#archcr

It had been a while since Logan had had a day off. Had to have been... Shit, how long? A few months, at least. Something like that. So much had been going on that even he was feeling run-down. That wasn't supposed to happen.

This time, he'd been called into New York. Fuck, of course it was New York; when was it not? There had to be something wrong with this place at its core. Some sort of curse or something.

The only good thing was that there were other heroes to help mitigate the chaos. Spidey, the Fantastic Four, and the Avengers, among others. It was the latter Logan had been working with today. That was fine by him; he liked them all well enough. And the tower was a definite plus. With the minibar in the common area...

Fuck, he needed a drink.

Logan sighs heavily, pushing his hand through his hair as he steps into the room.

"What a fuckin' day," he grumbles. Or rather, he tries to. He's zeroing in on the shelf of mugs and glasses and only gets about halfway through his sentence when the bright red alarm lights start blaring again, along with the ear-splitting squawks that go with it. Logan winces and bares his teeth. Clint seems to share his irritation.

❛⠀you're bleeding. — who did this ?  ❜ @archcr !

[ ϟ ]—– Never before had a command sounded so teasing at the same time.

Lying still as stone beneath the human thunderer exhales an exasperated sound, a living monument of solid form and tension wound taut beneath golden sun kissed skin. The pale hush of morning light filtering through the high windows of the compound's communal lounge is almost as teasing as the muttered words, weak in strength yet no less warming. The world had not yet stirred, was about to soon however, and this moment was borrowed, stolen really, the risk of being found a thread drawn tight in his chest.

And yet, with the archer sprawled half atop of him as some sun-warmed cat who knows precise weight and shape of comfort, limbs tangled and heartbeat languid with sleep, Thor finds he cannot obey anything but that small, drowsy decree.

There is no movement, and breath is measured.

Arm remains curled around Barton's back, the other resting palm flat against the worn couch by his side, considering action yet straying far from it still. There is refusal to disturb the fragile peaceful moments like these with a sharp blade of definition, with thoughts about what this was named exactly. A sliver of concern weaving its way through his mind, that between jest and taunting from the others this could reveal something more tangible than they had dared to admit.

' Very well, your wish is my command and all that...'

A minor pause is shaped by another gentle exhale.

This sort of thing was hard for Sterling. There were very few things Sterling would disobey a director order for. He was always lecturing on the importance of protocols and following the rules, how the rules keep people safe, but he also explained to new recruits that once you understand why the rules are in place you can know how to bend them to the situation.

Well, he had done quite a bit of bending today.

"I couldn't do it." He said quietly, stubborn brown eyes cast to the floor, even as he signed the words to Clint.

It always felt like the observe and report missions were the ones where things went off the rails for Sterling. You know, the missions Barton usually called boring? He was just recording his notes on the potential threat he'd been assigned to watch when Ronin himself burst into the scene. It had been a bloodbath from the moment he kicked in the door and after quickly calling it in to HQ, Sterling was told to move in. No one had caught Ronin in the act yet. He just had to stall him until backup arrived.

Easier said than done with a highly skilled vigilante assassin.

'Must be done?'

"Must it? There are better ways to do this, Ronin. I know what you're doing. You don't have to be the bad guy in this."

Sterling understood grey area. It took him a long time to grow from the naïve SHIELD newbie he used to be, thinking the world was black and white. He knew they had to do terrible things from time to time to keep the balance and to protect people. Seeing a Vigilante hurting and killing people felt wrong as a gut reaction, but was it much different than what his field colleagues did? From what Barton did?

At times it seemed like the only difference between them and himself was a SHIELD badge and a bit of red tape.

"We can take them in. Have a trial. Just... drop your weapon and lets talk."

[ ϟ ] — Words are flung over a shoulder as an arrow loosed without looking back, sharp and sure, the way only Clint Barton can be when trying to cut through the ache of parting with a well-aimed blade of bravado.

Thunderer stands unmoving in darkened corridor, broad shoulders framed in dim light, and there is unabashed admiration in his gaze.

How does one not follow a part of yourself as it walks away from you?

How does one remain behind when every battle ever fought, with them, with him, has been shoulder to shoulder, storm with bow, thunder backing arrow, and the other way around, more times than he could count. Now the god was told to sit, to wait, to let the ghosts of stealth mission have Clint, to hold baited breath and let them do what they do best. Unseen, unheard.

Loathing for it is sharp, and relentless slashes through the god's insides. There is no doubt, never any doubt when it comes to the archer's skills, yet the waiting feels like cowardice, like tethering the sea.

Orders are orders, the mission can only breathe in silence, can only succeed when cloaked in darkness. For her, they must do what needs to be done, without fire and without light this time.

The storm is swallowed, tucked behind his teeth and pressed down, wedged behind the ribs, the archer adjusting the straps of his gear as if the outing is one of fetching errands, and not leading straight into the lion's maw.

' I know you do not, but still-'

Retort comes with lowered, earnest tone, void of any jest, no bright boast to match Barton's own. Simply truthful, a sliver of something quieter beneath; a wash of reverence perhaps, most certainly fear.

Rising hand hovers for a moment, then dares the contact, fingers brushing over the man's jaw before palm settles warm on the curve of tense neck. Appropriate for a comrade, immense restraint practiced to withhold what was desired.

❛⠀home, huh ?  ❜ she puts a fist under his chin, but the action is slow. non-threatening. in fact, coming from her, it might've as well been a caress. in a glance, she tries to identify any new bruises or cuts. he's not spitting blood or complaining about anything inside hurting when he moves, so she figures he's not passing out anytime soon for internal bleeding or anything. and then, just like that, she presses their foreheads together.

❛⠀don't know what that says about you,  ❜ an attempt at a joke.

and maria isn't wrong. calling her home is probably the same standard of assigning an abandoned warehouse as an area of shelter. full of secrets and danger-keep-out sign at the entrance. but barton — clint — is the sun. and natasha was once the sky surrounding them. maria closes her eyes. when she exhales, the motion is careful, but deliberate. she, too, is alive. then slowly, she moves – kisses his cheek, taking her time in recalibrating that he's okay. that he hasn't been taken from her yet. ❛⠀— and you're mine.  ❜

Send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship

🧏🏼‍♀️ Karen learned ASL early on in her friendship-turning-relationship with Clint because she wanted to be able to communicate with him if he ever wanted to just not be part of the hearing world at times. She’s not fluent, and a lot of times she finger-spells words out, but she makes the effort.

🚨Karen installed smoke alarms specifically for Clint in her apartment. He’s not dying by fire on her watch.

🥘 Most of time if Karen cooks while at Clint’s apartment, she makes enough to take to the elderly in his building. She will also make cakes and cookies for the kids in his building.