Summary: In the wake of Aria Jones’ death, those who knew her - some deeply, some barely at all - confront the layers of regret, memory, and truth she leaves behind.
A character mosaic about grief, redemption, and the ties we only perceive once they’ve snapped.
Wordcount: 1.1k
Warnings: Grief, Survivor’s guilt, Mentions of violence, Emotional breakdowns, Trauma recollection, Relationship fallout, Death of a central character, Themes of abandonment and betrayal, Complicated friendships, Mild PTSD symptoms
A/N: I highly suggest that you read Eulogy and Blueprints for Fatherhood if you haven't because otherwise you may not understand most of what happens in Layers.
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Masterlist - Masterlist of the series - Matryoshka
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Clint Barton had never been afraid of quiet.
He’d grown up with it.
Lived inside it.
Learned to read it the way other people read faces.
Silence had been a tool long before it had been a feeling. The pause between breaths before a shot. The stretch of air where you decided whether to move or wait. The kind of quiet that kept you alive.
But the quiet after Aria’s funeral wasn’t real quiet.
It was the kind that stuck to you.
In your clothes.
In your hair.
In the hollow behind your ribs.
The kind that didn’t leave when the church emptied, or when the speeches ended, or when people told each other take care and call me like those words meant something concrete.
The kind that echoed.
Clint sat on the rooftop of the SHIELD annex long after he should’ve gone home. Bow resting across his lap. Fingers loose around the grip, muscle memory keeping it steady even while his mind drifted.
His legs hung over the ledge.
The city below him hummed and breathed and pulsed with life, neon lights blinking on and off like nothing in the world had changed.
But something had.
Someone had.
Aria Jones - gone.
And the world felt quieter in a way Clint couldn’t stand.
He hadn’t been her best friend.
He hadn’t been her confidant.
They hadn’t stayed up late trading war stories or bonded over shared demons. She hadn’t trusted him with secrets the way she trusted some of the others.
But Clint had seen her.
The way she tried not to take up space.
The way she softened rooms just by standing in them.
The way her presence smoothed rough edges without anyone noticing it was happening.
And now her absence distorted everything.
Like a missing instrument in a piece of music he hadn’t realized was playing until it stopped.
Clint exhaled slowly, letting the cold night air burn his lungs.
He should’ve noticed more.
That thought came back again and again, no matter how many times he tried to push it aside.
He remembered her first day.
Small.
Nervous.
Determined in a way that felt older than her years.
Fury had introduced her with a flat, unimpressed, “New pilot. Don’t break her.”
Natasha had smirked, already cataloguing weaknesses and strengths.
Sam had warmed instantly, smile easy, hand outstretched.
Steve had smiled too earnestly, like he did when he wanted people to feel safe around him.
Tony had flirted - that casual, careless way Tony flirted when he didn’t expect consequences.
And Clint?
Clint had watched.
Not judging.
Not dismissing.
Just watching.
She’d stood there like someone bracing for impact that might never come, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Like someone who’d learned early that if you didn’t look ready, the world would decide you weren’t.
He’d thought she looked like someone carrying grief the way other people carried backpacks.
Heavy.
Familiar.
Never set down.
He should’ve seen it.
He should’ve seen all of it sooner.
The loneliness she hid well.
The weight she carried alone.
The way she flinched when someone raised their voice, just a fraction of a second too late to pretend it wasn’t there.
The way she worked too hard, slept too little, smiled too politely.
Clint had chalked it up to shyness.
To nerves.
To being new in a place full of legends and ghosts.
Turns out she’d been surviving.
And Clint hated that he hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s eulogy ripped the blindfold off all of them.
Siberia haunted him too.
He hadn’t been there - but he’d seen the footage, heard the reports, felt the tension in Tony’s voice long before it hardened into something sharp and unforgiving.
Siberia wasn’t where Aria had fallen.
But it was where things had started to crack beyond repair.
Gods tearing at each other.
Men who loved each other forgetting how fragile the world was in between.
Lines crossed that no one ever really stepped back over.
Clint swallowed hard.
Aria hadn’t been part of that fight.
She’d been part of what came after.
Trying to keep things from getting worse.
Trying to exist in the fallout without armor, without myth, without the luxury of being anything other than human.
He rubbed a hand over his face, rough palm scraping over stubble.
He’d told himself it would settle.
That the fractures would heal.
That people would calm down once the dust did.
Clint Barton believed a lot of things when he wanted to.
Then one day Aria didn’t wake up.
And the team fractured in ways they pretended had nothing to do with Siberia at all.
He stared out at the skyline, jaw tight.
And Bucky…
God.
Clint knew grief when he saw it.
Knew love too.
He’d seen men lose partners.
Soldiers lose comrades.
Brothers lose brothers.
But he had never seen someone break the way Bucky Barnes broke in that church.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… split open.
Clint didn’t judge the man for disappearing.
If anything, he envied him the escape.
Aria had made him promise to live.
That mattered to Clint more than most people would understand.
He hoped - truly hoped - that somewhere out there, Bucky was trying.
Trying to build something small.
Trying to breathe again.
Trying to exist without the constant weight of guilt and history crushing his spine.
Clint didn’t know if the man would succeed.
But he hoped he would.
For Aria’s sake.
For his own.
A soft breeze brushed the rooftop.
Clint heard footsteps behind him long before the shadow fell beside him.
Natasha.
He didn’t turn. Just shifted slightly, giving her space to sit.
She did - stiff, controlled, eyes fixed straight ahead like the city owed her answers.
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SUMMARY / REQUEST . Hiiii :) saw your requests are open. Can you do a story where Clint and reader have been friends since childhood and they’ve had partners come and go in the past but their friendship is forever. But also over those years they secretly grown to love each other as more than friends and are scared to confess because they’re afraid that it’ll ruin what they have. (Also if you can add some angst about them being upset with each other because their past partners treated the other horribly, just something angsty.)
TAGS . fluff, angst. hurt/comfort, slow burn, reunion after years apart, childhood friends to lovers, unspoken feelings, protective Clint, stubborn reader, second chances, “I love you” in the middle of a war zone.
A/N . first clint fic, lets gooo, hope you like it anon, my requests are open!
Summer always smelled like freshly cut grass and burnt rubber. The dusty streets of the neighborhood became your kingdom, and Clint Barton was your partner in crime, the one who taught you how to climb fences without scraping your knees and throw rocks so far that they swore you were going to break a window, even though you never did. He was the kid who laughed too loudly, with a voice that seemed to defy the silence of slow afternoons.
Sometimes you raced on bikes that had survived too many falls. You cheated by pushing him with your elbow, and he pretended to be angry, but in the end you always ended up lying in the grass, laughing until your stomachs hurt. In those moments, nothing existed beyond the sun filtering through the leaves and the echo of your laughter in the air.
His family wasn't easy. Neither was yours. Sometimes the two of you would escape to the abandoned barn behind the Bartons' house, where the wood creaked as if telling old secrets. Clint taught you how to use a bow made of branches and string, proud of every makeshift arrow he managed to stick into a piece of cardboard. You told him he was terrible, but inside you admired his concentration when he aimed, the way his eyes narrowed and everything else disappeared.
“Someday I'll be good at this,” he said one afternoon, without looking away from the target.
You teased him, of course. “Yeah, right, and I'm going to be president.”
But you said it with a smile, and he smiled back at you, one of those smiles you remember without understanding why.
There was one night in particular (one of those nights that feel suspended outside of time) when you both lay on the barn roof looking up at the sky. Clint pointed out a constellation to you, although he was probably making it up. He said that if either of you ever got lost, they would look north, and they would find each other again. You pretended you didn't care, but you engraved it in your memory as if it were an oath.
Over the years, the summers grew shorter. School started, along with schedules and responsibilities. The bikes were forgotten, and the makeshift bow broke with the first autumn rain. Even so, Clint always found a way to come back to you, whether it was by throwing pebbles at your window or sneaking into your classes to make you laugh.
One afternoon, while he was practicing with a better goal than before, you realized something you couldn't quite put your finger on. You watched him intently, his sleeves rolled up and an expression that was no longer that of a child, and you felt that slight, curious twinge in your chest. Not love, not yet. But something like a crack in the calm.
You ignored it, as one ignores the first symptoms of something big.
He saw you watching him and raised an eyebrow. “What's up? Did you fall in love with my aim or something?”
“Of course, I fell head over heels,” you replied, throwing a dry leaf at him. “Aim carefully, Robin Hood, because if you break another window this time, I won't save you.”
And he laughed, that laugh of his that echoed in the cold air, and for a second, just a second, you thought there would be no corner of the world where you couldn't recognize it.
But the years would go on, the streets would change, and soon they wouldn't be counting stars on the barn roof anymore. You didn't know it yet, but that last summer together would be the invisible mold for everything that would come after: friendship, loyalty… and that silent love that would be born long before either of you had the courage to admit it.
Time began to run differently after that summer. You were no longer the children who got their knees dirty playing to see who could go the furthest without breathing; now you were learning to hold each other's gaze without losing their composure. Clint grew up faster than you did, as if life had stepped on the gas without asking. He had a sharper smile, the same tousled hair as always, and that strange way of walking as if the ground belonged to him.
You, on the other hand, learned to hide things. You got used to your heart racing when he called you “buddy” or when he offered you his jacket without thinking twice. And even though you knew it shouldn't mean anything, it hurt when he offered the same jacket to someone else.
Clint started dating a girl from the neighboring school. You would see her waiting for him outside the gym, laughing at something he said, and you would feel an uncomfortable, absurd pang. You would hate him for a while and then hate yourself for feeling that way.
He, for his part, pretended not to notice how the boy in chemistry class looked at you during practice or how you smiled on purpose just to make him mad. And you succeeded. You always succeeded.
One fall afternoon, as the wind blew leaves across the backyard, Clint placed a new target in the barn: a perfect circle made with red paint on an old board. You crossed your arms, watching him sharpen the tips of his arrows.
“Don't you have anything better to do on Fridays?” you said, raising an eyebrow.
“What about you? You keep coming to watch me practice, so don't act like you're busy.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn't leave. You watched him draw the bow with almost cruel precision. He shot. He hit. And for some reason, that made you angry.
“I guess she inspires you, huh?” you muttered, before you could stop yourself.
Clint lowered his bow and looked at you confused. “she?”
“Your girlfriend. Or whatever she is.”
His smile faded just a little. “What's gotten into you lately?”
You wanted to say “nothing,” but the word stuck in your throat. Instead, you took the bow, aimed at the target, and shot without measuring. The arrow fell halfway.
“So you still suck,” he said, half laughing, half annoyed.
“Maybe I should stop hanging out with you, since we don't have anything in common anymore.”
Silence fell between the two of you like a stone in water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and there was something new in his expression, something neither you nor he were ready to name. A tension that wasn't anger, or sadness, or simple affection. It was all of those things mixed together, too dense to fit into words.
That night, Clint didn't walk you home. And you walked alone, feeling the cold air on your face and your heart beating with a mixture of pride and guilt. You knew something had broken, or maybe just changed shape. But when you got to your room and saw the bow leaning against the window, you understood that he hadn't taken it away from you completely.
Weeks later, Clint came looking for you. Not to talk, not to apologize, but to offer you a new arrow. Made by him. The wood was light, the tip polished.
“So you can learn to aim better,” he said, barely looking at you.
“Thank you,” you replied, not looking either.
The adult world arrived without asking permission.
There were no more bicycles or summer afternoons smelling of wood; now there were schedules, trips, emails that went unanswered, and an ever-widening silence between the two of you. Clint enlisted in S.H.I.E.L.D. before you could get used to the idea of losing him. You watched him leave with a nervous smile and a worn suitcase, promising he would write to you. And he did, at first.
The letters were short, with clumsy drawings and sentences that seemed to be written in a hurry: "I'm fine. Don't worry. This is harder than I thought." You kept them all in an old shoebox, as if that were enough to keep him close.
Months passed. Then years. You became someone different: stronger, more careful. Getting a stable job was hard, but you did it. The routine gave you some peace, until his name reappeared on a news screen. Clint Barton. Special agent. A hero who defeated a tyrant with an arrow.
When he came back, on a random day, you almost didn't recognize him. He carried the weight of things he couldn't talk about. His eyes, the same ones that used to laugh easily, now looked cautious, as if measuring every word before it came out.
“You haven't changed,” he said, smiling slightly.
“Don't be silly, you aged ten years in five.”
He laughed, but the laugh sounded old.
You started seeing each other again, in discreet cafes or walking aimlessly. You talked about everything and nothing: work, the weather, the past. But something different had crept in between them. A nostalgia that hurt a little more than it should have.
You were dating someone else. At first, Clint didn't say anything. He was polite, even kind, until he saw him in person. That someone grabbed your arm too hard during a trivial argument. And Clint, without thinking, intervened.
“Let her go.”
His tone was low, but so tense that the air seemed to cut. Your partner backed away, annoyed, muttering that “it was none of his business.” You felt embarrassed, angry, confused. You didn't know with whom.
That night, you confronted him.
“You can't just show up out of nowhere and decide what's right or wrong for me, Clint. You're not my guardian.”
“And you don't deserve to be treated like that.”
“And you do? How many times did you disappear without saying anything? How many times did you leave me alone when I needed you most?”
He stood still, his fists clenched. “It wasn't that simple.”
“It never is with you.”
You said nothing more. Neither did he. The silence was so heavy that it almost felt like a farewell.
Time passed again, with its usual cruelty. Clint also had a relationship, with a woman from the same work environment. He never told you directly, but you knew. You saw her once at a casual dinner, with a haughty look and red lips like a warning. She looked at you with a dry smile, as if she had accurately gauged the danger you represented.
After that night, Clint began to see you less. You pretended not to notice. But when he showed up at your door weeks later, with a cut on his eyebrow and tired eyes, everything fell apart.
“I don't know why I came,” he said, as soon as he walked in.
“Yes, you do.”
The air was thick even before you two said a word.
It had been a while since their last conversation, but not long enough to heal what hurt. Clint stood in your living room, his S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform still stained with dirt and a tense expression, as if he had come straight from a war. Maybe he had. You didn't even know which one.
“You could at least let me know you're alive before showing up at my door like nothing happened.”
Your voice sounded colder than you intended. He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath.
“I'm sorry. I didn't think it mattered that much.”
“Didn't you think it mattered?” you laughed without humor. “Of course, because nothing matters to you. Only your missions, your secrets, your silences.”
“I'm doing what I have to do.”
“And what am I supposed to do, Clint? Wait for you? Pretend it doesn't destroy me to see you appear and disappear like a ghost?”
The silence fell heavy, dense. He looked at you, and in his eyes there was guilt, exhaustion… and something else.
“I never asked you to wait.”
“I know. But I did anyway.”
That confession escaped you like a gunshot. And once spoken, there was no turning back.
Clint approached, his jaw tense. “You don't know what you're saying.”
“I do. I always knew. But you keep pretending you don't see anything, that this means nothing.”
“Because it can't mean anything, do you understand? Not in my life. Not with who I am.”
That sentence cut you to the core. You laughed in disbelief, even though your hands were shaking.
“How convenient. When it suits you to be my best friend, you are. When it suits you to disappear, you do. But when it comes to feeling something real, to think about my feelings, you can't, can you?”
He took a step back, as if your words were knives.
“It's not fair.”
“It's not.” You looked him straight in the eye. “But nothing with us has been.”
The tone changed. It was no longer anger; it was surrender. You loved him, and that was the most unfair thing of all.
Clint ran a hand over his face, exhausted. "You don't know how hard it is for me to keep you out of this. You don't know what it would be like if something happened to you because of me."
“Then don't protect me. Just stay.”
For a second, it looked like he was going to do it. That he was going to give in. His eyes softened, and his fingers moved slightly toward you, as if hesitating between embracing you or giving up. But then, the wall went back up.
“I'm sorry.”
That was the last word he gave you before he left.
You didn't scream. You didn't follow him. You just stood there, feeling the echo of the door closing. The silence after him was so absolute that even your breathing sounded foreign.
That night you opened the box of old letters. You reread them one by one, until the words dissolved in tears. In the last one, there was a clumsy drawing of a constellation and a note: “If either of us gets lost one day, look north, and we'll find each other again.”
Ironies of fate. He had gotten lost anyway.
And so had you.
The next day, you packed a few things, took some time off work, and left without telling anyone. You didn't know where to go, only that you needed distance. Because loving Clint Barton hurt like an open wound, and every time you tried to close it, he reopened it with an apology.
It had been almost four years since you last saw him.
Time had done its work: it changed the way you spoke, the way you looked, even the way you hoped. You were no longer the same person who loved him in secret. Or so you wanted to believe.
Your life had become calmer. You worked at a small community center, helping young people who seemed lost, as you once had been. The days were predictable, the silences bearable. Until one afternoon, as you closed the metal gate, a voice you knew all too well broke the routine.
“I always knew you'd end up taking care of everyone but yourself.”
The sound pierced you like an ancient echo. You turned slowly, afraid it was a dream.
But there was Clint Barton. A little grayer, his face marked by lines that weren't there before. The same eyes, though more tired, more human.
“I thought you were dead.”
“It would have been easier.”
You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There was a mixture of exhaustion and relief in his voice, as if seeing you was the only real thing he had left. You invited him in without saying a word. He understood without asking.
The silence between the two of you was comfortable and cruel at the same time. There was no need to fill the gaps; the gaps were all they had. They stayed in the kitchen, sitting across from each other with cups of coffee that grew cold without either of them touching them.
“You look good,” he said, breaking the stillness.
“You look worse.”
He laughed softly, and for a moment, you were seventeen again.
The conversation flowed awkwardly, like a forgotten river. They talked about the past carefully, skipping over the years that hurt. But every word he said seemed like an apology he never uttered. Every glance you gave was a response you never gave.
At some point, without you realizing it, the physical distance between you vanished. Clint was too close. You could smell the wood, the gunpowder, the exhaustion.
He looked at you for a long time, with a tenderness that made you tremble.
“I thought you wouldn't want to see me again.”
“I didn't plan to.”
“Then why don't you kick me out?”
“Because I don't feel like it.”
And that was it. So simple. So devastating.
There was a moment of silence, when neither spoke. Only the sound of the clock and their ragged breathing filled the space. Your fingers brushed against each other on the table, an accident, or perhaps not, and in that tiny contact, all the distance of the years became insignificant.
“Clint…” you murmured, but the rest was lost when he looked down, as if afraid of what you were going to say.
“I know.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But if I say it out loud, I won't be able to stop myself.”
You stood still. Part of you wanted to run away. The other part wanted to stay and let everything burn.
There was no kiss. Not yet. Just an unbearable tension that stretched between the two of you, alive, pulsing, waiting for one false move to break.
He got up first.
“I have a mission. I can't stay long.”
“You always have a mission.”
“Yes.” He paused, looking at you one last time. “But I always come back to the same place.”
You didn't know if that was a promise or a condemnation.
When the door closed, you felt that the air in the house had changed. Everything was still the same, but nothing was the same.
You stood there, staring at the empty cup. And without meaning to, you smiled.
Because for the first time in years, the silence didn't hurt so much.
The noise was constant, as if the sky were splitting open again and again. From the corner café, the chaos seemed like a movie without sound: the windows vibrated, the lights flickered, and each explosion made your heart beat a little faster. Outside, the Avengers fought with precision that bordered on the inhuman; every movement was a reminder that war isn't always on another continent, sometimes it falls right in front of your coffee shop.
You had promised to stay away from danger. “Just watch, don't get close,” Clint had told you before leaving, his voice laden with that mixture of military command and personal concern that he could never quite hide. And, for a while, you did. Until the building across the street collapsed with a dull roar and a cloud of dust covered everything. The ground shook. Debris fell like rain, heavy, cruel. You barely managed to take cover. A sharp blow to the shoulder, a stabbing pain in your ribs, and then… silence.
The dust turned everything gray. You didn't know if you were still breathing or if you just remembered how to do it.
A few meters away, Clint's voice was lost in the noise of battle.
“Where are you?” he growled before speaking into the communicator. “Barton to the team, I have civilians trapped.”
It wasn't true. They weren't civilians. It was you.
He ran without looking back. Each step brought him closer to the vertigo he had been denying for years. He had lived through impossible missions, faced gods, assassins, and armies, but nothing terrified him more than the idea of arriving too late. When he saw you, half-buried under a beam, time stood still.
“No, no, no…” he murmured, removing his bow to push the metal aside with his bare hands. “Don't you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”
He held your head carefully. His voice, which always sounded firm, was now trembling. His eyes were red, his jaw clenched, as if fighting fear was his hardest battle.
“Clint…” you managed to say, coughing. “I'm fine. It just… hurts a little.”
“I don't believe a word you say.” He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob than a laugh. “Always so stubborn.”
The dust continued to fall like dirty snow. And there they were, in the middle of the disaster, breathing the same broken air. Clint checked your shoulder, the scratches, the wounds. Alive. That word repeated in his head like a prayer.
And then it happened. The moment when everything left unsaid became unbearable.
“I swear, if I had lost you…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I don't care about the target, or the bow, or the missions anymore. I don't care about anything if you're not here.”
His fingers brushed your cheek, leaving a mark of dust and tenderness. There was so much fear in his eyes that it hurt to look at him.
“Clint…” you said in a whisper.
“Shut up,” he interrupted, with a trembling half-smile. “Let me say it once before something else explodes. I love you. I have for years, and if I didn't tell you, it's because I was scare to lose the friendship, to lose you.”
The silence that followed was thick, beautiful, eternal.
There was no music, no applause, no fireworks. Only the breathing of two people who had spent a lifetime avoiding the moment when they would look at each other like that. Then you kissed him. Or he kissed you. It didn't matter who started it. It was a soft kiss at first, clumsy, full of dust and adrenaline, but so real that everything else became background noise.
When you parted, the world was still at war. But Clint didn't care.
The city smelled of smoke and rain. A strange aroma, a mixture of wet metal and warm asphalt. Through the window of the S.H.I.E.L.D. shelter, the lights flickered on the puddles like fallen stars. You were lying on a stretcher, bandaged to exhaustion, your clothes clean but your soul still covered in dust.
When everything calmed down, Clint was sitting across from you, his bow leaning against the wall and his knuckles bandaged. He had been there for hours, though he would say only minutes had passed. He looked exhausted, but his eyes had a new clarity, as if he had finally stopped shooting at shadows.
“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked quietly, almost a whisper that he feared would break the stillness.
“Only when I breathe,” you replied, smiling slightly. “But they told me it's better than not breathe.”
Clint let out a silent laugh, the kind that made a mischievous wrinkle form at the corner of his mouth. He handed you a cup of tea that was no longer hot, but the gesture was enough.
The silence stretched on a little. Not uncomfortable, but tender. Like a shared blanket.
“Today I thought I was losing you,” he finally confessed, looking at your hands. “And the first thing that came to mind wasn't fear. It was anger. Because I had never told you before.”
“And yet you did,” you replied.
“Yes.” He sighed. “Shouting, among the ruins. Very romantic, isn't it?"
“Very us.” Your laugh was slight, but enough to make him smile too.
For a moment, there was nothing else. Just the sound of rain hitting the glass and the soft warmth of the room. Clint got up, walked over to you, and sat on the edge of the stretcher. He took your hand with a gentleness that only someone who has spent years measuring the force of their shots possesses.
“You know,” he said, in that hoarse, honest voice that never needed embellishment, “there's this mini-golf course a few blocks from my apartment. We could go there when you're feeling better and then stop by my place for something to eat.”
You rested your head on his shoulder. You didn't need to answer. Words were unnecessary.
Outside, the world kept turning as if nothing had happened. But inside that room, in that moment suspended between exhaustion and tenderness, you both understood that no other battle was needed to feel that you had won.
For the first time in a long time, Clint was pointing to a future together.
Series Summary: After the second Snap, Clint has his family back, but he’s a shadow of the man he once was. Divorced and adrift, he’s offered an unlikely chance at healing: move in with Sasha, a former Avenger who’s withdrawn from the world into a cabin in the forest. As old scars resurface and unspoken truths linger between them, Clint must confront the weight of his past… and maybe, just maybe, find a way to live again, alongside someone who’s been carrying her own burdens in silence.
Series Warnings: References to grief and trauma, PTSD and emotional distress, Divorce and family conflict, Violence (implied / past events), Guilt and self-blame, Isolation and depression, Mentions of death and resurrection, War aftermath / post-Snap consequences, Brief allusions to manipulation and betrayal, Slow-burn emotional healing
Clint Barton POV Soulmate AU, post Battle of New York. Gen but features Clint & Nat, unrequited Clint/Phil, and past Clint/Bobbi. 10 chapters, posting every Wednesday.
Summary:
Before the Battle of New York, Clint had a best friend who trusted him. A potential soulmate who believed in him. A career at which he excelled.
Loki changed everything.
Now Natasha watches Clint with wary eyes. His career may be on hold indefinitely. And there’s a gaping hole where Phil used to be.
Clint’s ability to be ready for anything has never been in question.
The only thing he doesn’t know anymore is which way to aim.
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Future pairings: Peter x Reader, Clint x Nat, Others (spoilers!)
Part 7 of the Hawk Twins
You peeked through your backpack, smiling slightly as you saw new headphones.
“Well, he’s the smartest kid Tony knows.” Clint shrugged. “I’ve only met him once or twice.”
Vin glanced in his, seeing some new art supplies. “Thanks.”
You nodded your thanks and gave him a half smile before looking over your schedule.
Clint smiled. “Sure guys, and if you need anything, just let someone know. Probably Tony, he’s the most up to date with gadgets and shit.”
“Eh. Pretty sure he’s pissed at me.” Vin said casually. “I think. He’s weird.”
“You’re not wrong there.” He chuckled. “He’s probably not pissed, he relates the most I would think.” He shrugged.
You found it weird hearing him sound happy, especially after hearing your mom so upset. You looked down and picked an imaginary piece of lint from the bed, trying to distract yourself.
As you got quiet, Clint cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Night.” You muttered softly, not looking up.
“Night guys.” Clint gave you both a sad smile and left.
“These are really nice oils.” Vin muttered to himself.
Zipping up your bag, you set it on the floor next to your bed and pulled your knees up to your chest. “I don’t want this to be happening.”
Vin nodded. “I can stay here tonight?”
You shook your head. “I don’t want to keep you up if I can’t sleep.” You gave him a half smile. “Besides, don’t you want to be texting Zoe?”
He shrugged. “She seemed done with me in the last messages she sent.”
“I’m sorry, Vin.” You sighed, leaning back against your headboard. “I know you liked her.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I did. It’s okay.” He wanted to be strong for you. “Sorry about Ben, too.” He added, knowing you were down about that.
You gave him a half smile. “That’s alright.” You shrugged. “Guess it’s our life now.” Now you’d be just two outcasts at some school, who lived with the Avengers. What a life. You eventually got out of bed and went to go shower for tomorrow.
Vin took his bag and went to his room, respecting you wanting to be alone. Just because the two of you were always in trouble, didn’t mean he was a shitty brother. If anything, all the two of you had anymore seemed to be each other. It was probably always like that he concluded as he thought about it. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he went to explore a little more. If he was to be living there, he preferred to know all the little nooks and crannies.
You let the water run over you, appreciating the hot water. It wasn’t until you sniffled that you realized you had began crying again. It was something that you hated, and tried to avoid it at all costs. At least you were alone in the shower. Once you felt that you had shed enough tears, you stood straight and decided you were going to look your best tomorrow.
If you were being forced into some snooty school, you’d be damned if you looked a wreck. You began doing your nightly routine, diving head first into bed when you finished. Grabbing the end of your blanket, you pulled it up over your shoulders, letting out a content sigh. Your brother had been right, these mattresses were comfortable. And the sheets were soft.
The next morning, JARVIS was the one to wake you up. “Miss Y/N.” He gently spoke. “It is time for you to get ready.” His voice was rather soothing for a computer system. You pulled the blanket over your head, however. “shall I inform your father he needs to wake you?”
That caused you to blink open your eyes. “No, don’t bother him.” It was better to say that then threaten the AI.
“Coffee is brewing.” He stated. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”
Part of you was tempted to be a smartass, but weren’t awake enough for that. “Is my brother awake?”
“Yes, he is already eating breakfast with Miss Maximoff.”
You rolled your eyes at that, feeling your mood drop a bit. You couldn’t pin point why, but shook it off. You got up and proceeded to get dressed, doing your makeup before walking down. Going straight for the coffee, you hoped you didn’t get suspended your first day. Maybe second.
“Morning to you too.” Vin teased, slurping on cereal.
“Morning.” You replied, making your way to the table with your coffee. You stole a piece of his toast, ignoring the woman.
Vin raised an eyebrow at you, wondering what was going on. He continued whatever conversation he was having with her, both of you walking down to where Clint said to meet. You hadn’t said anymore, one hand gripping your bag strap, the other in your coat pocket.
Clint gave you both a smile. “So a car will take you guys, tinted windows, no affiliates with us.”
“We’re gonna look like mob kids.” You glanced at Vin.
He shoved you. “Don’t ruin my excited vibe.” He teased.
Shoving him back, you chuckled. “Loser.” He helped a bit with your mood.
“Call me if you guys need anything, or don’t. It’s okay.” He offered. “See you after.”
Vin nodded and dragged you towards the car. He let you get in the car first before sliding next to you. “It'llbe okay.” Vin told you, trying to convince himself, as well. “I’m sure they have better lunch.” He tried.
You rolled your eyes and laughed. “You and food.”
He stuck his tongue out. “You and…” He couldn’t think fast enough.
That made you laugh harder. “Too slow.” You nudged him, widening your eyes when you came up to the campus of the new school. “How much did they have to pay them to let us near this place?!”
Vin looked around. “At least there’s no uniform.” He was impressed. You simply nodded your agreement at that.
The area you got dropped off, other kids were too, so you didn’t stand out.
“Excuse me, are you Vincent and Y/N?” A student ran up, Vin recognizing him as the superhero Clint was talking about.
“Yeah.” You nodded.
“You’re Peter, aren’t you?” Vin asked, making you raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah!” Peter grinned, holding out his hand. “I volunteered to show you guys around.” He smiled at you as well.
You gave him an awkward smile in return. “Either they didn’t tell you about us, or you just wanted to see the delinquents…” You figured no sane person wanted to hang out with you two- at least not a damn super hero.
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I think everyone deserves a chance. Mr. Stark told me to be careful but I can handle my own.” He defended.
“Mr. Stark?” You couldn’t help but chuckle at how weird that sounded to you.
Peter blushed. “Y-Yeah!” He had a bounce to his step. “I’ll show you both to your first class…” He led the way.
You and Vin looked at each other and shrugged. “You know if you’re in any of our classes?” Vin asked, curious.
“I’m in math with you both, literature with you Vincent, and chemistry with Y/N.” He stated with ease.
“You didn’t even have to look anything over.” You pointed out. “Do you have a copy of our schedule or something?”
He nodded. “Tony e-mailed me a copy.” He winced as he said his first name, but wanted to impress you both. “Vincent, you’re over there for homeroom.” He pointed across the hall. “And Y/N, right here.”
You nodded, glancing at Vin. “This is gonna be weird not being in homeroom together.” You pouted.
He looked sad also and nodded. “I’ll see you both in math then? Thanks for your help Parker.” He landed a fist on the brunette’s shoulder.
“No problem.” He gave him a wave before smiling at you. “See you for chemistry?”
You nodded. “Later.” You waved before heading for your homeroom, stealing a glance at your brother over your shoulder.
He wiggled his eyebrows at you before smirking. You made a face at him and turned back around. “You guys seem close.” Parker noted.
“We’re twins. Of course we are.” Vin chuckled. “She’s my best friend.” He smiled and looked at Parker. “Heard you’re really smart.”
“You heard right.” He smiled. “But, I’ll tell you more about that when we aren’t surrounded by people who don’t know about my nickname.” He hinted about the Spider-Man thing.
Vin raised his eyebrows but nodded. “Sure thing man. No worries.”
Grinning, Peter motioned behind him. “I gotta get to class. If I’m late, I’m dead.” He chuckled.
Vin smirked as he ran off. “Nerd.” He walked into his own homeroom. Walking in, he looked around, wishing you were still in homeroom back home. He played with his lip ring as he sat down, hoping things went by fast.
For you, they did. Sooner than you expected you found yourself sitting next to Parker in Chem. “You sure your partners not gonna mind?” You asked him.
He shook his head. “Probably be relieved, actually.” He shrugged.
Pulling away slightly, you looked at him with worry. “Why?”
He blushed. “I don’t talk to girls that often.”
“I’m not following.” Why would that have anything to do with chemistry?
He stammered. “He’d be happy that I’m talking to a girl. As a friend. He’s one of my best friends.”
You chuckled, amused. “Right.” You nodded.
“Sorry.” He was bright red at that point and just focused on the notes.
While your brother was the artist, you still had a habit of doodling in the margins of your notebooks, so that’s what you were doing. While giving Peter time to get back to his usual color. You found it kind of heart warming, and smiled to yourself as you doodled.
Every now and then he’d glance over, but quickly looked away, not wanting you to get upset if you caught him watching.
By the time lunch came, you wanted to simply sit and goof off with your brother. Since you were kids, you were almost always together, and hated being apart too long. It made you feel weird and empty, so you nearly tackled him when you saw him. “Hey hot stuff.”
He laughed, automatically grabbing you into a hug. “Have you done something to your hair? New cut?” Vin joked, as that’s something may asked after being away for a bit.
You nuzzled to him. “As a matter of fact I did.” You teased. “So, as good of food as you hoped?”
“Better. Pizza doesn’t taste like cardboard.” He laughed.
“Can’t complain then.” You smiled. “How’re you doin?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t wanted to deck anyone. You?”
“Same here. Parker has helped. He talks so much I don’t have time to worry.” You chuckled.
Vin wiggled his eyebrows at you. “Could do worse.” He joked, laughing when you pushed him away by the face.
“Eat your pizza.” You chuckled and ate some yourself.
You were surprised when Parker was waiting with you for the car. “Do they give you a ride, too?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No, not usually. I’m going with you guys because Tony asked if I wanted to come for dinner.”
You smiled. “Nice, happy to have someone our age there.” You told him. “Vin’s kinda attached him to…Nat, I think it was?”
Parker nodded. “I call her Miss Widow. She’s terrifying.”
“You’re just too sweet Parker.” Vin ruffled his hair as he walked up next to him. “She’s not terrifying at all.”
Parker blushed.
“Don’t listen.” You nudged him. “He just has a crush on her, that’s all.” You smirked at Vin.
“Oh you want to talk about crushes?” Vin smirked right back, but the car had approached.
You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Ben doesn’t count.”
“Wasn’t talking about Ben.” He muttered.
As you got settled into the car, you nudged him in the ribs with your elbow. “Who’s Ben?” Parker asked, curious.
“A-An old friend at our other school.” You blushed.
Vin winked at Parker and made a suggestive face. “Yeah, a ‘friend’ of ours. More hers, though.” He chuckled when the blush on your cheeks deepened.
Parker nodded and looked down shyly, playing with the zipper on his backpack.
What do you mean you're spending the entire summer killing Hawkeye? 😭😭 hes a baby
(Real talk - mood, angst is amazing)
So a few months ago, I signed up for the Kill-a-Character Bingo. Multi-fandom event, runs all year. I have no idea what compelled me to sign up for it; I don't usually write characters dying, I like to think of myself as strictly fluff and romance and happy endings.
So maybe I was looking to stretch myself a little? I don't know.
Anyway, you have to pick a single character to kill for your card, and then you kill them once per story/chapter according to what the card specifies.
I like Hawkeye, I've always liked Hawkeye, whether he's 616-based or MCU. And I don't write him near often enough, so I figured... well... if I go for a full blackout, and kill him every time, I'll have written 25 stories with Clint Barton, right?
So that's what I'm doing this summer. My 10yo loves the pool; we have been there every day since it opened except for yesterday when it rained and we went to see Lilo & Stitch instead. (And the day before, he was there for nine hours.) He's on the swim and dive team, we will be there just about every day until mid-July.
When I'm at the pool, I will work on my KAC Bingo story--and only when I am at the pool. I'm posting as I go; there are currently three chapters and a fourth one that will be edited and posted the next time I go to the pool (probably tomorrow). The pool closes Labor Day weekend; regardless of how close I get to a blackout, that's when I'll wrap it up.
It will (eventually) be Winterhawk. It will (hopefully) be darkly funny. It will (probably not) make sense. And sure, Clint's gonna die in every chapter... but I'm aiming for that happy ending anyway. Or at least bittersweet.
It's called Killing Clint Barton. It's my summer project. So far, it's been enormous fun. For me. Not Clint. Obviously.
