Chapter Text
At the end of the dingy hallway, the faintly warped wooden door swung open on the third knock. Jessica Jones was already frowning before she’d opened it, and the expression only intensified when she saw who was on the other side. “Fucking hell,” she said. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Clint said. “Nice to see you too, Jess.”
Jessica scowled at him. “The fuck are you doing here? You’re gonna scare away all my clients looking like that, get in here.”
Clint privately thought that if someone made it to Jess’ office, one kind of beat-up guy was probably less likely to scare them away than what looked to be an entire roll of caution tape wrapped over the space that usually contained a frosted glass pane in the door. He closed it gingerly, making sure not to disturb the makeshift covering, and stepped inside.
“You want me to fix your door?”
Jessica looked up from rummaging through the drawer under her desk for long enough to shoot him a poisonous glare. Man, he’d really missed that. “You think I can’t install one fucking window on my own? It got shot out literally yesterday, give me a break.”
“Jus’ offering,” Clint said, crossing the room to her. He stood with his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward and out of place. The office looked the same as the last time he’d been here. “So. Uh. How are you?”
With a victorious noise, Jess emerged from under her desk with a half-empty bottle of jack. “Fucking peachy. You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
Jess dumped the dregs of a cup of coffee into a nearby plant and refilled the mug with a generous helping of whiskey. She kept the bottle for herself.
“I woulda drank the coffee,” Clint protested mildly, but he accepted the proffered cup anyways.
“Yeah, because you’re disgusting.” Um? Pot? Meet kettle?
“Well, you slept with me,” Clint muttered, mostly into his cup. He winced almost immediately after. Jesus.
With a rattle that shook the entire desk, Jess slammed the bottle down, scoffing. “Ok, seriously? Why the fuck are you here, Clint?”
Well. That hadn’t taken long. Clint fought not to hunch his shoulders like a kid. “I dunno. I just –” He could’ve said anything. I was in the area. I wanted to see you, know how you were doing, know that you were ok. I wanted a fucking drink. But that wouldn’t have been fair. And she would know, anyway. He said, “Do you think I’m a bad person?”
After he could finally no longer bear the silence, he looked up for her reaction. Jess put the bottle down and swallowed a huge mouthful, breathing deeply. Then she said, “What the fuck kind of a question is that?”
“Jess.”
“You think I’d have any room to judge, if you were?”
“Jess.”
“Fucking hell. No. Jesus Christ. No, I don’t think you’re a bad person. You kill someone, or something?”
“I kill people all the time,” Clint said blankly.
“Well yeah, but. You know.” Jess made an awkward sort of shrugging gesture, grimacing. “Like. Did you kill a good guy.”
Clint squinted at her. Was that a dig? Finally, he said, “You been talkin’ to Murdock?”
“No.” Jess squinted back at him. “Shit, did you really?”
“No! I just. Murdock. Uh.”
Jess held both hands up, shaking her head rapidly, nose wrinkling with disgust. “No, nope, I do not want to hear about you and fuckin’ Murdock.”
Clint winced, ducking into his mug, his ears burning. “Ah. You, uh. You heard about that?”
“Yeah. Don’t make that face. I’m not jealous, you weirdo.”
“Didn’t think you were,” Clint lied. Point in the I’m a bad person column, maybe?
Jess humphed, eyeing him a moment. Then she shrugged and said, “I was fucking mad as hell when I first found out, though. Almost broke Murdock’s nose.”
“Wait, what?” She was mad at Matt? Not Clint? He blinked at her blankly. “Why?”
Jess sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I’m too sober for this. Jesus.” Before Clint could fumble through an apology, or possibly a denial, she said, “because I don’t think you’re a bad person. Ok? And Murdock’s a fucking piece of work.”
For some reason, Clint felt the need to protest. “He’s a good guy.”
Jess snorted. “Yeah, he’s a fucking saint. He’s also a huge goddamn asshole, and you, Clint – you’re.” She paused. “Well.”
“Weak,” Clint offered. Maybe a little unthinkingly.
“Soft,” Jess corrected. “You’re soft.”
“That’s literally the exact same thing.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Soft is good. Soft is – you know what it is?” She pointed at him, snapping her fingers triumphantly. She was, possibly, already a little drunk. Which was kind of impressive. How long had that initial swig been, anyways? Jess proclaimed, very seriously, “You’re like a girl.”
“Uh,” Clint said.
“Not in a sexist way,” Jess assured him flippantly.
“I was thinking homophobic, actually.”
Jess ignored him. “It’s ‘cause you’re an underdog. You know? You were a kid in a room full of adults, and they fucked you up so bad you had to kill people about it. And now you’re a normal guy in a room full of supers. It’s simple as all hell. Like Gone Girl.”
“I’m not a girl,” Clint said, bewildered. Except – now was he being sexist? He didn’t want to be sexist. He was just so confused. “Also, I never read that book. Have you, like, thought about this?”
“Yeah, me neither, I don’t read.” Jessica waved a breezy hand, dismissing that. “No, this is revelatory stuff. It just makes sense. ‘S why we’re so much better as friends.”
Ok, Clint was being friend-zoned and girl-zoned right now? This was so weird. He took a long gulp of whisky and said, “I don’t really know how we got here.”
“You’re just along for the ride,” Jess said cryptically. “Like always. World keeps spinning.”
Yeah, sure. What the hell. Clint took another drink. God, he hated whisky. At least this stuff went down better than that swill Stark had served him. Rich people were so weird. “What makes someone a girl, anyways?”
Jess shrugged. “Hell if I know. Life’s greatest mystery. What makes someone a bad person?”
And that – well, to be honest, that kind of stumped him.
“Hell if I know,” Clint echoed finally. Jess raised the bottle to him, a twisted facsimile of a toast, and grinned.
Clint left Jess’ place still pretty confused, mildly tipsy, and with a stilted, slightly unrealistic promise to do it again sometime soon. The drinking and talking, that is. Hopefully without the moral freak-out and subsequent questions.
Clint hoped they would do it again. He felt weirdly — settled, maybe. Calmer, even though he hadn’t gotten an answer to his questions at all, and he hadn’t even been there all that long. He liked Jess. When they weren’t trying to feign some functional version of a romantic relationship, or sleeping together, they actually got along pretty well. He felt kind of guilty that it’d taken his life falling to pieces around him to actually muster up the courage to reach out, and was trying not to think of this whole thing as some shitty, one-sided excuse for a goodbye. For one thing, Jess would be really angry if she knew. For another — well. Clint just really didn’t want it to be.
He’d parked his car around the corner, and was jimmying open the stuck door when his phone began to ring in his pocket. Without looking, Clint flipped it open, sticking it between his shoulder and neck in a way that angled the speaker close to the microphone in his hearing aid. “Yeah?”
“Clint?” It was a woman’s voice, the familiarity distorted through the shitty phone speakers.
Clint wracked his brain for the short list of people who had this number, before saying, a little bewildered, “Simone?”
“Yeah. Hi. Is this a good time?”
Clint finally got the car door open and slid into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, it’s fine. What’s up?”
“I didn't know whether I should call. It’s, um. It’s only you mentioned calling you if anything went on with Ivan?”
Clint’s stomach dropped. “What happened?” he demanded, already mentally scouting out the best way to Bed-Stuy from his current location, tallying the weapons he had in his trunk and the sore spots on his body he’d have to fight around. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine! I’m not hurt or anything. I’m fine.”
The panic lessened somewhat, but didn’t disappear. “Maddy?”
“She’s fine, too. We’re both fine.”
Clint let out a breath, gripping the steering wheel hard. He should probably start the car, drive over anyways – but his hearing aids weren’t good enough to pick up a conversation over speakerphone, and he couldn’t afford to get stopped by the cops for driving with his phone in his hand. He had so many unpaid tickets. “What’s going on?”
There was a moment of silence over the phone line. Then, “I’m still not sure I should be calling. But I didn’t know what else to do. It’s just — gosh, this isn’t right. I shouldn’t put this on you, I shouldn’t –”
“Simone,” Clint said sharply, cutting her off as she started to ramble. “Just tell me what’s happening. Ivan did something?”
There was another beat of silence. Then, “He evicted us. Tripled the rent for everyone in the building. I don’t know why, but it’s – something is going on. I think – I have a really weird feeling about it.”
Clint stared sightlessly out the window for a moment, processing this. Finally, he said, “Where are you?”
“At a motel a few blocks away. Since this morning.”
“And Maddy’s safe?”
“Yes. Confused, but fine. Clint – ”
“I’ll deal with it,” Clint said, cutting her off. “Don’t worry. It’s gonna be ok.”
“No – Clint. Please don’t do anything rash. Just come here, we’ll figure it out, go to the cops, we–”
“The cops won’t help,” Clint said. “No one will.”
“Clint, honey, please–”
“Tell Maddy ‘hi’ for me, ok? And stay where you are. Stay safe. I’ll call you – later.”
“Clint–!”
Clint hung up. He tossed his phone into the passenger seat and sat in complete silence for one beat, two. Then he thumped his fist hard enough against the steering wheel that the whole thing rattled, pain skittering up his arm and into his shoulder. “Fuck,” Clint said, through gritted teeth. “Fuck!”
Then he took a deep breath, shook out his arms, and keyed the ignition.
The two men posted outside the entrance of the Chinese restaurant looked up from their cigarettes. Clint raised a hand in greeting. The dog at their feet thumped its tail against the concrete, recognizing him. “Hey,” he said, when it pulled at the lead, attempting to burrow its snout under Clint’s shirt. “Haven’t got any pizza this time, sorry.”
“Keep walking, bro,” One of the tracksuits sneered, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Is private meeting. No invite for you.”
Clint scratched the dog on its head. “What’s this?” he said, making a noise of exaggerated surprise. From behind the dog’s ear, he produced a milkbone. Did some jazz hands. “Not as good as pizza, but…”
“You hear me, bro? I say get lost.”
The dog grinned a happy doggy grin, hopping a little in place. Clint tossed the treat into its waiting mouth and looked up while it was busy chomping down. “I’m here to see Ivan,” he said, straightening from his crouch and shrugging the bow more securely over his shoulder. “Got some stuff I’d like to chat about.”
“Too bad. Ivan don’t take visitors right now.”
“Ok,” Clint said. He scratched the side of his nose and shrugged. “That’s cool. Problem is, I’m not really asking.”
The man took a menacing step forward, nudging the dog forcefully out of the way with the side of his boot. Sticking his hand in his jacket, he flashed the semi-concealed hilt of a loaded gun. “I give you one last chance, bro. You leave, or I shoot you in face.”
Clint said, “How ‘bout option three?”
He left the two tracksuits groaning on the sidewalk, alive but incapacitated, and tossed the dog another treat before strolling into the building. He found Ivan in the gambling den in the back, in the middle of a game of cards. The place smelled like body odour and tobacco, and the cigarette smoke in the air was so heavy it sat over the room like a haze of fog. Weren’t places like this supposed to be fancy, filled with people in suits sipping on champagne? This was just a gross room filled with creeps in trackpants.
One by the door spotted him first, glancing up from his cards and squinting. “You’re not pizza guy,” he said, drawing the attention of the others in the room.
Clint stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged his shoulders. “Would you believe me if I said I was here to play?”
“Is family game, bro. And you don’t look much like family t’a me.” There was a round of raucous, somewhat drunken laughter.
Clint ignored that. “Hey Ivan,” he called loudly across the room. “Got some stuff I need to talk t’you about.”
“Fuck no,” Ivan said, standing up from his chair. There was a heavy scowl on his jowly face. “What the hell you doing here, bro? You interrupt my game? You owe me money and you come here? Fuck off, bro. Get the hell out.”
Clint swiped a deck off the table, shuffling it casually between his hands. Breaking the spines, softening them up. The movement practiced, sure. “Heard you tripled the rent for the building. Kicked the tenants out. Gotta say, man – that’s not cool. Not cool at all.”
“Is in the lease,” Ivan said. “They sign. Is all kosher, bro. Now fuck off, now.” The other men in the room were starting to shift, some rising from their seats, grabbing weapons, pulling out guns. Sensing something in the air, maybe – or just the look on Clint’s face. Probably wasn’t a good one.
Clint wasn’t freaked out, though. He was calm. In control.
“Those people, they got lives,” he said. “Y’know? They’re normal. They got kids. Jobs. They don’t deserve this.”
Ivan gave Clint a look like he was an idiot, almost pitiable in his naivety. “What’s deserve? They sign lease. Maybe I want empty building, huh? Maybe I want to sell building. Make more money, bro. Clear tenants out. Not my problem.”
Not his problem. Yeah. Not Clint’s problem either. But, for some reason, he was still here.
“I’m not gonna let you do this.” Clint’s voice was steady. He wasn’t thinking about his anger, or the unfairness, or the ache in his limbs. He was thinking, weirdly, about Bruce Banner. Bomb before detonation. “It ain’t right.”
Ivan’s chair screeched across the floor. “Oh yeah, bro? Fuck off. What ch’you gonna do about it?” Face red and sweat-slick, mustache twitching with rage and an angry sort of amusement. “Huh? Not fair – ha! Life not fair, bro. Fuck you gonna do about it?”
There’s a thing that happens, when you’re a kid in a corner and the air of a fight changes. When it’s not about winning, anymore. When everything becomes about survival, kill or be killed, hit or be hit. It’s like this – everything becomes a weapon. Even you. Body’s not a body anymore. Just meat. Just something solid. Everything becomes something to hit with. That’s what Barney used to say, anyways. Clint’s not sure the first time he heard it. But when he thinks about Barney, when he tries to remember his voice – that’s what he hears first.
Make everything something to hit with. And hit them until they stop.
“I dunno,” Clint said. “Prob’ly something dumb.”
Cards didn’t make good weapons. Not really. They were just paper. But with enough force – well. With enough force, anything could hurt.
Clint flicked the first card between thumb and forefinger, hit the first gunman in the neck with enough force that his finger twitched on the trigger and sent a bullet spinning into the gut of his neighbour. In here, nobody could shoot at him without hitting each other. They tried anyways, of course – but it just made a mess. Bullets flying, and cards. Couple’a arrows. Blood spilled on the floor, dying red the already sticky grime of the linoleum. Clint’d been here before. One battle or another – at a certain point, it all just blended together. He was old hat at this. Burnt out on violence at 22.
He waded through a sea of cramped bodies, throwing elbows to throats, knees to groins. A lamp smashed against somebody’s skull; a chair broken over a back. Everything a weapon. Everything something to hit with.
Hit them until they stop.
Ivan was on the ground – hit his head, maybe, or shot somewhere under the glare of red velour. Clint didn’t care. He grabbed him by the gaudy collar of that ugly fucking tracksuit and hauled him up, bringing their faces close. He blinked blood out of his eye and ignored the man’s panicked scrabbling at the grip near his throat. Eyes wide and full of panic, Ivan said, “Bro–”
“Shut up.” Clint kissed his teeth. “Just shut up, man. I don’t care. You mess with me – I don’t care. But those people don’t fuckin’ deserve it. They’re just people.”
“Fuck you.” Ivan laughed wildly. Clint’d give him that – he stuck to all that bravado even when so obviously freaked out. “I sell building, bro. This the way the world works. You don’t like it? Nobody cares. Is bigger than you. You kill me? Somebody else take my place.”
“Then I won’t kill you,” Clint said, deadly calm. “I don’t need to kill you.”
Ivan sneered. “You think you can keep whole place safe? Just you? You just one guy, bro. Just one guy in stupid outfit.”
Ivan’s eyes flicked momentarily over Clint’s shoulder, then back to his face. Something in his expression – shifted, maybe. “You hear this?” he said, voice suddenly filled with a strange sort of glee. “You hear circus in town?”
“Uh,” Clint said. “What?”
Ivan laughed again. “Cir-cus,” he said, sounding the word out slowly. “Is in town. You fucked now, yeah?”
Clint turned. On the other side of the room, clad head to toe in that ridiculous fucking black-and-white outfit, Bullseye raised one hand in a cheerful wave. In the other hand, he held a gun.
“Oh, fuck off,” Clint said blankly.
Bullseye shot him in the head.
…Haha. Yeah, no. But wouldn’t that be crazy?
Clint dove forward into a roll, and, snatching a nearby broken-off chair leg from the ground, hurled it spinning overhand to smack against Bullseye’s inner wrist. The gun clattered to the ground before it could let off a second shot. Clint sprang to his feet just to immediately throw himself backwards again, out of the way of the empty bottle flung his way. It ricocheted off the floor and caught him in the back of the head, sending him stumbling forwards and almost tripping over the body of a nearby fallen tracksuit. Fucking ow.
Fighting Bullseye sucked. It was always so weird. Just the both of them throwing stuff and dodging; dodging and throwing stuff. Sometimes one of them would throw something and the other would throw something back, intercepting the first thing mid-air and sending it spinning off-course. Sometimes one of them would throw something and the other would dodge, pick it up, and throw the same thing back. Like the universe’s weirdest, deadliest game of Gaga Ball.
Before Bullseye could find another thing to throw at him, Clint pulled his bow up and shot, sinking an arrow into the junction of the guy’s shoulder. Bullseye grunted in pain, then – like a total freak, broke the shaft off and sent it hurtling back.
“What the fuck!” Clint yelled, ducking and rolling away from the arrow flung through the air. It hit the wall with enough force to sink in and stay there, right where Clint’s head had been a split-second prior. Fucking adamantium bone super-strength bullshit. Clint sprang to his feet, letting another arrow loose and not waiting to see if it made contact before darting out of the room. He heard the sounds of Bullseye skidding out after him and, acting on instinct, spun to the right just in time to avoid the knife whistling through the air. “Dude, what the hell!”
“You talk too much,” Bullseye said, voice gleeful. “It’ll be fun to carve your tongue out of your skull!”
Ok, what? Freak.
“Did you seriously join the circus?” Clint demanded, unable to help himself. “That’s my thing!”
“Let’s make your thing dying!”
That wasn’t a good come-back at all! Maybe Clint wouldn’t hate fighting Bullseye so much if the guy wasn’t so lame about it. Seriously. He gave a bad name to sharp-shooters everywhere.
“Wait, wait.” Clint made a T with his hands, bringing his arm up just enough to catch the blade of a second knife as it sliced through the air. Again –ow. It was a shallow cut, though, so he ignored it. “Time-out!”
Bullseye came up short. He cocked his head, one hand on his hip, the other limply dangling a knife in the air like a high-society lady with one of those fancy cigarette holders. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, panting. “Can we just talk about this? Like – I get you’re mad about that thing in Madripoor, but I really think you’re taking the whole thing a little far. You already stabbed Double-D and we’re like, kind of a thing now, so aren’t we even? I didn’t even come after you! I left your stupid fucking circus alone!” Granted, he hadn’t exactly known Bullseye had been a part of it until now, which probably would’ve changed his course of action — but still.
Bullseye laughed, loud and surprised. “You’re an idiot!”
Clint frowned, insulted. “Uh.”
“You seriously think this a grudge match? You think I give a singular shit about you, to come after you without incentive?” Wow, ok. That was kind of hurtful, actually. Bullseye said, “You’re my mission. I’m being paid, you idiot. The Russians hired me to take you out.”
“Oh my god,” Clint said. “Ivan hired you? What the fuck!”
“Yeah, to kill you. So let’s get back to that, shall we?” Bullseye flipped the knife in his hand and took a menacing step forward.
Clint yelped and brought his bow up, already drawn. Bullseye froze, knife poised to throw. It was a stand-off now. They both knew Clint was faster – that he’d have time to twist and take the knife in a non-lethal part of his body. Bullseye wouldn’t.
But they also both knew Clint wouldn’t shoot. It wasn’t the first time they’d been here. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Well. Unless Bullseye actually managed to kill him, this time. Which wasn’t looking particularly unlikely.
Quickly, Clint said, “It’s literally only 60k. You’re telling me Ivan hired you to kill me for less than 60k?” That was going to be so embarrassing if it was true. Clint was a world-class mercenary! He was the greatest marksman in the world! Probably!
But Bullseye just looked confused. “Um, what?” he said. “No. Wait – do you actually still think this is just about the debt money?”
“Uh.”
“You do! Holy shit, you’re so dumb. It’s not about the money, nimrod.” Nimrod?! What the hell? “It’s never been about the money! These guys just want you out of the way.”
Wait, what?
Clint said, “Oh.”
Oh.
Hm. Yeah. Ok. That made sense.
That made a lot of fucking sense, actually. Ivan didn’t care about the 60k. These people weren’t a street gang. They owned Clint’s fucking building. 60k was nothing. Clint had known that, too. He’d just thought – he’d thought – Well. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Clint hadn’t thought. Because at the end of the day, at least to him, it was still a lot of goddamn money. Money Clint didn’t have. And they knew that. Everyone did. Clint, famously, was a total dirtbag.
A lot of things suddenly became a whole lot clearer. The most important being: Ivan had expected Clint to run. He’d been banking on it. He’d needed a reason to get Clint out of the city – ideally, out of the country – and had been handed one gift-wrapped in the form of Barney’s debt. Because, at the end of the day, Clint wasn’t just an idiot who couldn’t handle his finances. No – he was something worse. Clint Barton, at least to the Russian mob, was really fucking annoying. Obviously he was. He was a vigilante! He regularly made their lives, like, one million times harder. Clint had probably lost them way more than 60k in busted drug shipments alone. Of course they wanted him gone!
But Clint hadn’t run. Had barely even thought of it. Why? Because of some misplaced sense of pride? Everyone knew Clint didn’t have any pride. …Right? But if not that, then what? Because he liked New York? Because he liked his friends, and the city, and the nosy, infuriating kindness of his neighbours? Because Barney had been in trouble, and it was Clint’s duty to help him? Because he wanted Barney to come back? Because he wanted to stay?
He really couldn’t tell you. But maybe the Why didn’t matter, in the end. Maybe Clint was just sick of his entire life functioning on somebody else’s terms. Maybe he didn’t want to roll over and take it, along for the ride, the world spinning and Clint always just stuck holding on for dear life.
“Wow,” Clint said, in the blank tone of someone whose entire worldview had just come crashing down around them. “I really am a fucking idiot.”
“Yup,” Bullseye said. Then he threw another knife at him.
And things kind of devolved from there.
Despite what one might think, Clint didn’t actually spend that much time in jail. He prided himself on his ability to slip out of handcuffs as well as any carnie who’d spent the greater part of his teenage years with a gigantic crush on the circus’ resident escape artist, and had absolutely zero qualms about throwing himself out of a moving vehicle, especially when it was a squad car.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t all that much escaping he could do when unconscious.
They’d given him some ice for his head, which he couldn’t remember hitting, and a limp-looking, soggy turkey sandwich Clint passed on to the old guy muttering to himself in the corner of the holding cell. This got Clint yelled at, but seeing as his hearing aids were completely busted, it was easy enough to play dumb and pretend he had no idea what any of the cops were saying.
Clint found an empty spot on the bench and hunkered down, pressing the slowly melting plastic baggie of ice against his temple and staring blankly at the ground. There was a little puddle of half-dried vomit a couple feet from his shoe, and some suspicious rusted stains surrounding the bench. Around him, the indistinguishable voices of the other detainees were muffled and distorted, like Clint’s head had been stuffed with cotton and shoved underwater alongside a whistling tea-kettle. At first a few of them had tried to talk to him, but Clint had just shaken his head and pointed at his ears until they’d given up and left him alone.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, head down with his shoulders hunched before he felt the tap on his shoulder, but by then the ice had melted into an only slightly cold bag of water, and his head was pounding in tune to his heartbeat. Clint looked up. One of the guys in the cell pointed towards the door, where an impatient looking cop was standing with a tablet in her hands, and shrugged.
‘Clinton Barton,’ the cop said again, frowning. Then he held up the tablet, screen pointing outwards, Clint’s name typed out in bold black letters.
Clint got up.
‘You’re Clinton Barton?’ The voice-to-text registered it on the screen as Clinton Burton.
Clint nodded. The cop looked a little put-out at the lack of a verbal response, but didn’t press it. Clint hadn’t said a word since he’d been arrested – they probably thought he was mute, as well as deaf. But it made him uncomfortable, not knowing how loud to speak, the muffled vibrations of his vocal chords as he talked. Barney’d always said he’d sounded like a – well. Insert derogatory slur here. He figured it was better just to stay silent.
‘Come with me. You’re being released.’
Clint paused at the entrance to the cell, confused, but the cop just grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him forwards. Clint stumbled, but righted himself before he could smash his nose against the cell wall. He scowled at the cop, who blinked impassively back at him and gave him another shove.
God, he hated the police.
Clint entered the room he was led to with full confidence, self-assured, like he didn’t know there was a non-zero chance there was a member of the tracksuit draculas waiting on the other side. But the person waiting inside wasn’t a Russian. Or. Well.
‘Thank you,’ Romanov said, nodding at the cop. ‘You can leave.’ She signed along as she spoke, movements only a little stilted.
Clint blinked. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised – of course she knew ASL, she was a super-spy. But for some reason that’s what caught him off-guard most of all, even more than the fact of her being there in the first place. She wasn’t even addressing him – but she still signed. People didn’t really do that, even when they did know sign. It was a strange kindness.
Once the cop had left, closing the door behind him, she turned to the baffled-looking Clint. Clearly, she signed, [Hurt] [?]
Clint stared at her. After a moment, he signed back, [Not hurt]. Hesitated a beat. Then, [I lip-read]. [You don’t need to sign].
Romanov shrugged. ‘Is it easier?’ [Easy] [-er] [?]
Clint continued to stare. [Are you breaking me out of jail?]
Romanov rolled her eyes, like she thought that was a stupid question. ‘Here.’ She presented him with a sleek metal case, about the size of his palm, which he took almost on autopilot. Clint raised his eyebrows, but the expression on her face gave nothing away. [Open].
Hesitantly, he opened it. Inside were two equally sleek looking pieces of dark plastic, smooth and capped in silicone, like in-ear headphones with the wires cut-off. They were so unfamiliar that it took Clint a second to realize what he was looking at. When he did, he looked back up at Romanov, squinting.
She finger-spelled, S-T-A-R-K.
Clint looked back at the tiny, expensive-looking hearing aids. He’d never seen anything like them. He wasn’t even sure they were on the market. Stark must’ve designed them special, and likely recently. They probably worked like a dream. They probably shot laser-beams, and had bluetooth, and contained a downloaded playlist of Metallica’s greatest hits. They probably cost more than Clint’s entire life.
Without giving himself time to regret it, he shook his head and handed them back.
Romanov raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. She didn’t look all that surprised. She just slipped the case back into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a pair of BTEs, presenting those next. They were almost identical to his old ones, down to the bright purple Clint had haggled his hearing-aid dealer for off the children’s catalogue. He hesitated only a second before hooking them over the shells of his ears and tucking in the retention anchor.
“Good?” Romanov asked.
Clint winced, dialing down the volume a little. “Yeah.” It was weird to hear his voice again after so long without speaking. Clint cleared his throat and said, “Better than my old ones.”
“Hm. He can’t really help himself.”
“Stark made these?”
“When he found out you were deaf.” At the look on Clint’s face, she rolled her eyes again, this time in a smiling sort of way. “Don’t think about it too hard.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“He’s a strange guy.” That was an understatement, if Clint had ever heard one. Romanov continued, “They said you didn’t have anything on you when you were brought in.”
Had Bullseye seriously stolen Clint’s fucking wallet? God, he hated that guy. “My bow?”
“In the car. You ready?”
No. Not at all. Not one singular fucking bit.
Clint said, “Sure.”
Romanov did not drive him to Stark’s tower, or to a top-secret prison for dangerous criminals. Instead, she took him to a bar. A closed bar.
“Cage owes me a favour,” she said, shimmying open the lock on the front door and deftly disarming the security system. “I’ll leave a note.”
“Ok,” Clint said. He was too tired to muster up the energy to be confused anymore. He’d almost fallen asleep in the passenger seat of Romanov’s fancy car, especially once she’d casually handed over his bow and quiver of arrows like there was no reason he shouldn’t have a loaded deadly weapon in his hands while they drove. Clint had spent the ride cradling the weapon in his lap like a security blanket, and staunchly refusing to feel any embarrassment about it.
Romanov made a bee-line for the bar, pulling a bottle of water out of a nearby mini-fridge and tossing it to Clint.
Once Clint had gratefully slammed back half the water and was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, she said, “Do you know what you were arrested for?”
Clint paused. Tried to remember. There had been…gunfire. Glass shattering. Distant shouting and the sound of sirens. Then heat — and nothing. “Uh.”
“Someone shot up a Chinese restaurant in Bedford-Stuyvesant, hit a gas tank. They found you unconscious in the wreckage. A little intoxicated, supposedly.”
Clint swallowed, guilt churning uncomfortably in his stomach. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Some minor injuries. But no.” Romanov didn’t say anything more, but the way she was looking at him was clearly questioning.
Clint said, very simply, “Bullseye.”
“Ah.” Romanov’s expression cleared. “Hate that guy.”
“Yeah.”
“You want a drink?”
Clint blinked at her. “You literally just picked me up from the drunk tank.”
Plucking a bottle of vodka off the shelf, Romanov waggled it at him enticingly.
Aw, why not. It was on Cage’s dime, anyways. “Sure.”
Romanov filled two glasses, then rounded the bar and plunked them down on the counter. She took a seat in one of the barstools, and gestured for Clint to do the same. After a momentary hesitation he did, leaving one seat between them. Just for his sanity.
For a long time, they said nothing, silent in the empty darkness of the bar. The lights were off; the only brightness filtering in through the wall of dingy windows. Clint stared down at the glass of vodka and briefly contemplated whether it was possible that he drank too much. But he pretty quickly decided that was stupid, and also he didn’t care. Only an idiot would pass up a free drink.
“So,” Romanov said finally. “You and Murdock.”
Startled, Clint turned to stare at her.
After a beat, she said, “I’m kidding.”
“...Jesus Christ,” Clint said, in a kind of awe-filled tone. She was an asshole.
Romanov smiled, just a little thing, just the one corner of her mouth ticking up. There was something, just here, just in the shadow of the empty bar, that made the small gesture supremely awkward. It might’ve been on purpose. It probably was. But just like that, so suddenly, all of Clint’s nerves pretty much vanished anyways. And they were just two people, kind of strangers, kind of really not, grabbing a drink.
Without overthinking it, Clint took a gulp of vodka. He tried not to cough, but only half succeeded. Little secret about Clint: he really, really hated liquor. Don’t get him wrong – it definitely had its uses, and overall served the purpose. But he kind of wished people would stop offering it to him. Or at least give him a mixer once in a while. He chased the taste out of his mouth with a drink of water and thought longingly of the frozen daiquiris Jess used to pretend to order him as a joke, like she didn’t know he vastly preferred them over the shit she drank.
Romanov drank too. She didn’t make a face. She’d probably been raised drinking clear liquor like capri-suns. Clint was supremely jealous. She swallowed the mouthful and said, “When you left, I have to say, I wasn’t expecting you to go and try to get killed so quickly.”
“Well,” Clint said. “You don’t really know me that well. I’m kind of a mess.”
“I’d guessed that, actually. Just didn’t factor in the death wish.”
“I don’t have a death wish,” Clint said, insulted. “There were – extenuating circumstances.”
“Hm. Your mob debt, yes?”
Clint looked back down at his glass and cleared his throat. “Well. Maybe not so much that. Turns out, uh, they just don’t really like me all that much. Been making life kind of hard for them, I guess. Or something.”
Romanov hummed again. But there was something about it, this time.
Clint narrowed his eyes at her. Then he said, “It’s not funny!”
Romanov’s mouth twitched. “It’s kind of funny.” At Clint’s expression, she said, “Not that. But. Stark’s face.” Her mouth twitched again.
…Ok. Maybe it was a little funny. If Clint squinted, and looked at it sideways. And pretended his life wasn’t what it was. He’d almost joined the fucking Avengers. Because he was in debt, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It was like some demented version of taking out a college loan. It was just – it was such a joke. The whole thing was such a joke.
Sometimes Clint looked at his life and couldn’t help but think – ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ There was literally nothing special about him at all. He was just a piece of white-trash carnie from Iowa; just some random kid that a couple of weirdos had done an objectively terrible job of turning into a weapon. And Clint had taken all that, all the bad stuff that had ever happened to him, everything he’d ever been taught, and decided to do the most insane thing possible about it every chance he could. It was the same way he sometimes looked at Murdock; like the rare few occasions he’d seen the Daredevil suit in day-time. In a certain light, it was all just so absurdly terrible that it came back around to being hilarious. You just had to laugh.
“Jesus,” Clint said, scrubbing a hand over his mouth and swallowing down a manic giggle. Unthinkingly, for want of something to do with his hands, he took another sip of his drink. Then coughed, disgusted. “Ugh.”
Romanov sipped her drink. She was laughing at him. Her face was blank again – but she was totally laughing at him. Clint could tell. “American vodka,” she said wisely. “Doesn’t go down easy.”
Clint scowled at her. Whatever. “Anyway, they hired Bullseye. To get rid of me or somethin’, I dunno.”
“Hm. You went after him alone?”
Clint narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t go after him. He went after me. ‘Cause he sucks.”
“Hm.” Ok, could she quit that? Seriously, the judgement. “But you went in alone.”
It wasn’t a question, really, but Clint answered it anyway. “Of course I did? Who would I have called – the fucking Avengers?” What the hell would they have done? It wasn’t an alien threat. It was business. New York City was full of people like Ivan. People that made their way in life stepping on the little people. They didn’t dress in grease-stained tracksuits, and gamble in hollowed-out Chinese restaurants, and speak in heavy foreign accents. They looked like Wilson Fisk, and Leland Owlsley, and Justin Hammer. They looked like Tony Stark.
“Matthew Murdock,” Natasha said. “Jessica Jones, Daniel Rand, Luke Cage. Frank Castle. Wade Wilson. Marc Spector.” She listed them off in a flat, casual tone of voice. Like it was obvious. Like Clint knowing them, knowing these names, knowing what they really meant, was nothing less than guaranteed.
“Well, the last three definitely wouldn’t pick up,” Clint mumbled. But he got the point. Yeah, yeah, Clint was an idiot to think he could do it all alone. But so what? He wouldn’t call. They both knew that, probably. He wouldn’t ever call.
Clint wasn’t stupid. Not like that, at least. It wasn’t that he thought he could do it all alone. He wasn’t Matt. Clint was painfully, pathetically aware of his own limits. His weaknesses. But that was on him. All this shit – his whole life – that was on Clint. Always had been. He couldn’t expect anyone else to pick up the slack. Not an adult, not a friend, not a brother. It was just Clint.
But here, now, he was drinking with someone. Talking. She’d picked him up from the police station – used some superhero ‘get out of jail free’ card, no doubt. But she was there. For some reason, she was still there. Clint couldn’t tell you what that meant. He didn’t know.
Natasha said, “Five years ago, I had just joined SHIELD. It was one of my first solo missions. Phil Coulson was my handler.”
Clint blinked at her, uncertain where she was going with this. “I know that.”
“If you had known, at the time, what would you have done?”
“Run away?” Fucking duh?
“What if I had told you from the start? What if I had told you I was a SHIELD agent, and I thought you had potential, and that I wanted to recruit you?”
Oh. “I would’ve run away,” Clint said. Quiet. Almost, if you looked at it a certain way, a little apologetic.
Romanov just nodded. She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t look anything. She looked purposefully, perfectly blank.
What if I– Clint almost asked. But he didn’t. What would’ve been the point? It didn’t matter. It was over. They were here, now. For better or for worse, they were just here.
“I thought about you,” Romanov said. “For a long time after.”
“Oh yeah? The One That Got Away?”
But the joke fell flat. Romanov just looked at him – she had this way of looking at him, so steady and even, this sort of gaze that made him feel somehow like he was being flayed open. She seemed, in the right light, startlingly like Matt. “I had never really thought, before, that I was a person that could make friends. I guess I never really cared.”
“Oh.” Clint didn’t know what else to say to that. He – hadn’t been expecting that.
Romanov didn’t seem to mind. His ineloquence was not unanticipated. She knew him well enough by now, apparently, for that much. “I had thought that it proved something about me,” she continued. “That that sort of thing was not something I was made for. That it had been carved out of me before I even knew what it was.”
“Soft,” Clint offered. Remembering.
“Yes,” Romanov agreed. “It was something of a relief, at the time. I thought I would stop thinking about it.”
“But…you didn’t?”
Romanov’s lips pursed into a bitter smile. “No. I didn’t.” She downed the last of her vodka and got up, moving around the side of the bar to pour herself another glass. Then, on second thought, she just grabbed the whole bottle and took a swig straight from the neck. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she continued, saying, “I got angry, actually. For a while I was kind of a nightmare. For my handler mostly. I was angry at him for what he’d made me do – but mostly I was angry with myself, because I knew he hadn’t. I had done it all on my own. And I didn’t know how to deal with that.”
Clint swallowed, taking that in. This was weird. Wasn’t this weird? “I thought about you too,” he said eventually. “I mean – I was angry too. Or – I don’t know. I don’t really get angry like that. I think maybe there’s some kind of switch that got flipped in my brain, at some point, made it so – well. I guess I figured it proved something about me too.”
Romanov rapped her knuckles on the counter of the bar until he looked at her. Green eyes bright, voice steady, she said, “It did not.”
Clint looked away. “I don’t think it says anything about you either. Except maybe that you’re a damn good spy.”
Immediately, he wasn’t really sure that he believed it. Maybe it did say something about her. It probably did. Clint knew it did about him. It was the same thing it always was. Maybe what it said about her was also just something that couldn’t be helped. Maybe it made her a damn good spy. Maybe, at the end of the day, everything it proved about them was just the reason they were here, now, opposite one another at the counter. The people they’d become.
Romanov said, “I had a strange childhood.”
“Alright,” Clint said after a beat.
“I don’t know how to be a real person. Not really. The life I have lived – there’s nothing really at the centre of it all. Like matryoshka dolls. You know those? Just more of the same. Down and down and down, until – nothing. That’s what they used to tell us. Be matryoshka. I never really understood – until I did. And then it made all the sense in the world.” Who were they? The KGB? Clint really knew practically nothing about Romanov’s backstory, when it came down to it. Also: Wow. Ok. Jesus. So they were doing this.
Clint gulped down a mouthful of vodka, which was not pleasant at all, and said, “Alright. Wanna know what I think?” Natasha nodded. Clint said, “I think that’s bullshit.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. A little dangerously, possibly.
“No, seriously,” Clint said, because he was in it now, he was in it, and anyway who the hell else was he ever going to talk about this with? There was no one else. He was suddenly very sure that this was it – that he wanted this to be it. Who the hell else but Natasha Romanov on a couple glasses of vodka would he ever talk to like this? Who could he? “That stuff about there bein’ somethin’ at the centre of you, of anyone? Yeah. I think it’s bullshit. It’s all just fake. You – what you do – that’s what you are. There’s nothing else. There’s no Black Widow who’s not in that fuckin’ suit. It’s like – it’s like you told me earlier. The only way to become one of the good guys is to want it. You want it, and you do it. That’s all there is.”
For a long moment, she was silent. Then, echoing him from what felt like so long ago, but was really no time at all – “Do you really think it’s that simple?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said honestly. “If you wanna talk religion, or philosophy, or whatever the fuck, then get Murdock in here. Or someone smarter than me, at least. All I know is agonizing over it all doesn’t help anyone. Like – I didn’t have a strange childhood, right?”
“You were in the circus.”
Clint pointed at her. “Shut up. I’m gettin’ at something.” He took another gulp of vodka, breathing through the horrible taste, and said, “I didn’t, really. Circus stuff doesn’t count. I mean that I was just normal, just a random kid. But even still – when I was a kid I thought I was the worst person in the world. Really, genuinely, I did. And then I grew up and I saw a lot of really shitty people do a lot of really shitty things and still, deep down, I figured I was worse than them all. It didn’t matter if I didn’t hurt people the way they did – I was me. And that was enough.” Clint took another breath. Across the counter, silent, Natasha watched him. He kept talking. “But that’s bullshit. I know that’s bullshit. It doesn’t matter if there’s somethin’ rotten in me, some sort’a evil spirit that’ll always fuck things up, the devil or somethin’ dumb like that. What matters is the people I help. I’m a bad person because I’ve done bad things. Never the other way around. And that’s fuckin’ great! Right? Because – because it means I don’t have to be that. I can be somethin’ else. I can be – fuckin’ – Hawkeye. I can help people anyways, and they don’t even care. If I help a kid, if I save a kid’s life, they don’t care about the shit in my past. They don’t care about the people I’ve killed. They’re just a kid. All they care about is that they didn’t have help, and then they did. And that’s something I can do. Maybe that’s all anyone can ever do.”
After a very long pause, Romanov said, “Five years ago. I asked you–”
“Yeah,” Clint said, interrupting her. “And I still don’t know what the fuck that means. Maybe I don’t care anymore. Maybe I think it’s a stupid question. Doesn’t matter what’s true, or right. The way I figure it, all that stuff’s just words I’m never gonna understand as well as the next guy. Might as well just decide it don’t matter at all.”
Romanov looked at him. Clint looked doggedly back, determined not to blink. Eventually, finally, Romanov looked away first. “Ok,” she said. “Let’s drink now.”
And so they drank.
The counter was very cold and Clint’s face was very hot. He pressed his cheek even more firmly against the vinyl and hiccuped. “Ok,” he said, pointing at Romanov a little indirectly. “Ok. I need t’a know. Four years ago. Russian accent. Fake?”
Romanov said, “Yes. This is question. Mystery of age.”
Clint squinted at her. Romanov was clearly trying not to look as drunk as Clint felt, but seeing as she’d almost fully toppled over on her barstool while reaching for the bottle not thirty seconds prior, it was kind of a lost cause. “Seriously,” Clint said. “It’s eatin’ me up inside.”
Romanov rolled her eyes. Much more obviously than she would’ve when sober. Dropping the thick Slavic accent, she said, “Not fake. I’d only just joined SHIELD, and English was always my worst language.”
“How many languages do you know?”
Romanov mimed zipping her lips.
“Fuckin’ spies,” Clint grumbled.
There was a long stretch of comfortable silence, then, “Would you like to know something I have never in my life told another living soul?”
“No,” Clint said, once again face down on the counter.
“Well I am going to tell you anyways. Because we are friends.”
At that, Clint looked up, blinking rapidly. It was nothing like Stark had said it — ridiculous, joking, tinged with an almost mean sort of irony. No. The way Romanov said it — this was something else. Clint said, “Uh, what? We are?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. I just decided. Be quiet now, I am trying to tell you a secret.” Then, for a very long moment, she said nothing.
Hesitantly, Clint said, “…You really don’t have to—“
“Shut up.” Romanov shot back her glass of vodka and slammed it on the counter, before turning to him and saying, “I have a sister.”
Clint said, “Uh—”
“Her name is Yelena. I have never loved a thing in the world as much as I love her. If you tell anyone this I will kill you, and I will not feel bad about it.” Romanov was looking very intensely into his eyes. The effect was only somewhat ruined by the glossy sheen of intoxication.
A little unnerved regardless, Clint said, “I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know,” Romanov said. She was still looking at him. Fuck. Was it Clint’s turn now?
Well. Why not. Clint said, “I have a brother.”
“I know. I read your file.”
Well, shit. Alright. Mirroring Romanov, Clint slammed back his glass of vodka. Before the burn had even dissipated, he very quickly blurted out, “My dad died when I was eight but before that he used to beat the shit out of me so bad he’s the reason I’m deaf.”
Romanov was silent, but there was something in her silence now that read as distinctly awkward. Maybe a little guilty.
“Aw, really?” Clint demanded. “What the fuck? My file seriously says I had a piece’a-shit dad?”
“It was perhaps implied.”
“Jesus.” Clint refilled his glass, scoffing. Implied. “Ok, sure. Great. What else does it say?”
“Nothing that interesting.” Clint narrowed his eyes at her. Natasha said, “There were arrests.”
“Jesus.” Ok, whatever, fine. That was fine. Totally fine. It wasn’t like Clint had all that much pride to begin with, anyways. “Sorry to say I don’t really have any secrets to share, then.”
“Barton.” Natasha waited until he looked back at her, still scowling in embarrassment. But there was no judgement on her face. Not that Clint had really been expecting any, but – still. “I didn’t tell you that because I wanted something from you. I only wanted to tell you.”
“Because we’re friends now,” Clint said, a little dubious. He wasn’t sure he believed her – about not wanting anything in return. Everyone did. There was always something to give, something someone would want taken. Every situation could be twisted to someone else’s gain, Clint left in the dust, scrabbling to hold on, too dumb to keep up. Always an ulterior motive.
But Natasha just looked at him, like she didn’t care at all, like there was nothing else. Like any doubt was inconsequential. Like it was the surest thing in the world. “Yes,” she said. “Because we’re friends now.”