Letters from Home

The next morning finds him clambering out of the backseat of a taxi, handing over a small wad of bills, and he stares up at the tall, imposing building that the cabby is pulling away from. Clint almost wonders if he’s in the wrong place—maybe the driver’s GPS is on the fritz or something—but no, there’s Natasha leaning against the side of the building, unmoving and unbothered by the people shoving past. Clint nearly chokes as he swallows past the lump in his throat. Her red hair shines in the mid-morning sun, and a small part of his brain questions how she always manages to look like a fuckin’ runway model when he always looks like he’s crawled out of a dumpster. Regular showers and clothes that actually come from a store, his brain replies in her voice.

He knows she has seen him from the way her shoulders tense imperceptibly and her foot shifts just enough to give her the advantage should he decide to run away like a coward. Clint knows it’s a losing battle to try to weasel his way out of doing whatever this is, so he straightens his spine, lifts his chin, and ambles toward her like he hasn’t got a care in the world. His resolve wavers when a businessman pushes by with way more force than is actually needed. Clint forces himself to keep going, even as he flips the guy off behind his back. A mother pushing her toddler in a pram shoots him a dirty look and hurries away.

“Top o’ the mornin’, Natty.”

Natasha’s eyes are hidden by her dark shades, but Clint knows he’s going to pay dearly for that comment. She ignores it for now, though, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Ready?”

“Absolutely, definitely. This is a wonderful time for—whatever we’re doing.”

If Clint was a smarter man, he would be terrified by the sharp grin that Natasha flashes at him. It’s sickly sweet, full of feigned innocence, but edged with solid determination and a lack of humour. It reminds Clint of the smile that Bruce gives Dory and Marlin. He tries his best not to shiver at the threats that smile promises.

“We are doing nothing. You are talking to Doctor Brayden.”

His stomach drops to the ground, and he wonders if it would be too weird to start running while also kicking his own ass for not seeing this coming. He really, really should have. Natasha’s been on his case about therapy for, well, too long, and Coulson coming by last night to tell Clint he has a job offer that hinges on him seeing a psychiatrist? Yeah, the signs were all there. Clint is just too much of an idiot to actually have read them correctly. Or to recognise his psychiatrist’s office building.

Nat proves she can read his mind; her hand darts out, her fingers wrap around his wrist, and he knows there is no way he can get out of her hold without an outright fight occurring in the middle of the sidewalk—a fight that he would lose spectacularly. He may have the upper-hand in muscle mass, but what Natasha lacks in size, she more than makes up for in skill and speed. However aware that Clint is about his inability to win against her, he still tests her grip by attempting to tug his hand away. Her fingers only tighten in response, becoming vice-like and digging into his skin, and Clint gives up with at least a little grace.

His body sags in defeat, but he follows her regardless through the doorway. She shows her talent at being his, quite frankly, terrifying best friend by managing to manoeuvre him into the elevator while preventing others from stepping on. The doors close on the grumblings, and he grips the bar tightly as the lift starts to move. Natasha keeps her distance but still stays close enough for her presence to be a comfort.

Doctor Brayden gives Clint a sharp, assessing once-over when he finally gets comfortable in the chair twenty minutes later. He feels like he’s being x-rayed as the silence drags on. Finally, she nods, drags her gaze to the notepad on her lap, and writes something down. Clint can’t make out what it says—her handwriting is neat but so damn tiny, and it’s upside down right now, so he really had no shot at it—but he’s pretty sure it’s something about his lack of sessions in the last two months. He slouches in the armchair, crossing his legs at the ankle, and lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling as he listens to the almost-soothing sound of the pen gliding across the paper.

The curtains on the windows have been drawn back, letting in sunlight that illuminates every corner of the room and makes the pale seafoam walls even lighter, more yellowish-white than green. The wax warmer on the bookshelf behind her desk is decorated with an explosion of flowers made up of thick black lines and fading ink in a variety of colours; the aroma of cinnamon-apples mixes with the clinical astringency of hand sanitiser. Weirdly, it doesn’t smell awful.

“So. It’s been a while.”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“How are the nightmares?”

“They’re fine.”

“I see.” Clint can hear in her words the sigh that she’s stifling. “Agent Romanov seems very vested in your progress. Why do you think that is?”

“Because she’s my best friend. If I wasn’t around, who would she have to call a dumb-ass?”

“So she’s abusive?”

“No!”

Clint sees too late just how much he’s been tricked into showing something by the slightly smug smirk on the doctor’s face. He settles back in the chair, disappointed with himself, and frowns. He wants to ask if her smugness is against professional protocols, but that would give away that he even cares.

“Don’t worry, Clint. Your friendship with Agent Romanov is. . . interesting, to say the least, but it’s healthy enough in that she keeps you from regressing. While I don’t approve of the way she communicates with you—the calling you a dumbass, specifically—I cannot deny that without her help, you wouldn’t have been nearly this successful. Why don’t we talk about the flashbacks?”

Clint groans, whining out a “Do we gotta?”

“Yes, we ‘gotta’.”

So Clint speaks haltingly, trying to downplay the terror and anger he’s oscillated between each time he’s woken up from a nightmare or had a panic attack from the memories. Thankfully, Doctor Brayden lets him talk without interruption; Clint’s thankful for that. He doesn’t think he could broach the subject if he kept being talked over or had to answer probing questions.

He stares at his hands the entire time, unable to look in her eyes while he tells her about reliving the bombing, the death and carnage he witnessed firsthand because he failed to stop it. He can’t hear her writing over the echoing screams and orders being barked in his head. The usual rush of adrenalin and horror seems far away, as if it’s just something he’s watching on television. His chest is tight, but he can still breathe. Clint eventually falls silent, his words coming to a stop, and he waits with bated breath for Doctor Brayden to say something.

“Well. . . I can certainly see why those would be disconcerting.” She clears her throat, and her pen taps gently against the notepad in her lap—the only nervous tic she’s ever shown in any of the times Clint has been here. “I have no way to imagine how horrible those experiences were to go through, and the aftermath has obviously been Hell on you.”

“Ya think?” he retorts with a snort.

“Clint, I’m not trying to provoke you. I am merely trying to understand your brain a little better.”

This causes him to look up, meet her eye. “Yeah? Well, if you manage that, could you tell me all about it? Because I definitely don’t understand my brain at all, and it’s mine.”

The rest of the session goes much the same; once he’s talked about the nightmares, it’s as if some part of his brain refuses to let out any more secrets. He tries to talk more about the flashbacks, but nothing comes out. All that happens is his lungs feel ten sizes smaller, and he chokes on the words that go unspoken. He does manage, however, to tell her about Alyshia forcing him into writing to a pen pal. Doctor Brayden looks all too pleased with this announcement, and she tells him that she approves wholeheartedly of the fact. He shoots her a quizzical look, and she stifles a smile.

“Having a pen pal is a great way to get the socialisation that you need without the pressure of face-to-face conversation. In person, you have to stick to a relatively fast script, and you can’t take back what you say. With letters, you can take your time, rewrite, add and take away what you deem to be too little or too much.”

Clint mulls over her words before conceding that she has a point. Doesn’t mean he has to like it, though. It’s difficult enough to consider that he’s going to be writing letters to a stranger and getting them in return. He keeps that thought locked up; he really would like to not have that conversation.

Time runs out, and Doctor Brayden leads him out to the waiting area where Natasha sits in a chair, ostensibly reading the tabloid magazine in her hands. Clint knows she’s scoping out everyone who’s in the room, and he feels safer being so close to her. She rises smoothly to her feet, ambles to his side, and shakes the psychiatrist’s hand. The pinch in Clint’s side spurs him into the action of scheduling another—it’ll get his best friend off his back for now, and he can always cancel it later.

He forces a smile for the receptionist as he takes the appointment card and turns to follow Natasha out of the waiting lobby. She doesn’t speak to him as they take the elevator back down to the ground floor, but Clint can see the tiny tilt to her lips that says she’s proud of him. She keeps her eyes on the passing cars, her hand shooting out when she catches sight of a taxi, and he presses a quick kiss to her temple when the cab comes squealing to a stop by the curb. Her nose scrunches up as she shoves at him playfully.

His mailbox is empty save for one envelope, and Clint tucks it into his back pocket before heading up to his apartment. He feels all turned inside-out and twisted up, but it’s all obscured slightly by the hazy heaviness that floats through his veins. A car horn honks down on the street, someone shouts in response; Clint crosses the living room to land a light punch to the top of the air conditioning unit. It rattles to life with a high-pitched squeal, and he flops down onto his couch to enjoy the cool breeze. Something crinkles under his ass, and he reaches under himself to tug the envelope from his pocket.

Clint,

Thanks for your letter. Yeah, Lysh is very adamant about telling people what she wants. Her school started the Pen Pals with Soldiers program a couple years ago, and she’s been mine ever since. So I’m very familiar with her upfront personality - that kid’s gonna go far in life.

I was wondering why she hadn’t written back in a while. We usually have at least one letter a week, but the past couple have gone without. Them moving explains it…

My name is James Barnes, but most people call me Bucky (long story short, my parents are very patriotic and decided to name me after a fucking president). But you can call me Sarge if you want, I know Alyshia prefers to. I think she thinks “Bucky” is too funny to be a name. Don’t worry - I won’t judge you too harshly for being a trainwreck as long as you don’t judge me too harshly for being a panicking mess liking big band music.

I can’t say that I like my coffee that dark, honestly, but coffee is ALWAYS good. I’ll drink it black if I gotta (and right now I gotta), but it’s not my preference. Dogs are cool. I personally like cats better, since they require less work - seriously, clean their litter box and fill their food bowls, and bam! They’re fine with ya. I had a dog growing up. She was pretty awesome. Lots of work, though. Had to take her on walks three times a day and brush her every day or so or she’d shed EVERYWHERE. It was ridiculous, honestly.

Please don’t run away with another person’s dog. That’s asking for jail time, and I don’t know how pretty you are, but I’m sure you wouldn’t last in there (I’m assuming your handwriting is no reflection of your looks because if so, I’m sorry you’re so ugly) (kidding. I’m totally kidding) Pizza is a New York staple so if you don’t like pizza, you ain’t a New Yorker. I’ve watched an episode or two of Dog Cops - never really have much time to watch it lately. I’ll check it out when I get the chance.

Uhhh… I guess I should say some stuff about me then, huh. Okay, I’m 29, got a best friend Stevie who’s the biggest self-sacrificing idiot known to man, and I like plums. I really don’t know what to talk about. I’m used to writing to Alyshia who fills her letters with information that I can respond to.

Anyway. Better go.
- Sarge/Bucky (whichever you prefer)

Clint laughs as he rereads the letter in his hands. Who the hell goes by the name of Bucky? It’s a ridiculous name, and this “Bucky” guy should feel ridiculous. And that dig about Clint’s handwriting? Hilarious. He slides the letter back into its envelope and drops it on the counter. He figures he can write back later.

The air is sticky with humidity, and the rattling air conditioner in the window does very little to break up the heavy heat. Clint sprawls out on the couch and lets the small stream of cool air skim over his skin. He is slowly starting to nod off when his phone vibrates in his back pocket. A sleepy giggle escapes at the tickling sensation along his ass cheek before he realises it’s an actual phone call, and if it’s Coulson, Clint is going to have Hell to pay if he ignores it.

“Unless the world is ending, I don’t care,” he gives as a greeting, then snorts. “Actually, scratch out. Even if the world is ending, I don’t care.”

“Barton?”

“Sir, I’m trying to nap. Talking is hard.”

“So you went to therapy then,” Coulson surmises; his voice is bland enough, but Clint can absolutely hear the pride in it.

“Yes, and I hated it.”

“Keep going.”

Clint groans, ignores the petulant whine in the sound, but ultimately agrees. There’s something to be said about being praised by someone he respects that keeps him from acting too much like a child even when it involves something he hates with a passion. Coulson hangs up a moment later with a terse goodbye—the noise in the background tells Clint that his supervisor is about to be using that specific tone that tells an agent just how badly they screwed up without actually saying they screwed up.

Clint can only hope it wasn’t Natasha’s partner; he dismisses the thought quickly. If it had been her partner, his body would never be found for Coulson to even talk to. Clint settles back onto the couch, closes his eyes, and drifts off to the sound of the traffic outside, his neighbours stomping around, and the unit shaking and wheezing in the window.

When he wakes, the sun has started its slow descent toward the horizon, patchy blocks of light illuminating the living room. He stretches, scratches at an itch on his temple, and slowly shoves himself to a sitting position. He feels rather well rested considering he slept on a couch, but he isn’t going to question it. Instead, he stumbles to the kitchen and digs through the pile of leaflets on the counter for the nearest menu with the word “pizza” on it.

Clint makes his way to the bathroom once the order is placed; he does his business and washes his hands. A glass shatters in the apartment to his right, and he winces when their baby’s crying starts up, shrill and grating. The crying carries on for long minutes and is still echoing through the hall when Clint opens the door to get the pizza from the delivery kid. He’s just shut the door and turned around when he abruptly stops.

“And who are you?”

Of course the dog doesn’t respond, merely pants with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Clint stares at the dog, the dog stares back. Eventually, Clint blinks stupidly a few times, mutters something about not losing a fuckin’ staring contest to a one-eyed dog, and heads to the kitchen. Soft footsteps pad along behind him. He sets the box down on the counter and flips open the lid. The aroma of gooey, melted cheese and spiced, acidic sauce float up into the air; his mouth starts watering instantly, and he doesn’t care about the steam or the fact that the pizza is still hot—he grabs a slice and shoves half of it in his mouth in one go. He turns to glare at the dog when it lets out a quiet but demanding woof.

“Dogs can’t have pizza, go away.”

Clint tosses the dog the rest of the slice when it doesn’t do as ordered, grabbing another and closing the box just in case the mutt has any thoughts about eating more. He eats three more slices before his stomach feels tight and overfull. The dog follows him back into the living room and hops up onto the couch, curling into a ball on one end. Clint grunts, not in the mood to upset a dog and risk getting bitten. With a sigh, he lets his body fall back onto the opposite end of the couch, lifts his legs and stretches out across the cushions, and reaches for the remote. The dog stares at him, blinks its one eye.

“Don’t think about it,” Clint warns, but like the last time he gave an order, he’s ignored.

The dog huffs and scoots its way down the sofa until its sprawled alongside Clint. Clint has to admit it’s nice to have the warmth and company, so he scratches gently behind the dog’s ear and grins at the way the dog seems to be smiling. There’s no collar around its neck, and Clint wonders if this means he gets to keep the dog. He shrugs it off, figures he’ll find out at a later time. He doesn’t stop the dog from following him to the bedroom an hour later or climbing into the bed.

When Clint startles awake in the middle of the night, a silent scream on his lips, the pizza-loving dog is right there, pressed tight against his side, burying its wet nose into his neck and breathing evenly. Clint doesn’t think about it; he just tries to match his breaths with the dog’s and soon enough, he finds it’s worked. His skin is still clammy and still feels too small, but he can breathe without choking on the memories of ash and smoke.

“Lucky I got you, huh?” he rasps out once he isn’t shaking so hard. The dog’s tail thumps against the mattress, and Clint furrows his brows. “Lucky?”

A slobbery lick across his cheek is his response, and Clint splutters, groans, and wipes his face with the edge of his sheet, but he doesn’t kick the dog—Lucky, evidently—out of the bed. Instead, he scoots over just a little and rolls onto his side so that Lucky can get more comfortable. Clint brushes his fingers through soft golden fur and waits for the sunrise. Strangely, he’s asleep again before he can see the sun.

Lucky whimpers insistently from next to the bed, dragging Clint from a relatively restful sleep. He opens bleary eyes and frowns. The dog doesn’t look injured, but Clint can’t really tell. He could have punched the dog in his sleep, for all he knows. The longer he stares at Lucky, the more demanding Lucky’s whines become, and it finally clicks.

“Aw, Lucky, no. You gotta go?”

Lucky barks once and bolts toward the front door. Clint climbs out of bed, grumbling the entire time, and finds the least ratty pair of sweats he owns, slides them on.

“All right, well, I don’t have a leash, so. . . Come when I call for you, I guess?”

Clint barely gets the door unlocked and opened before Lucky is slithering through the gap and barrelling down the hall toward the stairs. Clint follows at a much more sedate—and sleepy—pace. The sky is still a deep navy, tinged with the faintest streak of pink and orange through the buildings, and Clint yawns widely. He waits as patiently as he can while Lucky sniffs around trees and lamp posts, finally lifting one leg to pee squarely on the rear tire of someone’s beat-up truck. Clint snorts and whistles for the dog.

Lucky trots up to him happily then, after snuffling at Clint’s hand, turns and makes his way to a patch of dead grass ten feet away. Clint stares up at the sky to give his new pup some privacy. Once Lucky is finished, Clint glances both ways down the street, sees no one else, and ushers the dog inside.

I’ll clean it up later, he thinks to himself as he lumbers up the stairs. Lucky flops onto the floor inside the apartment, rolls around wildly; Clint rolls his eyes when the dog doesn’t do anything else but lie there and stare up at him. Clint crosses the room to the coffee table where Sarge’s letter still sits. Without really thinking about it, Clint decides to write another letter to the sergeant, so he goes off in search of paper. All he can find, however, is a pocket-size notebook that he thinks belonged to Nat at some point. He shrugs and opens it up anyway. It’ll have to do for now.

Sarge,

Big band music? What, you originally from the 40s or something? Sorry, not judging - don’t worry. I’m just really tired so my brain to mouth - or, well, hand - filter is basically gone right now.

I got a dog. Or maybe it got me. I don’t even know. All I know is I ordered pizza, it showed up, and now it hasn’t left my side. It’s only been a couple hours so who knows. It might get smart and realise I’m kinda a crappy human and it made a mistake. Are dogs smart enough to know that kinda stuff?

Who the Hell names their kid ‘Bucky’? Kidding (mostly).

If YOUR handwriting is any sign, you’re just as ugly as me. So there. That was childish, wasn’t it? Oh well. Nat says I have the emotional maturity of a toddler so I guess it fits.

Plums are disgusting. Kiwis are where it’s at. Just don’t tell Nat I like fruit, or she’ll make me eat more of it. She’s scary and I don’t have the energy to deal with it. She’s my best friend, by the way. Not as self-sacrificing or an idiot like your friend Stevie, but still loyal (I’m assuming he’s loyal).

I’m not calling you Bucky.
- Clint

Letter finished, Clint stares down at the words he’s written then sighs. He tried to be interesting. There just isn’t much interesting about him. Sure, he had a career as a sniper, but the glitz and glamour of it is hyped up by the media. It was nothing but lying completely still in high places, waiting for orders, and taking the shot from your position. Or, if you were him, throwing yourself off the ledge to take the shot without hitting the innocent civilian being held captive. Still. Nothing glamorous about the damn job.

Stupid media making it look better than it is.

Another week of doing nothing but hanging out with his new dog—no one has come to claim the mutt, and Clint doubts he’d leave even if his owners showed up. Lucky won’t stray from Clint’s side except when Clint forces him out of the bathroom. When pizza is involved, Lucky won’t budge. Clint doesn’t mind. It’s actually kinda nice to not be alone.

Another therapy session. Doctor Brayden is pleased to hear that Clint has adopted a dog—or, rather, been adopted by the dog. “Having someone other than yourself to take care of can give you a sense of purpose other than self-pity and wallowing.”

“I don’t wallow,” protests Clint, but even he can hear the lie in it. He can’t deny that there is absolutely some degree of self-pity and -hatred in there somewhere. It’s his fault the last op went disastrously, and he loathes himself for not doing a better job.

“Clint, Clint.”

The screams disappear, though the smoke lingers. He shakes his head, but the stench remains in his nostrils. “What?”

“Talk to me. Come back to the present.”

“It was my fault,” he admits after a long minute. It’s too much, but Coulson and Doctor Brayden demand honesty. He has to release the guilt. He doesn’t know how. “I didn’t see—I didn’t think he was a risk. He looked like the rest of them. The innocent ones. But he was one of them. The bad guys, I mean. If I’d thought about it, I would’ve known.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How would you have known he’d be the one to plant the second bomb?”

Clint thinks back as best as he can. It isn’t much, considering his mind is only full of the aftermath. The explosions, the screams, the carnage. He couldn’t have known. SHIELD had determined the bombs were crude, packing a punch despite their size. Unless Clint had X-ray vision, he would never have seen the explosive.

He still should have seen it. He should have known. He should have known. He should have known. He should—

“Agent Barton.”

“I should have known.”

Before she can say more, Clint is on his feet and out the door. The doctor doesn’t call after him, and he’s thankful for that. He can’t handle any more of her psychoanalysing. He stops by the reception desk to get his next appointment card then leaves.

Lucky peers blearily at Clint with his one eye when the human walks into the flat an hour later. The room fills with lazy thumps as Lucky wags his tail, but the dog doesn’t move from his spot in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Clint hesitates but ultimately lies on the floor beside the mutt, closing his eyes as his skin heats up.

Lucky has it right—the sun makes everything feel a little better.

I think i annoyed doc

Natasha’s reply comes within seconds: Will call you to talk about this. Op.

Of course she’s on another op. SHIELD doesn’t slow down, even when the world thinks nothing is going on. The country is blind to the threats it faces, and the organisation wants it that way. Panic only makes their jobs harder. Clint used to have that job until he proved himself a fatal mistake. Coulson should never have taken that chance on Clint.

Clint trusts Coulson without hesitation, but Coulson should never have trusted Clint.

Sarge,
What do you do when you feel like you’ve screwed up beyond any repair? I made a mistake, and people got killed. I don’t know what to do now.
- Clint

He crumples up the paper and tosses it in the bin. Sarge doesn’t deserve to know his newest pen pal is an utter disgrace. Lucky stares at him from the floor, huffing as his head falls back to the wood, then lets out a loud snore within seconds. Clint wishes he was a dog. Then he’d actually get some sleep.