know what to say.

Logically, he knows what he's supposed to say in response. But 'love' is really not a word they've ever talked about. Obviously this is a thing they both very likely feel, very strongly in fact! But like 'date', it feels like a loaded word, ready to go off at the wrong time and do some damage.

What's worse, saying nothing in return, or saying something else? What does he say??

"Thanks."

He hopes he keeps the utter mortification off his face.

Luckily for Clint Phil knows him well enough not to be offended or mad that he gets a thanks in return. It's probably the most Clint thing he could have said. His smile deepens if anything.

"You know, it's because of your way with words." He rubs his thumb back and forth slowly across his knuckles. "I can't believe I'm going to say this but think less about it and just enjoy it."

That's all he asking Clint to do. He doesn't need to say anything or do anything. He just needs to accept that Phil loves him and leave it at that.

Clint throws his free arm over his eyes and groans. "This is gonna be some really funny story you tell people years from now. And I'm probably gonna wanna jump in a hole every time."

"I already have a few of those stories already." Phil doesn't press any further though. Clint's clearly having a hard time with his own emotions right now. He doesn't need to make it worse even if he does find it a bit amusing to watch him squirm.

He moves his hand back to Clint's hair and starts petting again. Time to settle down and relax. They've made a lot of big steps today that they'll both need to process.

Right now, Phil let's himself be happy with them.

Clint huffs but lets it go. Of course there are plenty of embarrassing stories, even if some of those he's also kind of proud of. And at least Phil's not hurt by not saying it back. There's no expectation of it, currently. And transitions back to petting easily.

It's easy to say not to think about it, but now it's going to be all he thinks about.

Maybe he'll just set it aside and sink into sensation instead. Yeah. That's the way to go.

When it's obvious that they're both falling asleep on the couch he turns the television off and nudges Clint's shoulder.

"Come on, bedtime." Phil stretches his arms over his head afterwards but waits until Clint's sitting up before he stands. He kisses the top of his head on his way to the bedroom and bathroom to get ready for bed.

If Clint doesn't follow because he needs that space Phil will be a little disappointed. He's found he likes sleeping with someone else in the bed. Probably because it's Clint there.

He mumbles something incoherent at the nudge and decree, probably because he was definitely starting to drift away. He stretches out, full body and feline, before rolling to his feet and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Think I'm just gonna go home," he says toward Phil's back. "If that's cool. We both kinda got a lot to think about."

Phil turns around and leans against the doorway to bedroom, crossing his arms over his chest. "If that's what you really want, sure. The invitations always open for you to stay though."

Alright, there's that little bit of disappointment. He knows from experience though that if he clings or demands it won't work. If Clint really needs that space he'll let him have it.

It probably doesn't look good, does it? Phil says the big three words, and Clint doesn't say it back, and then escapes away. Probably looks bad, in fact.

"This doesn't change anything. That hasn't already changed. We're good. Not like you won't be seeing me." Still seems bad? Hm. Still seems bad. "You want me to stay?"

"I would like you to stay."

Phil crosses the room to Clint and leans in to kiss him softly. He could see the worry and the overthinking starting again.

"But I understand if you need space and time. I know you'll come back." He believes that and trusts that. Clint will always come back to him eventually. "But if you think you have to leave? You can stop thinking that."

"I don't think I have to..." He hums delightedly into the kiss. This is good, this softness, and maybe he should give it more often. Will, probably, give it more often when they are more public. "I know you always want me to stay. I'm not gonna move in on a whim, though. I think I'd drive you crazy."

That's not what Phil's asking, obviously. But just to point out. "I just gotta get my head clear. That's all. I know that you're good at doing that for me sometimes, but...I just gotta do this for myself tonight. Think about it all. I'll be back. You'll never have seen the last of me."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow morning at work." He rubs his hand down Clint's arm. Everything they have works on the trust they have in each other. When Clint tells him he'll be back, Phil believes it. He trusts that.

He's still a gentleman who walks him to the door. And he gives him one more kiss before letting Clint go.

"Goodnight." He does watch him walk away for a few seconds before he disappears back into his apartment to get some sleep.

Phil's very assertive in his touching and kissing. It isn't bad. It isn't strange. And Clint can give as good as he gets, to be sure. It's just a strange and intense kind of day, and he'll make up for any lack later. There's a light touch of hands, holding, and leans into the kiss, and then that's that.

It's him and a walk home in the bright city night.

And it gives him a lot of time to think about it. Even when he's home and tucked into bed and laying there, thinking about it. About being more, which doesn't even really entail them being more, just being able to be what they are wherever and whenever they want. The way Phil said those words and how it felt. Knowing that really, Phil didn't have to say it at all, that it was something just inherently understood, but that it still felt good to hear it. And also terrifying.

Is this how love feels? He doesn't really have many good models to base the feeling off of. When he and Nat had tried something, ages ago now, they had quickly decided that what they felt wasn't that kind of love, and they were much better off as friends, best friends, platonic life partners as some have even called them. He knows love from family, from his mother and now from a rather forced together type of family. But love love? Like from the songs? That's what this is, right? Should he say it? Maybe he should say it. Say it out in the open in front of everyone and dip his partner low for a kiss of a lifetime and uuuuuuugh no, no, that is not going to happen.

It's going to be dinner. Fancy dinner in fancy dress. They will smile and laugh and touch. They'll hold hands and they'll kiss. And people will know.

That's a big declaration in itself. Transitioning into something they do all the time is going to probably take practice after so long clearly keeping the lines of work and play separated. So...try not to worry about it?

Which means of course he's going to worry about it and when did it get to be morning already??

It's going to be a long week to picking up those suits.

Phil, in contrast, doesn't worry about it. He falls asleep with easy though his hand does drift over to what he considers Clint's side of the bed. He sleeps well, comfortable and confident with his decision. It doesn't scare him because of the certainty he has in his heart that things will be okay in the end.

And he does notice that it's having a bigger effect on Clint. Phil doesn't change their usual routines. He doesn't change the lines they've drawn, not even a little bit. He won't until Clint's settled with the idea that they can. It may take awhile but that's fine. He's as patient as the sniper when he needs to be.

It isn't until they're walking back towards the tailors to get the suits after Clint's had his last fittings that he reaches over and takes Clint's hand in his, lacing their fingers together. His touch is loose so Clint can pull away if he's comfortable but it's different. It's new. He's making it clear.

"No one would believe me if I told them you're prone to overthinking," he teases in a dry tone.

Phil hasn't forced anything, hasn't tried anything out of the ordinary, has not, as far as he can tell, said anything to anyone. So. Slow and steady. Which is not Clint's usual style, but in this case, he's making an exception for sure. Would he be able to adapt to sudden and rapid change? Oh, for sure, without a doubt. But Phil is good, too good, at reading him. Knows that he needs a little bit of time to sit on this.

It's good luck, he thinks, that's allowed them to stay stateside and local instead of a surprise three week stint in Azerbaijan again or something like that. And it's trust, faith, and love that lets Phil take his hand without flinching.

He looks down briefly at their hands, then deliberately away. He is not prone to blushing that he's aware of, and something as small of this obviously shouldn't do anything to him. And yet. It feels big. It's small and will go unnoticed but most. And yet it's enormous for them. He grips back, firm.

"I'm not all impulse. Sometimes I even think before I do. Not usually before I speak, though."

"I don't always mind your impulses." They had some interesting adventures because of some impulsive decision by Clint. A new restaurant. An interesting looking store. A new coffee place. Try this sriracha raspberry jam. Sometimes, the impulsiveness has led to really good things. And it helps Phil break from his routines. He can be too set in his ways sometimes.

He appreciates Clint taking the time to be comfortable with this, however. Phil makes his grip more firm in response to Clint. This is really all he expected of the change, touching in public and maybe even a little kiss here and there.

"Everyone's aware of how you run your mouth. It's not subtle." He doesn't expect it to change.

"It's a highly effective distraction technique," Clint says with a boyish grin. "Talk bullshit at them and they'll never see your next move coming."

This feels good. A little bit of those giddy, flighty nerves, but predominantly good to just casually hold his boyfriend's hand. "Feeling bold today?"

"I might." Phil is going to leave it at that and let Clint wonder what he might do. They're mostly going to spend time at the tailors where there will be plenty of opportunities to be bold with Clint.

"Leah will certainly be bold with you." He holds the door open for Clint when they reach the tailor. No one else is inside except Leah. "I brought him back for your tender mercies."

"Oh, Phillip, good. Once the finishing touches are on the suits, he'll be stunning." She had them in suit bags hung up on a rolling rack. She hands Clint the first bag. "Put this on."

"You really do work fast," Clint marvels as he takes the bag. "Now I kinda wish I'd done my hair all nice." Leah ushers him toward a changing room. "No peeking."

The first one is, apparently, the more subdued one with a much less bold purple. When the light catches it just right, the regal shimmer becomes more clear, but it's otherwise dark enough to pass as next best thing to black, with a matching tie. Offset just enough by an actually black shirt, and framed by the lighter grey. The color is just a fun accessory, and the suit itself is the real star for its fit.

When he steps out in the getup, Leah is already on him, adjusting the tie, tugging and straightening hems.

"I know--" He's tempted to bat her away, but she in theory knows what she's doing, so he keeps his hands to himself. "I know how to put on a suit." Phillip. Help. "Do I look okay or like I'm going to go to a snazzy funeral?"

Leah tuts. "Don't offend someone well-versed in a small pair of fabric sheers."

Phil sat down in a chair to wait, trying not to so how eager he was to see the first suit.

Clint always looked good in tactical black. Now he was in a suit almost perfectly cut for his body and in his best color. Phil curled his fingers around his knee when he stepped out.

This was going to be torture at dinner. Though he doesn't have to keep his hands to himself anymore. They can be public with their affection now. Knowing himself though Phil will still hold back because it will make the eventual giving in better.

"You'd need to be much more subdued personality wise for a funeral," Phil says, his eyes roaming slowly over Clint's form while Leah carefully makes the final adjustments.

Oh, Phil's looking. Looking very hard. "I can be subdued. I've been to funerals."

"In what? A rental?"

Clint...coughs a little and says nothing.

"A travesty." Leah seems to finally be somewhere close to satisfied as she steps back, adjusting her glasses and humming to herself. "I hope you've got some nice shoes to go with."

"Don't worry about my shoes, no one should be looking down there."

"It's an ensemble. Tell me how it feels?"

That's at least a much more practical question. Clint rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms up, twists around. Unbuttons the jacket and does the same thing, gives a few little jabs at the air. He does not anticipate a fight. But just in case... "Feels good. Like I can really move around in it."

"Why is he punching?" Leah looks towards Phil. "Do you plan to take him to a bar brawl in a suit?"

It is possible that could happen even at a nice dinner. Trouble has a way of finding Clint no matter where he goes. He smiles as he looks at Clint. "It's a good way to check mobility and the fabric. He approves, Leah, that's all that matters."

So did Phil but the choice is still Clint's in the end when it comes to wearing them. If this is how he wants to test them Phil's not going to stop him. He shifts a little in his seat.

"It looks good," he says with a small nod. "Excellent work as always."

"Yeah? If it's got the Phillip seal of approval, then it's okay by me."

"I hope it's more than just okay."

Clint rolls his eyes. "It's wonderful, it's delightful, it's a miracle."

Leah gives him a pinch and then shoves the other bag at him. "Go try on your other miracle, kid."

"Ohhhh, did you hear that?" over his shoulder. "I've been downgraded."

"Act like a child..."

Clint sticks his tongue out at her and disappears back into the changing room.

The next suit is of one of the darker greys Phil had been initially looking at. All the better to let the much bolder purple stand out. He's still worried his little joke had gone a little far, that it's going to be much, but he doesn't dislike it when he throws it all together.

"Now for this one," he hears Leah outside, "I'm thinking some accessories. Amethyst type cufflinks, perhaps, or collar pins are really starting to come into vogue for the shirt, or even--do you have any piercings?"

"Uh. Not anymore?"

"Oh, I like that answer. Speaks of some wild younger years; I know how that is. Well, there could have been some fine matching earrings, but a ring or two might do the trick. And never doubt the power of a fine tie bar to bring a piece together."

Clint steps out, tugging at the sleeves. "I'll keep that in mind. Probably going to be light on accessories, but I'll see what I can do."

She sets her hands to fussing. "And naturally, mix and match as you please. You can absolutely work this vest with the lighter suit without it getting too loud or drowned out, so on, so forth."

The second suit is somehow better than the first. Perhaps because he's used to seeing Clint in black but this is entirely different, entirely new. The bold colors and the cut of the suit itself are incredible on him. Phil only just stops himself from dragging his lower lip through his teeth and looking at him with outright hunger.

"I have cufflinks and tie bars at home. None are purple but I'm sure I have something that will work." And it'll be another sign of how Clint is his. If it is edging into sugar daddy territory again, fine. Fine. Whatever. Phil will live with that. He likes seeing Clint like this and wearing his things.

"Of course you'll have something." Leah waves a hand at him. "But you should get the young man some of his own. He can't keep taking from you every time he wants to go out."

Clint absolutely could and Phil would not complain. He simply nods in agreement. "I'm sure you can suggest some things for him."

Clint's eyebrows raise slowly during the back and forth. Trying to keep his mouth shut. Has she figured it out yet? Because it's sounding like she's figured it out, if she is assuming that he borrows Phil's things. To go out.

Time to be a tease. "What do you think, Phillip? Do these pants make my ass look fat?"

"Your ass looks amazing so long as you get properly tailored trousers. I wish my husband had ever had a backside half as nice as yours."

Okay, so he's got a match in the little old woman, noted. "It's never too late to start getting into an exercise regimen to give him the firmest glutes to bounce quarters off of."

"And give myself more work having to alter all of his pants?"

"But think of the satisfying sound of giving it a firm smack."

She smooths down the vest and rebuttons the jacket closed. "Are you the devil on my shoulder, young man? Don't tempt me to smack yours instead."

"Well, you've already pinched it; might as well take another little step. Unless your partner in crime here wants to give it a go instead."

It's possible she figured it out the first time they were in here. She's very observant and they hadn't been perfectly careful. Phil hadn't been perfectly careful. It's very difficult to be careful now when Clint's deliberately taunting him.

"I'm sorry, Clint, I didn't bring any quarters to give a demonstration," he says with a slight smirk. "I'll make sure to do better next time if you want to show off your talents."

He looks at Leah with the same expression. "I promise his exercise routine does wonders for his ass so it would work on anyone else's. If you need me to step in and make sure he behaves let me know."

"Keep it out of my shop, you two. I run a respectable business."

"Do you see how downright dapper I am? Is there anything not respectable about me?" He does a little spin.

She points to her eyes and points at him.

"You've performed a miracle and made a respectable young man out of this rapscallion." He shrugs out of the jacket. It might be deliberate. To show off how he looks in a vest properly. "Well, if nobody's going to smack my ass, I guess I'll just go back to commoner clothes while you two take care of whatever business is left." He does a dramatic turn back to the dressing room, jacket thrown over his shoulder.

Leah gives Phil a look. "Black tie event, hm?"

"Don't look so skeptical. They do happen."

They're friends with Tony Stark. A black tie event will happen in their future and they will arrive to it together, arm in arm looking incredibly well dressed. It will absolutely floor Stark.

He follows Leah to the counter to pay for both suits, not the least bit bothered by the price tag. It is entirely worth it. When they do go out for their dinner Phil will really enjoy himself.

He hopes Clint does as well and has the confidence of a good suit and his good looks. Phil's already picked out the steakhouse which will be smaller and more intimate than perhaps what Clint is expecting.

Phil waits for Clint to finish changing back into his usual clothes with both suit bags draped over his arm.

Rest assured that Clint can't wait to confuse and arouse every tabloid the first time he shows up to a Stark event all decked out.

When he comes back out, all normal and not swank, he leans over to give Leah a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for putting up with me."

"You just have to make sure you come back anytime you need something nice to wear. And send me pictures if you end up on any red carpets."

He doesn't know about that, but some of Stark's events do get big names, so...not exactly out of the picture. "And thank you, Phillip."

Nope, not going to get tired of that while they're here.

"You're welcome, Clinton."

Phil takes Clint's hand as he leads him out of the shop, Leah laughing warmly behind them. He's quite pleased with the way this fitting had gone.

"You seem happy with the suits," he says as they walk together. "Do you like them?"

It's a complete reversal of the past few days. Now Phil's a little unsure and perhaps overthinking. Clint had fun with the fitting which Phil took as a sign that he likes the suits but it'd be nice to hear it as well.

"I'm definitely happy you took me to her. I don't think she ever realized who I was. She's great." Phil was asking about the suits, but Clint would be remiss not to talk about the experience as a whole. "I really might have to swoop by and get an actual tuxedo and really knock your socks off in something traditional as hell."

He's glad now to hold his partner's hand. There are still nerves in there, somewhere, buzzing about, but there's a giddiness, too, that can't be denied. "And I like the suits. It's different, but hey, now I've got options. Even on missions. Don't expect me to wear them a lot; you're not gonna turn me into you. Just on special occasions. Or when you tell me to, sir."

"I don't know if I'm ready to see you in a not rented tuxedo." It might actually break Phil entirely. He may do something stupid and reckless like declare his undying love and ask Clint to marry him.

He looks good in a rented tux. He would be devastating in a tailored one. Especially now that Leah knew what Clint liked. Oh, he had made his own downfall.

"Don't worry, I don't think we'll be going out to too many steakhouses." Phil gently nudges his shoulder against Clint's. "I prefer our usual haunts but I feel we should indulge now and then."

"I'm thinking a fancy one, with coattails, and white gloves." He's not, actually, but there's room to tease.

"You don't indulge enough." ...Hm, hold on, let him rephrase that. "You don't indulge in anything that isn't me or your suits enough." They might potentially maybe go on vacation together someday. Now that would truly be an indulgence. "That said, how did you like me in suits?"

If anyone could pull off coattails and gloves it would be Clint. Phil could find him attractive in just about anything he wore. It's a curse of being in love with the man.

Phil leans in close so that Clint won't miss a single word of what he says next nor the way he practically growls it. "I cannot be held responsible for my actions when we're alone and you're in that vest, agent."

The trim line of Clint's waist will pleasantly haunt Phil's memories for years and years to come. If he wore that and rolled up his sleeves? Phil would have to drag him to the nearest closet and ruin him.

He drew back and settled comfortably back into his unflappable agent role.

That shoots straight to his dick. And Clint grins slyly even as Phil tries to settle back to normal business as usual.

"We're gonna have fun with this. You've given me so much power. And I can't promise to use it wisely." His turn to bump shoulders. "Maybe you're the one who's gonna have to pay for dry cleaning, too. If you treat my clothes rough."

"I'm aware of what I've done to myself." Phil very subtly licks his lips. It's rare that the power dynamic between them shifts so firmly in Clint's favor but well...

Phil's done this to himself.

"We have reservations for Friday night." So that's when Clint can absolutely test all of Phil's control.

Clint laughs to himself. "Down, boy." It's so small. It's so subtle. Literally only he can tell any of this is happening, and he's going to milk it for all it's worth.

"Friday night. We're gonna roll up on the scene like two very handsome men in a very handsome car, and you're not going to do the chivalry thing and open doors and pull out my chair or anything." Just to warn him now. In case Phil gets any ideas. "Are you gonna help me get dressed? Pick out which combination of everything I'm gonna wear, pretty me up with some accessories?"

"Does that mean you want to keep the suits at my place?" Phil didn't want to presume anything. He would gladly keep the suits at his place. He would also happily dress Clint from head to toe if the man wanted to him.

He brushes his thumb across his knuckles. "I would be happy to help you dress. If you want me to."

"What, no, they're my suits now; they're staying at my place. But you've seen what I got. You can come over and come help me out and bring some of your shiny accessories over. So that I can then be your shiny accessory on your arm."

"So, we're going to your place tonight." To drop off the suits and whatever else they felt like doing. It's been awhile since they've spent a lot of time together. "But I'll come over early to help you dress before our date."

He has to go get Lola detailed for this. They are going to be flashy and totally noticeable. Some blog is going to lose their minds over the two of them.

"We could go to your place, and then I'll be dragging some suits with me back to my place after, but yeah. Easier if we go to my place." Is that...unexpected? Is that disappointing somehow? He glances at Phil, then back down the sidewalk. "You don't hate my place. Been a while since you've spent time over at mine, though."

"I don't hate your place." Phil doesn't mind Clint's place at all. It's not always the most clean but he can live with that. It is very much Clint's place and there's something endearing about it.

"Why bother with the extra step? Let's just go to your place." As long as he is with Clint Phil is generally happy. After letting him have his space he is very happy to spend time with him again.

Clint had made the joke. That if they moved in together and took that extra step, it would just be his floor of Stark's gaudy tower. They are absolutely not at a move in together point, and there's no real expectation that they ever will, because they need to do this one step at a time before they trip and hurt themselves and each other.

But he can see the writing on the wall clear as day. If anyone's moving anywhere, it'll be Clint in with Phil.

"You want me to give you a bit more of a fashion show, or save all that fun for a very special Friday night?"

The temptation is there. Phil wants to say yes. He does because God, Clint is unfairly attractive in a suit. However...

"Let's wait." He squeezes his hand. "I could always wear one of your flannels if you want a fashion show yourself."

Clint's clothes are big on him, especially across the shoulders but he has borrowed a shirt or two in the past. He maybe stole one once or twice because he liked how they smelled like Clint, especially when he was away oversees.

"I do love it when you get casual. It's downright obscene." And free to borrow as many as he'd like. So long as Clint still has some. "Or," with a lean in nice and quiet, "just skip the idea of clothing altogether."

He imagines Phil's got a certain amount of energy that might like to get burned.

Phil laughs warmly and brazenly presses a kiss against Clint's temple. "I imagined that's where this night was going eventually. We don't have to rush if you want to simply spend some time together."

He was perfectly content to have a quiet night that led to sex. As always he was happy to get the time with Clint. They never knew when they'd get pulled into the field again.

"Although I'd be happy to tend to any needs you might have."

Now that's bold. Whatever Phil's feeling (and could it be mostly love?), he's feeling a lot of it. "You always tend to my needs." That's kind of how their dynamic works, in a way. It's just that Clint isn't always fully aware of what his own needs are. "Seems like we've been tending to some of yours lately. Is that what you needed all along, me in a fancy getup to get you all weak at the knees?"

"No, you've made me weak in the knees before." Phil must have hid it really well for Clint not to notice before their trip to the tailors. Maybe he hid it too well.

He wishes they were home, his place or Clint's, for this next part but it's New York. No one's giving them a second look except for one pickpocket that's tailing them hoping to make a great score the second he gets an opening.

"Your trust in me does that all the time." It's probably a lot to put out there in the open, another one of those things they've never exactly put into words before. Phil throws Clint a bone. "And you in those tight tactical vests. That does it."

That shuts Clint's smart mouth up. It is a lot, in this conversation, out there in the open, while feeling their way around this idea of being...well, more open. Here he was being a flirty jokester, and then Phil has to get all genuine and sentimental on him.

"Maybe next mission, you can zip and cinch me in."

To say nothing of the trust. The trust that goes, generally, unspoken.

The trust doesn't need to be spoken. It's been there since Clint saved Natasha and Phil backed his call. They can look at each other and know, like a string tying them together, the trust is there.

"We'll scandalize the junior agents." Which could be really amusing, actually. Phil will enjoy everyone's jaws dropping as word of their relationship spreads.

"Next you're going to ask for a pat on the ass like we're football players in the locker room."

"Just a pat? After all that talk of smacking my pert backside? I want the sound to ring, Phil. You better put energy into it. Scandalize everyone with the bounce of my ass."

It's easier to make things a flirty joke instead of being real and genuine and honest. It's not a habit he's looking to break, either. So long as Phil can put up with it. Because Phil's also good at settling him down and making him give real, genuine, honest responses when needed.

Right now, they don't have to be genuine and honest. Right now, they're on a New York street which is a terrible place for heartfelt confessions no matter what rom-coms say about that. His emotions keep getting the better of him which is why he keeps saying heartfelt things.

If someone wanted a weak spot for Phil, it would be Clint without question.

"I wouldn't want to compromise your physical well being before a mission." He sounds like he's giving any other mission briefing. "If you want something that hard I can give it to you after the mission."

"I can take anything you can dish out." Said with cocky confidence. "Before, after, anytime in between..." But maybe now they're inching into territory best left discussed behind closed doors. "You're gonna surprise everyone with how thirsty you've been this whole time."

The phrase actually startles a laugh out of Phil. "Thirsty? I am not... you make me sound like a teenage girl at a rock concert. There's nothing that thirsty about being attracted to someone."

He's not thirsty for Clint. That's just such a silly way to say it. He's simply attracted like he has been for a long time. That's all.

Phil ducks his head but there is no way his blush will not be noticed.

"Phil," he says, halfway sing-song and laughing. "Phil, aw, c'mon, you know it's an appropriate word. I can't believe you can say some of what you've said to me without batting an eye, but I point out how bad you've got it for me..."

It's cute. What a nerd.

"That was said under very different circumstances." Phil's struck by how normal this is. They look like any other couple, warmly teasing each other about their relationship. For so long they've kept everything under strict rules and tight controls. This was something they wouldn't do on an open street.

It keeps the embarrassment from stinging. It actually feels freeing. "I don't need you to point it out. I am well aware I am an idiot over you, thank you."

And he has been for a very long time.

"A thirsty idiot." Like so. Proves his point. "You're in good company with that. I've seen the unofficial Avengers calendars that get peddled. But you're special cuz you're the only one allowed to act on it."

Phil gives Clint a look. "What types of photos of you are going into unofficial merchandise that would make someone thirsty over you?"

Because he's seen a lot of the proofs for official merchandized calendars. And Clint doesn't have near the internet presence that Stark has. Anyone can get a picture of Stark's ass.

Who's getting pictures of Clint's? And does Phil need to be worried?

He mocks a wince. "Ouch. Way to make a guy feel attractive."

But he can hear the gears turning from here, and he gives Phil's arm a pat. "You're thinking too hard. Go back to ignoring half the shit that comes out of my mouth."

"No, that's not how I meant that," Phil says with a little sigh. He is getting too much in his head about this. He should know better than to get jealous over strangers lusting after Clint.

Sometimes, he does not.

"As I said earlier, I am aware that you make me an idiot." Phil says it with affection though. It's the depth of feeling he has for Clint.

"Apparently not too much of an idiot, or you probably wouldn't still have the job you do." There's no harm done. It's more funny than anything else. And also...kind of nice, in a way. Watching his partner trip over himself mentally because of him. "There's only room enough for one idiot in this duo."

"You're the heart, I'm the logic." Phil would not call Clint an idiot. He isn't one. The sort of intelligence he has isn't the kind that builds flying suits of armor in caves but a different kind.

Heart Clint had a lot of and it was one of Phil's favorite things about him. He squeezes his hand and the look in his eyes speaks plenty about his emotions.

It's a word, a description, that's become a lot more loaded in the wake of Loki's everything. It doesn't hurt or anything. And he knows exactly how Phil means it. It just sits a little differently now is all.

Doesn't keep him from smiling at that look his partner gives. Honest and bright and pretty wonderful, actually.

"Wouldn't count your heart out just yet."

"I never would."

They walk to Clint's place which is nice enough. Phil always thinks Clint can do better than where he lives but he doesn't push. This is his place, the safe place he needs when everything is too much.

He does want to hire a maid sometimes though behind Clint's back. It gets messy. Then again, Phil thinks five dishes in the sink is messy.

A little mess is good for the soul.

Clint makes space in his closet for the suits. Figures he'll separate the individual pieces to wear mixed in with his other clothes eventually, but the suits themselves can stay in their fancy bags. "So. You don't have to stay or anything. We don't have to stay here if you don't want, either."

"I want to stay where you are," he says with a casual shrug. "Since we're here and you're here, I might as well stay. It's just another trip to go back to my place."

He watches Clint make room in his closet while leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed casually over his chest. "I can cook if you've got anything in your fridge."

"Contrary to what your eyes tell you, I don't actually live like a caveman. Yeah, I got stuff; go nuts. But first?"

He lets that hang, fussing with the bags, fiddling to make sure everything is in a place he wants it, as though that's a lot of room for reorganizing. Finally closes the closet and turns to his partner. Holds out his arms. "C'mere. Tell me what you're feeling. About that little bit we did out in public."

"What I'm feeling?" Phil crosses to him and cups Clint's cheek in his hand. He brushes his thumb back and forth slowly. "I liked it. It was fun. I could tell you were having fun teasing me."

And it didn't really bother Phil that much. It made him feel a little silly but he didn't mind. Not when Clint was happy and they never drew any attention. They were just two guys.

"It was more comfortable than I expected."

"So it wasn't too much, wasn't weird, you wanna keep doing it?"

He gets his arms around Phil. "Cuz I liked how easy it seemed. Won't be long before we're making out in the middle of the street for everyone to see."

"I don't think we'll take it that far..." He leans in for a kiss though. They didn't go quite that far in public but that will be the next step. "But a kiss or two wouldn't be out of the question."

He's going to do it in front of Stark just to see the man's reaction. It'll be a fun new way to annoy the man. Who annoys him in return.

He hums into the kiss, delighted. He's been keeping some distance lately, so it feels so good to get back into this rhythm. Or to refind it again. "You don't want to get caught with your pants down in the middle of doing something naughty and get your ass plastered on the internet? Cuz I think that'd be really funny. Some funky government agent with a whole Avenger at his sexy beck and call? Imagine the scandal."

"I think you're overestimating how attractive I am to most people," Phil says with fondness. "No one's going to think I'm sexy in comparison when there's you, Thor, and Captain Rogers around."

He's a very plain man in comparison. No one's going to find him attractive when the Avengers are his competition. "You know I'm fine with only you getting to see me that way."

"Well. I like your ass. And your everything else, too. You'll just be the mystery bodyguard seen getting frisky with predominantly ignored Avenger Hawkeye. Get an article or two written speculating on shit. And then I'll be back to mostly forgotten about except when I'm suddenly part of some steamy love triangle with Cap and Nat."

Phil rolls his eyes with fondness. "I don't know why they think any of you need a bodyguard."

He takes one of Clint's hands and puts it on his ass since he mentioned liking it. Phil will start dinner when they're done talking about going public. "You seemed comfortable with how we were today. I take it you're done thinking about it?"

Don't mind if he do grab a handful there. Two handfuls! All for him. "I'm feeling better about it after this test run. Felt good. Getting ballsier is gonna be interesting, and people we know knowing is still gonna be...fun, potentially."

Yes, all for him.

"I don't think Natasha's going to be surprised." Phil rests his head on Clint's shoulder because he can. It has been awhile since they've been physically close. He's missed those arms around him and the steady warmth of Clint pressed against him.

"Oh, no, not in the slightest. But everyone else is gonna whip their heads around and stare."

So, fun!

And as fun as ass-grabbing is, he takes some of the weight offered, redirects his hands again. Runs one slowly up and down Phil's back. "You need anything from me? I know I've kinda left you high and dry this week. I'm sorry."

"They should learn to pay better attention."

Phil closes his eyes and sighs softly. "This is enough but if you don't want me to spend the night you should tell me now."

So that Phil can take the affection in now. Usually he's the one giving it but after the time apart it's something they both need. Phil isn't usually so open about it.

"I want you here."

That has never been in question this whole day, that Clint knows for certain. Wherever they ended up, he wants them to end up there together.

"If you need something, or if you think I need something, or if you just want to take real good care of me or...whatever you want. 'm not planning on being demanding or bratty. But I might still tease."

"I think we'll see where the mood takes us," Phil says with a smile as he lifts his head and presses a kiss to Clint's cheek. "I don't feel the need for anything extra special tonight."

They are together. That's the thing that settles comfortably over Phil as he looks into Clint's eyes. They're together.

He feels settled because of that. Phil does give a playful pinch to Clint's ass before he leaves the circle of his arms to shed his suit jacket. He also tugs his tie off and saunters over to Clint's closet. "Let's see, which flannel should I borrow tonight..."

"You know the red's coziest cuz I wear it a lot." Which Phil already well knows. Not the point. "God, now you can say with all honesty that you steal your boyfriend's clothes. Should I be proud of that? I feel kind of weirdly proud about that."

Phil takes the red one. It is the coziest and smells strongly of Clint. Now they're getting back into their normal swing of things.

"I should wear it around the Tower one movie night." He shrugs into it and rolls up the sleeves just enough to stay out of his way while he's cooking. "Everyone will be stunned I'm not wearing a suit and surprised I'm a clothes thief."

"A cozy, handsome clothes thief who matches your boyfriend partner guy on a casual day." His eyes light up. "No, wait, we gotta coordinate this shit. I'll show up in a suit. Or maybe even one of yours. The whole couples outfit swap sort of deal. Really fuck with their heads."

"Your shoulders would stretch my suits." Phil doesn't like shutting down Clint when he's excited about something but it's the truth. Clint's too broad for the cut of Phil's suits.

He looks him over. "You could borrow one of my old button ups I'm considering getting rid of but I don't think you'll like the restriction."

"Consider the following visual:" And here he flexes. "Pop some buttons and bust some seams. Make some dumbshit comment about my exercise regimen and casually leave to change."

Phil laughs and shakes his head. "Sure. Sure, if that's what you want to do. Maybe I'll follow you just to get them thinking about what we might get up to."

Clint's kitchen is better stocked than he expects. Maybe because Clint knew he'd be coming over eventually. He prefers cooking to going out whenever possible.

"I'll workshop it." No he won't. "I think this whole scenario also works just as well if you're just casual Phil and plop down on the couch to give me head-lap time."

"I see, you want the head-lap time." Which Phil doesn't mind. He enjoys it too. It's giving Clint what he likes and needs. He's always happy to do that.

Dinner is a quick simple pasta dish that's somewhat improvised but something he's made before. It will be filling enough and has vegetables in it so that it's healthy.

Clint might hover when it comes to food. Stealing quick bites of whatever's available over Phil's shoulder. Which he's allowed to do, in his own kitchen.

"What's something you want?" He waves a hand. "I mean, okay, we did the suit thing. What else do you want? Doesn't have to be a thing we do now. Doesn't have to be a thing we ever do. Hit me with your best shot. Something you want. Go."

Something Phil wanted? That was a very open ended question. He wanted a lot of things when it came to Clint. And, of course, because he's Phil Coulson he can't simply answer the question.

"Do you mean sexually or in our relationship in general?" he asks for clarification. The suits are sexual. Well, there's a sexual aspect to them. Phil can't deny that.

"Either? Whichever comes to mind? In general, I guess?" It's just how the are, heart and logic. Clint just says things, runs on impulse and feeling, and Phil needs clarification and specificity.

Phil considers for a moment but when he speaks it's from the heart. "I'd like us to get a place together. Not at Stark's tower, I'm not talking about that but somewhere quiet."

He takes a deep breath. "Since we joked about vacation I've been thinking about how nice it would be to have a safe house somewhere isolated that you and I could go to when we want to get away from this life for awhile. I don't know why, probably too much HG TV but I like the idea of a farmhouse."

To be fair, Clint asked for this. Here he was, stupidly thinking it'd be anything between the range of 'gee gosh idk I've always wanted to try pony play' to 'slow dancing, please' or...anything like that.

"Why do we keep having these kinda conversations while eating?" he muses, running a hand over his face. "I know I said in general. I just...had no idea that kind of thing was on your mind. Do you want to retire to an actual farm or something?"

"You ask these questions while we're eating," he feels compelled to point out but he's not offended by Clint's surprise. The answer must be unexpected since they've only just started stretching the boundaries of their relationship.

"A real farm is work, but a hobby farm maybe. I won't seriously consider retirement for a while." Phil's not ready for that yet though it did look tempting after... after Loki.

"It's an idea, that's all."

"You know I grew up in the middle of farm country, right?" Which is not a dismissal. He does sometimes miss miles of relatively open field and gently rolling hills, when the city is far too crowded and bright and noisy.

"I guess...it'd be quiet, cozy. Little fixer upper of a place? Some white picket fencing?" A tree out in the yard for target practice-- He clears his throat. "Some little barn you can fancy up into some kind of mancave shed?" It sounds like Phil's thinking about it more as a secret getaway, which is much closer to the present, than for eventual old man retirement that they're both aware they may never actually get to see.

"And then 2.5 kids and a dog?"

"I know you did." And he knows from their years of working together that sometimes Clint wants those wide open spaces again. Phil is a city boy and doesn't mind it the way Clint can sometimes.

"I don't know about kids," he says with a small shake of his head. "I've never really thought about them before. And yes, some sort of hobby for me to do somewhere in the barn. Maybe restoring classic cars? I'll get bored otherwise."

Maybe he wants this more than he realized when he first thought of it. It sounds... nice.

"I'll need something for me, too, or I'll drive myself up the wall and see how quickly even I can wear on your very last nerve, and no one wants to see that." They have a good track record. Very few blow ups. Though even thinking about that makes Clint's hands itch to knock wood. Feels like they're due a dust up.

"If you're gonna get bored, why get a place in the middle of nowhere anyway?"

"I think you'd be happier." And there's a lot Phil would do to make sure Clint's happy. "I think I'd retire first. You'd be in the city alone a lot of the time. It would be an escape for you. Until you're ready to retire yourself."

They might be due a fight. They're certainly going to hit a few rough spots as they adjust to being public about their relationship.

That's for the future. Right now they can talk about this and focus on it.

"Is this a cozy safehouse, or is this planning for when we're old and grey and not dead?" Which is way too far ahead for Clint. "You don't want that just for me. Obviously the idea makes some part of you happy."

"I'm not entirely sure anymore," he admits with a chuckle at himself. "It started as a safe house and now I'm thinking of other things. Let's revisit the idea another time."

Phil can tell he's gone a step too far. He's pushing Clint too far too fast. He knows better than to push like this.

"I think I'm just a romantic old man."

"I'm not opposed to safehouses, just...that's..." A lot more than 'hey do you want to become more official and also bring up dating and love'.

"Think I just need to keep my mouth shut."

"No, I always like hearing what you're thinking and feeling." He reaches across the table and squeezes Clint's wrist. "Let's come back to this another time, okay?"

He just got Clint back. He doesn't want to put distance between them again just to give Clint more time to think. Again. Phil would like this night together if that's still possible after he opened his mouth like a fool.

He's pretty damn sure there are thoughts and feelings he needs to keep to himself. Like the impulse to say let's come back to this never. Maybe don't say that. God, don't make a fight start over something so...innocent? Romantic?

"What about something you want that's a little more attainable?"

"Let's go to bed," he says simply. Whatever that means to Clint. They can sleep or fool around. It will depend on what Clint feels up to after the conversation. "I'll even leave the dishes for tomorrow."

He really is romantic and imagining a whole future that ends quietly and peacefully together. It's a crazy dream given their lives and their jobs. Phil will hold it close though.

Phil's trying to mitigate the damage. It's very practical of him after such an impractical suggestion. A pipe dream. A nice fantasy. Maybe he shouldn't shit on this nice ideal being built up, but, god, is that what Phil thinks about? Planning out their lives together? Dinner might end up being fraught for the fact that Clint's going to half expect a proposal.

"Or leave dishes for me." Whatever. Tomorrow. "Yeah. Okay. We can go to bed." It's sure as hell attainable, even if it's not the kind of answer he was looking for.

Sometimes, even Phil can have ridiculous pipe dreams about happy endings with retirement and the man he loves. Who probably loves him back. Phil gets the feeling that's what scares Clint most.

He helps clear the table before taking Clint by the hand trying to reassure him just a little bit. It's fine. They're fine. Phil's always looked more towards the future than Clint. He'll be waiting there when Clint catches up.

"I'm going to steal this flannel if you're not careful."

Are they fine? Because he was pretty sure they were even more than fine until Phil started planning their retirement together, and now it feels like everything's thrown out of whack again. There's no fear of leaving, of course. If he ran every time Phil said something emotionally vulnerable and frightening, they wouldn't even be together. It's just...startling.

"I'll just buy another. Until you steal that one, too. And one day, you're gonna look at your closet and wonder how it became half flannel."

Half of his closet being flannel doesn't sound too bad, actually. It would be more evidence of Clint settling into their joint life together.

"You're going to make me late one morning and I'll walk into a briefing in a suit and flannel." Right now, he goes through the usual routine he has for going to bed at Clint's place. He doesn't expect anything sexual at all given how gun shy Clint seems right now.

He is content with simply being together again.

"Now I want to make you late soon as possible, just for fun. Think Fury'll have the good humor enough to let it slide?"

Could be sexy stuff was on the table, and now it's questionable. Which kind of sucks. But that's nobody's fault! "I don't think flannel goes with, but at least you'll be nothing but cozy."

"Have you ever seen Fury in good humor?" Phil asks with an eyebrow raised as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He holds out a hand to Clint to encourage him to come close and stand in the space between his legs so he can look up at him with an affectionate smile. "I'm sorry I scared you tonight. I didn't mean to but I got caught up, I guess, in the fantasy of it."

Well, with an invitation like that, how can he refuse? He takes Phil's hand, cradles his face with the other. This is a man smitten. There was no lie when love came out of his mouth.

And yeah. That's frightening. Because Clint doesn't know what to do with it, how to respond to it in a genuine manner. "It's a nice fantasy. Maybe even too nice."

"The chances of us actually making it to retirement are slim." He leans into Clint's touch with a soft sigh. "We don't really lead the sort of lives that end in retirement."

And Phil had already died once. If it happened again he wouldn't be coming back a second time. He's been very clear on his feelings about experimental procedures to bring him back.

"We should probably start simple with a vacation, huh?"

"I think working up to a cozy, quiet vacation first is the better option, yeah." A quiet chuckle. Did the heart and the logic switch places for a second there? "But...'s a nice dream. Good to have dreams. The fact that I'm involved in those dreams is pretty intimidating. I think you put me on a pedestal sometimes. And when I disappoint you, it's gonna be a pretty devastating fall from on high."

"You are human," Phil says looking over Clint. "You are going to disappoint me. I'm going to disappoint you. We're going to make mistakes and hopefully we'll fix them because if I've put you on a pedestal it's about how happy I am with you."

There is that. He can admit that yes, maybe there's some worship and adoration going on here but he will never forget that Clint is human and mistakes will be made on both parts.

"You are way too good for me. You might come to realize that someday, but until then? Gonna appreciate that you're a deluded fool who's mine." He idly strokes Phil's cheek, leaning down to kiss him tenderly.

Too good? Phil doesn't see it that way but now's not the time to argue about Clint's self-image. He leans up into the kiss and runs his fingers gently over Clint's hair.

"I am yours," he says when they part. Phil's pretty sure that's not going to cause Clint to panic some more.

"All mine." Since he's pretty sure he won't be sharing Phil with anyone. Doesn't seem like his handler's style. "And I'm real lucky for it."

No, Phil wasn't inclined to share or be shared. It would take a lot of convincing for something like that. He's quite happy being with one person. That's all he needs. Clint, as it turns out, is the one person making him happy.

"I feel pretty luck myself." He presses a kiss to Clint's palm. "Now get in bed and cuddle with me."

"Gladly."

It might come as a surprise to some, how easily someone like him gets to cuddling. But it's cozy, a comfort, to have someone trusted (loved) by his side, the rhythm of breathing lulling, arms making for a better blanket than any whatever thread count sheets. He doesn't need it, except after the way this week has been, it feels needed. Feels right.

Phil curls himself around Clint with a contented sigh fitting their bodies together on instinct and memory. They will probably untangle during the night but starting this way is the perfect way to end the day.

Instead of once again saying how much he feels for Clint he laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to the base of his skull. Phil figures the message will be received loud and clear.

Oh sure, they'll untangle, retangle, wake up in the morning with limbs and bodies all askew, but they gotta start somewhere cozy. Clint sighs into it, their fingers laced, the kiss pressed tenderly. "Right back at you, boss."

Maybe he'll say it in words someday. Maybe he won't. Maybe the sentiment will translate well enough.

[from here]

All the time because you like to hear yourself speak.

You only knew since you think everyone wants a piece of you.

Everyone else benefits, too, generally. It's a gift. I like to share it.

And you're only proving I'm right. As usual.

You really know how to make a guy feel special. Maybe I'll just block you instead and get some sleep and leave you hanging.

The aftermath isn't pretty.

He skates by pretty well between Natasha's help (and helping Natasha), focusing on the job, trying to mesh with this team, trying to save the day. He raids some of Stark's liquor when some of the others escort the problem child of the Odinson family away to share quiet commiseration with Natasha, too. There's the absolute exhaustion that sets in when Stark comms them all to say he's found a shawarma place that's still willing to serve food in spite of the damage. There's falling back somewhere safe and sound for a god damn shower and a change of clothes while people debate what happens to said problem child and the cube, whose jurisdiction does all that fall under, and those are arguments that are over his head and he wants no part of.

Mostly what he wants is to crawl into a deep dark hole for a solid week. He figures he'll come out of that looking worse for wear, but able to get back to work without too much problem. This will not, of course, be allowed. Not by Nat, not by Fury, and definitely not by Coulson.

Coulson who's still in medical under intensive care.

But at least it means he's alive.

No, no hole for Clint. Fury generously gives them all some time to themselves, gather to bid the god and his shitty little brother farewell, get their heads on in a way that resembles straight, and then it's the debriefs. Clint hasn't been looking forward to this part. Technically, he and Nat are the only SHIELD agents, and Rogers is...well, if Clint were feeling not terribly generous, he'd say property, and it means they're the only ones absolutely required to come in and do the whole familiar shebang.

There's a nasty, unavoidable hitch with Clint. Of course. Because agency being stripped away and minds being altered and causing a lot of damage and gathering up a lot of SHIELD's enemies are all things that can't just be neatly swept under the rug. It's questions, and it's tests, and it's questions and tests and questions and tests and he barely keeps track of the days that pass while trying to determine if he's a threat, if there's still some part inside his brain that didn't get shaken loose that's ready to obey a different master, and by the time Coulson can have visitors, he feels like he's been turned inside out, and by the time Coulson's ready to get moved out of a medical room and back to his own bed, he's too ashamed and exhausted and raw.

Even if his own bed feels way too big and empty.

Eventually Natasha, either because she's a good friend like that, or at Coulson's behest, tells him to go see his fucking boyfriend. It's practically an order. Clint says he wants to wait until Coulson is better, and that gets her downright pissed and makes a very nasty threat that has a 50/50 shot of actually happening if he doesn't get his ass up and moving.

Honestly, it's a good way to try and get him going. Instead of stuck in place, circling and circling and circling. She's good at dislodging thoughts like that.

So is Coulson.

The thought of the man gets his chest tight, but Clint gets up, he moves, he ignores any and all looks he gets, uses the freedom he has to go...finally pay a visit. Why does it feel like going to an execution?

It's the glint of a reflection in the round plexi-steel glass of Thor's cage that saves Phil's life. A little glimmer that's not supposed to be there. That tiny thing keeps Loki from slicing his heart in half. Phil feigns to the side and the scepter slices his chest open along the side and ribs. It's a life threatening injury but it's not a life ending one.

Well, not permanently. He's technically dead for eight seconds during his first surgery. The doctors bring him back though. Phil Coulson has a lot to live form.

The days in a HUB medical facility blur together. Phil loses a lot of time after his surgeries in a drugged stupor. When he's sensible enough to remember what he says and what people say to him he demands to know the condition of his agents. Of Clint. It's easier for him to stay bound in a hospital bed when he knows Clint his alive. The Avengers saved the world. It's good news but the best news is Clint's free and alive.

The knowledge that Clint's waiting for him is enough to make Phil be a good patient. He hates medical almost as much as his favorite agents but he hides it better.

It takes entirely too long to heal enough to be moved back to his own place and then it's depressingly empty.

There are lingering signs of their shared life. Clint's hoodie left on the back of a chair. A second set of hearing aids. But it's clear the man himself as not been here and hasn't been here in quite some time. Of course, he's just as bad as his missing boyfriend.

Phil doesn't call. Doesn't pressure Clint. He hobbles around his apartment, trying to do as much as he can but even getting dressed is a long and arduous battle. Phil keeps the pain on a dull edge with painkillers but he never takes the prescribed amount. He hates falling asleep on the couch.

Fury tells him to stop working but Phil has a tablet and keeps trying to stick his nose in on the recovery, repair, and rebuilding efforts.

Until there's a knock on his door. "One minute," Phil calls because it takes him a long time to get up from the couch. He has to spend a few seconds catching his breath after, pressing a hand against his side.

"Clint." He can't help the pleased relief in his voice when he opens the door. He's reaching for him before he can think better of it and pulls him into a hug.

It takes too long. That's the thought that starts panic-racing through his mind. It takes too long which means Phil's in pain and Phil's alone and he's making his fucking boyfriend put in too much effort because he's too chickenshit to just pick the lock. (There's been a quietly ongoing conversation about giving him a key. Now he's regretting waffling on that.)

He's really thinking about it, too, just jimmying the lock open and saving them both some effort, but Phil makes it to the door and is so--so pleased, so relieved, and already hugging him before Clint can actually process Phil being alive and on the way to well.

So a funny thing happens when you turn traitor even temporarily, and it's that you turn into a pariah and a leper and nobody really wants to do a whole lot of interacting with you until you're cleared. The most touch he's gotten outside of Natasha has been docs running their tests, taking down numbers, poking and prodding and sticking leads on him and prepping him for so many brain scans he wonders if he won't be getting Hulk-y soon enough.

Has he frozen? He might have frozen. He makes himself crack the ice and put his god damn arms around his god damn boyfriend that he hasn't seen since before something poked its fingers into his brain and wrapped around his heart. The man's alive. And even up and about. That's worth celebrating with a hug.

"Hi, Phil." A little strained. Should he be here? Should he just make an excuse to get his things? Shit, no, then that sounds like a breakup...

Phil's hands are shaking. He grips Clint's jacket tighter trying to control it. The last he saw of his boyfriend was the New Mexico base collapsing. He believed Clint inside and gone until he emerged on security cameras. He was still gone but Clint was alive. Phil did not want a world without Clint Barton in it. Now, he has him back and God, it's the best feeling in the world.

"You ever do that to me again, Clint, I will kill you myself." There's so much emotion in Phil's voice. It's shaking too. This has always been a possibility in their relationship. Accepting it as a reality though had been harder than Phil expected.

Phil pulls him into his apartment and finally lets him go. Not much. He keeps his hands on Clint's biceps and looks him over. He looks like shit. He looks worse than Phil feels. Natasha's update texts have underplayed Clint's condition. Probably to keep him from marching over there to make Clint take care of himself.

"Let me get coffee started." Because he assumes Clint is staying. He has to stay now that he's finally crossed that bridge and come to him.

Oh. Oh it's bad. He's seen Phil hurt before, sure. Just part and parcel to being an agent; you're gonna get the shit kicked out of you. But it's the emotional side that catches him so off guard. Phil's method of emoting and expressing tends to be very calm, centered. Clint learned to look for the small things. The way he smiles, or the tone of a single word in a sentence.

Sure, there's big expressions, too. Sometimes. But usually in more extreme cases. He lets the guard down around Clint, when it's just them, but he's still typically the straitlaced calm cool collected one.

And he's gotten Phil down to fucking shaking.

"Don't--you don't have to go through the effort. I probably shouldn't stay too long." Is anyone truly going to care right now? He's been given enough freedom to go out without having someone up his ass (there's a tail, at a respectable distance, so he hasn't bothered shaking it), to see a guy his no-longer-boss tried to kill, so if this is a test, it's a really shitty one. But it still feels...wrong? Unwise? To stick around.

"My handlers--uh. The people responsible for me while you're..." Indisposed? Recovering from almost dying? "On sick leave." Nailed it. "Probably won't want me away too long. I just figured I'd..."

Is that disingenuous? Maybe he should be more open. "Did you send Natasha after me, or did she kick my ass of her own accord?"

"I don't care what SHIELD wants for you." Phil's tone says he's not going to take no for an answer. Their relationship has been a careful balance but the scales just got tipped very firmly into the personal first. Work can take a fucking hike.

He moves to the kitchen and fully expects Clint to follow him. Many things have been moved down from the cabinets and are on the counter so they're easier for Phil to reach.

"I sent her after you the moment Loki took you," Phil says as he carefully moves around the kitchen, cautious and slow. "I called her in from her mission. Fury wouldn't let me go after you myself."

Because he was emotionally compromised even if Phil didn't let it show. His oldest friend would know how much worry gnawed at him. At least his hands are steady again. Phil himself doesn't feel steady.

"...I meant now. Recently. To tell me to...right, I'll take that as an 'of her own accord'." Because, wow, it doesn't sound great, does it? To be told to go see the person you care about most. Like it's a chore.

He stands there watching for just a few moments longer before he steps in. "Let me do it. Go sit. I'm not gonna be the reason you strain yourself any more than absolutely necessary."

Phil doesn't want to let Clint out of his sight. If he does, he might vanish into thin air and be gone. He's so tired of Clint being gone from him.

He does stop making coffee and moves to the side so that Clint can take over but he doesn't leave the kitchen to go sit down. Is he hovering? Absolutely. He wants to. Needs to. SHIELD can run all their tests but he knows Clint better than anyone. He'll know if there's anything wrong with Clint.

"Natasha was keeping me updated on you since I got back," he admits. "I knew you needed space but I wanted to watch out for you too."

Phil doesn't go sit. It's like he's standing watch. And even with his back turned, maybe taking a little more care with the coffee machine than necessary, Clint feels it like an itch up his spine. Always being watched.

"Those must've been fun conversations." His hands grip the counter. "They're mostly pretty sure I don't have an alien anything going on in my head. But, you know. Dotting every t, crossing every i. Feels like some new tests got invented just for this, so, go scientific progress."

"Do you want it to stop?"

Because Phil will make that happen. He can leverage what happened to him to get Clint out of the hands of doctors and scientists who are probably prying his skull open and poking around.

Phil's not going to stop watching out for Clint. He is trying very hard not to cling or smother Clint even though that's exactly what he wants. It's been so damn lonely.

"...It's important. To be sure."

Of course he wants it to stop. He didn't want it to start in the first place. It fucking sucks, but if it gets him fully cleared and back in the game and resting easy knowing that as far as anyone is concerned, he's just a regular kind of crazy and not a serial killing puppet kind of crazy.

"I'm sorry." He has to keep himself from wincing when he says it. "That I didn't see you sooner."

Yes, it was. For SHIELD and for Clint as well but Phil sees him suffering from it and he wants it to stop. His crankiness is partially his desire to protect Clint and his own pain. He's tired and mad at a lot of different things at once.

"If you need it to stop tell me." And Phil will make it stop.

He reaches out and squeezes Clint's wrist. "You always come back to me eventually."

It was hard to be patient this time but once again, his faith in Clint isn't misplaced. He's here. He's free. He's free of Loki. Phil can breathe easier now.

"I've put up with it for this long; a little longer won't kill me. Better than after it first happened, so. Couple more freedoms at a time."

Like it's no big deal. It's fine. He definitely doesn't startle at the touch to his wrist or anything. Because he's perfectly fine. His eyes snap to Phil, and he forces himself to relax.

"Should you even be up? I got this. Go, sit. I'll do whatever you need me to."

They're both such a wreck after Loki. Phil wishes he could get some modicum of justice but all of that is in Asgard's hands. He's not sure if they'll be merciful or not. Thor did still love his brother.

He takes a deep breath which only catches slightly and then lets it out slowly. His touch turns gentler and he rubs his thumb along Clint's forearm for a second before he lets go.

"I can be up with limited physical activity. I'm seeing my physical therapist regularly and listening to medical advice." Mostly listening. Phil hates the drugs and how they make him sluggish and stupid but he takes them when he really needs them.

That his pain tolerance is completely skewed from his work is irrelevant.

"I promise, I'm not going to fall over if you touch me," he says softly.

"Yeah, actually taking medical advice?" Clint softens, just a hair, with a smirk. "How's it feel to be on the other side, huh? I'll be the one hounding you to take care of yourself and you'll see how you like it."

Certainly they've had this talk lots of times, with Clint being the one hurt and Phil being the pestering one. He'll take whatever little gratification he can. Because when Phil gets soft, it aches.

"Is that something you need?" Being touched.

It sounds very nice, actually, because it means Clint will be around to nag him.

"I need less distance between us," Phil answers honestly. "I know you're not okay and I won't expect you to keep me company all the time but an hour or two. Have dinner with me. Just so I know you're still here."

Because for a long time Phil's world did not have Clint in it and he had to make plans not just for that world but how to take Clint out. It brought a new perspective to their relationship and Phil's feelings.

His heart feels like it leaps into his throat, and he has to swallow it back down as Phil goes on so that he can have some semblance of being collected when he formulates some kind of response.

"You're not exactly fine, either. I know this can't have been easy for you, and I'm not talking about getting stabbed." He huffs out a breath. "But I'm back, and I'm here. Even if it took me too long to check in on you myself."

"I'm alive."

Which feels like a miracle. Loki meant to stab him through the chest. Loki meant to kill him. Sometimes Phil lies awake at night and thinks about what might have happened if he hadn't seen the glint.

Phil smiles, somewhat cautiously. "I like it when you're here."

And because he likes that fact Phil rubs his hand against Clint's arm. "I'm going to sit down." Because he can see Clint worrying about him and Clint has enough to worry about right now.

They can be alive and not okay together, sometimes. Or. Maybe they could do it all the time. If he can get out of his own ass, maybe.

There's some humor and relief in his voice, though. "Thank you. Don't worry, I remember how you take your coffee, and I'll bring it right over." It'll give him something to do, for all of two seconds. The pot's about done. He fishes out mugs--yes, there's at least one mug in the cupboard that is designated as Clint's--and sets to the brief task.

Tries not to think of every reason Phil should have to kick him to the curb.

"If you need any help while I'm here, just say the word."

Phil settles back onto the couch slowly and carefully with only a hint of a groan. His side pulls uncomfortably until he adjusts so that it's mildly annoying instead of uncomfortable.

There could be more of Clint's things here if Clint would let himself. Phil leans his head back and listens to Clint puttering around in the kitchen. It's nice to know he's here.

"I'm terrible at asking for help," he says like they both don't know that. Phil is used to taking care of everyone else, not so much himself. "But give me a minute and I can think of something."

Clint frowns to himself. It isn't like he's never heard Phil in pain before, but still... Ah, it's going to suck to be on the other side of this after all, huh?

Schools himself into pleasantness. Of course he's happy to be with his boyfriend. To be here. With someone he cares about, that he's been worried sick about when he's had the time to let himself be distracted with things like that. The awkward discomfort will pass. It's surely just the guilt nibbling at him.

"Careful, it's hot," he says completely unnecessarily when he comes out with two mugs of coffee, handing one to Phil. And he'll take the other side of the couch. Or at least, perch on the edge of the couch, like he's about to jump up again at any moment. In case Phil thinks of something. Obviously. "Are you taking your meds? Getting checked on frequently? Keeping your workload to a minimum?" Since obviously Phil will never just give up work. Even when he should.

"I hope it's hot," he says dryly as he takes the mug. He wraps both his hands around it because the warmth is nice and it keeps him from reaching for Clint. He's sitting like he's unsure if he's welcome and Phil's not sure if touch would settle him or send him running.

"I'm taking my meds." The important ones, antibiotics and mild painkillers. He's not taking the strongest ones until the pain really gets bad. "And if I was missing my appointments with SHIELD medical Natasha would have sent you sooner to bully me into going."

Phil sighs softly. "I work until Fury catches me in the system and blocks my access."

Because Fury wants him to rest but Phil wants to help. They fight about it a lot.

"Sounds like he should hire on Stark to block you out entirely." Not that he's for sale or for hire. Stark's got opinions on that, and on Fury, and on SHIELD. Not all of them unfounded. "But I get it. If you can do some work from the couch to keep your brain occupied so you don't rot it all on your reality tv, then obviously you're gonna do it. Beats being me and trying to go do stuff physically when I really shouldn't."

"Stark is mad at the entire military industrial complex," Phil says with a sigh. He doesn't blame Stark. After everything that happened to him it's easy to understand why he has trust issues with organizations like SHIELD.

That does not make him less annoying to deal with. It's worse because somehow Phil's come to like him. It's probably the smart mouth and insecurity issues. He likes smart mouths and insecurity issues.

He gives up and lays his hand on Clint's knee. "I'm simply organizing operations and assets to where they're most needed. It's not even that tiring. I do more work for international ops."

Is he whining? Just a little bit.

He gives a quick glance at that hand, at the normalcy of it all, and then back up at Phil. Clint keeps his own hands wrapped around the mug, warm and solid.

"He might just be trying to convince you to take it easy since you never take any damn vacations. Relaxing is supposed to be good for you. Refresh the body and soul and turn off the brain for a bit. Hell, maybe I'll take some leave when it feels safer to do so."

They won't ever be truly normal but Phil tries to keep the little things. The little things matter the most.

"I don't know if I could take a vacation." He makes a face at the idea. "It would last ten minutes before something happened that would call me back in."

He sips his coffee, thumb idly stroking back and forth. He's not even aware he's doing it. "Maybe you should after you're fully cleared and things are settled. Take the time to clear your head some more."

"They've got other agents and analysts and handlers, Phil. Take a vacation. Breathe some fresh air without there being a crisis to handle. Maybe I'm not the only one that needs to clear his head." Or maybe he's making some big assumptions. But not as big as what he takes a breath to say next.

"We could do it together."

He looks over at Clint, just a little surprised. Pleased, though, and he's certain that shows in his eyes more than the surprise.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks, turning slightly to face Clint more fully.

A vacation with Clint could be better than the few vacations he's taken in his career. Usually, he ended up somewhere quiet and caught up on bad tv and books he'd been meaning to read. Cooking too. He cooked. And wondered about work.

Not very exciting for a vacation.

"I don't know." He's been around the world. Plenty of fun, sexy places they could go. Plenty of quiet, calm places, too. He shrugs, sips his coffee. The destination wouldn't really matter. Might be nice to get out of the city, though. But even still...

"Could always just stay here and spend time together that way."

Phil considers for a moment. "There's a vacation cabin on Lake Michigan," he says, tapping one finger against the side of his mug. "It's technically a former SHIELD safe house but hasn't been used for that in a while. It's small and quiet."

Phil's not sure what condition the cabin is in these days. But it's an idea for a vacation. Not a bad one. Just him, Clint and quiet. He hasn't been fishing in awhile.

Maybe Clint could show him how to use a bow.

"Okay. We'll wait for you to be healed up, and then...just let me know, I guess. Take time off together." He'd say time to catch up, but in theory they should have plenty of time for that in the interim. "Is that being here enough for you? Vacation getaway where you'll have me all to yourself for a week or however long?"

"I intend to keep you naked and have you hand feed me grapes in the meantime," he says dryly. "Or maybe a nurse's uniform with a short skirt."

After everything Clint had been forced to do Phil does feel a little uncomfortable with the idea of Clint looking after him. He needs to look after himself or let someone care for him.

"Yes, having you here is enough for me. I can't carry my laundry basket down to the machines." It's annoying how much he can't do even though he's been stitched back together and he's healing.

"You buy me a costume, I'll dress up as whatever you want me to when it's just us in our cabin hideout. Until then, you'll just have to deal with my drop-ins in my normal people clothes." Whenever he shows up. To be present. He rocks to his feet at the mention of a chore that needs doing.

Because it's useful. He can be of use. Even if it's just in little ways. Being effectively on leave himself has been actually really shitty in terms of needing things to do with himself, even as distraction. "I'll take care of it. Hell, give me a list of chores, I can make sure shit gets done."

"If you wear those dark wash jeans when you visit I can be patient." Phil smiles a little, glad to see Clint's playing along a little bit. He's trying and Phil appreciates that. It's not easy to come back from what Clint went through.

He is still unsure about making Clint do things for him but he seems to need to feel useful.

"There's only a few things I haven't been trying to do myself." Because he has been doing as much as he can by himself. He hates being useless.

He is, frankly, trying very hard to not fuck this up. None of this is easy, for either of them. It's...not fine, exactly, but it could be worse, right? It could always be worse.

"Good, means you're still sometimes reasonable when it comes to your own limits. I'm gonna be right back and take of that laundry. Then you don't have to worry about a thing."

Phil will worry, just about Clint, he's sure.

"Don't forget the laundry card in my wallet."

One day, Phil dreams of having a place with his own washing machine and dryer. That would be really nice right now. Phil had been close to taking his laundry down piece by piece.

"When you come back I want to talk about why you won't kiss me." Because they should've done that by now. At least a small one. Yes, he's feeling needy and he's blushing a little about it but he's going to say it.

Clint freezes. And he hates that he freezes, because it means he can't fully deny anything or brush it off as nothing to talk about at all. "Who said anything about 'won't'?" Sip coffee. Be casual. "Don't worry about a thing. Be back before you know it."

So it's an escape. So sue him. Spent a little time together, have plans to spend more time together than they have in what feels like an age, acknowledge they're both some form of fucked up (even if Phil seems fine, so far, even if waiting for the other shoe to drop), and it'll all work out in the end. He can escape so long as Phil lets him, because it's still something he needs help with, and it would've gotten done one way or another.

But if he spends a little extra time away than strictly needed, well. It's fine. Even if he feels bad about it. It won't kill either of them.

Phil suspects Clint will kiss him when he comes back just to be a stubborn asshole and prove nothing is wrong. When clearly something is. He didn't miss the way Clint went tense for a second.

Still, Phil might just take it.

But they've been through these rough patches before. Phil worries sometimes about the propriety of what they're doing. Clint worries he's going to ruin things by being himself. They're a mess but they do better together. They've always been better together.

He sighs to himself and waits patiently for Clint to come back.

He does eventually come back. With fresh, folded laundry. And? Fresh donuts as well. As recompense.

"Just call me your housemaid. Got anything else that needs doing? I'll be a handyman all day long so long as it makes you comfy. Pretty sure I remember where all your clothes go, too, so I can put all that away, and then...whatever else you need."

"Once you put that away can we please talk?" Phil watches him, frowning slightly. "If you say no or try to avoid it I will get up and follow you."

Because he's a stubborn bastard and refuses to let this awkwardness go unaddressed for long. He might have given Clint more time if he had come sooner.

There are some things he wants that Clint can't give him right now so they need to sort that out.

"...Yeah. Whatever you need."

He sets the box of donuts beside Phil with a brief smile, then disappears to go sort away all the clothes. Worrying all the while. Given he knows damn well what the conversation is going to be, and he doesn't want to have it. But he's not going to make Phil get up or do anything he shouldn't. Even though moving around clearly isn't going to do too much to Phil, but...still.

He at least doesn't dally. Does the job he's taken on himself and then comes back out, to grab another mug of coffee that's been sitting warm in the pot, and a donut, and sits like this is all cool and fine.

You Phil thinks to himself but doesn't say it out loud. Clint's spooked enough.

"Is there a reason you're scared to be here?" he asks watching Clint. He can read him pretty well after all these years. He wants to know the answer.

Hopefully, it's not that Clint feels guilty about what happened to him. The other agents, what he did under control, Phil can understand that. What happened to him was his own choice, though.

A frown. "I'm not scared. To be here. I mean, I figured you'd be...kinda pissed about how long it took for me to get here. I should've visited you in medical; I should've shown up here sooner. I should've been here. For you. And it took Nat yelling at me about it to even show up."

Well, Phil can't really argue against those points. Clint should have done those things. Medical had been painfully lonely except for the occasional visits from Nat and Stark, of all people.

"You are dealing with a lot yourself," he says, his voice calm and patient. "I also figured SHIELD wouldn't let you see me until they were relatively certain that you were free of Loki's magic."

He reaches across the distance, again simply laying his hand on Clint's knee. "You needed time. Nat was probably tried of me asking for updates all the time."

"Yeah." About not letting him visit an at the time critically injured agent until cleared. About dealing with a lot, but that alone doesn't feel like an excuse.

Phil touches him again, and he gets it, he definitely does, and it's nice, and he allows it, but it's also just kind of weird in a way that's hard to define. He opens his mouth to say more, then...doesn't, and chews on his donut instead.

Phil lets the silence sit for a bit to see if Clint will say anything else but no, he doesn't say anything else. It's frustrating but much about Clint is. Always has been and for some reason that doesn't discourage Phil.

"Do you need me to forgive you?" he asks, still studying Clint. "Or apologize for risking my life against an alien god?"

He expects the answer will be no on both counts but Clint can surprise him.

"No." But then he stares into the middle distance, frown deepening. "Don't apologize. But..." An amendment. "Do you forgive me? Because you don't have to. If you don't."

"I never blamed you in the first place," Phil says honestly. Now he has to look away. "This is going to sound awful but I was... kind of relieved when you showed up in security footage. I thought... I thought you died when the New Mexico base collapsed."

He's not particularly proud of this fact. It's selfish and cruel. It might have been easier on Clint if he had gone down with the base. Then he wouldn't have the guilt to live with.

Phil, though, he's not sure who he would have become in the emptiness of a world without Clint Barton. "And then Nat and I started planning how to get you back."

"...I meant for not being here. I kinda...I figured that you probably didn't blame me for getting mindscrambled like I was. I mean. It doesn't help, really, but." Clint shakes his head. "I was too good to just let us all get buried. Hill tried her best, though, I gotta give her that."

"I don't blame you for that either," Phil says with a little shake of his head. "It would have been nice, yes. But god, I'm just too old and tired to be mad that you needed time and space after everything."

Anger, resentment, what would they do but delay getting Clint back? Phil had his darker moments late at night when the pain was bad but they're both fucked up for various reasons. He just don't want to waste the time.

"I can yell if it'll make you feel better. A good dressing down?"

"No...no, if your heart's not in it, it's not really gonna do me any good, huh?" It's a halfhearted joke. "If you really feel it, then go for it; I can take it."

But he can hear some implication. That yes, he should have showed up. That under different circumstances, Phil would've been pissed about it.

"I didn't know Nat had gotten you back when I woke up," he says, his thumb back to idly stroking. "When I could stay conscious long enough to hold a conversation I demanded to know your status. Knowing you were alive and yourself that's been enough for me."

He shakes his head. "It was starting to be not enough. I think Nat sensed that in my texts. I really do just need to see you until you're ready for more."

"Ready for more," he echoes. "You make it sound like I'm gonna move in." That's not what Phil means, he's pretty sure, but it's where he's decided to take it. "What about you? You're making this about me, but, god, you must've thought you lost me, and a lot of good people died, and you got stabbed by an alien despot. You can't tell me you're just good, like I'm the only one with problems."

"Sometimes I wish you would." Phil's not going to deny that. Out of the two of them he's the romantic. He likes happy endings and sappy rom-coms where everything works out. He likes the idea of this thing of theirs working out.

"If you're here when I'm trying to sleep you can see how many problems I have." Phil wants to lean against Clint's side because Clint would never let anything happen to him. He's very protective.

"I dream of dying. I dream of having to give the order to kill you. Sometimes Loki kills you in front of me. I have problems."

It shouldn't be gratifying to hear Phil admitting to some of his issues. But it is. It feels good to know that he really isn't the only one fucked up. (That the focus shouldn't necessarily be solely on him.)

And it means he doesn't have to necessarily reply to the idea that Phil would like him to move in. That's a conversation for another time. Probably. Maybe for over vacation. Maybe for not right now, because there's no way in hell he's having that conversation with a clear head.

"Natasha came pretty close to doing me in. If she hadn't knocked some sense in me..." A one shouldered shrug. "I get dreams, too. They suck. Sorry."

Natasha would try her best to save Clint. She owned him. But she would also put him down if there was no way to save him. She would have made it quick and clean and painless.

Phil sighs and gives in, leaning over to press his shoulder against Clint's. "I hate this post-op come down. It's worse than Monaco. And I'm not sure how to come back to center."

Near death experiences facing off against Gods and almost losing the man Phil's now certain he's in love with have done a number on his head. It will take SHIELD psychologists a long time to help him untangle it all.

He wants to like it so badly. There's the part of him that craves this, to be with his boyfriend, to touch him and kiss him (and blow him, sure), to go back to normal or some semblance thereof.

But there's another part that wants to crawl away and hide from it. To recoil as if burnt.

But he needs this. Right? They both definitely need it. So Clint doesn't say anything. Allows Phil to have this. It's nice and he's going to make himself like it, damn it.

"Time." An unhelpful suggestion, even if it's true. "And talking things out. You'll come back to center, Phil. You need to heal up first. Full recovery, and then you'll have an excuse to strip off your shirt so you can show off your battle scar."

Clint usually relaxes against him when they're like this. Phil doesn't like that he doesn't so he stubbornly stays in place so either Clint will tell him to move or get over whatever is bothering him.

"You will too," he says softly. "You'll find your center."

He frowns at the idea of showing anyone his scar. Phil doesn't even like to look at it in the mirror.

"You're my center." It's cheesy and sappy, but he knows Phil likes that. The curse of all those schmaltzy Hallmark movies and the like. Maybe that'll distract him.

"We're both gonna be okay. It's just gonna be a process is all. And the process will suck." The process has sucked. Immensely. "But we'll get there."

It does touch that soft, sappy part of Phil. If they weren't both incredibly twisted up by what had happened he would even believe it was entirely genuine. It mostly is. Clint can be sweet like that. It just doesn't feel like Clint's heart is in it right now.

"No vacation in New Mexico," he says after a few minutes of silence, staring into the middle distance. "No deserts."

Is this awkward? It must be awkward. Because he should probably cuddle up, hold Phil tight, kiss him, and then make lewd suggestions for other activities whether cleared by medical or not.

Instead of just letting Phil lean on him and drinking coffee feeling like his skin is tingling in all the wrong ways..

"Pretty sure a nice cabin in the woods is gonna be about as far from a desert as we can get unless you wanna take a yacht out in the middle of the ocean."

It's awkward. He's not sure why it's awkward for Clint. As well as he knows his boyfriend he's not sure what's going on right now.

"I'd rather avoid yachts after what happened near Calais." Phil sighs heavily as he sits up leaning away from Clint.

"I suppose I should be the first to tell you," he says, his tone a little more serious. "Even with physical therapy I may not be able to clear for field work. That makes my future with the Avengers Initiative questionable."

"No, it doesn't." Clint sets his drink aside and angles himself toward Phil. There's an impulse to reach out, to take his hands, but he...doesn't. "You don't have to be in the field to be with the Avengers. We're gonna need people doing all the work none of the rest of us are trained to do. You can be a desk jockey. Queue up missions for us, feed us intel. Take care of fallout. It doesn't make anything questionable."

"Someone needs to be in the field and active on the ground with the rest of you." His tone is patient and logical. "Someone has to be your direct handler and it might not be me."

He's been involved in the Avengers Initiative from the beginning. From when Fury first started writing the whole thing up. They used to strategize in dingy diners in the early years together. He's worked hard to see it this far.

"I can coordinate some of it from a desk, you're right." Phil hates the idea a little bit. He can sit at a desk for hours and do paperwork but the whole of his career being a desk? He doesn't know how he's going to handle it. "I thought you'd want to know."

"We can be our own eyes and ears on the ground. We need someone with eyes in the sky and a farther reaching network of intel. If you think you're gonna miss the exercise, I'll be sure to give you plenty." Phil has to be involved in the Avengers. In any way that he's capable. "The team came together cuz of you, so I hear. Hey, if nothing else, you can be our mascot."

There's a little more of the Clint he knows. Phil smiles just a little.

"If you say the word mascot around Stark I will have to kill both of you." Because that would create some sort of costume or joke suit that Stark would expect him to wear and there's only so much of Stark's nonsense Phil can take on any given day.

"Can you work with a different SHIELD handler? Can they?" he asks, trusting Clint's insight. He's already had this conversation with Natasha who's come to see him. They had tea.

"I can." He knows that he can. He'll do whatever he needs to do. But: "It won't be easy, and it won't be pretty. It'll be a step back for me. But I also know I can't act out too much. Won't look good, given the circumstances." Not that it looked good when he first started out, but many years on he should know better. Being more or less cleared of having something magic tampering with his head can easily be walked back.

"They are gonna wanna be more independent. It's a SHIELD project overall, but half the team aren't affiliated but through circumstance. Fury's burned a lot of goodwill after Stark's hacking. They trust you behind the wheel, or at least, given your near death experience helped glue some of the more disparate pieces back together, you're definitely an ally. Banner's the oddball, but it seems like he and Stark get on like scientifically-inclined peas in a pod, and he shouldn't have any objections to you. Group's gonna need more wiggle room than your average strike team."

And no average handler is going to be able to keep them right on the edge of the line. Phil rubs his hand over his face. He really is the best option to handle the Avengers but if he can't be in the field then he's not much good as a handler. Handlers went into the field.

"It's not definitive," he says with a heavy breath. "Daily physical therapy should help but the doctors are blunt with their warnings. And I'd rather tell you myself than you hear it from the SHIELD rumor mill."

Which even with the organization in disarray was still going strong. Somehow. He knew it was only a matter of time before people speculated if he wasn't really dead after all.

"And you know I don't want to be relegated to a desk."

Clint rubs his hands together, glancing away in thought. Phil's still got a road to physical recovery. And might never be one hundred percent again. Even still, he's managing himself pretty well. There's every possibility that this is just worst case scenario being speculated on.

But. Also every possibility that this really needs to be prepared for.

He looks back. "What would you do otherwise? I mean, if you're not cleared for the field and you don't want to be stuck at a desk. What are your options from there?"

"I have no idea," Phil admits which is a hard thing because he's always had a plan before. He's very good at improvising plans in the field too. For himself the plan has always been to be a field agent and most likely die in the line of duty.

Coming close to that makes it very clear that he should have thought of something sooner.

"Stark offered me a job before everything went to hell. I could take that." He's not sure the offer is still there. "I might kill him though which defeats the purpose of working for him."

"Fashion designer. Go into menswear. Be an agent for a supermodel or something, handle all the calls and plan all the outfits and outings, make sure all the venues follow protocols." It's a joke, yeah. But fuck if he can't see Phil being really good at something like that. Being a handler but in a way that doesn't involve running across rooftops being shot at.

"Maybe go into training? Not for the physical shit, but training baby agents in all the other ins and outs. Or if you'd think about leaving SHIELD entirely, you'd just have to consider what you love doing and go from there."

"Well... I love doing you," he says in an attempt to lighten the mood a little bit.

Training is not a bad idea though. Phil's refined many agents put under his care, including taking some of the rougher edges off Clint and Natasha. They hoped he could take the rough edges off the Avengers.

"But don't you dare start paying me. You have more class than that."

"Oh, if you think I'm too classy to pay for sex, you don't know who you're talking to." See, that feels more normal. The cheeky jokes. That's fine. They're fine-ish. They're going to be fine. They still haven't kissed, and Clint hasn't done any touching, but at least this feels better. "We'll need to figure out some reasonable rates for you. Get you working in a dungeon in the dominatrix business. How do you feel about other people wanting daddy to spank them for being naughty?" He says it with such a suggestive lilt, trying not to break at the very idea. It's a close thing.

Phil almost puts his head in his hands. His fingers twitch for a second before he schools his features into something calm and almost bored.

"I don't believe most sex clubs in New York could afford me." The only person who gets to experience any of Phil's talents is Clint and he's going to keep it that way until Clint says otherwise.

"My services don't come cheap. You had to buy me two packets of donuts before I went out with you."

"We'll have to have a jetsetting lifestyle and find a place with clubs that can afford you. Monaco, Rome, Abu Dhabi. The ritziest and most exclusive clubs. And then I'll take a cut and ply you with more donuts for dates." Not that he needs plying! "I might even go the extra mile and throw in a pizza now and then."

"Oh pizza, aren't you Mr. Romance." Phil nudges him in the ankle. "Go figure out what we're ordering for dinner."

Clint knows where the take out menus are in the kitchen. Phil figures he's staying long enough for dinner since he hasn't gone running for the hills with everything Phil's added to his list of worries.

If Clint does decide to leave before then Phil's at least getting a kiss on the way out.

"Well now I'm in the mood for pizza, so I guess I'm just gonna be the embodiment of romance just for you."

They can weather this. Nothing has fundamentally changed about them together. If they can crack wise and exist together and have pizza. It isn't like they aren't over the moon for each other. Clint gets that he might be a little more distant, but...obviously it's not the biggest deal. What with everything on their plates right now.

As long as the distance doesn't last forever. Phil expects that much like when they were first learning to trust each other it'll be small steps back to normal. Even if Phil's aching just to leap back to that warm, safe place they were in before it all went to hell.

"You do know how to make a man feel special." Phil leans back further in the couch until something pulls wrong, then he has to shift with a grimace of pain trying to re settle himself. He really can't wait for the day everything stops hurting.

He catches that look with a frown. "You okay?" Which, stupid question, sure, but. "Do you need to take something? Or, you need to take more of something?"

"After dinner." Phil doesn't like how foggy the painkillers make him. He doesn't like being unable to react as fast as he wants. He does not mention he might be more willing to be vulnerable if Clint stayed with him longer.

He is not guilting his boyfriend into spending time with him.

"I don't want to pass out on the couch waiting for it."

"Are they that strong, or is your tolerance shit?" Or both. "You really should take what's recommended. Making yourself be in pain isn't--jesus," he breathes, "I fucking sound like you now. Okay. Shutting my trap, cuz next time I'm beat to hell, I'm gonna still be my usual terror."

Phil listens to Clint lecture him with a pleasant little smile. It is amusing to hear almost the exact same words he's said over and over every time Clint gets injured.

"I take them when they're necessary," he says calmly. "Most of the time I'm fine. I sometimes sit wrong or pull something and it hurts for awhile until it doesn't. And I do take them before bed."

He also locks his bedroom door when he does because Phil is just as paranoid as the agents he handles.

"Ffffffffine. God, it's like looking in a mirror, except you're not in traction right now. I'll order the damn pizza." Grumble grumble. Is this usually how Phil feels?? Damn, he's an asshole. One who isn't going to change his ways about pushing the limits of what's medically recommended, which only makes him more of an asshole.

He knows what the best place around is (by 'best' we mean 'Phil's favorite' because a fight about The Best Pizza In New York City is a fight that will lead to riots in the streets) and exactly what to get, because he's thoughtful and remembers things. Or he tries to. Really hard. Given that this feels like the first relationship that's really, really mattered. A lasting one, anyway. That could go places. Or comfortably stay the same for the rest of eternity.

It's comfy. God, he wants that comfy back.

Phil refrains from pointing out that Clint could have seen him in traction if he had come to Medical. He's better at behaving himself when he's in medical and he doesn't have options open to him. At home, he can choose not to have meds and his bed is infinitely more comfortable.

Just listening to Clint moving around in his space is relaxing. He got him back. He's safe and whole. Himself. That's how Phil likes him best. Clint as Clint. Well, no, he likes Clint best as his.

He could take painkillers and pass out with Clint around.

"Okay, all ordered, got some time, I'll clean up a little? Make your bed, fluff some pillows, fix a leaky faucet, anything?" He does a mock bow. "I'm at your disposal for the time being."

"I hope none of my faucets are leaking. But go ahead. You know I trust you here." Phil waves a hand at Clint with a fond smile. He's welcome in Phil's space and there's nothing he feels the need to hide. "Do whatever."

He picks up his tablet to answer a few emails and send out a few orders, coordinating. Still listening to Clint moving around, just enjoying Clint in the same space as him.

Until the doorbell rings signaling dinner is here. Phil grunts as he slowly gets up from the couch to get the door.

The problem comes from the fact that Phil makes enough to have a decent place and is clean and organized enough even when injured that there frankly is not a whole lot to really actually do. This will not deter Clint, however. The coffee's taken care of, donuts stashed away, bed made (with wistful memories of spending fun nights and cozy mornings in it), and he's just generally wiping down the kitchen when the pizza arrives.

He's never this industrious at his own place.

"I got it," he calls, but Phil's already getting up, and there's a little bit of alarm at that. "I got it, I got it, you don't have to-"

"My legs aren't injured," Phil reminds him. He's a little slow to get up but he can get up and can help a little bit. "I'll pay the man, you carry the pizza."

He opens the door and pays the delivery man. He lets Clint take the pizza and bring it to the kitchen. He likes to pay because Phil's a very generous tipper.

"I also need to move after sitting for so long," he says after he closes the door. "Muscles get stiff."

"Right." Doesn't keep the frown off his face. "I know how that gets after injuries. It's just...weird to see you so hurt. I wish I'd been there."

There are a lot of things he wishes. And they won't get him anywhere.

"Do you need to take a walk around after? Around the block or...is that a little much?" He straightens up and rubs his neck. "I'm hovering, right? Yeah, I'm hovering. Sorry."

Technically, Clint was there. Just not himself.

"Do you want to see it?" Phil asks, tilting his head to the side. "Would it make things easier for you?"

It's an odd offer to make while standing around in his kitchen but it seems like Clint really doesn't know how to take Phil being the injured party this time around. It's been awhile since he's been the one seriously injured.

"And I might do some physical therapy stretches before bed. We'll see how I feel." He's not going to complain about Clint hovering. It's better than the distance between them before.

"Do I--what? No. I mean, eventually, I'll see it, but you don't have to just...show me deliberately just to show off."

He's pretty sure it would only make him feel guilty. Pretty sure he's going to see just how close his boyfriend was to dying in an unpleasant manner and possibly just leave without saying anything, so. Better to not risk it.

"I thought it might make you feel better if you saw the good work done by medical. It's healing. I'll just be stiff and in pain for awhile." He isn't quite sure how to reassure Clint in this situation. It's odd to be unsteady in this.

Phil opens the pizza box and is pleased to see his favorite. "Perfect." He gets himself a plate for it and then carefully sits down at the kitchen table.

"There's nothing they can do about the scar, though."

"I've been on the receiving end of their handiwork plenty of times," Clint reminds. "I know they do good work."

The scar will just be a scar, on either side of the body. Clint's got plenty. That's just a sign of how much you've survived. It still healing, and the memories being fresh enough as they are, he's not sure...about damn near anything, really. "I hear chicks dig scars. Haven't really found that to be the case in practice though."

"If I suddenly decide I want to court a woman instead I'll keep that in mind." Phil almost rolls his eyes. He settles for a bored look instead. He has not been interested in a woman for awhile. Not since somehow Clint got through all his defenses and somehow became everything.

He still can't pinpoint the exact moment it happened but there are times it feels inevitable. Phil is terribly romantic.

"Sit down and have dinner with me." Phil nudges the other chair out with his foot. "Then if you need space you can head out."

"'Court a woman'," and Clint does roll his eyes, practically flopping into the chair and grabbing some cheesy ambrosia. "Are we sure time travel is a hard thing to do, because I swear sometimes you sound very old timey. Sure you didn't drop out of the 1500's?"

"Most modern physicists think that we could theoretically go forward in time but not backwards," Phil says with a little smile. Under the table he leans his foot casually against Clint's. A small acceptable touch. Hopefully.

"I'm not some lost Asgardian hiding out on Earth, I promise." If he was he would've revealed it in the fight with Loki for sure.

"Those physicists are a riot. We're constantly in a state of going forward in time." He thinks he's very clever for that one, thanks. If he thinks anything of the barest little hint of footsie under the table, he says nothing of it.

"And you're also definitely not courting me. You're dating me. Like a modern man."

That one is fairly clever. Phil lets himself smile, one of his rare genuine smiles that hides nothing. The people who think Clint's not smart are not paying attention.

"I might court you," he muses, watching Clint across the table. "But not with poetry and flowers. That wouldn't really work on you."

Clint's opened this door. If he doesn't want to hear the grand romantic plans of one Phillip J. Coulson he should shut it soon.

The squinting look Phil gets is nothing bad, nothing malicious or suspicious, but now he doesn't know what to think. "Sex works on me pretty well," he says, and then regrets it, but pushes forward anyway. "We might have to define courting and dating then. What do you think would work on me?"

"I've noticed." Clint never seems to knows what to do when Phil offers him something soft and sweet instead of physical and hot.

"Arguably they're the same thing. Both are a period of getting to know someone prior to a deeper commitment such as marriage. Courting, however, has more restrictions on it. No one would have sex before marriage if they were truly courting someone." Phil is a nerd. Clint should be well aware of this.

"Were I courting you, I would get you historical reproductions of various bows from all over the world for you to try out. I know you're familiar with most types but there's something handmade in traditional styles that you haven't gotten your hands on." Yes, he's thought about this. Phil is a romantic.

"Historical bows." He purses his lips, gives a little tilt of his head. "That'd be pretty cool. I could have a wall of them for display. Like one of those spy walls that turn around to show an armory type."

"And I'd get to watch you draw which does very nice things for your shoulders."

Phil is fascinated by Clint's muscles. He's built entirely differently from other muscled heroes like Rogers and Thor. It has to be because of the bow and the draw. It has to be.

Running his fingers over those muscles never gets old.

"You get to watch me draw without ever having to woo me with fancy historical bows, Phil." Kind of the job! Not to watch his muscles, but...

"Usually, I'm busy watching other things as well." He pauses a moment between bites of pizza. "But I do like to watch you at the range sometimes."

He does not openly oggle at the range. Phil is careful with his glances but he does drop by now and then to watch. He doesn't think anyone could really blame him.

"You also tend to watch other things at the range, too. Nobody's gonna give a shit if you're there to watch your favorite agent do his thing and do it well." Probably. Possibly. He doesn't think it'd be a big deal.

"People thought we were sleeping together three years before we actually did." Phil's aware of the rumors about him and Clint. For years when they were simply close friends people thought they were fucking.

Phil did his best to ignore the rumors. They bothered him only when people assumed Clint got where he was through sex. Those he struggled to ignore.

"Right, so, no big deal if you swing by and kick your feet up just to watch me with those pretty eyes." He shrugs. "Watch me all you want."

"I try not to objectify you at work." Phil also tries his best to be professional at work even though he clearly lets Clint and Natasha get away with so much. No one else is allowed to sleep on the couch in his office.

"I can do that now if you're feeling left out."

"I'm kinda meant to be objectified. I'm a weapon, after all." Clint smirks, knowing that's not what's meant. "You wanna objectify me now? When I'm elbows deep in pizza?"

"That I find you attractive even when eating pizza means there's no coming back for me," he says with an overly dramatic sigh.

It's also probably the truth. Phil is happy sitting here eating pizza with his boyfriend even though they are both damaged goods.

"And it means I am just that hot, which is a compliment I'll always take." He's not quite up for preening, but just imagine it.

It's close to the Clint Barton he knows but not quite the same. Almost. It's a good sign though. Phil can feel himself relax. A little bit of himself settles knowing that Barton will be okay.

It'll just take time.

"Don't let it go to your head."

It's easy to talk. It's easy for the words to come out of his mouth and for things to feel most of the way normal when he's able to push the rest of it back. There's going to be a blow up, or several blowups, probably, down the line. And he's already trying to prepare for how nasty they're likely to be.

There's also the factor of touch, and...well, he doesn't really want to talk about that.

"Too late. You're gonna give me an overinflated ego just like Stark. Then I'll really be insufferable."

Maybe when Phil's feeling better they can fight. He's just too grateful to have Clint around right now to be that upset by the strangeness around them. The longer it goes the harder it will be to ignore. To pretend things are fine when they're not.

They've known each other long enough to tell when things aren't right.

"If you start behaving like Stark, I will divorce you."

"Joke's on you, we're not even married. Looks like you'll just have to break up with me instead, cease the courting, wound the wooing." He sucks some sauce and grease from his fingers. "What if I started acting like Rogers? God, I can't believe I missed seeing the first time you ever met him out of the ice; I bet you were an embarrassing fanboy."

Phil blushes and he really wishes he could stop himself. God, he fumbled that first meeting so badly. His life long hero and he sounded like some sort of deranged stalker.

"I have to face him again at some point," he says, almost shrinking in on himself. He doesn't do that often. Phil's faced the full fury of Fury and not flinched but he can't imagine his second meeting with Captain Rogers will go better.

"Maybe I should've stayed dead."

"Ouch, it was that bad?" While Phil shrinks, Clint takes advantage and leans across the table. "Did you get him to sign your cards? Those things are already worth big bucks, but actually signed by the man himself would make them priceless. Did he flex for you? Did you get to feel up a patriotic bicep? Did you simply faint dead away at his sparkling eyes?"

"I said something along the lines of I watch you while you slept." Phil will let Clint run with this. He'll take the embarrassment. It's not like Clint doesn't already know about his obsession and hero worship.

"Well, they would be priceless except Fury used the bloodstained cards to get Stark and Captain Rogers to bring the team together. They're worthless now." Which Phil is pissed about. He spent a long time getting those cards together.

"Phil." Clint covers his mouth to stifle the laughter. It doesn't do much to help. "You've talked to famous people and absolute badasses without blinking, but the second someone you actually admire shows up, you lose composure? Babe. That's adorable, you fucking nerd."

It's worth the embarrassment to hear Clint laugh and call him babe again. Any sort of pet name is incredible rare between them. Outside of teasingly calling each other "agent" and "sir" they don't really do pet names.

He smiles, soft and loving. A little something in him settles back to center. "I know the junior agents like to joke about me being an LMD but I am actually human and can make an ass out of myself."

"Well, now that I'm on first name basis with Captain America, I'll have to invite him over." Is that grin devious? That might be a little devious. "Have him autograph some things for you. Stay for dinner. See what his 40's sensibilities think about a threesome."

"You would... absolutely ask him that just to see what he would do." Phil groans and rubs both hands over his face. It gives him a moment to grin into his palms. Why does he love this man so much? Clearly, Phil's an idiot.

He has control of his expressions when he pulls his hands away. "You do not have to work to embarrass me in front of Captain Rogers. I'm good at doing it myself."

"Oh, that's fine, I'll just work real hard to embarrass myself, that way he can see what a mess some of his team is. Pretty sure he mostly knows me as the angry archer with mind control issues is all. Miss Romanoff's friend and ally. He should get to know the shitshow underneath that."

"If he can't see your value, he shouldn't lead the team." Phil means every word of that.

For all he idolizes and tries to live up to Captain America, if the man can't see Clint for the talented agent he is then he shouldn't lead the Avengers. It's more about how Clint sees himself, Phil knows, but he should hear it.

Phil's always in Clint's corner.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Oh, he read my skills like a book. He really should have a better idea of what he's working with though." And that includes the negative. And sometimes the negative is just 'Stark's a stuck up know it all' or 'Nat has trust issues', and sometimes the negative is worse. "He leads the team far as anyone's concerned."

"Of course, but no one should question your place among the Avengers. Even you." Phil nudges his foot against Clint's to make his point. "You belong there with them."

The Avengers were handpicked by him and Fury. He pressed for Clint and Natasha even though Fury argued they were better solo than with a team. Their skills, though, balanced against the others.

"The only other place you belong is with me."

Clint leans back again, amusement rapidly vanishing under a look more locked down. "Yeah, well." That doesn't seem to go anywhere for a few long moments. "My place among a lot of things has gotten enough questioning lately."

He feels the anger rise in his chest. Not towards Clint but for what Loki did. His mind control ruined years of work and trust. In an agency like SHIELD it would take time for that to come back. Clint's almost starting his career over.

Phil will always be in his corner. He will always have his back. "You have me. No matter what."

"That's a nice promise. I know it's really tempting to believe it, too." It isn't that he doesn't believe it, necessarily, but it's that idea of no matter what that feels like tempting fate. Because there's likely a few scenarios in which that doesn't hold true.

"Sorry, that's, um." He rubs his face. "Maudlin."

"A little," Phil agrees with a small nod. "But after what you've been through maudlin is to be expected. Whether you believe it or not, it is true."

They've been through hell together as agents and friends. This might be the rockiest their romantic relationship has ever been but Phil still believes in Clint, still cares for him, and frankly, still adores him.

That won't change even if Clint doesn't feel like it's true.

"Can we not talk about what I've been through when you're the one on the mend?" Or not talk about it at all ever. That might be the ideal. "You're the one with every right to be miserable."

"This isn't the first time I've been stabbed." Phil sits back in his chair and studies Clint. He doesn't want to talk about it but he's also willing to push Clint a little bit. "Getting shot is worse. Or tortured. I'm glad to be alive."

"You went through a hell of a lot worse." Because Loki didn't really use physical force or threats. Phil's read the reports. The man twisted Clint's heart and turned it against his friends and fellow agents. It's insidious.

"You died on the table, Phil. You're lucky to be alive. If that son of a bitch had hit his mark, you would've bled out in minutes at most. You're allowed to be upset and mad and sad and whatever else, even to me. Especially to me."

So, Clint's read the medical reports. Or the SHIELD rumor mill is still going full force. "It was only eight seconds. I'm sure someone's exaggerated the number but it wasn't that long."

He lets out a heavy breath. He's dismissing Clint's concerns and deflecting like Clint's doing to his. Aren't they a pair? "Every time we go into the field we could die. I've gotten comfortable with that knowledge. I came close. For a time I was gone but the man responsible is beyond our justice. I need to do what I can to fix what he tried to destroy. The best justice is to keep going and show that bastard he didn't win."

"I'm not so sure sometimes that he didn't win after all." But Clint has a particularly unique perspective on the villain in question. The overarching goal was to please his master(s?) who gifted him with an alien army and a funky stick, sure. But there was a certain terrible desperation to the whole thing. Captured now, yes, and to face some kind of justice, but at the hands of people who know him, people he grew up with. Somewhere he's a prince, if a fallen one, to probably live under house arrest or something cozier than what he'd suffered before.

The plan backfired, sure. But Loki losing was also a win for him in a way. To get out from under those who had sought to control him.

"Doesn't mean I plan on giving up anytime soon."

Stark is of the same mindset. He's shouting at anyone who will listen that something bigger is coming. Phil believes him because as grandiose and ridiculous as Stark is Phil's rarely seen him afraid. He's afraid of whatever's out there. It seems like Clint is too.

"I'd let Natasha recalibrate your cognitive function a second time if you did." As understandable as the sense of defeat might be that's not who they are. They keep going against the impossible.

"I'm not...angry at all the testing and shit. Seems tenuous that a solid thump to the skull would be enough to make that magic or whatever let go for long. Gave me enough wiggle room to fight it off, but...I mean, even I'm worried it could come back. Seems like that's not the case, though. And with the disco stick sent off," with an impatient wave of his hand, "somewhere else, maybe with no one controlling it, it might not be a direct threat."

He glances at Phil, then down at the table. "Sorry. For...y'know, everything."

They need to find a reliable magic user. They exist. A few are on the list. Phil's not sure Clint would submit to magical testing like he's submitted to scientific testing. "We could ask Thor to send us a reliable mage... wizard? Asgardian to examine you. I think Asgard owes us a few favors. If you think that examination might ease some of your concerns."

He sits forward and puts his hand on Clint's knee, squeezing firmly. "I forgive you. And I'm sorry you did it."

Because there's no denying that even if Clint was twisted into doing it. He did it. "We'll get through it like we always have. Together."

"Maybe. Sure. I don't know. I'm sure Fury's asked or put out some feelers. Hard to keep direct communication when travel's a one-sided thing, much less communication. If it happens, it happens."

The forgiveness and apology and acknowledgement are...good? It doesn't ease anything that's been done, but it's not bad. But it all just wants to bubble up in a way he is not interested in showing his boyfriend. He makes to stand, breaking the physical connection.

"How about I shove the rest of this in the fridge? Easy leftovers, can't argue with that. And I can drop by whenever you need anything, if I can make it. You can always text me. Or Tasha, if she's not on mission."

"Hiemdall's always supposed to be listening. Or seeing." Phil sits back again. Two steps forward and maybe only one back. Hard to say when Clint clearly needs to rabbit. "You'll be kept in the loop, I'm sure."

He lets him be useful. Or feel useful. Maybe letting his boyfriend fuss over him, fix something for him, will help in the long run.

"Natasha nags me like I'm suddenly not a level seven agent." Phil's mature enough not to roll his eyes about being fussed over by two of his best agents. He handles them not the other way around. "You can also come by to sit on the couch and watch Kitchen Nightmares. Or to escape Stark. The door is always open to you, Clint."

"I tune him out a lot better than you do. He's not a bad sort. Just a nosy, talkative little shit." Stark was removed from the Avengers list for good reasons, but it's apparently all worked out in the end.

Clint's quick and efficient about the cleanup, because he needs something to do with as much gusto as possible and also so he can leave faster. And it feels bad. To need to leave. Because this should be a safe and comfy place. Except there's talk about him and thinking about him and Clint has talked and thought about him so much that sometimes it seems impossible for there to be room for anything else.

"Okay." He flashes a tight smile. "Well, I'm gonna..." With a thumb jerked at the door. "Text me, though. When you need me. For anything."

"You didn't babysit him in Malibu."

Really, Phil doesn't mind Stark that much. He's a good man underneath it all. Stark's just very good at getting under his skin and he doesn't like it. At all. But he is a good man at heart.

He gets up to walk Clint to the door because he is an old fashioned gentleman. "I know how to reach you. And I will if things start falling apart around me."

Chivalry is alive and well. He might actually invite Steve, just because in less awkward circumstances, they'll probably get along fabulously. "Kinda hope you'll reach me before things get to the falling apart stage. We want to avoid the falling apart. Okay? Don't you fall apart on me."

"You'll catch me if I do." At the door Phil stops. He really wants to kiss Clint before he goes. He would really like those arms around him again. But Clint's still not comfortable, still itching out of his skin.

He settles for a tight squeeze of his hand. "Don't stay away so long this time, okay? The falling apart goes both ways."

They can hold each other up until they can stand on their own.

That's a hell of a lot of trust that, majority of the time, he'd be happy to accept. It's a little harder to believe it, now. Phil's been able to read the room well enough to not insist on a kiss, which, he should be able to kiss his boyfriend, right? And yet he's so damn grateful not to get into it. The hand holding he allows, only very lightly giving anything in return.

He can't make any promises himself. So he simply ducks away through the door without saying anything.

God. That could've gone better. Hopefully that'll placate Nat. And Phil. Who deserves better. And yeah, it was good to see for himself that his boyfriend is alive and recovering.

He should probably go over whenever he thinks about it. Hell, he should probably move in at least temporarily, just to keep an eye on him, to have someone there to help and be at beck and call. But he doesn't. He only comes over when Phil asks him to, and if he has to make up some bullshit chore for Clint to do, then, they don't have to mention it or acknowledge it at all.

There hasn't been this much distance between them since Clint first joined SHIELD and everyone, Phil including, was trying to get a good sense of the carney they had recruited. He often feels like he can't understand his boyfriend anymore, that he's looking at a shadow. Someone else is wearing Clint's skin.

If it wasn't for the little glimpse of Clint, the Clint he remembers, here and there Phil would be more worried than he is. And he's very worried.

And the more Phil recovers the less he needs Clint around to do things for him. The reasons don't hold up to scrutiny. Eventually, he's going to be fully healed and there'll be no reason for Clint to come over except if Clint wants to. Phil's not sure he wants to. He's not going to walk on eggshells forever.

He sends Clint a text with a grocery list and asks that he bring it over whenever he has the time.

The good news is that when Clint's as reasonably clear of any potential future mind control as can be, he's put back in the field. Light duty, at first, to get back into the swing of things and to start getting used to his brand new handler.

It doesn't go great. It doesn't go wrong, necessarily, but those who've been around long enough to remember Clint in his early days will definitely feel that this is familiar. But it's doing things again, even if he doesn't get too far from home turf, and it helps to settle something restless inside him.

Not all of it. Definitely not all of it. It's a start, though. Everything feels like it's just a start.

He shows up with bags of groceries in and on his arms, knowing full well that while the help is appreciated, it's less and less necessary. Still, he does it with a smile. "I feel like you should be impressed I got it all in one trip, but you're one person with an occasional extra mouth to feed. It's not exactly lots."

"I could have an extra mouth to feed," Phil says as he lets Clint into his apartment. "If you'd like to stay for dinner."

He follows Clint into the kitchen. Once a bag is set down Phil starts unloading it. His movements are smoother and the only time he winces is when he twists wrong. It really won't be long until his physical and he finds out if he can return to field work or not.

But his first priority is getting Clint to stay long enough to work out whatever's truly wrong and if Clint wants to fix this or not.

This is where, under more normal circumstances, Clint might make a very lewd comment about what to put in his mouth and then probably go in for a kiss. He's aware of himself this way.

But he doesn't and simply helps unload groceries like a good boy. Friend. Good boyfriend.

"Yeah? I can do that. You want me to whip something together, or do you wanna try your hand at something? Or just order something, but maybe something a little healthier."

Phil watches Clint for a moment and sighs heavily. "We're really not okay, are we?"

He doesn't see the point in dancing around the topic or easing into it. Phil can be deceitful and keep secrets but he prefers to get to the heart of the problem whenever possible. In their personal relationship he's always been honest and straightforward with Clint.

He holds a bunch of bananas in his hands and for a long moment looks completely lost. When he finally sets them down on the counter, he pulls his hands back, tucking them under his arms.

"Is that a we as in you and me individually, or we as in us?"

"According to my therapist I'm doing well for a man who almost died." Phil puts himself across from Clint giving him plenty of space but also making it hard for the man to not see him, not face him.

"I don't think you're doing well and that's effecting us." There's a clench of fear and worry in Phil's stomach. He doesn't want to lose Clint. He doesn't want to push so hard that Clint decides to leave them behind.

But he has to say something because the silence is going to end them too.

"It's." He falters. "Um." Because how does he put any of it in words? He's not good at it. He's good at reading people, but not so adept at verbalizing anything for himself. "A process. Is how the docs have all put it."

That's a start. Clint's sharing something which is more than he's gotten any time before now.

"What do you need from me?" Because maybe if there's something Phil can do too it'll help. The distance between them aches in his chest. Not like the scar and the injury but deeper and harsher.

From Phil? What does he need from the guy that almost died partly because of him? He's not sure he can even see it that way, in needing (or deserving) anything after what happened.

"Well," with a distinctly chipper tone, going back to the bags to give his hands something to do, "dinner's a good start."

Sidestepping. Avoiding. Phil feels a little rush of frustration. One step forward and Clint back peddling as hard as he could. He takes a deep breath and let's it out slowly.

"Let's cook something together." He wants to see what Clint will do. Push back when he starts to draw away. He'll figure out this dance if it kills him.

"Sounds good. I know I joke about my bachelor kitchen, but I promise I've never actually burned anything down." A beat. "While cooking." Arson is a completely different thing entirely.

He knows this is frustrating to Phil, but he keeps giving Clint space, and he takes it greedily. Gives him enough room to wiggle around and maneuver. He should maybe give more in return. Give something else. He licks his lips.

"I'm cleared for light active duty. Mostly just been quiet short recon trips. Probably gonna go back to the full shebang in the next few weeks. I hope. I don't think anything that's knocked loose in my head is gonna be any kind of liability in the field."

"I know. Your handler has been keeping me updated." And asking for advice on how to work with Clint in the field. Phil is the resident expert according to everyone in SHIELD second only to Natasha. Who is currently busy with her own work that Phil also knows about.

He washes his hands and starts to gather things for a simple pasta sauce. Phil deliberately puts himself in Clint's space again and again, brushing against him here and there.

"I've been hearing mostly good things."

"I'm shocked. I've been kind of a pushy asshole. You know how it was, breaking you in." A joke. If anyone got broken in, it was Clint. But he's pretty sure it worked both ways between them. New handler just has to learn that sometimes being hands off is the best possible course of action.

And in a more literal sense, hands off is not what Phil is up to. He takes the casual brushing touches the way he's taken most of the other ones: without complaint, without comment, not reciprocated. He does make a point to actually get out of the way while Phil does his thing. Pasta goes with pasta sauce. Obviously. He can cook up pasta without incident, given you just let it cook and you can go do other things while it softens up.

"I haven't had much chance to get into trouble yet."

"Yes, you did a wonderful job," Phil says dryly. Chopping vegetables keeps him from trying any more touches but he can't help longing for something like Clint's arm casually around his waist or a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.

He's quiet for a little bit before he speaks. "Are you afraid I'm going to break if you touch me?"

He's going to pick at this problem for a bit. He can have a one track mind. He wants to understand why Clint either needs this distance or thinks it's what has to happen.

Well, now he's frowning at uncooked pasta. He could keep being an asshole, sure. Just go escape and then not have to have this conversation, even if they only have it in starts and stops. He can't avoid it forever, though. Or he shouldn't. "It sounds stupid when you say it."

"It's irrational but not stupid," he corrects. Phil has to remember just how much Clint has lost over his lifetime. He has to find a well of patience that is at war with his own desires.

"It is stupid that you're blaming yourself." He glances over at him. "It was my choice to face him. The only people responsible for what happened to me are myself and Loki."

"I'm gonna hurt you." He says it quietly. If a watched pot never boils, they'll never have any pasta at this rate. "I know I'm not...actually gonna, I'd never want to, I wouldn't do it deliberately. But I'm so sure it'll happen."

Phil takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"You're hurting me now."

Because all awhile he was recovering and getting better he wanted Clint with him and Clint wouldn't. They're in the same damn room and it feels like Phil's with a stranger. He feels like he's still lost Clint to the mind control.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck, sure, it's a different kind of hurt, but it also makes a panic start to creep in. A confirmation of fears. He wants to go jump out a window and run away. Dinner's now the furthest thing from his mind. Spares one quick, wide-eyed glance at Phil, away again. Is he breathing? He needs to check in with himself to make sure he's breathing okay. Okay. Right. Keep doing that, the breathing thing.

"I can leave," he says quickly. "If this is too much."

"The last thing I want is for you to leave." Phil says it simply, firmly, because it's the truth. "I understand you're working through a lot and I'm doing my best to be patient but I'd like you to meet me halfway."

Phil needs Clint to give him something. Anything. Doing things for him is something but it won't be enough. It won't be necessary and then how the hell is he supposed to spend time with his boyfriend?

What excuse does he need then?

There's a lot he can read into that but, and he's trying very hard not to do so. To just take the words at face value.

He has to fight down a flare of indignation amidst the awful fucking sinking feeling. Not enough, he hasn't been enough, he's never been fucking enough for anyone, has he? No, shut up, that's not helpful. Be proactive.

"What do you need me to do?"

"What can you give?" he counters because what Phil needs might not be what Clint can do right now. He understands that. He wants to work within what Clint's comfortable with.

If that's nothing... that's a problem they'll have to figure out together. Is he actually thinking about couple's therapy? How the hell could they pull that off with their jobs and the secrets they have to keep?

"Apparently not enough." He means for it to sound snappy, but now he's worried that actually comes off upset. "I can spend more time here? Is that what you need? Should I pop in a couple times a week? Every day if I can? Dinner and a movie every night?"

Phil leaves the sauce to simmer and faces Clint. Now he's the one hurting Clint and it's hurting both of them but the only way forward either to fix this or end it is to keep going.

"You're not really here when you're here, Clint," he says softly. "I know it'll take time for us to get back to how things were before but I can't even touch you. You won't get close to me. I don't know how to help you feel like you can without getting you to actually touch me."

Or flirt or laugh or just be happy to be around him again.

Clint swallows down a very unkind remark that's bubbling up to the tip of his tongue, about how Phil can just call him a burden if that's what he means.

That Phil hasn't said it means that isn't what he means. Phil doesn't lie to him. Doesn't tend to sugarcoat things. Says what he means.

"You can touch me. You've touched me. That's a thing you've done and can do. I've never told you to stop, and I've never pushed you away." Yet.

He reaches out silently for Clint's wrist knowing how stiff and awkward it will be. Phil slides Clint's hand under his shirt, pushing it up out of the way to his heart. That means Clint will feel the end of the scar from where Loki's scepter tore into him.

"But you don't touch me." Phil presses Clint's palm against his chest right over his heart which is beating strong and sure as it ever was. "I don't know you keep your hands to yourself. I thought I lost you and I keep wanting to touch you to make sure you're here and I haven't. You haven't lost me."

He's going to make that as clear as he can. "I'm still alive."

Stiff and awkward, yes. Phil might find a frantic pulse under his fingertips, and Clint opens his mouth to object, closes it again without saying a damn thing. If this is what's needed, then--maybe he doesn't need to pull away like Phil's fire. Even if the urge is there. Even if he's stiff and doesn't know what to do with himself in this moment.

He can feel the edge of scarring, the texture changing, and curls his fingers away. And then has that same panic at the idea of hurting his boyfriend again and flattens his fingers out again. Curls the fingers of his other hand instead, tight.

"Yeah." Also tight, his voice. "We're both alive."

Phil reaches up with his other hand and places it over the back of Clint's neck. He hasn't been this close to Clint since he first showed up at his door and he hugged him.

"And you're not going to lose me," he says it firmly, looking into Clint's eyes. "I know every detail of what you did for him. I've known it for a long time. It's not driven me away or made me see you differently. I'm here and I want you here but not if you don't want to be here and be with me."

It would be an odd adjustment if they went back to being friends instead of lovers but Phil would make it for Clint if it would help him. He'd do anything if it would help.

It helps, he supposes, that he can see the motion rather than just suddenly having a hand on his neck. It means he can prepare for it and not lash out. Doesn't keep the crawling feeling from worming under his skin or the rapid beat of panic from settling into his chest.

"I don't know that you do," grit out through the dusty sandpaper that his mouth feels like it's turned into. He's at least still breathing. That's always a plus.

"Can we-" He swallows against the grit, closes his eyes. "Can we establish some ground rules? Um. Renegotiate our rules. Something."

Phil really can't touch him, can he? Clint's scared for him or scared of his touch. There's real fear there. That makes him worry for Clint.

He lets his hands fall away from Clint's slowly. "Of course we can. Whatever you need, Clint."

If it will help them get back to how things were before or a new way things can be good, Phil will do it. He'll do anything to erase the look of fear in Clint's eyes.

The hands leave. His own hand hesitantly stays where it is, pressed to the strong beat of his boyfriend's heart. Try not to give in to the incessant fear that he's going to do something to hurt Phil, to damage him, to send him back to a hospital bed or worse. That these hands were only made to do the awful work of others.

Which might distract him from the awful feeling of knowing that Phil's caught him out in the lie about being able to touch him. At least a little.

"Touch me where I can see." That doesn't solve the problem, but he's pretty sure that's at least a reason why the touch to his neck gave him away so clearly.

A breath. "When you say be with you. Define that for me?"

Phil puts his hand on Clint's hip though he fully expects Clint won't relax into the touch or lean into it like he would before. It hurts that the easy trust between them has been so deeply damaged by what Loki did. They should be helping each other recover from this and yet...

"It feels like you're going through the motions when you're here," he explains, his tone still calm and patient. "I don't like you pretending everything is fine when it's not. I'd rather you be yourself so that we can actually help each other."

He wants them to move forward but if they're both pretending nothing's wrong than they never will.

Didn't really expect setting a rule to be taken like an order, but it's...better. He supposes. Better than a hand on the back of his neck, anyway.

He pulls his own hand away, slowly lifting it from familiar skin. "I'm trying to be myself. The me that I was. Sometimes it's easy to just be me. Easier with you, sometimes. I don't exactly want to be what came out the other side."

"You don't have to pretend to be that when you're not in the mood." Phil feels the loss of Clint's hand but stops himself from chasing after it. He'll be fine. They'll be fine. They're talking and that's better than ignoring everything.

"I'd like you to be here because you want to. Not because I've got some chore for you. If you don't feel like it, tell me. But don't stay away because you're afraid you're going to hurt me. I trust you." He believes that Clint's free of Loki's influence. He won't suddenly turn on Phil while they're watching Dog Cops or sharing dinner.

"Have a little faith in yourself too, Clint."

"I don't think you want me to be the me that the docs see in their offices, so I gotta figure out a middle ground that doesn't chase you off." Because he absolutely thinks that's possible, that there is a version of himself that Phil would just drop rather than bother trying to salvage.

"Clint." Phil feels his chest tighten. Of course he thought he could drive Phil away. Too many people had abandoned him over the years when things got difficult.

"I'm not that easy to scare off. Especially not with you." Phil shakes his head slightly. "We've been through a lot together. Have a little trust we can make it through this too."

After losing Clint Phil's not going to give him up so easily.

"Shit, do you talk about me in therapy? Is that where you get all this patience from?" More than the usual amount of patience, anyway.

"Don't let the sauce burn. Wouldn't want to ruin dinner just cuz I distracted you. Even if I make for a very nice distraction. Sometimes."

"Yes, I talk about you in therapy," Phil says as he turns away to deal with the sauce which does need a stir and some attention. "You're my partner and an important part of my life."

One of the most important aspects. Phil knows he'll never have a normal life but he can have someone who loves him and someone who understands the demands of the job. He doesn't have to be alone.

"I get my patience from being partially an artificial intelligence programmed to ignore any and all idiocy."

"I knew it," Clint says with amusement, even if it's a little forced, given the turn from the topic of himself. "Tony owes me money."

He feels like he can breathe just a little bit easier, and while he doesn't leave the kitchen, he does take a step back and lean, press, himself against a wall. "Though he'd probably argue that that's a lie since you don't ignore me or most of the shit that comes out of my mouth."

"Actually, that is a good time to bring up something with you," Phil says as he slowly stirs the sauce. "Stark stopped by three days ago. He offered me a job."

He looks over his shoulder towards Clint. "As his liaison to SHIELD for the Avengers initiative. Which is the second job offer he's made me. While you were missing he offered me a job working for his security team. I think he likes me."

Phil's not sure what to make of the offer. Or that Tony Stark showed up at his door, invited himself in, and then proceeded to insult the organization Phil worked for for most of his adult life and offer him a job. It was an interesting afternoon.

One offer can be a brushed off joke. Twice, with a personal visit? Means Stark's serious. Clint squints.

"I don't know how happy you'd be on his payroll--wait. His liaison to SHIELD for the Avengers. Doesn't that basically make you his PA, Pepper aside? Or is he making the whole assumption that the Avengers are not SHIELD? Because, I'd hate to break it to him, but it's Fury's idea, Fury's team, and whether they're officially working for SHIELD or not, it's kind of still a SHIELD operation."

He spreads his hands. "I get that the Avengers are overall bigger than that, but there's a lot of technicalities I don't feel legally qualified to speculate on further." And besides, those specifics don't matter so much as this: "Are you thinking about taking it?"

"Stark's play is pretty obvious." Phil tastes the sauce and then holds out the spoon towards Clint to taste. "He's rebuilding Stark Tower, going to make it the headquarters of the Avengers, and get away from SHIELD and Fury as the ones holding the leash. He has the money to finance something like that."

If Stark wanted a private army he could make himself one. Like a noble lord of old. Phil's always felt Stark's more a solo act in the end but he's taken to the Avengers fairly well.

"I don't know," he admits. "It might be a good option if I can't return to SHIELD field work and they make an offer I don't like. But I can't see myself doing it. Leaving SHIELD."

It's been his life for so long... he doesn't know what he'd be besides Agent Coulson.

He chews it over as he pushes himself from the wall to take that taste, like a normal thing they would normally do as a normal couple. "Lil more oregano." It's not a play for control, just a play for independence.

He knew that Stark was going to start digging the moment he set foot on the helicarrier and find things he shouldn't. That was planned, after all. One of the many items to fracture the nascent group. Weird how he's cool with the spies from the spy organization full of spy shit he's not down with, but he's a more complicated guy than the papers give him any credit for.

"I don't imagine he put a timer on the offer. He knows it'll depend on whether you're gonna get the clear or not. Might end up being the deciding factor." Then there will be backup plans, or other plans in place to make the offer all the more tempting. "Think you'd be happy?"

Phil steps away this time to get oregano, letting Clint return to the wall if that's where he wants to be. Before this he might kiss Clint before he could move away. He thinks about it but doesn't do it. He tries very hard not to think about the last time they kissed.

"No, he says I can sign on whenever I want. I imagine he's going to now go from Avenger to Avenger and ask them to move in." Phil sprinkles the oregano in the sauce and gets back to stirring. "I don't know if he'll suggest you and Nat should leave SHIELD as well or not."

Phil shrugs which he can now do without his entire side hurting. "I would miss being a handler. I would miss what I do. You know I genuinely love the job."

"I think he knows better than to come to us. I can moonlight as an Avenger while still being an agent of SHIELD. I think you could probably manage it, too, but with a position like that, I can understand he'd want a little more cleanliness in the tie-severing department."

He doesn't move away. Just back enough to be out of the way of the stirring. "Don't dismiss it. Think about it. And then see what the docs say about where you're at medically. Fury's not gonna like it, given he's a control freak, but I think he's gonna realize this was always bound to be bigger than him. If it actually worked." A shrug. "For the record, I didn't think it was actually gonna work, but if anyone could do it, it was Fury."

"I'd rather stay," he says seriously. "Being a part of SHIELD makes me part of something bigger. Something more than myself. I think I'd hate the private sector."

He wants to lean back into Clint but when he's not certain Clint's arms would come around him like before he doesn't. "Most people didn't think it would actually work but I had faith. Once you had something to rally behind."

Strange that his almost death was the uniting force. "I didn't think I'd be that important, you know."

"You're that important to me." That he can say easily. Because it's true. "And you made a pretty strong impression on Thor and Stark."

It wasn't planned for, though. Not something that Loki had considered, at any rate, else he wouldn't have done the stabbing in the first place.

That's reassuring to hear. Something in Phil loosens a bit. He still matters to Clint even with everything else going on around him.

"What do you think?" he asks, head tilted slightly. "About the Avengers breaking ties with SHIELD. I know you'll still be an agent but do you think they need the independence?"

"Need? No. But I think it's inevitable in case there's ever disagreement between what we wanna do and what Fury wants us to do." He rolls his shoulders, something of a shrug and something of a stretch. "World governments are not gonna be happy. They'll smile and thank us publicly, but behind closed doors, they're gonna get nervous."

Phil nods. "It is inevitable."

The Avengers work with SHIELD because SHIELD hasn't given them a reason not to. The second that disagreement happens they'll split. The Avengers don't need SHIELD but in many ways SHIELD still needed the Avengers.

"Make yourself more useful and set the table. This will be done soon." The pasta might be a little bit overdone but that would be fine. Neither of them were picky eaters.

"Yes sir."

If he were in a better place, he could see himself dipping in to kiss Phil's cheek. There's a desire. It's there. But he doesn't. Just sets to work.

"Aw, man, could've thrown together some garlic bread, too. Probably best we didn't or we'd have some charcoal instead." He's going for levity, if briefly. "Sorry. That I distracted you."

"You didn't distract me. We need to have these conversations."

Phil is finally up for these conversations too. He's been handling Clint with care. Maybe too much thinking that he couldn't handle it after everything Loki did and ordered Clint to do.

"You know I don't like leaving things unaddressed for long." Phil takes the sauce off the burner and then steps over to deal with the pasta.

"Kinda surprised you let me slide with it for as long as you did. Are there, um..." He does also hate having these conversations. Addressing what needs to be. He gets that it's important, but that doesn't make it any easier. A hand rubs the back of his neck. "Any rules to implement on your end? Changes on how we should treat each other?"

"What happened was a little more than our usual mission gone wrong." Phil drains the pasta carefully, mindful his muscles might not like the weight of the pot of water. The physical therapy is going well. Phil hasn't missed a session but he has doubts. "I wanted to give you time."

Too much time, maybe, but that's on Phil.

"All I want is honesty. If you need space, go take it. Just tell me."

He itches to go help and do all the heavy lifting, but if Phil needs help, he'll say so. The last thing his boyfriend needs is to feel useless. Even if maybe that's how he makes Phil feel. Sometimes.

"You're usually a lot better at figuring out what I need than I am. I don't know what it is I need. For things to go back to normal, ideally, but I think I gotta shift my perspective on what normal means now."

Losing his field agent status would make Phil feel useless. A lot more useless than Clint jumping in to do everything for him. He tries not to think about it as he dishes up pasta and sauce for both of them.

"I think a new normal means I'm going to have to learn how to figure that out again." Phil gets a bottle of red wine from his limited wine collection and opens it. "I think we can start with touches again, see what is comfortable and what isn't. We can still talk to each other."

When Clint's in the right mood he even flirts so Phil's not going to push that.

"Busting out the wine like a special occasion? Is getting me to talk that momentous?" It's a joke, yes, but also given how he usually is about opening up, it's also sort of not a joke, too. "Maybe I need to be super honest about all my thoughts and feelings more often."

Now that's a joke. Even if it shouldn't be.

"Have you been cleared for fun extracurriculars by any chance?"

"Drinking beer with homemade pasta sauce is a crime against man." Phil pours them both a glass to make sure that Clint doesn't go get a beer. He might still do that but Phil's going to try his best to give him some culture.

He sits at the table but the question gets a raised eyebrow. "My doctor doesn't think I'm ready for a bowling league but I've been cleared for the range and cardiac exercises like the treadmill and calisthenics."

Clint can't touch him so he imagines this is not an invitation to sex. He's not sure what it's an invitation to but hopefully Clint will make that clear in a minute.

"Who said anything about beer? I didn't say anything about beer. I'm being fed pasta and booze for free by someone I adore; I'm not going to deliberately ruin the moment."

Just maybe inadvertently ruin the moment. Like, should he be talking about sex right now? Probably not, but it's one of his ways of flirting, so he bobs his eyebrows at Phil. "So maybe some cooperative calisthenics is a-okay."

The adore comment is nice. Phil doesn't fight the gentle smile. The sexual flirtation is a little less welcome considering Clint can't touch him without being afraid of hurting him.

"We can start with us sleeping in the same bed and go from there," he suggests as he settles in to eat dinner and drink wine with his boyfriend.

He grimaces a little down at his plate. "And wake each other up with nightmares? " Which, perhaps he should pry a little himself. "Or are you sleeping a little better now?"

"Define a little better." He sighs. "The pain used to wake me up before a nightmare could get too bad. As I heal I stay in the nightmares longer."

Which is to say he's still having the same nightmares but he's sleeping longer in them. Phil doesn't thrash in his sleep. He doesn't move much at all but back when he was healing it had been enough for pain and the pain had woken him.

"I've been sleeping enough that the doctors aren't concerned. I don't take the sleeping pills they give me."

"So you're in the no winning part of healing. Sleep's sleep, though. Even if it's shitty sleep." It doesn't worry the doctors, so, that's good enough. And it'll get better. With time. Hopefully. Just a length of time that will feel like an eternity.

He has to think that, because he has to hope for the best for himself, too.

"The pills aren't gonna hurt, you know. The grogginess in the morning sucks, but it isn't like you're jumping right into the field."

"I'd rather not be groggy first thing in the morning when I'm sleeping with a gun under my pillow." He pushes his pasta around for a moment before he continues.

"I keep thinking I should be dead and I'm waiting for Loki to show up and finish it." He's told his therapist some of that in more careful phrases but the truth of it is Phil feels like he should've died.

Luck does not feel like a good enough reason that he's alive.

"Have you considered breaking the habit for a bit and maybe not have it under your pillow?" It feels like his blood's gone cold at the thought. Of a return. Of what'll happen should that come to pass. "A gun's not gonna stop him if he manages to make his way back here."

"On my nightstand makes it too easy for someone to disarm me." Because they're all paranoid like that. He tries very hard to be less paranoid and tell himself that someone won't anticipate an agent like himself having weapons hidden away.

"I am working up towards putting it under the bed where I had it before." Not under the mattress or in a drawer but under the bed in easy reach. The pillow feels better for now. Hopefully for now. "I'm aware but trying very hard to live a somewhat normal life like I haven't stared down gods and monsters."

A slow nod. This isn't great dinner conversation even if it's important. "Part of me really wants to make a joke about gunplay in bed, but that's probably tasteless even for me."

"We're kinky but we're not that kinky," he says because he's often picked up Clint's jokes when Clint couldn't make them himself. Or he thought of a better one.

These are the kinds of dinner conversations they have sometimes. "Do you sleep without a weapon nearby?"

"It'd be really hot if not for having gun safety drilled into my skull for so many years that if we wanted to go for it, we'd really just have to get a prop gun or even a toy instead, and that's just not the same."

Right, maybe tuck that thought back since they aren't going to do anything kinky for god only knows how long. Until they wither away from blue balls or something.

"Weapon, yes; nearby, yes. Gun under my pillow, no; I'm not James Bond. If I do that, I'm on a mission, and I'm not sleeping but waiting to get the drop on someone."

"Maybe you're handling this better than I am." It's the years of gun safety training that keeps Phil from having one in the chamber and the safety on when he puts the gun there but it's not sane and he knows that. But if Loki comes back he needs something to face him down with and he needs to be fast.

He shrugs and sips his wine. "Maybe I should talk with Thor and see if that'll reassure me Loki's not coming back. I know he's gone but I almost died facing an illusion. I can't help but think... what if that's all they brought to Asgard?"

That he has talked to his therapist about.

"Maybe I can't sleep in the same bed as you if you need a gun under your pillow and I'm gonna wake up from a nightmare with that gun pressed to your fucking forehead like he's gonna use me to finish the job."

It comes out in a rush, and he feels all wound up all the tighter for it. Like he shouldn't have said it. Like it won't go over well. But Phil needs to know. That he's not handling it better.

Phil still doesn't understand why Clint feels like he's going to hurt him or be the one to finish the job. It was Loki that stabbed Phil, not Clint. Is he worried about hurting Natasha too? He'll ask her.

"So, if the gun isn't under the pillow but safely locked away you'll spend the night?" he asks.

"It just--" He has to remember that breathing is a thing that he needs to be doing. "It just needs to be not in easy reach. Where I can't grab it in my sleep, or in those moments after I wake up but I'm not awake yet. I got a drawer I keep something. Hard to tug it open and dig anything useful out if I'm not alert and thinking about it."

"I would feel safer with you there." Because he does still believe and trust absolutely that Clint wouldn't hurt him. Now that he's free of Loki's influence, he wouldn't hurt him. Clint even said he adores him. Still.

"Safe enough that the gun can go somewhere you think is safe. If you're willing to try that." Phil's not promising anything more than a night of sleep because Clint's clearly still skittish. But it could be a start for both of them.

"I don't know. I haven't spent the night with anyone since." And he's sure Phil hasn't, either. "Sorry. I maybe shouldn't keep apologizing, but I feel like a shitty boyfriend. About all this."

"You'd be a shitty boyfriend if you'd spent the night with people instead. I would understand Natasha, though." Because they both love her in their own way. She's someone he would trust to share a bed with Clint without question.

"I don't know if there's a good way to be a boyfriend about this. I don't think any couple counselor would be able to untangle what was done to us." He shrugs and gently rests his foot against Clint's under the table. "We're figuring it out."

"I'm on doc number four." Clint admits it with such misery in his voice. "I burned through three of them cuz it's been...hard to find someone who's been able to put up with my bullshit. And I mean both me and also the whole...what happened. Maybe this'll be what breaks me of my fucking paranoid insanity or whatever."

"Sometimes a therapist isn't the right match for the patient. That doesn't make it your fault, Clint." Phil sets his hand on the table and leaves it up to Clint if he wants to take it or not.

"All we can do is try if you want." He imagines it won't be a great night of sleep for both of them but it might shake something loose. It might help in it's own way to reassure them both.

He looks at that hand, sees it for the offer that it is, and doesn't take it. Does that make him a bad boyfriend? Is he not trying hard enough?

"I know. That none of it's my fault. It's alien magic; there's no fighting that when you're just a normal squishy human, I s'pose." Also not his fault. Super special awesome humans are few and far between, rarities to the modern world that he's aware of. "It's just hard not to feel it when I lived it."

Clint's not ready to take it and that's fine. Phil now knows why he doesn't want to touch him and that's it's not personal. It's something Clint's trying to work through.

"I don't think any of our special ops training against truth serums and torture prepared us for magic that takes over the mind," he agrees. "And I don't think any of our trauma therapists know what to do with it either. Which is why I suggested seeking advice from Asgard."

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know that I necessarily want to talk about my shit with someone who--god this is going to sound stupid and maybe racist? Someone who talks like that. Vaguely English Shakespearean." He shrugs. "Like him."

"I don't think it's stupid." It makes sense that Clint wouldn't want to talk to someone who sounds like the man who captured him and used him. Phil understands that.

"I guess we need to find the Asgardian version of a hick accent," he says dryly.

"I mean, I can talk to Thor without freaking out or anything, but we're also not exactly going to sit down and have a heart to heart about his brother. He loves his brother. I get that. He grew up with the prick. I mean I don't personally get it, but like I get it. So I don't know that we're gonna see eye to eye on anything on that front. He's also, y'know, hammer man. Feelings aren't his strong suit."

He grows quiet, pensive, stabbing at his pasta but not really eating it. Thinking through things. Thinking about the relationship and how it's straining. How they're trying. How maybe they should've been trying sooner.

"I don't know if he just didn't have any concept of personal space or if he didn't think us lowly creatures were worth having any." Is a thought that he starts with.

It doesn't take Phil long to realize Clint's talking about Loki. Thor he knew fairly well and knew he respected humans. He doesn't seem them as lowly or creatures anymore. He sees they're worthy. Phil knows that from how Thor treats every person around him.

He thinks the worse and hates Loki even more for it. If he put his hands on Clint... if he...

Well, Loki's simply lucky he's on Asgard.

There's a ringing godawful silence, and Clint thinks he made a mistake, that he shouldn't have shared that. Should've stuck with just talking about Thor. Stupid, fucking stupid, just leave it for fucking therapy you fucking asshole.

He regards his wine glass. Downs most of it in one go. It only makes his mouth feel drier.

"He knows about us."

"I know," Phil says, studying Clint a little bit. "He taunted me with it when I confronted him. Said he could see why you appealed to me but didn't understand what appeal I had. Such a boring human, he said, when you could have... well he implied himself."

He smiles a little bit, briefly. "I've heard it before. It was the wrong angle to make me lose focus. I'm not sure how he didn't know that."

Because Clint told Loki everything, right?

"It's one of your most devious qualities. Everyone underestimates you. Guess he found that out the hard way."

It's also something that's been circling his head for weeks, months. Wondering if the attack was deliberate, even planned, or simply coincidence. Not even Clint knew who exactly would've shown up, if anyone. The plan was to get to Loki and get him extracted after Thor was dealt with. It must have just been chance.

"My awful luck's starting to rub off on you."

"He did. I don't know why you didn't tell him to expect that." It's a little confusing. Phil was under the impression that Clint told Loki everything about SHIELD and the people there. Including Phil himself.

He rolls his eyes. "If I had awful luck I would be dead instead of having dinner with you."

"If Natasha hadn't intercepted me--" He abruptly stops that thought, because the what ifs and the never was-es and the terribly visceral nightmares are not helpful in the wake of what actually happened.

Focus on what actually happened. That they're both here and sharing a meal.

"If Natasha hadn't intercepted you, I would have." He considers Clint. "I'm not sure if I would've killed you, let you kill me, or tried to tase sense into you."

What would he have done still makes him wonder sometimes. Makes him afraid that he would've chosen SHIELD over Clint. Even though he loves him. Loves him a lot.

"It's been interesting wrestling with that when I can't sleep."

"I would've incapacitated you. I think. Depends on how the fight went. I didn't kill Fury when I could've. Natasha I tried to kill, but only because she was giving me an honest to god fight. If he had been there, I know what he would've had me do. To see if I would."

It definitely features in some of his dreams. Some of his waking thoughts, too. Maybe he wouldn't hurt Coulson knowingly, but what if he gets caught off guard, gets distracted, what if everyone is wrong and there's still some undetectable part of him that's got a switch just waiting to be flipped...

"We're dealing with Gods and magic... maybe I should've just kissed you." He pauses a moment. "True love's kiss."

Just in case Clint doesn't get what Phil's implying there. Because maybe true love's kiss had a magic all its own that could break through Asgardian mind magic.

Phil sighs. "I sound stupid, don't I?"

"Yeah."

Not like he's going to mince words on that front. But Coulson laying that out just like that has him staring into a middle distance. It's not the quiet panic of memory, but another kind of tentative fear rising. An uncertainty.

"Is that what we're calling this?"

Phil's mouth feels dry he takes a sip of wine.

"I had some very big revelations when I heard you got taken by Loki," he explains, something achingly tender in his voice as he looks at Clint. "Which I wasn't entirely expecting but made a lot of things clear to me."

Of course he loved Clint. Who else would he let into his life like he had if he didn't love him?

"You make it sound like I vanished for years instead of a couple days."

But with the awful possibility of losing Clint forever, even a couple of days must have been enough.

"I know we're boyfriends. I don't really use the word much. Think it, sometimes, but don't say it a lot. And we're not exactly people who let just anyone in." It hasn't always been easy. It's been real messy, too. But true love just makes a cynical part of him want to recoil. "Did I fuck this up?"

"I thought I might lose you forever. I thought I might have to make the call to put you down." Phil had a lot of time to think about what could happen. He had a lot of time to try to come to terms with his feelings versus his duty.

He shakes his head and reaches across the table to squeeze Clint's wrist briefly. "No, you didn't fuck this up. I'm still here for you and still want to be with you. I can wait if you need time."

He doesn't expect Clint to say it back or anything.

"If you ever have to put me down, don't feel obligated to do it yourself."

Wow, what a romantic.

He doesn't pull away from the touch, though as ever he simply allows it without any movement at all. "Please tell me something that you need, cuz I'm starting to get real sick of this being about how much time I may or may not need."

"I think I might have to."

Phil nods and thinks for a moment. "I'd like a kiss. If you think you're up for it."

Because he misses it deeply. He misses Clint's arms around him and his lips against his and the sense of rightness that came with it. How happy he'd been when they were together as themselves.

He licks his lips. It's more a subconscious gesture than anything deliberate.

"Be clear on this for me." Something else that Clint apparently needs, but he doesn't want to overuse the word. "You'd like it, but do you need it?"

"I don't want you to kiss me because you think it's something I need like help with laundry and getting the groceries," he says firmly, fixing his eyes on Clint. "I would like you to kiss me because you want to try and see if we can have that back in our relationship."

Phil doesn't want Clint to do things anymore because he thinks they're needed. He wants Clint to do things because he wants to try. Because he wants to fix this as much as Phil does.

"Okay," with a frustrated huff. "Then can we roll this back to you telling me something you need? I don't just mean chores, Phil, I mean like--fine, maybe I need time, and I need to not have a weapon in easy reach when I try to sleep, and I need you to be careful how you touch me. Like that. Anything like that."

"I need you to try," Phil says with all seriousness. "Sometimes I have doubts about how you feel about me because you... you aren't trying. That you're just waiting for it to end."

He hates that feeling, the doubt in his gut. The worry that Clint would end it between them. "I need you to tell me if you want to put this on hold or end it because the wondering is hard on me."

The flash of hurt is unmistakably loud and clear before he manages to lock it down to something less. Can't hide it all the way, but there's a veneer of anger layered overtop, a different kind of hurt.

Silently, he takes up his wine glass, gets across the dining room, and stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his free hand flexing. Apparently he makes a decision a few moments later and turns back, a sentient stormcloud, and takes up Phil's glass, too. And then goes into the kitchen to refresh their glasses. Too full. He does not care.

Probably stays there longer than he should, too.

When he does come back to the table and sets the glasses down, even he's amazed it isn't with enough force to slosh wine over the sides.

"What a fucking thing to say when we're finally making some progress. Sorry, am I ruining some imagined timetable? Were we supposed to be having a honeymoon in Tahiti by now?"

He regrets it, a little bit, hurting Clint. He always does. They've clashed before and it's been ugly but they've made it through. He is a little scared, yes, because all those times were before Loki took control of Clint for awhile. He can't let the fear win though.

"I'm working on partial intel," he says but not in the cool, controlled voice of Agent Coulson but more himself. "You wouldn't come see me. You wouldn't touch me and didn't want me to touch you. You don't flirt. You don't kiss. You won't get close. I only recently learned it's because you think you'll hurt me."

He let that all sink in for a moment. "What other conclusion was I supposed to draw from that?"

"I flirt." That is maybe not the thing he should focus on, but he's going to push back where he can. "Sorry if it's not to the same rapturous degree you're used to, but I've flirted with you since coming back into your life. Maybe, oh, I don't fucking know, maybe you were supposed to think that I'm scared and angry and tired after being a puppet on strings and then having everything inside my head get turned inside out by people I've worked alongside for a god damn decade."

He could probably turn this back on Phil if he really wanted to. Didn't reach out. Didn't push any of the issues. But that's petty, and it's cruel, and Clint's not interested in blaming anyone but himself for his own shortcomings. Doesn't, apparently, make him not angry at some of the blame he is getting.

"Maybe I just didn't want to tell you some of the shit going on inside my skull because I'm gonna sound like an insane person who needs thrown from duty and put in a loony bin. Maybe after having my body taken from me, I feel like a fucking stranger in my own skin, and maybe I'm starting to finally scrape the surface of the idea of people touching me not having anything to do with him with someone that maybe I won't chase off this time, but who knows! Maybe this therapist will find my situation too difficult, and maybe my boyfriend who I adore and give a shit about and have been with and have been helping with his needs and trying to make sure he's healing and taken care of is also gonna decide I'm too difficult now!"

He slams a hand down on the table, and that does spill some wine over the lips of glasses. "Damn it, Coulson, for this supposedly being true love, you sure don't have any fucking faith in me for anything, huh?"

In a strange way Clint's anger is also a relief. It's something when Clint has been so careful around him. It washes over him, hot, familiar, and clearly only directed at Clint himself as he usually does. It's the most passionate he's seen Clint in what feels like weeks and that's so damn reassuring he feels a little guilty. He shouldn't be relieved to see Clint like this.

"You're not insane," he says first before he's never been good at listening to Clint talk down about himself.

"And it's not a lack of faith, it's fear." Phil doesn't like to admit that. He doesn't like to admit any weakness and that is certainly one. "I'm afraid that once I don't need your help because I'm fully healed you'll disappear again. Not because I've told you to but because you've decided for yourself you're too difficult and you want to spare me the trouble."

The red wine is soaking into the table but Phil's ignoring it. His eyes never leave Clint's. "Because usually, once you think you're doing the right thing you stick to it. Rarely can anyone talk you out of it. And I'm fairly certain even if you love me you would disappear from my life if you thought it would protect me. I have faith that to save me you would do just about anything. I just got you back and I'm scared I'll lose you again but this time it'll be your choice."

Finally, finally Clint makes to sit back down, heavy, practically collapsing. He still feels hot and steaming from his anger, but Phil reading him for filth is starting to release that pressure.

"I think I'm gonna hurt you, but I haven't disappeared yet. That 'yet' really bothers you, doesn't it."

"It does," he admits with a small sigh. "I know what it's like to lose you and I'd rather not experience that again."

Especially so soon after he got Clint back, even though he's broken and damaged from what Loki did. Phil still wants to be there for him it's just hard when he feels like Clint has one foot out the door.

"I'm trying to balance what you need and what I need so we don't break each other even more."

"I think," he says slowly, trying to wind himself back down, "we have different definitions of trying, and we should rectify that. I feel like--I thought I've been trying, but apparently not in the ways you need or want. And...I know I'm not great at this. I'm a far cry from perfect. We also probably need to adjust our boundaries."

Talking things out calmly and rationally is not always Clint's strong point. But Phil coaxes it out of him, a necessity. He takes a breath and lays his hand out on the table palm up. An offer. To make contact.

"I miss sex. And kissing you. And holding you and being held by you. Putting my head in your lap while you play with my hair and we watch tv? I want that back. It's gonna take time. I don't know how much. I can't--I need you to hear me on this, it's not won't, it's not don't want to, it's I can't give that to you or take it from you right now. I've been working on myself. And I know it probably...doesn't seem like it, but it's a lot of shit in my head, and obviously working on the stuff that kept me from my job was the pressing matter. I almost took us all down. Not him. It was me. Things I did with my own hands, things that happened because of my knowledge. I have to live with memorials for agents I killed. I have to live with civilians that died because I helped an alien army rip through a wormhole. I have to live with knowing I almost lost you for good, and I have to live with knowing it probably happened to spite me or punish me or hurt me."

It's tempting to grab his drink and down a lot of wine for that, but he refrains for the moment. Because this is important. This is the most important. "And it sucks knowing that working on the stuff that impacts my personal relationships takes second fiddle. I know. I can't deal with working on all of it all at once. I have to deal with working on feeling like I'm not an enemy to everything we've both worked our lives for. I have to deal with the bigger picture, first, before I deal with the...more personal damage that he did. I'm sorry. I don't ever want you to think I've given up. Because I need you in my life."

This might be what he needed all along. A lot of tension unwinds in him the more that Clint talks. Now, he understands and with understanding can come acceptance. There was still a little anger that Clint kept this all from him because they could have figured their shit out a lot sooner if he talked but it's not worth it. They made it this far and they can start really moving forward.

He lays his hand on top of Clint's and brushes his thumb back and forth slowly.

"Okay," he says simply. As sincerely as possible. "Then we deal with the personal side of things slowly. And professionally, the bigger picture, if you want my opinion on that or my help, I'll give that too."

What Loki did, taking Clint and using him and his skill, is very personal to Phil. The impact has been more personal, straight to his heart. He almost died. He almost lost Clint. He almost lost SHIELD. Every action Loki took went straight for Phil's heart. He might as well have run him through with a spear.

"We can start small. Weekly dinners? Since I don't need much help anymore but I do still want to spend time with you." But he also doesn't want to put too much pressure on Clint when he clearly has so much. "Anything outside of that we'll consider... icing on the cake."

"Weekly dinners. Maybe even a couple dinners a week. We can...we can do whatever you want. Within reason."

If Phil still wants to spend casual time with him, he'll take it. Absorb it like a fucking sponge. His social life has definitely taken a significant hit, so at the very least he can have uneventful dinners with the boyfriend he misses and frets over.

"I'm sorry your true love is a mess."

"Would you prefer we stay in the apartment or do you want to go back to our favorite dinner places?" Phil's not sure how many of those are left. He has a hard time looking at the destruction in the city and he didn't have a hand in it. If Clint wants to stay in he understands.

There's always delivery.

"I knew you were a mess before we started dating. This isn't news to me, Clint." His look is deeply fond though. "You also picked the most boring person in the world to date so I think we're even."

"God, if you're up for going out, I am totally up for going out. Stark made a mistake; he took us to a shawarma place after. You ever had that? It's like gyros but different."

They don't have to be in that area, either. Where the cleanup and reconstruction will be an ongoing effort for a while yet. City's big. Lots of places to go.

"And? You're not boring. You're a fucking super spy. You're my super spy, and a god tried to kill you and still failed."

"I'm very tired of this apartment. Going to physical therapy is the highlight of my day." Phil's not even allowed to swing by his office and pick up things. He needs to rest, sure, but his apartment is getting old.

Maybe it's just him but the air between them feels cleaner, easier, than before. His expression is stays a soft smile.

"Thor says that's going to make me famous in Asgard. Not many people have seen through Loki's tricks and lived to tell the tale." He draws himself up and tries to puff up his chest as he imitates Thor's accent. "You will be a legend, Son of Coul!"

The imitation is adorable, and Clint finds a dam to be cracking, tension easing, and his laughter is genuine. And feels so good.

"He has got to take you for a visit. Parade you in the streets. The mighty Son of Coul, whose keen eyes see through the slyest of tricks! Bring me back a shotglass."

"I think he would take Earth's Mightiest Heroes first." Phil's seen the headlines talking about the Avengers. That title seems to have stuck around outside of all the others.

"But it would be pretty great to go to another realm. I bet they make really good food there."

There's his Clint. There's the man struggling to get out from under all the trauma weighing on his shoulders. Phil is so glad to see him.

"I think we've had enough of the otherworldly for the moment. Then again, I bet Stark would love to get his hands all over the kind of magitech they've got." That could be a disaster. Orrr bring about a new age of enlightenment for humanity, who knows?

"Is this you forgiving me for being a shitty boyfriend?" he asks with a tilt of a smile and a drink of wine.

"Well, most Asgardians would have to stop regarding us as a backwater first. Then it might be a fun trip." Phil's aware more think like Loki than think like Thor about Midgard. Only time will tell if that can be changed.

He smiles back. "Yeah, I forgive you. Next time, though, I'll make you fill out official apology forms. In triplicate."

He sets down his glass and fans himself. "Ooo, baby, paperwork. You know how to make a scene steamy."

He might have to tweak his flirting and his sexy jokes if he is aware that sex itself is gonna be a touchy subject for a bit. But not right now!

"You have, more than once, wanted to throw all the paperwork on my desk on the floor so we could fuck on it. Don't pretend like you haven't."

Sex itself isn't a touchy subject now that Phil knows Clint's limits. If he wants to talk about it but not have it, that's fine. They'll get there eventually. Phil doesn't believe he'll die from blue balls.

His hand works just fine until Clint feels okay again.

"Because it was in the way, not because the paperwork itself was sexy. My pants look better on the floor than the paperwork." He bobs his brows. "Actually, come to think of it, I look better on the floor. If you get back to the desk and decide you need someone under it keeping you warm and cozy, you know who to call."

"That might be the only way to make a desk job bearable." Phil has some fairly strict lines about professionalism at work but maybe... well maybe when they're better they can break some of those.

He almost died. Clint got taken over. Who the hell cares about professionalism after all of that? If it's late enough no one would catch them...

"I would make you pick up the paperwork. Like I make you pick up your pants."

"And hey, if you take the Stark job, you know he's gonna be a little more flexible about anything that may or may not be going on."

In spite of the conversation, Clint's look is soft. "See? I flirt. Might miss being able to do anything about it, but I can still do that much."

"I don't think there's anything I can to stop Stark commenting on my sex life." Phil is resigned to this. There's no way they can really hide a relationship from the Avengers. Stark's going to have a field day.

"Oh, that was flirting?" Phil squeezes his hand. "It's okay. We'll get there."

"Ow, now I know I must be rusty. Just you wait until I take you out to dinner and get all romantic on you. Then you'll be in trouble."

"I can write a performance review," he offers in mock seriousness. "Give you the points you need to work on."

The idea of going out to dinner again alone is enough to get Phil excited. They might look like two friends out to dinner given everything going on but that's fine. They'll be together which is really all Phil needs.

"I'll learn how to seduce you all over again. Don't give me too many pointers, or I'll never learn." He closes his eyes just to feel Phil's hand, trying not to feel anything awful about it. Feeling the difference in touch.

"Thank you. For waiting for me."

"I am really looking forward to that." That Clint is willing to close his eyes around Phil says a lot on top of everything he's explained and said tonight. He's glad Clint can try that, can give that.

"I've waited for you before. I'll wait again."

"Do you still want me to stay the night?" His eyes flutter back open. "Or we can get wine drunk and see how we feel about it later."

"Let's see how you feel. If you're really worried you can sleep on the couch." But Phil would love for Clint to stay the night. With the air clear it's a lot easier for him to feel relaxed and at peace.

"I'm not against finishing this bottle of wine together." He picks up his mostly full glass and takes a sip. "It's good."

"I'm not opposed to sleeping on the couch if I feel like I have to. But it might be nice to try in bed first." He lifts his glass. "Wine first. Make it a sloppy awkward romantic night. Maybe it'll loosen me up. Or keep our nightmares at bay."

"Like our first date?" Phil brings up the memory because once again he had tried too hard and it had taken some time to untangle that mess he almost made. "Because I remember that as very awkward."

They had figured it out. They had figured this out. They were here after all this time.

"Hopefully not that awkward. You're lucky my standards are all kinds of skewed, or you might not have gotten a second date," he jokes.

"I'm lucky you're patient with me too." Phil laughs softly at himself. His romantic streak can be fairly ridiculous sometimes. "I think by now we can have a decent date without making fools of ourselves."

And when Phil is a dork, he's lucky that Clint finds it attractive. Or endearing.

"What can I say, you still managed to sweep me off my feet. Or pound me into submission to make the rest of it worthwhile." He waggles his glass in lieu of his hand. "One of those. Hard to say."

Phil ducks his head and chuckles softly. "You're usually better with actions instead of words."

He might be able to sweep Clint off his feet maybe once. Maybe not anymore after the surgery and physical therapy. "I'm secure enough in my masculinity to let you sweep me if you ever get in the mood."

"I can still promise I liked you for your personality first before your way with fucking did me in." Phil's always been terribly sweet and tender when he sets Handler Mode aside. Which was a blast to start to navigate as someone not used to sweet and tender in partners.

"But if you want physically swept off your feet, I might want a good reason. A timely rescue to swoop in. Kiss passionately while things explode in the distance."

Well, he likes being tender and sweet. He blames his romantic streak and Clint's rather adorable when he gets awkward about it. "It was my personality? Huh. For me it was your arms." He smiles slyly because he's teasing. The arms help but Phil's never dated anyone long for purely physical reasons.

"Avengers fieldwork might give you that chance. There's a lot of explosions involved."

"Being able to stand you holding my leash has its perks, who knew?"

He pulls his hand back, not for any discomfort but simply having enough of leaning across the table for the touch at the moment. "When, and it's definitely when, we start getting back into the sexy kind of intimacy, we'll probably have some new rules there, too, at least temporarily."

"That's understandable."

Clint's trust and autonomy were violated by what Loki had done. The sort of sex they had engaged in before required a lot of trust. It would take time to build that up again.

"I'll be satisfied just to have you in bed again."

"I'll probably have to--" He runs a hand through his hair, considering the path of that sentence and then ditching it to start again. "I'm kind of nervous to see your scars. Is that weird?"

"I don't always like looking at them either." Because they're new and fresh and not part of his body like the other ones he has. Phil deliberately looks at them to get comfortable with them.

"When you feel ready to look at them and touch them we'll start there."

"I don't know if it's a matter of being ready at that point. I felt a little bit, earlier." A shrug. "Maybe I'll just have to strip off your shirt myself and take a look."

"When you reach for my shirt I'll know what you're after." Phil expects Clint's reaction won't be good. The scar is not nice to look at and worse it'll make the guilt he carries a lot heavier. Even though Phil doesn't blame him at all.

"Do you ever think..." And maybe it's too heavy, these what if's. "He did it like that on purpose? So that you'd suffer for a bit before you croaked. Or to show me his good work if I showed up. He could've done plenty of other things to you instead."

"No," Phil says with a firm shake of his head. "He wanted me dead. His aim was to go right through my chest and kill me."

There was no intention of suffering or dragging it out or making Clint watch. Whatever thoughts have circled around Clint's head Phil's confident it wasn't that complicated for Loki.

"I was in his way and he was going to remove me." That was that.

"He could've slit your throat. Guy keeps blades on himself. Using the staff sends a message. Bigger impact, messier." He lets out a huff of air. "I'm thinking too hard about it, aren't I?"

"You know his mind better than I do. It's possible." He shrugs. "But to me it felt like he just wanted to stab me in the back."

Phil did have a big gun on Loki and was threatening him. Removing the threat had to be on the God's mind at the time. "I imagine a Midgardian challenging him was also not fun for him."

"...Depends on the circumstance. Probably." Clint rubs a hand over his face. "I think I'm thinking too hard about it. Easy to do since I've had to recount and relive every single moment on repeat for a while."

"Well, I'm always here to be a voice of reason when you overthink." Phil does have a different perspective on it. He's happy to help Clint untangle his thoughts and work through the guilt. As much as he can.

"I don't think that's a thing anyone's really accused me of doing before." His form of levity: taking himself down a peg. "Though I guess now with everything that's happened, no one can ever accuse me of being a dumbass save for me."

"I've known you for a long time and I promise you've had dumbass moments. I have reports on a few of them." He nudges Clint's foot, not playfully but to scold him for talking down on himself. "But I don't think it's bad you're trying to make sense of a senseless situation."

"It wasn't senseless. That might be the worst part about it, really. Some of the opening moves were dependent on random happenstance, but it was otherwise all very calculated. Weird balance between things he knew about Midgard--about Earth, and humans and our defenses and SHIELD and all--and the things he didn't know. Pop in through the Tesseract; we're gonna have it in a secure location surrounded by scientists who are gonna be top of their fields and highly trained security personnel. Weed out the weakest and thin out the numbers by doing some slaughter, take control of the lucky or gifted few left standing. Let them do all the heavy lifting."

He motions to himself, a heavy thump against his chest. It left no mark, but he can feel that pinprick touch as plain as day. "Assign a general, one of the soldiers, whoever's highest clearance and is going to know the most. That's the right hand man to disseminate orders, gather supplies, help get the scientists set up with whatever the fuck they need. You just need one person to trust, and it's whoever's going to be able to tell you the most about military reaction times and security forces, whoever is going to be to the job and get it done and not dick around, whoever's most likely to keep everyone else in line. Step in only when necessary. It's not senseless at all. It's full cold calculation."

Phil holds up a hand. "Not senseless as in poorly planned."

He doesn't want to belittle what Clint went through. He would never do that on purpose though he seems very good at doing it on accident.

"Senseless in that we can't understand how he took control. We can say magic or unknown technology all we want but that doesn't actually answer it. We may never get an answer given how little we actually understand of how the mind works. None of that will ever make sense."

"...Right. Sorry. I'm--sorry, you're right. I, um. I shouldn't have gotten us on the topic in the first place. We should drink and be merry. We'll probably end up sharing some deep dark thoughts in the middle of the night when we realize neither of us is asleep anyway."

"If you need to talk about it, I'll listen." Phil didn't mean to push Clint away from talking about it. He never intended to do that. He's glad that Clint trusts him enough to talk about it.

"And it will either be deep, dark thoughts or the most random bullshit we can come up with." He shrugs. Both are possible when they are sleep deprived.

"I'll also listen to you," Clint points out. "If you need to get anything off your chest to me, or just aloud in general. Pretty sure good boyfriends listen."

"I really want to pass this field physical." Phil twists the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. "Being stuck at a desk I can't imagine it. I want to be in the field."

He wants to lead from the field. Without that... Phil's not sure what he's going to do.

"You're still healing and doing PT. You might have some odd pulling to compensate for on the shooting range, but once the pain's receded and you're back up to your usual strength, hopefully there won't be a problem."

He can't promise there won't be. Healing's a complicated thing, and Clint's got dumb fucking luck on his side sometimes (and probably good genetics, somehow) that nothing's debilitated or incapacitated him for good.

"And you're still a good people person. If something happens, maybe you don't lead teams in the field, but you don't necessarily have to be stuck at a desk."

"At least I'm dating the best guy to help me learn how to compensate." Phil smiles a little. Clint's faith in him is very reassuring.

"I'll have to talk to Fury. I can't see him letting me go easily and I don't want to go. You know what SHIELD means to me."

"I know. There's other positions you can do, but I know how much the field work means, too." He shrugs, sips at the wine. "It won't hurt to actually consider Tony's offer, too."

"I don't want to go to prison for killing Stark. I'm afraid working for him might do that." Phil will never publicly admit to liking Tony Stark. He does like him and believes he's a genius. He is also one of the most irritating people on the planet.

"I don't know if Fury would let me keep Lola. It's stupid to be worried about that, right? My whole career and I'm worried about a car." A car that Phil probably loves almost as much as Clint.

"It's your car; he can't just impound her. Okay, so she's got a bit of fancy tech in her, but it's nothing that Tony wouldn't absolutely make even better for you if you brought her. It's not stupid to be worried, but I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"I'm not letting Stark touch her." Phil makes a face at the very idea, like Clint suggested he sell his first born. Lola is sacred. "These are the things that are worrying me. Outside of how you're doing."

And all those worries seem so small in comparison to what Clint's going through.

"You do all her maintenance yourself, right? And I have yet to see you turn into a grease monkey in a tank top and smudged with oil. I think Tony pulls the look off a little better, but now I want to see you do it anyway."

Because that's a better thing to think about than knowing his boyfriend is mostly, overall, worried about him.

Phil has a lot of concerns about rebuilding the city but he's not going to talk about that with Clint who already feels responsible.

"Yes, because I helped build her." Lola is more than just a car or a midlife crisis like some people think. She's the last connection he has to his dad. "You've never been around when I'm done the maintenance."

"You never tell me when you do it!" he counters. "So, obviously, next time you plan on it, you have to tell me so I can watch. I mostly know how to hotwire them, but I know a thing or two about cars."

"You're going to be disappointed. I wear coveralls. Not a tank top." Phil does not need people gwaking at him because he's not in a suit and he's showing skin. People gawk enough when he's in the coveralls. "Do you want to learn how to take care of a classic car?"

"Boooo, you should just give in to my sexual fantasies, dork. Fine, I'll be in an old tank top and ratty but still attractive jeans, and I'll get covered in grease and oil for you to ogle."

"I don't own any ratty jeans." All the jeans Phil owns are nice and don't have any holes in them. They're for casual days with Clint usually. "I don't see how I lose in this situation."

"You don't; you get to see your boyfriend look like he's about to star in some real cliche porno while he looks hot with your beloved car." He spreads his hands. "There's no downside."

Phil playfully narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to finally get me to agree to making out in Lola's backseat?"

Is he going to say yes this time? Maybe. Things change after coming real close to death.

He presses a scandalized hand to his chest. "What? Who said anything about that? I would never. Perish the thought. Never even crossed my mind. But I mean, since you suggested it..."

Phil laughs, soft but genuine. "Oh, I see, this is my fault. You never had a single dirty thought about you, me, and Lola before. Uh huh."

"She's got a comfy back seat. Or, y'know," casual shrug, having never ever thought these things before in his life, at all, not once, "blow you in the front seat, maybe even while you're driving or flying somewhere."

"I am not a licensed pilot. You are not distracting me that much while I'm flying." Phil does not trust his flying skills against Clint's mouth. He knows which one is better. "We could find a private backroad though. Pretend we're teenagers."

Not that either of them really had the normal teenager experience.

"Find ourselves a little private makeout point?" He's grinning like a fool and damn near wiggling in his seat. "That's sounding more and more like a yes to defiling your beloved baby, Phil. I guess death or damn near it really does change a man."

"Please don't refer to it as defiling and it might actually happen." Phil probably won't say no now that he's seen how excited the idea makes Clint. It isn't the near death but that happiness that tempts Phil. He'll do a lot to see Clint that happy.

"Using in a manner that she was always destined for. Picking up chicks and sexual exploits. Except instead of picking up chicks, it's acting like a handsy teenager with your lasting boyfriend. But if you wanted to play like you were picking up some handsome stranger, I might not be inclined to say no."

"I'm not running this like an undercover op." Phil is back to shaking his head with fondness. This is the man he's chosen. This is who he loves. He is thinking of something more romantic like a little private drive in movie scene. "I will make out with my boyfriend in the backseat, not a stranger. Strangers don't get to ride in Lola."

"If we get messy on the seats, I promise I'll clean her up nice and proper." Rather than suggesting they do more than just make out. Which will clearly inevitably happen if Clint's got any say in it.

He rests a chin in hand. "Y'know, on a different day, you'd have to be real concerned with the state of this table after I vaulted over it to get at you. We'll have so many ideas to put pins in, once my brain isn't fighting me tooth and nail over everything, we'll be so busy with each other."

"You will clean her up." It might be inevitable that they end up having sex in Lola's backseat. The death thing probably did push this forward but maybe they would have gotten there without it.

"Sadly, I think my first instinct would be to think we're under attack." Clint leaping to defend him would come to mind first. Sex would come after Clint kissed him. Phil would catch on them. "But keep a list for when you're ready. We'll make sure to hit them all."

"Did you know that you're the best? Because you're the best. For putting up with me, but also just in general." For being thoughtful and understanding and funny and smart and--yes, also for putting up with Clint and the everything he is.

"I'm mostly the same man I was before almost dying. Luckily for you." Phil only occasionally thinks about what might have happened if he had died. What would've been left behind. What would have become of the people he cared about. How much more guilt Clint would place on himself.

"Although, it's probably luckier for me."

"We're both lucky. You're lucky you lived; I'm lucky a wayward blow to the skull knocked magic out of me. We're lucky we found each other in our strange and fucked up lives when we did." That's getting borderline schmoopy for him. "You're lucky you're cute."

There is where Phil feels a pang because he can't lean across the table and kiss Clint. The moment is soft and sweet. It's the perfect time for it but he will respect Clint's boundaries.

"I'm fucking adorable," Phil says in the most dry and bored tone he can manage.

That gets Clint to bark out laughter, having to cover his face until the peels die down. Not quite to tears, but near enough when he still has to stifle a few giggles by the end. This, this is what he needed beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Needs more than that, frankly, but he can tamp down on the aching desire in his chest for now. He can see a hint of the same reflected in Phil, much as he might try to hide it. They'll get there, to the moments of tenderness they used to have. He hopes.

"You are. And I'll get to kiss that fucking adorable face again."

Phil sips his wine smiling to himself. Clint's really attractive when he laughs like that. Even more attractive when he laughs like that because of Phil's jokes. He is pretty content with this even though he doesn't get the kiss.

"You will," he agrees after he sets down his wine. "Because I'll be right here when you're ready for that."

It's a promise that Phil's not going anywhere.

He texts Bucky the address of some hole in the wall dive he's been to before. It's funny, since Bucky would probably know local places better, and he's the one who suggested they needed to meet up for drinks, but Clint likes knowing a place first. Even if it's just a quick casing, entrances and exits, level of security or lack thereof, the usual stuff like that. He hasn't been a proper spy in a long time, but there are habits that are hard to break.

Maybe for just a fun night out, he'd set up at the bar for easy refills and potentially roping in other people. But if they're gonna talk, and it sounds like maybe they might end up talking, then being tucked away in a booth is better. Which is what Clint does. He's already turning a beer bottle in his hands by the time he sees the former Winter Soldier come in and waves him down. There's another beer already sitting out for him.

Do not mind the bandage across his nose. Frankly, Clint being at least somewhat injured when he's away from home is a fairly standard sight.

Bucky's still not sure in how he ended up here, at what point did he start making enough friends to actually go out and do things with? His therapist would probably be proud but anyone else who knew might might wondered if he was really himself these days.

Of course, there reason he was most keen to do it was on display the second Clint was flagging him down. In front of him was the man that Natalia easily was the closest with since she'd gotten out of the Red Room, hell, she'd given her life for him it had sounded like even. Some longing point in his heart that ached for the past wanted to know more of what she was like, if she was happy, all those things that he'd never gotten to hear about from anyone without it being weird. Hopefully he could coax some out of him as the night went on.

"Hey man," he says sliding across the table and taking the extra beer that's sitting there for him and pulling it up for a drink, "so I gotta ask, this whole Rogers the musical bullshit? Did he actually call you the best shot because I was sniping for him in the fuckin' 40's that jackass."

Clint scoffs at the reminder of the musical. What a travesty. And it's a hit? And people think he has no taste. (He's not the one selling the idea of Thanos was right for a quick buck, so clearly he has more taste than a lot of other people.)

"It's cuz I'm the best shot," he says with easy confidence. In knowing that he's right. At least with a bow. "Especially on that team. Wait--" He sets the beer down and squints. "You saw it? Tell me you didn't sit through the whole thing."

Bucky smirks against his beer, he did always like a man who knew his confidence. "You know, I didn't see it. I just heard about it from Sam is all, he of course, he did see it," he scoffs a little at the idea that he would be caught dead at the theater.

"Too bad we never did have a proper shoot off competition before all the Avengers crap went to shit. I'm sure you would have been able to take second, Barton," he teases clearly joking a smile plastered across his face.

"Good to see you though, feels like it's been forever. How's the family?"

"Second my ass. You pit me with a bow and you with a rifle and we'll see who comes out on top."

Don't give him a gun, though. He's still a good shot, there's no denying that, but he's not nearly as good.

It feels good, though. To banter lightly like this. He's starting to run out of contemporaries (relatively) to banter with. Nat's gone. Steve's gone. Tony's gone. Bruce, god bless, has his shit figured out and deserves to live his best life in Mexico. Thor's always off on some quest to find himself or something. A lot of the others are younger, or he doesn't run in their same circles.

"Family's good." And being away from them aches, even to see friends. After spending so long without them, it feels like a lot of time that needs to be made up, even if for them it was no time at all. "I mean, it's hard, too, adjusting to a new world where things have changed and you haven't. You'd get that better than anyone, I figure."

"I was US black-ops and in the Soviet Assassin program, if you give me a sniper rifle I don't miss unless I'm planning to," he says with a shrug. Of course, he absolutely knows the same is to be said about Clint with a bow, it's one of the things that impressed him most about him.

Bucky assumes that Clint is talking about change with the family and nods. "Yeah I mean, I get that's gotta be hard on Laura and the kids, the blip was weird enough for me and I literally am used to losing huge periods of time in my life."

"I'm trying to make up for time they didn't even lose. Or don't feel like they lost. Kinda worry I'm being smothering sometimes. I didn't even mean to spend some of christmastime away dealing with," a vague wave of his hand, "the Tracksuits and Kate and shit, but I think I needed it? To have that bit of a break. To know it's okay and they're not about to disappear on me again."

And to remind him that sometimes you don't need an Avengers level threat to make a difference. Though some might argue that Fisk is a threat that ranks fairly well up there.

"And it wasn't easy on Yelena. Obviously. To find out everything the way she did."

It's like he just got hit with a ton of bricks all the information that came out of Clint's mouth like he was supposed to just know who these people are. He shook his head setting his beer down.

"Woah, man slow down. Who is Kate?" he asks trying to wrap his mind around all of this before he says a name that brings a lot of familiarity to him. "Yelena? Nat's sister? Blonde girl?" he asks curiously before even thinking about the fact that to Clint he shouldn't even know who that was but it's out of his mouth before he can cover his tracks and so he tries to play it off by just not looking surprised at all.

He should maybe explain 'hey if you hear about a Hawkeye running around causing trouble but it's some jumped up little shit of a rich girl, that's Kate and she's Hawkeye now', except Clint just shrugs. "A fan I met, don't worry about it. Got in some trouble with a bad sort, and we sorted it."

They'll all find out sooner or later.

"Nat's sister, yeah. She actually got hired to take me out. I don't imagine it took much convincing." He takes a long drink from his beer. "Obviously we worked it out since I'm not dead."

"You have fans?" he asked brow furrowed, that seemed weird. Like he technically knew that people liked the Avengers like that but he just always assumed that was like Thor and Tony and Steve. "I guess that was nice of you to help them out though."

"Oh, well I'm glad you're alive after a second encounter with a widow. Honestly, there's probably not too many men who can claim that," he says with a chuckle, a look of fondness in his eye.

Were he slightly more concerned about his reputation, Clint might take offense at how that confusion seems more genuine than sarcastic. As it is, he only manages a wry: "I know; I'm shocked, too."

Part of him considers asking Bucky what he knows about Yelena but...that starts getting into some shit, huh? He knows there is- was- a shared history with Nat. And that, thanks to a lot of factors, particularly the Winter Soldier program, memory is a fickle thing. So it's probably a good sign? That Bucky knows about Yelena at all. Nat loved her sister, but she also didn't exactly talk about her life with everyone.

"Yeah, I don't think either of us are gonna invite the other to any future Christmas parties, but at least we came to an understanding."

"People invite each other to Christmas parties? Damn, no one must like me then," he says dead pan, teasing clearly before taking another drink of his beer. This was what friendship was right? Bros giving each other a hard time, it'd honestly been a long time since he'd dealt with actual friends who work Steve. Ugh, that idiot.

"Am I gonna get an invite out to the farm sometime, or is The Winter Soldier too scary to have around your kids? I assure you, Sam's nephews think I am awesome because of the weird shit I can do with the arm." He motions to the hidden vibranium that's concealed by leather jacket and gloves.

"The Winter Soldier might be a little too scary for the kids. Thank god he's dealt with. I'll gladly give an invitation to Bucky Barnes, though." Because if there was any doubt those are two different personas, two different people, the fact that Bucky's a walking and talking real boy and not a silent murder machine is proof enough.

(And what, then, does that say about Ronin? Too much.)

"Sam's promised to take the kiddos fishing sometime I go down and visit. I feel like Lila isn't going to be impressed with learning to gut a fish."

Ah, and there it was. The simple way that his friends tried to separate his life into separate people it always drove him a little crazy. He can't help but huff out a laugh at the comment.

"Oh Clint, you were listening to Steve too much. Not some magical button that's pushed that turns you into someone else. I didn't see you ever saying Natalia wasn't Black Widow just because she was originally trained to kill and forced to by them."

Then of course there was the whole idea of his own agency that was taken away, if it was never him, then what even were his memories with Nat.

"She took the name and made it something else. You, you had your whole brain fucked with. Genuine actual brainwashing. Trust that I've got an idea what that's like." Has he ever been able to silence the voice that blames himself anyway? That wants to be blamed? Irrelevant. "How could you still be you while you were under if everything that was you was suppressed? If you never had any choice in the matter or any agency?"

"Clint, it wasn't like that all the time," He says and he sounds frustrated, shaking his head. "Like sure, freshly wiped, it happened. A lot at the beginning at the end -- but there was times I was The Soldier and there were parts of me, sure I thought that like, I was there to do it from mother Russia or whatever - or the reasons I was there."

He sighs frustrated, he'd never tried to explain the big complex entanglements that were his brain and he brought his fingers up to his forehead and pinched his brow. "I had experiences and friends and relationships that are still a part of me to this day and you can't just write them off with some big brush stroke. Fuck, they punished me for them. You think if I was just some controlled thing I would have had to be punished?"

Clint raises his hands, placating. "Dude, I fought on your side. I don't think you should've been punished. I don't! If you're gonna say it's all the same person in there and not, y'know, a totally separate thing, then you're not really any different from Nat. And she didn't deserve any punishment for all the red in her ledger, either."

At first he's opening his mouth to continue to argue with him but then he just shakes his head closing it. He fidgets with the gloves on his fingers in silence for a moment before taking a drink of beer and then letting the silence stir around him until it was almost awkward.

"No. I'm not talking about us here. I'm--" he pauses and can't believe he's going to explain this to anyone, but Barton was closest to Nat, surely he knew? Or maybe she didn't remember at all? Maybe she was embarrassed. Who knew. "They punished her, they punished me, they punished us for having a life outside our ledgers. For not being just killing machines."

It's a strange thing, an almost-jealousy, in knowing there are parts of Nat's life even he'll probably never know. He stuffs it down with a sigh pushed out his nose and a calming inhale. "I know you guys had history," is what he starts with. Neutral and tentative. It admits to nothing of whatever the breadth and depth of the scope of his understanding might be. "Before she got out. Back in the Red Room." The room that had been a myth for so long, with only the highly trained assassins as proof it was out there at all.

Bucky pressed his lips together as he let that sink in, the first clue that maybe something had changed or she had remembered him. Was it like him the longer he was out more of the memories coming back? Who knew, it didn’t matter now, she was gone.

“Yeah, we trained and worked Ops together a lot because she was the absolute best they had,” a fondness crossed his face making it soft as he said it. “Wish I would have gotten to know her out here like you did too. God, she was perfect.”

"She was always the best. The best you guys had, the best we had--just the best."

Probably good to leave it at that. The temptation to snap something about knowing her on the outside leading to her dying is not insignificant, and it's entirely unjustified.

“Thanks for getting her out Clint, and not killing her. Steve told me about that — she always wanted out,” he assured Clint because it felt like Clint never got enough thanks for the shit he did and Bucky knew what it was like to feel like the accessory to someone else’s story.

“You did better then me — when we tried to escape from together we got caught and drug back in. I got put on ice, end of story. One of the only times the Soldier failed” of course he didn’t mention that he had a chance to get away still but they’d gotten caught cause Nat got shot and couldn’t move well and he refused to leave her behind.

"I took a chance that could've easily backfired. I could've read the situation wrong. SHIELD could've deemed her a threat. Coulson--my, our old handler, before he died, he trusted my instincts and saw the potential in her." A shrug. "The only thing I really did was what I didn't do, and that was take the shot."

"You're a good man, Clint," he says again quietly before draining the rest of his beer smiling a little sadly over at him. "Y'all went through a lot of crap, it makes sense why you were close like that," he adds.

"So do you have any plans now that you're the last Avenger left here? Or I guess is Banner running around somewhere again? Train up new kids to take care of it? Retire to Iowa and enjoy life?" he asks curiously.

"It's a miracle I ended up halfway sane with a home life and, y'know, alive." Don't ask him how he did it, because he has no idea most of the time. What a trip it's been. Because he easily could've had a whole hell of a lot worse happen to him when he was young and ended up on the streets all his life or dead before he ever got recruited. Figuring out relationships as an adult and not exactly having a good frame of reference from youth wasn't fun. And here he is.

Wild.

"Banner's off hanging out in some Mexico lab he and Stark built. Now that he's got his shit mostly sorted, he really deserves to just retire and take care of himself. Thor's always off on some quest to find himself or something; he was never gonna confine himself to just Earth anyway." Which, yes, then makes him the last Avenger otherwise, except: "I'm also retired. You know that, right? I'm so retired. Getting the band back together to save the universe feels like it doesn't really count. God, is being an Avenger one of those jobs? You can never really leave it."

And, well, he spent several years very decidedly not retired in the least. But in a different sense.

"It might be one of those jobs you either have to die or fuck off in time to get away from, I guess Sam is like one of you now or something?" He asks with a chuckle. It really was weird as he thought about it all, the shield passing on and all that junk. He was glad it had all avoided him.

"Maybe it's like a cult and the only way to get out is to not get in. Thank god, with Steve gone I'll never have to risk being dragged into that shit..." he says with a smirk.

"Hey, he was training at the Avengers compound before he ever got the shield; he's definitely one of us. He's god damn Captain America, and he's gonna drag you into so much shit." Because that's what Captains America do, as far as he's concerned. You get Cap calling you up, you go.

"No no, I always said I was following Steve from Brooklyn and not Captain America. This one is yours to follow," he teases back at him. "I did my duty on that one, it's time for someone else to be 'caps best friend' for once. Please you can't think I can replace Steve that quickly, it's not like you're running around best friends with Yelena now."

"And which one of us has hung out with Sam's family and had kiddos hanging off his arm? Sounds to me you guys are getting pretty buddy-buddy already." Just saying! "And your new good friend definitely hasn't tried to kill you yet, so it's not the same kind of situation at all."

"You know-- speaking of which? Why did Yelena try to kill you?" he asks changing the subject. He's not really sure how Clint knows all about that, but he assumes it's more spy shit and he doesn't want to get into it.

Yelena trying to kill him however -- that was something more interesting.

Wilson's a good dude who's not out to kill teammates. He figures it's a good guess that attempted murder hasn't happened. Yelena doesn't have a team. She has herself and whatever's left of the Black Widows.

"She got hired to." The long and the short of it. The fact that she hadn't come after him sooner, in spite of the desire for revenge, is...a little alarming, actually. Because she doesn't strike him as the type to be motivated by money. (At least, not to that amount.) Was she biding her time, in mourning? Did she get told what had happened? Which meant that that story got out somehow, and it sure as hell wasn't Clint talking to anyone outside the time heist group.

Concerning. But, now that the issue is resolved, not a problem. Anymore.

((as a continuation from here))

[So.

It's not how he expected his night to go. Had probably expected a text from Steve involving a team exercise; that's fairly routine at this point. Not so much the made-fun-of formal phrasing of the invite, but the intended outcome, sure.

This was not the intended outcome, and he couldn't be happier for it.

And there are a lot of ways this could go. Thankfully, one of Clint Barton's specialties is flexibility. Not that he intends to put every decision at Steve's feet, but he's easy (heh) to work with, would prefer to defer to whatever Steve's comfy with. Is this a thing he's been sitting with for a while? Is it weird, is it awkward? Is this spur of the moment? Because it's definitely not the first time Clint's thought about Steve and the possibilities of things they could get up to, extracurricularly. Might be the first he's thought Steve could feel the same way.

There's a joke in here somewhere, he knows, about sex as a team building exercise. Not sure how much Steve might appreciate it, but there's a lot that ends up surprising him about ye olde icicle.

In spite of/because of the joking about what he may or may not wear at night, Clint is, in fact, dressed. But for a night in. Plain tee, cozy sweats. Funny as it might be to see Steve's face if he opens the door buckass naked with not a hint of shame. Don't think he didn't consider it. He isn't nervous, not really, but he does find himself pacing around the place doing some little acts of cleanup with the sudden bout of anticipatory energy he's got. The kitchen's not a disaster area, the couch looks cozy and fuck-on-able, and the bedroom looks like a place you could bring someone to for a fun time instead of a gremlin cave.

And whether Steve wants to talk things out first or go right for the quickest source of fun, Clint's determined to be ready.]

Edited 2023-05-13 19:11 (UTC)

[ He's not completely innocent, is the thing.

Steve has spent more time curating and cultivating his relationships to be a certain way—at arm's length and professional. It's lonely, sure, but it's easier to be the dependable one on the team, someone that others can confide in and trust to do the right thing or make the right call. This whole thing with Clint certainly isn't any of that though. Probably. Not that he would call it a mistake; it's just unusual for him to follow up on being so bold.

And that's how he finds himself at Clint's door, a bag of takeout and beer in one hand while the other hovers halfway to knocking. He's not the kind of person to back down, especially when he's curious to see where this might go, but... they could have talked about this more? Should they? Would that kill this mood that's sort of settled between them? Maybe he should do his best to skip over whatever awkwardness there might be and just go for it. The anticipation is certainly burning through him a lot faster than the nerves, and when he finally knocks, Steve simply stands there and does his best to relax.

His gaze slowly settles over Clint when he opens the door. ]

Hey. [ His smile, though slight, is more than warm enough. ] Glad you decided not to wear the suit.

[ Or answer the door completely naked. It's a thought that lingers there as he steps inside and continues the charade of friends – or coworkers? – just spending a quiet evening together. He knows that isn't the case, and if he's completely honest, they might not even make it to the food first. ]

Definitely considered the birthday suit, [admitted boldly as he ushers Steve in.] But we can get down to unwrapping soon enough.

[Takeout and booze. Ever the gentleman. Clint would've been perfectly happy for the captain to show up with just his handsome self, but the suggested peace offerings are more than acceptable.

He grins easy, leaning back on the door for a few long moments, just watching his surprise guest. There's been plenty of speculation about Steve Rogers, Historical Icon and his romantic life (or his sex life, or both) ever since the man came out of the ice. Clint doesn't pay much attention to tabloids and randos on the internet, but it's also definitely become a game to find the most hysterical headlines with Tony and have a laugh about it. Being mostly out of the spotlight, it's definitely more fun that his name doesn't come up too often save for all the salacious rumors about Black Widow drama. This is so unlikely to be thought up that he almost laughs. How many idiot armchair historians would have a conniption at the idea that Mr. Stars and Stripes himself isn't the straightest guy to ever exist?

He sidles up next to Steve by the counter to take the pack of beer from him to tuck in the fridge, taking two out.] Thanks for the grub.

[He stays close, close enough to casually brush arms, even as he pops open the drink and takes a swig. It's a bit of a game, to see if this becomes a conversation, or if Steve's more interested in just going for it.]

[ There's a sort of easy effort to being around Clint that he hadn't really noticed until now, aware of his eyes fixated on him even as Steve takes in the layout of his place. Because they rarely have that sort of time on their hands, he thinks. They're always in some other country or keeping a low profile for some mission or another, and on top of that, they don't often work together unless it's an Avengers-specific necessity. But he's relaxed enough that it almost seems as if they do this with some sort of regularity.

His fingers touch Clint's in the exchange, and Steve recognizes it for the game that it is. ]

Chinese, [ he explains with the slightest nod at Clint's thanks. ] From this place not too far from my apartment. [ Steve begins removing the containers from the bag before slowing up, aware that he was about to start rambling about something unimportant rather than getting straight to the point. He would prefer the directness, and it's not as if he's so stuck in the past to believe Clint needs wined and dined to be seduced. ] Look –

[ And he quietly breathes in, shifting in a way that their shoulders touch. ]

I could probably spend all night finding something to talk about, but there's one question I really wanna ask. [ The pause is so small that it couldn't even be called a hesitation. ] Now or later?

[Somehow, it's the direct question that seals the deal for him: they should talk this out first. It doesn't even have to take long. But this isn't just a friend. This is a coworker, a teammate, one with a certain deliberate reputation (that is going to feel very excellent sullying in private).

What they really need before they dive on head first is a little understanding. Clint's expectant grin softens, watching Steve's face in profile for a moment.]

If you were most other people, Cap, I'd be getting you out of that shirt before you could blink. Which I feel like would be pretty easy given you always look a few pushups away from busting the seams wide open anyway. [He nudges very deliberately, momentarily crowding Steve's space as he grabs a container of fried rice.]

But this is all kinda sudden and out of the blue, and I feel like that maybe needs a hint of examination on our parts here. Temper expectations. Set some ground rules, boundaries. Less surprise, less chance of hurt feelings, less chance someone accidentally dumps a bucket of ice water on the whole thing. [Because that's a thing about Clint that sometimes surprises people. That he can actually be responsible and level-headed. He stabs into the container with a fork and puts a little distance between them, beer along for the ride.] So first thing I wanna ask is if this is just a one time deal or if you're interested in something a little more recurring.

[Maybe that's a little much to be the first thing to ask.] Or if it's a see how you feel in the morning thing.

[ Clint's comment has him glancing down at the t-shirt he's currently wearing before shrugging it off with one of those sheepish smiles of his.

But there's something about the conversation itself that has Steve turning his attention to their impromptu dinner as he fiddles with a pair of wooden chopsticks before delicately breaking them apart. The control it takes to keep from snapping them in half is immense, and mostly, Steve blames it on the nerves beginning to creep up under his skin. Clint appears so calm and collected given what he's said, and though Steve takes it in stride, he's a bit more reckless in the moment. This is a potential aftermath that does need discussion. ]

I don't know. [ He frowns a little to himself. ] Is that fair to say? [ It doesn't seem like it is, but Steve continues on regardless. ] I hadn't exactly thought about it until our last conversation. But I am now, and you're right – we should figure out what works for us first.

[ His appetite stalled, Steve sets his chopsticks on the top of a container and eyes Clint seriously. ]

Before you ask, I can handle myself. I could even handle the team if it came down to it, but I'd like this to stay between us. [ Do the Avengers even have an official PR team? Not that it really matters to Steve. ] Not that it bothers me, [ he adds, aware what it might sound like. ] It's just not anyone's business.

[ Having so much of his life in the limelight, the privacy of it is appealing to him. ]

Totally fair. [Said through a mouthful of rice as Clint's perched on a barstool that acts as a chair at the table. If the archer's got nerves about discussing the finer points of a fling with Captain America, he doesn't show it.] We could do all this talk and flirt shit and then find out we don't really click. [A shrug.] Which is also fine. It happens.

[Part of the calmness is just to help Steve in this. Sure, he wants his privacy, and maybe he's had private things with others that nobody deliberately knows about, but Clint doubts that. This is both a big deal and also not at all a big deal at the very same time. And that can be a weird thing to handle. It's nice that Steve clarifies that the secrecy is just about that, the private versus public, and not a shame thing. It still wouldn't have bothered him, exactly, but it would've made it all feel a little different.]

I don't mind being your dirty little secret. [His smirk says it's a joke.] I'm not about to go blabbing to the press about, y'know, if Captain America's good in bed, or the size of your dick or anything. Promise I won't tell Natasha unless she uses some of her primo interrogation techniques on me. Probably.

[Though, something that does nag at him, takes just a little of the humor out of him:] You don't have to 'handle' the team, you know. Or 'handle' anything about this yourself. Takes two to tango. If they find out, they can be adults about it, and so can we.

[ It happens, he says. Like this is something Steve does or is well-versed in. If he's honest, there are so few times that Steve can remember them, and most of that had been chalked up to constantly traveling or working or a handful of other things that just became too time-consuming to have much of a personal life. But that isn't something he necessarily has to bring to the table right now. He doubts it would be an issue anyhow. ]

Sorry. Habit. [ Pulling back between Captain America and Steve has always been a challege—as if they weren't the same person. ] What I mean is – we don't have to worry about them. It's you and me, not the entire world.

[ Small steps? And to break the tension he feels in his shoulders, Steve opens his beer and takes a drink. Alcohol really isn't going to do anything for him, but it's a focal point for just a moment as he tries to reel in his thoughts a little more. Then, he shifts his attention to Clint and just... looks at him. He's never given it too much consideration before, like he'd said, but it doesn't mean that he doesn't have eyes. There's something about his mouth that causes Steve to stare, but he eventually clears his throat and continues sipping from his open can. ]

You know... I don't mind being your secret either. [ Steve circles back to that shamelessly. ] Dirty or otherwise.

[ This time, his smile reflects the tease he means it to be, and if they'd been close enough, Steve would have nudged him with his knee. But they're not, so he makes an effort to subtly move in. ]

[Steve circles back to it, and Clint--Clint circles around it, taking it in from other angles. Secrets are the currency of spies. He's got ones that would topple governments, crumble companies, destroy people. It's a very, very, very short list of people he tries hard not to keep secrets from.

So, sure. Fun little secret for one time. Maybe more, but he won't get his hopes up. Tempered expectations and all. What's far, far more interesting is the way Steve takes the time to stare at him with a hot, if brief, intensity. If he was in a chair with a back, Clint would slouch back, drape himself, show himself off. As it is, he simply stares right back with a bob of his brows.

Steve's a handsome fuck. There's no way he can't know that. Big chest, corn chip torso, arms that could probably pick him up and toss him around one-handed without breaking a sweat, and shit if that isn't a thought that gets his blood pumping. And his face. Funny, it's always the same face, but it changes depending on what kind of mask Steve wants to wear. The solid, chiseled leader. The cheeky, handsome soldier. The cute aw-shucks good-ol-boy. He can't be the only one on the team that's looked at Steve at some point and thought damn.]

See something you like?

[It might be subtle as far as Steve's concerned, but subtle is the playground of spies and assassins like Clint. He won't call out Steve's attempt, not yet, but it's noted. What he does do is bring the drink back to his lips and take a slow, slow sip. If he licks his lips after, surely that's just a subconscious gesture and absolutely not at all deliberate.

He won't be at all upset if Steve decides they're done talking. It won't keep Clint from talking, though, at the moment.]

We don't have to chat about whips and chains and what excites us, but I'm wondering if you've got any preferences. Things you wanna do. Things you don't. If you wanna fuck or be fucked, or see what happens. You were in the army, [added with a little twirling motion with his beer in Steve's direction,] so I'm under no illusions about whether you've done this before.

Edited (I called it a bottle for the sake of sluttiness and then realized you called it a can, also other small edits) 2023-05-14 01:20 (UTC)

[ There are times to be embarrassed, and then, there are times to just... not. Now is one of those times, though Steve can still feel the heat slowly creeping up the back of his neck the longer they sit there and stare at one another. It doesn't quite reach his face, though the burn in his ears might have been a little too obvious if he gave Clint enough time to see it. As it is, he tilts his head and swallows another mouthful of his beer as if mimicking the motion and detracting from the fact he wants to get another look at his mouth. Maybe his tongue.

Flirting is easy with confidence. He just has to plan his attempts accordingly. ]

I won't ask if you believe that's what everyone in the army does in their downtime, [ he jokes, skirting around the question as he slowly moves away from his spot at the counter. ] But I know enough to get by.

[ His comment is casual, as if he's speaking about an everyday, mundane activity and not sex. His voice, too, is even and a bit on the firmer side, stepping in close to Clint so that he almost hovers next to him without being overbearing. It's not his objective to be intimidating, reaching out to take Clint's drink before he decides to use it against him the same way he had before. There's always so much talking, and though Steve would prefer to have all the information, there are some things he'd just rather act upon. ]

I think we should just go with it and see what happens. [ A pause, and his eyes fall to the other man's mouth again. ] Unless you really prefer doing things a certain way.

[ It could have been a question. In fact, Steve might have meant it as a question, but he only allows enough room for Clint to answer between the way he watches him and how he takes hold of his wrist to feel the warmth of his skin. Casual, nearly gentle. It's an invitation, hardly subtle now. ]

[Steve's not so bad at this. Direct enough to know that he wants, flexible enough to just see where this shit goes without needing a plan. Clint can absolutely work with that. Food later; fuck now.

He slides easily from his perch to his feet, free hand also doing some sliding up Steve's arm. Steve's got a couple inches on him, but it isn't any kind of intimidating towering. It's just Steve. Easy to be around when he lets himself be. Which isn't always all that often. There's an intensity dancing there in each touch and in that very particular gaze that definitely sets a fire going--or burns it hotter, really. (It's not going to take long for Steve to find out he's not wearing anything under his sweatpants, that's for sure.)]

You know, I've got pretty good eyes. And what I see is that you might want my mouth on you. [He flashes a sharp grin.] Anywhere you want it, you let me know.

[For the moment, he knows where he wants his mouth. His hand slides over shoulder, curls casually at Steve's neck, pulls to guide him in for a kiss. There's nothing shy or demure on his part about it, instead hungry and eager and determined to get to work.]

[ If anyone had told him he would have been doing this with his night, he isn't so sure he'd have believed them. Not at first, anyway. But there's the pressure of Clint's hand on his arm and then his neck, and it's followed by the heat of his mouth pressed to his, a kiss that causes Steve to stumble for a moment before his body catches up with his brain.

He drags him closer almost immediately, steadily soaking up the contact even as he leans forward to participate. There's the taste of beer and Chinese both, but it isn't really about that the longer they stay twined together. It's about this peculiar connection, and even if it only lasts the night, Steve knows it won't be something to forget. Which has his fingers pushing beneath Clint's shirt, exploring the expanse of his back as he turns his head just slightly to mouth a path along the edge of Clint's jaw. To give himself a moment to breathe, to think. ]

Just so you know, [ he sighs it, almost as if he's unwinding. ] It's been a while.

[ Not that it actually matters or is an excuse. It's just a fact, something Steve is sharing with Clint before returning to the warmth of his mouth and kissing him even harder than before. And if he happens to back Clint a few steps into the edge of the counter as he does, he doesn't acknowledge it so much as use it to briefly pin him there. ]

[If anyone could manage to be both hot and adorable at the same time, yeah, it'd be Steve. The way he's caught off guard, and the way he takes command to make up for it, the way he has to take a moment of time to himself, but only a moment. It's a quiet admittance and an assertive pinning.

Oh yeah. This is gonna be a fun night.

Steve's hands find their way along bare skin, occasionally pocked with old scars, while pressed together. Clint makes a brief pleased noise, surprised at how eager and gung-ho his leader-friend is being about this. Absolutely no complaints. Hopes he keeps getting surprised all night long, in fact. His hand stays where it's at at Steve's neck, fingers just brushing into short hair; the other hand settles along an arm, enjoying the feel and flex of muscle while being held close and explored.

The break from the kiss is enough to catch a breath and settle into the dizzying reality that this is happening. And Steve's a quick learner, because Clint's just a moment away from saying something smartassed about just how long a while might be for someone like that when the kissing starts again with renewed vigor.

And when Steve's body leans into his, he finds no shame in relenting and sliding each easy step back until the counter presses at him.

He hums, enjoys the sensation, and then drags his mouth away, hands momentarily on that expansive chest.] One sec-

[And in an easy move, he sits his ass up on the counter, legs wide and easing their way around Steve's hips.] It's like riding a bike. You seem like you remember how to do this so far.

[Clint doesn't have to remember how. He's had plenty of practice in his life. The way he shucks his shirt easily and leans back on his hands to give a better view seem to indicate as much.]

I'll remind you of the steps if you need a refresher.

[ Stepping forward into the space between Clint's legs, Steve's hands immediately settle at his hips. There's an almost desperate desire to rub his palms over his chest and shoulders, feel the heat of his skin under his fingers, but he holds onto that discipline for as long as he's able, instead taking the invitation to look him over before dropping his hold to the tops of Clint's thighs. ]

I didn't say I didn't remember. Just that it's been a while.

[ Which could mean countless things if he over-examines it, but he doesn't.

Instead, he grips him a little tighter and drags him to the edge of the counter, leaning into him to seal their mouths together again.

It's almost nice to not have to worry too much about whether or not Clint can handle whatever happens between them. In the beginning, his own strength had been something even he hadn't been used to, but over the years, he's adapted. He knows when to draw back, what lines he needs to make for himself, but it's thrilling to not overthink anything right now, letting everything sink into the weight of another person. And between kisses, between tackling the learning curve of exactly what Clint likes, he realizes he's incredibly overdressed. Worse than that, he's not in anything that could easily be stripped out of; jeans are a lot more difficult to take off when you're hard.

But he'll get to that later, purposely pushing his fingers along his thighs and slipping them beneath the waistband of Clint's sweats. What little surprise he has in finding that there's nothing else to get under is quickly swallowed in the soft sound Steve makes as he squeezes into part of his hip and the beginning curve of his ass. Almost like approval. ]

[It's never been a concern, the super strength. Hell, it's played into fantasies a couple of times. There's admittedly a certain amount of cockiness involved, imagining he can take whatever's dished out, though that might also be an expectation to temper.

But he trusts Steve to know what he's doing. Even if it's been a while. And for all that Clint likes to push his own limits, he trusts that if something gets said, they can slow down or stop or change direction if need be.

Not that he's planning on slowing down now that they've gotten started. There's a hint of a laugh starting by the time Steve leans in for more hungry kissing, rumbling in his chest. His ankles hook lightly right around Steve's ass, enjoying the pressure of a body against his. And he can't let his partner be doing all the exploring. Because Steve is overdressed, and he has to get his hands on some more skin immediately, using much less caution than he'd been shown in the way he pulls Steve's shirt up by greedy handfuls, feeling up all along that broad back before adding a scratch of nails to the mix.

Which is right about when Steve makes a discovery, makes a sound that absolutely goes shooting directly through him, squeezes him just so. If that's not approval, he doesn't know what is. He'll take it, greedily, nibbling at Steve's lip, nipping then along a finely chiseled jawline, all the way to an earlobe.]

Like what you see and like what you feel. Careful, Cap; you'll give me an ego.

Guess I wouldn't want that.

[ It's mumbled out a little breathlessly, trying to find his focus on one thing and then immediately getting pulled towards something else. At first, it was Clint's hands on his back, on bare skin. Every touch would be easy and smooth, no hint of scars that would otherwise tell a completely different story about his life; yet another thing to thank the serum for. Then, it's his nails and the sound he drags out of him. Maybe it's best not to think about anything and just go with it, letting his fingers get in another good squeeze before he tips back to put some space between them.

Just an inch. Just enough to get a grip on his tee and drag it over his head so he can abandon it on the floor.

And his hands are right back where he'd had them, gently knocking his forehead against Clint's before turning his face just enough to kiss him again. Pacing would probably be a good idea, but there's just something about the eagerness between the both of them that's telling Steve it doesn't actually matter. His own stamina might be too much by then, making a heated effort to work Clint out of his pants so that his bare ass is now in contact with the counter, and Steve only lets his eyes drop down briefly, getting the slightest glimpse before he drags him close. Gets a hard hold on his thighs and pulls him into his arms as if Clint weighs next to nothing. ]

But I think I should get a better look somewhere else. [ A breath, and he kisses him again. ] Just to be sure.

[ There's no need to specify what, not when the closest flat surface happens to be the sofa, and that's exactly where Steve carries him. ]

[Pacing can go fuck itself, quite like in the way they should fuck each other, frankly.

The way things are looking like they're going, his ass will probably hate him for that sentiment in the morning. But they're both ready and willing to have a good time, and Clint is going to ride that as far as it'll take them. He's seen Steve in tops that leave very little to the imagination. Hell, they've all seen each other in various states of dress and undress, whether stripped down at the gym or in medical or--well, everyone's gotten an eyeful of Bruce enough that that's mostly stopped being awkward. The context makes the difference, though. That Steve's stripped shirtless here, for him, in his kitchen, with the intent of touching, being touched, being on very personal display.

He'll get plenty of time to properly appreciate later, he's sure, because Steve doesn't give him much time before there's more kissing, and then much more importantly, there are hands pulling at fabric. He's never seen Steve like this before. Figures few people have. There's always such tight control, not no-nonsense but keeping just enough distance to only ever be friendly. It can't be easy to be a man out of time, but this is much better, this looseness, this casual intimacy, this--getting him out of his fucking pants paired with being gentlemanly enough not to look too hard right away. Clint can't help but bark out a fuller laugh, unhooking his legs briefly to help tug them all the way off to join the other bits of fabric they're losing.

Terribly appealing, this. Firm hands and solid arms picking him up like a bag of real sexy groceries. The return teasing. He slings his arms loosely over Steve's shoulders, idly scratching along skin that will never keep any damage. It might be nice to see, though. Some nice red lines before they inevitably disappear in record time. It isn't a long carry, and when he kisses back, it's deep and savoring, with only a hint of teeth this time.

When he feels all too familiar couch fabric under him, the hint of teeth becomes a sharp bite.] You passed a couple perfectly good walls, you know. [A tease. It's, you know, another perfectly viable option.]

[ If anything, even when he isn't so concerned about control, Steve tries to keep things steady. Much in the way his hands want to do the same things Clint's do to him but don't. Much like the hardness he can feel against his stomach where his own is confined to the discomfort of his jeans. (That's also lack of foresight on his part, not having considered that this would immediately jump to sex.) But Steve makes up for it in other ways: in the almost gentle way he drops Clint onto the couch and in the surprisingly soft kiss he gives him in return for the teeth digging into his lip.

He pauses, looking down at him and not quite settling himself atop of him just yet. ]

I'd feel bad if I ended up putting you through one of them, [ he says, almost so serious that it's nearly impossible to tell he's joking at first. ] This seemed like a safer bet.

[ His smile reflects the tease then, allowing himself a moment to take in the muscle and lines of Clint's body. There have been plenty of times they'd seen each other in similar naked states, though mostly in a professional setting, and really, a lot of the gear they tend to wear doesn't leave much to the imagination. But this is something else, something a lot more visceral. He doubts their team bonding exercises could have ever anticipated something like this. Which is fine, fingers stroking lightly over Clint's chest—almost as if committing it to memory.

Then, he's on his feet in a very careful dance to get out of the rest of his clothes. Steve doesn't purposely take it slow, but if he happens to take the time to shuck out of his pants and then do the same with his briefs, it really might be by accident. He's not shy about it either, being naked; as Clint had pointed out before, he'd been in the army. Whatever sense of modesty a person had simply disappeared after a while, and even before that, with the number of exams he'd gone through, it's just not something he thinks about anymore.

He does think about the way he crawls over Clint once he's undressed though, meeting his eyes with a smile. ]

How do you want me? [ Yet another one of many things they hadn't actually discussed. ]

I guess putting me through the couch would be easier on my back.

[Though if he entertains the visual of at least putting a him-shaped dent in a wall in the future, that's entirely Steve's fault.

That Steve is very gentle with him as though in response to the (light) scratches and bites Clint's been giving is enough to make him outright whine. It feels deliberate. He's trying not to be intense, like he'd warned about, just wants this to be a fun and casual thing, but fuck if he wouldn't mind Steve get a little more handsy at least. Hold him down tight enough to bruise, leave teeth marks on his thighs, claw him up like an animal (and then bring out the gentleness later with ointments and lotions and whatever). Tries not to just jump him and get right to it, a coiled spring waiting to unfurl. Lays himself open and mostly still, on display with not a hint of shame, and lets himself be touched so lightly with only a little shiver of anticipation.

And thankfully the rest of the clothes come off without having to complain about it. It's true, most of their usual work outfits are tight and form-fitting as hell. Clint knows his ass looks fantastic, for instance, and there's good foundation for Natasha gracing a lot of magazines (and public fantasies) whenever she's seen out and about in uniform. There's barely anything that's a surprise about Steve, save for the reveal of what had been starting to make a nice bulge in those jeans. And yet it still strikes him, the new light to see him in, the absolutely wild context.

And then the smile, the smoldering look. And the almost innocent-sounding question. To be fair to Clint: he did ask, beforehand. Fuck or get fucked, do's and don'ts.] You put me here; I figured you had something in mind. [Not a rebuke, not even remotely. Just entertained. Being open and easy and going with the flow is great right up until points like this, and he props himself up on an elbow and lets himself look at Steve. Runs a hand lightly through his hair if only for the sake of mussing it up, nails light but present along his scalp. Trailing down his neck, along a shoulder.] 's it a little unfair if I say any way you'll give me?

[Because it's not a lie, really. And given he's not sure if this'll ever happen again, there's part of him that wants this in as many ways as they can manage. He thinks about the gentleness, the steady and exacting way Steve carried himself. What's fair, he figures, is to at least take two seconds to make something very clear.]

I'm not afraid of you hurting me, Steve. You don't have to treat me gentle for my sake. It's okay if you do, just--you don't have to. [It's also entirely possible that he's just a romantic that just prefers it that way. But there was probably trial and error before that.] Okay?

I have a few things in mind, [ he corrects softly, like he doesn't want Clint to think he'd done this for the sake of changing scenery. But before he can continue, he's caught up in the pressure of fingers in his hair and that light presence of nails over his skin. ] I'm –

[ He swallows around what might have been a momentary protest, eyes closing with Clint's words. He knows he doesn't have to be gentle, is the thing. In their line of work, nothing ever really falls into such a neat category, but sometimes, it's almost nice to envision that it would. Then again, this isn't about work or saving the world. This is just about them and whatever time they might spend together doing this, and holding back completely isn't going to get them anywhere. Or very far. Steve can tell from the hints in their kisses that it might be the opposite of what Clint actually likes.

It's an interesting note. Something to think about later when he's not hard and naked against someone else. ]

I know. [ Quiet, at first, and then, he's looking at Clint again. ] I know. I'm not even sure it's entirely about that. Just that it's been a while – like I said. [ Can he even shrug in a position like this? Well, he's going to try and also shake his head at the same time. He's not exactly setting the mood with that sort of talk. ] I wanna do this right and make it good for both of us.

[ Which isn't the catch to his hesitation, but it's closer to the truth, even if the evidence of how much both of them are already enjoying it is kind of obvious. Steve does offer Clint a cheeky sort of smile then, shifting his position to partially straddle him before resting his palm against his chest. At first, it's almost too light, a ghost of those teasing touches he'd given him just minutes ago. But it doesn't last, pushing him harder into the cushions with a much firmer hold as his hand slides up towards his neck and his mouth descends along the edge of his sternum and then his belly.

He's really not opposed to more conversation, dragging his teeth in a testing nip over skin. Once, twice. Continuing with more bite each time. He just has one current goal in mind, and that's to know exactly what he tastes like. ]

[It's sweet, really. And that's not a bad thing. Sure, Clint might like it a little rougher, but if Steve wanted to do this all soft and tender, it'd still be a plenty good time. Maybe it's just this, then, the way it'll be done. Easing into it. Easing into each other. Because they're both sure as hell learning a lot about one another in very short order.]

You tell me what's good, I'll tell you what's good. [It doesn't even have to be in words. Steve's made a few nice sounds that he wouldn't mind hearing again, more, louder, lewder. Clint offers only cursory resistance to the hand on his chest, sliding back against the cushions easy. There's something rising to the tip of his tongue about how doing it right involves doing, to keep teasing, but then Steve increases the pressure and presses him steady and hard, and the air starts to go out of him. Not pushed out by any force, just reveling in the sensation. Swallows thick at the movement of that hand slides up like a casual threat to choke, and Steve moves downward to kiss--no, fuck, to bite, apparently. In a careful, testing way. Somehow that's hotter, that he's feeling out the boundaries and looking for that sweet spot.

One hand of his is on Steve's forearm. Not stopping, just present. The other rests itself back into his hair, too short to get any kind of real grip, but that won't keep him from trying. Sucks in a quick breath at one of the more intense bites.] Like that. That's good. [By way of example. A breathy laugh escapes him.] You gonna eat me up? That what you had in mind?

To start, [ he agrees, his voice a fraction deeper than it normally is.

But that might have to do with the fact he continues to edge his way along Clint's body, letting his mouth trail over the places his fingers don't. He's responsive, and frankly, there's always been something about that sort of reaction that Steve has liked. It's encouraging, maybe, and once Steve is settled in a decent place between his legs, he only tips his head enough to nudge the hand in his hair before continuing his exploration.

He doesn't go right for his cock, instead moving along his inner thigh as he slips a hand under his knee to adjust his position. It's all sort of gentle, almost guiding him, but then, he's dragging his teeth across tender skin, following with the wet glide of his tongue. He even sucks at that spot between hip and thigh until it's an angry red, and before there can be any complaints, he does it to the other side in the exact same place. Like a reminder he'd been there, that he'd experienced Clint this way. ]

Still good? [ And how rhetorical it actually is because he doesn't wait for an answer, pressing his cheek against the length of him until his lips graze the head. Then, fingers braced on Clint's stomach, Steve hums quietly as he swallows him down without hesitation or any care that he could choke. ]

To start, [echoed with amusement and a little bit of awe.] Just remember not all of us have super stamina here. [He doesn't actually know if Steve's enhancements translate to a longer time in bed, but he'll find out and soak up every fucking second of it for as long as he can hold out. (And then some.)]

Shit, it doesn't feel like it's been a while for you. [That's the praise he's getting, Clint just barely squirming under the attention. If there were nerves at the start of all this for Steve, there sure aren't now, at least not that he can tell from the way he licks, bites, sucks his way along skin like he's a god damn expert. He moves easily however Steve wants him, as bent or wide or over shoulders or anywhere that lets the captain get his mouth wherever he'd like.

It's the pair of marks sucked until they're enough to last that get him a little more vocal, a brief whine, somewhere tucked into that good spot between pain and pleasure. Makes the hand lightly gripped at the back of Steve's head tense, a little dig of nail. Steve's always been a quick study. Of course it'd translate to everything else, including other people.

The question is pretty clearly rhetorical, but Clint's never been one to shy away from being mouthy.] Good, real good, I might even say great, I--fuck! [He's got just enough leverage to watch, and what a god damn sight it is. And however good it looks, it feels even better, the curse practically punched out of him. No hesitation, not even a teasing warmup, just going for it with that light hum that vibrates right to his core.

For emphasis:] Fuck. [In case the effect of a hot mouth swallowing him whole wasn't perfectly clear.] Yes please, we are so good.

[ As if he has any room to respond to the things that spill out of Clint's mouth, but later? Definitely later.

As he'd pointed out earlier, a while doesn't necessarily mean lack of experience, and once Steve's gotten his aim set on something, everything else just sort of falls into place. There's no time to consider how embarrassing it might be or what he'd look like; from Clint's vocal cues, he'd say he wasn't doing half bad at figuring out what draws even more out of him. Be it the twist of his tongue or the slow pull of his mouth. Maybe even the way his hand gives him a firm squeeze. And it's not as if he doesn't enjoy this either, one hand still balanced against Clint's core to keep him from wiggling and writhing too much as he sets a rhythm that might almost be considered brutal.

There's no reason to be slow, nothing that says he has to take his time. Not with this. Steve thinks it might even get a little more interesting if he manages to pull an orgasm out of Clint first, easing back so he can settle his hands in a better position. At his hips, under his ass. It's enough to get more leverage and set his own pace, groaning quietly as the tension continues to build, and eventually, Steve decides to pull off, fingers returning where his lips had been so he can find his way back up to kiss him.

Maybe he should say something? Or reassure him that he's good about taking it slow? Even if none of this feels like it's slow, sinking into the heat of Clint's mouth to suck at his tongue. Let his teeth scrape over flesh. It's messy and good and a clear precursor to the rest of it.

So, he just knocks his forehead against Clint's, his breath still surprisingly even. ] It's okay. [ He strokes him harder, unrelenting. ] I've got you.

[Absolutely none of this is slow, which is frankly a surprise, but an entirely welcome one. Kind of figured there'd be more flirting, touching, building up, but Steve has apparently set his goal to be 'get Clint off ASAP', and if there's one thing Steve Rogers does very well, it's set a goal and see it through.

So, no complaints. At all.

It's a myriad of sensations, all of which combine to be just shy of overwhelming. 'A while' sure hasn't kept Steve rusty, lips and tongue doing all kinds of wonders, building up the heat down low very quickly. The hand holding him down is just enough to keep him down, to keep him in place, to keep him from bucking. Part of what makes that so hot is the trust. He likes his freedom, but knowing that it's Steve, knowing that it's someone who wouldn't hurt him (much, accidentally), twists something that could be harrowing back around to something delightful.

He's not quiet about it. Even when his higher functions start deciding to go on vacation, he gives bursts of praise between moaning panting groaning gasping, reminds him how good it is, tells him there, just like that, bites out tight curses, hisses out his name. When the hands move to his ass, well, fuck, that's even better, and gives him the opportunity to move. He tries, for Steve's sake, not to buck much, but his back arches, shoulders pushed back into the couch.

The whine in the back of his throat when slick mouth leaves him is quickly swallowed by a punishingly thorough kiss, and the hand that replaces keeps up the same intense pace.

One leg hitches up around Steve's hip, his own hips finally feeling free to try and match pace and still failing. His hands grip tight where they land like he needs something desperately to cling to against the oncoming train, one at the back of his head, the other arm wrapped around broad shoulders and holding fast. Clint's coming undone, and this asshole isn't even breaking a sweat. The audacity. Steve goes harder, making the breath in Clint's chest stutter to a momentary stop, and paradoxically talks to him so soft and gently. Like a fucking trust fall. Let go. It's safe.

As if that was ever in doubt.

He closes the gap for another kiss, moaning into it, and another that becomes more an excuse to bite more than anything, and when he can feel the tension in his body wind up to snap, he goes in for one more. When he does let go of the coiled spring of his body, he curses sharply, once, every inch of him pulled taut against Steve, trembling with little jerks, pleasure washed over him. It leaves him panting heavy against Steve's mouth when the rest of him starts to slacken, his grip, his leg, the needy pit inside him temporarily satisfied.]

You definitely remember a lot of the steps. [Almost slurred out, pleased as absolute punch.]

((continued from here))

Clint grunts a noise of acknowledgement and switches to doomscrolling news. Until Natasha's burning gaze makes him glance over at her.

They have an entire conversation with looks, something that unnerves Bruce a little and absolutely entertains Tony until it annoys him that he's left out of the loop. She's noticed, in fact thinks they have been shockingly obvious. Bruce, not at all engaged with anything that's been going on around him, belatedly speaks up: "I dunno, I think it's okay in here." Without even looking up.

Clint's look-speak indicates that he's pretty sure Nat's the only one who's noticed a thing. And she would. She isn't going to say anything, but if she ever decides it might be effective blackmail material, or just really funny, she might threaten something down the line. (Probably the latter, just to see the look on Tony's face.)

She eventually, with a dramatic eyeroll, unfurls herself from her cross-legged perch atop the bar and ruffles his hair as she goes by. "I'm not covering for any of your bruises," she says lowly in his ear, and he simply grins stupid at her in return.

Ten minutes more or less go by, and it's his turn to utter something noncommittal about probably going to the range if it isn't too hot, does not expect to be called out on it if he's not there anytime soon, and wanders off. He makes a stop at his own place, more decorated than he presumes Steve's is. It's a home away from home, with comforts of his own. There's no real telling what's going to happen (besides a good time), and given that he's pretty sure that Steve doesn't have much of a dating life going on no matter what Nat's tried to suggest to him, he feels like it's a pretty good guess Steve's isn't exactly fully equipped for said good time. But, hey, maybe he is! No judgement. Still gonna tuck a small bottle of lube in a pocket. Checks himself in a mirror, likes what Nat's ruffle has done to his hair, ponders whether he should show up divested of some clothes as well, decides he likes the idea of being unwrapped for show.

He makes his way to Steve's and knocks. Oh, sure, there's little digital doorbells, and little digital keypads, and digital everything. But Steve's oldschool. He'll probably appreciate a good old fashioned knock instead.

Steve heads directly to his apartment, condo, whatever it's called now, in the Tower. He stays here whenever he doesn't have forced SHIELD lodgings because he simply hasn't gotten around to finding himself a place just yet. There doesn't seem to be much of a point. As much as he and Tony butt heads often, Tony hasn't kicked him out yet, so he's going to stay until he has a reason not to.

He might have a reason soon, now that he knows that Bucky's not dead, but as much as he's tried to, he hasn't managed to get a lead on where he might be. He's willing to be patient, but he's not willing to live like a saint. The serum had some unexpected side effects and one of those was an increased libido. Since he and Bucky had never been monogamous before - chalk that up to the fact that being queer was simply not accepted back in their day - he doesn't think that a romp here and there with a friend will be a deal breaker.

Especially because he had no idea that Bucky was even alive.

He spends seven of the ten minutes lost in thought, but then he shakes himself out of his funk and gets to work.

First, he makes sure that he has what he needs for whatever they decide to do. He has lube, and condoms even though he doesn't necessarily need them. He folds the spare blanket and sets it on the couch, and finally strips off his pants now that they've decided on a more private venue.

He's debating on making some coffee when there's a knock at the door.

Steve walks over and opens it, grins when he sees Clint standing there. "I guess as the saying goes: coffee, tea, or me?" he jokes.

It doesn't really surprise Clint that Steve is not the patron saint of straightness that way-too-sure-of-themselves historians and rightwing nutjobs will swear to up and down, left and right. Sexuality's just a thing. A thing too many people get way hung up on the particulars of. Frankly, he finds the best course of action to just assume someone swings back and forth to some degree until told otherwise.

The fact that Steve was in the army, well, that certainly contributes. Clint was never a military man himself, only got whipped into the shape of calling people sir and pretending to have respect for his superiors through the saintly patience of Coulson. But, c'mon, you get a whole bunch of men of varying wants and needs whether accepted or not living in close quarters away from friends, families, their girls and guys, and he imagines a lot of things happen.

And then there's Bucky, the lost best friend that some speculate might have been more. He's never asked Steve before. Doesn't plan on asking him now.

The thing that does surprise Clint is the fact that Steve not only suggested yes, he'd be interested in hitting that, but did so so enthusiastically. 'Meek' is not a work to ever use to describe Steve Rogers, but he gets those aw shucks good ol' boy moments, especially with more modern sensibilities, and while he's a perfectly friendly guy, he doesn't always let people around him in.

But he's going to take every offer at face value, take what he can get, eagerly, thoroughly, as much as he can. It doesn't have to impact their working relationship. It doesn't have to impact their friendship, either. It certainly doesn't impact his marriage: he and Laura came to an agreement a long time ago that if she was going to stay home, and he was going to be assigned away for months at a time, then she gets to have something (someone) between her legs that doesn't run on batteries, and he gets to do whatever (whoever) he needs to--for the job, and for fun. So long as the heart never comes into play.

And it doesn't. He knows who he loves. The care and the interest he has in any of his coworkers doesn't reach the same level. But he cares nonetheless.

Right now, what he cares about is that Steve's taken the pants off, too. Clint takes a moment to appreciate the view, a slow dropping of his gaze, practically scraping back up. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and he steps in just far enough to let the door close behind him.

"So my options are hot, hot, and scorching, huh?" He reaches out a hand to touch, unhurried, running smoothly from Steve's hip up along his side, ample handful of chest, shoulder. "I don't mind getting burned."

Steve stands in the doorways for a moment, letting Clint look his fill. He wonders if they might have acted on this earlier had he been more forthcoming with his preferences. Then again, maybe not. They hadn't known each other well during the Chitauri invasion, and then Clint had to deal with Loki in a decidedly different way than the rest of them had. After that, they'd all broken off for a while, and Steve found out that Bucky is alive.

And boy had that been a surprise.

Now seems like the most natural time to be doing this, and so they will. Steve catches Clint's wrist in his hand as he trails it up his body and smirks. "Well, I do believe I mentioned Tony's air conditioning being out," he says, pulling Clint inside finally.

Once the door is closed behind them, he draws Clint into an immediately deep kiss. They both know what the plan is here, so why waste time pussy footing around each other. Steve is going to get what he wants, and he's sure Clint will too. He licks into the other man's mouth and nibbles at his bottom lip.

"I want you to fuck me," he murmurs. "That good with you?"

He laughs against Steve's lips, until it becomes a reverberating moan of appreciation. So Steve wants what he wants when he wants it. Noted. Means it might be fun to make him wait, to get him all wound up and impatient. Has he ever heard Steve whine about anything before? Might quietly become a goal.

Steve's got a couple inches on him, but he doesn't feel towering or overbearing. He's solid, steady, sure. Clint presses into his space and then keeps pressing to maneuver the captain up against the closest wall. He's outmatched in the strength department, sure, but Steve's request means he knows he's got room to play.

"It took you ten minutes to figure that out?" he jokes, leaning up to return the nipping at Steve's lip, and then along his jaw. Their hips press together, deliberately giving Steve some friction in his less dressed state.

"You got some super stamina to go along with your super everything else?" He'll find that out soon enough, but it seems pertinent to know.

Steve would never even dream of using his strength to get the upper hand in this position. He knows that he has an unfair advantage and he doesn't ever want any one to feel coerced into doing what he wants just because he's stronger. He lets Clint push him up against the wall, reaches forward to grasp his hips.

He moves forward when Clint nips his lip, chasing his mouth to try for a kiss. Instead, he ends up tilting his head back so that the archer can kiss his neck. It's too bad that hickeys won't last on him; seeing them on Steve would really blow Tony's mind.

He ignores the first question entirely. It hadn't taken him ten minutes to decide what he wants, this is what he usually wants when he's with another man, but Clint doesn't need to know about Steve's sexual history. What's important is now.

"Yeah. I can outlast you," Steve admits, holding Clint's hips against his. "The serum... it was particularly good for my sex drive."

"So we work you up before I fuck you good and hard, I gotcha."

Marks not lasting means he has to appreciate them in the moment. Commit them to memory. Work a sharp bite and suck into Steve's neck and admire his handiwork, before it starts to fade away. He takes his time about it, leaves a few more bites along collarbone, leaves briefly pink scratches down along his arm.

He could do this all day. Might end up having to. Clint slowly grinds against him, comes back up to catch lips for a terribly thorough kiss, fingers running through short hair at the back of his head. There's no telling if this will ever happen again, so he intends to savor every last taste, sensation, sound.

"I can give and take a little pain in my pleasure," which he figures is probably obvious from marking Steve up, "so you don't have to be gentle with me. Trust I'm gonna let you know if you go too hard." He thinks Steve might be gentle anyway, has probably taught himself gentleness out of necessity. Which is also fine. But he might like to feel some of that control slip away. Something to work at, then. "Anything you want, ask. Anything I do you don't want, say so." Basic grounds rules. He's done this rodeo before. Maybe Steve has, too, but still good to lay it out. He nips at Steve's lip. "And what I want is to satisfy that sex drive of yours."

For some reason, Steve hadn't pictured Clint to be the type that might want to be in control during sex. He always seems so affable, so willing to go along with whatever's happening. Seeing this side of him is surprising, but it's also very hot. Steve is definitely into it.

He lets himself be kissed for a moment, lets Clint licking into his mouth, but soon he's joining in, kissing the archer just as thoroughly as he's being kissed. He wants him to know that he's not virginal, and he's certainly not dead. The public has so many opinions about him, and they seem unwilling to adjust when he proves himself otherwise. He doesn't want his friends to think that way, and he certainly doesn't want his bed partners to believe that he's a paragon of innocence. He grasps Clint's hips, ruts against him as well, then breaks the kiss with a gasp.

"You've got your work cut out for you," Steve admits. "It's not easy. Bucky, he-" He stops abruptly. Now is not the time to talk about his missing lover. "And yeah, I'll tell you if I want you to stop. I just don't think it will be necessary."

It doesn't hurt. Just, surprisingly, proves that Steve and his old bestie were a little more than besties. It might hurt Steve to go down that line. Does Clint want to be a stand in, a replacement? Well, no, but it's also not the worst thing he could be. He'll just have to prove how different he is.

Be a fun distraction. He can do that.

(He's mentally preparing himself to hear someone else's name on Steve's lips. To let that slide over him without comment.)

"If we have to, we'll go a couple rounds, until you're good and wrung out." One might call it a problem, the fact that he's now been presented with a challenge, because it means he can't back down from it. A little pride, a little cockiness. He likes to push himself, tends to push himself harder than he should if he can get away with it. Steve's gonna be a tough case that'll take a lot of work? He will make it happen one way or another. Sounds like it'll be exhausting. The very best kind of exhausting. He'd be just the same way if Steve wanted to be the one to do the fucking, putting his all into whatever role is needed of him.

His hands slide down, down, sliding fingers into the last bit of fabric left under the discarded pants. Tugs Steve closer, just so he can get his hands on that American ass, squeezing hard. "I'm gonna blow you 'til your legs start shaking. That sound like a good place to start?" If Steve's really as lasting as it sounds like he is, Clint might be writing checks his mouth can't cash, but he's already starting to dip, mouth leaving a trail as he goes.

Thinking about Bucky now doesn't hurt, not in the way that it used to. He knows Bucky is alive now, and had faith that he will come back to him. He needs time, and all of the leads that Steve has followed have only reinforced that. He doesn't know what will happen when the two of them come back together, but for now, he's free to be here, to do this, with Clint.

"We'll have to," Steve tells him with confidence. "It's not hard to get me there, but I have a high drive, and no refractory period. It's a side effect of the serum. Higher sex drive, I can go for hours. But I don't have to. You don't have to do that," he says, regarding Clint's suggestion that they tire him out completely.

His other offer, however, Steve is more than into. "Yes, yes. That's uh... I want that," he assures him, leaning into Clint's lips and getting his hands in his hair. It's kind of hot, standing here against the door to his suite with Clint on his knees in front of him. Steve's definitely into it. He thinks that they're going to have a good time.

Clint gives him an unimpressed look even from the floor. Don't have to, no. Going to, yes. "I'm gonna get you there as many times as it takes." Challenge fucking accepted, with gusto. "So don't you get on my ass tomorrow if I'm more up for ice baths than training."

Because whatever aches and sore muscles he ends up with will be so worth it if it means satisfying some truly superhuman needs.

He likes this, though. This is a nice angle, Steve all nice and bare and interested. He's going to make sure to get those hands in his hair tugging and pulling and directing. Not immediately. Not when he's got the opportunity to be a tease. Run hands slowly up and down thighs, leave sharp bites along the inside. Suck a temporary bruise in the space between hip and cock. He's light and exploratory with a hand, starting with some fondling--and he thinks it's very mature of him not to make any jokes about red, white, and blue balls, thank you very much--and then trailing lightly up from the base, along the underside, over the head, back down along the other side. All while kissing everything else in reach.

He wonders if he'll get Steve to beg at some point. It won't be a goal necessarily, but god, if it happens, he knows he'll be setting that memory aside to come back to later.

He offers up a few dry pumps, hand fully wrapped around, before finally putting his mouth to better use. Sliding wet lips along Steve's shaft, swirling his tongue around the tip, taking him in. Just a bit at a time before pulling back, bobbing back in deeper, pulling back, a little more each time. He knows there isn't any real need to drag this out, could have just dove in head first and tried to get the first one out of his partner as quickly as possible, but he likes the buildup, likes the tease, likes trying to drive his partner just a little bit crazy first. It's a fun game.

Steve smirks at him and says, "we'll see what tomorrow brings then, won't we?" If he wants to ride Clint's ass for being lazy, he's going to. Especially if it results in more no-strings days like this.

It becomes clear nearly immediately that Clint wants to tease, and that's perfectly fine. Steve knows he'll get his eventually, so he lets the archer touch and taste and outright fondle him while he does the same. He can't reach anywhere but Clint's shoulders, but he knows that there are sensitive areas on the head and neck, so he drifts his own hands around, gives the back of Clint's neck a soft squeeze and kneads his hands over his shoulders.

They're both just touching and exploring each other when Clint surprises him by taking him into his mouth. And that. That feels good. That feels amazing, actually. The archer is... talented. He's very good at this. Steve shouldn't be as surprised as he is.

"Fuck, Clint," he breathes. "Your mouth..."

There's just a subtle change in the shape of said mouth for a moment to suggest trying to smile with a dick in his mouth.

Look, he would not necessarily say he's got a praise kink, but it's always good to know he's doing a good job. Other people like to boast about their oral skills; Clint likes to let actions speak louder. He hasn't had any complaints since he was young and new at the game. And with his mouth occupied, he can't even crack wise about language unless he wants to be a little shit.

He does, but maybe later, when he feels like he's earned it more. The breathy praise just encourages him to pick up the pace. It's cute that Steve's doing what touching he can, but he'll worry about getting his later. His hands grip tight to hips as he goes deeper, faster. Adds in a vibrating hum of pleasure right up until he swallows Steve down as far as is comfortable (and then just a little more, to push himself) and stays there until the need for air starts to choke him. It's a rare time he takes his mouth off, just briefly, to suck down a breath or two, and then back to business with single-minded determination.

Steve is good with the teasing, perfectly fine in fact. Contrary to what most of their fellow Avengers believe, Steve has been getting it since he defrosted. It's mostly been in anonymous scenarios with men that he never expected to see again, and then a few times with Thor, but he's not innocent and he hasn't been for a very long time.

Which means he doesn't need to rush this. It's not like he hasn't had someone's mouth on his dick in seventy years.

So he touches, and gasps when something feels particularly good, and lets Clint suck him like a goddamn pro. He's not unaffected; quite the opposite, in fact. Clint is particularly good with his tongue and Steve appreciates his efforts. He appreciates them even more when the archer shows that he's serious.

It doesn't take Steve long after that, and soon he finds himself with shaky legs. He comes with a groan that sounds like it's being ripped out of him. "Fu-uck," he curses.

This is neither of their first rodeos. He supposes he was warned that Steve isn't hard to get off, just hard to fully satisfy. Still, it takes him by delighted surprise. He swallows, like he's a professional, and makes sure every last drop is cleaned up before letting his mouth pop off with an obscene noise.

Clint's laugh is a little rough, but thoroughly genuine. "You could give a guy a little warning." He rests a cheek on a thigh, looking pleased with himself. "And you can keep that up for hours? Damn, I got my work cut out for me, huh."

Steve's hand comes down immediately to cup Clint's cheek. He chuckles a little self consciously. "Sorry, sometimes I don't have much warning myself."

It hasn't always worked this way. Back before, when he and Bucky had been sharing space and a bed, when he was small, it was difficult to get him there consistently considering the health problems they had to contend with. But after the serum... After the serum, Steve could barely keep up with his libido's demands. It's a good thing that everyone wanted to get a hand on Captain America at the time, because it had been months before he found Bucky again.

"Come on, let's move away from the entry." They'd both been eager, it seems.

Steve tucks himself back into his pants and leads Clint deeper into his decidedly bare suite. There's a couch, at least, so that's where he motions for Clint to sit. "Can I get you some water?"

"Aw, don't get all modest now," Clint says, swatting Steve's no longer bare ass on the way. Being used to crouching like a gargoyle on rooftops and sniper positions for hours on end means a little time with his knees on the floor doesn't so much as twinge yet. Might not want to keep that up the whole time, but given Steve wants a fuck, he knows he won't be.

It's tempting to just ignore what accepting this challenge really means, fluids-wise, and lure his teammate back in for the next eager go-round, but sometimes the higher brain wins out. "Toss me a bottle, sure. And then you better get back over here for more where that came from."

Steve doesn't actually like water bottles, finds them wasteful, so he pours water into a glass and then hand delivers it to Clint, who is sitting on his couch. "Can I do anything else for you?" he asks, being very clear about his meaning. If Clint wants his mouth, he's more than willing to give it.

He slips onto the couch as well and turns to face the archer. "What do you have in mind?" he asks. He knows what he wants, but Clint seems determined to tire him out before they get to that point. Steve isn't sure they'll be successful but he's more than willing to try.

He doesn't mind, here, a drink in whatever form it comes. Call it a slightly paranoid force of habit from his lifestyle: nothing screams safe and untampered like cracking the seal on a bottle. No complaints about Stark's system, though; pretty sure that shit gets filtered fifty times before it reaches anyone.

Still feels like a balm, much more careful about sucking water down than he was about sucking Steve down. He'll set aside a joke about getting in his protein for later. "Oh, don't worry, I absolutely want to get off, too. Kinda hoping to wait until I've got you bent over the couch begging for me, though." Just as an example of something he's got in mind. "But hey, if we're gonna be at this all day, maybe I should see how many times I got in me, too."

Not near as many as Steve, is what he's gathered, which is why he's a little more careful about going too hard too fast with himself. If Steve's got a bit of a quick trigger, maybe that'll help more than hurt. He sets the glass aside. "We'll see how many different ways you wanna get fucked, how about that? You wanna ride me 'til your ass can't take any more? Maybe you're sweet and just want a little missionary? Maybe I should go borrow a strap from Natasha," he adds with a wiggle of his eyebrows. That one is not happening, probably, but it's a funny visual.

Steve watches Clint drink the glass of water he'd given him. He can't help it. They're already set the precedent of the type of activity they'll be doing, and he likes the line of his throat when he swallows. Hopefully, Clint doesn't think he's being strange, there's just such an easy intimacy between them, and Steve has always been an artist at heart.

That's not what they're here for, though. Steve moves closer and settles his hand on Clint's thigh. "That can be arranged," he says. He's definitely eager to bend over for Clint, but maybe not to the point of begging just yet.

"I want all of those things," he admits. "I've never been too picky about getting my rocks off." Considering the secrecy and lack of privacy needed during the war, he and Bucky had gotten quite creative. He and Peggy too. And all three of them.

The thing about Natasha though... Steve feels himself hardening up again at that idea. "Has Natasha ever... with you?" he asks curiously. Steve prefers men, feels like he always has, but he's been known to make exceptions for exceptional women. Both Peggy and Natasha are certainly that.

Hard not to notice an intense look. Clint sprawls back, comfy as you please, taking up more space than he would normally ever bother. "I'd say take a picture, it'll last longer, but maybe what you want is a nude model."

Steve's artistic side is no secret. Often he can be found staring out at the skyline with a notebook in hand, or taking some idle time with the gang together sketching out profiles. It's one of the things that makes him Steve Rogers before he's Captain America. It's cute, too.

He lays a hand over Steve's, directs it up, fingertips brushing under the hem of his shirt. Suggesting. While he mulls over Steve perking up over the idea of Natasha. "You expect me to kiss and tell? About her? I prefer my balls where they are, not mounted on her wall, thanks."

Y'know, said like he didn't just blatantly suggest she's into pegging. But he laughs about it. "She knows what we're doing, you know. Maybe you wanna go invite her? Want her to watch me take you apart? Want her to join in?"

That is definitely not happening, and if Steve gets it in his head to get up and do just that--actually, that might be really amusing to watch happen, though Clint might find it in him to warn otherwise. What he wants right now is for this to be the two of them. But there's nothing wrong with teasing the imagination and getting the blood pumping at the thought.

Steve can take a hint, and he tugs his shirt up and over his head, then moves a little forward so that he can divest Clint of his as well. "I don't usually prefer women," he admits, laying both of their shirts out over the back of the couch and moving his hands to the fly on Clint's jeans. Even if Clint doesn't want to get off just yet, he wants to see. "The USO girls were good friends and we all helped each other out, but I would have rathered at least one of them to have a dick. We made do," he mentions.

"The women I like are generally firecrackers, like Peggy. Like Natasha," he continues. "If she ever wanted to, I wouldn't say no." It's true to a certain extent. If Bucky came back and said he wanted to be exclusive because they could finally, Steve wouldn't ever dream of betraying that. They'd been non-monogamous out of necessity. If he wants to change that, Steve will never tell him no.

"Maybe we can ask her, if there's a next time," Steve suggests. If Clint and Natasha have had sex in the past, they're both very discreet about it. "And I'm not surprised that she knows. You two are creepy, with your brain connection." Not today though. He doesn't want to pass up the chance of getting fucked with a nice, hot dick.

Speaking of, he gets Clint's jeans undone and starts tugging them down his legs, underwear and all. "Now that. I'm looking forward to that." Without stopping to think, he leans down and presses a kiss to the head, sucks it into his mouth playfully before pulling back off. "Now, what do you have in mind for round two?"

"It's not creepy; you were very unsubtle." That's his laughing protest as he lets Steve undress him with finesse. He's learning a lot, though. Steve likes dick, only tolerates pussy if it's someone he very much likes that can pound him within an inch of his life with whatever they've got handy. Noted.

Clint's never been picky. That he fell in love as hard and fast as he did was downright anomalous, though that's in no way a complaint. When he was younger, when he didn't have a direction in his life before SHIELD and even a while after he'd been picked up, he had a reckless streak a country mile wide. Spent weekends at clubs and dive bars with whoever was interested wherever they felt like. Somehow it never ended up with him dead, though he calmed down significantly after gaining purpose and a handler that could read him like a book.

Still not picky, but maybe more discerning.

He sucks in a sharp breath when Steve can't help himself, huffs when he doesn't continue. "Glad it meets your approval." He wriggles, kicking out of his shoes, shoving the fabric the whole rest of the way off. Plucks the little bottle of lube, nicely warmed, from his pocket to set also on the table. "I was thinking you get your hands all over me while I tug you off this time, but if you're that impatient for it, I could just go right to fingering you wide open while blowing you so you're good and ready to hop right into round three..."

Steve can be patient, he knows that he can, and the idea of getting to touch Clint however he wants while Clint touches him back is warming him up all over. "I can wait," he says, "if that's what you want. I wouldn't want you to feel like I'm neglecting you." He definitely does not want Clint to feel left out, but he also understands that the archer may not be able to get off as many times as he can.

It's been... a thing, in the past. Guys often think that they can go toe to toe with him but they wear themselves out too fast. Clint is smarter than that, he thinks.

"But I also am looking forward to hopping right on," he admits. He's certainly not shy about what he wants in bed, he's just not going to talk about it in front of everyone, like Tony does. It's Clint's suggestion though, so he gets up off the couch, tugs off his own pants and then crawls over the archer, drawing him into a deep, demanding kiss.

The problem with every option being equally appealing is the same as trying to order food for the gang and being told 'I'm good with whatever'. Very entertaining but also means the actual decision-making process grinds to a halt.

Good thing this process is an extremely fun one. Steve taking what he wants also has a lot of appeal. It's cute that he's not exactly looking to be the man in charge when it comes to being in bed, but damn if there isn't something hot about the way he just devours Clint's mouth like he's always belonged there. Clint gives as good as he gets, though, not looking to be passive in any of it, eager to get his teeth involved again, running hands down Steve's back and then digging nails in to scratch back up.

When there's a brief pause for breath, he shoots his partner a lopsided grin. "I can promise I don't feel neglected. You wanna put your mouth to work, I won't say no, so long as you remember I've got a wait time between. Lucky fuck." In every way.

Steve grins at Clint at the suggestion. "The way I see it, we can both get what we want," he says, gently fitting his hand around Clint's dick and giving it a couple pulls. "I get my mouth on you now, show you what being in the army really taught me, and then you get a bit of a breather while you get me ready. Then I'll let you bend me over, or I can ride you, dealer's choice."

He's gotten the impression that Clint is into everything they've done so far, and he'd already mentioned wanting Steve's mouth, so Steve drops another of those molten kisses on him and then starts to make his way down, trailing his lips over Clint's skin and mapping out the lines of muscle with his tongue.

Finally, he finds himself kissing over Clint's hips, leaving light, suckling marks. He wants to tease for a moment, so he does. He nips at the archer's hips, sucks a mark into the defined vee heading down toward his dick. He gets a hand beneath him so that he can squeeze his ass before finally, finally sucking Clint all the way down. He'd overcome that pesky gag reflex in his teens, so there's no hesitation in taking him in fully.

"Mm, think we're gonna have to move to bed if you wanna ride, cowboy." Somewhere with a little more space to spread out. So put a pin in that for later, because he doesn't plan on moving from this couch anytime soon. He props himself up better to watch Steve go down, and down, and down. Nothing against the inexperienced, but thank god this ain't Steve's first rodeo, the way he knows exactly what he's doing to feel so damn good. "We'll stay right here, see how flexible you are. Gonna fuck you so hard you'll get rugburn and thank me for it."

His breath stutters in his chest when Steve takes him in, all the way, immediately. Apparently there's no teasing when it comes to the main attraction. and he slides a harsh grip into Steve's short hair. "Oh, fuck, army taught you well."

Steve can't grin with a dick in his mouth, practically down his throat but he squeezes Clint's thigh to convey the sentiment. He's absolutely on board with the plans they've made, and swallows around Clint to demonstrate that. He does pull off after a bit though, wanting to show all of his skills, and not just the fact that he can deepthroat a guy like a champ.

He takes his time sucking on the head, uses liberal tongue, and strokes Clint with one of his hands. He licks up the length, dips down to run his tongue over Clint's balls until finally sucking him back down again.

"Showoff," he huffs, already planning on doing much the same to Steve later. A little finesse never killed nobody, but fuck, his partner's definitely done this a lot, and it shows. The grip in his hair turns into cradling the back of his head, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He's not quiet about his enjoyment, peppering curses in with delighted groans. He throws a leg wide off the couch like bracing himself on the floor, and his hips can't help but twitch up into that hot mouth. He's sure if he wanted to, Steve could take him trying to fuck right down his throat.

Steve can tell that Clint is enjoying himself, which is the idea, but he thinks that he can make it even better. He pulls off a little, bobbing his head to give that much more pleasure to the archer, then getting one of his hands beneath him. He's getting the idea that Clint is into pretty much anything Steve might think to do, so he cups his ass and considers doing a bit more teasing with his fingers.

He pulls off very briefly, only to say, "this okay?" while wriggling his fingers in Clint's ass crack and, "you can fuck my mouth, if you want."

"What, you gonna steal all my ideas and finger me instead?" He grins down at Steve. "I gotta start keeping this shit to myself and make everything a surprise." He strokes a hand with gentle fondness down Steve's neck, across a shoulder, squeezes. "You feel good, babe; keep going." While Clint takes full advantage of that talented mouth.

Steve wasn't actually going to finger him properly, just a little tease to keep him feeling good. But that doesn't matter now, because Clint seems on board with the idea. Steve shrugs at him innocently, but then ruins it by winking and licking around the head of his cock. He sneaks his fingers further toward his entrance, but only teases the rim since he doesn't have any lube to make it comfortable.

Steve is more a front-lines, lead the charge, fighting guy than someone suited to just tracking somebody down. Without a couple of years of being a fugitive under his belt, he'd be even less suited.

What he lacks in subtlety, though, he makes up for in being damned stubborn.

Why is he tracking Clint? Because Clint's a member of his fucking team. Because he cares. Because he's worried, and has more than enough compassion (and intelligence) to know that he has good reason to be. Without Clint having lost his family? Maybe Steve would have left it (and Clint) alone. With them gone, there is not a snowball's chance in hell Steve's going to do that.

He doesn't know what kind of reception he's going to get when he finally tracks Barton down to Mexico. He isn't expecting it to be a warm up - not with the 'tracking him down' part in play, though he knows Clint's not exactly running from him. It doesn't matter in any way that stops him.

It does matter just enough that he makes a point of choosing an outdoor location during daylight hours, making damn sure Clint has seen him on the street and approaching directly from the front. "You're not an easy guy to find."

He had to run. And Natasha knew that, too.

He's pretty sure she's the only real reason he's been allowed to do this as long as he has. Because he's good, damned good at disappearing, but she's always been better. Assumes that she's been tracking his movements (at the very least, predicting his next moves) and simply letting him be, keeping anyone from going after him. Or probably at least strongly suggested he be left alone.

In the wake of the devastation, all that was left of the team huddled together in various states of action or inaction in New York, he'd felt so suffocated, like crawling out of his own skin because screaming about it wouldn't have felt like enough. There were five hundred million things to do, and at the very same time, nothing to be done. He had stuck around for as long as he could, but the despondency was too much, and he simply vanished from his room one night.

Nothing has felt right since.

The idea of going back surfaces every once in a while. And that never feels right, either. The pain inside of him always feels fresh, and when he looks around the places he goes to, sees the pain and damage left behind? It's easier to reach for bitterness and anger. The mighty Avengers (and the backing of an entire advanced country) couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. And with half of them gone, what's the point?

Clint doesn't do well without a mission, though. His aimless wanderings to try and keep off the radar only make him restless. And as he moves, he sees the inevitable: the gaping power vacuums being filled, desperate people getting preyed upon, devastated communities ravaged.

And if the Avengers can't, won't do something about it, well.

Steve does the smart thing catching him out in the open like this. Clint's been casing warehouses and the surrounding areas, rooftops, back alleys, easy entrances and exits, places to slip off into the night and disappear, ways to slip in unnoticed, places he can perch and watch from. Trying to sneak up on him wouldn't have been wise, and in the dark or the confines of a building might have been worse.

God. This isn't supposed to happen. Not Steve of all people.

"Yeah, kinda what years in the business does." Didn't disappear well enough, but maybe his activities have drawn enough attention. Clint doesn't bolt, even if part of him wants to. That instinct of having been made, get out before there's trouble. But he doesn't make any approach, watches keenly. "You're not supposed to be here."

Steve's doing his best to walk a line, here, with how he treats Clint.

His motivation isn't his own safety. He knows Clint can, given just the right opportunity, absolutely kill him. He finds the idea of that damn unlikely. Put a projectile somewhere non-lethal if he feels the need to get away strongly enough, sure, but not kill.

He looks up, squinting faintly toward the sky and their surroundings and then back to Clint. "I'm pretty sure I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be." He sounds really, really confident when he says it. He doesn't take so much as a single step toward Clint, though, not yet.

"Have you already done what you came here to do?" He sounds matter of fact, maybe a little interest. Not high pressure, not judgemental.

He wants Clint back. He wants Clint not to be alone, more. He is absolutely treating Clint a little like he would an almost feral cat. ...Or maybe just a really wounded person.

Same difference, in the end. Once upon a time, a determined SHIELD agent recruited Clint to the cause and effectively domesticated a feral cat. The tendencies are still there, clearly.

"I'm here on vacation," he says smoothly, almost like it's true. More like it's a joke. "Maybe we hit up the beach, you and me. Drink a couple mimosas and pick up a souvenir shotglass."

How does he get out of here without hurting Steve enough to impair him for a bit?

"Probably not worth wasting the money on giving me alcohol, but I wouldn't mind at least seeing a beach with you." Subtle emphasis on with.

He's not going away. Shield determination - even Fury's - isn't really all that much compared to Steve's. Clint hurts him enough to get away, he gets away and Steve will come back again and repeat this whole song and dance until hell is as frozen as he was, once upon a time.

But he will play the game and not mention anything too direct about intentions or worry or emotions. Let Clint lead the charade. Steve's goal, in this second, is just to very firmly and indirectly make it clear that he's not going away.

"You can play tour guide."

Edited 2024-10-31 03:02 (UTC)

He's not much for arrows anymore. With what he has to do, he has to go in hard and fast, with brutal efficiency. If he needs to hurt Steve, that's what he has to do, and that might not end well. They've sparred often enough to have an idea of how they do in close quarters combat. Steve's bigger, but he isn't slow by any means.

Still. His hand grips the hilt of his sword, folded up in his hoodie pocket.

"Pretty sure you're not here on vacation." Clint tips his head. "She send you my way?"

Steve has no desire to tip Clint over into coming at him with violence; he's fully prepared for it to happen, and just as prepared to just take anything short of lethal levels of it. He'll heal. He can pick this up again when he does. Damage done from him so much as returning violence to Clint, when what he wants is Clint to at least stop bolting away from him? Not so much.

Dragging Clint home unconscious is not the goal. In fact, that would be counter productive and really, really stupid.

He still doesn't want that.

He tilts his head slightly, as much as the subtle muscle tension that comes with Clint's grip tightening inside his pocket. "Nat? No. She can get in touch if she needs me. I'd be surprised if she didn't know what I was up to, but I didn't get sent." And she didn't try to stop him.

"I'm not here to force you back."

Good. Then they're in agreement that that'd be a really fucking stupid idea.

"Nice seeing you. Give the others my regards."

He knows it's not that simple. Steve found him, and found him for a reason. And when Steve gets an idea in his head, he doesn't let it go. Doesn't let anything stop him from doing what he thinks is right. It's so sickeningly wholesome of him, a reason Clint always picked up the phone and suited up to help even when he "retired". And it's a reason why he can't be involved in any of this.

Clint turns to leave. Not turn the whole way around and present his back, but perpendicular, to keep Steve in his periphery. To his credit, he doesn't run. Not yet.

"Sounds good."

Except he says that when he moves with Clint. He maintains more or less the same distance between them, but when Clint turns to walk, so does he. Then gestures with one hand in a 'lead the way' sort of way.

Steve said exactly what he meant. He's not here to force Clint back. He said nothing about not wanting Clint back, and didn't even imply he was going to leave.

"I'll let them know when I'm back." It won't be when someone calls him. That would just be pointing a spotlight on Clint, and Steve's not doing that anymore than he's going to just walk away.

"This the game we're gonna play, Cap? Cuz I gotta tell you, I'm not really up for games." He's not going to just lead Steve back to the hovel he's holed himself up in for the time being. Not deliberately, anyway. He glances over, shoots him a cold look. "Go home."

"No."

It's pretty mild, but okay. If Clint wants direct, he'll do it with relief.

"You can come back or you can not, but I'm not leaving you out here alone anymore. It's not working for me and it's not working for you."

"It's working for me just fine. Seems like it's working for me better than anything any of the rest of you are doing is working for any of you, so." Not that he keeps in touch to find out, but he knows that the Avengers, such as they are, aren't exactly avenging much right now. Tony apparently came back from god damn space and then fucked off. Somehow, finally, something they can agree on.

"You're not gonna wanna be here when I'm done with my vacation."

"No." He's flat in tone and expression around that one. "You resent me? I earned it about four billion times over. You wanna target and an excuse?" He holds both his arms out. "You can have it now or when you're done - hell, play it right and you can have both. But you're not gonna stand there and imply that people who are using everything they've got to do something between not die and finding a way to live with this shit are doing something wrong. And you're not gonna convince me that you acting like a cornered wild animal is what working for you looks like."

He spins on his heel to stare at Steve, incensed and hurt in a way he can't articulate. "What in the hell makes you think I resent you?"

Well, gosh, Clint, maybe it's the whole disappearing and going to ground and then becoming a figure of absolute fear and terror and refusing to come home thing.

"I set everything aside to follow you, fighting our own friends, because you asked me to. And I would have done it again, and again, and again." Does he resent Steve for tracking him down, for being here? Fuck, he's not sure he can. "But right here, right now, if what you see is me backed into a corner, it's because you're backing me into one. And that's on you. I just want you to go back home before you get caught up in something you're gonna hate yourself for."

Steve does not have a poker face. 'Are you fucking kidding me right now' is not hard to read on his face.

He still leaves it - for now - because he's incredulous, disbelieving, frustrated about all of it. Probably more the last point than all the rest combined.

"You want an accounting of all the shit I've done that makes what you've got going on not a massive problem for me, or can we just hit the part where my failure lead to half of life on the planet being turned into dust?" He actually kind of growls. "I walk away and I get a report that you succeeded in getting yourself killed, I'm gonna hate myself more. This?" He snorts. "File under Ultron being right about me, because right now I don't have a problem with it. I've got a big problem with losing another person."

Edited 2024-10-31 13:44 (UTC)

"You sanctimonious little shit," which is a funny thing to call someone several inches taller, "you don't get to put the blame of half the universe on your shoulders. Get over yourself, Atlas. You blame Nat for it, too? Rhodes? How about Thor?"

All of whom are going to blame themselves. Because that's the kind of people they are. Clint wishes he could take some blame, but he wasn't anywhere close to it. If anyone had gotten in touch with him, damn the legal system, he would've ripped off his ankle monitor in a heartbeat.

(And then he wouldn't have made a difference and would have gone home to nothingness.)

"Half the universe is not your responsibility. And I'm not your responsibility, either."

There is no rational reason Steve should find Clint calling him a sanctimonious little shit reassuring, but he kind of does. Maybe he'll examine the whys of that later, maybe he won't.

"I might resent Thor just a little right about now," he admits. "I shouldn't, and it's not fair, but I might." Which is too much honesty, but apparently too much honesty is where this conversation is right now. "I'm not here because I think I'm responsible for you. I'm here because you left, didn't tell anyone where you were going, started doing dangerous shit alone and you're my friend, Clint. Whether you want that or not. And since we're here, stop claiming me you'd follow me again when you're actively trying to get rid of me."

He does expect honesty out of Steve, but that's still an admittance he wasn't expecting. Tension between the team, well, that's achingly familiar.

"Would've, past tense." Now? Now he doesn't want to work on a team, follow anyone but himself. Responsible to no one. Nobody to disappoint. None of them to look at him like a monster for doing what nobody else sees fit to do.

"Shockingly, I'm used to doing dangerous shit alone. I can take care of myself. And if you don't want to get your hands dirty, you better stay out of my way."

There's less tension than there is Steve recognizing good and well that Thor needs to be where he is and doing what he's doing, but still being... well, kind of resentful about it. His feelings about Tony - in this one - aren't all that dissimilar.

There is no fucking team. He's got a teenager, a traumatized alien, a raccoon and Natasha. He's never been more lonely in his life, and that is fucking saying something.

"I don't know who you've mistaken me for, but I'm not going to keep going in circles on it. If the options are my hands getting dirty," dirtier, "and getting out of your way, they're just going to get dirty."

He just doesn't buy that. Steve won't join in, and he can't be Captain America even if he somehow does. What he imagines is that Steve's going to keep talking at him, and then when push comes to shove, he's going to be held back by a grip he can't fight his way out of.

"If you're not gonna force me back, you're just gonna, what, follow me around? Be the angel on my shoulder?"

"What I'm going to do is whatever it takes not to have tell Natasha the only person still on earth that she loves is dead."

There's... no varnish or apology or manipulation that. It's as bluntly stated as anything Steve has ever said. He'd point himself out in that equation, but he's pretty sure he already had.

Edited 2024-10-31 14:42 (UTC)

"Don't." The anger is easier to reach for, something to smother the pain at least temporarily. "You don't get to act like this is for her. If she wanted to make damn sure, she'd be here herself."

That's what partners do. She's given him space, and if she were so worried he was going to kill himself doing this, she would be here. Could be that's her confidence in his skills. So much has come after him, and he keeps surviving, every time. A couple of cartels and mobs and yakuza and mafias aren't going to do him in.

But Clint can't act righteous about it, either. He doesn't want that love, that care or pity. He can't face it. Can't take kindness. That's not for him anymore, and if he could just explain that instead of all the words getting jumbled up and stoppered up in his throat--

"Stop giving a shit about me," he growls. It's like telling the sun to stop shining, he knows, but it barrels out of him anyway. "Better for everyone if you just let me disappear."

Steve doesn't need the words. There are some gaps in his specifics, but he's trying to make this about other people for reasons. That he'd rather take another high dive off a high rise than admit that he's here because he needs Clint at least within reach is creating some issues.

"All right. Let's play out where this goes in your head. I stop giving a shit about you. "Not possible Clint. He can't stop loving people, but for the sake of conversation. "I leave you alone and go back to the Compound. Then I'm doing what?" Besides what wasn't working for them (him).

Edited 2024-10-31 15:12 (UTC)

"You go back to whatever it is you were already doing with the rest of your life. You stop chasing ghosts. You..." The irony could make him gag. It makes him want to crawl into the deepest, darkest hole he can find. But he can't let himself do that, either. "You let go, of the version of me you thought you knew. The man's dead."

Or at least buried under so much pain as to be unrecognizable.

He isn't sure he's been less comfortable in a conversation in his life. He'd probably prefer dealing with being disemboweled at this point. He'd definitely prefer any physical fight.

"You wanna go ahead and tell me what life you think I'm getting back to? My life stopped in 1945. I almost got something back with the team when that was a thing. Fights, ghosts, and giving a shit are what I've got."

He might, just might, know something about the person you were being dead. He might also know a thing or two about sticking with someone else who's been profoundly damaged to the point of becoming dangerous.

Yeah. Yeah, okay. Steve might know a thing or three about all of that. He put everything on the line for Bucky, the last remnant of what he had before the ice. Clint had helped.

And now that's gone, too, and whatever fucked up family's been cobbled together is what's left.

"Stubborn son of a bitch." In another context, it would be fond. It nearly is, the quiet, calm manner Clint says it. He keeps walking, then, expecting Steve will keep following.

"You know what the Ronin gets up to, Steve?" He didn't pick the name, but it's a fitting moniker nevertheless. If he insists on hanging around, he better know what he's in for.

Steve is actively grateful for Clint leaving it there. Almost more so for Clint stopping his active attempts to get rid of him. He... hates being that kind of exposed and honest. He could just about, sometimes, half admit something sideways to Sam. That had been about as good as it had ever gotten.

There's real relief in just moving on, regardless of what it's moving on to.

And yeah, he's following. "I've got a pattern of targets and results. I don't have methods and I sure as shit don't have the plan for here, though the target's pretty obvious."

It's a practical thing. Digging into Steve's baggage means turnabout is fair play. Clint likes to think tactical, though. If he really wants to give a good effort to piss Steve off, chase him away, he can pick a moment to go digging claws into it full swing.

No matter what man he is now, though, he doesn't have the intention of hurting the people who were friends and family to him.

"Results are real brutal. But effective. Pretty sure the likes of Captain America wouldn't approve."

If Clint comes out swinging, Steve'll either swipe back or won't. There's no real way to predict from where he is right now. He's not going to waste time or energy think about it.

Just walk, and listen and then snort. "I'm not gettin' back on that merry go around." He's pretty sure Clint believes it. He's willing to entertain that Clint might even be right. He doubts Clint's completely right, though.

"I'm not trying to stop you doing what you need to do or gonna get in your way. How about you let me sorry about the state of my hands, or soul, or approval or whatever this is. I just need enough of a plan that I can at least stay out of your way."

"Y'know, there's a real easy thing you can do to stay out of my way," Clint snaps. Which is not happening. He shakes his head. "You're not coming on this op, if that's what you're thinking. If all you wanna do is play guardian angel, then you're gonna be real bored."

Steve's pretty clear done engaging with all levels of this discussion. They've reached some kind of agreement, that neither one of them's quite happy with. Clint's dealing with Steve being there, Steve's dealing with getting out of Clint's way but not taking him home.

He'll revisit if something changes.

"I'll find a book."

"Fine. Twiddle your thumbs until it's time to move."

He's not taking Steve to whatever his next destination is. They walk for a time--mostly because Clint still isn't sure that he's taking Steve anywhere. If he can find somewhere to ditch him, all the better.

"You don't have better shit to be doing than following me around? What happens after this? Go globetrotting after me until, what?"

He might actually be just fed-up enough, and enough himself, that he'd pointedly settle in and actually twiddle his thumbs.

Not at the moment, though.

He shrugs, slightly. "Bounce between you and Nat at the Compound, I guess. Everybody's else is managing to build some kind of life for themselves." It just is what it is. Run a damn support group while he's back there, maybe. Something.

Sam would've been a much better choice to send after Clint, but he's not an option. So maybe Steve just feels like he has to do this instead. Nothing he says seems to indicate 'send you to therapy' or 'sign you into a psych ward'. What it indicates is that even Steve is unmoored. What life he felt like he was really starting to build got shattered, and now he's just as adrift as Clint.

Maybe it's a guilt thing. Determined not to get Steve wrapped up in this lifestyle until he feels all kinds of bad about it and goes back?

And then do what? What kind of life is he supposed to build back up?

"This isn't the kind of life you want to make for yourself."

Sam would have been a better choice for a lot of things. One of the many he'd have been a better choice for would have been sending after Clint.

He actively grits his teeth a second there, then forces physical tension out of himself - including his jaw - on a deep breath and exhale. Pissed, hurt, just frustrated or weirdly lonely in spite of the presence of another person, he doesn't know.

"What kind of life do you think I want to be making for myself?"

"I don't think you know what you want." But he can't want to be chasing after Clint and potentially sitting around while a massacre happens. "Did it all get too much for you, too?"

Steve would be sitting around while it happened either way. He's just going to end up sitting around closer this way.

This might be progress. Maybe. He still shoots Clint a sideways look before he answers the question, half expecting any answer is going to twist around and bite him on his ass.

"It gets pretty... suffocating out there, sometimes." He won't stay gone. He knows that. He can't. He's not going to pretend that the movement at least has felt better than... not.

The sound that comes out of him is somewhere between a huff and a laugh, but there's the briefest flash of a wry smirk that goes with it. "That's a good word for it. 's why I couldn't stick around, y'know, suffocating."

"Yeah. I always had some idea why you needed out of there." A pause, but still walking, and with not the first idea where they're going. "I wasn't even upset about you leaving."

"What was the upsetting part? Staying gone?" Clint decides to lead them out to a main street with more people actually around. That might make things a little less stifling. "Didn't know where I was going, at first. Just needed to go. Figured if I ever needed to go back..."

But clearly he had never felt that need. And now he'd prefer to do anything but go back.

"You sure you want an answer to that?" Fair warning that he will give one.

"Sure. Fuck it. Unless you wanna wait and have heartfelt conversation where it's a little more private." Given most everyone around speaks Spanish almost exclusively, he's not overly worried about eavesdroppers unless they're recognized. Outside the States, Clint's demonstrably less recognizable, he finds. But then, he hasn't dragged Steve Rogers around with him before. "In which case, we could grab some tamales and tostadas for the road."

Steve's a lot less recognizable without the shield or a suit, but he's still a well built, clearly American guy. Especially given speaking English. "No promises on it being heartfelt enough to embarrass you, but private's better." Also he's hungry and visibly perks up a little at mention of food.

Fine by Clint, though he does internally curse at himself. Because then he's probably actually going to lead Steve back to where he's holed up. It isn't like there's anything out of the ordinary, just what he takes with him. It just might be...sad.

Christ, he shouldn't care about that.

Thankfully, just like in New York, you can throw a rock and hit a street vendor. There aren't quite so many as there used to be, he thinks. But people gotta eat, people gotta make their money, and people like convenient. Not everything has gone back to a new, bizarre normal, but a lot of things have been getting there. Clint's Spanish is good enough to chat up the sellers, pay for a decent amount of food, and he makes Steve carry some of it.

And if they're silent the rest of the way, that doesn't bother him at all.

The dim apartment complex isn't far. It functions as a cheap roof over people's heads. And for Clint, it functions as a place where people don't ask questions. "Home sweet temporary home," he mutters, depositing some of the goods on a rickety table.

Steve's pretty silent on the way back, but not in a way that implies any kind of discomfort or awkwardness. In truth the quiet, getting the food and carrying it back to the apartment provides a little bit of a reprieve for him. He can lay down a speech when he needs to, but he's a long way from Tony levels of verbose.

He pays attention to where they are and the apartment on a tactical level - where it is, who's around, what kind of activity level there is - but he's not uncomfortable with the place. He's spent more time in places like it than anywhere like Stark Tower or the Avengers Tower, by a lot.

Still sad, but it's sad for reasons than have more to do with Clint than the place.

Inside he starts unloading the food he'd been carrying onto the table, alongside Clint. "It upset me because you didn't tell me you were going." He pauses, then looks up. "Actually it scared the hell out of me." Direct on that one. "It left me filling in gaps on why, besides not wanting a chance that somebody might be able to stop you. Best case scenario I could figure out for you going and not saying anything was that you were pissed off. Worst was that you were going off to die."

Then the activity he'd been tracking toward Clint? Not exactly reassuring.

"Someone would've tried to talk me out of it." Clint shakes his head, not meeting Steve's eye as he takes a few hot goodies for himself and sits on the edge of the bed. "Wasn't gonna sit through that. If I was gonna be dead, I'd be dead."

Is what he figures. Plenty of easy ways to go. This isn't one of them. Might be a slow death, but it's at least active, lets him get shit done while digging his own grave.

"If you came all this way for an apology, you're gonna be sorely disappointed."

Steve grabs one of the tostadas, since that one's a lower mess option and eats standing up and leaning one shoulder against the wall. "I didn't come here for an apology. I came to give you one and because watching you commit suicide in slow motion from a distance wasn't my idea of a good time."

And he's still here because Clint's managed to engage Steve's opposition reflex and Steve's got his heels dug in.

As soon as he's done speaking, though? Eating. It's been a long few days.

"Oh, so you wanna watch it up close and personal, makes perfect sense." He pulls the sword handle from his hoodie and sets it carefully on the pillow, then pulls his legs up to sit crosswise. His lap doesn't make for much of a table, but it's something. "I don't need an apology from you."

"Yeah, I figured that out somewhere when we were cycling between you trying to keep blood off my pristine hands and just being mad I was breathing in the same country as you." A pause. "Think it was in the gap you called me Atlas, actually."

His tone's dry, and not really amused. "Me preferring to be close shouldn't be that much of a shock."

"S'pose if anyone was going to even bother trying to show up besides Tasha, it'd be you on some noble-ass crusade." Even if Steve seems to think it's merely about friendship or something. "What, did you really think I blamed you?"

"Yeah, I'm making no promises this won't turn into a situation where you're getting tag teamed by us." She was worried too, and she and Steve... had been pretty good friends for a while, but they'd gotten closer in pure self-defense. "And yeah, I really did think you blamed me."

Deadpan: "Don't go putting images like that in my head, Rogers; you're gonna make me blush."

Not that he should go deliberately misconstruing anything at a sex joke, but, y'know, at least he still has something resembling a sense of humor.

"No one to blame but the purple piece of shit that's been dogging us since Loki first took a swing at us, and I hear he's been taken care of."

Steve chokes on his food, but then laughs, at least for a second there. He also blushes, but that could be from inhaling his lunch as easily as from anything else.

It doesn't last long because the rest of what they're talking about, but for a second? Definitely there.

Then he just... shrugs. "There's plenty of blame to go around. I'm not telling you to blame me. Just that I thought you did." But also: a lot of them blame themselves, and Steve definitely does and would have accepted it. He just... really doesn't want to fight with Clint - at all, and especially not about that.

"There's nothing left to blame."

And that might be the really damning part. If he had anything to aim all the anger and grief at, that'd be one thing. But Thanos is gone. The Stones are gone. There's nothing to be done, now, but wait for the end of his too-long natural life. He feels like taking it all out on the fucks that want to exploit those who are left is a good target, though. Catharsis, if there's any to be found.

"So if you're looking for a fight out of me, you gotta try harder than just showing up unannounced."

He wishes there were a target, too. A way out, get some kind of victory isn't even on his radar. He'd just take a target.

He's not going to bother saying it. Clint was in the room when Ultron very accurately pegged him. If knowing him and having it spelled out doesn't tell him that Steve would really like something to fight, Steve saying it won't make it better.

And it's not about him.

Clint finding any outlet is better than having not. Not good. Not when Steve's pretty sure Clint doesn't really much want to win, but better than not. Probably.

"I dunno, Clint, seems like turning up was enough to get some kind of fight out of you out there. I won't argue if we're done with it, though. Hitting things is a lot more my speed than arguing"

"Fight or flight was really leaning more towards flight there, if I'm honest." No reason to start fighting friends if he can just get away and vanish again. And now that's looking less like an option. He can't just drag Steve around because he's also aimless and looking for some people to eviscerate.

"But if you need a sparring partner, didn't have to come out all this way for one."

"Yeah, that would have been at least as awkward, but probably less painful." Less physically painful for him, anyway.

Steve finishes what he's eating and then just... folds down to sit on the floor, one leg folded under him with the other knee up, but still with the wall against his shoulder.

"I can go for a run if I want a physical outlet and skip punching you. Maybe instead you settle for a couple of days company now and then and if you're feeling real generous work out a deadman's switch so somebody knows if something happens to you."

"Maybe you shouldn't skip punching me."

He says it very simply, but now he's wondering if he shouldn't have glossed over that bit and gone with 'fuck that' instead about the deadman's switch. Too late to stuff the words back in his mouth now.

"You got some anger, take it out on me."

He stares at Clint, but in a way that's more assessing and speculative than shocked or horrified, and not because he's going for that.

"You want pain and to bleed, we'll work it out and I'll feel good about it - probably even enjoy it, but I'm not 'taking my anger out' on anybody but Thanos." Too dangerous, too uncontrolled, too close to being someone he absolutely is not going to be.

And no, there's not a single hint of being embarrassed, uncomfortable, judgemental or upset in saying any of that.

That snaps Clint's gaze up, his own assessing happening. It's not the kind of response he was expecting. Huh. Maybe the whole event fucked Steve up more than he's let anyone know.

There's no judgement. Steve says he'll even feel good about it. No running off in disgust, no chiding him for poor coping habits, just a promise to work something out if that's what Clint wants.

It relaxes some of the steel in his spine, a dip in his shoulders for it. He works himself hard, always has, to stay in peak condition. Now he works just as hard to be the most deadly thing with a blade in the world. It isn't that he never gets hurt, same as on the old job, but nobody gets too close to doing any hospital-worthy damage. (And when there's somewhere needs stitching he can't reach, well, there are always some back alley medics and holes in the wall that'll do whatever's needed with no questions asked for a wad of cash.) He's just a hair too smart and too good to get into fight clubs, not useful.

To be fair, it's not useful to get beat up on by one of his allies, either, but that's different.

"And what do you want?"

Got it, Steve thinks when Clint's head comes up and his shoulders go down.

He's not shocked. He is not, even now that they're here, surprised. It makes sense. It fits. It fits what Clint has lost, who Clint is, and what Clint's been doing. Clint's reaction is subtle, but clear enough, and it's a relief.

It's a relief because it gives Steve a way of being useful to Clint, but almost more importantly, he doesn't consider what he's talking about anything like unhealthy. It might well be the most healthy coping mechanism he can think of for this man in these circumstances.

It's sure as hell a lot healthier than Ronin.

He stays put on the floor, keeps his eyes on Clint. Continues to be real damn matter of fact in answering what is a completely fair question. "I like helping people who matter to me. Help comes in flavors besides vanilla."

Can't flirt without tripping over his own feet. This? Easy. Because of the motivation. Familiarity. What the dynamic is. Already knowing and caring.

Clint gives a scoff, a sharp little shake of his head, setting aside the remnants of his meal and leaning forward, arms across his knees. "That's a damned cop-out and you know it. Didn't ask what you like. I asked what you want."

Sure, he can rephrase it. Clint expects something pithy like 'I want to help you', which might be true but would be annoying. 'I want to make sure you don't die because we're friends' would also be a restatement of what Steve's already said and also annoying.

Maybe what Steve wants is to feel something. Maybe what he wants is for the world to go back to the way it was. Maybe what he wants is to go back to the 40's and live out the rest of his life the way he was supposed to. At least that would feel more real.

"What I need and want is people to stop asking me questions about what I want and need and then asking me like I'm lying or evading when I give them an answer. Then acting shocked when I stop telling them," he snaps.

He drags one hand back through his hair in frustration, then lets it fall. "You're not hearing me - or maybe just not getting it. I'm not offering myself up like a star spangled martyr. I want a lot of things that aren't possible." Something to fight. To go home. To get everyone they lost back. To just be done. "I also want to take every bit of focus I've got and to put it on someone else in a way that is good for everybody. Hurting you until you drop through the metaphorical floor counts. I'm not going to put another motivator on it because you can't wrap your head around the idea that you can make somebody bleed and have it be about something besides venting anger."

Edited 2024-11-01 18:12 (UTC)

It's almost like he can feel the sparks fly with the way their methods of communication keep breaking down so spectacularly. Clint gives him a hardened glare, building up a sharp retort--

--and then lets it go, flopping back along the excuse for a bed with a long exhale. He rubs at his eyes.

"Imagine I made some joke about how kinky that sounds," he says tiredly with a wave of his hand.

Still better than Steve trying to communicate with Tony - though maybe he and Clint would do better if they stopped talking and started writing each other letters.

He quirks a faint smile. "Pretty sure that's less sounding kinky than it actually kinky." He sounds apologetic around that one, though. "I can get out of your hair, but I can't do it for about 24 hours." And he doesn't really... want to get out of Clint's hair, communication breakdown or not.

"Well, hey, if making me bleed gets you off, let me know before we get into a beat down drag out, yeah?" Easier to make light than to really dig deep into anything else.

He lets out another huff at the dingy ceiling before sitting back up to reach for a notebook, this time under the pillow. He flips it open, and from the right angle Steve might be able to make out what looks to be a simple layout of the immediate area. He's adding to it, jotting some notes along the way. "Any particular reason why you're glued to my side for that long?" As opposed to two or three days, or even indefinitely.

"Unless you get off on it, I'm not going to be," Steve says, tone dry and almost amused but only in the most self-depreciating sense.

Steve does look to follow Clint's motion and doesn't look away from the notebook. The layout strikes him and he doesn't need more than a glance to know what Clint's doing with it, or to have it stick in his head.

"24's the minimum. I didn't really make arrangements for being here. Wasn't sure I'd actually find you, and definitely didn't know how it would go if it did. Wasting resources on treating it like a real vacation didn't make sense. Figured I'd give it a solid day and then decide and work something out or just get out."

Edited 2024-11-01 19:10 (UTC)

Clint lets it drop without further comment. Lest either one of them learn a little more than they bargained for. He marks down light sources, any external cameras he noticed. Hums absently at Steve's explanation. "S'pose you could go jetsetting around the world with me, taking out the garbage left of humanity until the work's done."

He harbors no illusions that that's how it would actually go.

"I dunno. Could be fun for a while." At least it'd be motion, and they're back to that oppressive thing. "Probably an offer better suited to Nat, though. She could use getting out of that place for a while." And Clint trusts her, and she's worried.

"I don't want her to ruin a good thing, y'know? She's come a long way." And so long as she keeps tabs from a far distance, apparently that's enough. "Figure if she wanted in on what I get up to, she'd show up."

There's that unspoken worry. Because she would know beyond anyone else left how much this kills him and how much this is his way of trying to work through having a whole life ripped out from under him.

"Thanks for not doing something really stupid, like asking if I'm okay."

He shakes his head slightly, not negating or arguing the thanks so much as dismissing it as necessary. It's slight, mild, and conveys (Steve fucking hopes) a tone of 'of course'.

Everyone lost a lot.

What Clint lost is... different than the rest of them. Losing your entire family? Even waking up after the ice and everyone being gone just isn't the same thing. It sure as hell isn't a wife and your kids.

"I don't know how she's doing it, much less how she just keeps doing it. She's not only not going back she somehow keeps... getting better." Peanut butter sandwiches and late nights.

"She might say it's the Russian in her, but it's the same thing that drove her to get out of the bad situation she was in way back when. She's always been good at evolving, and having people around her who give a damn and have her back? That took a while for her to get used to, to rely on." They've switched places, in a way. "Might start missing you with you babysitting me."

There is some sort of progress being made here, maybe, in as much as Steve doesn't get frustrated or upset or dig in too hard at the word 'babysitting'.

"I don't intend to stay here all that long. I was being serious when I was talking about bouncing back and forth. She's worried about you, too, but there's only so long I want her left that close to alone."

"She's a big girl who can handle herself. She doesn't need babysat, either." He glances up from his mapping. "I'm not the only one who didn't stick around when the dust started settling, huh?"

He smiles faintly and shakes his head just a little. "I'm not babysitting anyone; she's my friend."

He keeps watching Clint with his map, but doing it casually and not constantly. That thing is detailed, useful, and impressively good work. Given Ronin's efficiency, that's not a surprise.

Twitches an eyebrow at 'dust settling', though. "You're not the only one by a long shot. One way or another people are finding ways to keep moving."

It's fine if Steve watches. It's fine because now he's here and doesn't seem to outwardly disapprove of what Clint gets up to these days. He still has the thought that by the time he puts this plan into action, the cops will already be swarming the place, or someone else will have taken care of business in a less brutal way, but if that happens, it happens.

"And even when you're moving, it feels like standing still," he muses. He can hardly blame anyone for being stuck in the moment. Frozen in time. Steve of all people would know what that's like.

Steve doesn't love what feels like excessive brutality. He doesn't have resources to make a less brutal plan and his desire to burn whatever fragile bridge still exists with Clint by deliberately getting in his way.

He sure as hell isn't getting the police involved. In anything. Ever. That bridge is long gone for Steve.

"Movement without purpose isn't really movement." Which means, yeah. He's not using the word stuck, but that's because he... actively doesn't want to go that far with admissions. Somehow it's the place things get too revealing for him. He nods at the notebook. "You have a timeline on that?" Are you waiting on him to leave or just carrying on? He doesn't, currently, care which. It's information seeking and not with a plan of stopping Clint.

Clint peers at Steve without lifting his head. Calculating. In case he decides Steve is going to actively do something with that information. Maybe he shouldn't throw suspicion at an ally. A friend. Who has not once raised a figurative or literal hand to stop him, just as he'd said.

He closes the book. "Yeah." In another life, it'd be pettiness to make Steve ask specifically. This is more calculated, seeing how interested he is in the specifics. Information gathering, he's gotten that much.

With a few seconds more of a stare, he tosses the notebook aside. Okay. Fine. Maybe give Steve a little slack. "Shipment coming in day after tomorrow. Lotta boots on the ground, moving parts. Means there's some downtime." With a little raise of his brows. "If you did want to hit the beach."

In another life, Steve wouldn't have waited this long to ask a lot more than one question, and he would have trusted Clint to... trust him enough to answer it. In this life (and world), he's just glad he got an answer at all.

He hopes he doesn't have to get directly involved If he does, it's going to be because there's someone truly uninvolved in the way or Clint's in trouble. It'll destroy whatever limited amount of trust Clint's willing to give him now. Not that he wouldn't like to participate on some level, and doesn't disapprove on a completely different, but....

They are the people they are, now, and this is the life and world they're stuck with.

He glances out a window at mention of the beach, without outwardly acknowledging the timing. "I wasn't entirely bullshitting about that one. I'll probably wait for it to be late enough for some more people to clear out, or get up early. I don't think there's much chance of anyone recognizing me here," with even minimal attempt to blend in and a hat, "but I don't wanna push it too hard."

"Ronin works alone." Easier in a lot of ways to keep the monster he's grown into a separate being. Steve didn't bring it up, but there's a timetable to know, and now he knows it. "You want to get added to the mix, that's a big ask." Steve hasn't asked for it, has even suggested he'll sit here the whole time if that's the stipulation. But obviously Steve wants to be doing. Wants to move. "Sides, you don't even have a new look to cover up. But if you really do want to just hang out just to make sure I come out of this alive...dunno, not much space here for two. Don't have a pull-out. Could get a motel, or I could be nice and let you have the bed."

"The only involved I've got any intention of getting is asking where your medical kit is, if you come back bleeding." That's honest enough, anyway. "You don't need an extra element you didn't account for in your plan. It's just going to make it more dangerous for everybody."

That said he will likely position his ass somewhere close enough to monitor from out of the way. Intended involvement is not the same as 'willing to become involved'.

And - "I'll sleep on the couch. I just barely got used to sleeping in a bed before everything went to hell, anyway. Kept winding up on the floor because I felt like my mattress was trying to swallow me."

"Bathroom. Won't be needing it, but always just in case." That's a little haughty of him, he knows. And it has been historically untrue. He's hoping not to make a liar out of himself this time around, at least.

He softly snorts. "I don't think you can even fit on the couch. Take the damn bed; it isn't like it's much better than sleeping on the floor." That could be some of his good old midwestern sensibilities poking through.

"I'm gonna go ahead and assume that's commentary on your couch. Otherwise, I might have to get offended," He is not, in any way, offended. He might even be, in that moment, pretty close to laughing. "I'm not that big, and I bend."

He hopes Clint doesn't need that kit. Steve doesn't buy that, though. Not with the shift in method, brutality level, and chosen weapon. He will be checking that kit to get familiar with it.

"I won't fight you too hard on the point." Not worth it. Especially when Clint's trying to convince him to take the bed like a polite host, rather than make Steve go home.

"You do bend." He's seen Steve more times than can be counted in action. He's big but athletic. Thor's bigger and even bulkier, doesn't bend as well because he doesn't need to, but Steve's like a dancer, graceful and controlled. "You really wanna fold yourself in half to fit on the couch, that's your call."

It's definitely not a point to put too much effort into fighting. But as Clint unfolds himself from the bed, cleaning up, he has to wonder what topic will be one to fight tooth and nail about. Besides staying, he supposes. "Gonna save up some fight for when it's needed?"

Steve quirks a faint, wryly self-aware smile. He stays down on the floor rather than getting up to help, though he bends up the leg he'd had stretched out so it's not in Clint's way. He'd rather get up, sure, but the space isn't big enough for it and it's just going to emphasis him being inside a space that is, even temporarily, Clint's.

"I can think of half a dozen ways you can shake me if you decide that's a fight worth having." Clint, even as Hawkeye had a kind of brutal efficiency and hell of a brain. Now? Steve only knows results, but he doesn't doubt there's more of all of that. Especially the brutality. "You can probably think of twice that. I'm not gonna dig my heels in on much except being here. And probably on cleaning you up if you come back bloody enough to be a problem."

So, yeah. Saving it for when it's needed. Albeit digging his heels in, even on the small stuff.

"Could spar, but then that'd ruin the surprise of all the new ways I fight." There's a hint of a smirk, the intention not-so-serious even if his voice makes it sound it is. He could see sparring. Especially if it ends with getting the shit kicked out of him. There's so much appeal in several ways to that previously-floated idea.

But not before a mission. Not when he has to be at his peak. And not directly after, when he has to lay the hell low and get out of town. But sometime between...hm. Yeah. Could see it. Especially when things get real bad. When his brain spins awful circles like tires in mud, leaves his skin cold and clammy and his chest feel like collapsing in on itself.

Though it isn't like there isn't the hint of paranoia, of Steve getting used to Clint's whole new methods of fighting that blends in the old as well, and somehow using that against him. What that would mean or even look like, he isn't sure, but the thought is there, background noise.

The verbal fight would be the one that would end up with them both wounded and cut deep enough to be hard to heal. He isn't opposed to going there, but it has to be a damn good reason for going there. He could do it easily just to make Steve leave. But that doesn't feel, currently, good enough. Some evening when they're feeling particularly vicious and vindictive?

It isn't that having a friend around isn't nice in its own way. Having someone to talk to besides himself does ease something, just a hair, inside his ribcage. But at the same time, it's a variable he didn't account for, something he was actively avoiding, something that butts up against whatever little holes in the ground he calls a temporary living space, and he recognizes that Steve is trying very hard to give him physical space.

"You afraid of me?" He doesn't think that's the case. Afraid Clint might rabbit and disappear again, maybe.

"We'll find a time that works." He knows this isn't it. Clint's pretty close to moving, and Clint circling back to the idea and topic tells Steve some things.

What Clint is after isn't about training, and that if Clint isn't going to get what he does want (need) if Steve is pulling his punches so far that he's not leaving marks and Clint's mental state isn't brought down a notch from a fighting edge he needs for what he's about to do.

If they can find a time that does work? He'll do it and he'll do it without a discussion Clint has been clear on not wanting, being comfortable with, or needing.

Meanwhile, there's a more immediate question that makes him frown, just enough for the space between his eyebrows to crease, just a second. "I'm not afraid of you," he says, definitively. "Pretty sure if I screwed up enough to make you feel cornered you'd do some damage on your way to disappearing again," and Steve... would probably let him, the same way he'd just about let Bucky kill him - at some point fighting back causes more damage to things that heal a lot slower than he does, "but the only part that worries me is the 'disappearing again' and I'm not going to be backing you into corners."

"You're a good man, Steve. Better than a lot of people deserve. Hell, better than the world deserves. Or feels like it, some days." His jaw works a little, wanting to say something, deciding against it, rethinking it in his head.

It takes a little time for him to settle again, and he mirrors Steve's pose, his posture. Seated on the floor across from him, head tipped back. "I'm not sorry for leaving," is what he settles on. "And I'm not sorry for staying away. I am sorry for making you guys worry. I don't wanna hurt the people who don't need hurt."

Clint calling him Steve, instead of Cap or Rogers, is just about the only way Steve can handle being called a good man just then. Because it's being directed to him, it's about character and something matters to him, and it's coming from a friend. It doesn't feel like it's some big statement about a role that hasn't been all of him since somewhere back in the war, and these days isn't a comfortable fit.

Steve being a good guy? He'll take that.

"We miss you." He pauses and considers, and restates. "I miss you." He's just Steve here. He doesn't want to speak for the others left, though he knows they miss Clint, too, or sound like he's applying some kind of pressure. "But you doing what you need to do right now matters a hell of a lot more to me." This is a need. Not even a question in his mind, now that he's gotten close enough to have some time with Clint. He stretches one leg out enough to tip it sideways and bump his (sneaker covered) toe against Clint's ankle. "I'll be perfectly happy playing ground support, medic, or just be that sparring partner here and there, when you'll let me."

He focuses his eyes on the ceiling, on a pinpoint, like he could bore a hole into it, and imagines the feeling of pulling a bow back. The focus. The relaxation. It's almost like meditation. This isn't so much relaxing, but it's easier to measure his breaths. in one two three out one two three

"I appreciate it." And he does. Because it's one of the things he'd quietly feared on getting found, not only dragged back to feel stifled and cramped and contained around people who don't know what to say to him in the wake of so much loss he doesn't know what to do with himself most of the time--hence the Ronin, the mission--but also judgement. Not from Natasha, she would never, not with her own track record, and Clint had long ago settled with his soul the idea of a red ledger for the sake of everyone else. The lot of spies and assassins. But anyone else. Everyone else. Who might not understand him doing what he feels he has to do.

So it's all a pleasant surprise. And Steve can lie, sure. Like any other human being. But he doesn't make a habit of it with his friends. So it's reconciling an expectation that came as easy as blinking an eye with this reality in front of him.

"Was this an escape for you?"

Out of curiosity. If Steve thought he'd had enough time and the worry took over. Or if wherever he's been trying to call home felt too empty and too meandering. If he also needed to give himself a mission to focus on and dedicate his time to where it was going to waste elsewhere.

Out on the street, the question (different approach, different words, but same heart) had felt like an accusation, a test, or a trap.

Like how from the compound Ronin had felt like a death spiral, but from close enough to count Clint's measured breathing it feels a lot more like a desperate attempt not to get pulled under. Close enough to touch, it feels like necessity. They all lost a lot. Clint lost his wife and his kids.

Steve's answer is a little slow coming. He turns his head just enough that he's looking out the window rather than directly at Clint, though he's not really seeing the view (such as it is) either.

"This is me trying to generate enough movement not to sink." Then back at Clint. "And probably an escape, as long as 'everything back there' counts as what I'm trying to escape from, for a little while."

Edited 2024-11-04 23:13 (UTC)

No reason it can't be both a death spiral and a way to keep his head above water. Duality of man or some trite shit like that. He's not aiming to die, but his targets, while organized, are not always the best of the best. There's not a lot of chance. He's good. He is, perhaps, too good at the job. But he knows that it only takes one slip. He's only human, and there are people out there who are also very good at their jobs.

He picks carefully. He doesn't aim to die. He's not sure he's gonna feel all that much if it gets to that point, though.

He shakes his head a little, more a rocking back and forth against the edge of the bed. "If this ends up being enough momentum, we can figure something out next time you catch up. Can do more good with two at the task."

It doesn't need explaining, he figures, since Steve never asked for one. The good captain's done more than enough vigilantism in the past many years to know better. But it bubbles up. Maybe having someone to talk to has loosened his tongue a bit.

"Half the world gone, and there's still all these assholes out to make a quick buck by fucking over good people just trying to live their lives. There's still drugs, still guns, there's still people taken off the street and shoved in shipping containers, and for fucking what? It's not like anyone has to fight for," he sneers, "resources. We're all trying to figure out how to live anymore. Why do these sons of bitches get to still be here, huh? In what universe is that just and fair?"

It says something about the state of... everyone, and everything, that Steve's pretty willing to take a death spiral as long as that's not the only one it is. Clint trying to keep his head above water at all is more than he necessarily expected when he showed up here.

At least Clint isn't worried about keeping Steve's hands 'clean' anymore.

He looks back to Clint and gives him one, single, nod in response to joining him. They'll have details to work out, but he's in. At least Clint's stopped worrying about Steve This time... he'll sit it out, but he's increasingly sure he's going to sit it out from an obscure vantage point so he can move fast if he needs to. He's got that map Clint drew solidly in his head, anyway.

"It isn't okay. It sure as hell isn't fair or just." He doesn't sound anywhere near as angry as Clint, and in truth he isn't. Not that he stopped caring, not that he's not mad. It's just that mad is a little flattened out under 'sad', for the moment. "All the shit, and good people gone and there are still assholes seeing 'opportunity' at the expense of the decent people who are still here." It's kind of lame as things to stop on go, but... He's sad and angry and worried and tired in a way he cannot put into words.

"It shouldn't still be happening. It should never have happened at all."

Edited 2024-11-05 04:45 (UTC)

There isn't anyone left who would think all of this is just and fair. There's no one who doesn't carry grief and anger about it. Everyone lost someone. And the worst part is that talking about it doesn't do anything but vent some of those feelings. Nothing can change about it, nothing can get fixed.

It makes him feel like he's trapped in a tiny cage, beating at the bars. He licks his lips, looks at Steve, looks away again. The company is unusual, unexpected, and nice in its own way, yeah. But having someone close when he hasn't had that in a good while makes him nervous. No, not nervous... Antsy? Anxious?

"Nothing feels real anymore, does it?"

"I can't-"

He starts and then stops. He knows he has to be able to talk to Clint, here. Clint deserves more than the push button Captain America bullshit everyone but Nat's been getting. Even she's got some force of habit... inspirational shit. Move forward, grow, rebuild the world and make it something. She just manages to cut him off and somehow forces him to engage more honestly, if only in a pretty subdued way.

Clint deserves more than fake positivity, or some attempt to play therapist and not actually engaging with him. He deserves more honesty than that. He deserves more of Steve than that. Hell, Steve needs more than that.

Steve just has to find a way to start.

"I put the plane down and was found in winter...." He starts sounding almost tentative - for him, not for anyone else. "but it wasn't a controlled environment like a cyro chamber. Temperatures fluctuate, you know? Never really warm enough long enough to thaw, but I'd have these periods of... not waking up but sort of becoming aware and merging reality and memories into some really messed up shit. Couldn't move. Couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. My brain would spin out, trying to make sense of it I guess. Came out of it and felt like I'd been dropped on an alien planet, nothing made sense and nothing felt real, but I was pissed about it." He pauses there, for a second. "This feels more like the ice than out of it. I have gotta find a way to wake up and get mad about it."

Edited 2024-11-05 16:21 (UTC)

With this, with what happened to spin the world slightly off axis and make everyone reevaluate their place in the universe, it's easy to think that the others might look at Clint and fail to grasp the enormity of the loss in comparison. But in the grand scheme of things, what can't be grasped is all of what Steve's lost. Not only family and friends, but all familiarity with the world around him. The city he grew up in alien and unrecognizable. Technology leaping so far ahead as to be like magic.

Clint grew up with stories about Captain America; everyone knew who the legendary hero to the point of myth was. And when their on a mission, it's easy to see how he became so legendary. Leadership that comes naturally, charisma coming out his ass, a sense of surety and stability. But he knows Steve above all of that now. And it's one thing to look at what happened from a distance, but to think about it happening to a real flesh and blood person who's sitting in the room with him, feet casually knocked against each other, to a friend, it's a whole other ballpark.

It isn't a competition. It's acknowledgement of loss, of being unmoored. Agreeing that reality has a fake quality that's all too familiar to Steve. Because he's been there. Trapped in ice, alive and not, awake and not.

He appreciates this about Steve. Telling it like it is. Not glossing it over with some platitudes, not skittering away from the topic. It feels like a breath of air, however brief before his head sinks below the storm waves again.

"You can get mad about this with me." With a little shallow nod. "Gonna have to come up with a new outfit. Gotta cover up that handsome mug of yours if you end up doing as the Ronin does. I can't promise the world'll feel any more real, but it beats a vast icy nothingness."

No, no competition - just an attempt to get past his own shit enough to build and keep a connection. He can't quite get to a point of prioritizing him handling his crap, but if Clint's going to offer him a way of maybe doing some of that, even if it's unconventional, Steve will take it.

And be relieved and grateful for it. Clint doesn't owe him that much cooperation -- and if helping Steve lets him do so much as be able to be around his guy and keep Clint from being totally in the wind? No hesitation.

"We're gonna have to find a way to cover my face, and some kinda strategy that keeps me out of your way." Or at least for Steve to get an understanding of how Ronin moves and works so he can predict Clint well enough to do that. " I'll probably defer to you on the mask thing, if you've got thoughts. The... strategy and movement'll be easier with a specific target and plan. Might go lurk on a roof and watch this one. Should give me a solid start."

"Shadow me 'til you feel like you can do it on your own two feet?" Clint doesn't have the intention of keeping Steve around as a partner in crime, a deft duo, by that point. If Steve can figure it out, then he can hit his own targets. Do twice the work with two of them. "Or until you decide it's not for you or something. Probably gonna have to figure out a new weapon of choice, too. Shield's a little obvious, and you're not gonna get a good replacement outside of cashing in some Wakandan checks. Could punch everyone to hell and back. I mean, as a normie, not exactly a viable plan, but with you?" Those fists can absolutely be deadly weapons.

Which is kind of one of the exciting things about the possibility of getting pummeled by them, but that is beside the point.

"Mask doesn't have to be much. Cover the nose, mouth, chin. You'd be shocked how hard it is to get any kind of facial recognition that way. Keep it breathable; you're not going into a hazmat situation. Headgear isn't necessary, just a preference and another layer of protection. If you think eyes might be a problem, some kinda tactical goggles won't do you much wrong, but you still lose some field of vision." Arguably Clint's hood does the same thing but not, he would say, in anywhere near the same capacity.

The noise that comes out of Steve at mention of just using his fists is somewhere between a laugh and a pained groan. Not mean or patronizing, at all, just - "I'm pretty sure I could get away with just bare handed killing people, but going in with that as a primary plan's a little more actively suicidal than I wanna get; it's just inviting a head or heart shot and that's probably the better option than someone hitting me in the spine and laying there twitching while I heal." He should... probably not sound half entertained and amused by most of those thoughts. "Can probably make small explosive, blades, and a gun work out all right." He's used all of those in various ways and he's got great aim. Throw in some kevlar, maybe. Pummel Clint he's still in for. Not kill him, but pummel solidly.

Face obscurity's easier, once Clint lays it out that way. His eyes aren't that recognizable. Hell, he might even manage unassuming if he does it right and nobody's looking too close. Anyway: "Shadow you isn't the right word. Observe from one, more like. I like you too much to risk your neck getting in the way, but you've got a good map. I'll find an observation point."

"It'll be dark. The lighting immediately around the warehouse will be fairly lit like Christmas, but the surrounding buildings are gonna be dark. Catty-corner alley or a good roof with some height, maybe. Don't know how much you're gonna see from the outside, though." He slumps a little, stretching out more. Loosen the muscles. Think about the plan. Make small alterations to the plan with the new information. It helps get him in the zone. Like archery. Something that a lot of people might find stressful actually helps to relax, block out the noise.

"I'm gonna take out a couple cameras first. You wanna get up close about it, that'll be the side of the building to cling to. If you're worried about witnesses--" Clint wants to bite out 'don't'. But that sounds particularly harsh. "Well, hey, you've done undercover and on the run before; you can figure it out."

And, sure, Steve could use guns. Guns are loud, though. They have ammo limits; you can't get bullets back like you can arrows or throwing knives. Steve with blades, though? Hm. It'd definitely take time to learn in a way that's proficient, but Steve's more than adaptable. It'll all be down to preference, though. He looks at Steve warily, then away again, mulling it over.

"I get a little ritualistic," and the word sounds so fucking stupid in his ears, "before a mission. Sharpen everything. Gets me centered. Puts me in the mindset. Might answer if you talk to me, might stay quiet instead. Dunno. Knew I couldn't just stick with a bow, so I expanded my repertoire."

"I'm not doubting the nature and how you go about it's changed," Clint's changed. That's not criticism, just recognition, "but you've always been more quiet and focused than any of the rest when we were going into something."

They all had their own... thing. Way of handling, mindset, mental space before and during. If Steve's got one thing he's good at that isn't straight fight, it's that he can usually move between those without too much friction. Not even with Tony in those settings.

"I'm not gonna be looking for responses from. I'll let you handle cameras and get in a blindspot then stay out of your way." Unless something goes really, really south and then he's going to Steve. "You said day after tomorrow for this?" He might be reconsidering his 'pummel Clint' timeline. Slightly.

Edited 2024-11-08 00:13 (UTC)

He always liked to have little rituals before, some more sentimental than others. But he also never needed them. He could jump into the fray at the drop of a hat. But now he's got time, plans out his missions, has space to breathe. One thing to make sure all the gear is good to go, another to help quiet the noise inside his head to focus on, not being Hawkeye, but being Ronin.

"I believe you when you say you'll be out of the way, y'know. I know you mean it. But I also know you're the first one to jump in to lend a hand if you feel it's needed. Our definitions might not match up." Just pointing it out. Steve will do what Steve does. And they're all different, now, in this fearful new world.

"Day after tomorrow," Clint affirms with a nod. "Tomorrow's some time to take in the sights if you want, do some last minute prep work. Make sure nothing's changed. Then the next day's the even more last minute prep before the show begins. So you'll be staying around more than 24 hours, that's for sure."

"If they don't, we can fight about it after the fact." Meaning, yeah. He's got every intention of being reasonable, but he's still mostly him. He's going to do what he's going to do, and will deal with the consequences.

"More than twenty four hours isn't a problem and obviously your time-line needs to be what it is. I'm trying to work out when I'm fitting in that sparring session, more than where I'm working in some beach time. Do you have a location for that in mind?" In here is a bad idea.

...He still cares more about timing right now than place.

It's almost a laugh. It's laugh-adjacent, the noise that comes out of him. "You really need it, too, huh?" Not enough people to punch in New York, maybe. Or nobody left who wants to spar but with no holds barred. How many punching bags has he torn through? "Just remember, I don't heal the way you do."

Does the idea of getting absolutely wrecked by Steve sound appealing? Yeah. But he also can't be out of commission for weeks or months while he heals. (Well, hiding in a hole for a couple weeks while he scouts out a new location isn't so bad.) Clint's always been someone who heals well and pushes the limits of what a healing body could and should do. Much to the chagrin of his handlers, back when he had handlers. Steve can pull his punches like a master, but if the gloves come off, that super strength is deadly. So. Balancing act. Bloody each other up without doing something foolish like shattering spines or crushing rib cages.

"Funny enough, I didn't scout out a good place for two ex-heroes to duke it out in mind. Must've forgot to look for one, silly me."

He's not really offended in any serious way, not even enough not to have some faint amusement in his expression. There's just also a bit of a look.

"I am not gonna forget you don't heal the way I do." He's not elaborating because it'll drag the mood down and he doesn't want that, but sparring sessions with him don't come without some holds barred. Brief interlude when Bucky was relatively stable and still here. No one spars with Hulk. Because yeah. Gloves off, it's deadly. He doesn't forget that. Ever.

"Bruised and sore, maybe bloody. Not broken." That's the start of terms, Clint can negotiate around it as he wants or need, or at least negotiate it with Steve. "And I'll find a place. You pick the time, and I'll show up."

Edited 2024-11-09 00:14 (UTC)

"You tired?" It's an abrupt change of topic, no matter how casually he affects it. He rolls back up to his feet, gives a little stretch, and makes to clear items from the bed. Sword. Notebook. There's a good, sharp blade for throwing under the pillow that he tucks in his hoodie. "Shower first? I don't have any clothes to lend you that you aren't gonna stretch into the next dimension. If you brought a go bag, better go fetch it."

"I'll go grab it. I'm going to take the long way there and back," just in case. "So give me half an hour before you fall asleep or get twitchy about it. I'll shower and get ready for bed, then."

Not a single hint he has even noticed how abrupt the topic change is, just him getting to his feet and preparing to head out. Unless Clint suddenly has some objections.

"Sounds good. I'll be here." He's not going to make a run for it while Steve's out. The thought is tempting. Now that it's all catching up to him now. But he won't. He'll be a good little host about it. Try to set up the couch in a way that should be comfy enough. Shove things away. Pack a few things. Hell, a quick shower while Steve's gone isn't a bad idea anyway.

Steve's aware this would be a great opportunity for Clint to shake him, but he's also pretty sure Clint won't. He's not sure why, except somehow ending up on the floor together and a lot of that talk felt more... solid and real than anything has in a while.

He doesn't rush back. He picks up his backpack with his stuff, and does what he said he was going to. He takes the long way back, getting some idea of a place that will work for privacy for an intense sparring session without getting authorities or spectators involved, and makes it back within that half hour.

He hesitates outside the door for about half second, then raps on it with the backs of his knuckles. It's pretty quiet, but if Clint's expecting him it should be audible enough.

He has to ease the tension out of himself (as much as he can, given the natural tension he carries on himself these days) when there's a rap on the door. Quiet. Soft. But he hears it well enough. And he knows it's Steve, but the paranoid part thinks someone's caught him out, connected dots, come for their pound of flesh.

It's just Steve. He knows this.

He has to wonder if Steve's surprised to see him. He's still a little surprised at himself. But then, maybe if someone else had found him, they wouldn't have been as understanding.

Clint's dressed down, hair still sporting a bit of dampness in it, simple sweatpants, simple shirt. It'll give Steve a glimpse at the working of lines along one arm, the start(?) of a bigger picture of a tattoo. He doesn't say anything as he moves aside to let Steve back in, nor when he closes the door again gently.

Clint looks... Exposed, maybe even vulnerable in a specific kind of way. Fragile, but in a way that's brittle. Maybe it's the damp hair, maybe it's being dressed down that far. Maybe it's none of those and he's just projecting.

He doesn't move out of Clint's way by much - just gets inside, and stays fairly close while Clint shuts the door and watches him. The degree of care there says something too, probably.

Steve doesn't break the silence, but when he does move to move past Clint he deliberately touches him. Not forced, not unnatural, just a hand on one of Clint's upper back as he moves behind.

It's not really casual. It's a normal sort of touch for him, but he's looking for the response to it. Staying silent this far? Just seems like the right thing.

Edited (Just fixing shit.) 2024-11-11 14:37 (UTC)

He's never been prone to being jumpy. A spy has to keep cool under pressure and when faced with the unexpected. A dad has to keep cool with a bunch of kids running underfoot. He's always had a physicality to his affections, to family and friends and teammates.

Clearly he's let people touch him willingly. Someone charted the course for a vicious snake along his arm, for instance. But it's been a long time since a casual, friendly touch has entered his life. A knock of boots is one thing. This is not dissimilar, though. It's casual and Steve all the same, but Clint's rapidly trying to figure out if it's calculated, if any of it warrants the way his shoulders tense up like he wants to whirl around and fight, see an attack where there very much isn't one.

Seeing potential threats everywhere keeps him alive.

Steve is not, though. Not a threat. Not an enemy. It's fucking Steve. So he forces his shoulders to relax again. "Bed's all yours," he finally makes himself say to break the silence before it gets awkward. "Can keep your bag under it; mine's in the closet."

It's fucking Steve.

It's casual, friendly, even affectionate touch - and it's also information. The reaction doesn't surprise him. The... sad part isn't so much just that there's tension, as the type of tense. It doesn't even read to Steve as a 'don't', so much as a checked pivot and strike.

He does not draw attention to it, directly, doesn't back off, and isn't awkward. In silence or return from it, for that matter.

"Sounds good," he says, easily. "Though I am gonna grab that shower and change first. My hair's about 8 hours from qualifying as an oil spill." Look, he can and often is filthy around any battle scenario, but given the option of not being, he's taking it.

Besides, there's a steady kind of normal in that, while he drops his bag on the bed, and grabs his own sweats and t-shirt out of it. "I think I managed to find a place that'll work for us."

"Also all yours," he says with a brief flash of tense, fake smile. "Water heats slow, but at least it heats."

So not talking about the reaction. Okay. Whatever Steve was looking for (if he was looking for something, if he wasn't just being Steve, though his every motion around Clint has had a particular weight to it so maybe he was looking, maybe he's doing his own scouting out of Clint's whole being--), he's filed it away internally. He can work with that.

He turns to the couch, running a hand through his hair. It's not the short spikes it used to be, slowly growing out, but still very recognizably Clint. "You're determined to try and work me over before I gotta get to my work, huh?"

Steve just needs a damn haircut. He's starting to look less like a military guy and more like a middle aged escapee from a boyband. Those couple of years on the run might've built his tolerance to hair in (and on) his face a little further than ideal for aesthetics.

He stops what he's doing and looks at Clint, then- "I'm gonna shower and pretend you don't seem to be on some see-saw with this and whether or not you trust me or are sure you wanna do this." He's been pretty clear, he thinks. Yes. He wants to do this. "You change your mind about it, let me know. If you need to be armed to feel okay about doing it, do that. Otherwise, we can hit that warehouse tomorrow morning, and you to have recovery time before you get busy."

It's less about wanting to do it--because god, yes, he wants to let someone (earn the right to) beat the shit out of him--and more about the timing. Ugh, they might have to have a conversation about the amount of hurt involved if he's supposed to recover enough in a day to not be hindered or distracted.

Fine, maybe they do a little sparring, he gets the wind knocked out of him, and then it's up and at 'em. Maybe break his nose so they have to crack it back in place and tape it down, but the swelling still might be a hindrance. Bruised ribs he can work through. Cracked ones, too, though he remembers the way Coulson gave him a stern talking-to about it while laid up in medical after.

Or just go into it blind and let whatever happens happen. Fuck it. Maybe that's the strat.

By the time Steve's done, Clint's curled on the couch with a blanket around him. Pretending to sleep.

Steve's pushing the timing. He's pushing the timing because any time he can get to Clint, it's going to be at best a couple of days. He's making assumptions, but Clint is going to have to move after he acts, and he can't see a scenario where Clint tolerates Steve trailing after him.

Steve would prefer a conversation. He'll live without one. It won't be totally blind, at least. He knows Clint, knows some of the shit he's done and worked through both with Steve and before him, knows more or less what his method is now.

What that translates to is, yeah, rib cage. Heavy bruising, maybe letting something crack but not break - that's easy enough to support. Upper back, but not shoulders, spine, or anything like kidneys - again with bruising, not breaking. Shit that he can make hurt a stunning amount but won't do any lasting damage.

This is absolutely a place where something like a HYDRA electric baton would come in handy, but he'll make it work.

He comes out of the shower smelling fairly strongly of soap, rolls his eyes at Clint pretending to be asleep (but silently), because no way did someone that tense fall asleep that fast. He does not call it out. He shoves the clothes he'd been wearing into a plastic bag and to the bottom of his pack and then takes the damn bed.

He does fall asleep. Not deeply asleep but an up and down thing where he dozes, drops to deeper sleep, rouses enough to orient and make sure he can still hear Clint breathing, and then drops back.

It's almost, almost annoying the way Steve refuses to push him. Maybe they really do need a fast and furious spar just to get something like a fight out of their system. It's what he would've expected, a fight. Just fucking fight him already. Tell him he's wrong, tell him he's being stupid and dangerous and fucked up, try to take him home or whatever the hell home might be now, and fight about it.

But Steve is smart and knows better. That that kind of fight, even if he were aiming for it (and apparently isn't), would make Clint run. And he wants Clint close. And Clint is fucking stupid enough to allow it. The little game of 'I know that you know that I know that you know that-' chess is exhausting, and he knows he can take Steve at his word. That's all he's ever needed from Steve. Just his word.

Steve's a good man, and it has nothing to do with purity or with a willingness to kill or not.

It doesn't make sleep come easily, though. Having another person in the room is...a habit he had fallen out of. His senses feel particularly attuned to each breath and all movement. If they both slept on their sides, they might even both be able to snuggly, tightly fit on the bed together. So of course Clint will stay right where he's at on the lumpy-ass couch.

There's a time deep in the night where, if Steve rouses, he won't be able to hear Clint. He's slipped out into the dark, where he can breathe for a bit. Really breathe in cooler air with the tang of salt on the breeze. Try to work out some of the ratcheted tension, try to meditate a little, try to recenter himself.

It at least makes him feel better by the time he slips back in, enough that when he's curled back on the couch, he feels like he can actually sleep instead of faking it til he makes it.

Steve could physical stop Clint. He could bodily remove Clint and drag him back 'home'. Steve can't get what he wants with force.

And he respects Clint too much - and cares too much - to try.

He's never in his life, not even with Bucky, had a single impulse to drag a person into bed with him the way he does Clint. He'll examine that one later - maybe. More likely he won't think about it but will try it after he kicks the shit out of Clint and gets him into a state that can substitute for more relaxed for a few hours.

He lays awake and quiet until he hears Clint come back in, then settles back into that interrupted sleep cycle. Sits on the edge of his bed and rubs his face with both hands. Sleeping in wet hair made a mess of it, and Steve does not care.

"Rise and shine, Barton." Not that he doesn't expect Clint to have woken up from the second Steve moved.

"Five more minutes," will not make a difference, because yes, he's awake enough to be aware of Steve moving, and he'd really like a coffee, and also would really like to sleep more, and he says it anyway.

He's got one leg over the arm of the couch, the other off the edge with his heel on the floor, one arm under his head for a pillow and the other currently over his eyes. The picture of sleeping beauty, clearly.

He lifts the arm after a few moments to glance at Steve. And his mess of hair. All that time away and getting rid of the good ol' boy Captain, replaced with the wanted criminal on the run, looks good on him. "Maybe even five more hours."

And actually being sleep and sprawled out looks really good on Clint. Enough to make Steve stop for a second and just look at him. Doesn't say a word, but there is... there is definitely a period there of looking without talking.

He is not having 'innocent' thoughts.

He rakes his hand through his hair, wincing a little when he rips through a tangle. "You've got until coffee's done." And if Clint doesn't have supplies here, Steve's got instant shit in his backpack, and will use it and hot water. It's awful, but he has priorities.

Odd ones given that caffeine has no impact on him - or maybe not, because routine does.

He keeps his eye on Steve for as long as Steve looks at him. And only drops his arm back over his eyes when Steve moves to do coffee.

That was a look that felt oddly difficult to discern. Sleepy fog brain needs coffee, that's what he'll blame it on. Gives a hum that's just this side of a whine and throws the sheet off him. "Guess I can't say no to coffee."

They can keep this up. They can keep this up until the mission, this bizarre parody of domesticity. The things they had gotten used to before everything went to hell.

Actually, he has no idea what Steve got used to while he was on the run. But before that. When they were still all Avengers. When there was still a Tower to consider something of a home base. When they would occasionally all live in the same spaces and exist in them and actually all act like friends that knew each other. That was a lifetime ago, huh? Several lifetimes.

"I got us dinner. Feel like breakfast can be on you. Depending on how good your Spanish is. Or lunch. If you want breakfast to just be caffeine." And protein bars.

Steve got used to a lot of things, but he also kept some kind of basic routine. Part of that is the 'parody of domesticity' - meaning as much of the mundane shit as he could manage.

Like coffee in the morning.

"My Spanish is decent," he says, rifling through the cabinets like he lives there to start coffee and find mugs. He figures it's fair game since this place isn't even really Clint's, just a place Clint's moved into for long enough to get a job done. "I'd probably suggest you not go with a heavy breakfast and wait for lunch, but it's your stomach. You want me to go out, I'll go out."

Meanwhile, though, once coffee is working, Steve goes back to his backpack, pulls out a protein bar and tosses it, underhand, across to Clint and comes back with an energy gel pack and second bar for himself. He tears the gel thing open with his teeth, immediately.

...He also got used to riding the edge of not being able to get enough calories to support his stupid metabolism, and finding some relatively low bulk, easy transport and consume, methods of compensating. Sam gets the credit for introducing them, though.

Thank god Steve packed for this trip. He doesn't know actually how long Steve's been traveling around trying to find him. But the man knows how to travel. So does Clint. None of this part is strange to them, as he catches the bar with only seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay, then you're on deck for either lunch or dinner. Guess it depends when you wanna do this."

He's certain he doesn't have to elaborate on what 'this' is.

Steve bites down on the packet, near the bottom and then just pulls it through his teeth. Swallows with a faint grimace, before he turns his body and physical focus to putting coffee together.

"I'm gonna go out and grab some food after I get coffee in me, then we can take a walk and to 'this'." This, that - no, he doesn't need it spelled out. "More flexibility on what we eat and when's not gonna hurt anything."

He's actually going to do a really light 'grocery' style run of food that can wait, so he doesn't have to leave to take care of it once they're back. Grab some pain killers for Clint while he's out there. "Anything specific besides food you want me to grab while I'm out there?"

His spanish is more than good enough for this.

Clint chews on his bar and simply stares at Steve for a while. Because. That sounds suspiciously like running errands in some kind of excuse to, what, get them to eat better? Take care of Clint? He supposes letting someone else be in charge of food means dealing with however someone plans on doing that. Making sure they can stay in as much as possible isn't the worst idea, no. Clint's just trying to see the ulterior motives.

"No."

Steve is perfectly aware he is being stared at suspiciously. He is also perfectly aware that there is no ulterior motive beyond... yeah, trying to take care of Clint, he guesses. Not a lot of benefit in leaving Clint alone later, when later he's going to be at least banged up. Definitely no benefit in adding any additional trips in and out.

Which is to say, Clint stares at him and Steve looks back and looks bewildered while he does it. He does not have a poker face. He's not saying anything, which makes it easy to ignore, but his expression's pretty clearly asking what the fuck.

"... All right, then." Then fills the mugs and hands one over to Clint, and leans back against a counter so he can drink his own, around getting his own protein bar down. It'll take him maybe three minutes and he'll grab his hat and sunglasses and go.

If it turns into a thing, Clint might start an argument. But he'll simply let it be for now. Coffee is blessedly coffee no matter where you go. Food will be something he doesn't have to worry about immediately. Steve going to run his little Take Care Of Clint errands or whatever means he's left to his own devices for at least a short while, and that...feels kind of nice, actually. Clint's perfectly fine with cramped, confined spaces for longer than anyone should be comfortable in, but suddenly having an old friend drop in feels strangely claustrophobic.

He'll 'enjoy' what counts as breakfast as much as he can savor the plain basics, wake himself up, and then go into his own morning routine which involves exercise. He doesn't need any fancy equipment or a gym to keep fit. (Though he misses it sometimes. He's not gonna keep any weights in his bag like he doesn't have enough to carry; he has to make due with his own body and the things around him.) He's in the middle of one-armed push-ups when Steve makes his return, and he thinks nothing of getting the door shirtless and a little sweaty and offering to help put things away or carry bags or...whatever. Hm. That sounds very stupid to him. But it's out of his mouth anyway, and that's that.

Steve does, belatedly, remember that he needs to put on street clothes along with a hat and sunglasses to go out. It doesn't delay his departure by much, at least. Just something he does around drinking the coffee and brushing his teeth.

He's gone a little longer than he necessarily intends, both due to not being super familiar with the area he's shopping and making sure the route back from that warehouse is one they can take easily.

And, you know, the shopping. Which is a maybe four or five bag deal. Eggs, oatmeal, cheese, milk, yogurt chicken type stuff and some prepared ingredients like precooked and season meat, shredded cheese, pico and tortillas that can be slapped together with no effort. Refills on some of his own shit like more protein bars and toiletries - and socks.

It is maybe a solid 24 hours worth of food, when accounting for Steve in the mix. The one thing there that is there soley for Clint's benefit is a bottle of naproxen, and Steve's not apologizing for that one.

He has no problem at all handing it over to Clint. He's strong. He still only has two arms and two hands. Though there's definitely a second there where he's pretty still and processing Clint shirtless (along with any new scars and the tattoo).

After that he throws his glasses onto the counter with disdain. "Those things bug the hell out of me. Just throw anything that's not food into one bag. I'll shove it in my backpack once the rest of it's put away."

"Fruitful haul. Not getting all the calories a growing boy needs while sightseeing, huh?" He's seen Steve eat. It could be considered a drawback of super metabolism for a super soldier super body, though Clint's of a mind that being able to eat a metric ton without consequences is a positive. Must be hell on a grocery bill, though.

He does as asked, chucking all the not-food in a bag, ignoring the naproxen for right this moment knowing it is definitely not for Steve, and shoves everything else in the space that's ostensibly a fridge. Steve will find there's not much in there to start with. Bottled water, mostly.

This is why he just bought enough to feed at least two people for at least a day, and didn't assume anything was there.

"I sure hope I'm past growing," he says, dryly. "The mess after Ultron- " Which is the only way he's referencing that outside of his own head, thanks, "-was pretty uncomfortable. This is just complicated tourism and making sure I'm not running in and out anymore than I have to."

He just drops the bottle of pain killers into his shirt pocket.

Then starts poking through bags and gathering his own stuff out of it, into one place.

Clint barks out something like a laugh. "If you were any bigger, I wouldn't have been able to lend you any shirts. The one I gave you, you barely fit in. At least Tony and Bruce are more my size. Thank god Thor had to go on some vision quest; I probably would've just loaned him a robe."

It's a positive to think about, when it comes to things relating to Ultron, so long as he doesn't think too hard on it or linger on it. Cramming the team in the house and trying to keep the kids from being underfoot.

Don't linger.

"Complicated tourism. I like that. I think I'll steal that phrase for myself."

"If we'd had to put Thor in one of your shirts, no one would've been thinking anywhere close to right," he says, dryly. "Might've kept me from fighting with Tony, though." He's not dwelling, either. Or lingering.

Not flinching away, either, though.

"Steal away. I'll never say anything that concise again." And now that he's got his stuff, he goes and just crams it into his backpack and slides that backpack under the bed. "You have anything besides a shirt you need to grab before we head out?"

"Every seam and stitch would've ripped the second he flexed. I gave you something with stretch to it, at least."

He could go on. It's making him think of other things, and if he lets that dam burst, they might not make it anywhere. So he takes a moment to gather himself back up, grab a couple of those water bottles to throw in a bag, and then grabs a shirt. Give himself enough time to mentally tidy up. Shore up defenses. Steel himself.

"Better I don't bring anything but my own charming self. You don't need me cutting you up." He gives Steve a sidelong glance. "Unless you do."

At absolutely no point in the process of planning this has Steve considered that question, even indirectly.

What he wants to do is sit down and have a blunt conversation with Clint - about limits, lines, and desires. He's not gonna do that, because so far if he's figured nothing out, it's that there are more hard limits on what Clint trusts him enough to talk about than on his physical safety.

So, he's left trying to figure out both whether he wants a blade involved for his sake - and solid pain sounds pretty good to him right now too, but that's not the same thing - and how that changes the interaction with Clint, and Clint getting what he will admit to needing (or at least not deny wanting) out of this.

And to do it fast enough that Clint doesn't start feeling awkward or reading ulterior motives and traps into Steve's silence.

He shoves the sunglasses back on his face.

"Bring it. I'm not gonna go out of my way to let you land hits, but if you manage to I'll enjoy it." When in doubt, go with the truth. ...once he's worked out what the truth is, anyway. Might as well take as many of the 'safeties' off as they can.

They know each other well enough to trust there will be no accidental killing blows. Their reaction times are too good. They know to aim for body shots rather than head shots. It means Steve trusts Clint not to gut or decapitate him, and Clint trusts Steve that he means it when he says he'll enjoy it, however temporary the wounds might be.

So he snatches up the handle, slides it in a pocket, and nods. "Long as it's just you and me and not a single other soul. Lead the way."

"If anybody else is there, they showed up without an invitation and we've both got a problem." He heads for the door and then out of the building. Leading the way. "Hopefully our response is to handle that problem, not make more."

Clint has as good an idea as anyone on this planet, and better than most, exactly what will put him down. What he'll heal, what he can't, and what kind of shit and circumstances will slow that healing down. He's not worried on that level. Bloodied up is what he expects and he probably will get a clearer head for it.

Clint getting twitchy and turning on him before an intruder... he will get worried about if anyone shows up.

"I don't think company's likely. Especially not during the day. Activity out there is the sort more likely to pick up after dark."

Handling the problem and making more problems are concepts they might have different definitions of. He doesn't really care if anyone sees them fighting. That's a duck your head and pretend you didn't see anything situation. He cares about if someone sees a white boy with a fucking katana on the streets of Mexico looking like he knows exactly how to use it.

So sue him, his weapons of choice tend towards being oddball as modern gear. A giant metal frisbee of death would be even more identifying, so at least that's left behind.

"Sounds good." Clint has the better idea about the local warehouses, the ones used for the shadier businesses, the ones more legitimate, the ones left out of use for a while. If there's company, then yeah, it's completely coincidental.

"You miss the fight?"

The world, the universe, is a lot smaller now. Crises still happen, but nothing Avengers-worthy since. Not with everyone busy with their own problems.

"Something you can really sink your teeth into?"

Steve doesn't care if they're seen fighting. Steve cares if someone else tries to insert themselves into the fight. He can think of very few reasons that would happen, much less of ways for those to happen, but it's just about (not wholly, but close) the only scenario there's a problem for him.

At least the only weapons involved are Clint's knife, anyway, and yeah that simplifies a lot.

The question while they walk is fair, but it's another one of those things that makes him look at his own shit a little more than he necessarily enjoys. He doesn't flinch from the answer, dress it up or soften it at all, though. For all the same reason he didn't hold back much when they were sitting on Clint's kitchen floor.

"I miss feeling like there was a reason I was alive." The fight was just the thing filling that role since he woke up - and the thing he was good at.

Edited 2024-11-11 23:13 (UTC)

"You gotta give yourself a reason to still be here." And alive, yeah. But also the random fucking happenstance of still being here instead of dust.

Because this wasn't the first thing Clint did. He didn't vanish into the darkness and the next day become the Ronin. He had to craft this, bit by bit, until he realized what would make his existing feel more worthwhile. Give himself a reason, else there is no reason.

"You can't wait for someone to hand one to you anymore."

Steve shakes his head, very slightly and without turning to look directly at Clint. "I'm not waiting on anyone to hand me anything." He never actually has been, he doesn't think. Maybe he has. He doesn't know. "I'm not just sitting on my ass, even when I'm at the compound. Don't worry about it, though I'll take the fights I can get when I can get them."

Every word of that is honest, including 'don't worry about it'. Just realizes he doesn't know how to take it any further, and even if he did being pretty sure that the attempt is more likely to make things worse than help either one of them. A second, if that, of recognizing that this is one fight he accepted defeat in, years ago; he can't explain himself into fitting anywhere, and that's not going to change. Good enough is... enough.

"Take the next right." The area's getting more run down and industrial, with fewer people. Which is the idea and works for their purposes.

Clint rolls a shoulder as a half-hearted shrug. "Between SHIELD and being an Avenger, it was nice being given missions. Always liked having something to do, task to complete, goal to reach, project to finish. Even in my downtime."

And then all that got fucked, and then he had to cobble together something for himself before he went truly insane.

"Feel like if you're gonna go through all this trouble to worry about little ol' me, I get to worry at least a bit right back."

"...and that was me underestimating you, and shutting you down for no damn reason," he realizes. There's a slight twitch of a smile. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

He hadn't snapped, but he had entirely stopped trying and gotten defensive about it. No big guilt fest there, at least, just some the apology and a bit of almost... pained embarrassment.

It's not like he doesn't know Clint's a good guy. He is a little surprised Clint's worried about him. Which is probably insulting, though it says more about Steve's view of himself than it does Steve's view of Clint.

And not a single word about to come out of his mouth is anything but trying too hard, awkward, and kind of uncomfortable. Not apologetic after the actual apology, but fumbling through his own head, and then trying to... both explain and reassurance Clint. Not with any expectation of it changing anything, but from a basic drive to be fair--

-- and try to hold onto a connection with Clint. He does not want to admit how much that matters to him.

"Before the serum I always wanted to be able to... I don't know, matter. To be able to at least fight back against some of what was wrong with the world. The serum gave me that. I'm grateful for it, but aside from the team I didn't really have a whole lot else going on. Right now, neither one's there. We lost the most important fight I've ever come near. I've got my time filled doing something that's...useful, and that helps. Knowing where you are helps. Constructive violence will help. I'll be okay. It was just... a real abrupt stop for everyone."

The apology is painfully earnest and, Clint feels, wholly unnecessary. So maybe he pulled a little bit of a Clint. Made an assumption, got defensive. Whatever. It isn't like it hurt him in any way.

Hard to think of a way he can be hurt anymore, really.

He can't help the snort at the description of an abrupt stop. It sure as hell was. He had a life, and in the blink of an eye, he didn't. Can't even be upset at the fact that they all use metaphors and little phrases, never talking about it directly, never giving it any real good name. Better that way, easier definitely. But at the same time, it feels like a flimsy layer of gauze over a gushing wound.

"I didn't have a lot, before. Made my own way. Mercenary, for a while, and got on big brother's radar for it. Coulson brought me in, and I was a real shithead about the whole thing 'til I started straightening out. Got taught a better use of my skills besides making money off the highest bidder. Got a cause. This is a cause. Protect people, right at the source."

He's a weapon with nobody to wield him effectively, so he has to wield himself.

"Well, we've got were real shitheads at some point, and switched owners a few times in common. Your decisions right now might make more sense than mine, but we'll see how it plays out when I start borrowing them."

He's not competing, he's not really even comparing, but he definitely does understands parts of it, and this is one of the few places he's willing to say that to Clint. The other ones... he's long since put away and trained himself out of being angry about. Doesn't much want to go back to them now, anyway, even in his head.

Because Clint can be hurt. Clint is hurt. If Clint weren't hurt, he wouldn't be out here. Hurt more might be pretty damn questionable, but he's been hurt and is still hurting and he not only has a right to be, he should be.

He takes another turn, this one down an alley, and starts heading for a specific building, that has some structural damage, mostly at the roof, but is still standing pretty solid.

"Come on."

"Avenging's not working out too well for the rest of you guys, I take it."

There's a real biting question at the back of his throat when he thinks about it. Because he knows Tony came back, and he knows Tony didn't stay, but he wasn't around for any of it. Clearly he didn't think the idea of Avenging anymore after that wasn't going to work out for him.

But now doesn't feel like the time for biting questions. Observations. Casual ones. Not digging too deep, but brushing away some of the top soil.

"Well, you could've picked a worse place for a first date, but not by much," he jokes instead.

Oh, ask the biting questions. Maybe he'll bite back, maybe he'll flinch.

Maybe he'll ask one or two of his own.

Maybe he'll just remember that he buried a lot of anger at Tony about older shit than truly let it go, because he's not a saint.

"I'd say something about coming home from dates bloody and bruised not being a great sign, but at this point I don't think it'd hold water." There's a slight smile, and a pause while he kicks the door to force the rusted hinges to give. "There are two people out there most of the time." Occasional visitors but... not really.

"Gosh, people might talk."

This is starting to get a little more real, with a location and everything, space for them to do the whole bruised and bloody thing. Making him antsy, he thinks, like before a mission when he has to make sure he's as cool and calm as can be.

"You know how to treat a guy right."

He forces the door open enough for them to get inside with one shoulder, looks around and up and -Okay, yeah, this is fine. It's been too locked and damaged for active use. There's some rubble from the roof caving in, some dirt and evidence of urban wildlife, but the light's decent and it's good space.

"I even gave you breakfast first and bought food for after. No idea why I don't have people lined up to date me." That? is pure sarcasm.

Once Clint's in he gets the door closed again, just to make sure no one wanders in. Not so far closed it becomes a scenario where Clint's locked in - though he could certainly make it out the top if it came to that.

"You still good?"

Clint takes in the surroundings, listens to the echo of his footsteps in the abandoned space, kicks up some dust. Yeah. This'll do.

Doesn't say as much. He lets himself breathe it in, find the center, try to shove down all the distractions and pain and anger where he doesn't need it, not for friendly sparring, if more intense. His hand grips around the handle of his sword and draws it, simple button pressed as he does so to allow the blade to unfurl to its full length, smooth and sharp and delicately curved.

"So long as you're still good. You want me to bareknuckle, you say the word." He takes a well-practiced, ready stance with the blade held with steady aim. "Otherwise, I'll make sure to leave you with all your limbs where they're supposed to be."

Steve has a moment of visceral unease about the sword, accompanied by a desire to put down some more lines around this, make some strong reminders, have that entire discussion.

He covers both of those by taking his hat and sunglasses off and leaving them near the door, and takes a couple of deep breaths and goes over what his own plan is here, and with Clint. No outward demeanor change, no weapons, no external defense. Space and his body.

"I'm good."

Which is about the warning he gives before he turns around, faces Clint, gives him a slight nod, and then moves. Not just moves, but goes in with speed and intensity from the start.

Learns and adapts. Takes hits himself along the way, because Clint's really good (though specifics are down to Clint). Steve keeps the hardest of his own hits to Clint's upper back, ribs, and even backs of his thighs. Pulls his punches enough not to do serious damage, but not too far. Cracked ribs, bloody nose, bruises deep enough that in the meatier areas of Clint's body they're likely to turn more black than blue. The occasional finger print shaped bruises and scratches.

And he's not likely to let up until Clint either asks or is visibly starting to flag.

He's very good, and Steve can take hits that would be a stopping point for others. But in spite of being too good to simply inadvertently disembowel his friend, sparring with a weapon while the opponent is completely unarmed does make things more difficult. Were he still using his bow, this fight would not be happening without some kind of shield, for instance. Here, yes, Steve has to worry about reach, to actually getting in close enough to Clint to out maneuver him, but when Clint lands any hits, he finds he often can't do the natural follow through. There's certainly blood on Steve's end, though. His injuries heal rapidly, but not instantly.

(The dutiful little SHIELD agent in the back of his mind is considering the act of cleanup at the end of this. Thinks about Fury sending in teams to clean up lest someone inadvertently get their hands on some super blood. Not that Fury's around anymore to give a shit.)

There comes a point where Clint decides this kind of holding back is just getting in the way, a moment when they have a little distance from one another to catch breath, when he slices at the air in one decisive strike to let force of air and friction clean loose droplets and bits of grime from the blade. And then lets it slide back into its handle that doubles as a sheath.

It feels more real when it's just them and their fists, their kicks. He doesn't have to hold back near as much, gives as good as he gets relative to his own plain jane human strength. With sword in hand, he was calculated and cold steel. The longer it's just them beating on each other, it's still Clint, still thinking on his feet the way he always does, but in a manner becoming more desperate and feral.

It's a losing fight. It was always going to be. And that was the acknowledged plan from the start. But he fights through the pain, the way it burns bright and hot inside him. Fights with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. Fights when his muscles start to protest.

He gets put on the ground in a manner that rips all the air from his chest, and his body decides that this is the stopping point before his bell gets rung any harder. Every part of him save the adrenaline singing in his veins protests any attempt to get up, and every dazed pull of air sears his lungs (as well as sharply hurts his entire chest with the motion).

He wants to keep going. And if this were life and death, if this were a mission, he would get the hell back up and keep going.

But it's not. It's Steve. Who is not trying to kill him. Who could easily put him out of his misery like he's a rabid dog and staunchly refuses to. Because Steve Rogers is a good man, has been good ever since he was a sickly little brat, and Clint Barton has only ever been a good man when surrounded by people to put him on that path.

He grits his teeth, a noise of pure frustration surging from his throat, as he attempts to get back up for another round.

Getting the sword out of there was a good call, for multiple reasons. Removing distance and a need for both of them to think quite so hard - or in Clint's case be careful at all, are a couple of the biggest from Steve's perspective.

It letting Clint let go enough to get to desperate, hard, feral fighting though is by far the biggest. It is the point - for Steve, anyway - above and beyond him being able to precisely hurt Clint in ways that won't hinder him but will stick. Something in the emotional release, mental shut down and physical release.

All of which is part of why when Clint doesn't get back up but is still clearly frustrated and trying to, Steve just... drops down over him, kneeling across him and shoves Clint onto his back and holds him there with one hand on Clint's shoulder.

Could he have stopped sooner? Yep. But if Clint's trying to fight, he's... still trying to fight. Exhausted and frustrated, but not exhausted enough. Besides, Clint knows damn well how to tap out. All he really has to do is ask.

One of them can totally let go, give everything they've got and then some. That's not Steve for very obvious reasons, but Clint can.

That's the final straw, then. That's Steve calling it, when he puts his weight down and presses him back into the concrete and keeps him there. Clint's hands scrabble for purchase for a few desperate moments, nails digging into the meat of Steve's arm and pressing his body up like he's got any chance of throwing him off, putting one last final push of effort into it.

And then he drops back flat, panting, exhausted, aching everywhere, done.

He shuts his eyes, letting the pain wash over him as the adrenaline starts to slowly ebb away into a nearly numbing sensation. Having Steve's solid pressure and presence over him is actually pleasant in its own way. Grounding. Solid. Real. And allowing for no argument. Stay down. And he's safe in doing so. Safe to start trying to regulate his breathing, take the burning in his chest and hold tight to the feeling, let it go.

He can assess the rest of the physical aches and pains later. Trying to exist in the moment lets him feel blood drying across his upper lip. The way the muscles in his thighs throb with each pulse that passes through. The heat radiating off them both. Curls his fingers, curls his toes, breathes and holds back the urge to cough lest that rattle his ribs even further.

"Thanks," creaks out of him.

Steve rides out the last of the fight, though there's a second where Clint's got his fingers dug in that results in a teeth gritted and bared grimace from Steve. Not so much pain, though nothing's wrong with his nerve endings, or physical effort. Just a second of deep fucking tension that makes its way all the way to his jaw.

It's barely there before it's gone.

Then Clint's eyes close and he relaxes and so does Steve, with a single deeper breath. Waits on the verbal acknowledgement, and lets up pressure and lets go. He brushes a thumb over Clint's cheek, then pretty much just rolls off of Clint and onto his back beside him. Still in contact, but not on him. Casual contact.

"My pleasure."

Catching his breath isn't much of a thing, but he still closes his eyes and focuses on the points where healing is making skin and muscle feel hotter. And getting his brain back together.

His head is buzzing, not with concussion given he knows damn well what that feels like, but just with the flood of chemicals after a good hard fight. Steve removing himself makes the buzzing go a little quieter, though he keeps in contact.

Hard to tell if all the physical contact is for Clint, for Steve, or for the both of them. He doesn't particularly care at the moment.

He might think he doesn't particularly care about much of anything at all at the moment, but the gentle touch to his cheek is a sensation that stays with him. It's stuck on a loop, feeling it over and over until he makes it become background noise.

He tips his head in Steve's direction. "Yeah?" Steve doesn't lie to him. But it's good to have the confirmation that he did actually get something out of it, too. Something he wanted, or needed. His eyes crack open. "How you feeling?"

Steve thinks that Clint might, just maybe, be starting to believe that he can get something out of this kind of stuff, even if it's not (and can't be) the same kind of physical release Clint does. That it's not all for Clint's sake.

That's... a relief.

He opens his eyes and rolls onto his side and toward Clint, because it's easier to see his face there, and so he can access just exactly what kind of state Clint seems to be in. Double checking, checking in to make sure he is on the right side of the line between hurt and really injured. Wrinkles his nose faintly but also uses his thumb to make sure Clint's nose is bloody, not literally out of place.

And because he wants to be touching Clint as part of that check in.

"Up." That's a vague answer that he's not sure translates to anything that means anything. "Overly focused, but clear. It's good. You in one piece?"

Edited 2024-11-12 16:40 (UTC)

Clint has excellent pain tolerance, which is how he can get the shit beat out of him and keep going. But he still winces a little at the touch to his face. Nothing seems like it's broken, nose-wise, but it's still tender.

Of course, his whole body feels tender at the moment.

He licks his lips, tries to come back to himself a little bit at a time. He feels like he's going to be one giant bruise, and whatever stares back at him in the mirror over the next couple weeks will probably be hideous. But the effort also feels like it's settling into his bones. In a good way. Or at least in a not-bad way.

"Arms and legs, fingers and toes, all accounted for. Probably not dying today." He simply breathes for a moment and lets Steve feel out whatever else he wants or needs to. "Grab some water?"

"Yep." He doesn't at least feel compelled to check over Clint's ribs. At least not when his desire to... take care of Clint and be very sure is given a concrete direction. He stands up with a decided lack of effort or soreness and goes to grab the water that Clint brought, and brings the bottles back (and cracks the seals along the way).

He drops down to a crouch, puts the bottles down and offers Clint a hand. "Be careful. Your ribs are going to scream once the endorphins start wearing off."

That's not guilt. It's just... where his head is. It'll get back to normal.

"Oh," that's as much a groan as it is a word in its own right, "don't I know it. There's ice packs in the freezer. Just gotta stay upright until we get back."

Which means getting upright in the first place. He waves off the offered hand of help, needing to make sure he can do the basic shit on his own. Everything hurts so damn much, but he pries his back off the floor and works his way to sitting up. That's where he's going to be for a bit, at least until he gets water in him. Easy sips.

He holds out a hand, palm up. "You brought those pills, yeah?"

Steve backs off physically at the wave, but gets the bottle out of his shirt pocket with a slight rattle, pops the lid so Clint doesn't need to fuck with the child safety and just puts it on the ground within easy reach.

Then grabs his bottle and rocks back to sit on the ground, taking him back a couple of feet further than he'd been.

"Sounds good. I'll grab them and you can put them where you want them when we get back. I'm probably going to eat." Not so much the calories, though also that. Mostly to get himself the rest of the way back down to planet earth. Clint ... he suspects is going to take longer to get to that one, but that's nothing more or less elaborate than a guess. "How's the inside of your head feeling?"

"Fuzzy." He dumps out an unwise but not unfamiliar amount of pills in his hand and knocks them back with a drink. "But not in a bad way. Or a concussive way."

Like really good sex way, or rock concert way. "'m coming back down a bit. Trying not to let it happen all at once." It's a work on the senses. He's got touch and feeling down pat. Water and pills are taking care of taste. He can hear Steve just fine, and the pounding of his own heart in his ears has hushed significantly. He lets his eyes get drawn up to the hole in the roof, rolling of clouds, dappled sunlight. He can see the places where the dust got kicked up and occasional dull splotches of dried or drying blood. Smell's gonna have to wait a bit before it's anything but his own blood, but at least the other senses are working well enough.

He wishes he could hold onto that dulled, almost floaty feeling for longer, but he doesn't want Steve to have to carry him back. It's like Steve said. Endorphins are gonna wear off, and then he's going to feel like an absolute wreck and a half. But nothing he can't work through by the time he needs his body to be a well-oiled machine again. He'll use the pain, have it suit his needs, ignore what doesn't.

But that's for later.

"Probably shouldn't've brought the sword." Just for something to say. Something idle, maybe.

That's a solid, informative, useful, and pretty damn complete answer and it gets a smile out of Steve, though one of the half-smile sorts. The kind that's actually more reflective and honest in some ways than a broader flash of grin usually is, at least these days.

"I don't think the sword was a bad idea," he admits, and pauses to take a drink of water, that turns into him draining half the bottle. "Just maybe more about... giving you a mental transition than I was smart enough to think about in advance."

Clint squints into the middle distance trying to take that in and pick apart what it means. Not quite there yet. All he can see is it putting him at a disadvantage for needing to be non-lethal.

"Was good you didn't let me keep going. Probably would've kept fighting 'til I fell apart or made you break something."

Clint can ask for an explanation if he feels the need. Steve's pretty content to let it be a mystery, though.

Then he snorts a tiny bit. "Don't be dumb: I'd have dislocated something. Easier to put back where it belongs and wrap or brace to keep there without totally crippling you." He's pretty sure he picked the right point, though. Given all the other factors in play. Letting Clint go until he completely fell apart? Might have been pretty satisfying. Just not here and now.

It's nothing to verbally spar over, even if it does briefly make him clench his jaw. Just let it wash over him and past him and let it disappear.

Finish off a bottle and then get on his feet. His body protests the motion, and that's too bad. "'m gonna call the floor my bed if I don't get my ass in gear." The world isn't spinning, so that's a pretty good sign. He walks fairly tenderly, but at least he's not stiff. That'll be tomorrow morning, he's sure, to work through with his stretches and morning exercises, while he tries not to hurt himself. "You good to go?"

Steve had been attempting a joke, but he rolls with it definitely not being taken that way, just makes a mental note and pushes himself back up to stand. He finishes the water, and keeps hold of the empty.

Grabs his hat and sunglasses to put back on, once he's up.

"Yeah, I'm good. Let me get the door." Not trying to be patronizing with that one, it's just pretty... uncooperative thanks to rust and water damage. Easier than getting it open the first time, but Steve has to put some work into yanking it open.

He steps through first though he sticks close. Normal close, just a bit more watchful until he's sure Clint's steady. At least the sunglasses will hide that (probably).

Clint kind of wishes he'd brought sunglasses, or a hood, or anything at all. Feels kind of like taking a walk of shame but for fights. But if he looks like shit, then he looks like shit. He's looked worse in more public places, that's for damn well sure.

"You got anything else on your agenda for me?"

It definitely feels like a walk of shame and Steve's glad he included at least a lower traffic route into his consideration for locations.

The question throws him, though. Because it is damn broad. "I need that one unpacked some more. Or an example."

"Just gonna take that as a no, then." That this was the only thing planned, the only thing Steve for sure needed to do for/with/about Clint even if it helped ground himself, too.

But. Okay. Maybe that's unfair. Steve's just asking for clarification, even if he's not sure what there is to clarify. Rephrase it? "Anything like this."

"I'm gonna say if I can convince you to put up with me close enough to let me crawl in bed with you and grab a couple of hours of sleep while you're using those ice packs. My only other plans a all are eating something before and seeing if I can get a run or swim in sometime late this evening." There's more than one admission in there, and probably a more complete answer than is needed, but it's what he's got.

"I can just lay out on the couch again," Clint says mildly. "Nobody has to put up with anyone else. Unless what you're after is some of that ice."

Look. Clint has good eyes. But he's said it before, he sees better from a distance. Not so much right up close next to him.

Silence doesn't usually feel awkward to Steve. Steve feeling awkward sure as hell makes silence happen while he tries to decide if it's worth trying to explain. How the math on the risk of an explanation weighs against any particular benefit when it's just about him.

He pushes one hand up under his sunglasses and rubs at his eyes, but doesn't break his stride or change pace to do it. Puts his hand back in his pocket once he does and keeps his eyes on the path in front of them.

"That one wasn't about you."

Not exactly an explanation, not exactly not.

Edited 2024-11-12 21:36 (UTC)

...Interesting. Clint lets that sit and suggest. His head is getting clearer as they walk at least. And everything feels like it wants to strangle him for letting this happen.

And Steve touching in a non-violent manner was nice. And maybe Steve touching him was nice to Steve too.

He thinks about a hand on his cheek. He thinks about Steve's comforting weight on him.

"Okay. You wanna fit us both in bed, we'll figure the physics out. For you."

At least they'll have ice packs and avoiding bruises and cracked ribs to keep things from being too weird for Clint. Or maybe that'll make it weirder. Steve doesn't know. Doesn't currently care too much, because he feels so... exposed in that exact moment.

"Thanks."

Just that, at least for now. "Was there something you were going to ask me earlier that didn't quite happen? About the Avengers?" Might as well get it all out of the way and self-sabotage the shit out of himself now. Or rather give Clint a chance to.

"You feeling real alone?" Is not the thing he was going to ask, but he's pretty sure he worked most of the viciousness out of himself. "I mean, yeah, no shit, everyone does. I just mean..."

He makes a motion between them. Trying to make that mean whatever the fuck he means. He's not sure he's being successful about it though.

"Are you trying to ask me if I'm doing all this because I'm lonely?" Steve asks, also trying to figure out what Clint means.

No edge in his voice again, at least, not really even tension. Just... a sincere desire to sort it out.

Edited 2024-11-12 22:54 (UTC)

"Not all this. Just. This." How! does he get this! across! Use your words, Barton. "The bed and the touching and stuff."

"No." At least that, perhaps strangely, is an easy answer. It comes immediately, and without a second of... discomfort on his part. "If being lonely was going to have me trying to drag people into bed, I'd have a different reputation." He's not mocking. "I want to, I like you, and I just beat the hell out of you, Clint."

"Feel like it's kind of a new development, is all. Don't remember you getting all cuddly after sparring sessions with people before." He doesn't mean it meanly, mockingly. It's just something else that he isn't used to. "You don't feel bad about what we did, do you? Cuz we both were itching for it."

"I not only don't feel bad about it, I feel pretty good about it." He doesn't... exactly ignore the rest, so much as not know how to address it just then, and he definitely doesn't know how to on the street. "Let's get inside, find some ice packs for you and food for me." Maybe he'll try to take a run at it there.

"Now we know that any time either of us is feeling like crap, just punch me." Now that's a joke. Mostly. With the crooked way his mouth turns up.

And no argument about the rest. Clint might have to doze off himself between the physical exhaustion and the naproxen kicking in. Food for him can happen later when he feels less like his body is going to simply kick his ass harder, somehow.

Steve hopes Clint at least gets some sleep in there.

He laughs a little at that remark, but - "Maybe not every time. You don't heal the way I do." That's a joke too, and returns the faint grin with a more certain one.

Then heads up toward Clint's building. He's just going to get inside, lose the hat, shoes and sunglasses, and shovel some kind of food into his face to hold him over for a more substantial meal later on. Might approach the rest of this, if he can find a way to. Isn't sure he wants to, and if he does if that's a before or after curling up with Clint.

Probably before sleep, at least.

It's almost a relief to be back in the shitty little hovel of an apartment. It's not home by any stretch of the imagination, but something about being here, being here with another person in fact, feels like a completely different world from the wordless grunts of two men duking it out in an abandoned warehouse.

Climbing the stairs has made the bruising on his thighs start to ache pretty prominently, and he decides he needs to get predominantly horizontal very soon. After a wash up in the bathroom. Scrub off the rest of the caked on blood, rub the dirt out of his hair. It looks a little bit more like him in the mirror, rather than the Ronin. It won't last long, out of necessity, but he supposes this isn't a bad thing in the short term.

He gets the ice packs from the freezer, shuffles to the bed, makes himself as comfortable as he possibly can under the circumstances, cold lying directly over aching ribs and remembering to breathe nice and deep and even to remind himself there's no lung puncture, just a deeply satisfying ache that'll hound him for a while.

Sometimes, that Steve grew up in the depression and the fact that he is fundamentally very much a single guy comes to the forefront and goes on display.

Like when what what he grabs to eat is a pack of instant oatmeal - raw - mixed into greek yogurt with peanut butter. In his defense, it's got all the macros, a shit ton of calories, and doesn't actually taste bad. It's just... yeah, strange.

He washes up some himself when he's done, makes sure his trash is handled and by then Clint is settled in bed. This is where he should hesitate, but doesn't let himself. He just crawls in behind Clint. He settles in close by necessity, there's contact, but he really isn't overbearing about it.

It also perceptibly relaxes him. "That wasn't a training session." Which is... at least part of the why of the change. And a damn belated answer.

There's really no good way to be comfortable when his chest is on fire, his back is on fire, his everything is on fire. When Steve gets in the bed, it's clear Clint can't hog the space on his back. Which is fine. His shoulders were begging for a release from the pressure. He scoots to the edge of the bed on his side and rolls to face Steve.

Just seems polite to have a conversation face to face. It's also simply just what his brain wanted him to do, rather than have someone in a vulnerable blind spot. He can argue with that part of his brain later. He keeps his arms lightly crossed over his chest to keep the packs there.

"No," Clint agrees, "that was both of us trying to exorcise some demons for a bit."

"Yeah."

Steve reads Clint rolling to face him as not wanting Steve at his back, and moves himself as far away from Clint as he can get, without being overtly obvious about it. That's not a whole lot of actual space, but he definitely does his best to give Clint some room.

He is aware that he instigated this. Doesn't mean he can't be considerate.

"It's not important. Just different context and didn't want you to think I'd lost my mind. Give me ten to finish getting my brain back together and I'll get out of your hair for a while so you can get some real rest."

It doesn't seem not important. It seems particularly important, actually, the distinction here. Clint gives him an assessing look, trying to pick this apart.

"If you need me to be a big teddy bear for you, you can ask. Can't promise you won't get a hedgehog instead." Because this is for Steve. He admitted that. So he needs someone, or the weight of someone, or the heat of someone, or the simple knowledge for his brain to absorb that he isn't alone.

He wishes it was that easy, though he acknowledges most of the complications and difficulties exist only because of his own hangups.

"With that haircut...." It's a pretty weak joke, about hedgehogs. It's mostly buying time. "I could use some physical contact for a while. I don't need it enough for you to make yourself overly uncomfortable for it."

He's... trying to ask? While making it clear if Clint's not okay, he will move.

"You didn't get enough physical contact earlier?" A joke back. A flash of a smirk. "I get it." Kind of. The weight on him, knowing that in that moment he was safe.

"You wanna...get up in this? Or you wanna big spoon?"

Asks the grown man to another grown man.

They're both grown ups, they can do what they want.

Including cuddle.

...as long as there isn't too much talk about feelings.

"I'm gonna let you have it this time. Seems safer with you being the injured one." And having the bigger problem with somebody at his back. ...Mostly the last. Otherwise, yeah, usually, Steve would do the wrapping.

He is slow and careful in not jostling Clint though when he does roll over, and okay maybe that part of it is about avoiding eye-contact.

"...You're an idiot." Which might, actually, be the closest thing to affectionate he's sounded since Steve showed up. "Roll back here, get your damn arms around me, and, I don't know, shove my face in your super-tits or something."

It might be the closest he has sounded to affectionate. It is definitely the closest he's sounded to Clint.

It (or 'super tits') means that Steve's choking on a laugh when he rolls back over, and is definitely less awkward for it. "Leave my cleavage out of this." He is still pretty damn careful wrapping an arm around Clint, pulling him slightly in. At least careful enough to dislodge the ice pack. "It was a gift from a friend."

Instantly, immediately, better. Partially from being called an idiot and absolutely also from settling with the warmth, weight, and contact.

"Your friend had good taste." That's all he's saying! He appreciates the care with which Steve moves, even if Clint would not have complained if he aggravated anything. It still stings along his upper back, but in a way the pills have dimmed. He's a little curled in on himself, trying to be as cozy as his aching body will let him, and keeping the ice packs in place, and it makes him feel a little small. Smaller, in comparison to Steve, anyway.

It's awkward in its own way. It's familiar in a way he hasn't let himself feel in a long time, and more familiar between them than he feels like they've ever been before. This close, with his chin tucked down, is it weird to notice the smell? The scent of another person in his space rather than just himself. God, is this what the loneliness has done to him? Make him notice weird shit? Feel both comfortable and uncomfortable at the very same time? Like he knows the moves to a very familiar dance but hasn't heard the song in so long, he's convinced he's going to stumble over his own feet.

"Better?" he murmurs. Just to make sure.

The process of Steve settling carries on in small shifts of his weight, in particularly letting his hand settle and bending his head down in a way that means his nose is pretty well in Clint's hair. Then letting his eyes close.

"Good taste is going to far; he liked schnapps."

If noticing scent's weird overall, it isn't weird to Steve and Clint isn't alone. Steve might even be weirder because he has a really good sense of smell and can pretty easily pick up not just Clint, but shampoo and dirt from the floor they'd been laying on and sweat and it's... It's nice.

A deep breath in and slower one out, and then absently almost petting Clint with the drag of his fingers lightly along Clint's back - barely touching, moving fabric across skin, mostly. "Yeah. This is better."

If there are objections, Clint doesn't voice any. Steve wanted this. Needed this, really. A grounding part of the come down. Some comfort, some relief, a need to not be alone.

Given the beating just taken, he doesn't feel any urge or need for another one. All the deep throbbing the meds can't reach and the almost creaking of his ribs, the exhaustion after giving Steve a run for his money as far as mundane human powers go, he can't possibly consider much of anything except rest.

Even if Steve is distracting. Clint can't need this; he hasn't needed this since he ran off under everyone's noses. Wanting...well. Maybe it's not so bad to want now and again. Something that feels good. If a little odd, if a little awkward, but it's soothing. Hearing Steve's heart strong and steady. The even rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He finds himself matching up in sync.

He knows that if they hadn't had that extra-strength spar, there would be a very loud part of his brain fighting this. Can't have nice things, can't take comfort, can't allow this. A loud part that would take the creature comforts he had been used to and get mad about it, get sad about it, get messy and ugly and hateful about it. It's quiet, instead. A distant voice under the floorboards. It doesn't mean sleep comes easy. He's aware, hyper vigilant, taking in every sensation and trying to file it away if he can't find some immediate meaning to it. But it's Steve. He reminds himself, constantly. It's just Steve. Who will only hurt him if they agree it's something they need, and otherwise by complete accident. Stop looking for the ulterior motives. They both had needs. They're taken care of. It doesn't need to be more than that.

A gentle rhythm and his body's own needs win out in the end.

Steve isn't injured - he isn't even sore. He isn't tired, and he certainly isn't anywhere near needing sleep.

Physical release from anything that's not a serious fight isn't an option that's on the table. It hasn't been since the serum, outside the very specific period when the team was together and functioning, anyway. Tony in one of his suits and Thor were about it, even then. Might have something to do with why he isn't feeling anger he's academically aware he has plenty of.

He has other options to keep his mind from spinning out replaying too vivid memories, or just chasing itself in circles between guilt and grief. Like what they did earlier and the precision it took to be enough and not cross the line.

And what he's doing now, which is just focusing on Clint. Points of contact, the rise and fall of Clint's ribs when he breathes, the chill of the ice pack contrasting with Clint's body heat, keeping his breathing and hand on Clint's back timed together.

It's all... needed and useful. Grounding. Reassuring.

He can feel Clint fall asleep.

He can also feel when Clint starts to move at all and subtly gets the weight of his arm off him, so that he's not pinning them man down. Otherwise he just stays put until Clint is solidly up, however long that ends up being.

It's not a long sleep, but it's deeper than what he got through most of the night. The packs have since lost their chilly touch, and when he stretches, he can feel the stiffness starting to take hold. But he feels a little more solid and present.

He pats Steve on the shoulder and tries to ease himself up to sitting. "Teddy bear time's over, big guy. Up and at 'em."

"I'm up."

He gets his arm off Clint and pushes further back in the bed so Clint has room to swing around and sit up. "You feeling all right?" He'll get up once Clint has. The space involved is kind of tight and he isn't going to crawl backward to get out of the bed.

"Good as I'm gonna be." Under the circumstances. He can't lay in bed all day even if it would be better for him.

He trudges over to the freezer to toss the pack back in, then peruses the fridge for something quick and hearty. They don't have to talk about it. There's nothing, really, to talk about, right?

"Y'know, it always sucks to spar against you, cuz you heal too damn fast."

Steve waits for Clint to clear the space completely, then rolls up and to his feet, and stretches out. "Yeah, always makes Natasha crazy too." He sounds apologetic. "Really drove Tony nuts." Not that everything about Steve didn't drive Tony nuts, and vice versa.

Once he's up and in the space he... moves past and around Clint. Not trying to crowd, but to grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. At least with Steve having done the shopping it's all easy prep and nutrient dense. "Makes me a little nuts once in a while, too. There's no real... way to make it work."

Edited 2024-11-14 15:25 (UTC)

"Anything that's gonna hurt you enough to stick around for a good while is something I think most of us aren't willing to do to you." So. Yeah. No good way to work it.

Though he rolls over the comment about Tony in his mind. Hm. A little drink. Slap some food together. Mull it over. After all this, he's more than earned a more pointed question or two. Hell, Steve had even called him out on it earlier, though he'd dodged it entirely.

Fuck it. Now's not the time to shy away from this shit.

"What'd Tony say when he got back?"

"And I don't much want any of you doing it to me." It would say terrible things about their mental health and how they felt about it.

Believe it or not, Clint, Steve's finding the pointed questions a pretty damn big relief. They're not necessarily comfortable, but it's not like they're all hanging in the air and making him navigate them, anyway.

Easier to address them and try to dodge them.

"Not a whole heck of a lot. He is firmly retired and... happy. Probably happier than he's been in his life." If that's not what Clint's asking, Steve is more than happy to redirect. But there's a lot of 'not comfortable' in just the fact that what Clint lost? Is exactly what Tony's building.

Edited 2024-11-14 16:15 (UTC)

"He just came back and fucked off without saying anything? Bullshit." Not that it's bullshit he fucked off; Clint knows that as empirical fact. It's just...of all people who would try and do their best, however that's defined, to try and keep the world safe in the face of overwhelming disaster, it's Mr. Armor Around The World that feels like would be near the top of that list.

Steve shrugs, slightly, like there's nothing in what Clint said or he's about to say that bothers him at all. Very little physical tension, nothing but blunt in his voice.

"Tony and I have never exactly had an... easy relationship. It got bad before Thanos. Since then it doesn't exist." Tony definitely blames Steve for their failure, and Steve doesn't blame Tony for that. "He might have some kind of plan he's working around the happy. It's possible he said something to somebody, but he didn't say it to me."

It just... it is what it is, Clint.

"I kinda figured if nothing else you'd have picked up that I didn't show up with the shield." Tony's still got it and as far as Steve's concerned should keep it. Something about deserving it and Captain America. Probably better off being a family heirloom.

Edited (I'm done now, omg sorry!) 2024-11-14 17:21 (UTC)

"So he came back and decided fuck all this and picked up his toys and went home to just be a recluse or whatever?" Which he has decided is different from what he did, is doing. Shh. "Maybe I should pay him a visit."

"Leave it alone, Clint. He's got every right to be mad at me, and he's got just as much right as anybody to fuck off and do what he needs to do to try and make something worthwhile out of the shit."

He isn't making any direct comparisons. For many reasons.

"Jesus, fine. He can be as mad about you about whatever shit he's decided to blame you for this time so long as it makes him happy."

Clint has stopped being mad at Tony for the things that happen, the sides that got chosen. It was hard to hold that grudge when incarceration turned into house arrest and a pretty cozy retirement.

He quirks a very light smile, at... all of that, actually. It's a little amused, but it's more affectionate than anything.

"You're a good guy." He means that with every earnest fiber of his being. "So is Tony. Some of what he blames me for is fair, some isn't, and none of it matters. You gonna be staying in for the next hour or two?"

He nearly chokes at being called a good guy. In that voice Steve gets when he means what he says, when he's being very deliberate about saying what he's saying, how he's saying, and who he's saying it to. His shoulders draw up, then back down again when the pull aches more than he'd like. He has to let lunch sit for a minute so he can get the appetite that so swiftly left him back.

Remember to breathe.

"Yeah." To answer the question while he stares at the countertop for a few seconds longer before making himself take another bite.

It doesn't take any kind of genius to see that tension or know why it's there. He isn't going to apologize for it, though. No matter how uncomfortable it is - to hear, or be reminded of it, or even just having somebody believing it - Steve hadn't been lying and he's not sorry he said it.

"Okay. I'm gonna see what I can do about shutting my brain off for a while, without drawing any attention to myself. Think about maybe leaving a note if you decide you can't stay put. Just so I know if you're coming back."

Worried about Clint bolting, still? A little. Still pulling on his shoes and grabbing his hat and sunglasses, though.

"You think I'm gonna leave you high and dry now, after all this? Nah, you're in it for the rest of this trip." Anything after is, of course, a mystery left up in the air. But running now wouldn't do much good. Steve knows the target, and he knows Clint's never been one to abandon a mission. He wouldn't go far.

"I'll be here."

Anything's possible. "All right. I'll handle my end of the deal and bring back dinner." Not that there's not some food still there.

He doesn't put any pressure behind it but puts a hand on Clint's bicep before sliding his glasses firmly on his face and heading out.

He'll be back - with food he picked up from a place down the street, that's still hot - at exactly the two hour mark. What did he do those two hours? Walk. Nothing more exciting or complicated than unobtrusive but constant motion at a reasonable pace.

Because fuck attention. Not this close to Clint's temporary place and plan going live.

Steve's still about the casual touching. The whole teddy bear thing didn't disperse that desire, apparently. Clint only looks at the hand, briefly, and not at Steve.

It feels like it means something, but he knows he's also being a (rightfully) paranoid fuck trying to find meaning in everything that might not have it. Stop. fucking. thinking about it.

Well, he did the cold to keep swelling down. But now it's time for hot to ease some of the stiffness. And a shower will get any of the rest of the blood, sweat, and dirt off. And it might distract him from Steve insisting on how good he is, distract him from brief touches that want to linger in his senses. Take in the sting of impact and the relief of warmth. And always remember to breathe.

He's shirtless again when Steve's back this time, apparently having said 'fuck it' to pulling a shirt back on. The deep, dark mottling of bruises are clear on display, but Clint's in the midst of doing some cleaning of his blade at the table. Making sure no dirt and dust and grime's in any of the mechanisms, making sure no blood is going to start crusting and rusting on the metal. He'll sharpen it and set himself in the right mindset before the mission, but this is simply weapon maintenance.

"Lemmie know if you need me to clear off the table."

Steve's look is what lingers this time, though at least it's mostly clinical and all about assessing those bruises. He's both satisfied by their presence and making damn sure nothing looks worse than he'd expect (or want) it to.

"Only if you need the room." He puts the bag on the counter, fishes out one of the take-out boxes and puts it off to the side of where Clint's working, then heads off into the bathroom to clean himself up some. Not a full shower, just washing his face and hands. Makes a mental note to shave when he does get that shower, and then heads back out.

Where he takes his food and just sits down on the floor. It's comfortable enough and isn't in Clint's way. "You get most of what you needed to do done while I was out?"

"Gonna do another good walk around, double check positions I scouted out before. Keep my ear to the ground in case of any last minute changes. But I can do that later." When it's darker, when it's more night, when it's more the conditions he's expecting.

He holds the blade up to the light, casting a keen eye over the edges. "How's it looking back there?" He could kind of make out some of the bruising, twisting over his shoulder to see in the mirror, but he trusts that if something looked worse, Steve would say something.

There's something about that blade that is still making Steve ever-so-slightly uneasy. It's not fear, or wariness, or even really emotional discomfort from Clint using it. Probably not the last anyway. Feels like something entirely in himself.

Since he can't explain it, he's going to keep ignoring it.

"Like I should've done a better job accounting for range of motion needed to use a sword," he admits, around bites of food. "But not bad enough for me to be worried about it, either."

"Glad you didn't have to pop anything out of a socket then or I'd really be in trouble. Only got so many throwing knives." He rolls his shoulders deliberately. It hurts like a bitch.

But nothing he's not expecting.

He runs a cloth one last time over the blade and, satisfied, slots it back into the handle-sheath.

"And using it one-handed is possible, sure, but you get less control and precision, easier to get unbalanced." He glances down at Steve as he starts to clean up, snorting a little. "You want a chair?"

"Nah. Now that I'm down here, it's just as easy to stay." And kind of give Clint some space, in direct contradiction to what he wants to do. "How much does it weigh?"

Maybe once he sees this fight, he'll be better equipped if this whole scenario plays out again. ...and he kind of expects it to, somehow.

"Extremely light. The samurai knew what they were about. Easy to draw one-handed, and if you were a little more uncouth, you used the sword in one hand and the sheath in the other. But you're still meant to use it in two hands primarily. Obviously I don't have to worry about a sheath dangling off me about it." He spins the handle on one finger before putting it down again. "Custom made. Obviously. Designing it to be seamless was the hard part." He could get into the details. Maybe one day he will. But he figures it won't be all that interesting.

"Might see best at a distance, but you know as well as anyone I'm just as good up close and personal."

"I'm going to sit on a roof and see what you're doing and how you're moving. The goal there's not for me to know you're good, it's so the next time this happens I know exactly what isn't gonna compromise you."

Is it because he's eager to do it? A little. Kind of. In a specific way. It really is mostly just that he can't see this playing out again unless he lets Clint go back to completely unsupported and that's not going to happen.

"Light's good."

"You're not gonna be my partner in this. You wanna do what I do, fine, we divide and conquer. Go to Uruguay while I'm in South Africa. If I'm boots on the ground in Indonesia, you can be in France. Wherever it feels necessary."

Is it this? Is this going to be the verbal fight that feels like it's been brewing since Steve showed up?

"I can't afford to even attempt what you're doing." That was the big realization of his walk. Wherein he wasn't actually out of his head. "No-one else can afford me to, either. Doesn't mean I'm not going to turn up again and if I do, I'd rather be better prepared to hand you your ass in a way that won't get in your way than relying on guess work."

Edited 2024-11-14 21:29 (UTC)

"You did great. You did exactly what you set out to do. I'm not too hurt I can't keep going. It'll hurt like a bitch, and I'm gonna be cursing at myself the whole damn time, but I can do it." He rubs a hand against his eyes for a moment before deciding, fuck it, hot food time. Still gonna argue, though. "I'll make a point to be extra careful about my chest. Anyone able to get a good solid shot in is probably gonna see me on the floor for a half second. I'm gonna be fine, though. And you can watch me be fine."

"Good." Because he intended to watch, anyway. Fun fact about Steve: He'll argue if he needs to, but he can turn into a goddamn brick wall there, too and just refuse. "Are you actually expecting me to try to jump in and take over, or are you just trying to get me to go away?"

Not doing that today, apparently. Hell the past couple.

"I'm trying to figure out if you've concocted some kind of plan where you tail me everywhere I go or if this was just some one-off to make sure I didn't die in a ditch. Cuz I was really leaning toward the latter, but you're starting to make me think the former." He leans on the counter with a brief sigh. "I'm trying to figure out what you want, cuz every time you tell me, and I think I've got a full picture, I swear something changes."

"If it helps, I don't know what I want, either, and every time I think I do, something in either what I want or think I can actually have changes." Wry, aware, apologetic, but also while still eating, because there's food in front of him. "I'm not going to tail you everywhere you go. I'm not going to try to participate in what you're doing. I'm not going to cut you entirely loose, because you're my friend. That's all I've got."

Okay. Actually. That helps. It helps to make Clint feel a little less crazy, that he isn't actually wildly misinterpreting everything this time. That Steve's lost at sea about this, too.

"Don't know how what you think you can have can change. World's your oyster. You set lofty goals, but you're down to earth about it."

"I don't even know how to talk about this without sounding like a dick to myself. 'Cause you're right. I've got every advantage there is. And I didn't expect this trip to be this much about me trying to work my own shit out and taking you on a roller coaster ride you didn't ask for or need."

He isn't opposed to trying though, since - well, napping with Clint and just time have at least evened out some of those rough edges. Hell, even just admitting that he is all over the place might have.

"I guess all it really comes down to is that I can't do what you're doing, because the second I let myself get that pissed off at the world, I'm dangerous to everybody. I can't do what Tony's doing because I... don't have that in me, anymore. I guess I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing now. Make sure you and everybody else knows there's a place to go if you need and want it, move between you and Nat, take the connection where I can get it, and... wait."

That all makes sense. Steve's caught between. He's got righteous anger in spades, but the kind of deep hurt balled up into a low burning rage that Clint's got is a different beast altogether. If Tony's given up, well, no, that's not a thing Steve can do, either. Have to keep moving until he finds his niche in this new world.

He catches onto a word Steve uses, though, and turns it over in his head. "You don't have as big a family as you did. And with you being Captain America in a world that might be a little this side of cynical about that icon, you can't exactly just go out and make new friends. You're lonely. You're frustrated. You want to do more than you're doing and don't know how to start. And you miss the connections you had before."

All Steve really expects to get from that is Clint to understand well enough that he's not trying to jerk Clint around, and to know where Steve landed. Be reassured by that knowledge that Steve's not going to start jumping into his fights with him.

What he got was being understood better than he expected to be, and the word 'lonely' landing harder than a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of him and for just a second making him want to cry. Doesn't, but does close his eyes and let his head thunk back against the wall behind him, softly.

"Yeah." That is... the long and short of it. He does sound vaguely like he might cry around the first word, then gets the rough tension out of his voice by clearing his throat. "So. I'll probably turn up again. I won't be in your way."

"...Well now I feel like kind of an asshole." He's not sorry. He cut to the heart of it enough to dig at Steve's emotions. But it's...an experience to hear that tone in Steve's voice.

Clint eases himself down to the floor, too. Floor buddies again. "I think you know that if I decided right now to come back, that wouldn't be enough. You lost a little too much. Not so much that who's left isn't enough, cuz that sounds rude as hell, right? But also...it isn't enough. You're missing more. And it fucking sucks."

Steve gives Clint a very mild look for saying he feels like an asshole, but since it's not an apology, he doesn't feel the need to say Clint shouldn't. Clint definitely shouldn't, though. The man lost his wife and his kids. Which is not a thing that's ever far from Steve's mind.

The floor, though? Apparently that's where the serious conversations happen.

"It sounds way past rude." Not a thing he'd ever say, "but you're right. I don't even know what enough would look like, anymore." Nothing in reach or likely to get there. But: "Chasing you down once in a while and reassuring myself you're not dying in a ditch will do me more good than you sitting back there being miserable, too. But the door's open if you need it."

"You lost your best friend. Again. And one of the only real super people around. And you feel like it's your fault." Clint gives a shrug. "There's no good way to deal with it. You just have to do whatever feels right."

"You know, things are gonna get really awkward if I start crying, right?" It's not actually a chide. Just kind of tiredly wry. He appreciates Clint. He likes Clint more in that moment than he likes anybody left on the planet.

But also: "I'll be fine. I think I just needed to... stop trying to come up with a plan."

"I'm not gonna judge you if do cry. It'll definitely be awkward. Like if you need it, I can keep going, talk about how lonely you must be and how sad it is and how wild it is that you decided to pick your ass up and come find me of all people to deal with the lonely feeling and hoping to feel a little less alone."

He spreads his hands. "I can also shut the hell up."

He came really close to making a smart remark, but then Clint started talking and : "Why is it wild that I came to find you?" Not came to find anyone, not tried to do something about it - Clint can accept that and it's accurate.

But Steve truly doesn't get why him seeking Clint out is so surprising.

Edited 2024-11-14 23:57 (UTC)

He blinks. "Why wouldn't that be wild? I guess making sure I'm alive would make you feel a little bit better. A good distraction."

"Have I screwed up badly enough with you, that you think I only care if you're dead or not and as a distraction?"

How.

Clearly yes, and Clint is Clint. But God, he thought he'd been more clear than that.

Edited 2024-11-15 00:17 (UTC)

"...You didn't screw up. There's nothing screwed up." Except Clint. Clint is screwed up and he screwed up somewhere here. Just...stuff food in his face instead. Now that's a distraction.

"Nope."

Meaning that there is something screwed up - besides both of them, in their various ways and... Well, if Clint can lay things out, Steve certainly can. "I'm here because you're a good guy, no matter how little you believe that. I'm here because you - specifically you - matter to me. I'm here because you're worth some effort. I'm here because you put your ass on the line - repeatedly - to save mine. I'm here because you're good for me, and always have been. I'm here because you lost your kids, and there's only so much space I can give you before the message turns into me avoiding how fucked that is and avoiding you."

He tries to bury the feelings in food. Because it's there. Doesn't look at Steve, just keeps his head down and lets whatever he has to say wash over him. He sinks a little and a little more. Good? Never have been that good, even less so now. Worth effort? Definitely not. Good for Steve? Well, that's for Steve to figure, so he can't argue that.

Steve says the unspoken, and everything in his mouth turns to ash. It takes every inch of power in him to swallow it down in spite of that.

In one two three out one two three, just remember to keep breathing. He moves in slow motion, it feels like, when he presses his back against the wall behind him to aggravate the sting, breathe deep and steady to press that to his aching ribs. Maybe it's a little too long before he feels like he can speak. But he knows Steve will give him that space and that time because he's a good man and Clint can't find a reason to feel deserving of it.

"I was never going to be offended if you avoided me. I didn't want to be found in the first place, remember."

Steve gives Clint the time because it's the... kind, maybe, is the word that applies, thing to do after saying that out loud, and pushing that hard.

"You didn't want to be found. That doesn't change a thing if I'd known I could find you, even once and didn't. There's a line on space that's useful then it just turns into enough room to convince yourself it's better for everybody else to stay away, or that nobody's bothering to look."

Or before you're dead in a ditch.

"It is better to stay away."

Steve can refute that. Point out how he needed this himself even if Clint didn't, and it's obvious that Clint needed something out of it, too. They've both gotten it. They might still be able to get more.

"I'm still not after your pity. If that's anything you're offering."

He 'refutes' that mostly by giving Clint a look. It does not need a verbal response, and he's pretty sure any verbal response he can give will provide room for Clint to argue with him.

And there's plenty of evidence already that it's not.

"Pity and respect can't coexist. So no. I don't pity you." He tosses a balled up (clean) Napkin lightly toward Clint. "You stubborn ass."

Clint scowls in return, resisting for now any urge to pettily return the favor. "Been called a lot worse," he grunts. "You can do better than that."

"I can do much worse. I can go back to complimenting you and see how long it takes you to stop twitching every time I do.

Retreat into banter and throwing things? Yes. Even if there's a little actual seriousness in that one. But very little.

"You're gonna say some bullshit about how much you respect me while dancing around how sad you are for me. I don't know, feels like it can coexist just fine."

"My dad died when I was a couple of months old. My mom died when I was 18. Only child of two only children. The closest I got to a wife and kids was a kiss once and almost making it to a date. Family at all isn't something I know, and I sure as hell don't get that kind of loss. I'm not going to patronizing you by pretending I do, but I'm not going to start pretending I'm too stupid to know that it's bigger than I can comprehend, either. Respect and pity can't coexist. Respect and compassion usually do."

Oh look. Words. A lot of them. He'd apologize from that, but he's still sprawled on the kitchen floor, and he.. doesn't want to and isn't worry.

Floor time is sacred; it's hard truths time, and pointed questions time, and struggling with feelings time. Apparently.

It's better than Steve tiptoeing around everything, that's for sure. He wouldn't be able to stomach being gentle. Kind, compassionate, that's another matter, but Steve's firm in his feelings and his beliefs, and that's just one of many reasons Clint respects him.

It doesn't mean he has to be nice about it. "Neither of those things do anything for me. Am I glad you don't hate my guts? Yeah, sure, of course. But what am I supposed to do with your compassion?" He flexes his shoulders against the hard surface, just to keep the sting up. "Compassion's what made you realize maybe I need a sound beating to get my head on straight? God, I wish you didn't have to hold back. Maybe you shouldn't."

"I don't expect my feelings to do anything for you." That's also a hard truth, but an equally blunt statement. "I'm just telling you that I don't pity you."

But then he snorts. "Clint, if you want some real serious heavy pain I'll make it happen, but it's going to take some kind of... tool use. I hold back. All the time, in everything. The only exception is when I'm fighting some super powered jackass trying to end the world. That can't change."

"I know."

Which is why he said it. And he didn't regret saying it, didn't try to gobble the words back into his mouth and unsay it.

"I guess all that's fair for almost making you cry."

Spin it into an almost-joke. That he can do.

He isn't upset by the remark and wouldn't know what there is to be sorry about, anyway. Doesn't have the good sense to leave the heart of it alone, though.

Which amounts to Clint at least needing more, and the way he's leaning into physical pain.

"Good, now let's come up with a plan to give you as close to what you're actually looking for as we can get. Not here and now, that's stupid, but something we can move toward." A pause - "And no it isn't me being a martyr for you, either."

"I've got the closest to what I'm looking for. It's this. It's what I'm doing. It's the missions I make for myself. There's nothing else to plan, here." He takes a nice deep breath and hunkers over the rest of his food again, no longer pressing hard enough to become a sharp note of pain through his nerves anymore. "I don't need you to punch my head clean off my shoulders. Just some days it feels like a better option."

"Yeah. Maybe don't ever ask me questions about Rumlow and what I voluntarily engaged in those first few months out of the ice." HE is pretty done with eating, so he moves from sitting to a crouch and picks up his trash to throw away. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Maybe don't give me ammo like that, Steve. Might be I actually use it someday." Not right now. He's not sure if he's pissed Steve off or just made him feel like he's running into a brick wall, but Clint's willing to let it all go right now if Steve is.

Steve is team hitting a brick wall, which is why he's hoping that getting into a shower smacks some kind of reset button. "I'm kinda hoping you decide to." There's a smile with that, though it's a quick one. "Might blow a hole in a wall if you detonate it right."

Not going to engage with that right now. But it's something to mull over while Steve gets a head-clearing shower.

Give him an excuse to blow up? Get some catharsis of his own? Clint's not his fucking doctor, but he is a friend, whether he asked Steve to be here or not. Their verbal spats so far have all reached a certain point and then fizzled.

Maybe Clint's the one walking on tiptoe and didn't even realize it.

He cleans up, tugs a shirt on, goes over his map again. Considers using this time to go out, have Steve come back out to an empty room, but...later, maybe. If he's feeling pettier. But he stays for now.

'Wall' is a pretty good term for what Steve feels like is going on. Like they keep trying to get around it, maybe are chipping away at it, but not quite getting there. Backing off, rather than being willing to blow through.

Whether that's a lack of trust that it won't destroy any friendship they have (valid) or something else, he doesn't know. He's pretty sure they're both doing it. He is al the way sure he is.

He is actively scared that he's going to make Clint bolt and hide better next time and that thought horrifies him.

He's in the shower for a while mulling it over, and longer for adding shaving off a couple of weeks worth of beard off with somewhat shitty disposable razors he picked up. He comes back out pretty quietly, back in sweats and socks (and t-shirt), stowes the clothes he'd had on and digs out a notebook and pencil and takes over one end of the bed, curls up and starts... well sketching his own stuff.

Which is not a map. It's actually just the view out the window. Doesn't actually count as art, just copying what he's seeing and keeping him out of the way and occupied. Buys him some time to decide if he's going to address the dance they're doing and if so what the right angle on that one is.

Clint decides to sit on the other end of the bed and stare. To take Steve in, really look at him, regard the next move. And look at the sketch, because he's a nosy little shit like that. Steve shaved. He hadn't bothered to before. Is there meaning in that, or is Clint reaching for straws, reading into something that isn't meant to be read?

"The problem with trying to get at whatever your detonation buttons are is that some of the ones I could press involves me saying shit I absolutely don't think is true, and shit you know I don't think is true. Non-starter. If you wanna tell me what you and Rumlow got up to, go for it. If you want to make me pry it out of you, we can do it that way."

Steve helpfully tilts the notebook so Clint can see what he's doing, though it's not all that interesting. Well done, at least, and he does go back to it pretty quickly.

"There's not actually much there to pry at with Rumlow, besides me being blind and stupid. First few months after I was woke up I didn't cope well and he was willing to go hard in a way that no one who wasn't some kind of psychopath would have been, but it was also about what it took for me to shut down and go to sleep. I'm mostly just... feeling like we're dancing around something, and not even knowing what it is we keep getting close to and backing off from, besides each other." He doesn't like it and he doesn't sound happy.

"We got the physical fight out. Feels kinda like we need to come to blows arguing about something until we're both red in the face." And even then. If they're going to fight, it has to be about something that feels worth it, or meaningful. "Not that there wasn't an emotional catharsis to the sparring, y'know. Just...different kind of itch this time, maybe."

He reaches out, unapologetic, unprompted, and takes Steve by the chin, tipping his face this way and that, running his fingers along jawline. "Like, help me out here, is this a cry for help, or a sign of you feeling better?"

Clint's going to learn one thing for damn sure, and that is that Steve likes being touched. There's a moment of him being a little confused by what Clint's doing and why, and that comes with a second or so of maybe a tiny touch of tension.

Once he realizes what Clint's doing, though, there's some serious easing of tension that's damn near constant in his shoulders and jaw, and he actually moves with the fingers sliding over his jaw.

"It's me feeling better," he murmurs, sounding a tiny bit embarrassed by his own responses there. "And yeah. Maybe there's some kind of argument hiding under there, or just an urge for one. But I can't think of anything worth it, and I really don't want you becoming impossible for me to find again."

He's noticed that reaction. Interesting. He pinches Steve's cheek like a doting grandmother. "You need to get cozy with the rest of the friends you got, Steve. The ones within reach. That you're in a lot more frequent contact with who also like you. I miss movie nights, too, but I can't be around to sprawl on everyone's lap eating up all the popcorn anymore."

Just ignoring entirely the idea of going to ground again and not being found until the next bloody pile of corpses he leaves behind.

"...You keep saying stuff like that, like you are actively forgetting the friends I have in reach are Nat." Just blunt, though he... kinda growls at Clint for the cheek pinch. "Though that one's gonna turn into a sparring session if she keeps feeding me peanut butter sandwiches I get within fifty feet of her. I'm not trying to rewind time. If I could do that, I'd hop back a lot further."

"See, I can't tell if that means you don't think she's cuddly and cozy, or if that means you know she is, but it's not enough. Guess if she's trying to feed you, you gotta know by now." He brings his hands back to himself. "I'm sorry it's fucking lonely, man. I'm sorry it sucks trying to figure out how to deal with it."

"Clint, you keep touching me and then reacting like I'm trying to crawl up your ass or you feel guilty because I enjoy it. Help me out here?" He knows Nat's affectionate. He really does. Right now she's not his priority. Figuring out if they're going to blow up and break down or stabilize kind of is.

"I don't feel guilty because you're affection." He furrows his brow. "You're the one who keeps trying to make some casual contact. You like that. You're about that right now and need it. Now I do it in return, and you think I'm acting weird about it?" He spreads his hands. They both need help here. What the fuck.

"This absolutely can't be what we argue about. That's too stupid."

"...Can we have the rest of this conversation laying down and not looking at each other? If it goes terribly we'll just argue about cilantro?"

Dear Steve: Show some trust in Clint. Please.

"Cilantro is good in small quantities; it's an herb that must be wielded with care and respect." And that's that about that. Steve. Come on. He's not moving. He is not moving to lay down.

"Is there a conversation we need to have, or is it a conversation that we can just not have and instead have a different conversation where you bring up what I lost, I try not to spiral, say something extremely sharp and pointy, and try to get you to break that wall or whatever?"

Just as an example???

"I thought the touching thing was to bring you back down, y'know, get you grounded, like you pinning me. I get you're lonely. I haven't been...I haven't--people'd, like that, since." Since. "Closest I get is handshakes and the people I sit to work on my arm for hours on end. You're being patient as a damn saint around me, the least I can do is try to give you what you need, too. And I'm apparently fucking that up. I don't know what we're doing. What the hell are we doing?"

The amount of work going into this is undoubtedly a reflection of both who they are as people and amount of trauma involved, but even Steve's reaching a point where he's just too fucking exhausted to do it.

Maybe that's not the worst thing.

"You know how it was important to be sure I was getting something out of wiping the floor out of you? Same thing. I needed some contact to get back down. I like contact. You don't have to keep doing it if it's not something that's making you uncomfortable. The rest of it's probably just me overthinking it and feeling like an asshole for maybe forcing it. I don't want much of anything else to do that to you."

"...Shit, Steve, I could see what the hell they got on basic cable down here and lay on you if you want. Watch bad soaps together." Which might feel too much like pretending things are normal, but they could. They could give it a go and see how that feels. Maybe.

He sets a hand lightly on Steve's arm. And then leans a little on him. Testing? Trying? "Probably should've stayed in the warehouse until you were back down. Both of us back down."

The lean's good. The touch is good. His reaction is at least more subtle this time. There's still relief and relaxation there, but it's not as... overt or intense. "TV and laying down sounds like a good way to kill time, anyway."

Staying in the warehouse... maybe? He doesn't know. Probably would have been better, actually and Clint's probably right. Location changes get complicated.

"Might even help my Spanish while we're waiting. I'm gonna settle first, this time. You handle the tv and put yourself where you want to be?"

The touch to his cheek comes roaring back to the forefront again rather than background noise. He considers it for a moment. And decides not to ask, just roll it up into all of this touchy feely stuff and...try to move past it. Attempt to not assign any further meaning to it.

"Okay." He rolls from the bed to his feet to grab the remote. The junky CRT tv at least sits on the little dresser drawer across from the foot of the bed. Reminds him of a hotel. Or of old SHIELD bolt holes and safe houses. Small, contained, not very trackable, everything needed in as unobtrusive a space as possible. "Used to do this with Natasha, sometimes, when we had to wait in a safe house and let something blow over. Sit around and watch telenovelas. Something to concentrate on if you need that distraction, or something to just be background noise instead."

Assign further meaning to it. It might simplify a lot of things here.

Or it wouldn't. It's complicated - and not. Nothing tangled up and confused here, at all.

Steve settles himself into the bed, positioned so he's against the wall and can see the TV. He's fully prepared to adapt to whatever Clint does when he comes to join him. "That explains a lot about the time I've been spending with her, lately. Not all that different than some of the stuff we got up to in camp or, hell, even in the actual trenches. Not tv but something that your mind can chew on besides itself."

"Hold hands, sing kumbaya, tell stories? Make up games with whatever you got on hand?" He keeps the volume low, turns it to--whatever, honestly, the content doesn't matter. Some soap or some drama.

Takes a moment to consider. He remembers movie nights on occasion, sprawl across a couple laps for fun, physically casual, or propped up on the floor talking and shooting the shit more than watching. There's a part of him that very strongly misses the sensation of fingers through his hair. And that's...something all tangled up. He's not gonna just ask for Steve to pet him. Jesus. But he's also the one that suggested this whole setup.

He sighs. "This is so damn awkward. Okay, lemmie ask you this. You've been doing...a lot of the touching and holding and shit lately. Do you want me to instead? Would that make you feel better?"

"I wouldn't call most of it holding hands," he murmurs, under his breath.

Then looks at Clint and... smiles, in a way that's tired and kind of worn but still fundamentally and undeniably Steve. "All I need is to know and then believe that you'll tell me if I'm crossing a line you don't want crossed. I like you touching me. I like touching you. Sprawl across me and we get the best of both?"

It's an offer. Not a demand. But it's one where he sounds a little hopeful. "It doesn't have to be awkward. Just don't think we quite trust each other."

"I trust you. You're Steve." That doesn't necessarily mean the same thing, but in some way, to Clint, it does. "Alright, I'm gonna scoot in. Open your god damn legs."

He has to say it like that because it's funnier that way. He doesn't go for any obvious joke, just sets himself to slotting in the gap and leaning his tender back against Steve's broad chest. It almost feels like pulling on a fur coat or cuddling into a heated blanket. Which is actually quite nice.

The sound that comes out of Steve at that remark is first choked surprise, but quickly turns into a startled, but all the way from his chest laugh. "You can't just say things like that! You'll ruin my reputation."

He does, however, sprawl his legs apart, even bends one at the knee to give room Clint to settle in, before he drops it again. Once Clint's in place he settles one hand in the middle of Clint's chest, just so he can feel Clint's heart against his palm.

Intimacy. That's the thing he's been missing and a word he's skirted around, because. Well. Clint trusts Steve. Steve trusts Clint more the second Clint leans back against him.

"Your reputation as a good ol' boy, pure as the driven snow?" Clint snorts lightly. "Please. It's me. Your reputation alone doesn't get you very far. You gonna tell me you've never let someone in that spandex before?"

He doesn't actually know, although the subject of Captain America's Virginity^{^TM} has definitely been a subject that's come up before in team chatter for shits and also giggles.

He tips his head back, tilted more along a shoulder, and remembers to breathe against the ever-present ache in his chest. The real one that Steve gave him earlier, anyway. Steve's not gonna hurt him by just feeling his heart, making sure Clint is present and accounted for. That he isn't going to run off.

"How's this?"

"I'd answer that, but there's probably a betting pool or two around somewhere, and I'd hate to be accused of helping you cheat." There's a slight smile that carries to his voice, translates to both warmth and humor.

Then tilts his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes. Absently recognizes Clint leaning his head back by lifting his hand off Clint's chest, dragging his nails very lightly down Clint's throat, and resettling it back over his heart. "I've had sex, just not a lot of it and less of it since the whole 'thawed' thing."

Doesn't miss a beat or open his eyes to say, "This is good."

There's a stillness that overcomes him when Steve's hand moves, fingers, nails to his throat. It's such a gentle thing, yet animal, something that makes just a small spike of adrenaline. A surprised kind, a kind that gives him a shiver once he's done and settles his hand back down.

Is he breathing? He remembers breathing is a thing. "Don't rip my throat out just yet. Still got a job to do first."

"Weren't you just claiming to trust me?" There's a gentle prod and tease in there, amusement even, but he missed none of the physical response. He's not surprised by it. He did like it.

"Yeah, and I'm trusting you not to rip my throat out," he retorts, with full knowledge that's not what Steve meant. "Yet." It would be insanely easy for the super soldier to get a hand around him and squeeze with so little effort.

Steve's care and control are astonishing when thought about for more than a second. Clint's got fine control down to an art, and Steve blows him right out of the water about it. Letting go on the battlefield is one thing, seems effortless, but in treating a lot of the rest of his life like everything is fragile, because in comparison, it is, it's...wow. Steve did a number on him, and it was all calculated very carefully to not do too much damage, enough superficial stuff to hurt deep but nowhere that would overly hinder him. Cracked ribs because Clint can take it, but nothing that would need immediate medical attention. And succeeding in doing exactly as planned while Clint only had to hold back with a weapon in hand? Wow.

"You know exactly what you're doing. Even when you think you don't know what you're doing." He gives Steve a friendly pat on the thigh, like a non-verbal 'good job'.

"Mm." He sounds unimpressed and unconvinced, but in a blatantly false way that says he's not really offended about it, or bothered by it. There's a point it's just sense, and he does recognize that Clint's not physically afraid of him.

He drops his ankle over one of Clint's when Clint pats his thigh, and then sort of gently thumps his chest with one thumb. "Throat just feels more vulnerable. It's not actually by much."

That's creepy Steve. Except he's completely relaxed, breathing easily (easier than he was), enjoying the weight against him and the level of trust on display.

Still kind of wishes he had a fight he could throw himself at, but Steve and release that way aren't a thing, and it's twisted around into just enjoying the self-control and people trusting him.

That's deliberate. That's calmly and casually testing boundaries. A little more trapping Clint to see if that's okay. To see if he freezes up, if he lashes out, if he runs, if he asks to back off like a normal person would do. He doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't run, either, or lash out. So.

"Speak for yourself. Throat's a good target for a bullet or an arrow. Blade of any kind. Lotta people don't protect it the way they do other parts. It's just a smaller target than a lot of people aim for."

If it's creepy, it doesn't register to Clint. Who does, in all fairness, some creepy shit himself. He isn't in the slightest bit listening to the show. It barely even registers.

"If you didn't already throw me around, and I wasn't still feeling some kind of good about it," because he does, even if the tension still gets thick, it still feels like a warm if awful glow under his skin, "I'd have you pin me down again. Maybe not by the throat." Or maybe by the throat. Hm.

That is exactly what Steve is doing -- because he has decided that he and Clint trying to talk things out mostly just leads to them going in circles.

Circles at best, a downward spiral that heads straight down the drain at worst.

"It's a smaller target that I'm gonna aim for, that's for sure." He doesn't have that kind of precision. Also: if he's going to take a hit he'd rather it be a kill shot or somewhere that doesn't have him swallowing his own blood while he tries to heal - or actually does.

Clint staying relaxed against him means Steve stays put, too. Clint staying in the conversational part, in fact upping the ante on it? Tells him as much (or more) than a discussion about desires and boundaries would have, anyway.

"I dunno. Pinned down by the throat and exhausting yourself all over again seems like one way to get solid sleep. Would hurt like crazy. Wouldn't actually cause new injury." That's an offer.

Clint swallows and lets that offer sit in his mind. They've already passed the trust exercise as far as violence goes. It's this, the tenderness, that is really tripping them up. Or just him, maybe. He would absolutely trust Steve to do that. Does he need it?

Deep breath in, enough to press the ribs out, and deep breath back out. Another pat. Just seems casual and figuratively safe that way. "Let's settle in like this for a bit first, okay? Put a pin in it."

"It doesn't come with an expiration date," he says, easily. More easily and more legitimately comfortable than he's been.

He is starting to think one of them here is a lot more comfortable with this kind of thing than the other, and maybe just this once the one who's more okay with it (and in their skin) is him.

Also starting to think Clint being offered this instead of going out and chasing it down in really dangerous ways is new.

It might be just that it's Steve, in both cases, and god knows he's been wrong more than once. In the past 24 hours, even. "This is nice." Proof of life, weight and warmth? Not a consolation prize. It is legitimately good.

"Pin in it it is then." For later. Some other time. Pinned down with nowhere to go, in danger but never actually in danger, able to struggle and exhaust himself and be safe the entire time.

This, too, is safe. And he has to remember that. That's less to do with Steve and more to do with the situation, this softness, this intimacy. He used to do this. With people he loves. Hold and be held. Casual, good, close, physical contact that relaxes, or excites in all the right ways.

It's been an age. It's been a lifetime. It's been--a whole other person who experienced that. He's not even entirely sure where to put his hands anymore, so he lays one along Steve's leg and the other on top of the hand on his chest. "Yeah. It's nice."

Steve keeps his eyes closed, his head tipped back and one hand on Clint's chest. The other one finally settling on Clint's thigh. Breathing and pulse so even and slow, even deep, they actually suggest sleep.

He's not asleep. He even listens to whatever is on the television. He can follow most of it.

"Of all the shit the serum changed with me, the only one I resent is not needing normal amounts of sleep. Used to be not being able to get drunk. That one I got over. This one was old about two weeks in."

It's not uncomfortable. It's not frightening. It is nice. That might be why it feels like it hurts the way it does. A subtle ache in his heart rather than his chest. But it's one he'll endure. This isn't so bad. It's just echoes of things from before.

"If this is you saying you really want to take the couch tonight cuz you aren't gonna really sleep anyway..." Joke. Joking. Mostly. "Guess you're not worried this is a dream, huh."

"Nope." He's not worried it's a dream - this is way nicer than either of their dreams, he's sure - and he's not worried he's going to forget it. The way Clint's heart feels beating against his palm is... quite possibly the best, most reassuring, thing he can even imagine right now.

"You should let me take the couch tonight, though, otherwise you're going to have a hard time walking tomorrow, much less moving at speed."

Stiff. All he means is Clint's going to stiffen up overnight and more so if he's sleeping in cramped conditions.

"Unless you wanna share the bed again. But you might get bored with all that sleep you don't need." He finds himself, in this zone of comfort, idly rubbing his thumb over Steve's hand. Like this is normal. Like this isn't going to vanish in a puff of smoke soon, because he can't have this be normal.

"'s okay. If you need to be up and about and doing something. I'm probably gonna sleep like the dead after what today's been."

"If I hadn't figured out how to lay still with my eyes shut, somebody would have taken my head off seventy years ago." There's a slight smile with that one. "As long as I've got something to pay attention to, I'm good. You breathing counts, though I know that might get weird if you think about it too much."

Steve isn't even aware when he picks up the rhythm of Clint's thumb on his hand and echos it with his thumb on Clint's thigh.

He is 100% willing to let this be normal. It feels more normal for him than anything has in years. Knows that's not the case for Clint and that's... heartbreaking, but a thing he can accept.

Edited 2024-11-18 23:27 (UTC)

"You know I'm gonna think about it too much, but I don't think that's as weird as you're worried about. You've said and done much weirder."

No he will not elaborate at this time, weirdo.

It isn't like Clint's not at the top of weird mountain in his own right. They can be weird, and they can be it together, and for a few short odd days, they can exist and not fucking judge each other. It's a trip trying to come around to the fact that Steve gives a shit about him, not the things he does or why he does them.

So then why does it feel like such an act of bravery? When he tips his head further back, cranes to try and catch a glimpse of his teammate's face. "Steve?" It doesn't stutter, but it's quiet, soft. He wants to bolt, run and fight something until everything gives out, but he's determined to allow himself to be vulnerable in this softness and warmth. Even if he might not be much to look at at this angle, bruising on his face from the busted but not broken nose, the bags under his eyes from the stress if not the uneven sleep he must get.

It feels like an act of bravery because it is one. Because reaching out at all, being vulnerable, letting any kind of intimacy happen at all is already brave.

And Clint looks vulnerable when Steve opens his eyes and tilts his head enough to the side and down to see him, but he also looks like himself, and present, in a way that makes Steve's chest hurt, but with the sort of ache he can embrace.

He has no idea what Clint is asking for though, or at least not really. So aside from brushing one particularly dark bruise with his thumb he just tilts his head and makes a questioning noise.

Whatever Clint wants enough to ask for with this, though? Steve's going to let him be brave, but anything in his power to give Clint? He will give Clint.

It's hard to know the words to ask for what he wants. Because he feels small and kind of stupid and vulnerable in a way that he needed to strike down and smother in order to do what he does. Steve touches him in ways that always catches him off guard. He swallows. "Could you..." Get it out. "Just for a little bit, if you could...just..."

He huffs at himself more than anything and decides to take action. Action's always better, always easier. He tucks his face closer to Steve's chest again and takes one of those hands on him and brings it up. Fingers to his hairline, or nails to his scalp. He does want that gentle petting sensation. But it's so hard to actually try and describe it, to go 'hey can you pet my hair', because that sounds so dumb to his ears even if, just a few years ago, he might've done that easily enough.

It's a small thing. It's incredibly small and feels silly to feel so vulnerable. But it's there. He supposes if anyone were going to get it, it might be Steve.

He waits it out, with no judgement but an admittedly slightly confused expression. That Clint is having a hard time spelling it out is clear, but what Clint wants isn't.

Until Clint shows him.

"With pleasure." No amusement, no mocking, no judgement. Some (and more than a little) relief. That he understands and that Clint asked. He adjusts his position to be able to get into a position where he can reach support Clint's position and still reach his hair, and does that.

With pleasure.

Slow, steady, and letting his nails drag just a little against Clint's scalp. Focuses on the rhythm and the way it feels to him, too.

He can't help the little shudder of pure relief. How good that feels, how right, how much it simply feels good and warm and familiar and safe. He can listen to the soap opera and listen to Steve's heart and breathing and simply be.

The guilt is something that threatens to come crushing in. The loneliness is likely to quickly follow suit. He can feel them at the edges, clawing at the doors.

Just breathe. Sink deep into feeling just the sensations and only that. Cling to this like a liferaft. Part of him does want to switch their positions at some point, distantly, so he can have the excuse to hold someone in turn in a way that's also familiar, but right now this is something that a part of him clearly needed desperately.

Steve very gradually and slowly changes position just enough to make sure they're both in a position they can stay in, and that makes sure there's enough contact between them that Clint can continue to feel him breathe.

Then slowly leans his head back again, closes his eyes and finds a rhythm of sliding his fingers through Clint's hair that matches his breathing. Lets his nails drag lightly across skin while he does and just holds onto Clint and flat out pets him.

Steve almost wants to cry when Clint shudders, though he doesn't. There's a lot of relief for him in this, too. Because he can absolutely be rough, and provide physical and precise pain - but this is better. Not a thought in his head on the 'favor' being 'returned' - that falls into the realm of so long gone he's completely given up on having it - but this? Hurts, feels normal and right, and also feels really fucking good.

And he will do it until hell freezes or there's some sign to stop or change gears and direction.

Steve's good at this. Just existing in the moment and letting the time go by slow and easy. Clint can see a universe where he falls into this rhythm and lets himself be pet and cradled into another sleep.

He won't let that happen this time. It's a comfort, and also he's distinctly aware of every single touch and every shift in Steve's position. He has to be aware, because if he lets himself drift, he might be able to imagine different fingers running through his hair, could let himself let Mexico fall away and be somewhere else far from here. And if he drifts in that direction, he'll hurt so bad that he won't know what to do with himself.

Here he only needs to exist and be present. Present here, in this moment, with Steve.

This moment stretches on for a while. At least long enough for the show to change at some point. And then Clint pushes himself to sit up, breaking the flow of things. Has to blink a few times, to stretch himself out and shake off a feeling almost like settled dust. There is a yawning pit inside him longing for something he can never have, and a few drops poured down into it can't fix it. But maybe a few stolen moments like this can temporarily ease it.

It feels complicated, somehow, in its simplicity, and he doesn't particularly feel like examining that right now. Would prefer to keep guilt at bay as long as he can. He half-turns to Steve. Who is not asleep, he knows. "Thanks." Because it feels right to say. "You good?"

Steve is good at sitting still and using what amount to simple meditative techniques (not that he knows that) and external focal points to keep his brain from running away with him -- and/or just repress and keep a lid on himself, depending. This, at least, was the former.

He lets go of Clint the second he moves, and waits for him to sit up before he actually moves himself. Even then it's just to reach back and push (in a controlled way) against the headboard and stretch his back out. He gives an inelegant but satisfied grunt when his spine cracks between his shoulder blades and then rolls onto his side.

If he has any problem letting the moment end or is shaken by the moment having happened it doesn't show, though he doesn't bother to sit up or get up.

"Just fine. Thinking it's gonna be a quiet evening and day tomorrow, but I might actually get that sketch finished in the meanwhile. Or start something new. Might wander out and buy crayons to entertain myself with." What? Not like he's got weapon maintenance to do. Also not complaining about it.

"I'm gonna do some last minute recon." Like, right now, immediately, once he pulls his shoes on and his hoodie and all that good stuff. So give him a minute here. It might look more like running away, and maybe it's a little bit that. A smidge of that.

But he does look at Steve first. "If you...still wanna share space, we could try and share the bed. Could big spoon you. If you want held in return." Or if Clint wants to do some holding. He might want that. But asking for things is hard enough; apparently asking for the petting really took it out of him. "Or if you just wanna stay up and draw or...whatever. Let me know."

Clint's running away and Steve is... not as bothered by it as he could be. Afraid Clint's going to get into some manner of trouble? Sure. Worried Clint's not going to come back? No, albeit primarily currently for reasons amounting to all of Clint's stuff being here.

Besides, he at least sort of gets it. He's introducing all sorts of complications and conflict here. He isn't sorry for it, but he does recognize it. Clint can't do what he's been doing and be just a weapon or just furious and violent with Steve here, and especially not with what they've been doing.

"I'll be here when you get back," he says, sitting up slowly on the edge of the bed. There is a flicker of pure, uncomplicated confusion at the suggestion that he might want to be held - overt in the same way somebody speaking a foreign language he doesn't understand would be - but it doesn't hang around too long. "And I'm good with sharing the bed and you being the big spoon for a while." Whether he'll sleep or not, how long, if he'll stay down for the night, he doesn't know. He's not turning down Clint breathing at his back though.

The comfort clears his head, and now he has to clear his head from clearing his head. That doesn't make sense, does it? But it's how Clint feels in a way that he would be hard pressed at best to put into words.

The confusion makes him hesitate. Like he's done something wrong. Screwed something up again. But there's nothing behind it, just...a little confused. God, join the club.

"Okay. We'll see how I'm feeling. Later. Before bed." Sound more uncertain, why don't you. "Won't be too long. I'll try not to be anyway."

Nope, nothing behind the confusion that's more complicated than confusion and maybe a little surprised that anyone offering it to him.

That one's a desire that he's long since put away. The idea of maybe getting it for a little bit? That's a little overwhelming, but he sure as hell isn't going to turn it down.

"That works." He gets up when Clint moves to the door, but all he actually does is grab his sketchbook and settle down at the table with it. Actually ends up doing some stylized 'brand logo' stuff. Army. SHIELD. Hydra. Avengers. Lots of stars and stripes and irony.

It kills time.

Clint flashes a little bit of something that's like a smile, there and gone, apologetic, and then is out the door.

He does do exactly what he set out to do: he takes another good walk around the area, makes sure nothing has changed. Gets a couple brief vantage points on rooftops. Wanders by a few of the local bars where some of the members in question hang out, in case there are loose lips about plan changes, but as far as he can tell, nothing is amiss and tomorrow should go off without a hitch.

He does stay out a little longer when his recon is done. Do a little running and jumping, some parkour. Exhausted and energetic at the same time, fresh air to knock some kind of sense into him.

It's better, calmer, the ruckus inside his chest and rattling under the floorboards of his skull, when he comes back.

"You ever draw people?"

Hi to you, too.

"Welcome back," he says, with some amusement and 0 offense or mockery.

Then just answers the question, mostly by flipping the book back all the way to the first page. Because that's the safe one. There's no one Clint will recognize from outside a history book or museum, probably. Not even as a close family resemblance.

There are those pictures in that book and he... isn't subjecting Clint to them.

It's Peggy. Done in regular old pencil but done well and not a recreation of a photo. Mostly because even in pencil and shading he's gotten some warmth into her eyes and a smile on her face.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"Man," a little breathlessly. "I mean, I've been to your part of the museum before. But they don't exactly talk about your art there."

Of course he's been there. Who hasn't been there? Until relatively recently, Captain America was practically a myth in his own right.

"Everything's still looking good to go. I'm trusting you to stay out of sight. I'll do my thing. And then we go from there." Just as an update. He shoves the hood off his head, ruffling up his hair when he does so. "Sorry to leave you bored, but at least you've got that. The art."

"That display isn't me. That's a Captain America exhibit. Too bad I woke up and spoiled the fantasy."

Which is... actually a thing he feels bad about. Inferiority complex when compared to himself? Yeah, actually, at least the ideal that's not really him. Something about Tony and bottles that was just verification but is never going to leave his head.

"Not sure if I wanna reassure you by telling you I'm good at being bored, or that I wasn't bored. Both are true." He shrugs and closes the cover, sticks the pencil into the spiral binding and pushes it away from him.

"Nothing's changed on my end or with my intentions. I'll be out of sight and out of the way unless something's going way south. At that points, all bets are off. I don't see that happening."

"The real thing's better." And he means it. The ideal of Captain America doesn't hold a candle to Steve actual Rogers, flesh and blood human being.

He reaches out a hand, laying it flat on the cover, but he doesn't pull it toward him, doesn't open it up. People obviously get sensitive about the personal stuff. His fingers drum a moment. "You wanna show me anything else? Promise I won't laugh."

The real guy 'let' half of life on earth get turned into dust and Clint might not blame him - but Tony does, and so does Steve. He gives Clint a faint, appreciative, smile anyway.

"You can look through it if you want. There are some more portraits in there, including the team and Sam, but I don't think there's anything in there so personal it'd bother me or... so close to you that it'd be a problem. Or you can work backward if you want to skip those and stick with landscapes, logos and cartoons."

Basically the further out this is, the less cohesive the art gets.

There are portraits in there. Howard. Bucky from before even the War. Nat and Clint. Tony and Banner. Sam and Bucky. Thor. Most of them from how he remembers and sees them most strongly. Meaning from the period they were living in Avenger's Tower and things were okay. Movie nights and parties, not... fighting and conflict.

"Maybe this is what you should do instead of," shrugs, "any of this. Be an artist. Fill commissions. Get put up in galleries." He flips through pages studiously, genuinely interested. He's never been an artist himself, doesn't really know shit about it, but he can tell it's good.

"I can't believe there was a time when all this shit was simpler," he says, thumbing a page with Thor's grinning face like he might shine right through the paper.

Steve is barely aware that he's doing it, but lately the more he feels like he is in danger of breaking down or just feeling a particular heavy ache in his chest that comes pretty close to being the physical representation of heartbreak...

He quirks one corner of his mouth up in a smile. One meant to reassure whoever he's talking to that he's okay. Because he's ok.

He does that now. "Maybe. Might be able to ride on Captain America and advertise to collectors or sell those off. The further you get, the more it... devolves. It's still technically decent but it stops being art somewhere around the Accords and keeps going downhill until it's basically stock images and clip art. No one wants to look at what's in my head, including me."

That's a look that Steve gets, and Clint just stares at him for a few long moments. Something about it seems flat. But if Steve's going to insist the rest of it is crap, Clint will flip to that specific section, the newer stuff, less people, less cityscapes. Devolving into flat shapes.

"Graphic designer," he says. "Businesses still need ads and logos and shit. But you've still got it in you; I saw you were sketching the view out the window, before, or trying to."

"I will eventually finish that one. Might be once I'm back in the States, but it'll be interesting to see if I can get it on paper in a way I like. Try animals." He shrugs. He doesn't know. But: "Graphic design's not a bad idea. I almost went that direction before I enlisted."

He... might even actually do it, although mostly to give himself something to fill time and reassure people that he's okay.

"You could sketch me if you want a living model. Maybe it'll help get you out of this creative funk or something. Dunno, I've never been artsy that way." Another shrug as he reaches the end to flip through, and slides the book back at Steve. "Or whatever might help you feel better."

"I will absolutely draw you, now." There is a picture of Clint in there, from years ago. "But even if the result makes you uncomfortable, I get to keep it."

Because... well, he cares. Specifically about Clint. and he doesn't want Clint lighting his own face on fire because that shows.

"It's your art. For you. Unless you sell it to a collection or a museum or something. Then I feel like you owe some of us money."

Clint tips his head, curious. "You weren't having us pose or anything. Were you just drawing us while we were hanging out? You don't do like...traditional sit there and keep the same pose for a couple hours portraits."

"Nah. I probably would have needed that or something like a photograph to work from before the serum." He flips his book open to the back page, and retrieves the pencil. Pivots the open page faces him and sketches out a crude map, but a damn accurate one. "That's a map I saw in a hydra base in 1944. Serum changed how my mind and memory work, too."

Edited 2024-11-19 20:40 (UTC)

Clint's brows knit together, leaning over the map. He's a little incredulous, actually, when he looks back up at Steve. "Dude." Because that's incredible. "I didn't know you had photo memory. That's amazing."

That incredulity and... enthusiasm is more than enough for Steve to not give a single shit about his own mixed feelings on the subject. Hell, it makes him grin outright in a way that is pretty sincere. "I guess I didn't realize it hadn't come up. No need to model. Do whatever you feel like with the evening. I've got a picture in my head I can work from now."

Hell, he wants to get it on paper and that... is a good feeling. Enough to have him pulling the book back open and finding a clean page to start.

"I mean, maybe casually it came up? But not like-" with a motion to the map. And the art! He's just doing that shit from memory!

"God, right, uh. I'm gonna try not being self-conscious now. Gonna just...exist." Clint gives a little laugh. "Don't usually do this part with company. Or any of it, the lead-up to the mission. Gets boring sometimes. Probably just gonna do some research." There are always more targets, after all. Global operations. "Just let me know if you need anything, I guess."

The memory thing has some downsides, it came 'out of a bottle' rather than having anything to do with him, Steve's bad at any kind of attention on that stuff, and....

Right now, he doesn't care at all and none of it matters, because it's Clint and Clint might just be more present and relaxed than Steve's seen him since everything went to hell. That is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

"I can move to the bed if you need the table again. Might have to physically poke me to get my attention once I'm going, but it's not a problem." Hell, he's already getting some pale, sketched out lines onto paper, that will disappear into the finished product.

"Nah, I think we're good. I can be comfy anywhere." Given all the places he's had to spend copious amounts of time in, small spaces, uncomfortable positions, he means it.

He pulls out a laptop from his gear and settles himself back on the bed, cross-legged like when he was doodling his own map. "Don't be surprised if I end up watching over your shoulder at some point, though." Not anytime soon, probably. He's distinctly aware of Steve, taking up his allowed space, drawing Clint. But he can compartmentalize and focus on trawling the dark web, perusing known digital hangouts of tech savvy mobs, and checking up on any of his trackers. He can let them lapse into a somewhat comfortable silence, save for the light tapping of keys and the whisper of pencil on paper.

Steve resolutely refuses to consider the amount of leg flexibility and strength to pull off some of the positions he's seen Clint stay in for extended periods of time. He's not drawing that, dammit, and he doesn't want that level of distraction.

It's actually not a real issue. Once Clint settles to work, so does Steve and his focus on it turns pretty complete. His position shifts here and there - leaned over the table, head propped in his hand, leaned back in his chair with one knee braced up by the table and sketchbook against his upraised thigh, whatever - but he doesn't actually stop.

What he's drawing really is Clint. Clint as he is now, complete with incomplete tattoo on one arm, slightly too long hair, faint lines around his eyes, even the bruising on his face, but... that exact moment he got excited about Steve's memory or art or whatever it was. Not... shut off and cold but that moment of life he'd had. Getting that into a set of eyes in grayscale and pencil is by far what takes the most time and is also the last thing he does and finishes.

And Clint's confused Steve cares about him as a person. ...that picture would look very different, if Steve didn't.

At some point, Clint has to give in to curiosity. There are a few new leads but nothing more pressing than his next destination. Just places and people to keep in mind for later.

But Steve's been sketching him for what feels like an awfully long time. And he knows it'll look good, lifelike, that it'll be him on the page, but something lit a fire under Steve in a way all the logos and 2d shapes didn't.

So he peeks, just as he warned he might. Gets a drink and glances at it upside down. And then gets intrigued enough to come over Steve's shoulder. It's... It is him, yeah. He knows his own face, and Steve has spared no details, even the unflattering ones. But it's also not quite the face that looks back at him in the mirror each day, these black days. In a good way. A different way. It's hard to know how to feel about it, really, but he has to crack a joke to break his own tension over his knee.

"Doesn't look a thing like me, Rogers. You gotta get those super eyes checked."

Steve looks up and over his shoulder at Clint and cracks a grin. "I think maybe one of us is more biased than the other - and that one of us is you."

Steve likes Clint more than Clint likes Clint, and Steve knows it.

"I think one of us is being a smartass, and I can't tell who." Spoilers, it's both of them, and he knows it. Steve's grin inspires a little smile of his own, all in good fun.

"It's good." Which feels inadequate. "I looked like that once?" And also, visually, now, but in the emotional sense... "Dunno, feels like you're reaching for days long past. Which I'm not opposed to." Or maybe some of the softness and gentleness and cuddling and touches inspired a softer look out of him. Maybe he's not giving himself enough credit.

Maybe he's not giving Steve enough credit, for sure.

It's definitely both of them, though Steve--

He shakes his head a little, and taps his pencil against the drawing, right between the sketch's eyes. "That is the expression that was on your face right before I started drawing and that made me want to draw again."

You're still in there, Clint. Damaged and hurting and changed, for sure, but in there. You are still a person, not just a killing machine.

"I--" Clint blinks in surprise. "It is?" Mr. Photographic Memory wouldn't lie to him. Has not once lied to him.

His own face does something complicated. Guarded but curious but concerned but considering but--complicated. He sees the evidence in front of his face and can understand where Steve's been coming at him from. Not suggesting he isn't what he is now, but that he is also still Clint. Whatever that means these days. But it's hard to fathom. Difficult to accept. The same as taking solace in a touch. Like it isn't for him, like it's some kind of betrayal to have it.

But Steve's able to step back and see the whole of him. Not just the darkness.

"Glad I could inspire something nice," is what he eventually says.

Maybe he's not really doing Clint any favors, drawing attention to the fact that he is still a person, that he is still him just changed. Maybe he should stop not just creating space for there to be more, but almost demanding it.

But he can't just let Clint disappear entirely. Not into a global mission, not inside himself. Not when he's right there and in reach.

Steve has never wanted to touch anybody as badly as he wants to touch Clint just then. The position they're in stops him from doing it - can't do it easily so that means there's a gap to check himself - but God he wants to.

He puts the pencil down but doesn't close the book, just stays half pivoted so he can keep seeing Clint. Keeps a bit of a smile, but one that does actually reach his eyes. "So am I."

Steve's so open. Happy, in this moment at least. Genuine. And it's so hard not to let that seep into him in turn. His gaze turns from the drawing to Steve, and he's struck by that smile and that sincerity.

He ducks his head, a little smile tugging at the corner. Ah, so that's a taste of humble pie, huh. "You're good at this." And he's not exactly talking about the art, here. Clint rests a hand lightly on Steve's shoulder. "Thanks for being you."

Steve reaches up and gives Clint's hand on his shoulder a slow, careful, squeeze. He suddenly has... a dozen pictures he wants to draw, and they're all Clint.

None that he'd show Clint, at least any time soon, because they're not at all sexual but are intimate. He might draw them just to get the ideas out of his head, and never show Clint. Or show him two years from now.

Regardless, his hand on Clint's is warm, and brief and careful and then gone. "You get everything you needed to done?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow's just gonna be my stupid meditative shit and a lot of otherwise hurrying up and waiting. You'll get to see the whole getup in action. Don't laugh at it." All costumes are inherently silly, to be perfectly honest, which Steve would know all too well.

The hand is there, and present, and then gone, and Clint slides his hand away as well. "You get everything you needed?"

A question deliberately phrased.

"Hey. Even I picked up some stupid meditative shit somewhere. It's useful." Just, you know, pointing that out while he tries to figure out Clint's phrasing and decide what Clint's offering and if it's an offer or a check in or - "I'm pretty okay right now. You can figure out bedtime arrangements then and I'll go with whatever works for you."

What he needs and what he wants don't exactly align often. Mostly because he doesn't need a hell of a lot and unless he's so depressed he can't function what he wants is... something, albeit usually nothing he can have. This isn't fundamentally different. Just... easier.

"Apparently, if nothing else, I'm taking the bed. If you want to also be in the bed, I'm amenable to that." Maybe he'll hold Steve a little. Maybe he'll just take comfort in a warm and breathing body next to him. It's unclear. "Living heating pad might be nice," with a quirk of his lips.

"If you're amenable, I'm curling up with you - or you can curl up around me. Whatever works best for the heating pad aspect." Look... he... is never turning down that kind of contact.

...that's a lie.

He's never turning down that contact from someone he knows, trusts, and care about. Anyone else would just get punched at this point.

"However we end up, I don't really want you at my back." At least he can admit that, with an apologetic little shrug. "I trust you. You know I do. Just hard to shake the feeling is all." Of someone there, just behind him, while he's physically vulnerable.

"You gonna stay up a bit? Get more drawing in now that you're all inspired?"

"I've been trying to avoid putting you between me and the wall. Can just roll over so we're both facing the wall, face each other again, or flip it around so I'm curled up with you and my back. Hell, I can sleep on my back if you're okay with that." Well lay on his back. "We've got options."

That said, he glances at the book, then out the window, then back at Clint. "Yeah. I'm probably going to take an hour, finish this and see if an idea I just got for the view can turn into something I like."

"We've got options," he agrees. "I don't mind the wall. And maybe I'll come around to you at my back. We'll figure it out. Think I'm gonna start with my back to it, so it leaves room for you. Whenever you come to bed."

There it is again, all at once, that ashy taste as his mouth dries out and everything suddenly feels like the edge of an impossibly deep pit. He grips tight the back of the chair, breathes hard for a moment. Just a few moments. Then flashes a meek grin, laughs in a way that seems too breathy to count as one. "Haven't had to think about sleeping positions in a while."

Hasn't had to worry about someone coming to bed, since.

He has to move so he can unglue himself from this spot. "We'll figure it out. I'm not worried. Take your time." And then he's moving, and just that small action seems to help keep him from getting too stuck.

If this had happened 12 hours ago, Steve would have been much more thrown than he is now. Now? Now, Clint's trying to give him context for the upset. Clint's trying to explain to Steve. The context itself is helpful, sure. The act of putting in the effort to use words and explain, even through that kind of grief?

That gives him more hope than anything so far that Clint might just not end up bleeding out in a gutter. That? Is a man who is making an effort to at least be understood, even if... well more raw than finessed, maybe uneven, but those aren't things Steve would recognize or care about, either.

He stays put in his chair, but leans back and wedges one leg up, so the table edge is dug into his shin and his heel is just balanced on the seat. Keeps his eyes on Clint, but not in an overly intense way, not judging or calculating.

"It's okay to worry about it." Just that. "It's also okay if it hurts like hell, you know it's going to hurt like hell and you want to try, anyway. I know what's going on. You don't need to fake your way through the shitty part to keep me from flinching away from you." Because nothing in there said 'I don't want to'. Everything just said 'it's hard'.

It feels like pointed barbs digging in. And he knows that's not what Steve's going for. That doesn't keep the feeling from happening. They've been skirting around talking about any of this too directly, save for when Steve had so bluntly pointed out that the magnitude of their losses were incomprehensibly different. And he does not want to get too direct about it, because he's pretty sure he'll collapse in on himself, simply stop and never start again, break and shatter into too many pieces to clean up.

And maybe he won't, but is that a risk he's willing to take?

"I'm not worried," he repeats in a little snap. "And everything hurts like hell, all the time." He would prefer not to be an open wound every second of every day. Sometimes one has to suture himself back up. "If you wanna deal with my shitty parts right now, this is a hell of a time for it."

Steve figures that is a pretty predictable, fair, and not terrible response. He's even a little relieved that there's a snap in there, for reasons that have nothing to do with his own... issues around literally every person still in the world and the ones who aren't.

He doesn't flinch away from any of it, doesn't interrupt and in fact just waits on Clint to be done and then another couple of seconds in silence. Because he meant what he said and that's not changing.

"It was a statement and offer, not a demand." He leans forward, somewhat awkwardly since he's got one of his own legs wedged between himself and the table, and drags the sketch book over to himself, flips back to that view, and props it open against his knee.

He doesn't need a fight right now. He already got an extremely good one that set a lot of things feeling right, feeling more whole, feeling good. But god damn, sometimes he wishes Steve would just fight him. Verbally sparring, anyway. Instead of just making his statements and his offers and being a well of calm in the face of Clint's volatility.

If Steve wasn't such a friend, or maybe if this was yesterday, or maybe if Clint was just a hair pettier, he'd use it as an excuse to dig in, to drag a fight out of this by force if he has to. But they were in such a good place, and...he shouldn't ruin that. Just because Steve placed a finger on a nerve for a moment.

His jaw works in frustrated annoyance, weighing his options, before he turns away and makes himself get the hell to bed.

If Clint decides to try and get a (real) verbal fight out of Steve, he's going to get some more insight into Steve's current mental health (or maybe just confirmation) that he probably doesn't want and Steve definitely doesn't want him to have.

Hell, Steve might get some insight that Steve doesn't want.

He stays where he is, awkward position and all, for a solid couple of hours, experimenting with that sketch. Not quite paying attention to what he's doing as he adds shading and shifts the perspective to something that includes some of the room, the window, even the suggestion of glass and looking out into the view.

When he finally gets up, he just closes the book and leaves it on the table, with the pencil on top, goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, shuts off all the lights and goes to bed. In front of Clint, back to him. Doesn't avoid him, let's contact happen where it will.

Getting to sleep isn't all that hard. Even with a heightened emotional state, he knows how important proper rest is. More than a nap, actual sleep. He just has to try and shut his own stupid brain off first.

Steve joining in later, no idea how much later, of course wakes him. He can feel the stiffness starting to creep back in that's going to be a bitch to deal with later, but for now, it's not any effort to assess the situation, take in that it's Steve coming to bed, try not to overanalyze the whole thing, and then throw an arm over Steve's middle. His chest aches like hell, so his press up to Steve's back isn't intense, but present and touching and warm.

It's a little awkward. Because all he can think for a blazingly painful moment is how Steve feels nothing like Laura. Too big, too broad, too solid. Not enough hair. His hand tenses up over Steve's stomach even as he tucks his head close to Steve's neck, and then makes himself relax it again.

He's curious if Steve's going to have any response. Before dropping back into sleep.

He has not a single concern about Clint at his back. Worrying about his physical safety isn't a thing Steve really does, or has ever done - even when he should, even when he was about a hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet.

That doesn't mean there isn't a reaction. It's just mostly an emotional one and he doesn't see it coming or expect it at all. His stomach tightens briefly under Clint's hand before he manages to stop it with an almost impossibly soft sound. Then he closes his eyes, curls his body around Clint's arm. Brings both arms up, fingers of one hand woven into his own hair, face buried in his own forearms.

Clamps his teeth together and resolutely does not let his breathing change or tension creep into his body to disturb Clint. But also absolutely falls apart and silently cries. Can't stop it, doesn't really try to. Just focuses on not letting it translate into physical tension or noise.

He doesn't even know why he's crying, exactly. Something about Bucky, or Sam, or just how fucking goddamn impotent he is and has been for ... years, and feels fucking stupid and selfish for it.

And will absolutely end up asleep, anyway.

Feels that brief tension, hears that soft sound, finds it hard to interpret without seeing him. This had to be expected, so it can't be a surprise. Maybe Steve simply really needed this and felt it unfair to ask for it?

Or there's something going on that they are probably not going to talk about. Clint's gotten the very distinct sense of avoiding something, or a few large somethings, and if they end up doing this shit again, there's probably only so long it can be avoided.

It's like Steve said. It hurts, and he knew it was going to hurt, and he's doing it anyway. Because there's also something about it that doesn't hurt. And Clint might be a fucking one man killing machine these days, but if he can offer a little bit of comfort in turn to a friend who so willingly offered up so much to him...

Then he can drift off tucked up against Steve with an arm curled around him.

Steve is pretty sure he can do this and not talk about himself indefinitely. Sadly, he's pretty sure if he expects Clint to talk, he's going to have to. Not that he'd know what to say.

Meanwhile after he gets that... unwanted and unexpected emotional release, undignified though it is, he sleeps and he sleeps hard. Especially for a guy who can, under pressure, go days with no sleep and didn't really expect to sleep at all.

In fact he barely stirs for hours and when he does it's because the light insists on stabbing him in the eyes. He groans as he straightens out and stretches. Then pretty much rolls out of the bed and then up to his feet. Still groggy but headed for the bathroom and then to start coffee.

Steve moving means it's awake time, and daylight means he probably shouldn't roll over and go back to sleep, even if the temptation is there. Clint flops to his stomach, sprawled over the vacated spot with an impetuous sound, and regrets the little things, like being alive and conscious. Ugh. Who invented that?

When he pushes himself up, he can feel the protest in his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck threatening to become a raging tension headache, the way it feels like each and every rib throbs with his pulse.

Well, the workout this morning is going to be a fun one, but he'll push through. Coffee first. Always coffee first. He gives Steve's sketchbook a glance when he shuffles into the kitchen, but it's closed and he's not about to snoop, not just yet.

Steve sets the bottle of Aleve beside his sketchbook on the table between getting coffee brewing and pulling mugs down.

The silence isn't a refusal to talk, or awkward for him. It's just being unusually sleepy and a little... stuck in his head, trying to work out what the fuck happened with him last night, and thinking about Clint's... activity for the day, and his own positioning and mental preparation for the potential for it to go straight to hell. Just fragmented nonsense that doesn't want to (and Steve doesn't want to) turn into anything too real.

Once he does talk? It's pretty normal. "I don't think I've slept that hard in a decade. I kinda feel like I got hit by a truck and I don't even have anything physical to blame it on. You doing ok?"

"Ouch. Could at least pretend I gave you a hard workout for pride's sake." He gives a nod of thanks for the pills, because yes of course he's going to down an unhealthy amount again. Just for today. "You look like shit. But like, well-rested shit, so you must've really needed that sleep."

He knows if he simply ignores the question, Steve will still want an answer. His movements are a little clunky, so he's clearly not great, but the question is probably also from an emotional standpoint. So. Better figure out an answer.

"Stiff as a board and hoping to do some solid work today." Tonight, whatever. It's not a great answer and he knows it.

"If my ego can handle looking like shit, yours can take my stupid stamina," he says, watching the coffee, rather than looking directly at Clint. "I'm going to try to get out of here for a few hours again this morning. Probably go for a run or swim, come back, shower and settle down out of the way and draw while you take care of what you need to get ready. Head out after you and get into a position I can watch from and keep being out of the way." Be ready to help Clint with clean up. Follow the plan they already had in place, basically.

He should probably just admit that he wasn't prepared to be the one who's subconscious decided it was relatively safe, then started trying to collapse. He might. It won't be before Clint takes care of this. That's just... dangerous at this point, even if it might serve some purpose later.

"Do what you need to, and I'll do what I need to. And then..."

Ah. An elephant in the room? "And then I guess we part ways for a while. You were saying you might bounce back and forth? Go back home, then come track me down, do the song and dance over again?"

"Unless you have some heavy objections, the plan is to go back and check in with Natasha and maybe go find Tony and let him get it out of his system so he can really settle down. Find you again."

No way, no how, far too fundamentally honest to even think about using the word home in that one. "Probably not going to leave until dawn tomorrow, though."

Edited 2024-11-21 17:59 (UTC)

"You think he hasn't settled down yet?" Maybe he hasn't. He hasn't known Tony to settle for anything, really, but then again, he hasn't seen the guy in years. And that last time wasn't altogether pleasant. "Hope I didn't inspire you to also go out picking fights."

"I don't know how to answer that one. I think he's making a good attempt to build a life for himself, but he's got some shit he needs to get off his chest and that I'm past being able to be hurt by anything he says or does. It's not going to be a fight though, and if it's inspired by you it's only in the sense that I've had a few days of breathing room and stopped... flailing around."

He pours the coffee when it's done and holds the first mug out to Clint.

Edited (have not haven't.) 2024-11-21 18:17 (UTC)

"Pretty sure he already had a life for himself built. A whole empire, even." He'll take the coffee, blessed caffeinated warmth, with a thanks. "You think it's wise to try and be everyone's therapist when you need a little help yourself?"

"I'm not playing therapist, I'm letting him use me as a verbal punching bag. I am sure as hell not playing therapist to you. The entire ass support group back there, maybe, but I apparently do a good enough job of faking it for them." He shrugs, and leaves Tony alone. The kind of life he's trying to make is a different kind of thing, and... He can't even imagine it beyond knowing that it's something he wants Tony to have, if he can. Ideally without a shit ton of repressed anger.

"The hell you aren't. Just cuz you get something out of it, too, doesn't make it not therapy." Clint leans on the counter, bobbing his brows up. "Support group, huh?"

Steve absolutely blatantly ignores the 'accusation' that he's being therapy for Clint, because he recognizes that his response is pure defensiveness and almost feeling...rejected or accused of something by that statement in ways that make no goddamn sense.

the rest: "Yeah. I'm Captain America. I'm a symbol of hope now. I am fantastic at it." He's not joking but his tone is just dry as hell.

"Sounds like it's doing wonders for you." Clint doesn't need to roll his eyes to get the point across. But he will anyway. "No wonder you wanted to get away from it all. Sounds...depressing. You got a lotta people there?"

"Nat's done a pretty good job of keeping me... reasonable." Which is about as far as he's going with that. "Turning up at these things looking for a reason to stay alive? There's some variation. Probably a couple of dozen."

Clint makes a humming noise into his coffee. But doesn't make a nasty aside that's in his head about how many more people have probably chosen to not find reasons.

"Nat's a good stabilizing force. She's always been real grounded."

"Most of the time." She's not immune to struggling, either, but he at least hopes they're... managing to hold onto some kind of balance and function between them. Maybe. Fuck if he knows.

"I'm gonna go get that run. Expect me back in a couple of hours. Don't let me startle you when I come in."

"'m not gonna be startled. You're good." He almost wants to say something like 'good luck', but that seems weird for just going out for a bit. Do whatever he needs to get his head on straight or make sure he's good to go. Get air. Get away from Clint.

No, that's not the right thought. That's not it. He'll remind himself that's not it.

He'll get his exercises in, though. No matter how stiff he is, that'll help un-stiffen them. A thorough shower to help even more. Food. And then getting out everything he needs for a fun evening. That won't take him the whole entire day, but it'll help him center himself at any rate.

Away from Clint is not it. Sustained movement and air are.

Steve pulls on his shoes and is actually out for a little more than two hours, but he does at least come back damp around the edges with sweat and moving easier.

He's not careful in coming in, but still sort of announces himself by saying, "I'm gonna grab a fast shower and change." At least he actually just went out in the sweats he slept in, which means he has clean clothes to change into. ...cleanish clothes, god next time he does this he needs to pack better.

It's honestly not as long as Clint expecting. Still a little damp from his own shower, even, and starting to get supplies out. Black fabric on the bed with a hint of gold. And the weapons are going to be laid out along the table and counter. It's easier when it's just him, obviously, so he has to now be mindful of his guest.

"Let me know if you need any space when you're out. Can clear something off for you."

"Nope. Do what you need to do. I'll settle down on the floor and keep myself busy." For however many hours it takes. "Just give me a few minutes to get cleaned up so I don't interrupt anything you need concentration to do."

"You're good." Or at least he's fairly certain Steve will be good to do whatever. There's a little twinge of feeling bad about how bored Steve might be, even for how he insisted he was fine with it, used to it. Hey, there's always the tv, and drawing. "And, I dunno, if you want to watch me be boring, you can, too."

Steve will do whatever, yeah. He flashes Clint a slightly wry smile and, "Oh, I will." Then disappears into the bathroom for a shower he actually really needs, and to get into clean clothes.

When he comes out, he turns the television on low, and settles down with his sketchbook, uplifted knees working as a 'desk' and is absolutely fine with that. Though he does watch Clint quite a bit. Not overly intensely, but watches.

He becomes aware of the eyes on him. And it might be distracting at first, but that's just part and parcel of this whole little ritual. Weed out distractions. Regain focus, sharp as the edge of his katana.

Clint starts with the smaller weapons. A few throwing knives, several shuriken. Each one gets the same amount of thorough attention. Sharpened on a whetstone with smooth, precise motions. Until each edge is to a demanding satisfaction. Polished after, not a trace of grit nor finger smudge left. They are packed away neatly and safely where he'll strap them to his person later, easily on hand.

He does the same with the retractable sword. It still looks good for all the cleaning he did on it already, but this, too, goes through the same careful and thorough treatment, movements easy and practiced. Distraction falls away. The plan is in mind, solidified. His hands are steady, his features stone. His gaze leaves nothing to chance each time he holds his blade out against the light, inspecting the edge. Until he finally polishes that as well and sets it aside, cleaning up the supplies.

The uniform, such as it is, does require him to move back into the bedroom space, but his focus never seems to waver. Every seam is inspected. Leather gets polished. Each bit of armor is looked over for integrity.

When the work seems at last finished, everything is set out on the bed as though waiting for someone to inhabit the silhouette it forms. And Clint breathes in deep, holds it with eyes sliding shut, and lets it go again slow and easy.

And now the wait. But he feels, in a way, that he can face anything with the same deadly countenance as the Ronin. That includes patience.

He did not forget that Steve is there. It's just that Steve became background noise.

Once settled into an out of the way spot, Steve makes a point to stay there for the duration.

He does not make a thing of being completely motionless. He still works on that sketch, getting Clint included because there's something striking about his focus on the edges of all those blades, against a backdrop of a really pretty view. He pays enough attention to the television to follow the story-line off and on. He just doesn't get up and move around or do anything that will actively move him out of the background, or in any way draw particular amounts of attention.

That holds even through Clint coming closer to check his 'uniform', and keeps holding through the more obvious mental shift. He does stop a moment, look up and tilt his head a little to take the chance to study Clint's face, how he's standing, where he's holding his weight, what the visible bruising on his body looks like.

Once he's satisfied though, he just goes back to drawing. Like he is not also going to go out a few minutes after Clint, get on a roof and keep right on watching from a reasonable physical (and emotional) distance.

The bruising and pain and ache and stiffness also fade into the background. Good fuel for the mission. Keep him sharp, on his toes. Rest can come later after the job is complete.

It's not a oneness with the universe kind of thing, but it's about as zen as he gets these days. On his own, anyway.

He comes over to Steve at last, tipping his head. "Still good on the floor?"

Steve was completely willing to keep on keeping his mouth shut until after it was all said and done, if that was what Clint needed. Since Clint's approaching him, though.

He closes the sketchbook, not to hide what he's doing, but just because of the attention shift. "Yeah, actually, though I can move if I'm in the way."

"You're good." He'll join Steve on the floor. "It's just the waiting game now, until I pack up my stuff and gear up. Everything's otherwise ready."

"I guess practically speaking, I'll move when you gear up and get myself parked so you don't have to worry about it. You moving okay?" On the floor makes one corner of his mouth turn up into a faint smile. This is becoming a thing, and he... doesn't hate it, even if a lot of the conversations they have down here are... rough.

"Moving as well as I'm going to. Which is enough." For what's at hand. "Nothing to worry about."

"You have a time you're planning on leaving yet?" Just... taking Clint's word for it. And that's easy enough, actually. this is so different, but all for worry about Clint, it doesn't become a desire to micromanage or interfere. it isn't doubt.

Clint makes a confirming noise, head tipping back and eyes drooping. Not shut entirely. "You'll know when to get in place. Since I'll be gone and getting my gear on."

"That's all I needed." Then he stretches his legs out, fairly carefully, and pretty much just... stays settles, half watching Clint and half running through his own stuff - some related to moving and position and plans and where Clint told him that medical kit was, some what he needs to do to get out tomorrow and what he needs to do when he makes it back to Natasha and the others, and how he's going to track Clint again and how long he'll wait.

Mostly though: Waiting now.

Clint lets the silence last and linger for a time. As far as he's concerned, for as nice(?) as this unexpected meetup was, Steve is not his responsibility, and he can find his own way after what happens, happens. But he does start to wonder about the after.

"What are you going to say? To the others."

Steve would be pretty insulted by any implication that he needed Clint's help on the practicals. He is pretty startled by the question anyway and blinks, slowly.

"Most of them? Nothing. Nat, I'll tell you're in one piece and you seem as likely as anyone doing what you do to stay that way."

"If I was gonna die, I'd have done it by now. Can't do it. It's just not part of who I am. Maybe what I do isn't really right or noble, but I'm doing it, because I can do it, and it's going to make a difference. If I ever had to stop..."

Well. If that ever happened, that might be a different story. But it's not the story he's got right now, so.

"Someone else has gotta take me out first, far as I'm concerned. Doesn't mean I'm running headfirst into anything unprepared."

"Yeah." There's a moment or two of pause, there. "Being here's been reassuring for me, that way. I don't think even that much is anybody's business - except Nat. Feels like passing that much along is something I can do that doesn't... put you out there otherwise."

If he's wrong, tell him.

"She can know anything you know." Full permission, full stop, end of story. "And if anyone else is curious, you can tell them whatever you like within reason. Still alive. Not dying if it can be helped." So on and so forth.

"We'll see how much I trust the others and feel like telling them, but I appreciate you being good with me telling Natasha everything I know." It's different there. His relationship with her is different. It just... feels different with her than the few people still around. If Steve's closer friends and better relationships still existed, that list might be longer, but they're not.

"It's Natasha. She deserves to know. I know she's keeping tabs." He tips his head toward Steve. "But you don't trust the others?"

"That was my reasoning." He's still relieved by that, but. "The rest of that kinda depends on what you mean by trust. Trust them not to try and commit acts of violence or something, sure. Not so much otherwise. Maybe Banner, but I don't even know where he is."

"Depends on what you mean by trust." But maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe he spent too much time at home than with the team doing crazy things; maybe it's hard to think of him as ever being part of a team to start with. "But I'm going to trust you to know what you're doing."

"It means that I don't know where Banner is, Thor's busy, I'm telling Nat, and that leaves Tony and I'll let him beat the shit out of me but I won't hand him something that easy to use against me - or carelessly fuck up with you. You don't really know any of the other people around well enough for it to be any of their business." He's not explaining to convince, he's explaining because Clint... well expressed interest in what he meant by trust.

And because they're on the floor, probably.

He won't point out that Thor's not actually all that busy. Either Steve's being polite, or he doesn't get around the area much to have heard otherwise. Tony is a different beast he'll defer to Steve to. Probably doesn't want to hear about anything even remotely Avengers-y anymore, and who can blame him?

"Fair enough. If I run into Bruce, I'll probably just keep quiet about it. If he disappeared, it's for a reason."

He's being polite about Thor.

"Yeah and so will I. Though I guess every reason I'd apply to him should apply to you, but I sure felt driven to track you down...." Even he's not sure what that was about.

"Less likely to flatten you like a pancake. He's always good at being alone, so he and the big guy can work out whatever their differences are on their own. Hopefully he makes he way back out of whatever hole he's dug for himself. Or ends up content enough to stay there."

"Hulk and I get along fine," Steve says, somewhat dryly. "And even if we didn't, no. Being afraid isn't a factor. That he prefers being alone and wanted to be that way before this all started's a factor, though."

"So me fucking off into the night without a word, that wasn't a factor?" Just...curious with regard to that point.

"It certainly... heightened my concern for you." A pause and faint grimace. "There was more than one factor. One was just that I like you more." Which doesn't mean he doesn't like Banner, but... Bruce is by nature pretty remote.

"It's my sunny personality and my great ass." Said in the most deadpan voice imaginable.

"I'm also one to check on because Bruce can't do anything to himself. Big guy'll take care of it if he tries to off himself. He can't exactly end up in a ditch unless he got himself absolutely plastered."

His expression at 'sunny personality and great ass' is actually a little pained, but he... isn't going to refute it or even acknowledge it besides that expression.

"I know. On the other hand, if I actually thought he was in that kind of state and there was no conflict about somebody else would could do real damage to themselves.... I'd probably worry more. That's a shit state to get trapped in."

"I don't envy him, that's for sure." He'll just gloss over his joke getting that reaction. Nothing to worry about. Don't make anything of it. "Promise I won't tell anyone you play favorites, though."

Good man. Do not dig into that one. He'd have to say something awkward given the guy he's in the room with right now.

"Me either." Envy Banner. Thinking you're going to die, choosing it and waking up again is... one way to get some perspective. "And thanks for keeping my very closely guarded secrets." That part is a joke. Obviously, he hopes.

"I'm a man of secrets. Yours, mine, Nat's, whole government secrets, you name it. I try to know when to keep them." Life of a spy, there's lots of secrets up there that people would pay dearly to have. "Not as secretive as Fury ever was, thank god."

"If I live for another hundred years, I will still die being reluctantly impressed, fond of and ticked off at that man." He sounds mostly fond and exasperated but the ticked off applies too.

There was... a lot in there that was kind of personal - or rather that Steve took personally.

"All sounds about right."

He could just let it fall into silence. Meditate and let Steve do more drawing or whatever he'll do. But floor time seems to be a sacred talking time. A little. "Are you worried?"

Floor time is definitely time for at least some walls to come down and masks to come off. "I'm not worried anything's gonna go seriously wrong. You know how to plan and what you're doing, I know where your medical kit is." And has some confidence in his own ability if things go that off the rails. "I might even be looking forward to it."

"Seems strange to get all excited for it," he notes. On Steve's end, anyway. Since he won't be part of it.

Steve looks every bit as confused as he feels. "Why's that strange?"

"You're going to sit on a ledge and try to peek what you can through windows and sort of watch someone else do some violence. If you were actually an active part of the mission..."

Well, it gets a bit of a laugh out of him. "I like getting shit done, yeah. But I get to watch you be competent and efficient, with a bare minimum chance I'm gonna have to take a swan dive off that ledge and involve myself. I won't go so far as saying that sounds fun, but it's got its own kind of appeal."

At least knowing who the target was and as long as Clint came out of it with an acceptable levels of injury, anyway.

"Your very own action movie to watch, and you don't even have to pay ridiculous theater prices." There are perhaps other comments he could make about the potential appeal of watching competence and efficiency, but he'll just keep those to himself. "Your turn to be eye in the sky overwatch for me. If I stuck you in some of the sniper nests I've been in before, you would probably start going a little crazy."

"A little role reversal never hurt anyone." There's a bit of a smile with that one.

He could make a pretty reasonable guess or two about reasons he wouldn't love some of those nests, but he's way more interested in Clint's reasoning, so. "Yeah? Why?"

"I get you're fine with stillness and boredom, but it'd probably still make you itch to get on out and do something up close and personal. And some of them have been particularly uncomfortable."

But maybe that wouldn't bother Steve, either. He hums out a thoughtful noise. "Anything's probably tolerable after the ice."

"It'd make sense if it worked that way. It kinda worked out the opposite. I can keep myself still just fine. Anything keeping me that way, and I'm pretty uncomfortable. Throw in cold and wet and I'm ready to climb out of my skin. Won't and don't. Want to. Probably a good thing the war was over by the time I came out of the ice." Besides the 70 years of war and the... less than ideal that would be. "...and that I wasn't exactly somebody they were gonna shove in a tank, anyway." Or foxhole, for that matter.

"So no snow missions if you can help it. Noted." There's nothing really to note; it isn't like he's planning missions for Cap. "Nothing underwater. You ever been in a sub?"

"Mission, no, but you take long enough to show up somewhere I can predict and get to, I might take a week and go somewhere with some decent snow just for the hell of it. I've got time to kill, might as well see if I can unwire at least some of that." But t hen he shakes his head. "Never been in a sub and that can stay that way. The only person I can think of as a worse idea in a pressurized tin can under miles of water is Banner." That'd be... really fucking fan.

"Clearly what you need is to learn the art of snowboarding. Or skiing. Right off the side of a mountain, maybe. Learn it and then do the most extreme version of it possible."

Steve startles a tiny bit and stares at Clint for a little longer than necessarily makes sense, as he processes that.

Then realizes, and laughs.

"I think you just found a way that I can burn off some energy and get a good adrenaline rush going." Can stop being restrained and controlled and go hard, anyway.

"Just don't start any avalanches. Otherwise, yeah, go learn something new and then hit up all the hardest trails and highest jumps. Learn to enjoy the snow. Go nuts."

Even Clint has to laugh, a little chuckle under his breath. "What, you never thought about picking up any sports before?"

He still looks kind of stunned, even if he's amused at himself and has a half smile lingering around his face. "Nope. Sports have never crossed my mind. Not once in my entire life."

"Obviously team stuff would be harder. You'd be an unfair advantage, but solo outings would be good for you. Next thing you know, you'll be skateboarding, surfing, biking..."

"I'm not sure snowboarding didn't appeal to me by virtue of going off the side of a mountain, but there's other recreational stuff I can probably make work. Hell, cliff diving." There's a... dangerous and speed element that's appealing. "Maybe biking if you leave the mountain in."

"Base jumping." Okay, wait, this is slowly actually getting Clint's attention. "What happens if you go splat at terminal velocity?"

Actually getting Clint's attention is a pleasant surprise for Steve. He quirks a wry grin at the question. "Not sure, since I've never done it. Best guess is that as long as I manage to adjust my position enough to avoid my skull inside my brain, a rib in my heart, or impaling myself on something when I landed, I'd scream. Then get back up and want to do it again. I fucking love free fall."

Edited 2024-11-26 15:49 (UTC)

"Break your spine in seventeen places and shatter your pelvis, but give you five minutes and then you're climbing your way back up, huh? Rollercoasters are a good simulation, but bungee jumping is more a genuine free falling sensation. Base jumping at least means you're in control of when you open your wings or chute."

"Yeah, I went cliff diving for a reason. I went out of a plane or two without a 'chute before I knew SHIELD was Hydra, I just went over water. Plenty of time to adjust how I hit the water, a lot of time in the air and a softer landing. That dive out of the elevator onto concrete was a little much and I don't exactly have the shield to absorb any of the impact anymore." He's considering. "Base jumping's a good idea. Feels dangerous enough to be worth it, even with having a ripcord."

"Better than actually slamming into rocks and trees and brush at terminal. The idea is to get the rush and have fun, not actually beating yourself into a pulp." Hopefully. But if that is actually the idea, he can't even judge.

"Kinda depends on the day and my mood, but if I was gonna beat myself into a pulp as a coping mechanism, it probably would have occurred to me by now." Probably. He's a little thoughtful about it, though. It's extreme but... is it actually more extreme than him cracking Clint's ribs. Hell, less, maybe? Clint's going to take longer to heal, by a lot.

Either way, he's more animated and interested in possibility than he's been.

"...there's something wrong with both of us," is the only real conclusion he's reached.

"You're telling that to the guy that dresses up like a ninja samurai and slices open hordes of gangsters. That there's something wrong with him." A slow smile cracks across his face. "Man, what was your first clue?"

"I knew something was wrong with you before I showed up." There's a return smile, and maybe it's strange, but it's sincerely bright and warm. "It's the realization that I probably need to put myself in there with you that caught me off guard."

"You need something that makes you let go. You need something like me needing you to take me down a few pegs. It feels so good that even the shit that doesn't feel good feels good."

"Yeah." Maybe. Probably? He's got some stuff to work through on that one, but he can do it on his own time. "I might take the scenic route back. See if I can work it out. The equivalent of me taking you down, scaled to my bullshit, is so extreme I don't want anyone else anywhere near it."

"Maybe you should go find Bruce."

Because if anyone can put the hurt on...

"And when you go back, maybe you should also make sure you get as much touchy feely touch from Tasha as you can so you're not so starved for it."

"No." There's another smile with that, and it's not an uncomfortable one. "He'd hate it and feel bad about it. Anyone's capable with enough cooperation and tool use, but no one who wouldn't suffer emotional fallout is anybody I want near me. I'll experiment and see if I can find something that gets it out of my system. ...I'll give you the point on Nat. If nothing else I'll see if she's up for it."

Edited (wtf are words, IDK (sorry and done)) 2024-11-26 17:01 (UTC)

"In the future," because Steve's made it perfectly clear that he's going to find Clint again at some point, and he won't try to dissuade that anymore, "can we agree that unless we have to for some reason, sitting on the floor means time for serious or at least open and honest talk? I think that's a pretty good signal at this point."

"Yeah, I've recognized the pattern. Seems like a good one to keep going." He's glad he's not getting argument on the point of finding Clint again. He's not really all that hard to please.

"You'll have to catch me up on anything you get up to. See if you find yourself out there." Because Clint's found something, even if he's not sure it's himself by any means.

"I've got some plans now." See Clint again, let Tony vent his spleen at him, check in with Nat. Take a couple of days and see if an extreme sport with a hard landing can help him find some kind of release. Maybe go somewhere with snow as part of that - or a separate thing. "Just keep your expectations reasonable. Ultron wasn't wrong about me."

Clint furrows his brow. "That tin can was wrong about everything. And is a pile of rusted rubble." That feels like a lifetime or two ago. "I wouldn't worry about any of that."

"His conclusions were wrong. He wasn't too far off saying I was pretending I could live without a war." It feels forever ago, but god that had stuck. Along side some other stuff. "It's not really important right now. Like I said you've got something going and I've got some plans." That's still better.

"There's always war. Sometimes it's more personal rather than international." Clint shrugs. Apparently it all bothered Steve enough to stick, so he can't say anything about that. "But peace isn't exactly the most boring thing either."

"There's always a war that can be waged, and there is always someone somewhere waging one." He cracks a slight smile. "I'm not exactly bored. Let's just chalk it up to a new adjustment period and me trying to work some of my shit out. Without going to war again until something I can fight without creating more problems is in front of me."

"You can still do this, if it comes to it." Clint takes a breath, seems to relax into himself. "Which I guess means watching me first. I get it. You make me get it a little more, what you're about and why."

"I do or... I would?" He's probably overthinking that one, but he's a little bit (not badly) surprised by that statement to start with. That someone is, does, or wants to 'get him' anyway.

Clint smirks. "I can hear your brain running too fast from here. Turning yourself off seems like it isn't a problem with how you focus on drawing or how you relax into quiet, but you're thinking the whole time, aren't you?"

[OOC: ...Well my tag mades no sense in this thread. Thank you for saving us and I'm so sorry.]

"Yeah," he admits, tone wryly self-aware. "I can knock it down into a lower gear and change directions, but off's not much of a thing. Was that where you getting what I'm about was going?"

"Sort of. I think some of it is just seeing where our new lines are. There's a baseline I associate with you that no longer fully applies in the wake of all this shit. We're both fucked up, but now we're even more fucked up, and we're learning about each other all over again."

"Yeah, and even before the more fucked up shit... Hawkeye and Captain America spent more time together than Steve and Clint. That was it's whole different dynamic, even in down time."

Or it was for him, in a lot of ways. Hard to put team stuff completely away when you were with the team.

"So maybe you feel like you're making up for lost time," he suggests with a little frown. "Trying to get to know us as us, even belatedly, instead of...Cap and Hawk, or Ronin."

"No maybe about that one. I am definitely trying to get to know you." Whoever Clint was, now, even.

Hell, he might even be trying to let himself be known, though that one comes in fits and starts and even to himself is uncertain and sometimes feels contradictory.

"Not a lot of us left to know." With Bruce fucked off, Tony fucked off, and Thor fucked off. Of the original gang, it's just Nat back home holding down the fort.

"This satisfying your curiosity, or just leave you with more questions?"

"This is making me feel less alone, work out who I am, and making me like you more." There's no exasperation in his voice, but that's because it's brutal honesty floor time. It's sacred.

"Glad I could help." Like with giving Steve the artistic spark again. Only, figuring oneself out is a much bigger task. The art's part of it. "Given you a lot to think about, too, about yourself. With a little bit of me as a bonus."

"I can for the little bit of you. Me having some things about myself to bother with was the bonus." He hadn't seen that coming at all, and given the parts of Clint that are still Clint? He probably should have.

There would probably be more of a visual struggle with accepting this if not for his meditative ritual. He's still Clint, but also, there's more of something else settled over him like a cloak that keeps things at more of a distance. A part that doesn't want Steve to care the way he does. Doesn't see what there is to like anymore. Wants to push away.

He steeps in the stillness for a few long moments. "Well, don't think too hard about me."

"I'll try to keep it down to reasonable amounts." It's sort of dismissive, but not entirely. Making light of himself with it, and also just generally making sure the read on it's not too heavy. Setting Clint off and making him want to run... is a recurring fear, here, apparently. "And if I do, I'll keep it to myself."

He can feel the shift and the stillness. He more or less gets the reason for it right. It's not the same as anything he's known or any of them do, but it's similar enough that it isn't immediately alarming to him, either.

"I've never been good in a spotlight. Even if it's just one person's." Well. Demonstrably untrue, given several people who put him in their own personal spotlight. It's a little bit of making light in his own right.

"Good thing I try to do my work under cover of darkness now." See, he can still be funny even now. To a degree.

"Yeah, that outfit would be an odd choice for midday operations." There's a little bit of a smile with that, warmth and humor in his faint accent. "Feels like it's better suited for shadows. Maybe some indirect light."

Clint gives a light scoff. "Hey, none of my outfits have exactly been bright or standing out. I've seen you in a pretty vibrant shade of blue though."

"You have," he agrees, with a wry grin. "Most times I get to dress myself or even input into suit design. I like blue -- and got all the black I'll ever want to wear out of my system the couple of years we were... divided on the accords."

"Must've been fun."

They haven't really talked about that. About what anyone got up to after Steve did a big breakout of everyone and what happened between then and the dusting. They couldn't exactly send postcards or facetime him, what with being international fugitives and all.

"They weren't the best couple of years of my life, but they were a long way from the worst." Come to think of it, he'd been more angry and more inclined to take an outlet then. Realizing that makes his expression turn a little confused. "I was pretty crabby the whole time, though."

"Crabby. You had a fundamental disagreement about your continued existence as someone superpowered and went on the run from your own government and a lot of other governments. And you were crabby." It's not the word Clint would've picked, though it's an entertaining one.

He smiles, faintly. "I took it personally." Really, really personally. "I was flat out mad, a lot. I was probably more angry then than I am now. I did a lot of what you're doing now, down to the costume change. I just wasn't doing it alone -- getting Sam off my ass was a problem."

"Taking Wanda with you definitely helped, I imagine. She's hard to dissuade when she gets an idea in her head. When she's got a target to direct her energy at."

Sure, he could use past tense. She's as much dust as half the world. But he doesn't.

He's noticing and he's not going to challenge it, especially when Clint's this close to going out and doing dangerous shit. "She was with me for a while after I got you all out. She ended up in Scotland- with Vision most of the time, though I don't think I'm supposed to know that part. Hell of a power house when she set her sights on something, though, yeah."

Edited 2024-12-03 13:00 (UTC)

"Vision who was something of her jailer way back when?" Huh! Huh. The way things change. "Whatever makes her happy." And then it's heavy on his tongue, the knowledge, the acknowledgement. "Made her happy."

His grief is not only for his family of marriage and blood. It's the friends and family made of the bonds forged in fire he has grief for as well.

"Yeah." That is all he really thinks he's going to say, but he thunks his head (lightly) against the wall behind him. "Take what you can find where you can. Then and now, I guess."

He isn't sure if he wants to cry or not. Sort of, but it feels almost too... tiring to do.

He eyes Steve, examining, seeing how emotionally exhausted he seems. How draining it all is. He could press. But he makes to stand instead.

"I'm going to start changing. Not all the way; I'll do the rest when I'm in a more clandestine spot." Just makes things easier if he doesn't have to risk getting caught putting on boots and pants and such. "And you can get into your position and watch some fireworks."

Thank you, Clint.

Steve gets himself up off the floor with one hand. "All right. I'll see you out there." Try not to see him.

It takes him about a minute, total, to throw the sketchbook on the bed out of the way and grab his hat and be out the door.

They'll have plenty of opportunity to talk later, maybe, possibly, whenever Steve feels the urge to track him down again. But that's for later.

Clint keeps himself out of sight as he dons his gear, stashes his bag, revels in the darkness of a since-set sun because it's the only good way to operate. From Steve's vantage, he can be sure to see people entering the warehouse, meandering in from the street or pulling up in their cars, so the intel that there would be a gathering was right. He may not be able to see specifically the cameras noted on Clint's map, but he'll know they're there.

So when there's a small flash of spark on two of them, he'll know it's showtime from Ronin's daggers gone flying.

Soon after, the black and gold figure rushes in, hurling himself through a window, and that's when chaos breaks loose. There's frantic and angry shouting mixed in with surprised yelps and dying choking gasps. Blood splatters in a line across another window, and at least one person manages to actually pull a gun, bang bang, before that noise is silenced. Steve can peer from his perch, see the movement, the uncoordinated and surprised gangsters versus the sure-footed shadow. Graceful and steady.

It doesn't take long. It never does. Taking too long means more chances of bullets, more people arriving, something going wrong. He gets in, does the job as efficiently as he can, and gets the fuck out.

Ronin leaps silently back out the same window he came in, doesn't spare Steve a glance, makes to vanish back into the darkness. And then vanish back into Clint, and then vanish to another country, ideally.

Steve does, indeed, watch the show and stay out of the way. The gunshots make him tense, but it's over and handled quickly. It's bloody, brutal, violent and somehow very pretty. Something about the efficiency.

After that he has a mandatory swing back by that apartment for his shit - he left his sketchbook and bag there - and to make sure Clint isn't there bleeding to death, or similar.

After that? Yeah. The scenic route home. A cliff jump or two, anyway, though not all the way to snowboarding (wrong part of the world and time of year). The check in with his people, including letting Tony be nasty in his general direction and settling down to be upstanding and upright Captain America leading support groups and late nights with Natasha.

Until he can't keep doing that and then it's back to playing where in the world is Clint Barton.

No grievous wounds. Nothing he can't handle. The ache deep in his muscles did the job of helping him focus through the precise motions, keep him on his toes. He's out before anyone has a chance to catch anything, and he's not on any cameras. Not as the Ronin, at any rate.

He vanishes as quickly as he'd come. Doesn't try to contact Steve, doesn't try to check in, because he knows Steve's fine, that he's going back and trying for some normalcy, and then eventually, when he needs to, with Nat's help or without, he'll come find Clint.

He hits a small but notorious cell in Portugal, in the meantime. Gets color work on his tattoo when he has the downtime and a need to sit still with the pain until it becomes a friend again. Takes out some trash in Malta where there's enough heat and close calls to make the Ronin lay low for a bit.

There might end up being some kind of tip involving South Africa, in Steve's search. It's not unpromising to search for him there, anyway. If nothing else, it's a nice enough vacation spot?

Clint's better at staying under the radar than Steve is good at tracking, though with Nat's cooperation and system's he's not terrible. Those couple of years he spent on the run helps some, too.

He still isn't sure about what happened in Malta - and the period he's got no movement and nothing is... stressful.

When he gets a tip about South Africa, he goes. Same as Mexico, he's not really sure he expects to find Clint, but by then he needs to move and it is a pretty decent place to get away, spend some time.

He doesn't track Clint down too hard, but he sure makes a point of being reasonably visible and findable in the area he expects Clint to be. And, since it's Steve, eating there.

Cape Town is beautiful and never gets what Clint would consider cold. If he were the type to take vacations anymore, it wouldn't be the worst place to go. The gang violence tends to make it a little less savory, though.

There are a lot of places to be. It's a big city. And yet, he becomes particularly aware of Steve's presence anyway.

He's kept an eye out ever since Mexico. Just in case. So Steve might not be looking too hard, and Clint might not be looking too hard, but they're both looking nonetheless. So one thing leads to another.

Keeps his distance at first. Wonders if Steve will just move on or if he'll start hunting. Wonders if Steve's caught on to him. Wonders if they're going to play a little game first or if they're just too old and tired for this shit.

Fuck it. Old and tired it is. Eventually, Steve is going to find Clint just plop himself down at whatever bench or cafe table he's at and help himself to some of that food. "You get bored?" through a mouthful.

Steve is arguably playing a game, it's just that the game is 'will Clint approach or not', and really it's more of a question. He is definitely too old and tired for anything more complicated; hide and seek with the globe enough.

He looks up from his coffee when Clint is just suddenly there across the table from him. His surprise isn't feigned, but neither is how quickly it's followed by subtle relief easing the tension around his eyes.

He doesn't even mind Clint taking food off his plate.

"Maybe I just missed getting to eat my own food." Not minding doesn't mean not making a joke of it. "Or maybe it was not being jet-lagged."

He missed Clint.

...and was kind of bored.

"I feel like this is the part where I could go through the motions of saying you shouldn't be here and stop following me for both of our own goods, but let's skip all that drama since we know how it's going to end." With Steve doggedly sticking by him. And Clint grudgingly allowing it. Feral cat, etc.

He could run, if he ends up feeling like it. He knows he has that freedom. And that's kind of comforting.

"Please don't. I feel like we got to a pretty decent compromise last time. I'm too old to get back on a merry-go-round." He means that, absolutely, completely, and with a lot of depth of feeling. "Let's just get to the point where we make some kinda plan for this time. How long are you in town?"

Clint bobs his eyebrows. "We? It's a 'we' plan this time? Funny, thought it was a me plan, and a you sit back with popcorn and resist the urge to jump into the middle unless I get my ass handed to me."

"Different plan," he says dryly. "The we part of the plan is how long you're here and how I corner you into spending time with me around the you part of the plan."

He's not going to start interfering with Ronin's... stuff.

"Awww, Rogers, you missed me. And I don't have anything set up to entertain guests." Yoink, going to eat a little more right off Steve's plate. "Guess I can't tell you to send flowers next time if you don't know where I'm at."

He just pushes the plate directly in front of Clint. "Yeah, and I'm sure you've had your fill of me in bed with you, too." He sounds almost embarrassed by that. "But I could finish tracking you all the way down and send flowers. I don't think delivery people showing up at your door would make you happy though."

"Captain America in bed with one of his teammates, I can see the tabloids now. Wait, no, I've definitely seen them before. A lot with Tony, a lot with Natasha, not as many with me, but I'm just impressed anyone bothered to remember me in the first place."

At least Clint seems in a good mood rather than a poorly, argumentative one. "Glad you went with the existing out in the open where you knew I'd find you route rather than knocking on my door. Good call."

He likes Clint in a good mood. Or at least not having to have that fight again. "Me doing it was a choice for your benefit. Not sending some poor flower delivery person in there is more about them... though it seems kind of threatening and insane as an early warning I'm around. I'm just glad you decided to find me."

Then circling back, as he realizes. "I think I've slept with all of you now, at some point. Except Wanda and Vision."

"Wow, who would've thought you were so easy!" Is he going to keep making fun of this and all the phrasing being chosen? Yes, most likely. "All that time in the ice, must be like playing a game of catch up."

"I dunno, I'm pretty sure I got at least 364 and a half days a year worth of sleep. Probably more impressive that I sleep at all now, never mind with anybody else."

He's just going to pretend not to get it. Blatantly pretend.

"I am pretty easy to talk into bed, though."

"With all that energy you've got..." Clint seems to muse on that idea for a moment before shrugging it off and simply letting the thought hang in the air unfinished.

"Well, we can't all be cursed with super soldier-ism."

"No, but anyone who gets close enough to me can be cursed with a super soldier." He lifts his eyebrows at that one, making it more of a joke about his energy level than any kind of serious statement. "Is there somewhere you feel safe enough to talk openly?"

He has a question or two, Clint.

"Oh, wanna jump into the clandestine stuff right away, huh." Given he have even answered the basic question of 'how long are you in town for', it isn't a surprise. "We can finish up your grub, and then I can take is somewhere. Maybe even the room I've got for now. Might be slightly swankier than the old shit apartment, even."

"Sounds good. If we're gonna end up on the floor for anything, a more comfortable one might be ideal." He'd suggest the room he got just in case, but this is better. More within Clint's control.

"Unless you got a nicer place while you're in town. That you know isn't bugged. Thick walls are a blessing that few have, so I won't ask about that." They are likely to end up on the floor at some point. Seems they always do, just to have a heart to heart.

God, he doesn't really want to do that right now or ever again. But somehow it's easier with Steve.

"You get up to anything interesting meantime? Or you here cuz you need something you're not getting elsewhere?"

"We can play compare and contrast, after I've seen what kind of floor you've got. Not bugged I'm pretty confident on." Still mostly for Clint's sake, to be honest. Steve doesn't have a whole lot to lose if he gets found out, except Clint's willingness to put up with him.

And get down on the floor and talk to him. Which he should avoid but is easier for him with Clint, too. Why it has to happen on the floor, he doesn't know, but it's a consistent part of the way things play out and to him that means it's important.

(He could maybe come up with some guesses as to why. He doesn't care about the whys.)

"I did some cliff diving on my way home. Found Tony and let him deal with his shit some. Otherwise, back to the routine. Lead the way. I'll fall in and follow." Back to wherever Clint's staying.

Edited 2024-12-06 03:34 (UTC)

Clint snorts in amusement at the floor comment. Yeah, that just seems to be a thing that developed in their time in Mexico. Maybe just because that's where Steve ended up a lot. Maybe Clint started getting into that after being pinned on the ground hard enough to not get the hell back up again. Maybe they just need to make up their own stupid little rules and rituals to create excuses.

"At least you got a little excitement in you. Tell me you didn't just dive without anything else and slam your face right into the ground." They can chit chat while they move. About the little things, the smaller things that aren't connected to the bigger picture.

That makes him laugh. It isn't for long, but it's sincere. "I didn't use anything, but I hit water face first instead of the ground, so it didn't do any damage, just gave me a good view and some cheap thrills. ...and water up my nose, I guess."

"You know, most people would either go feet first or put their arms out in front for, y'know, a dive. Bet it stung like a bitch." But a good sting. They know a thing or two about that.

"What'd Tony have to bitch about?"

"Feet first is cheating." Because it's the easy way out. "I did get my arms out most of the time, but once in a while I misjudged where the water was." There was flipping and spinning.

Easy part. But: "...I need to sit on a floor to talk about Tony."

"Oof, that bad, huh. Noted, put a pin in that." They don't even have to talk about it, really. They'll see when they get there.

"Plenty of exciting things even for someone like you to do while you're in town, though, I'm sure. Maybe you could go shark diving and then squeeze yourself out of the cage and face them bare, see how that goes."

"I looked into some options, in case my lead wasn't real, you beat me out of here, or just opted out of interacting. None of those options were being eaten by a shark."

Clint. What the hell.

"Pfft, from the guy who has no problem with the idea of skydiving without a parachute straight into the ground, you're gonna let a couple sharks scare you? Punch 'em in the nose."

He glances aside at Steve. "Thought about playing some cat and mouse with you. But who's got the time for that anymore?"

"Maybe if we drag 'em into knee deep water." There's humor there, though no denial he'd sky-dive onto concrete without balking at the concept. The water here is at least as much issue as the sharks.

Then, more seriously and with a slight head tilt. "I'd play. If I was at least mostly sure you were playing."

"What I'm hearing is maybe sushi's on the menu." Take that, fish. Not so tough when you're on land.

"Could be I'd have been playing. Could be I would've wanted to see how serious you were this time around now that you know I'm not out specifically to die some ignoble death. Chose the direct approach instead. After a while."

He realizes about then that he's never had sushi, isn't entirely sure he understands the appeal, but makes a mental note to try it at some point.

"Serious about finding you and spending time with you? You still want to know?"

Aaaand that's already a response that hits somewhere awkward and weird. Steve had made it abundantly clear how much he actually cared about Clint and how much he genuinely wanted to spend time. And it's still...strange. It wouldn't have hit that way before. These days...

He rolls a shoulder. "Pretty sure I do know. Anything more than that is probably, heh, floor time."

Steve's expression is a little odd - confused, maybe uncomfortable - at that specific thing being floor time worthy, but he recovers pretty fast though.

"Let's go find a floor, then. Not about this, unless you're feeling a need, but I could do with at least a vague itinerary and maybe to give you an answer to your question about Tony."

"Got it." The vague itinerary might be something to put up a mild fight about, but he'll just have to see how he feels when they get to that point.

The motel isn't a run down disaster like the apartment, though it is a bit out of the way. Quieter. Not upscale, but hey, it's a motel, it motels, and that's all it needs to do. "Home sweet home away from home. Make yourself comfy. Promise there's no bedbugs."

"I'm glad one of us is enough of a responsible adult to have thought about bed bugs." That one of them wasn't him.

His hotel might be slightly more upscale, it's not by a whole heck of a lot. He makes himself comfortable by sitting, yep, on the floor, with his back against the mattress. He figures if Clint's being this avoidant of 'how long will you be around', he should start. Something about fairness, probably. "Tony blames me for Thanos. Or Thanos winning, anyway."

"He always was a short-sighted asshole," Clint quips easily enough. He doesn't take himself to the floor but pulls out a small chair by an equally small desk and sits himself backwards in it, arms laid across the back.

"Nah. He called the potential threat out when he was creating Ultron. I'll give you asshole, though." He's got his own cranky about it all. "You willing to give me an answer on how long you're here, yet?"

"Calling out threats and being able to actually deal with those threats are two way different things," he says gruffly. He wasn't there. And neither was Tony. So neither one of them get to judge what happened and why.

"And I'm here however long I'm here. 'Til the job's done. Not sure when that'll be just yet."

Steve shrugs, slightly. They can judge if they want. It's absolutely not a thing Steve's going to... defend? himself about, even if he didn't more or less agree. Feels like the kind of thing he should be taking responsibility for.

"All right. Anything particular you want or need from me while I am?" He also sort of tilts his head around, but that one's about looking at tattoo progress, nothing more high pressure.

"I wasn't expecting you, so I didn't really have any plans in mind." He tips his own head, in a sort of mirror to Steve, but his eyes stay right on his face. "You need or want something from me?"

"More or less the same thing I was looking for last time." He quirks a very slight smile. "Time, space, and you." That doesn't sound quite as glib as the words would imply - because it's not.

Time and space comes with some freedom. That he needs. Breathing room.

Clint tries very hard not to have some immediately dismissive quip. Call it growth from last time, maybe. "Well, seems like you've got all of that in spades." The real question is what Steve's going to do with all that time, space, and also Clint.

"Feeling any particular need to pummel someone into the ground?"

"Probably, but whether that someone's you depends on you." That... sounds more challenging and opaque than he means it to, by a lot. "You seem a lot ... steadier than you were. I can always just go find trouble." He's far enough from home for that.

"Maybe I've got your brand of trouble to thank for that." He's not sure if steadier is the word, but that might just be what to go with instead of 'not fighting this and being a quiet moody little shit from the word go'. "And if you're gonna find trouble, maybe I wanna make sure I'm that trouble. Imagine if you came all this way to see me and then started an international incident. Nat'll kill me."

"Maybe." Whatever the cause - Clint doesn't feel like he's about to bolt at a moment's notice, and that's nice. Not that Steve quite trusts it, but that part is on Steve. "Maybe we can take some time and find a location we can stay in for a little while after." Transition back last time had been... rougher than it needed to be.

Clint cocks a brow. "Somewhere to lay low together? Are you planning on getting up to more of my kind of trouble, Rogers?"

"Maybe." There's a flash of a grin, which is more of a yes than a no, but. "We're gonna want it, anyway. Even if all I do is kick your ass, that walk back last time maybe happened a little early and I didn't much like the way things go rough after."

"After-" He laughs to himself. "The ass kicking, not when I'm done here, I get you now. Here I thought you were halfway to planning a little vacation getaway for us, y'know, after-after. Yeah, we can figure something out. Somewhere cushier than concrete."

"I would play a vacation get away from us, given what you did to my blood pressure by dropping off the map entirely. Except the part where I suspect your response would be the kind that would mean I never found you again."

Is he supposed to be more subtle than that? Nicer? More benefit of the doubt? Not happening.

He's not mean about it, though and somehow it sounds like some kind of compliment, at least in tone.

"Never lied to you about what was gonna happen. I'm not gonna just stick around after and, what, take in the fruits of my labor or something like a deranged serial killer?"

So he feels like it's on Steve if Steve got all bent out of shape about Clint's disappearing act. He rolls a shoulder, aiming for casual. "Not altogether opposed to a getaway, I s'pose. We can talk about it later." If he wanted to disappear for good, he'd have to stop doing his self-appointed job. Which isn't something he's considering right this moment.

"No." There's a quick, apologetic smile to go with that somewhat flat statement. "I meant I lost track of you for a while and couldn't have come to find you then if I'd wanted to. Freaked me out a little, but good reminder of how good you are."

Even with Natasha's help. Something after Malta, maybe.

"Though you not being opposed to a vacation is the best news I've heard in years." They can talk about it later, but the way Steve lights up a little at even the thought? Says something.

And not just thAt he wasn't lying about having gotten scared when he couldn't find Clint at all.

"You're good at a lot of things, Steve, but you were never a spy." Got plenty of pointers, sure, but that's still different from living the SHIELD agent life for most of his. "Had to vanish for a bit. Last job went a little south. Too hot to handle after. Better now."

"Yeah, the super soldier upgrade didn't come with an espionage package. Maybe if we count the enhanced memory, but that's stretching several definitions to the breaking point." Just makes him a roving camera. "Come on, let's get inside somewhere. Work out a timeline here, maybe>"

He's only been trying to get that out of Clint since he laid eyes on him.

"Yeah, guess so. Wouldn't want you to miss any more of your sad people group therapy sessions than you have to."

No more meandering, then. The direct route. If there were any tails, well, he's pretty sure there aren't any now at least, so it should be safe enough to guide Steve to his little home away from home. It isn't much, but still in much nicer shape than the apartment.

"There are whales in the Hudson. The pollution drop's been great for wildlife." He's wryly self-depreciating as he says that. Please, please, let him miss some of those.

Also distracted by the... improvement? in the place Clint's picked out for himself. He really does feel less sharp and that's something that unwinds Steve just a little. Steadies Steve some.

Might not be as much space--there's no whole kitchen space, after all--but it doesn't look one bad day from being condemned. The bed's wider. The tv is even a full color flatscreen. That will show things in English. It's the little things.

"I'm sure a bunch of well-meaning ecologists are celebrating the drop in CO2 levels. Meanwhile, the poor still don't have enough food cuz it all gets hoarded by the rich neighborhoods, the rich countries instead of evenly distributed out. Same shit as before. Isn't humanity wonderful?"

Steve drops his backpack near the door - yes, he has his own room, here. He did not leave his shit in it, for a wide variety of reasons.

He snorts at the remark and sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't make me try and untangle that one, Clint. I like more people than I don't. I care about humanity. I want the missing half back. I'm frustrated as shit that even this level of tragedy can't shake folks enough to do and be better and tired as hell of all of it."

Clint spreads his arms. "Why do you think I do what I do?" Besides needing an outlet for the pain. Obviously. "You'd think with half as many people, there wouldn't still be all this going on. But everyone collectively buried their heads in the sand and kept doing what they were already doing."

"Grief," Steve says, rather directly. "Anger. Frustration. Turning them into something at least passingly productive." Probably don't ask him questions that are meant to be rhetorical, he'll take them as an opening. "Same reason I'm giving inspirational talks at support groups." That and, you know, an overwhelming lack of trust in himself, albeit one that comes and goes.

"Just cuz you're right doesn't mean I don't get to say 'fuck you' about it," grumbled out, stamping down on the sudden flare of anger for having it pointed out.

"It doesn't," he agrees, almost smiling. It's probably a bad idea to look a little happy about it, but realizing Clint can be mad at him and Steve's not worried about it feels pretty good. "And if you're agreeing I'm right you can say the fuck part extra loud."

"I don't have to give you an extra key to my room, you know." Which has been considered, so they can come and go as they please. "But I'm also right. We can both be right, here."

"Yeah, we are." No denial on that and no loss of... warmth, either. "Just feels good to be able to be told to fuck off and still feel... like we're not about to break, you know?"

Probably not, he thinks.

An attempt was made, though.

"You're gonna know if we hit that point." At least, Clint is pretty sure. He can bury stuff down and then strike like a snake when he feels like it, but around Steve... "I'm not Stark."

No, because Stark can't keep his emotions to himself, can't keep his mouth shut, and lashes out at everyone the second he's so much as inconvenienced. It's not a good comparison.

Steve makes a low sound that's... amused, but in truth? He doesn't know if he wants to defend Tony in some half-ass way, or admit that he's got some pent up and fairly buried resentment toward the man. Some of it for Tony resenting him.

In the end he just kind of half shrugs. " I know you're not. I even feel like I'm gonna know before things go all to hell so I've got some shot of fixing it. That I wasn't feeling that last time's on me, not you, but it still feels good."

He glances at away from Clint and at the bed, notices he's... parked in the middle, and moves himself up to lean a shoulder against the headboard.

"It's...whatever." A shrug. "You feel it or you don't. You don't try to piss me off, normally, so." He watches Steve adjust and doesn't himself move.

The only thing that keeps him from going off the rails in the worst possible way is that he doesn't see Karen turn to dust with his own two eyes. If he had, there's no telling what he would've done, but it wouldn't have involved getting his shit together, steeling himself for the chaos, and traveling. New York's a fucking mess, but he navigates through the looting and the rioting and the gunfire and the martial law enforced by the national guard. Karen's apartment is still locked; when he breaks in, he finds her purse on the ground, her handgun spilling out onto the floor, and nothing but dust.

He thinks, briefly, about using it — and then remembers that he has other people that need him, other people he needs. People who aren't answering the damn phone; communications go briefly spotty. The ones he can reach don't give him promising news. He doesn't have time to wait for satellites and phone companies and gaps in service to level out, or to keep trying calls that cannot be completed as dialed. He gets in his van, and he drives.

The homestead is eerily quiet when his van creeps up the rural road. No birds, no animals, no neighbors, no kids in the yard. Nothing. Nothing. It would be enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand up, if he had any. It feels haunted here, and it's the oppressive air that has him parking a little ways off, strapping up with a handgun in a holster, and quietly walking the last couple hundred yards on foot — in case someone's ransacked the place, in case someone's squatting, in case he needs to do something about it all.

What Frank can see is the remnants of a family picnic. Plates of half-eaten food on the tablecloth spread out. Discarded balls and gloves in the grass. There's still an arrow lodged in the tree out front, bow discarded several yards away.

He'd be forgiven for thinking the place is well and truly abandoned. But there are some sounds of life coming from inside. Someone banging around, could be drawers opening and closing, feet hurrying up stairs and then back down again. Could be a robbery. Could be some unfriendly neighbors helping themselves to the remains of the Barton family homestead.

What happens instead is the moment Frank sets foot on the first porch step, Clint hauls the door open, gun in hand trained right between Frank's eyeballs. His eyes are wide, wild, but his voice is a low growl of warning: "Don't even think about it."

But reality catches up, the who in front of him recognized as friend rather than foe. He blinks, once, twice, mouth falling open but no other sound coming out. His finger flies from the trigger, gun lowered to his side. And all at once, he looks so lost.

Flies are in the picnic food; their buzzing covers the blanket, filling otherwise dead air with a sound so unsettling it makes his mouth feel dry. The ball, the bow, the Bartons. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things belongs but isn't here.

It's the noise that catches his attention, has him taking his own gun in hand before he even ascends the porch, nearly silent — nearly, until he recognizes a set of shoulders, and his boots thud, and then he's eye to eye with the barrel of a gun.

There's a fleeting moment where Clint looks wild-eyed and Frank thinks he might do it on accident, out of reflex. He's never had an itchy trigger finger, though, and that's good for Frank, who'd already started to gently hold his hands up in a tiny little peaceful surrender.

He knows already. He knows. He knows what's missing here and he knows all that shit wouldn't still be splayed out if Laura was here, or if there was a single kid to keep up pretenses for. He knows, and it's so goddamn devastating he can't put it into words — but equally if not more in this very first moment of comprehension, what's really shredding through his chest right now, is that he knows exactly how Clint feels. He knows exactly how it feels.

The gun gets holstered, and then slowly, carefully, he reaches out, Just one hand, aiming for a shoulder. Ready to back off in an instant if he gets the wrong kind of signal here.

It's like slow motion. Everything has been, now, ever since. Everything happens so slow, except he blinks and suddenly hours have gone by.

He sees the hand coming, and he only seems to register the fact at the last second, and if Frank touches him, if he gets that comfort that his brother in arms is willing to give, then he's pretty sure he's going to just collapse right there and wait for the universe to turn him to dust, too. It's a quick twitch, pulling his shoulder back. Standing there looking stupidly at Frank, but also not quite at him, somewhere a little beyond him, through him. He breathes quick for a few seconds that last for hours and also picoseconds at the same time, and he turns on his heel to go back in.

At least he sets the gun down. Within reach if needed, but disarming him for the immediate moment.

There are two duffel bags sitting on the floor, in the middle of being packed. Clint's ransacking his own home. And doing a poor job about it, too. This is different than just a go bag. Clint marches into the kitchen, braces his hands on one of the counters, and tries to remember how to steady his breathing. Fucking pull it together, Barton.

His voice is thick when he finds it again. Filling the hollow space where there'd be the sounds of the kids running around or listening to music or having the tv on too loud, where Laura would be hauling up a load of laundry telling them to turn it down a notch, or--

"Natasha's coming to get me." Frank got there first, but he also would've ignored speed limits, and even in a quinjet, international overseas flights aren't quick. "They gotta, um. Assess the damage in Wakanda first."

He pulls his hand back, and for a long, long moment they just... stand there, together. It'll come eventually. He'll do it eventually. Just- one small step at a time, one moment at a time. That's the only way Frank survived; those first few days, those first few weeks, had been a fuzzy and muted blur. They'd been the passage of time with no attachment to it, broken up by incremental hours of falling apart, followed by slipping back under again. It took forever for him to surface for air and feel like he was walking in reality.

He sees the bag. Sees the contents. Sees the house — he can't stay in this house anyway. Frank couldn't stay in his own. Hopefully Clint doesn't try to follow in his footsteps there; something about the thought of this one burning to the ground feels like a travesty. Maybe it's all the blood, sweat, and tears Clint put into it with his own hands. Rebuilding, remodeling. Frank never did that to his.

He trails after Clint into the kitchen, and braces himself against a familiar wooden table. Too many kids, so many they had to drag in other chairs from other tables in the house sometimes when they came to stay. There's too many chairs now.

"You're not goin' to Wakanda," Frank says, and it's just... a statement of fact. It's like come on, man only- less. It just is. Clint's not gonna be in any fucking state to do that kind of shit any time soon.

"No, no, just--that's where they are. Where, uh, things happened. Big alien fight, man. And. An asshole with space rocks who did...this."

When he could finally get through to her, somewhere between timezones and busy signals and comms blackouts, she'd tried to give him the rundown, and he's sure some part of him absorbed it, but Frank's also not part of that wider, crazier world, so. Just the barest details matter. It's crazy stupid Avengers-y space magic bullshit is what it is, and that's the only thing that needs knowing.

"Gonna fly me out to the compound. Regroup. Figure...something out."

Should've been there, though. Maybe he could've done something. Or, maybe he would've just gotten killed. Maybe would've been better, though. Jesus, he can't think that kind of shit when Frank's still kicking...

Big alien fight, space rocks — sometimes hearing shit Clint deals with on the regular is so baffling he can barely comprehend that it's reality. Once upon a time they were covering one another in Afghanistan, then Clint joined the Avengers and started covering Captain America from gods, and Frank... Frank's just so goddamn glad he's a million miles away from that kinda nonsense. But he worries — and he's right to. Clearly, he's right to.

He shakes his head.

"You're not goin' there either," Wakanda, the compound, wherever. Back to work? Nah. It's just not happening. Clint can let those dark thoughts out all he wants, Frank's had 'em himself. Had 'em a few hours ago in Karen's apartment. Has them every other day even after all the healing he's done. He'd get it. He doesn't want that for Clint, it feels wrong, inherently and viscerally wrong for this man in particular, an ill-fitting suit, but he'll get it.

"You stopped at all since it happened? You sat down for longer than ten minutes?" He's willing to bet not, 'cause if he had it'd probably become clear exactly why that's an awful idea. If he has, then he somehow managed to thread the needle through the eye of a calm in the storm like the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, but that luck ain't gonna last. Sooner or later... sooner or later... "Look at me, man."

"No--" and it isn't clear if that's about where he's going, if he's stopped, or about looking at Frank, the way his throat closes up for a minute after saying it. "She's flying the rest of 'em back and she's picking me up. Gonna go upstate. Regroup, figure out how to fix this. Cuz, it's space magic, okay, so it can be undone. It's gotta be. Thor probably knows something. Get in touch with New Asgard, gotta be magic people there who know what to do."

He scrubs his face hard with one hand, presses at his eyes, breathe in, hold it, breathe out... "Can't stop. Gotta finish packing. I don't know what all to bring. Fucking stupid, I know what to bring, just gotta get up and go. I gotta go. Gotta take what I can and go to work." Because then he can do something instead of just being here doing nothing. "You can come with; I'll vouch for you." And so will Nat if she doesn't want a fight on her hands.

Upstate, because of course Clint wants his ass to turn right back around and go back to exactly where he just came from, after hours and hours of driving. And yeah, he'd do it, of course he'd do it, it's just a pain in the ass, is all.

Regroup, fix this, sounds like a plan. He's all for it. Let the heavy hitters and the big names and the billionaire and the celebrities put those brilliant minds together to think about how they're gonna fix it all and un-kill half the world. The second they start bringing back the dead is the second he puts in his application for the goddamn Avengers too, but until then-

Until then, Clint's a man who just lost everything. Everything. Absolutely everything he had. It's gone. He's not gonna be able to keep this up, this rigid self-control he's enforcing to contain lightning in a glass jar.

He considers what Clint's offering. Considers the merits of fighting him on this, trying to rationalize, to rip the bandaid off, but... no. No, let the man have his breakdown on his own terms, Frank doesn't need to dictate when it happens, he's just gotta be there to help pick up the pieces before the wind carries them off.

"Okay," he says finally, his voice hoarse but steady. "Fine. I'll go. Wherever you go, I go. That's the rule right now. You wanna go to the compound, we'll go to the compound."

You wanna go to work, we'll go to work. You wanna go somewhere else, we'll go somewhere else. Just don't go without him. Frank did this part on his own by choice, he didn't give anybody the chance to help him through it, and it was the worst goddamn time of his entire life, it always will be, forever.

He's not gonna let his best friend, his brother, go through it alone. Whatever that means is what it means, whatever it takes is what it takes. The world is chaos, and he's got nowhere better to be than here.

But if it goes even remotely close to the way it went for him, they won't be upstate very long.

He's expecting a fight, and he doesn't know what to do when it doesn't come. He's...relieved? Right? He should be. But he's got all this steel cable tension in him that's been aching to get out.

This is probably the longest he's stood still for in hours. Makes his skin feel itchy. Can't stop. Can't stay still. He can stay still in the jet. And then they can get the hell to work.

Laura's been his rock for so long that it's the strangest god damn thing being in this house feeling like he's going to fall apart and not have her there keeping him together. Frank's great, that's his brother, but he's not exactly Laura.

He pulls out a drawer sharply. Here's a thing he keeps tripping up on. And in the back of his mind where he's shoved all the logic, he knows it's nonsense. But the panic and the pain of the right now is hung up on it. "I keep thinking, I gotta take the silverware. She'll kill me if something happens to it. Wedding gift, y'know? The good stuff." Frank's seen the good silverware that gets brought out with the good china on holidays and celebrations. "That shit starts rusting, she'll kill me. A wedding gift. We didn't get much, since it was on the downlow." Which Frank also knows, being one of the very few people who had known about the Bartons before a rampaging rogue AI in a robot body tried to kill humanity.

There's no practical reason to stuff some forks in a bag. There's zero practicality to it. And if/when Laura comes back, then there won't have been any reason to take any of it from where it all currently rests.

His brain is a broken, skipping record regardless of logic or practicality.

This is where somebody else might've said you don't need the silverware, Clint, all gentle, thinking they were helping. If it had been Frank, he'd have said you don't have the first goddamn clue what I need so how about you shut your fucking mouth.

He almost says it was the piano for me, would've broken Maria's heart if she knew he stopped playing after she died. She'd have been all broken up about it, about music, about how much she loved hearing him play and so did the kids, and he ought to take the piano at least. But he couldn't move the piano by himself, and he didn't have anywhere to put it, so he felt too guilty to even touch the keys the last time he went home.

"Tell you what," he says instead. "Everything you need for work, you put in those duffel bags. Everything else you wanna take for safekeeping... I brought the van. We box it up, stick it in the back, I'll hang onto it."

Until what? Until when? Until she comes back, or until Clint's ready to see all the literal baggage, sort through it, deal with it, decide what to keep for real and what to get rid of.

"We got some time. I'll help you do it. Make a list."

He's going to feel so damned stupid later. Because he knows a thing or two about trauma responses. People get stupid. People get hyperfocused on the wrong things. He's worked hard to not get too stupid when shit happens, but this is...this is something else.

A list. He can do a list. Separate the need from the don't need now but maybe later. His shoulders ease, sagging in on himself. Thankful now to have Frank here. Understanding, because of course, of all people, he would understand. Better than anyone. "Photos." Easy place to start. "Albums. There's a couple in frames that should come, but there's a couple albums. Laura's perfume." Feels more for him than for safekeeping. Can he be selfish? He can be selfish. A little bit. "Rubble, we gotta grab Rubble, that stupid stuffed toy, that's Nate's favorite Paw Patrol dog. He's gonna want--"

It catches in his throat, stings at his eyes, doubles over himself, feels like collapsing. His little boy's favorite stuffed animal. Is that what's going to do it? To topple him over? Pull it the fuck together. What the fuck is he doing, collecting things like they're gone for good, like he's never going to come back, they don't know that, they don't know anything, but all he knows is that they're gone right now and with no idea if they're dead or just vanished or...

If he keeps moving, he doesn't have to let it catch up to him.

Sure has never backfired on him in the past or anything. His therapist would be appalled. He pushes back from the counter, nearly stumbling as he scrubs his face again with both hands, then up into his hair, making it stick up every which way. "I'll make a list. I'll make you a list. I gotta finish packing. You can--jesus," and he half turns, not quite looking at Frank but not turned completely away anymore, "you're still here. What about the others? Karen?"

How selfish and self-absorbed, not to even stop and think to ask about Karen until now.

Photos, albums — yeah, yes, things he both wishes he'd taken, and that he's glad he hadn't. He'd get lost in them, he knows. They'd consume him, every waking moment. He wouldn't be able to stop looking at them, thinking about them, mourning. He couldn't. Laura's perfume... smart, that's smart, too. He can't remember what Maria smelled like anymore, it's just-- gone. Scent's supposed to be the strongest sense tied to memory, but the exact smell, the exact smell, that's gone, his mind can't recreate it.

When Clint nearly doubles over with that sweeping rush of feeling, it takes everything in him not to reach out again. He wants to; he wants to drag the guy into an embrace, wants to give him something he's not even remotely ready to accept yet, something that won't do anything, won't fix anything.

Maybe they've still got those, uh- Christmas totes upstairs, those ones with all the tangled strings of lights that are a bitch and a half to untangle and hang every year, but every year they do it anyway. He could dump 'em out, use that to store some things. The lights themselves'll be fine on the floor.

He gets about halfway across the kitchen before Clint stops him with a name.

He'd been doing the same goddamn thing Clint has, except he's been better at it because he can channel his whole mind to a task that hasn't ended, one constant thread of an objective in taking care of his friend, it's been easier to block out. And now it's gone.

He left her purse on the ground. Left the handgun spilled out onto the rug. Locked the door behind him, so maybe nobody'll break in — except Murdock, if he's still alive, Frank doesn't know. He didn't check. He went to Karen first, she was closer, and then he drove straight here. Can't pretend to give enough of a shit about Red to even think about checking on him.

But Karen-

A muscle in his jaw twitches, flexes. He brings a hand up to chew on a thumbnail, absent, distracted. It might be bleeding, or maybe he just always tastes blood.

And he says, "She wasn't home."

That gets his attention. It's a distraction. But damn it, he latches onto it.

She wasn't home. That sounds like bullshit Frank talk for gone. Her not being home doesn't mean a damn thing when he would've leveled all of New York to find her. If there was anything of her to find. So she's...gone. Which means Frank's in the same place all over again. Everything's gone. Everyone's gone. But they've got each other.

And Nat's on her way with the others in tow. That's not nothing.

"It was blink of an eye." He might be looking at Frank, actually and genuinely, but his voice sounds far and away. Is that a comfort to know, or does he need to shut his fucking mouth? "Literally, just, I turned my back for a second and-- I was teaching Lila archery. The boys were playing catch, and Laura was cooking, and I swear to god in the span of a blink, I was just turning my head and they all..."

Was it painless? Are they dead, or were they magicked away somewhere or reduced in size or simply not here right now? Are they waiting for rescue, millions and millions and billions of people?

He saw other people go. He hadn't been alone when it went down, he'd been working. Construction, as a matter of fact, not... his kind of work, not the murder kind. Just knocking down walls, just building new things like any normal jackass. And then the guy to his right disappeared, and the guy to his left, a slow scattering of dust and ashes, gone.

One by one, half the crew. Half the pedestrians. Half of everyone, and the chaos started, and-

He can see it in his mind's eye. Karen's blonde hair dissolving at the tips, her slender fingers reaching out for him, for help, her lips parted and then her face ashes, her handbag falling through them to hit the ground. He can imagine it.

And then he can imagine the kids, and Laura, wisps in the wind, one after another, people he loves, gone again, again, and it hits almost as hard because at a certain point they'd stopped being Clint's family and started being his too.

He's on duty. He's got a mission, a goal here, this isn't about him. As long as it's not about him, he can keep it together.

Don't go far from me isn't just about being there for Clint when those pieces need to be picked up. It's a little selfish, too. Something inevitable is headed for him eventually, but he's done this before, he can hold out longer.

"It's everywhere," He says instead of tripping and falling down that road, chin tipped toward his shoulder so he can just make out Clint in his peripheral. One hand grounds him against the kitchen threshold archway molding. "It's like the goddamn apocalypse out there. People are tearing each other apart in the streets."

Millions and millions and billions and trillions and quadrillions and he has to snap himself out of this shit. "It's everywhere," he echoes. But what he means is: "S'posed to be the whole damn universe."

But Frank doesn't need to care about half of the whole damn universe. He's not part of that bigger reality. Earth, down on the streets, New York, that's his reality. And a quaint home on the range in Iowa, too. Clint recognizes that he doesn't need to say it, but he's present enough to say it anyway. "Thanks. For being here."

He takes a breath, and then he moves. He's mostly packed anyway already. Knows how to pack for longer trips away. It's just the small details that keep tripping him up. It's the static in his head where all his feelings want to overwhelm him. It's the skipping record stuck on the god damn silverware.

The list goes a little something like: yes, okay, fine, the god damn silverware, because if someone does get stupid enough to raid the house, that shit's still worth a pretty penny, and it shuts up the record scratch; family photo albums and a couple but not all the framed pictures, takes them out of frames and tucks them into the covers of the albums; Laura's perfume gets wrapped up in leftover tissue paper from Christmases past; a stuffed bulldog in a bright yellow vest and hard hat that's definitely seen rough play and several washes and a couple bouts of emergency stitching that happens when a toy is that kind of beloved; Lila's favorite hoodie, which is hilariously Nat's least favorite hoodie, because it's Black Widow themed and worn to the point where the symbol's most of the way worn off; Cooper's wallet, not for any of the money in it, not for any of the cards to local shops, but for the driving permit tucked prominently on display.

There are other things that he vaguely recognizes would make sense to care about and bring, like laptops, but they would just sit uselessly since he's not going to break into his kids' personal computers like that. (And the silverware, what's that going to do but sit uselessly? Shut up.) If he wanted to list every single thing he wanted to bring with him, well, shit, that'd just be the whole damn house, wouldn't it? He'd dig out Laura's wedding dress, make sure Cooper's first and only Gundam build was wrapped up safely, store Lila's notebooks away from sunlight damage, bring more toys and probably half of Nate's closet. He'd take jewelry and books and movies and the fine damn china. He'd grab his tools. He'd take and take and take and then he'd be right back where he started. At home. In this house. Want to take every nail and floorboard because it's all precious.

At least hearing Frank shuffle around does something to settle some high pitched alarm in his head. The one saying it's too quiet it's too quiet check on the kids run around the yard again one more time to look just look one more time!

The weapons are the last packed. Bow and quiver of arrows get their own special case. Couple guns. Not all the guns, but there are more in the panic room he and Laura built several years ago and thankfully have never needed to use. Some knives. In case.

He takes on and hacks through the ankle monitor still wrapped around him, tosses it in the trash. Pretty sure everyone's gonna be too busy to come worrying after him. Should check on Scott, and his family. Should try to track down Yelena. He hasn't been able to get through to Laura's parents and doesn't know if that means they're also gone or if the phones are just dead or busy.

But his brother is here, and his sister is coming to bring him back to his superhero family. Whatever's left of them. Fuck.

The last thing he does is leave Laura's phone on the counter, plugged in to charge. Just in case. And then his work for the immediate moment is done, and he doesn't know what the fuck else to do.

"Shut up, where else would I be?" It's a mild, scoffed retort — lacking any real heat, or playfulness, or anything it would normally carry. It's a failed attempt at levity, and 'attempt' is a strong word.

The photo albums go in the Christmas lights tote; the perfume, the stuffed toy, the wallet, the silverware, they go into a tote. If he stops in the kids' rooms for a little too damn long during his pass around the house, if he braces a hand against the wall and nearly has a god damn panic attack himself, all that matters is that Clint isn't in the room at the time to see it. It's the same thing again, it's the same thing all over again, and good Christ he won't say it out loud but if Clint had gone too he'd just sit down and eat a bullet to catch up with the rest of them.

But he's still here. So they're packing. Hoodies and bows and arrows and guns, clothes and the basics for necessary hygiene. He sees toys spilled out over a rug and he imagines a piano against a wall that has never held a piano, and he sees four kids dancing because the fifth was just a little too young, and every other adult in the room wanted to choke Frank to death because he just kept playing Baby Shark on repeat until that earworm drove them all fucking insane, and he's never laughed so hard in his damn life.

And he sees Karen's gun. Her purse. Her dust. The floor.

The tote goes in the back of the van. The logistics on travel are placed on hold until Nat gets here sometime in the next couple of hours, but the sun's already setting and they're running out of things to do in the meantime.

Frank cleans up the picnic remains before the spoiled food can attract any more insects or animals. He leaves the bow and the ball where they fell.

And then he posts up on the front porch steps, staring out over an empty yard blue-cast by the sun sinking beyond the horizon line, and not a single bird flying overhead. Too few cicadas chirping. Everything's too quiet, everything's too still, and there's nothing for Clint to do now either, so he's waiting too. Frank's bracing himself for that to be a bad thing, because he's not optimistic enough to hope for the alternative, but maybe he'll hold out. Stillness is a haunting echo playing on a loop.

He sits. For once. He sits heavy on one of the porch chairs and melts. His eyes scan the skies for a jet. It's a long flight, and they couldn't just up and leave the Wakandans right after, but he hasn't gotten any calls or texts and isn't sure if it's possible right now. The others probably don't even have phones on them, given a bunch of them were supposed to go dark, have been on the run ever since getting busted out of the Raft. Plus, hard to make sure your phone doesn't break in the middle of a war zone. He gets it. Getting in touch with Nat had been a miracle, really. He wishes he had appreciated getting to hear her voice again.

It's hard to appreciate anything right now.

His legs ache, his chest hurts, his stomach is protesting a lack of care. He's shaking a little. That's not supposed to happen. Even in the worst conditions, his hands don't shake.

"Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen." Is what he eventually says to Frank, distantly. Because. It'll go to waste otherwise, right? And Frank deserves a break. Is just as bad as Clint, doesn't take breaks, doesn't appreciate them like most people do either, but he deserves it.

And here already is where the truth of things lies: if it were just him, he wouldn't bother. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow either. Not until something broke through the autopilot mechanics on his system and he forced himself through the motions, threw together something out of a can or a package, forced it down his throat. If it were just him, he'd keep sitting here on this porch step until the damn sun came back up again, maybe.

But it's not just him. It's Clint, too, who has it worse, and so Frank has a reason to slowly peel himself up from the stairs. He's got a reason to turn, and thud his way across the floorboards toward the kitchen.

Because, as he goes, he says, "If I cook, you're gonna eat."

And that's an order, Second Lieutenant. If you can't do for you, you do for your men, that's how it works. You have two families; one in the corp, one at home. Just so happens Frank's has some overlap.

He goes through the kitchen. Most things are still well and good, it hasn't been that long. He can put together something decent, something packed with the calories they're gonna need to manage. Something with protein, something with carbs, something with vegetables. He's Italian, this is how he shows love: by force-feeding pasta down someone's throat and complaining that the store-bought kind isn't as good as the kind his mother used to make.

That last part doesn't apply tonight, but the first does. Clint's getting a bowl of something shoved under his nose whether he's got the appetite for it or not.

Clint can recognize an order when it's given, even if their military days are behind them. Knows Frank's tone when he means something as an order. There's a quiet, reflexive "Yessir" out of him.

Even if the very thought of eating turns his stomach. He can survive on very little. Granola bar, or protein shake, or shit-ass rations meant to survive for years in the worst conditions.

It doesn't take too long for Clint to follow Frank into the kitchen. Because if he sits too long he might never get back up. The sounds of whipping up some grub isn't enough. He's old school enough to have a radio on the sill, something that would play whatever while cooking or while washing dishes. Something with a nice beat coming on, pulling Laura into a little spin of a dance in spite of soapy hands or a dripping stirring spoon. It's not right without more sound. Because it's too fucking quiet that out here, where neighbors are a drive away instead of a walk, and it feels like the world's gone dead.

He has to scroll through station after station, between panic-voiced news updates, static, dead air, the emergency broadcast system, shit that makes his heart start hammering out a salsa beat all its own. Until he finds a station that's still playing music. Old classic country. Someone probably set their board up to just play through anything and everything they've got, because there's no announcements, no commercials, no DJ voice between songs.

Stays on his feet until Frank's shoving something at him, and he takes it and stares at it. He's waiting for the break. He's waiting for the breaking point when everything collapses and he can't hold back. But he keeps on holding. Maybe because he has this idea that this can be fixed. And then he doesn't get to do any breaking. He doesn't get to go as bad as Frank got to be. He's not the only one that's ever lost everything. Wanda would kick his entire ass about it. If he wallowed.

Maria used to love to dance. That's part of why she liked that he played, he thinks — because she couldn't help herself. Doesn't matter what was on, or where, doesn't matter if it was the damn Girl From Ipanema playing on an elevator, she'd start swaying and moving. He used to watch her, transfixed, until she caught him staring. She'd sing along, too, though only if they were alone. Her and Laura, they got along on that. Fed off each other's energies, he thinks, until they let themselves get carried away in a way Frank never could quite inspire her into the same way. The girls had their own thing, their own dynamic — probably spent a good bit of time railing about their husbands, who probably deserved it at the time, or at least he did.

It was hard to live with Maria gone. It feels downright wrong now for it to be both of them. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask Clint over the soulful strumming of Hello Darlin', right there on his lips to ask, how could it be both of them and not us? They were the ones in the damn field, they were the ones throwing their bodies in front of bullets, how is it that things could possibly play out like this? Where'd they go wrong?

But that's not the kind of shit to put on the man, at least not sober and on the first night, and so he says nothing. Instead, posts himself up over a bowl of his own with his elbows planted on either side, fingers threaded together, head bent as though in prayer, spending more time staring at the contents than actually eating them. Circling it around, over and over in his head — how do you protect people from something like this? How do you do it, when you don't have that super soldier serum or radiation poisoning and you're not a god, and you weren't trained by the goddamn KGB or whatever. How do you do it?

Karen's purse; Karen's gun; how was he supposed to protect her from that?

Look up, darlin', let me kiss you
Just for old time's sake
Let me hold you in my arms one more time-

He gets up and shuts off the radio, and the only reason he doesn't do it by flinging it off the counter in one sharp sweep is because it isn't his and this isn't his house and he's keeping his shit together for someone else.

Edited 2025-02-27 17:59 (UTC)

Frank moving and shutting off the music makes Clint flinch, but it brings him out of the reverie of staring into food and looking for all the world like a pathetic statue. Huffs out a small breath. "If you hate Conway Twitty that much--" He has a second half to that sentence, something snarky, something jokey, but he can't bring himself to finish it. It's like it slips away. Like water through his fingers. Some traitorous part of his brain starts humming along about all we are is dust in the wind and he has to shut that down before he starts laughing with genuine hysterics.

He sets the bowl down on on the table harder than he should. Doesn't break, but it's a sharp sound that's damn near to dropping it. He was given an order, and he knows he should eat, but what's the point? It feels so far away.

"I don't understand." And he hates how lost his voice is. "I don't--" His hand slams down a few times on the table, and the sting of it is actually kind of nice. Makes him feel something. "--fucking understand what's happening, Frank."

The bowl hits the table, and Frank's pretty sure he sees it — the first cracks. The first hints of it, like foreshadowing. It took hours, and that's impressive — Frank woke up from a coma fucking pissed off immediately. Grabbed the scrubs of the nurse hovering over him and demanded to be taken home to see his family, only he found an empty house, and he started splintering in--

Well, truth be told, he doesn't know exactly how long it took. His memories are blurry, both from the grief and the still-healing bullet to the brain, but it couldn't have been a full day before he broke down.

He's still standing by the radio through it, and he turns, hips pressing back into the counter lip, fingers curling around the edges, elbows jutting out behind him. Bent, just a little, like he's bearing weight that isn't there.

"I know," he says softly, in agreement. "I know, man. I know you don't."

Nobody understands what's happening. Not a single human left on this fucking planet does, he thinks. Even if they know, they don't understand.

Starting to wish he'd swept that radio off the counter so hard it crashed into the wall, bet it'd feel real satisfying about now. He wonders, absently, if that's gonna be roughly the fate of Clint's bowl, the way he keeps slamming his hand down. Nobody can hold themselves this rigidly for long; the shoe's gnona drop. Frank doesn't so much as flinch through the sound; passive, externally calm in a way he doesn't feel, in a way that's one more wrong thing happening away from snapping entirely.

He'd like to drive his fists into something, and he'd like to bleed, and maybe ten he'd feel some sense of control over something since it happened. Hell, at this point he wouldn't even mind if Clint threw a punch, it'd probably do 'em both good. Whatever happens, it's gotta be something. Something needs to happen. The tension's been winding tighter and tighter every hour since before he got here, even if they pretend like it hasn't been.

He can't even be mad at Frank. Frank's not pitying him; he's not that kind of guy. He understands. "How can they just be gone?" He whirls on his brother and looks like he's got half a mind to throw the bowl at his head. "How in the hell did you keep going?"

By being too fucking pissed off to let anyone involved get away with it. By showing up on Clint's doorstep and getting his face punched in before getting pulled into a bear hug. By making plans. By working.

"I don't even get a fucking bullet in my skull for it, not unless I put it there myself! There aren't even any bodies to b--god," and he regrets the words as they come pouring out, because it makes him feel sick. Frank's whole family got buried. There's something there that says they were there. There's no bodies. They're just gone. If there's a funeral, it'd be with empty graves, and that's not fucking right. His fists beat at his own chest. "If any stupid fuck deserves it, it's me! I'm supposed to protect them, man. I'm supposed to make this world a safer place. Instead I've been here retired and on house arrest when maybe I could've been out there doing something about all this!"

How can they just be gone? And brother, if that doesn't echo every thought he's woken up with since it happened, every goddamn day for years. How can they just be gone? How can something so integral to him, his life, his heart, his beating fucking heart, his reason for breathing his time on earth — how can it just be gone, and how in the hell can he keep on standing here like he isn't gone, too? Wishes he had the answer, but he couldn't tell you how he survived this any more than he could tell you how he survived the bullet to his head.

And yeah, here it is. Here it comes. They're different, him and Clint, but in so many ways they're the same — these thoughts, these things coming outta his mouth, Frank could be sitting in the same chair, could be under his skin saying the same goddamn things. He remembers saying the same goddamn things, raging about it to nobody and then raging about it again to Clint and then raging about it to Curt and then raging about it to Karen, and on, and on, and on, it never stops, he never really stopped raging. It's just further between now, and a little quieter when he breaks all over again.

He paces across the kitchen, drags a chair up toward Clint's side of the table, posted up by the corner, close enough to touch. Close enough that his elbow nudges Clint's when he plants them on the table's surface.

"Listen to me, look- listen to me. This is gonna make it feel worse right now, but it's the truth, and you need to hear it: there's nothing you could've done. This is not your fault. You couldn't protect them from this," and that's not comforting. He knows that's not comforting, not right now, maybe it will be in a year or two, but it's fact. The cold, hard truth of it is gonna rip away any sense of control Clint might be deluding himself into thinking he had here, but it's also gonna kneecap some of the guilt before it can eat away at his soul the way it did Frank's — at least a little, maybe, if he's lucky. "You were exactly where you were supposed to be. Only thing that would've changed is you wouldn't have been here with 'em when it happened. You'd wonder, you'd spend every minute of every damn day wondering, what were they doing when it happened? Were they in the kitchen, were they in the yard, were they cooking dinner or fighting or sleeping, you wouldn't know. You wouldn't know."

And wouldn't that be worse? Somehow, impossibly, wouldn't that be worse? It would be for him.

Why did Karen have her gun out?

At least Clint doesn't pull himself away this time like Frank's made of fire. It makes every inch of his body stiffen up like he's ready to fight, but there's nothing to fight. It's just Frank. And he could hit Frank, sure. But in this case, at long last, he doesn't deserve it.

He shakes his head through the whole little speech, but he's listening. He swears he's listening. And the place where his logic's all hogtied, that bit of brain agrees. What the hell could he have done? He doesn't know. He wasn't there. And he's got no powers, nothing but insane aim and some funky arrows, and he probably would've gotten hit once and been taken out of the fight, and then he wouldn't be here.

These past two years have been some of the best of his life. Getting to be with them, every single day. And now that's gone. But he knows where they were, what they were doing. They were all happy.

"Doesn't mean a damn thing." Doesn't it?

Yeah, you shake that head, shake it all you want, man, you know he's right. You know he's right, and for the first time since all this began, a little bit of his own heat begins to creep through that empathy and that patience he's had so firmly at the forefront.

"Yeah it does, yeah it does," He says, a quick double-dip, an echo to really grind it in there because- "Frankie and Lisa, you know they didn't die fast. Did I ever tell you? They had time. Minutes. Minutes."

Angry and confrontational as he's starting to sound, the fact that his eyes are starting to go red at the edges proves it isn't really anger he's feeling, he's just from New York, that's just his default, because it's easier. It hurts like a god damn knife that he's twisting in himself, and sometimes the only thing you can do when something feels that bad is to keep on twisting it.

"I wonder- I wonder all the time what they were thinking, what was going through their heads. If they were trying to get to me, or if they were asking why, but I was out, I was out like a fuckin' light. So yeah, it means somethin'. You got to see 'em happy, and you got to see 'em go fast, and that's one less thing you have to live with. That's what it all comes down to from now on, is finding ways to live with it."

It's a comfort to Frank at the very least, to know that Clint knows how they went. So he doesn't have to wonder about them, too.

"I'll live with it the way you did." Clint snaps it harsher than maybe he should. Pushing past that horror of the kids lingering, bleeding out. The reminder that for as much as this hurts, Frank arguably had it worse. "You didn't want me going anywhere, but fuck that. I get picked up, get settled in with my people, then I'm gonna get to work. That's what you did. You worked."

And it was bloody, awful, horrible work. But it was work, and it kept Frank going. If he doesn't have work, then what in god's name does he actually have? Himself and his horrible growing emptiness. He can at least pretend to fill it. Put a rug over it. He might step on it one day and go plummeting, but he can cover it up for now.

"I'm gonna work, and I'm gonna help fix this, and you can bring Karen over, cuz Laura would love to meet her, okay? And this'll all be a stupid nightmare to haunt us for a couple years."

"I didn't say I didn't want you goin' anywhere. I do. You can't stay in this house, you'll lose your goddamn mind- I said the compound-" he snaps back while Clint's still going, so the two of them are talking over one another. He leans back, tipping the kitchen chair absently, rocking it up onto two legs as his heels plant themselves onto the tile. Braced for something, an argument, an escalation. Louder and louder, grappling voices, "I'm saying the type- the type of work they want you to do-"

And then he says Karen's name, and Frank's hand is the one that slams down onto the table, cutting himself off abruptly with a sound that reverberates around the kitchen and through his own mind and up his wrist.

"God damn it! Don't-"

Don't bring her up, don't bring her into this, don't bring up the fact that he never let them go there no matter how much she argued with him about it, because- because, because, because. The words flow out swiftly, with momentum, with rising tempo and octave, "It's a joke. It's a fucking joke, the whole thing's a god damn joke. I stay out of her way, I stay clear, I give her a wide god damn berth, I never brought her around, I never- so the shit that follows me didn't wind up gettig her killed, and what happens after years, years is some random bullshit act of god that I couldn't even-"

He stands up abruptly to pace away from the table. The chair tips the rest of the way backward, banging off the tile. When he paces back, there's a little more level control in his tone;

"You wanna work, great. Work. But don't expect that the kinda work they're gonna have you doing is gonna satisfy you for more than a week."

Because there's nobody to fight, you can't fight an army that doesn't exist. And the stuff they'll have him do, Frank bets dollars that it won't contribute to that fixing things concept he's so adamant about. It's gonna be crowd control, it's gonna be relief aid, it's gonna be anything and everything to care for the people just as lost and sad and fucked up as Clint is.

But hell, maybe he's wrong. He doesn't know that team well enough, he's just a guy. Maybe they do have some magical recipe for un-fucking the universe, maybe there's a twelve-step plan and they've got the whole thing completely under control, and all they need to pull it off is a retired father of three and some kickass arrows.

If that's the case, though, if they knew that much, if they were capable of it, he doubts it ever would have gotten this far in the first place.

More than anything, though, what he knows is this: the people Frank loses, he doesn't get back. Maybe Clint'll have a different script with a different set of rules. Here's hoping, but he's not holding his breath.

They're arguing and they're reaching a boiling point and then--Frank's hand slams down and feels like it gives a definitive ending to things for a hot second. Apparently bringing up Karen and Frank's god damn obvious affections for her was like poking a bear with a stick.

And Clint can't say that that feels bad, actually.

The logic trapped under the floorboards gets what Frank's saying about the kind of work it'll be. Any disaster relief work. He knows what it's like. But he doesn't know anything and doesn't know if anyone else knows anything and maybe there's a plan or maybe there's going to be a plan. Somewhere between Stark's genius and Rogers's bullheaded determination, there will be a plan.

He stares at the chair toppled over on the floor and feels a bubbling anger. Keep poking the bear. He stands, his own chair screeching back but not falling. "What do you want me to do? I don't have anyone to start blasting right now, damn it. You don't want me to go with them, you don't want me to stay, you want me to work but not that work, what, what the fuck do you want me to do? You've been through it, and how'd that work out for you?"

All things considered, it could've worked out a hell of a lot worse. But the killings, the gang wars, the prison stint, the prison escape, it could've worked out better. "You kept her at arms length like the idiot you always are, and now she's gone, too. Does it feel better, huh? Does it feel not as bad for the fact that you gave her a wide berth?" He breathes out hard. "Pick up the chair."

-how'd that work out for you?

Clint doesn't even get to finish the whole question before Frank answers sharply, "It didn't!"

Nothing worked, because nothing will ever work, there's no fixing it or erasing it, he's not better, he's just better at pushing it down, and pushing, and pushing, and pushing, but with the right kind of pressure, the right exertion of force, all that compact density will spiral out and explode like the big bang all over again because nothing worked, you poor dumb son of a bitch.

But any of that, any of it, that he might want to throw out is lost beneath that assault on the obvious truth that is Frank's tragedy of a relationship with Karen. Relationship, lack thereof. Friendship with benefits if the benefits mean pain and stringing each other a long and never getting to move on because the love is real, but also never letting it happen because the love is real.

Pick up the chair.

Oh, he recognizes this moment for what it is. It's one of those. They've had more than a handful of them — truth be told, he's half-convinced that one of these moments is what cemented them in the first place. Way, way back at the start, when war was new and trenches were new and IEDs were new. When the stress mounted and one of them shoved the other, he can't even remember which, just that by the end they were both bleeding into the dirt and slowly picking each other back up again. Somebody had a broken nose — probably himself.

Sometimes he backs down from these moments, when they're not right. They both know he knows how to navigate them when he wants to. Compromise. Pick up the chair, and the moment goes away.

"I'll pick it up as soon as you wake the fuck up from your head-in-the-ass fantasy land about how all this is gonna end! Wake up!"

He does not pick up the chair.

Try me, asshole.

There might be part of him that recognizes the moment, part of him that sees the escalation as deliberate on both their ends. It's to get something to break, something to snap, and he won't hit Frank without a reason to. The reasons don't have to be good ones, but there needs to be a reason.

What Clint wants to do is break something that isn't Frank's face, the fucking chair or a cabinet or kick out some rails of the porch, but he knows he'll regret it in an instant if he does. What Clint wants to do is break someone that isn't Frank, and Frank's not going to stand for that shit.

So Frank makes there be a reason, they both make there be a reason, and Clint takes that moment in a stranglehold. He needs to wake up from the dream that it'll work out fine, that he won't be Frank, but it's the one thing he's got that's keeping him going right now. Therefore:

He launches himself at Frank.

It's not as neat and tidy as a punch. That's too simple. Uses too few muscles. He puts his whole body into tackling his wartime brother with a yell that would sound more in place in a zoo or a circus, some vicious lion roar. Something inhuman, deep and guttural. He doesn't feel exactly human anymore anyway, so it fits.

That is, perhaps, how it's clear to the both of them that these moments aren't real. They both know how to fight. They both have years of it, years of it beneath them, with technical skill and competency, and none of that technical skill involves wantonly tackling your opponent to the ground, particularly when you know exactly how strong their ground game is. Frank's got a couple inches of height and a few pounds of muscle on him, the strategic play would involve some range.

It's not about that. It's not about any of that. It's about the visceral outlet of an outward explosion of energy, it's about the satisfaction of hitting something and the pain of being hit, and it's just- something else.

So he lets Clint cross that distance without even trying to shut him out, and he lets things connect, and he spins it into a grapple that leaves the two of them, digging fingers and fists into one another in a wild attempt to drag the other down to the ground, accompanied by one or two staggering blows because it's not not about that, either. There's just enough presence of mind, just enough of himself reserved beneath the feral growling he's doing himself, to know to steer this outside. Enough to shove him toward the door with every staggered footstep, until they go bursting out of it and spilling onto the front porch. There, things open up. The environment ceases to be a hindrance; there is no precious furniture to break, no glass, no dining room chairs the kids sat in.

Just hardwood, and steps, and the pain of sprawling down them, and eventually there's just grass and dirt and an elbow to the face and a sweep to the legs and someone grabs someone else in a chokehold only to get flung viciously over a shoulder.

It's chaos. Undignified, bloody, dirty chaos in exactly all the right ways.

Frank feels too careful at first. In a knock down drag out one on one, Frank's got him beat. Clint's no slouch, got speed and flexibility and a lower center of gravity on his side, got cleverness in spades. But this, this is something different than just them fighting for real. This is raw. This is a need to scratch and claw and bite and punch at anything that even remotely looks like a target. This is do something about it before the stillness becomes so much he has to break literally anything, himself included. Frank could take him out, stupid as he's being. Doesn't. Because Frank gets it.

The animal frenzy part of him doesn't even fully realize what Frank's doing, even when they take a tumble down the stairs and into the dirt. There's a familiarity, though, in this song and dance. If they wanted to maim, they could. As it is, bruises and split lips and busted noses are practically saying hi. Even the animal in Clint knows he's not gunning to rip open Frank's throat or go for the eyes. He just. needs. to put. the man. down. Or get put down himself.

There's blood in his teeth and red in his vision, grass tickling his ears and a fist in Frank's shirt. His chest is burning. Is that from the rage? It has to be. Because the alternative is the dam opening, the levee breaking. In all the sound of nothingness, suddenly somethingness. A low drone at first that quickly becomes a high whirl, the dust kicking up around and past them, lights of the quinjet as it touches down not far from the house. And he knows what that means, but he throws another punch anyway.

The engines haven't powered down yet when there's boots on the ground, and Rhodey's got one of his War Machine guns trained on the pair, and Steve looks ready to scruff them both and would be able to, and Natasha barrels out looking genuinely mad as all hell and ready to brawl.

"...Frank?"

Is the only reason there isn't an otherwise immediate jump into action. Heads whip to Natasha, who still looks mad as hell, but in a way where it's her looking disappointed in the fact that boys will be boys.

"You made good time. Get off."

Rhodey tips his head, eyebrows cocked. "So are we shooting him or are we not shooting him?"

"I think we'll let Barton decide that." And that sounds so oddly distant from Steve. Even Clint can recognize that. It's not sigh what are we gonna do with you tired, it's bone tired, it's don't want to be conscious tired, it's want to wake up from this tired, and god if Clint can't relate.

He's still got a fist in Frank's shirt. But the fight's leaving him. His other fist stays on the ground this time, and his teeth are clenched so hard they might break, and his chest is heaving from the explosion of action. But the red's going from his sight. Draining away.

He can't say he's a fan of most of Clint's coworkers. He likes Natasha, even if they have a perpetual game of one-upsmanship and occasionally annoy the everloving shit out of each other with slightly oppposing viewpoints on some key issues — the issues that matter, they're on the same page about. Namely, the Bartons. All of them. Clint, Laura, the kids, they see eye to eye on them, so they've got one permanent fixture keeping them tethered.

The rest? Iffy. He doesn't know Rhodey except for what he's seen on the news. Has a slight, begrudging respect for Steve soldier to soldier, even if he's a little resentful about the hypocrisy that separates the two of them. They star-spangle Frank up and he'd bet money he'd go from Punisher to Captain too. Unless they're pretending like those skulls Rogers bounces off of steel with all that super strength don't shatter like tissue paper half the time, like he's not out here killing bad guys just like Frank is, but with a flying disc instead of a gun.

He thinks they're not careful enough. That they take too much for granted with Clint. That they could be doing more to watch out for him. The whole mind control thing started them off on a bad foot, and they never really recovered in his eyes.

So yeah, no, he's got no burning urge to justify himself or redeem the skeptical reputation he seems to instantly have when they come bounding down their jet. All he does is spit blood into the grass beside them, and slowly haul himself to his feet, pointedly ignoring the guns trained on him — if you're gonna shoot me, pull the trigger already and shut the hell up — in favor of holding a hand out to Clint. An offer, obviously, to help haul him to his feet.

Because that's how it works. That's what you do after this.

That's how this works. His muscles are aching. And that feels good. Or at least it feels. He's going to have bruises on bruises, and he's pretty sure Banner's gonna have a field day with whatever fractures or god forbid breaks they've given each other. (Or is Banner still gone? Guy had Hulked off to space last he knew...) It aches in a way that feels acceptable. Not near enough to match the ache inside him, but it's something.

So he clasps Frank's hand, gets pulled to his feet. Feels lightheaded for a moment. Feels dizzy. Feels distant and floaty but at the same time more grounded.

"Hiya Tash," is what he says, though it comes out a little muffled and mumbled through his punched up mouth.

She does not look impressed. Though that doesn't stop her from closing the gap and taking his other hand. Squeezes. Her eyes are searching.

He glances away. It's been years since he's seen her. It's good to know for sure she's here. Physically real. And it's also a lot. "Changed your hair again."

"Like you're surprised."

Rhodey finally lowers his guns and blows out a huff of air, turning and stalking as best as he can back to the jet. There are other people in there, he knows. There have to be. Where's the rest--where's the rest of them?

Clint stares at the jet and then abruptly turns back to the house. "Give us five."

Not for the packed up gear. Though that would be the logical thing. No--it's that Frank made food, and it seems a shame to let that go uneaten, and they can't just leave it all sitting there. Gotta at least wash up the used dishes. Don't even have to put them away. Can tupperware the food and dish some out and actually eat on the flight. Something.

It's something.

"Nat," Frank greets her finally once she's close enough, accompanied by one stoic nod of his bleeding head. Got him right in the eyebrow at one point, right in the nose at another — not that the latter's surprising. Seems to always happen, he's had the damn thing broken no less than twelve times in his life. The more it breaks, the easier a target it becomes. Kind of a vicious circle.

He's set to follow Clint's lead here; when he's ready to go, they'll go. Until then, he'll stay. They'll let him on board that damn plane if he has to stow away with the goddamn luggage right now, it's not a good time for him to be wandering alone. Not after- this. Not for either of them.

He starts to turn to follow Clint into the house — only to pause and turn back to Natasha again.

"Hey- my van, you think you could-" Because he's not leaving it here, but he's also not driving it back to New York.

"We'll handle it."

That earns her the faintest attempt at a smile, and a genuine, "'ppreciate it."

First thing Frank asked Karen about when he found out she broke into his house, those early early days when his head was still scrambled, was whether or not the dishes were on the table or in the sink. Never felt more relief than when she told him they were in the drying rack. He gets this part, too.

He goes in. Picks up the chair and tucks it neatly back into its place at the table.

The chair nearly does him in.

Has to stand there and gulp down air a few time when Frank sets it right.

His motions feel sluggish when he moves over to his uneaten bowl. The thought of eating momentarily turns his stomach, but the order-following (sometimes) soldier in him says you hork down what you can when you can. He barely tastes it. But at least he eats it. Inhales it, even. Like finishing one last meal before setting out on a mission.

Frank takes care of what's left of the food, and Clint sets to washing dishes. Even with the bleeding. They know better than to bleed on food or clean dishes. It's all more than five minutes, but he figures nobody's going to complain about a break, a chance to stretch legs and breathe fresh air after being cooped up in there. Nobody else comes into the house. He has the brief, hysterical thought that it might already be haunted.

A little first aid never killed anyone. He looks, really looks at Frank's face, frowns, and gets the kit. They can at least stop their active bleeds.

It's a little more doing. And maybe now he's hanging on by whatever threads he can grasp at.

Very suddenly, all at once, he gets why Frank was going easy in the house. He was trying to get them outside so they could really go hog on each other without breaking anything. "Thanks." A little broken. A little hoarse. But he means it sincerely.

They do it in silence. Companionable, not strained. Shoveling down food, packing it away, washing the dishes. All of it done in the quiet of the house to the tune of running water, scrubbing blood off hands and forearms to keep shit clean. And he knows they're procrastinating, that none of this really needs to be done, that they're dragging on well beyond five minutes, but...

He'd bet money on this being the last time Clint spends in his kitchen for a long, long while. He won't be coming back here again, not while he can work, not until there's some kind of definitive about Laura and the kids. It's not so bad an idea to just exist here a little longer, while he can. Until he can't anymore.

House isn't gonna smell like her for long. Other houses won't smell like this one at all, ever. The light won't hit tile the same way, the appliances won't hum at quite the same frequency, the central air won't kick on exactly the same way. Soon, all that'll be far, far away.

Clint says thanks; Frank nods, slow and steady, and murmurs back a quiet, hoarse, "Yeah, no problem."

Whether it's for the fight, the minimization of property damage, the food, the chair, he doesn't know. Doesn't matter. No problem.

But- he'll be the one to put it into words.

"It's time to go, man. It's time. We gotta go."

If he was still angry, still raw about it, he'd snap something harsh about how Frank doesn't get to tell him when to leave his own home.

But it is time. He can't just stay here. Or, staying here won't do anything for him. Probably do more harm than good. So Clint nods, a little absently first, but then more solid. Don't leave them all waiting.

He could offer up the house. For one last night. Plenty of room. They could all sleep, and then it wouldn't feel so empty.

Nobody would be sleeping anyway.

"Yeah, I'll grab...my stuff. Lock up."

There's another one of those inane thoughts nagging at him. Are the beds made? Should they make the beds? He was never a fan of it, but he learned to do it real well, and Laura always liked it neat and tidy. She'd want the beds made when she gets back.

If.

If.

He makes sure the lights are off. Grabs his gear. Doesn't double check it, because he's been checking it all damn day, and he knows damn well he's got everything he needs and probably then some. Locks the doors. And then stands there at the door and finds it so so difficult to breathe all of a sudden. He gets to in one two and doesn't make it to three, so it has to be out one two--

And then he turns. Marches toward the jet.

"Whoa," says Rhodey, eyeballing Frank, breaking up whatever conversation some of them have clearly been having, "whoa, whoa, why's the guy that turned you into a punching bag coming?" It's a familiar repartee, things either he picked up from Tony or just one of the many ways they get along so well. Ignore the trauma, ham it up with jokes. Even if it's not really a joke. "He's not coming with us."

"Yes, he is." Natasha. Quiet but firm.

"He's not an Avenger. In fact, it kinda sounds to me like he does the opposite of what we do."

"Either he goes," comes Clint's curt response, not wanting to turn this into a debate, "or I get in his damn van and we drive back to New York."

Steve does not look like he has time for any of this bullshit, but he's always been the defacto leader. He gives Frank an assessing stare. Looks at the assassins. "You trust him?"

"With my life."

Nat crosses her arms and gives a thoughtful inhale, then nods at Clint. "With his life."

That seems to be good enough. There's a fractional softening to Steve, and then he turns and takes the pilot seat. Which is as close to an 'okay' as Clint's pretty sure they're getting, since it's not a no.

Clint is taken aback when he climbs in. Sure, quinjets don't tend to be the roomiest, but there's plenty of room for-- There aren't enough people. Nat, Steve, Rhodes, sure, yeah. Thor's here. He didn't even see Thor or hear his booming voice. He's just sitting there, with a fucking axe, looking like there's all the weight of the universe on his shoulders. Bruce looks so small. And a little beat up. Which is patently insane, because Hulk doesn't let Bruce get beat up, and also, where the hell has Bruce been the past several years?

And that's it.

He looks at Nat, lost. She shakes her head.

...Okay. Okay. That's...something to deal with. He stows his gear and straps himself in and suddenly feels so fucking tired.

He'd kindly argue that he does exactly what the Avengers do by name alone — he avenges. It's just that because his aren't government sanctioned he's the bad guy, even though the government's been screwed up for years, even though the government's been sanctioning packing pounds and pounds of heroin in the corpses of dead GIs and Marines over in Kandahar and using their bodies to mule them back to the states, even though the government's had Hydra in it and they've been exterminating innocent civilians.

Somehow we're all supposed to pretend like everything's honkey fucking donkey because it's some guy in a suit six levels detached from the issues that's calling the shots. Well screw that, he remembers all too clearly a good handful of these guys going off the rails to have their own say in their missions, it's just that he did it first, and he doesn't have a pretty-boy face or a billion dollars.

But as much as he's tempted to go off on that tangent, that steam-powered rant, he got most of his pissed-off energy out in that fight. Good thing, because laying it all out like that would almost certainly ruin his chances of getting on this jet right now. Turns out a little brawling is good for the soul.

He doesn't nod his appreciation to Clint — doesn't really need to. He does to Natasha, because they're not quite on that level, so he's gotta make sure she knows he respects the gesture, her willingness to stand up and vouch for him. She's good people.

And then he's stepping onto the most expensive aircraft he's ever been on in his life, which is saying something considering how much money the military spends on Helos and airdrop missions and shit.

Lowly, wryly, to Clint: "So this is how the other half lives. You guys get complimentary bath robes on these things?"

Thor's low voice comes out at a rumble, lower energy than most have ever seen him, tired, resigned, "Who's this?"

"Frank," he says, and tacks on "Castle," as an afterthought, reaching out a hand to shake because he's got some goddamn manners, unlike some of these other assholes apparently.

Thor takes his hand, flexes his grip just a little too tightly, and says, "Thor, Palace. On Asgard, I mean. Not here."

Frank stares in bemusement, not entirely sure if he's joking.

"I've heard of you," says Bruce, evenly, knowingly — and ends the comment there, because he knows they both know what he means.

"Yeah, heard of you, too," says one rampage murderer to another. Except all Frank's victims were horrible people; murderers and monsters and child abusers. Bruce concedes with a fair enough shrug, too tired to bother. Aren't they all.

And that apparently is all it takes for introductions, it must pass muster, because he's given leave to plant himself down into a seat with no further bleak commentary or tests to pass. Good enough.

Thor's Thor-y introduction is, in spite of the low and somber energy, so normal that Clint almost smiles. Nowhere near close to laughing, but it's almost something lighter inside him. Or it could be the exhaustion creeping in.

Rhodey doesn't introduce himself, so, quietly to Frank: "Colonel James Rhodes, Air Force. Some have taken to calling him War Machine. Or is it Iron Patriot? Get 'em mixed up."

A shake of the head, slightly incredulous, slightly not down for all this. "You know which one it is. Frank Castle, huh? Sounds vaguely familiar."

Frank settles on one side of Clint, which means Natasha takes the other side of Clint. So at least he's wedged between the two best people still in his life. Nat's not having it. "We're not doing this right now." It's less a warning, more a command. Though from a Black Widow (from the Black Widow), it means about the same thing. Rhodey accepts this without a fight but moves up toward the front. Ostensibly to copilot for Steve. Who needs no introduction.

Clint clears his throat, awkward. But it doesn't actually clear anything. He's sitting here at last, and it's gonna be...well, not a long flight, but there's going to be time. They lift off. They move. Away from home.

He tries to cling to the feeling of work. This is like going on a mission. Or coming back from one. It's fine. It's fine. It's going to be fine. He doesn't have to get his head out of his ass. "Tell me what happened," quietly, to Nat.

She takes a breath, one of those steadying, steeling ones. "I can brief you when we get there."

"Tash. Tell me. Catch me up." Because he only got the barest details before on the phone, and if he doesn't get to work on this, then he's going to have time in his own head in this oppressively depressing atmosphere and then maybe might just start screaming to pass the time.

"I was on an alien planet as Hulk fighting gladiatorial fights until Thor and Loki crashed the party," which is obviously from Bruce instead of Natasha, so blase from the tiredness that it could almost be funny. "Asgard--" He spares a look at Thor. Thor's chin is propped heavy on his fingers as he stares hard into nothing. "It, uh, blew up."

Clint's about to say something stupid, Nat looks like she might start throwing people out airlocks, and Rhodey pipes up from the front: "Tony and the Spider-kid are out in space somewhere."

"Wha-"

"And Doctor Strange," adds Bruce.

Clint just blinks stupidly. He thinks he vaguely remembers seeing the name Strange as a person of interest to SHIELD at some point, maybe??? Who the fuck--

Nat grips his hand, and the fond, familiar motion startles him. It shouldn't. He immediately feels bad about the fact that it startles him, but he wasn't gonna hug it out with Frank, no, he was gonna let them beat each other into the dirt as physicality. "Full briefing when we get back, okay?"

And now maybe he's actually...actually thinking that's not the worst idea, because that's still overwhelming, and they haven't even talked about who they lost, except obviously anyone who isn't here got turned to so much dust, but--there has to be more to it than that, right? He needs to know about the big guy that apparently got hand on all the stupid space stones to click his heels together and wipe out half the universe and is still out there somewhere.

He opens his mouth, closes it, a couple of times before he lets it click shut with a finality. He's close to asking something stupid, asking for conformation, are the others dust, or were they killed-killed, or did they stay behind to help Wakanda, or...or...

She's trying to keep it together for his sake. Everyone's sake, but for his sake, but he can read her as well as she reads him. There are so many questions behind her eyes, and disbelief, and she was there. So he'll keep his damn trap shut. And, apparently, so will the others.

"I gotta stop retiring." Okay, he doesn't keep his trap shut completely.

He has to bite his tongue so many times throughout this exchange it's a wonder he doesn't chew it clean off. Doctor Strange? What is it with all these made-up bullshit names everybody comes up with? Do they pick these themselves? Iron Man did, he knows that much. War Machine, though? Was that like a big bad punisher situation, or did this guy get real high on his own farts and lock in the merch deal?

Asgard blew up. Spider-Man is in space. What in the absolute goddamn hell do these people do on a daily basis? Do they butter their toast the same way as everybody else, or do they summon aliens down from the goddamn moon to do it for them?

It's Clint's final words that break him, and a long, loud, graceless snort of laughter rips through the back of his throat before he can silence it. Somebody gives him a look, and he tries to repress the sideways shit-eating grin on his face. Doesn't try that hard, though, so the best thing he can do is just point it in the opposite direction and level it at a wall.

It's goddamn ridiculous. All of it. Everything. It's a cosmic fucking joke. Karen's dead, Laura's dead, the kids are dead, and the universe is laughing. Half the population's dead and somebody's in space. Half the population's dead and there's a guy named Doctor Strange. Damn near every person he cares about is fucking dead and he's on the Avengers plane getting glared at by some guy called War Machine, as though that's somehow better than The Punisher.

"Something you wanna add, Castle?" Somebody from the front asks.

Frank cheerfully returns a simple, pleasant, "Nope."

And that's that.

If looks could kill, Natasha would've murdered everyone on this aircraft. Several times over. She most certainly tolerates Frank; they have an understanding and a certain respect. So instead of making her way up front, taking the controls, and nosediving them all into the ground, she just rolls her eyes at Frank's incredulity.

But damn if Clint doesn't find it infectious. Because he gets it. Everything being said is insane to someone who's just an everyday fucking schmoe on the ground, comparatively. Half the universe is gone, and they're both learning there's someone of some kind of notable importance named Strange. What, that was the best word? Could've been named Doctor Spooky. Doctor Weird. Doctor Vaguely Unsettling But Mostly Unusual. Tony's not here because he's in space. What? In space where doing what? Why did he take Spider-New-Yorker with him? What the fuck does Asgard blowing up mean? Half the universe is gone, and Bruce has spent the past several years just being an alien gladiator that Loki of all people crashed, and how many times has he heard Loki died now? God, did that motherfucker get out of this or--

He snickers at Frank's response. And then it's a bit like a cascade. They share a look, and he laughs, and it's inappropriate but he doesn't really care because there is no appropriate right now. It's all crazy. The world's finally gone to hell in the dumbest handbasket. He can see the confused furrow of Thor's brow, the exhaustion on Banner's face but the barest little flicker of a smirk like he gets it or at least feels the infectiousness of the gigglefit. That there's a certain catharsis to it. And no glares from anyone or smartass comments are going to stop this train once it's gotten rolling.

Because it also feels like the only thing to do. It feels good for a few long moments. "You laugh," says Clint to Frank, laughing, "but I swear, I swear that every time I retire, that's when shit hits the fan. This one just took a few years, but they can't--"

Between the explosive knuckleduster and now this, everything stuck inside his chest has gotten all jostled loose. His cheeks are wet; when did that happen? The laughter changes pitch and oh no no no no not here, he can't do this here, he can't break here. "They can't even--" There's no rescuing this, no matter how hard he tries. To stuff everything back down. Back into boxes to tape shut and hide under floorboards, no, it's spilling out everywhere. It's overwhelming.

He blinked, and they were gone, and they're gone, and he doesn't know when he'll ever see his home again, doesn't know if there will ever be a point. Frank lost his, so, what, now to even the scales, some cosmic fucking scales, now it's his turn? Should he have stayed? Haunted his own house until he turned to dust, too? What the fuck kind of need do any of them have for a god damn archer when all the forces of Wakanda and then some couldn't stop the end of half the universe? What good are the Avengers if they aren't Avenging? No SHIELD, no Avengers, and now no Bartons, so what the fuck would he even be fighting for?

He tips his head back, blinking at the ceiling, every part of him tight and trembling, trying to will it back, trying to curb the reaction. But Nat squeezes his hand, and Frank packed up some of the important stuff and some of the stupid fucking useless stuff, and his lungs hurt, and there should be more people here. It's an ugly noise out of him, the kind of ugly he'd rather do alone in a dark and locked room. Not in the confined space of a quinjet with some of his friends. He feels so small, so insignificant. And all the hurt and horror and agony of the past day is demanding to come pouring out of him.

It feels like pouring his whole self out onto the floor.

It's a ripple effect for sure; Frank starts snorting and then Clint starts laughing and then Frank starts laughing, and then they're a pair of god damn jokers in the back, laughing like idiots right up until the moment it stops being funny anymore. And his heart sinks, because he knows when the switch flips, he knows when Clint starts spiraling down, and it tears at his chest in sympathy — or is it tearing his own pain out of him? Because Karen- Karen- and the goddamn kids, they were kids, they're just fucking kids. Kids he loved practically like they were his own, kids he may have been transplanting just a few too many feelings onto after the loss of his own children, and now they're gone and it's like losing Lisa and Frankie all over again-

Nat takes Clint's hand. Frank throws an arm over his shoulders, reeling him in tight, into some private space between their bodies, blocked off from the rest of the crew by broad shoulders and a ducked head. Not that it does much, because this sadness is a ripple effect, too. Banner's head hangs, face in hand. A tear streaks down Natasha's cheek, though she's holding it together better than the rest of them. Thor's got a full-blown stream happening that he doesn't even bother trying to disguise. The posture in Steve's shoulders is so rigid, so tightly laced, it's a wonder he doesn't explode from the density of it all. Even Rhodey seems grim, lips pulled into a pained grimace that none of them can see from back here.

It's a fucking mess, and it's all Frank can do to hoarsely murmur, "I know man. I know. I know-" like that accomplishes a single fucking thing.

It's an awful pain, full-bodied, soul-searing. He hadn't seen Frank in any of the immediate aftermath, because Frank was supposed to be dead, and it was only after a lot of shit happened that he found out the opposite, right up until Frank showed up on his doorstep and got a punch and a hug in that order. The family went to the funeral. Lisa and Lila were the same age. They would've been the same age. Frankie could've been a big brother. They're all gone. How are all of them gone? Five kids and two amazing women?

So when Frank says he knows, he knows Frank knows. He hates every single moment of this, as he grips Nat's hand so tight he thinks it's probably gonna bruise, and she takes it without a hint of complaint because she can, as he buries his face against Frank's shoulder to hide the shame and the pain and the empty fucking pit inside him.

Nate's not even three. His birthday's next month. A beautiful summer baby. Frank would've been invited, and this time absolutely not allowed to play Baby Shark, banned, and he would've done it anyway just to be annoying. What takes a baby away like that? Lila had an arrow in hand. Cooper, Cooper's the first born and will always be his baby boy. Laura's an amazing rock. Who's going to upkeep the tractor? Tony promised/threatened to turn that thing hi-tech and she had suggested over her dead body, just needs a tune up now and then like any vehicle. Is it just going to rust in the barn? Is everything going to rust? Every nail in that house he put there himself, every board of every addition when he hands can't keep still and his mind could always see the bigger picture, are they going to age and mold and warp? All the food will rot. The lights, the gas, the water, that'll all get shut off. How many homes have suddenly become abandoned in the blink of an eye? He turned his head. That's all it took.

All it took was a snap of the fingers for everyone to lose. Karen's gone. Is Tony gone? Is the Spider-kiddo? Sam? Bucky? Wanda? Vision? Is Yelena still out there, somewhere? He'd never met her, only heard the stories, and now maybe he'll never get the chance.

It's all gone. They're all gone, and sure, sure, yeah, there's a desperate little part of him that hopes with some regrouping and focus, they can find a way to undo all this. But he knows. He has to know. That they also might all just be gone for good.

His own heart is so loud in his ears that it's hard to hear the quiet that starts to come down like a blanket when he bleeds it out everywhere hard enough that he becomes empty, everything inside gouged out. His breathing still comes ragged, little gasps and starts. But the horrible wailing dies down, throat raw with the pain of it all, and the tears just stop coming.

Kind of wants to puke up Frank's meal just to completely empty himself out. But the absurd thought about how rude that would be floats up to the top of his mind. He just wants to sleep. Or rather, just wants to be unconscious and pretend none of this happened for a few days. Just a couple days. Let the world try to keep turning without him for a while.

Automatic instinct, thoughtless reactivity, one of his hands snakes up to the back of Clint's neck, the back of his head, palming there and holding as the guy comes completely unspun against his shoulder. Fingers bury into hair, while his free hand grips a solid fistful of sleeve fabric on the other side. It's a display that makes it immediately clear to anyone with the capacity and the mindset to pay attention just why exactly Frank is here in the first place. What their dynamic is, what level it is.

It's only proven further when he pulls back just enough to bump his forehead against Clint's, eyes squeezed shut, recycling air, breaths low and voice lower.

"I know- I know," another pair of murmurs, echoed, painful — to the tune of an apology that he won't actually give, because it's a platitude and no amount of I'm Sorry will make a single fucking difference here and now. "Listen- listen to me: breathe. Just breathe. Just keep breathing. That's gonna be the hardest part, but you gotta keep breathing. That's it. That's all you gotta do right now, alright?"

From now until whenever. From now until they find a way to fix it — not that Frank's optimistic, but he's willing to concede that it's worth the effort — or now until forever, he just needs to keep breathing. Anybody asking anything more from him right now can get absolutely fucked.

It isn't that Nat's presence alone wouldn't have helped. They've been through damn near as much shit together as Clint has with Frank. But her ideas of family and the loss thereof--she could've been there for him, talked him through or let him sob it out and tell him to breathe, yeah, but it's not the same as someone that's been there. Specifically, there, in that spot of losing everything, losing an entire heart, several reasons to exist.

Frank's been through it, and damn it, he's still standing despite it all. And he's here.

How the hell he's managed that, it's a mystery. Because Clint's exhausted. All he has to do is breathe, and, "I don't--" Know if he can, know if he wants to. The words are all kinds of hoarse, creaking out. "I don't think--"

"Don't think." Natasha rubs circles along his back. "Breathe."

That's easy for her to say, isn't it? But. No. He doesn't even have it in him to want to snap anything. Because it isn't easy. None of this is, for anyone. A deep sigh shudders out of him, his whole self seeming to deflate. He nods absently against Frank. He can't exactly empty his mind and only think of breathing, but he can at least start evening out his breathing. Try to match Frank. Relax against them both.

"That's it- attaboy, that's right, just like that," lilting and thickly accented as he only gets when he's compromised or a little drunk. Maybe he's both right now — drunk on grief, drunk on shared heartbreak and the overwhelming desire to help. To fix things. To take away a pain he cannot possibly take away.

Three, four, five breaths. Six, seven, eight. Steady on, steady on, until Clint finds a rhythm he can keep and hold. Only then does Frank begin to peel away a few inches — hand still on the back of his neck, the fingers of the other furled in his sleeve, but enough distance that he can glance over Clint's bowed head to meet Natasha's eye.

She nods. He nods back at her. They both pretend like neither of them have red-rimmed, shining-wet eyes. Like they aren't both falling apart on their own and for Clint. He gets her, he thinks, better than some of her team members do. Not Clint, obviously, maybe not Steve, but better than Thor. Better than Rhodey. He gets her. They've had talks.

He knows where her head's at, and he concedes a little space to her, to the artful dance of her palm running along his back, to the gentle bow of her head as she leans in to murmur a few things now, too. She needs this. She needs to be able to comfort him, it's important, and he's more than willing to let her, because God knows this man's gonna need every speck of fucking support he can handle for the next-

For a long time.

It's quiet, after that. Quiet for a long time, from everyone. No words but Natasha's soft murmurings, no sound but the engines of the jet, until at last they're making their descent for landing.

They need it. They need it, because Natasha has softness, has bruises and scars on that softness. She's lost a family, too. Aunt Nat and Uncle Frank were always welcome in that house. The kids loved them. Clint and Nat lean on each other, and Clint mostly keeps his eyes shut, because he's bone tired and doesn't really want to see any looks in anyone's eyes. He doesn't want to see pity, or he doesn't want to see the pain reflected back at him. Might have to do some bonding with Thor later, sounds like, but he's not sure he could take a conversation about it right now.

Maybe a big, bone-crushing hug might be nice. Later.

When Steve lands them, and it's late as hell, and it's quiet because even here, half the everything living's gone, they file out. Bruce doesn't leave Thor's side, a comforting hand on a huge bicep, blanket held around him in the other hand. Rhodey lets the distraction take him, his mind clearly elsewhere, doesn't have anything snarky to say. Nat asks Clint if he's good to go, and he nods. Insists on taking one of his bags, and he doesn't even argue. Steve is still solid, rigid, but he can catch a moment where Steve's staring at him and Frank just a few seconds too long before the captain tears himself away again.

The compound's big, as usual spared no expense by Stark, who should be here even in spite of the last big blowout that happened. People always in and out. Was never full. Still feels too big, too empty. Clint's never spent a lot of time here, mostly helping train the new recruits (who aren't here), but mostly god damn retired until he wasn't again.

"Maybe it's about time I get that sitrep," Clint suggests, his voice still thick from all the Too Much.

"You're an idiot," is what Nat says with not an ounce of heat to it.

"Everyone get some rest." Steve's trying to sound commanding, but really just sounds as tired as the rest of them. "Whatever you can. We can all reconvene in the morning and catch everyone up on what's going on. Then we figure out where to go from there." Everyone includes Frank, because now it has to include Frank. "Castle, there's plenty of empty rooms; we'll make sure to give you access to one."

This place, he thinks, is either an empty casket or a full tomb. It's hollow and enormous, it feels like all the people who are missing from it are standing just over their shoulders, staring down accusingly. It feels like turning around to face them makes them disappear, leaving a howling vacancy in their wake.

He feels the spirits of people who've never even set foot in the place, too.

The last thing he wants to do is go sit in his own sterile room by himself, blocked off by walls and locks, wondering if there's been some kind of delayed reaction and the two people in this building he actually gives a shit about maybe turned into dust overnight while he's pretending to sleep.

All the same, he nods once at Steve — more to telegraph appreciation than with any real intent to claim one just yet.

He's not much of a drinker, doesn't tend to turn to alcohol to solve his problems, doesn't like the loss of control over his faculties and his paranoia, resents the fogginess, but... if there was ever a time for it...

"There anything to drink around here? I could use a beer."

It's levelled at Natasha, and there's a subtler question underneath — if he doesn't wanna come, do you got him? She nods. Murmurs, "C'mon, kitchen's on the way. Should still be something stocked."

This is the story of how Frank Castle stole free booze from the Avengers.

Clint isn't in the mood to not want to come. He thinks he should be. He thinks, distantly, that what he should want is to be alone in the room designated for him. Sit in the shower with it too scalding hot until it gets cold and then lay in bed and hate life and feel miserable.

But he follows along to the kitchen anyway. "Could all probably use something," is his useless and unnecessary commentary. He knows where the drinks are. The hard stuff's high up and out of sight, for Tony's recovering alcoholic sake. Or. That's the reason it was initially. And then everything kinda happened and now he doesn't know if it's still there?

He has to climb up onto the counter like a gremlin or a child to reach the cabinets over the fridge, and he sits on it solidly when he retrieves a bottle of scotch. Some of it's been drunk, but not a whole lot.

Natasha takes it easily out of his hands, while he lets out a little "aww" about it. Won't fight it, because he gets that if he starts, well, shit, he'll probably keep going, and nobody needs what happens after that on their hands.

Thor then reaches over and takes it out of her hand, pops the top like it's a soda, and downs half the bottle in one go. "Thank you," he says, with seemingly no self-awareness to be had right now, "for retrieving your Midgardian might to share." He hands it back, mumbling something about proper Asgardian ales, and Bruce just pats his arm and tries to point out that he knows Midgardian ale isn't on par and maybe he should go take a shower?

Nat wrinkles her nose, not for any kind of stink, just for trying not to laugh, and trying not to judge, and having to take a moment to figure out what the hell to do after that. She sighs, has Clint take down a couple glasses while he's up there. Pours out a portion, then tells him to put the bottle back.

It's kind of nice to at least follow the most basic orders. He won't be greedy. Just take what he's given.

She holds up her glass like she's going to toast, but doesn't say anything. He gets it. They can all clink their glasses or aluminum cans or whatever. They can drink. They can commiserate.

These people are a trip. He doesn't know if he's amused or annoyed by them. Always had kind of a vendetta — mild, tiny, annoying little thing about how they aren't doing enough to look out for his brother. Guy's running around in his shirtsleeves with gods and hulks and whatever the hell else, they can't do him a little better than they have been?

But at the same time, the camaraderie reminds him of what it used to be like back overseas with his guys. With Clint. When all of them would get back from some mission that nearly wiped them the fuck out, and hot on the heels of a near-death experience and the loss of a handful of your buddies, all there is... is this strange limbo middle-ground nowhere feeling. This absurd, abstract, impossible to describe sense that reality is at once a fucking joke and not even remotely worth laughing over, which sometimes only serves to make it funnier.

He doesn't really feel like laughing now, but he understands the wrinkle in Natasha's nose. Understands the humor, distantly, at the rapport between Bruce and Thor. It feels comfortable.

He toasts his glass against theirs, and then brings it to his lips to slam the whole thing at once. The burn earns an exhale — been a long while since he bothered drinking. Usually sticks to one beer at a time, but damn if it doesn't feel like the right time to get a little drunk just to cope with it all.

Laura and the kids. Laura and the kids. Maria and the kids. Maria and his kids.

He wants to burn this building to the ground and fight every single person inside it until the flames take him. He wants to hollow himself out and feel nothing at all. He wants to keep his shit together for Clint, but Clint's safe and in good company now, with Natasha taking up about half of his good excuses to remain sober and functional.

Shame she put the bottle back.

To keep himself from going after it, pulling it back down again, he grabs a beer instead and heads over to the table. Drags out a seat and settle wearily into it.

It's a classic case of it all catching up to him once he stops moving. Never should've stopped moving. Too late now.

He never thought he'd have to feel this again.

Frank looks like he's being crushed by the weight of gravity when he practically melts in that chair.

Natasha and Clint have a silent conversation.

Partly it's some perfected bullshit spycraft thing, the ability to talk without talking, with subtle glances and barely there movements. But it's also just the familiarity one gets with someone who feels like another part of their soul. And it is a conversation, whole and complete and impossible for Frank to make out the details of. The way Nat tips her head, the way Clint taps a finger on his glass. Hands ghosting calmly--Clint casts a haunted glance at Frank for just a moment, just a moment, then resumes whatever the not-talk is.

It's a few moments longer before Nat touches his face gently, cupping his cheek warmly, then pulls away, gives space. She passes by Frank and gives his shoulder a brief squeeze. And then she's gone.

Clint stares down into his glass. Fighting the temptation to go dig out the bottle again now that it's just them. He polishes off the last dregs and sets his glass down beside him on the counter next to the others.

"She thinks a shower's the second best idea she's had all day." The fact that he can say something like that without actually exchanging words with her might indicate he's 'paraphrasing' as it were, but who knows, actually. "You know how bad those outfits can start chaffing if you don't peel yourself out of 'em on the reg? And they've been in 'em for a whole epoch-defining fight and hours and hours and hours of flight. 'm not exactly envious."

Maybe he's talking stupid shit to fill the space. But it's his little version of explaining--they're alone right now because Frank is trusted to watch out for Clint, and Nat would like maybe five or ten minutes to cry alone in the shower as she gets all the leftover blood and sweat and dirt off her.

Paraphrasing.

"Y'know, I've never seen Cap with a beard before?" Clint keeps going. On a roll. Fill the space. His voice is hoarse and tired and only lubricated with a drink so far. "Weird. But he's making it look good. It's working for him. And Thor got his hair cut. Less Fabio, harlequin novel guy. I dig it. And I think he's got a new eye? Is that weird? I promise both his eyes used to be blue. Kinda wanna ask, but that might be rude."

The slow shake of his head at what follows she thinks is automatic, rote — he's complained about this before, in that bitching-but-not-really-complaining unserious way he rants sometimes, about how freaky it is they can ESP like that at each other. Have those whole conversations without either one of them saying a damn word, and sure, maybe him and Clint can do that a little themselves, but it's never tap three times if you're gonna go take a shower because it's the best experience you've ever had levels of specific. Fucking spies, man.

Normally, all that would be coming out of his mouth, but the words don't feel real tonight. The rant doesn't feel genuine. He feels like he's one frayed thread away from spinning out, and the only thing keeping him under control is that Nat just transitioned responsibility back over to him again. Pulling himself together's a little bit like throwing a lasso around a hurricane and trying to break it in without a saddle, but he grits his teeth and manages something. Something. That's not nothing.

"So what, you people get new eyes the way the rest of us get haircuts now?" Comes his hoarse, somewhat terse return. Voice a little too thick, pitch a little too low. Lumping Clint in with the rest of his team only when it conveniently suits whatever Frank's bitching about, as usual.

His fingers curl around that beer. He wants to hurl it against the wall. He takes a slow, masochistically controlled drink of it instead, and denies himself the pinprick of catharsis he'd feel from it. Once that door cracks open, it'll take a hell of a lot to shut it again.

They're all just trying to hold on as best they can. In all the small ways. Nat needs a moment, and Frank needs to clutch tight to his control, and Clint needs to fill the space with noise before it's too fucking quiet in too big a place. He can see Frank just fine from here. Sees how every move is deliberate and calculated.

He can see how if Frank lets go, it won't be pretty, and a chunk of the building might end up demolished before a Hulk or a Thor holds him to the ground and keeps him there.

"Man, I don't know, it's usually just fancy contacts with recording abilities, or mesh masks with shapeshifting disguises." Which is still stuff Frank doesn't have access to unless he breaks into some very secure places.

His fingers pick at little things, unable to find comfort in stillness. Bit of dirt here. Loose thread there. Some scuffed skin to peel. "If you need to go another round, I probably got it in me." An offer. For the violence thrumming under Frank's skin.

He can see the offer coming before it hits — it's in the way Clint is picking. Dirt, skin, any excuse to be twitchy with his fingers, to pluck at something when he doesn't have a bowstring instead. And it's not that he doesn't want to that has his head shaking back and forth. It's that he wants to too much.

"Wouldn't go down the same," he says instantly, a little too steely, a little too cold. "It would be different."

Because he wouldn't be able to hold back. There wouldn't be that same presence of mind that got them out of Clint's house without breaking any of his furniture. Once he lets go, he's gonna get carried away and it's gonna get brutal, and he's not gonna stop.

Rather, he'd stop for Clint, but it might be about two minutes after he should've. Only thing that'll do is rile him up more out of shame or remorse, and make him want to swing at something else even harder.

"Maybe we could ask Steve."

But it's better if they all manage to keep a lid on Frank. At least for now. Keep him cool, keep him collected. Maybe in a day or two...?

It feels like this day will never end. If he sleeps, he'll wake up and maybe he'll be at home, and maybe it'll happen all over again. Is that a paranoid thought? Or is that exhaustion starting to bleed in?

"Gym's all kinds of reinforced." For obvious reasons. And for future reference.

This is not the first time Frank's had his nose broken, but it is the fastest he's ever had his nose broken.

There lies the dumbass himself, sprawled out on his back, chest heaving, nose gushing blood, absolutely spent in the outfield of the shitty public park baseball diamond six or eight blocks from his house. Beside him, the asshole responsible for the aforementioned broken nose lies heaving as well, Frank's pretty sure he popped a black eye in there at least. Now, both of them are utterly out of steam, and he can't actually remember a fight ever ending after he ran out of rage before today.

A few silent, still seconds pass.

"Alright listen," he starts, his voice hoarse and ragged and beat. "How 'bout this. I won't call you a pussy if you don't call me a pussy, and we say it's a draw."

Because... full transparency, he absolutely cannot remember anymore what made him throw that first swing. It seemed like an unforgivable offense some five minutes ago, but the jerkoff kids that had been around at the time have all already scattered, and it's just the two of them left. So. Nobody else to judge.

He's gonna have a shiner for sure. And he keeps tonguing one of his teeth. Can't tell if it's loose or if everything just feels weird from the blood of a split lip. Or the fact that he's a little unclear if he can feel the side of his face? Maybe when the stars stop dancing in front of his eyes, everything will fall into place.

He knows he gave as good as he got. He knows from the way he could feel the crack of the asshole's nose under his fist, and from the feral way they went at each other until the ferocity died and the exhaustion started winning.

Barely been in this city for five days, and here he is getting into a beatdown. Is that what a New York hello is like?

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" is the absolutely genius thing he can hear leaving his mouth in response. Huh, funny, he doesn't remember telling his mouth to say his inside thoughts like that.

But a draw's a draw, and so long as this guy doesn't start up again, they can leave it at that. He starts to try and prop himself up on an arm. "Should probably get some ice on that." Oh wow, kid's a horror show right now, huh?

"If I was an asshole," begins the asshole, "I'd say I kiss your mother with this mouth. But seeing as I'm not an asshole, I'm not gonna say that."

Granted, getting into a down-and-out brawl with a stranger in a public park for reasons now beyond his comprehension is definitely the move of an asshole, and this guy doesn't even sound like a fucking local. He sounds like a tourist, like some townie that happened to stray into the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time and got his ass kicked for his troubles — and straight up, he's lucky it's Frank he got into an ass-kicking contest with. There's plenty of neighborhoods around here where a guy's group of friends wouldn't scatter, they'd pull out baseball bats or box cutters or guns and this whole thing wouldn't end until his brains were on the curb.

Speaking of groups of friends--

He peels himself up to look around, and finds the immediate forty or fifty yards around them absolutely deserted, with not a hint of any of the guys he came here with to be found. He groans and slumps back down into the grass, dragging the back of his hand over his upper lip. Hot, wet blood soaks the hem of his long-sleeved baseball tee, as though it needed to be any more scuffed than old grass stains and whatever else already on it.

"Those fucking piece of shit assholes," is a mutter meant entirely for himself; see if he backs them up ever again.

(He will. Inevitably, he will. He hardly needs the excuse for a fight.)

His isolation established, he finally affixes his attention properly on the guy he'd just been keen to pound entirely into the fucking ground. Never mind his nose- "Where the hell'd you learn to fight like that, anyway?"

'Get put in big boy jail and maybe you'll get the chance' is maybe not what he should say, so this time his brain does actually catch up first and doesn't say shit about some punkass with a chip on his shoulder getting smart with his mouth.

He doesn't move much, because it still makes his head spin to do anything but stay in place, but he at least moves his gaze around to follow. Ah yeah, everyone bailed. There'd been a whole pseudo-team of Fellow Teenagers, and when he started fighting back, really fighting, they had scattered to the winds. So: used to boys fighting but not fighting, or not used to anyone fighting back.

Or maybe it's just how Tuesday in the big city goes.

"School of hard knocks," he drawls. Yeah, he sounds out of place, because he's really out of place, shut up. "Jesus, c'mon, you're bleeding all over." Mostly on himself, but they should probably make their way some fucking where. Or at least sit up so he doesn't choke himself on blood. He offers up a hand. They can at least be stupid and hurt and exhausted and dizzy together and upright.

It's also a damned funny thing to say for a guy who's also bleeding, just not from anything broken.

This is the first time he's ever been criticized for bleeding too much, and the look he flashes the other kid is equal parts incredulity and annoyance. Yeah, is he bleeding all over? And whose fault is that, exactly? Maybe the guy that cracked him directly in the fucking nose hard enough to snap cartilage? No? Okay, then.

But even still, despite the comment, despite the look, despite the entire goddamn fight, he hesitates only for a second before reaching out to wrap his hand around the offered wrist. A tentative test, a pull, and then he takes the assisted leverage to haul himself up to his feet. At sixteen, he hasn't had the opportunity to put on the muscle mass he one day will — but he's still broad-shouldered, still taller than his opponent by a good few inches. Crazy how scrappy this wiry kid is against someone not insignificantly larger than him. He'd be impressed, if he weren't too busy doing all this bleeding.

He does need to get cleaned up. So does the guy he was just bleeding all over. Preferably without either of them running into a cop on the way to their respective destinations, lest Townie Kid turn out to be a fucking snitch or something. Frank's already on probation. He can't afford another report.

It's with that in mind that he warily eyes Clint and, after a beat, pitches an offer:

"I'll let you clean up in my bathroom if you promise not to narc on me for kicking your ass."

Feels like a fair deal to him — his parents aren't usually home until evening, this kid can get cleaned up without the risk of catching any heat from his own parents in exchange. It's a win-win.

"Yeah? Is that what happened, you kicked my ass?"

He says it with such a lopsided grin, only made more lopsided by the puff of a cheek and of lips. At least the big guy actually took his hand. And now they're upright, and still bleeding, sure, but on their feet. Maybe if he remembered what the fight was about, he'd still be steaming about it, but the kid seems willing to let bygones be for not being called a pussy.

And that's fine by him if he doesn't have to endure another beatdown.

"Nobody to narc to and nothing to narc about." Promise. A little knuckleduster between guys isn't anything to get too worked up about so long as nobody's about to sue. "Your nose need set or anything?"

See, this kid means for that to be reassuring, but all it does is put a furrow in Frank's already less than pristine-looking brow. Yeah, maybe he needs his nose set, but first-

"What'a you mean, nobody to narc to? You gotta have someone to narc to. What, you don't have-" He starts, then stops himself, because while his mouth may have run away from him by just a few seconds, his mind catches up enough to know what a fucked up question that would be to just outright ask someone. He pivots at the last second to , "-anybody lookin' out for you? You realize you're in goddamn New York City, right?"

You can't just run around here on your own without having somebody. Especially not as a teenager. Parent, guardian, older sibling, group home director, foster parent, something. Backup, at least — someone better than whoever had been cheering Clint on up until they split with the rest of Frank's pals. Especially if he's gonna go around getting into fucking fights and shit.

Oh. There's a pivot here that he didn't see coming. And maybe that's stupid of him (wow what a shocker). Suddenly there's, what, fucking concern? What's with the scrutiny? Hadn't been there when they started scuffling, that's for sure.

"I know I'm in goddamn New York City," he says sullenly, withdrawing his supportive hand. "I'm here on purpose."

On a stupid purpose, but it beat trying to hitchhike to LA, he figures. He doesn't owe anyone any answers. Definitely not the guy that tried to turn his face into ground beef. "Just meant I'm not gonna tell anyone. Cuz nothing happened, see?" Their faces tell different stories, but that's not the point. The point is, no narcing. Snitches get stitches and whatnot. "You got a fastball to the face. I'm the dumb bastard that ran right into a pole not looking where he was going. Whatever stories you wanna go with."

One long, heavy moment is spent with Frank — upper lip and shirt collar coated in blood, nose throbbing — staring at Clint skeptically, a knit in his brow and a thoughtful frown on his lips. There's a clear debate going on upstairs, though how much of his brains are left functional after that solid elbow to the goddamn cartilage is anybody's guess.

Enough, evidently, for him to declare decisively, "C'mon."

And start walking.

He'll make it all of ten steps if Clint doesn't follow before he stops, turns, and stares expectantly, impatient. "Come on, man. I'm gonna clean my stupid face and your stupid face and then I'm gonna tell you where in the hell you're not gonna go picking fights in a ten-mile radius from now on. Then you're gonna tell me what your deal is. Also, I'm fucking starving."

Amazing what kind of appetite you work up, beating the shit out of a guy and playing baseball. Mostly the baseball thing. Fight didn't last that long.

"Hey- what's your name, anyway?"

He's got half a mind to just leave. Go back where he's staying and fix himself up and get some grub and hole up for the night and--

--get hounded by the fighty guy, apparently. Clint rolls his eyes and plays catchup to walk more or less alongside. "Maybe you're the one that picked a fight, man." Or maybe he's not. Maybe Clint picked it. Hard to say at this point. But he hadn't run away from it, which in hindsight would've been smarter. But then he'd have pent up energy and not a little bit of anger bubbling up and nowhere to put all that except, inevitably, somewhere stupid. "But thanks." For apparently needed information about fighting or not fighting in the city. And offering to clean his stupid fuck face. There's an implication of food there, too. Though he's not looking to get greedy or make assumptions about strangers.

He actually puts out his hand to shake like they're really getting introduced properly for the first time, like a couple fists and elbows weren't enough. "'m Clint."

open post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject