Chapter Text
Clint’s slouched down into the couch cushions, his ass hanging off the edge when Kate steps into the apartment and closes the door quietly behind her. He doesn’t even glance in her direction; he’s too busy staring at the image frozen on his phone. She’d sent the video almost half an hour ago, plenty of time to watch it over and over and over again and have a little mini freak-out before she got back. He probably owes her for that – ice cream or movie tickets or something, but he’ll think about it later. Right now, he...
God, he what?
“You ok Hawkeye?” Kate asks, coming around to lean against the back of the couch and ruffle the hair on the top of his head.
“I’m ok,” he confirms, because he is really.
Just...
Clint knows what it’s like to be left behind ok? To be forgotten, to be cast aside. He’s got textbook abandonment issues but he’d gotten past all that with Coulson. The trust he had built in the man had taken a hard hit, may have even broken entirely, but now, after all this time and everything that’s happened, Clint thinks it’s not a hopelessly lost cause. He’s wounded yes, hesitant to believe someone who’d lied to him so grievously, even though he desperately wants to, and to top it all off, deep down he thinks maybe he’s scared to let somebody love him like he wants to be loved by Coulson.
He’s got Natasha.
He’s got Kate.
He loves them both in their own ways, wouldn’t trade them for anything, but what he wants with Phil...
It’s just more ok?
“He was telling the truth,” Kate murmurs, fingers still playing with his hair, probably so she can yank on it if he says something stupid or self-slagging. “I could see it.”
“So can I,” he says, brushing his thumb across the screen, rewinding the video to the beginning. “He never lets his nerves show.”
“Believe me Clint, he was nervous.”
He hums, nods his head but chews at his lower lip, achingly unsure.
“He wants you to come back.”
“So he said.”
“But?”
“But,” Clint says shakily, turning the phone over so he can’t see the screen then stuffing it into the pocket of his hoodie. “What if he doesn’t... what if he doesn’t want what I want? What if he doesn’t want to... fix this?”
“Then nothing changes from exactly the way it is right now, dummy,” she says teasingly, knocking her forehead against his. “Except you’ll know for sure, and you won’t be able to torture yourself, sitting around wondering.”
“Stupid, huh?”
“You’re scared. You want him to want you, and I get that Clint, believe me. But you’ll literally never get what you want if you don’t give him another chance.”
Vaulting lightly over the back of the couch, she flops onto the cushions beside him, slumping against his shoulder.
“I’ll go with you if you want,” she says carefully, picking at the hem of her cut-off shorts. “You won’t need me, but I’ll go. They’ll... they’re gonna be so happy to see you Clint.”
Clint grabs her hand, squeezes hard, knows without looking that there are tears on her cheeks.
“Always gonna need you,” he promises, bringing her hand up and pressing her knuckles to his cheek. “That won’t change Katie-Cat, no matter what happens. Maybe... maybe you’ll never see your dad again, but you’ve got me, ok? And the Avengers are already halfway to adopting you, so... you don’t have to worry.”
“Not worried,” she mumbles with a pout, pushing him off and sniffing hard. “I don’t wanna talk about my dad ok? Quit deflecting. This is about you and Agent Heartsore.”
“Shut up,” Clint mutters, blushing. “He is not.”
“Totally is,” Kate argues, batting her eyelashes ridiculously. “Pining away, wishing you’d come home. He’s probably writing letters and putting them in bottles, throwing them...”
“Off the Brooklyn Bridge?” Clint snorts. “You watch too many Hallmark movies.”
“You’re the one who turned it on,” she scoffs. “Now come on, go get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going back to the Tower so you can tell Coulson you love him, even though you’re still pissed at him.”
“We are?” he asks, even as he pushes himself to his feet.
“Go!” she growls. “Put on something nice. You only get to start over once. Well, hopefully.”
“Real convincing Kate,” he grumps, but he lets her shoo him upstairs to his room.
His hands shake as he pulls open his dresser drawers and searches for something that isn’t a wrinkled t-shirt. He’s a little ashamed of that. His heart feels like it’s sitting in his throat and his fingertips are tingling, but he’s actually pretty... pretty ok with this.
That’s a good sign, he thinks, as he tugs his sweatshirt up over his head and drops it onto the floor. Has to be a good sign. He’s... calm, mostly, and the amount of anxiety zipping through his system isn’t overwhelming, is actually pretty understandable. Maybe he is ready to do this, maybe after all this time being angry he finally knows what he wants and is willing to work hard to get it, even if it hurts a little along the...
“Um, Clint?”
“What?” he hollers, “It’s only been like, two minutes!”
“No, idiot, get down here!”
There’s a note of fear in Kate’s tone that has the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up, and he grabs one of his katana swords as he darts out of the room. He wishes it was his bow, but that’s still carefully stored away, and any weapon is better than no weapon at all. Landing hard at the bottom of the steps, he comes skidding into the living room ready to fight, only to find Kate alone and the front door still shut and locked.
“What...”
She doesn’t look back at him from where she stands at the window, just waves him over and that’s probably not good.
‘Definitely not good,’ he amends as he reaches her side, peers over her shoulder out the window. The sky over Manhattan’s gone a strange pink color, swirling with green and orange clouds that look anything but natural. Thunder rumbles and a breeze picks up, trash scratching gently against metal as it’s blown across the fire escape.
“This looks bad,” Kate sing-songs quietly beneath her breath, eyes wide and face pale.
A sharp beep sounds behind them, startling them both as Clint’s Avengers’ Card lights up and starts buzzing around the bottom of the junk bowl he’d thrown it into, housed on the middle of his coffee table.
Aw bad guys, no.
“Saved by the bell?” he says sheepishly, half relieved and half disappointed that he’s been given a chance to chicken out.
Kate scowls, opens her mouth to unleash what would no doubt be a scathing assessment of his manhood, but her phone starts ringing and cuts her off. Somewhere upstairs Clint can hear his ringing too – but his aids aren’t quite good enough to tell if it’s his Hawkeye phone or his Ronin phone.
“Bishop,” she answers sharply, and Clint strains to hear. “Yeah, we see it. No, he’s here with me now. Right, we’re on our way.”
Jabbing her phone to disconnect the call, Kate looks at him grimly.
“MODOK’s stepped up his schedule,” she says. “Stark says his minions are assembling downtown.”
“You got your stuff?” he asks, and Kate nods. “Alright, suit up. I’ll meet you back here in three.”
Bounding back up the stairs, he slams his bedroom door and strips off in two seconds flat. It’s far easier this time to know what to put on – he doesn’t even think about reaching for his Hawkeye leathers. He’d only been about ninety-four percent sure about coming out to the team, and knows from painful experience that you need to be a hundred-and-ten percent sure in any battle if you wanna win. Sign or no sign, it’s not the time to go making stupid declarations anymore.
He’s locked into his Ronin gear in less than a minute, hands familiar with the buckles and braces after these past few months. His swords go on his hips, throwing stars and knives tucked every-which-where, and he’s even got a few tiny explosive surprises he’d built after riffling through a few of Stark’s unfinished designs. He swaps out his hearing aids for the one Parker had built into his suit and grabs his cell – the Hawkeye cell, cause he doesn’t know where the other one is – out of the hoodie he’d left crumpled on the floor.
Thinking about Parker made him think of Wade, and what they hell, they can use all the help they can get. Shooting off a text to The Adorable Spider-Boy and Your Gorgeous Assassin SoulMate - and damn it, when had Wade gotten ahold of his phone again?! - he stuffs it into an inside pocket and heads back down the stairs.
“Clint,” Kate says as he comes into view, all warning and disappointment, but he shakes his head.
“Not now Katie-Cat,” he says, just as much a warning right back. “Later, ok? Focus girlie.”
Frowning, she nods at him anyway, and Clint feels his shoulders relax.
Stupid – she's going to destroy him later – but at least he knows she‘s got her head in the game.
It takes nine minutes for him to get them to Stark Tower on his motorcycle. He has to jump a few curbs, ride a few sidewalks to do it, but New Yorkers aren’t as stupid as they look on TV. They’ve seen the sky, the sick, swirling colors, and most of them are live-streaming from the relative safety of stalled, locked cabs or barricaded buildings. They learn at least, he’ll give them that, and the few people that are still out and about get out of his way. They even fly by a cop who does nothing more than wave them on, but then, with his gold-and-black and Kate’s bright purple, he figures they probably look like they’ve got somewhere to be.
Clint screeches to a halt in Stark’s private parking bay courtesy of Jarvis and grabs Kate’s wrist as soon as they‘re off the bike, dragging her inside and down, further into the lower levels. She’s texting furiously at her phone, looking back the other way, but she still follows, doesn’t ask questions. He hesitates at the door to Sub Level Three but rips his glove off anyway, slaps his palm to the scanning pad and breathes a sigh of relief when his fingerprints light up the access codes with a bright green light. The door opens with the hiss of a cracked seal and then he’s dragging Kate inside, into the armory Stark had set aside just for him.
“Agent Barton,” Jarvis says, and if Clint doesn’t believe for a minute that the dude’s just a computer because he sounds stunned and horrified and delighted all at once. “You...”
“Not now buddy,” Clint says, desperation leaking through Ronin’s deep, gritty tone. “Avengers Assemble, yeah? After ok? Please?”
“Of course,” the AI acquiesces, and Clint lets out a shivery breath. “And may I be the first to say Welcome Home sir.”
“I... yeah,” Clint stammers, his hands stilling on the handles of a long, shallow drawer. “Thanks. And I’m... I’m sorry, about before.”
“As you say, later, Agent Barton,” the voice says, and it’s... it’s stupid warm and caring and Clint maybe hates him a teeny tiny bit for that. “Be careful sir.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Clint rumbles, and Jarvis has the good sense not to reply.
Hauling open the drawer, Clint takes out a gorgeous compound bow, one of the last ones Tony made him, all bells and whistles and gleaming, purple-black finish. Turning around, he opens another cabinet, pulls out a quiver, checks that it’s still stocked with arrow heads and starts to fill it with cases of lightweight, graphite shafts. Kate hovers near his side, watching in awe and maybe even with a little jealousy, but when he turns to her and holds out both the bow and the quiver, her face does something weird that makes him feel like he’s slapped her across the face.
“What are you doing,” she whispers, barely a sound. “Clint. What are you...”
“You’re gonna need these,” he says, taking her bow and quiver from her, sick to his stomach because her hands hang lifeless at her sides and don’t fight him.
She lets him loop his own quiver over her shoulder, almost lets him push the bow into her hands before she shoves him hard in the chest, slaps at him.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” she yelps, just a little hysterical, but he gets it – this he understands.
“Kate, look at me,” he demands, shoving the bow at her knowing she’ll catch it and ripping his hood off so he can look her in the eye. “Look at me!”
Kate wriggles, stares at him all pale and scared, and Clint remembers the very first mission he went on for SHIELD all those years ago, how terrified he’d been.
“Now listen to me girlie-girl,” he says gently, “MODOK’s out there, him and all his goons. Those are real bad guys, not one of Stark’s cool simulations. They’re gonna be trying to kill you, and I know that’s scary as hell, but you need to be ready so you can protect yourself.”
Reaching out, he tightens the strap of the quiver around Kate’s shoulders and gives them a squeeze.
“You’re Hawkeye now,” he says seriously, remembering the speech a certain SHIELD Agent had given him before they’d headed out together on that first mission. “You have to put the scared little girl away. You’re the best of the best, and your team needs you to be their eyes up high.”
Swallowing hard, he chucks her under the chin, forces away his own fears, for her and for everything else.
“You’ve got this.”
Turning away before he can say anything else, before he can do something stupid like lock her in the armory where she’ll be safe, he trots up the stairs to the open hallway where he can access the elevators, tugging his mask back into place as he goes. He hears her shout behind him, hears her thundering up the stairs, and he thinks he’d leave her behind in that moment except he rounds the corner and stumbles to a stop, shocked to see Nick Fury and Maria Hill standing at the of the hall waiting for a ride themselves.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me Clint Barton!”
Shit.
Very, very suddenly, Clint’s pissed and tired, and just over all of this bullshit. He’s mad at Phil, mad at himself, mad at Kate and Fury and the whole god damn world, and he’s over it.
“You know what?” he snarls, ripping the mask and hood back off again because fuck it. “You wanna go, then let’s go. What the hell is your problem Kate? This is what you wanted!”
“What is my problem?!” she shrieks, storming up the hall toward him. “What is your problem?! I know you have issues Clint but this? This thing you do, this running away thing? It’s everything about you that sucks!”
Standing in front of him, she slams the bow against his chest and plants her hands on her hips, fuming.
“I thought you were going to fix this,” she snarls between gritted teeth. “And instead you give me your... That was never what I wanted.”
“You said...” he growls, still boiling mad, even though he knows it’s not really at her, that it’s fear, not real anger.
“Once Clint,” she hisses, holding up a sharp finger. “One time, I wanted to shoot Hawkeye’s bow, just to say I did. I told you at the start I was a fan, but I never... I mean, did you really think this is what I was after? To be you, to take your place? That’s never what I wanted. If I’d known that’s what you’d think, I never would have...
All of a sudden it’s like all the steam’s gone out of her, her shoulders sagging and her chin dipping forward.
“I’m not you, Clint,” she says, soft and hurt. “You’re Hawkeye, not...”
“I told you I was no role model Kate,” he says, cautious now, embarrassed and ashamed, and still horribly, painfully afraid that he could lose her, in more ways than one.
“Oh, shut up,” she squeaks, scrubbing at her cheeks. “I know you’re a jerk who’s not half as funny as he thinks he is, and I know you leave your dirty clothes all over the floor and you contaminate the coffee pot instead of using a mug like normal people but you… you’re a good guy. Even when you try not to be. You came back here just to keep your friends safe even though you…”
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping close and tucking his fingers under her chin, lifting her face. “All this? This isn’t your fault. None of my shit’s on you, you know that.”
“I know, but... they’re your family Clint. They miss you. They’re still looking for you, even after... No one ever looked for me.”
Sighing, Clint wraps his arms around Kate and pulls her in tight, lays his cheek on the top of her head. He’s been so caught up in his own mess he hadn’t realized just how hurt Kate was by the way her father had treated her, by the messed-up parallels she was drawing between their stories. In his arms she feels tiny and fragile, more so than she actually is, and he’s reminded of the fact that she’s really just a kid no matter how stong and sassy and incredible she can be.
“You’re the only family I’ve got,” she sniffles, face pressed against his chest. “You can’t...”
“Hey,” he murmurs, rubbing her back. “It’s gonna be ok. You’re alright, we’re... we’re gonna be ok.”
“You can’t leave,” she insists, pulling back to look him in the face, hands fisted in the fabric of his jacket.
“Well not if you won’t let go...”
Frowning, Kate punches him in the chest, but hugs him quick right after.
“Not half as funny,” she mumbles.
“Sorry. You ok Hawkeye?”
“I’ll live Hawkeye,” she replies, straightening up and squaring her shoulders. “You try to run away again though and I’ll shoot you in your perfect ass.”
“Got it boss,” he chuckles, grinning. “No more running.”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” he says, soft and serious because her voice warbles when she asks.
“Excuse the interruption,” Jarvis says gently overhead, “But the Quinjet is about to depart from Dock Three.”
“You ready?” Clint asks, straightening his jacket and belt where she’s pulled it off balance, lifting the hood back up over his head.
Kate’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head.
“No running,” he repeats, “But it’s gotta wait Katie-Cat. We can’t afford any distractions out there.”
“As soon as it’s over,” she replies, heavy and hard, and Clint smiles behind his mask.
“As soon as it’s over,” he agrees.
Kate nods, and together they turn and continue down the hallway, walking right past Nick Fury and Maria Hill into the waiting elevator.
“Director,” Clint says gravelly as they step inside. “Deputy Director.”
“Agent,” Maria replies with a curt nod, and Clint’s delighted to find that one Nicholas Fury has been stunned speechless.
The doors roll slowly closed on him, his mouth hanging open, and a burst of happy, half-hysterical energy zings across Clint’s nerves.
“Um, what just happened?” Kate asks weakly as the elevator quickly ascends to the top of the tower where the jets are docked.
“Pre-battle jitters,” Clint answers. “Everybody gets ‘em. Some guys cry, some guys tell non-stop stupid jokes... Sitwell used to bite his fingernails bloody before a big op.”
“What did you do?”
“I used to sing,” Clint hums, warm nostalgia soothing the need to fidget. “You’ll find something. Selfies, or Candy Crush probably.”
“Jerk,” Kate mutters, but she still whips out her phone and leans in close.
He gets two fingers up behind her head like bunny ears just quick enough to snap the picture before the elevator doors open again and they’re let out into the hanger-bay, a Quinjet powered and waiting for them.
AVAVA
Downstairs, Nicholas Fury grumbles all the way out of Stark Tower and onto the street.
God damn that Barton, but he was a nuisance!
Stepping into Tony Stark’s glass-and-chrome architectural ode to male inadequacy gives him hives, but with Barton in the wind and Coulson driven to distraction by it he was down to only Romanov to trust with the mess. He’d had to drive his ass all the way over from headquarters just to reassure himself that the Avengers had been successfully deployed and had all the pertinent information necessary to coordinate with SHIELD against MODOK. Suffered through twenty minutes of snide commentary for his troubles – they still haven’t forgiven him that one little lie, no matter how fine it had turned out – and then who do you think comes strolling up the hall but Barton himself.
Son of a bitch, always where you need him, when you need him, in the most inconvenient way possible.
And Ronin...
“Sir?”
Fury grunts, already knows what Hill is going to ask.
“Should we tell them?”
“They need to focus,” he growls, hiking his duster up around his shoulders. “And besides, I’ve interfered enough already. Let the idiots figure it out themselves. If death won’t convince one of them to man up and say something, nothing will. Now get back to HQ and get me everything we have on Ronin.”
“Yes Sir.”