Chapter Text
*~*
Clint decides the world's fucked. Everyone's back, but Natasha. Tony's gone, made the sacrifice play. Yet here Clinton Francis Barton sits, but Hawkeye's not coming back. In his place they get Ronin. Ronin who can't keep his mouth shut, apparently.
"What do you mean, 'Cap's gone'?" he asks, throat tight with worry, eyes narrowing at Sam. He can't lose anyone else.
Sam shrugs, looks almost sheepish, but there's a brand new shield at his side which speaks volumes. Banner shifts in the doorway, eyes not settling. "He chose to stay," he says, awkward and hesitant. "Nothing went wrong with the machine," he tacks on quickly.
Clint glances around the room at the remnants of their team. Wanda's eyes are wide, but she seems resigned to it. "Chose to stay? How the fuck do you know that? Did he send a note?" Clint's voice is a hard rasp. He's trying to keep the anger from boiling up, taking over, engulfing and destroying everything.
Clint sees Rhodes wince, but he doesn't care. He glances at the others, then out the window and sees Bucky out in the yard, talking to someone. He turns back to the others. "Well?" He crosses his arms over his chest, grips his biceps with white knuckles.
Sam glances at Banner and then out to the yard, but still doesn't answer.
"What?"
Bucky steps into the room, pushing past Banner. "Well, that's that."
"What's what?" Clint still hasn't gotten a straight answer. "Who were you talking to?"
"Me?" Bucky replies, but he's closed off, eyes hooded.
And that just sets Clint off. He's barely holding back, needs to punch something.
"It was Steve," Sam answers before Clint can do something stupid like provoke the Winter Soldier.
"What?" Clint asks, sounding like a broken record.
"That's how we know what he did. He stayed. Had a life."
Bucky straightens. "He'd earned it," he says, eyes going hard. As if Clint was going to challenge him on that. Well, Clint might be itching for a fight but he's not stupid. Or not that stupid. Although part of him wants to ask, 'why not you?'. A bigger part, a part that's hollow and aching wants to ask, wants to demand of the universe: 'why not Nat?', but he doesn't dare. He's not going to be able to say her name without breaking down and he's quite broken enough.
"So what does that mean?" he asks instead, eyes turning to Sam. "You the leader now, Wilson?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Banner answers.
"Well, shit." Clint can't think of anything else to say so he stalks out.
Wanda finds him at the edge of the water. Her hug brings tears to his eyes, but he swallows them and wraps his arms around her. It's not enough, he understands, but he's still got to try.
They're both dry-eyed when they pull apart and Wanda presses her palm to his cheek, her eyes insistent. He swallows at the understanding and concern he sees. "One day at a time, right?" she says, voice quiet. "That's what you told me. What you kept reminding me."
Clint nods, draws in a shuddery breath.
"That's all we can do," she says, not nearly as confident as she's trying to convince him she is.
"Yeah, okay." That's all he can do right in this moment.
~~*~~
It'd be good if Clint would take his own advice. He does try. He just sucks at it.
He'd gone back to the farm, fallen to his knees and hugged the kids hard. Lila and Cooper squirmed away pretty quickly. They were still trying to make sense of some of their friends being in high school or older than that. They're resilient, still laughing and happy; life hasn't changed for them and Nate, well, he's a cuddler and content to be held for as long as Clint likes. Laura just stands by, gives him all the time he needs. Life returns to a semblance of normal for them, but it doesn't for Clint.
He's so far from normal, even he couldn't hit it with a rifle and a scope. He can't stop himself from scanning every room he walks into, checking for exits, making sure he has accessible weapons and even then he'll whirl into battle mode at the simplest of sounds. He needs to see the kids, know that they're still here. After the third time each of the kids catch him staking out their respective schools, Laura sits him down, tries to get him to talk about it.
Clint desperately wishes Barney were here. Even if he hadn't been snapped, he'd handle this new reality better than Clint is. And Laura, well, she could use someone more reliable than Clint to keep the farm and to raise the kids. Barney should be here, but the idiot had to go and get himself killed, leaving Clint to pick up the pieces. And he is not in any way qualified to do that, now less than ever. But Laura trusted him, believed in him and asked him to stay. He never thought he was good enough, always feared he was too much like his own father. But Laura knew her mind then and she knows it now. She sits him down and tells him she trusts him.
"You've been there for us, Clint, and we're here for you."
Just like that. As though nothing has changed. That Clint hasn't changed.
"Thanks, Sis. I," he starts, struggles with the words.
She pats his hand and smiles gently. "It's gonna take time. Just let it," she says, voice soft. "But no more stalking the kids at school!" she chastises and Clint knows she's right, but he can't help the need driving him. He's got to make sure everyone is where they're supposed to be.
He has to.
He tries. He does. But nothing helps. It's been too long, too much death and darkness. Feels like he's still in a neverending black tunnel. He sleeps fitfully, trips over shadows, flinches at sharp noises. And when sleep is too fraught, he spends nights pacing or out on the range.
He likes to pretend he's making progress, that the hollows under his eyes aren't growing deeper. The kids aren't oblivious, either, but they won't walk on eggshells around him. They wrestle and tease and drag him into their fusses. Nate's a cuddler when it's storming and his baby soft hair and chubby hands petting at Clint keep him grounded. Laura's a blessing. Always has been too good for any Barton man, but she doesn't push, doesn't judge, just makes sure he eats and doesn't forget the goats or finishing repairs he starts.
It's a good life and he's an asshole for not being more grateful. But he can't help thinking that he should have been the one broken on those rocks. He was already more broken than that and sure as hell isn't getting better.
He storms into the barn and tears into the old tractor. It's never worked right, was a piece of junk when Barney first bought it, but Clint's got to have something to take out his anger on besides himself and he'll never stay near Laura or the kids when he's feeling like this.
Then the impossible happens.
He hears a car turn into the drive. It's not one he recognizes and thanks to StarkTech hearing aids, he knows what Laura's SUV sounds like, knows the rumble of the Patterson's truck, hears every squeak from the Laghari's Mazda's springs, knows when Linda the USPS driver is dropping by; he even knows all the FedEx and UPS drivers' trucks, the individual grind of the gears. It's too much, he knows, but hypervigilance kept him alive all those years. This car has him immediately stepping into bright sunshine just as Laura stops dead at the bottom of the steps. She's white as a sheet, eyes wide, trembling hand covering her mouth as Clint turns to see just who pulled up.
For a moment, there's a flash of hope in his chest. Maybe Bruce had figured out a way to bring Nat back?
But no. It's a man stepping out of the sedan; one far more impossible than if it had been Natasha.
And Clint's moving, feet carrying him without thought, fist flying before he even realizes.
Barney.
He doesn't lift his hands, doesn't dodge the punch that Clint telegraphs worse than when he was ten. Just takes it. Clint would probably punch him again, but Laura's somehow between them, her shout ringing in his aids even as her arms wrap about Clint's asshole -- very much not dead -- brother.
"What the fuck?!?!" Clint growls, but Laura's glance silences him.
"Not here," she says, then tries to drag Barney into the house, but he's not moving.
His eyes are firmly on Clint as he holds Laura with one arm around her waist, the other rubbing at his jaw. "Still a pussy, lil bro." His eyes are bright, not challenging, almost mocking, but missing by a hair. "Thought I taught you better'n that." Then he grins, sweeps Laura up into his arms and tucks his face into her neck.
And Clint's just struck dumb. Can't move. Brain's stuck on How? What the fuck? And mostly Why? Why him? And not her?
Clint finds his voice just as they're about to turn away and head into the house. "Who the hell are you?" he spits out.
Barney turns, smirk fully pasted on his face. "I'm your brother, you fuckin' idiot! Who else would I be?"
"Bullshit. My brother is dead," Clint hisses, hands clenching into fists at his side. "Laura, this is not Barn. It can't be!"
Barney's eyes go sad as he shakes his head, tightens his arm on Laura, denying Clint's reality of the past decade. "It'd be better if we do this inside," he says. "No sense on the neighbors getting all up in our business 'fore they have to."
"No," Clint shakes his head, points at the ground. "We'll do it here where I can kick your ass."
"Please, Clint. Don't do this," Laura pleads.
He looks at her and gets it. "You knew," he accuses.
Shaking her head, she answers, "No. I suspected and hoped. Tried to get word…" Her eyes shine as she looks up at Barney.
"Fuck!" Clint sags, all fight gone.
"Inside," Barney orders and Clint's having none of that shit. He storms past them, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Clint rages at being lied to, at Laura and the kids being lied to. But, really it doesn't matter. They'd all been snapped. Hadn't lived in that world, hadn't known, couldn't know what it had been like. And that's when Clint realizes that there's a gulf between him and them, one that he hasn't found a way across.
Barney'd come back to a world so changed it was impossible to process. But he doesn't give a rat's ass about taking down the cartel now. Ronin had done a thorough enough job that the ones returned didn't stand a chance in hell of saving themselves or rebuilding what they had. Barney had given up too much, tried so hard to clean up his act, make his past 'right'. But what's right in the face of the snap?
He just told the FBI to 'fuck it' and resigned, eager to return to his family. The one Clint had kept warm for him.
Clint is gone before the kids get home.
~~*~~
Clint drops into his newly acquired, dumpster sofa and stares at the bare, cracked-plaster walls, his hands itching, thoughts so loud that he feels like the cacophony is leaking into the room, stealing the oppressive silence, turning it into condemnation. Words like "Failure", "Murderer", "Liar", bouncing off the walls and echoing even without his hearing aids in.
The phone rings; it's Laura. She's given him time and space, but he owes her and the kids, so he answers.
"We need to talk."
"Fuck you!" It's not Laura. It's Barney. And he's the last risen-from-the-dead person Clint wants to talk to. He's about to hang up the phone when he actually hears what Barney has to say.
"I know hiding's your thing, but I'm not letting you get away with it this time. I'll come to New York if I have to," he threatens. But Clint knows it's not a threat. He knows his brother. "You don't want that. I don't want it," he continues. "Can we please talk?" he asks. Fucking asks. Barney's never asked Clint's permission for anything.
Dammit.
"So talk," Clint answers, voice thick.
"This is your home, Clint. I didn't come home to run you out of it. I came home so we could all be together. I've seen the news. But I know more than that," he says, voice careful. Like he actually gives a damn about any of what he's saying. "I know things they don't show on the news. I know who's gone and I can put two and two together."
"Having a clearance doesn't make you a fuckin' genius."
"No, but caring about you means I pay attention," he retorts. "Now, stay away if you need. I get that. But don't you dare abandon our kids. If you don't call at least once a week and Skype a couple of times a month, I will come over there and beat your ass and drag you home. If I haveta chain you up in the barn, I will." It's a threat and a promise and so much concern for Clint, that he can't reply.
Clint's throat's thick and his eyes sting as silence rings on the line, but he finally manages to say, "You're a fucking asshole."
"Always have been, but I have learned how to take care of people I care about."
"Yeah? Who the hell taught you that?" he sneers. "It sure wasn't that alphabet agency that lied to your wife and kids."
"No, you doofus. It was you."
"Oh."
The line goes quiet again.
"Hug Laura and the kids for me and don't forget to read to Nate," Clint finally says.
"I will," Barney replies and Clint can hear the smile in his voice.
~~*~~
It doesn't take long for Clint to get into trouble. He's not cut out to be a civilian after all. He doesn't know how to live that life. He finds himself patrolling Brooklyn, a masked vigilante stalking the night, his Ronin gear feeling like coming home again even if he's disappointing everyone in his life. Natasha wanted him to live, be happy, do the white picket fence thing, but he screwed that up. He couldn't sleep at night, couldn't deal with the silence; every creak, every groan, every whisper of the wind made his heart leap and he'd be up, swords out.
He packs away the fancy StarkTech hearing aids, boxes up everything from his life from SHIELD to now. The only concession he'll make is one photo. Strike Team Delta standing together, bruised, battered, and bleeding, but their smiles wide and ridiculous. All three of them glad to be alive. They made it out then, but he can't. Not in this now.
The asshole Russian mafiosos, what's left of them, think he's an easy target without the Black Widow guarding his six. He proves them wrong, with prejudice, and ends up with a dog. A one-eyed mutt he tells everyone he saved, but Lucky'd saved him if the truth were to get out.
And then the Russians decide to play hardball. Ronin isn't playing. Clint ends up owning an apartment building as battered and banged up as he is. What is his life?
It's not anywhere like what Natasha had imagined for him, not what she sacrificed herself for, but he is living, albeit shabbily and sometimes barely able to get by. But he thinks this could be progress.
He calls the kids and they insist on a Skype call, only Nate gasping at his bruised face. He talks them down, convinces him that the 'bad guys' look much-much worse and then he changes the subject. The call goes even better when Lucky noses in to investigate, tongue lolling at the squeals on the other end. Clint actually signs off with a real smile for the first time in a long time.
~~*~~
Wanda calls, asks him to come check out the new HQ. Clint tries to demur, but he can't make Wanda beg so he goes.
She greets him with a smile that almost reaches her eyes and a hard hug, her arm wrapped in his while she gives him a tour. It's a flipping mansion. Nothing as ostentatious as the old Tower. Nothing as sprawling as the compound. Something more like Strange's sanctum. More circumspect. Safer for the neighbors. They hope.
Everything's scaled down, but it feels better for it. As they walk, he glimpses a few new faces in passing. He recognizes most of them, but can't always put a name to the face. That's fine, better than. They don't need him if they've got all these other heroes crawling out of the woodwork.
They stop by the lab which looks similar enough to the one in the tower to give Cint the heebie jeebies. Before he starts looking for a sentient robot over his shoulder, Bruce steps around a partition and waves. Clint tries, but he's still not used to seeing Bruce Banner all big and green. He never did get Natasha to tell him what she thought of the change.
"Bruce," Wanda says, pulling Clint from his thoughts. "You are coming for team dinner tonight, right?"
"Um," he says, clearly not want to outright refuse.
"You have to," she says, voice too cheerful. "Clint's staying." She tangles her arm with Clint's before glancing between them. "Aren't you?"
Clint rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "Yeah, I guess I am." He meets Bruce's eyes and can't get a read on him. In for a penny, in for a pound. "C'mon, it'll be a bit like old times, except without murder robots."
Bruce's lip curls up and his eyes lighten, shoulders easing as he glances around. "Let's hope not, anyway."
"We'll see you soon," Wanda says and tugs Clint out. It's as if she's afraid if she stays any longer, Bruce will back out of coming to dinner. Clint turns back to nod at Bruce and see what's behind the partition. It's the time machine; smaller than before and definitely not built for all of them to go at once, but Clint'd recognize that tech anywhere.
Before he can think too long on it, Wanda's continuing the tour. The mansion's pretty great, actually. Clint kind of wishes they had a place like this instead of the tower, which was too much of a target. It might as well have had a flashing neon sign saying "come get us". And the compound was little better. Sure, it was more isolated, not in the middle of Manhattan, but it was still a too-visible target.
"How'd you guys manage all this?" he asks after seeing their range and gym in the basement. "Seems awfully rich for all you non-salaried supes."
Wanda snorts. "Miz Stark set us up," she says, voice catching. "Apparently, this was given to us in Mister Stark's will."
"Us?"
Wanda just shrugs. "The Avengers. The team. Whoever that is, I suppose."
"Oh." Clint has no words. He and Tony might have been on opposite sides on the Accords, but they were a team. A dysfunctional family. His stomach grumbles saving him from dwelling on any of that shit.
He gives Wanda a sheepish grin. "Seems my stomach's ready for food."
"When isn't it?" she retorts, but her smile is warm and her eyes even sparkle a bit. "First," she begins, stopping him from heading back up.
"What?"
"Take this." She hands him an ID card. His ID card, which proclaims him an Avenger and doubles as some kind of signal. He looks at it for a long time before shaking his head and handing it back to her. "I can't."
She doesn't take it back. "Yes, you can." He shakes his head, but she's looking at him, jaw set and eyes challenging. "We won't call you in unless it's something world-ending, but you're still on the roster."
He tries to argue but she won't hear of it. He was never good at saying no to Wanda. Just like he could never say no to Nat.
"Only for end of the world shit, right?"
"Right," she agrees.
Clint tucks it into his pocket and hopes he hasn't made a mistake.
Team dinner is more boisterous and comfortable than he expected. It's more of a potluck with some sitting down at the table to join them, while most pop in and out. Clint listens to Sam and Barnes snark at each other, their banter easing something in Clint. He'd doubted that they were going to work out as the de facto team leaders. There's a clear fondness and shared understanding between Sam and Bucky despite the continuous barbs passing back and forth without all the underlying tension there'd been between Steve and Tony.
Clint swallows. Hides his frown behind his beer. Wanda's too perceptive and he doesn't want her asking questions about what's going on in his head. None of the thoughts are flattering and it'd bring up feelings when he'd rather hide from those.
He doesn't say much, just mostly watches, takes in the new dynamic. Where Sam and Barnes seem to fit well, the rest are still a work in progress; rough edges scraping against smooth. Despite their win, the losses are still haunting more than just Clint. He hopes for their sake they can forge a real team.
It's nice, better than he imagined. But it doesn't feel like home. Doesn't feel like his team. How can it without Nat? Hell, he even misses Tony and Steve.
~~*~~
Months pass and Clint's mostly in denial, just meandering through life, no real purpose, not anymore. Seems like everytime he thought his feet were on the right path, he either gets betrayed by those closest to him or he finds out he was working for the bad guys all along.
He tries to be a good super for his tenants, and is thankful for Lucky every single day. He gives Clint a reason to get up in the morning and not be a hermit. His tenants make him use real words on an almost daily basis. It's all better than he was doing.
He keeps his promises; calls the kids twice a week, like clockwork. They even Skype once a week and Clint gets to referee whatever argument Lila and Coop are having. And Simone has worn him down, insists he eat with them every Sunday and makes sure he ends up with her youngest in his lap while they watch a Disney movie after dinner. He tries to beg off every single week, but Simone's no easier to turn down than Wanda is. And Clint finds himself even looking forward to it, though he works hard to not get used to it and to not ever forget that he doesn't deserve it.
His dreams still run red and "failure", "murderer", "waste" still echo in his brain when he should be sleeping. It's then, in the middle of the night when he can't sleep, when he won't even try, when he's spent too many nights drawing blood and making people pay for his mistakes -- making them bleed -- that the lab will pop into his head, unbidden. That stupid fucking time machine with its idea that he could go back. That he could fix all this. Get Natasha back and have the life that Steve got. The want settles in his gut, in the dark corners of his blackened heart.
By day, he passes, fits in for the most part. He doesn't stop watching the news, keeping his ear out, making sure he's on top of anything that might come since they "won". The world's still off kilter, equilibrium not restored along with the people. They all lost too much, some, like Clint, lost themselves, but everyone else that made it out seems to be doing okay. Moving on. Building or re-building their lives all while the world reconfigures itself around all the changes. They just might end up better off than when this started.
Sam's taken to his role as the team leader. The shield looks good with his wings and he seems to work well with Hill and the newly reconstituted mini-SHIELD. Even that secretive asshole, Fury, is out there, doing whatever it is that he does. Probably facilitating all the political changes.
And Barnes, well he's the White Wolf now, with the same glower and swagger; his arm no longer bright silver. The matte black with hints of gold and a subtle purple sheen promotes a fetish Clint had no idea he had. And Barnes smiles now, making Clint's problem worse. He doesn't take questions during their press conferences, won't mug for the cameras with the rest of them; even in the background, standing behind Sam, he's smirking, not solemn. He's seems to be lighter. Freer. It's a good look on him.
New Avengers keep popping up in the rotation. It's hard for Clint to keep up. It might be easier if he'd show up to the mansion once in awhile, but he's on 'reserve', isn't a regular. And he's not joining in unless it's another universe-ending threat. Feels like he's seen enough of those for many lifetimes. All of the new faces, just seem so young. Or maybe it's just that Clint is too jaded and cynical, too blooded, too dark. Someone who doesn't fit anymore.
Hell, even Wanda seems to be doing good. Far better than Clint himself. He's watched her on the news. He's so proud of her. She's focused and determined and unbowed. And terrifyingly strong. That's the other thing. The new team has serious firepower on it. What's a damaged guy using a paleolithic weapon got to offer?
~~*~~
The "anniversary" of that day is barreling down on Clint. He can't avoid it. It's been declared a worldwide holiday, with celebrations and statues and dedications and fireworks and speeches, so many fucking speeches. He tries to ignore it, keeps himself busy; fixes the boiler and the plumbing without too many trips to the hardware store or urgent care. And at least if he exhausts himself, he doesn't think or dream.
He figures he's almost gotten away with not commemorating their "victory" until reality slaps him in the face.
The tenants want to have a party on the roof and Simone's been tasked with getting his okay and inviting him, since he was one of the ones being honored. He swallows and the look on his face must have been something bad because she puts her hand on his forearm, her big brown eyes sympathetic, voice quiet but firm. "It's okay if you can't come. We'd love to have you, but I get it if you can't."
He shakes his head, throat closing tight. "You can't--"
Her frown silences him. She takes a breath, then starts talking, matter of fact, like they're chatting about the weather. "Me and the kids were snapped away, but Gordon," she pauses, then keeps going in the same tone, "well, he was stuck here, alone. He lasted six months before he committed suicide."
Clint wants to say something but the words are stuck in his throat. Simone's story isn't unique. The world's still reeling. The ones who came back didn't all get to come back to the same life they'd left.
"I-- I'm sorry," he stutters out.
She just looks at him, as caring and perceptive as ever. "I don't know your story, Clint, and you don't owe it to anyone, but we'll listen if you ever feel the need."
He ducks his head and blows out a breath. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he finally looks up. Simone pulls him into a hug and he'd be lying if he doesn't admit how good it feels. He hugs her back and when they part, something passes between them. They're still on opposite sides of a chasm, but maybe they've started building a bridge.
It helps steady him. Until he gets an email from Bruce.
Vormir is nearing a year ago. Bruce wants to have a small memorial for Nat, just the two of them to dedicate a nearly invisible "pocket park" hidden away in Manhattan, something that's special because so few know its true depths; because so few will ever know what they are missing as they pass it by. Something utterly fitting for one of the most amazing women Clint's ever known. And far away from the overblown celebrations everyone else will be having.
It knocks Clint on his ass, makes him want to scream or punch something. All he does is sit there with tears on his cheeks and Lucky nosing at him until he replies with a shaking hand, 'I'll be there.'