Chapter Text
November 21st, 2024
Iowa
Clint feels pretty accomplished as he heaves a fifty-pound bag of chicken feed into the passenger’s seat of the car, taking stock of his loot. Chicken feed, check. New paint for Nate’s room, check. The few odd groceries that Laura requested, check. And an array of new metals, acids, and shaft materials for some new arrows, check. Everything that Laura asked him to get as well as materials for his own personal projects.
Maybe he is finally beginning to improve. He didn’t have one flashback. Didn’t forget where he was. Didn’t forget any…
Wait a minute.
His eyes fly to the digital clock under the dashboard.
It reads three forty-four.
Shit.
He dives into the driver's seat and screeches out into the road as if he were being chased by Chitauri, racing toward the local elementary and middle school.
Shit shit shit.
Well, he’s only forty-five minutes late. Nate will forget by dinner.
Lila on the other hand…
He thrusts the car into gear, tearing down the road like he would pilot a plane in the middle of some Avenger’s level threat and not an absent-minded father racing to pick up his children. He curses openly when the car loudly protests the fact that the chicken feed has had the audacity to not fasten a seat belt.
His right arm reaches over to fasten it and there’s the light turning yellow…
“You let our mark get away because of a red light and I’m going to make sure the entirety of SHIELD hears about it.”
“As if, Romanoff.”
The memory flares up as a warm tingle in his chest and he can’t help but grin, flooring the gas and ripping through the intersection just as the light switches to red.
Hah!
He turns, grinning, to catch Natasha’s matching grin from the passenger's seat, only to find a giant bag of chicken feed.
The warm tingle in his chest twists into a pinching ache of loss as the schools come into view.
Pull it together, Barton.
He pulls into the empty pickup lane that joins the two campuses.
Only two children waiting.
He shoves down the persistent twist of despair and wrenches a smile onto his face, rolling down the window with an enthusiastic “Heyyyyy!!”
Nate bounds toward the car with a grin that matches Clint’s forced enthusiasm and then some. Lila’s face is flat and unimpressed.
“Hey! So sorry I’m late, guys. How was school?”
“Awesome!” Nate says, tossing his backpack in the backseat before tumbling in after it. “Robert Colder threw up in science class! All over Miss Harold’s dress. It was awesome!”
Lila rolls her eyes as she fiddles with Nate’s booster seat and seatbelt, but Clint’s laughter is genuine.
“Sounds like an eventful day, bud. How about you, Lila?”
“I got grape juice spilled on my favorite sweater, got a surprise quiz in English, and have been listening to a story about puke for the last forty-five minutes, so, you know. Great.”
Well, the ride home sure is going to be fun.
Lila shuts the rear car door with more force than was probably necessary, opening the passenger's side and staring blankly at the massive bag of chicken feed, tools, and scrap metal in her seat.
Whoops. “Sh–sorry, hon,” he stutters, unbuckling. “I’ll move it–”
“Don’t bother. I’ll sit in the back.”
She doesn’t even sound angry. Just resigned. As if she expected this to happen.
She slides in beside Nate and clicks her seatbelt shut, leaning back and staring blankly out the window.
“Sorry, Lila. I wasn’t thinking.” As is the new normal.
Lila shrugs it off, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I suppose I’ll forgive you as long as I get first crack and whatever new arrow you’re making.”
He shoots her a small smile. “Deal.”
He turns down the narrow, single-lane road that leads them out of town and toward their farm as Nate continues to chat away enthusiastically about his day. It’s a straight road, but a long one, and after they have been driving for about ten minutes Clint catches Lila’s eyes fluttering closed in apparent discomfort in the rearview mirror.
“You okay, Lila?”
She nods without opening her eyes.
“Car sick?”
“I’ll probably be fine.” Her eyes slide to her brother. “As long as he stops talking about what happened in class today.”
“It was all over her dress!”
Lila moans.
“Nate, let’s take a breather from that story for a bit. Just a few more minutes until we get home.”
They continue to drive through flat, open farmland before reaching the cluster of trees that surround the number of tiny lakes that border their property. The trees lost the last of their leaves over a week ago, leaving only bare branches and a chill in the air that steadily drops with each day.
It was cold like this that day, too. No trees, but a brisk, late fall breeze that had no consideration for the many hours he spent huddled on that rooftop. Watching. Waiting…
“What are you waiting for, American?”
Tomorrow will be twenty years. Exactly twenty years since they met. Two decades since he made that fateful decision and changed both of their lives forever. Eighteen years since she admitted he was her friend. Twelve years since she saved him from Loki. Eight years since the Accords set them against each other. Six years since the Snap, and…
Just over one year since–
“Dad! Look out! ”
The sharp, urgent note in Lila’s voice snaps him back to a red Chevrolet Silverado hurtling toward them on a direct collision course. He leans on the horn and swerves frantically to the right shoulder of the road, but the truck’s driver’s side bumper collides forcefully with the left-side rear door. The car spins in the opposite direction of Clint’s steering with enough momentum to send them backwards over a sharp drop off the road and into a cornfield, causing the car to come to a stop at an extreme, almost sideways angle. A dead tree branch crashes through the passenger’s side window and buries itself in the bag of chicken feed, splattering Clint with shards of stray glass and airborne seed.
The front seat airbags deploy, and Clint slaps it frantically out of the way, both his seat belt and a deep, constricting fear tightening around him like an angry anaconda.
The car rammed right into Nate’s side of the car.
“Nate? Lila? You kids okay?” he calls, straining against gravity to catch sight of them.
Both kids are breathing fast, but appear uninjured. Nate seems almost too shocked to answer, staring at the impressive dent in the car door beside him.
“I think we’re okay,” Lila says breathlessly, leaning over to check on Nate.
And Clint can breathe again. His eyes flutter shut, and before he even realizes what is happening he releases his seat belt and leans out the driver's side door to heave his guts out.
The other driver calls out to them from the road, frantically asking if they are all right and apologizing profusely.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying–I mean, I got this sudden text message and—I mean normally I don’t look at my phone on the road but–I’m so sorry–it said my wife was cheating on me and—I swear I didn’t realize I was drifting and–oh shit! You have kids in the car?!”
Clint calls the police while Lila calls Laura. He almost obsessively checks and rechecks Nate’s condition, to the extent that Nate begins to get annoyed.
Laura is clipped and terse when she picks them up. She speaks with the police and the paramedics. Both children–thank God–are uninjured, and by some miracle all fault for the accident is found to be with the other driver, who stares at his phone bleakly as if a traffic ticket is the least of his worries.
“Laura…”
“Later.”
Her tone permits no argument.
Clint’s car gets towed away, and Laura drives them all home. Clint does not speak again until the kids are settled and it is just he and his wife in their bedroom.
“Babe…”
“Don’t. Just don’t, Clint.”
“The guy was on his cell phone!”
“And according to Lila, he started drifting long before you realized. She said she tried to tell you. Repeatedly. That you were off somewhere in your head. Again.”
He can’t argue. It’s not a new problem.
“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say, even though it doesn’t come anywhere near properly expressing his regret and remorse.
“I know.”
“I am sorry. I don’t blame you at all for being mad at me. I’m furious with myself.”
“I’m not…I’m not…” She lets out a long breath, then sits down on the bed, motioning him next to her. “I’m not mad at you, Clint. I know you’re still grieving. I know how hard the past few years have been on you. You’re suffering from severe post-traumatic stress. But this…this can’t continue.”
“I know.”
“If Lila had been in the front seat…”
“I know!”
“If that car had been going any faster and rammed the car any harder–”
“I know!”
Clint buries his head in his hands and presses against his burning eyeballs. Is this it? Is this the moment when she finally realizes what a shitbag she married? When it becomes too obvious that he just isn’t worth it?
“You didn’t…see anything, did you? Hear voices?”
The question hurts, even if he cannot blame her in the least for asking.
“No.” It comes out as a whisper.
She sighs heavily, and a moment later a gentle hand smoothes over his back.
“You know I had to ask. You should be getting better, but I think you’re getting worse, Clint. You’re zoned out more often than not. You wake up screaming every night. You’re too disassociated to even hear what the kids say to you, much less interact with them.”
And Clint feels like moldy, maggot-filled, week-old trash. The kids could have died. Everything Natasha gave up everything for—gone in an instant because he can’t keep it together. “I'm sorry,” he says through his palms.
“You’re increasing your therapy sessions. Immediately.”
Yes. Anything.
He nods vehemently. “Okay.”
Laura’s soft hands rub his shoulders. “Recovery isn’t a straight line, and I want you to know I don’t blame you for that, nor expect that from you. But…”
But what. Oh God, but what.
“I’m worried about you, and I’m worried about this family. This is not sustainable, Clint. You have to find a way to move forward or…”
She doesn’t finish, but Clint can hear the words anyway.
Or you may lose more than Natasha.
-
Present Day
August 2025
Iowa
Lucky throws his jubilant barking self at the kids the instant the ramp is lowered. Cooper soon has the dog spinning in circles and jumping up on his already filthy uniform, more likely getting the dog dirtier than the uniform.
"Kate!" Lila yells as she comes jogging toward them. "Welcome back! I've been waiting for you.” She gestures toward the porch, where two sets of bows and quivers are propped up against the railing.
Kate grins with delight. “Already? Would've thought you'd still be recovering from just how badly I kicked your butt last time."
"Famous last words," Lila says, sticking her tongue out around a grin.
Clint listens to the trash talk with a fond smile. Kate has the unnerving ability to spontaneously bond with absolutely anyone, and she and Lila had become fast friends at Christmas. It was one of those unique generational Blip bonds formed when you were born almost at the same time but now had an additional five years between you.
“You don’t have plans tomorrow, do you? My ballet recital is tomorrow, and that is definitely something I can do better than you.”
Kate crosses her arms over her chest and smirks. "Wanna bet?"
"We're going to need to borrow Lucky,“ Kate says as Clint crouches down to give Lucky proper attention and remind him what a good boy he is. “He's going to be busy fetching all the arrows that Lila misses."
"You are so dead, Bishop."
They both skip toward the porch, before Kate doubles back and plants herself in front of him, tilting her head and letting her eyes grow big.
"Speaking of arrows..."
Clint heaves a heavy sigh. "What are you out of now."
"Some of my boomerangs are faulty."
"Faulty? How so?"
Kate stares at him like he is stupid. "They didn't come back."
Clint regrets asking.
"Fine. Whatever. You can have your boomerangs."
"Some of the nets would be nice too?" She asks, smiling with far too many teeth.
"Yeah yeah. Whatever you want. But just so you're aware, Lila has all the arrows right now. So if you want them, you'd better be nice to her."
Kate's mouth drops open. "Well crap. Now I'm going to have to let her win!"
During dinner, Clint finds himself grateful for Kate's ability to carry on a conversation–into eternity, if need be. When he’d first brought her home the previous Christmas, she had been shy for approximately twelve minutes before deciding she adored everyone and achieved a level of closeness that would take the average person six months to attain. She relieves Clint entirely of the pressure to speak at all.
"...so from the specific angle and area that he was standing, I estimated that if I could be accurate enough to activate the electromagnetic arrowhead—which, come on, of course I can—then it could trigger a chain reaction..."
This story again. Nate at least hasn’t tired of it yet. He sits with both forearms flat on the table and wide eyes as Kate talks.
He never tired of Natasha’s stories either. He listened to her just like this. Here. At dinner.
Budapest. Kiev. Kyoto.
Kate is in Natasha’s chair.
"...short of the end of the world. Right, Dad?"
Shit. Clint fiddles with his aid. "What was that, honey?"
Lila purses her lips, shakes her head, and stares down at her dinner.
"I did ballet for a few years," Kate says.
Thought we were talking about Kingpin?
"Coach said I had the strength but needed work on 'gracefulness.' Like I’ll ever need that in the real world.”
Gracefulness was never a problem for Natasha, who had been a phenomenal ballet dancer. She was strong, graceful, and elegant—the whole package. Once, in order to take down a particularly slippery French socialite with an avid interest in Asgardian relics and the ballet, Natasha went undercover in an impromptu performance of Swan Lake with nary a toe out of position.
"...that Aunt Nat coached me on, especially my pirouette. I just… really wish she could have seen it.” Lila’s voice is filled with palpable sadness.
Clint contemplates drowning himself in his potato soup.
Kate steers the conversation to former fencing instructors.
-
It’s Lucky who hears the thump and clatter. His ears perk up and he lifts his head off of its perch on Clint’s knee. He looks at the ceiling and whines.
Clint sets his coffee aside and listens from the bottom of the stairs until he hears it himself. Something clattering on a wooden floor. Muffled curses. He starts up the stairs, and can tell by the shadows on the walls which room the light is coming from. He takes the remaining stairs three at a time.
No one goes in that room. Not because they’re not allowed, but because it’s still just too much.
The last person Clint expects to find in there is Kate, crouching on the floor and fussing with something out of sight by the foot of the bed.
Nat's trunk is open.
“What are you doing in here?”
His dismay colors his voice, and startles Kate enough that she loses balance and flops onto her butt.
“Sorry! I was. Looking for arrowheads. You said Lila had them and so I went to look for them because you know me. I could never let her win.” Her laugh is forced.
Clint surveys the cascade of tiny objects scattered on the floor. An array of earrings that are actually signal boosters for comm devices. Hair pins with a wider set of uses than a Swiss army knife. Some actual knives. A whetstone. A necklace with a sage green pendant.
Kate's repentant eyebrows and full-toothed apology grin form an impressive ‘A’ shape.
"You know which room is Lila’s." His voice is barely more than a rasp. He doesn't have it in him to yell, he realizes. He bends down to gather the objects, each of which inspire a sharp mosaic of nostalgia, affection, and agony.
Kate's voice goes quiet. "Okay. Sorry. Lila told me about some of the devices she used. When she was your partner. I just. Was curious."
Curiosity killed the Kate.
“I know I’ll never be as good a partner as she was. But I figured that if there’s anything that could make me a better one—not that I was gonna steal anything! I was just going to see what she had and then see if I could–”
“Kate.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.” He makes sure his mouth curls upward just enough to soften the words.
Kate makes an abashed grin. “Yes, boss.”
"Dad?"
Lila stops with her hands braced in the doorway and concern on her face. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine, honey."
Lila looks briefly at Kate like she expects a contradiction, but then bends down to help, her own set of conflicting emotions flickering over her face. "What happened?"
"My fault. I wanted to know what was in here. I should have asked. I'm sorry." Kate clears her throat. "This was Natasha’s room?"
The comeback comes naturally. No, all the rooms in the house have this curtain of despair draped over them. He doesn’t have the energy to voice it.
"I only ask because of the amazing Hawkeye poster."
The balls on this girl.
Said poster depicts him nocking an arrow into his bow and casts very flattering lighting on his bare arms.
Lila laughs. "Yeah. It's there solely to annoy Dad."
Nat was a little shit.
"I may or may not have the same one in my room," Kate says, and both girls giggle.
Kate is a little shit too.
Once they have gathered everything from the floor, Clint slots the box neatly back into the trunk. His eyes fall on the small black safe recovered from the compound, untouched to this day.
Lila must follow his gaze because she plasters herself against him and wraps her arms around his waist.
"I'm gonna uh, head downstairs. I promised Nate we'd play a game,” Kate says, then pauses in the doorway. “Again. Sorry, boss.”
Without really knowing why, Clint takes out the safe, setting it on his lap as he sits on the bed. The mattress beside him dips with Lila’s gentle weight, and she leans her head against his shoulder.
"You stare at that box a lot. What's in it?"
Clint runs his fingers over the smooth top, then down over the Cyrillic lettering on the side, and finally over the lock. “Your Aunt Nat kept valuables in here when she went on missions."
He runs a hand over the top again, then hovers over the lock. He rolls his thumb over each wheel; one-one-two-two. The lid pops open.
Lila leans curiously over his shoulder as Clint gently lifts out the one item inside. A small, delicate silver chain, with a distinctive pendant at the apex. Lila’s breath hitches.
Clint holds the necklace in his palm, and runs his thumb gently over the pendant, lost in thought. He takes Lila’s hand and drops the delicate chain into her palm.
“I want you to have this.”
Lila studies the chain, the pendant. “But, this is Auntie Nat’s necklace… I can’t take this, Dad.” She tries to give it back to him, tears in her eyes.
“This is for me? What is it?”
“The best shot I never took.”
Clint folds her fingers down over the chain. “I gave it to her. Now I’m giving it to you. Trust me, Lila, she would want you to have it.”
After a moment with a tissue, Lila closes her fingers around the thin chain before holding it to her chest, a soft sob escaping her.
Clint pulls her close. "It's okay, honey.”
"No, it's not," Lila says, sobbing steadily now, clutching the necklace in her fist and throwing her arms tightly around Clint's middle. “I miss her so much I can barely stand it on some days. But... you know what’s even worse? Seeing what it's done to you."
Clint closes his eyes and curses at himself. He has to try harder. "I'm fine, baby. Don't worry about me."
"You're not fine. I know you pretend to be, acting all happy and enthusiastic about everything, but... It doesn't reach your eyes, Dad."
"I am happy and enthusiastic about those things, Lila." He pulls her back to look her in the eye and wipes tear tracks from her face. "You know how overjoyed I am to have you back, right? I can't... I can't even put into words..."
Lila's hand covers his. "I know you are. But you're also different. Sad in a way I can't really describe. Like it goes down to your bones. Your soul. Your smiles fade into despair if you don’t make a constant effort. You're...somewhere else, most of the time. And it's not a nice place."
Natasha was always the better actor of the two of them. That's why she worked the target and he worked the sniper rifle.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad.”
Clint’s eyes close involuntarily.
“It wasn’t. You did everything you could.”
Clint stands and paces. The rug under his feet that Natasha picked out herself. The stupid Hawkeye poster she cheerfully plastered on the wall while he dramatically whined and moaned on the bed. The pictures on the nightstand of Natasha and the kids. Natasha and Laura. Natasha and him…
Lila doesn’t realize that it is his fault Natasha is no longer here. She sees in him a hero that does not exist. She doesn’t know many specifics about how her father spent his time during the Blip. Nor his days before SHIELD. Stories of his childhood are heavily censored. The credit for any actual heroics he ever accomplished could be given entirely to either Laura or Natasha.
“I know that look. Downgrading yourself to an inessential, unimportant guy who just got swept up into the Avengers by happenstance and who doesn’t deserve to be one of them. I think Aunt Nat would highly disagree.”
A small laugh escapes him then, because he can almost hear Natasha in Lila’s voice. Clint remembers the first time Natasha held Lila, the day she was born. They had stared at each other for several minutes, before Lila had fallen asleep, and Natasha had looked him in the eye and said 'You've got a perceptive one here.'
He crouches in front of her and takes her hands in his. "I'll do better, Lila. I'm sorry it's taking me so long, but I will do better. And be grateful to your Aunt Nat that I have the chance to do so." He takes the necklace from her and stretches out the chain. "All the more reason for you to inherit this necklace. You can take over for her when I need some sense knocked into me."
Lila's red and tear-streaked face crinkles in a soft smile, and she regards the necklace thoughtfully. After a moment, she twists around and lifts up her hair so he can clasp it around her neck. "Deal."
-
As it does every night, the mattress beneath him fades away into cold, ragged stone. His bedroom morphs into open space and an eternal drop. The quiet sounds of the house turn to distant screams.
Every night Clint returns to the lowest moment of his life.
“You must lose that which you love.”
He has no one else left in the world that he loves, but the red creature displays no visible sympathy. And now he’s supposed to give up that last person for the chance that maybe he’ll get everyone else he lost back?
Hell no.
But Natasha does not acquiesce to his infallible logic of who actually deserves to be removed from this reality. They are at an impasse.
She knows him. She will outmaneuver him. Let him think he’s in the clear and pull the rug out from under him. Use what she knows and manipulate it to her advantage.
But Clint knows her too.
Mirrored tides of contradictory emotions crash over him in a tsunami of fire and ice.
I’m sorry.
The sorrow emanates from somewhere deep, but he cannot say for certain if it originates from himself or Natasha.
It's too much–despair, loneliness, regret anger fury–
Softer sentiment never said aloud but expressed infinitely with actions.
He's pummeled from every side.
Determination fear devotion loyalty sorrow-regret-betrayal-
It’s okay.
No. It’s not. It never will be if you do this to me.
He won’t let her.
A thread of golden flame…
A searing burn from deep within…
"Let me go."
Never.
∞ ∞ ∞
In Iowa, 2025, Clint Barton jerks upright and gasps for air.
∞ ∞ ∞
On Vormir, 2014, Natasha Romanoff jerks upright and gasps for air.
