#clintverse

Slow but not impossible, and bit by bit she rememberd things about Asgard, things about her long life, her friends, her achievements. Piece by piece they were creating a whole, even though she knew the full image was a long was off.

Today she’d been up since before daybreak. Crosslegged on the couch and waiting still and silent in the rising dawn light. Impossibly still. She was a statue as she waited for Clint Barton to arise and join her for the day. What she had chalked up to urges and dreams were clearly more than idle thoughts. No, these weren’t dreams brought on by too many hours of closeness, they were memories.

Lovers hands and a half finished room. She can see exposed beams above her and feel the callouses of his hands as he-

This time it was too clear to keep brushing things away. 

She finally heard Clint’s footsteps and before he could greet her she spoke, still watching straight ahead of her, not a single strand of hair out of place.

“We were lovers.”

↳ She kept him to herself.

Sif rolls the bullet casing back and forth in a small repeating path against the worn wood of the table. The low firelight catches off the metal as it moves under her fingers. Small smooth absent movements. She watches herself do it, back and forth and her mind is neither clear nor filled. The knowledge of Clint a quiet buzz, but not yet a fervor.

Thor has returned with Loki some weeks ago and told them all the tale of the invasion of New York. Sif played as if she did not know Clint as any more than an acquaintance.

She always hated lies and lying. But there was something about her time with Clint that she did not want to share, and there was little reason for them to know. Her friends knew of her time on Midgard, and they assumed it had been one of work and meeting mortals. They had not guessed at a love affair. Her, having a dalliance with a human.

It meant so much more to her than any dalliance. So when Thor had told of Loki taking over Clint’s mind she had to steel herself, and try not to reveal her heart. She could react as friend. She could be overly concerned.

She could not be a woman in love.

Clint must be happy Loki was imprisoned, but the cost of it seemed so high for him. Maybe happy wasn’t even the right word. It seemed too light against all that had happened. Clint didn’t deserve any of what he had endured, and there was an ache of a question in her heart about whether he’d been chosen by Loki because she’d been close to him. If Loki had found out...it’d make sense.

The bullet casing gets harder to look at. Her eyes go blurred even as her hand keeps moving. She misses him.

It’s been four months. Almost as long as they’d been together. Another two and it would be. It felt so short now, but lost in him, living that life, the days had felt beautiful and endless. For a little while, at least. A little while, before the end had started closing in.

Duty had called, as she knew it would, and in the end she had only the chance to kiss him one last time. One last time, knowing it would be the last, and unable to promise anything else. She had left Midgard with little more than what she’d came. Her bag heavier with mortal garments and what she now played with. Her tokens that were solely of him.

If she closes her eyes she can smell him. Earth and oranges and sawdust. She can feel him warm and sturdy at her back teaching her to shoot. The light touch of him at her wrist adjusting her aim.

“Sif?”

Her eyes snap open, and hand snaps shut around the bullet casing. “Friends! You’ve kept me waiting,” she chides as if she has not been torn from memories both wonderful and achingly sad. She stops leaning on her knee and takes her foot down from the bench so they can sit with her. She quietly hides away the casing as everyone sits and the chattering and calls for drinks start.

Clint’s not for anyone but her. Maybe she’s making it harder on herself; she can’t be sure, but she doesn’t want to share their story yet.

She studies him. Green-gold eyes trace across the lines of his face, and Sif is quiet as she takes Clint in. There are creases too small for mortal eyes to notice, but she does. She sees. There are signs even mortals must be able to tell, and it makes her heart heavy to know she missed so much. Their limited time together, and she has missed years.

A hand reaches to brush back a piece of his hair, and she lingers in the movement.

[Clintverse]

She remembers dust. She remembers fading, and Clint’s face, the fear in her voice watching her baby boy turn to ash in his highchair, smears of applesauce on his bib.

Then she’s just…there. Standing. No dust, or pain, or anything else out of place.

Ullr cries a moment later, still in his highchair, bib on, and she rushes to comfort him. She checks him over quickly, he doesn’t seem injured, he doesn’t seem to be anything other than a child upset his lunch has been interrupted. He’s fine. He’s alive. Everything’s going to be fine.

Except Clint’s not there.

Clint should be two paces to her right and he’s gone. “Clint…” she calls, testing waters as she takes in the kitchen and knows that this isn’t quite the room she was in a moment ago.

There’s no food on the table, the dishes aren’t right. The chairs aren’t in the same place nor are the things on the counters. The light coming in through the windows is wrong. She glances to the living room and Ullr’s toys are still there though.

“Clint!” She calls again, louder and she has to hush Ullr, bouncing him and stroking his hair to keep him happy. She can smell dead leaves on the breeze and something is horribly wrong. Wrong time of year. Just how long has it been?

What if it happened to Clint too.

But she’s here, and Ullr’s here, so that means Clint should come back too. Except she’s Asgardian and Ullr’s half Asgardian, and Sif knows all too well magic works differently on her kind. It makes her heart clench in fear.

But if the time is this different he might have gone to get help. He’s likely with the Avengers. That’s the most reasonable explanation she tells herself. Sif does a sweep of the house anyway, calls out to the yard. Ullr’s room door is closed, but everything inside untouched. Her things are all in place in her and Clint’s own bedroom, yet as she moves though their home she can’t shake the feeling she’s in a tomb. Certain things are exactly how she remembers, but everything feels as though it’s been sitting empty. Waiting. Finally she goes to find her cell phone, something she is still only mildly used to, and dials Clint’s number.

She shifts Ullr to her hip and waits impatiently for the ringing. Please.

The line picks up and she hears a breath before his voice breaks through.

“Sif?”

Something is so wrong.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m with Ullr,” she says right away. “I don’t know what’s happening, maybe you know more, but I’m safe, we’re both safe. I don’t know what that was, but tell me you’re alright.”

“Yeah,” his voice scratches, low and it’s harder to decipher emotion over the phone, but it worries her,  “I’m-”

Then he’s cut off with noise, loud, ringing noises that sound like an explosion. Like crashing and falling.

“Clint!” She yells out, but the line goes dead on her. Her breathing stops and she doesn’t have any recourse. She doesn’t even know where he is.

Ullr starts crying.

     Sif doesn’t much care for mortal television unless she’s watching with Clint, sharing in the experience, but she has learned about their news in her time and finds herself at an impasse. 

      Before Clint left they had seen news that had heralded the call from Captain Rogers. A bombing and this man Barnes, all of it spiraling from that first phone call about these ‘accords’.

Ullr Barton Sifson