Letters from Home

Natasha calls like she’d promised, and Clint struggles to tell her about the session. Best friend that she is, she knows how he’s feeling. She calls him a дурак and tells him there was nothing he could have done. Even Coulson hadn’t seen the man’s actions until it was too late. The most they could do was evacuate the building and take out the obvious dangers.

“Clint, if you made a mistake, we all made the same one.”

“But it wasn’t your job to make sure things were clear.”

“And you realised what he was doing.”

“Too late, Nat! I saw it way too late to do a damn thing.”

“Clint. . .” She sighs, and he can see her running her fingers through her red hair. The tight press of her lips and the divot between her brows. She must be alone if she’s letting her voice show genuine concern. “Why is this so hard on you? We’ve had ops go sideways before.”

“Nearly a hundred dead does that to a person, Romanov.”

He hangs up and immediately regrets it. Nat is only trying to help, and here he is pushing her away. It’s a wonder she’s even still around in the first place. He can barely stand himself anymore.

The next therapy session goes much more smoothly. Clint lies, says he hasn’t been having the nightmares as often—if he said they were gone completely, Doctor Brayden would never believe him. She would question why he was being dishonest. At least if he sticks with the script of downplaying what he’s gone through over the last week, she’ll be satisfied.

She gives the green-light for him to accept Coulson’s offer of a job. Clint calls Coulson the instant he’s out of the building. The same bland voice promises to be in touch with the information, and Clint hangs up with something tight in his chest. His thoughts scramble for some clarity, though they find none. He finds no peace in the decision.

In fact, it’s terrifying as Hell.

Coulson sends a text from his personal phone with the information: General security, no heroics necessary. The job starts in two months, and Clint nearly throws up. How is he supposed to make any sort of progress in only two months? With the nightmares and flashbacks, he’s lucky to get three hours of fitful sleep a night, and he can barely make it through his days without a panic attack.

“Luck? I’m screwed.”

The dog only thumps his tail against the floor.

Somehow, eight sessions and too high of anxiety later, Clint stands in front of a skyscraper in the most ridiculous suit he’s ever worn. Actually, it’s only the third time he’s worn a suit—once to his mother’s funeral, and twice for an op. Those times hadn’t made him feel like vomiting, turning, and running like he had to when he was on his own. He swallows down the bile in his throat and reaches for his vibrating phone.

You’ve got this, Barton. Don’t let your brain tell you otherwise.

Aw nat didnt know u cared

Idiot.

The banter—the affection he can feel in each word he read—helps. He steels his spine, reaching for the handle, and steps inside. People bustle around the ground level, and a line snakes away from the in-house coffeeshop to the left. Clint has never seen this many smiling faces in a work setting. Then again, his new employer is well-known for paying well above average salary for the positions.

Clint almost fainted when Coulson told him how much Miss Virginia “Pepper” Potts agreed to hire Clint for.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Clint startles. Has he ever been called ‘sir’ before? Yeah. He has, but certainly not by a bubbly woman with a bright smile. He steps closer to the reception desk and stutters out his name and a request for Miss Potts’s office. The woman checks the book in front of her then reaches for a badge hanging at the edge of her desk.

“Miss Potts is expecting you, Mister Barton. Elevators are to your right, and she’ll be on the seventy-eighth floor. I do hope you aren’t afraid of heights.”

Clint can’t help it—he snorts in amusement. Heights are where he’s most comfortable. He can see everything from up high. It is why he was so good at his job. Previous job, he reminds himself. SHIELD will never want him back after The Disaster. After he proved he is the disaster.

“Sir?”

“Hm? Oh. Right. Thanks.”

The woman grins again and turns to the ringing phone, answering it with a cheerful “Stark Industries, this is Angelica. How may I direct your call?”

Clint steps into the lift with lab coat-clad engineers and fitted suit-wearing businesspeople. He stays by the door, heart thundering under his ribs. Any of them could be a danger. Any of them could be like the man who blew himself up in order to take out as many casualties as possible. He stifles a shudder at the thought and keeps his eyes trained ahead, though every inch of his consciousness is cataloguing the people around him.

The secretary outside of Miss Potts’s office raises a thin brow when Clint comes to a stop outside the doors. She gestures for him to take a seat then pages the CEO. He remains standing—if he sits, he’s liable to vibrate out of his skin. He should have refused Coulson’s offer of the job, said thanks but no thanks, I’m fine being a mess on my own. The only reason he hadn’t is because Coulson went out on a limb for him. Coulson put his reputation on the line to vouch for Clint. How could he repay the man by rejecting something like this?

“Mister Barton? Miss Potts will see you now.”

“Actually,” the woman in question says as the door swings open. “Miss Potts has an emergency meeting to get to. Mister Barton, I presume? Good. Walk and talk, please.”

The woman’s sharp heels click on tile, and Clint scrambles to keep up with her long strides. Her strawberry hair stays in place atop her head, pale skin accentuating the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Her lips press into a thin, vivid red line when she checks her watch. She glances at Clint and gives him a smile that drips in sympathy.

“I’m truly sorry about rushing,” she says, stepping into the lift. “I have about five minutes to trick Tony into this meeting, and Tony is. . . He’s a handful on the best of days.”

“I think I’ve read something like that,” Clint manages to choke out, and Miss Potts cuts a glance toward him. “Sorry. That was out of line, wasn’t it?”

To his surprise, she laughs. “Oh, of course not. When it’s the truth, it’s the truth. Now, I’m not sure how much Agent Coulson has told you, but this job will have long days. You’ll have to travel with us whenever we leave New York, and you’ll only be paid for hours that you’re actually on the clock.”

“Wait.” Clint gapes at her. “So I’m getting paid a hundred grand a year even if I don’t work a full forty-hour week?”

“Believe me, Mister Barton, you’ll more than earn that salary. If you’ll follow me.”

The lift doors open the seconds the words are out of her mouth. He stumbles after her, stopping behind her while she inputs a code into the pad, then she’s moving again. She doesn’t take her eyes off the tablet in her hands even as she crosses what can only be the infamous workshop. The entire world knows that Tony Stark spends most of his time tinkering away in this very room, even if they don’t know where it is.

“Tony? R&D wants to know where we are on that—whatever it is you’re supposed to be working on.”

“Tell them it’ll be done when it’s done.” The man himself pops out from under heavy-looking equipment. “Oh. Who are you, and why are you with Pepper? Did Happy give you the seal of approval? Pep! Did you hire someone without Happy’s knowing? Ooh, he’s gonna be so angry with you. Anyway, what, Pep, why are you cleaning me up?”

Miss Potts tuts but doesn’t stop swiping at the black smears on Mister Stark’s cheeks. “You have grease everywhere, that’s why.”

“Is the president here? Because you know how I feel about him.”

“Yes, Tony,” sighs Miss Potts as she drops the rag to the tabletop. “He’s a pompous orange buffoon whose IQ barely hits double digits, and he should have stuck with reality TV instead of making an ass-clown of himself.”

“A dangerous ass-clown, thank you. Man brought out the worst in people, and we’ll be paying for it for a long time. Did Happy kick him out?”

“The president isn’t here, Tony!”

“Then why—?” His eyes widen, and he looks between Miss Potts and silver walls around them. She has managed to lead both men into the lift without either noticing, but they’re noticing now. “You didn’t.”

“I did. I’ll stall long enough for you to change into something more suitable. Mister Barton, please see to it that he doesn’t throw himself out the nearest window.”

“Does she do that a lot, Mister Stark?” asks Clint once the lift reaches the appropriate floor and Miss Potts has slipped out.

“What, get you to do what she wants without you realising it?” Mister Stark snorts and waves for Clint to follow. “Of course she does. She’s a wily one. And don’t call me Mister Stark. That was my father.”

Tony orders Clint to stand in the corridor then disappears through a door. When he emerges five minutes later, he might as well be a different man. Gone are his grease-stained jeans, though he stills wears his AC/DC T-shirt under his suit jacket. He’s smoothed down his hair, but there isn’t much someone can do when there’s enough motor oil there to run a Formula One racer. The pair heads down the cavernous hallway to a set of double doors.

Clint stands just inside while Tony takes a seat at the table surrounded by suits and ill-concealed discontent. The faces say the men had hoped Tony wouldn’t show, that they’d only have to deal with Miss Potts. Clint has a feeling that Miss Potts is the more vicious of the duo. Tony can say ‘fuck this, I’m out’, but Virginia Potts has to put out the fires. Something about her screams that she’d just as soon eviscerate a man with her words as she would enjoy a glass of wine. Clint makes a silent note to not screw her over.

He finds himself zoning out about halfway through the meeting. He listens with one ear while mentally taking apart his bow. Cataloguing the entrances—only the door behind him—and the sightlines. The surrounding buildings aren’t nearly as tall as Stark Tower, but a truly talented hitman doesn’t need something so trivial. Clint is proof of that: He’s taken shots that were deemed impossible, simply through skill and pure luck. Before the Disaster, he was 157 for oh.

“Thank you, Mister Barton.”

He pulls himself from his thoughts and blinks owlishly at Miss Potts. “What?”

“Your presence was a welcome one. Now, if you’d like, I can have my assistant Todd give you a tour, or you’re welcome to explore on your own. JARVIS will help guide you if you prefer that.”

“What about you? And Tony?”

She cocks her head, blue eyes narrowing as she scrutinises him. Her lips quirk into a small smile. “Tony is already back in his workshop, and Happy will be in my office with me. Remind me to introduce the two of you. He’ll be the one you report to every day.”

“Could I meet him now? Get it out of the way before I run screaming?”

“Trust me, the job won’t be as stressful as you think, but of course. Follow me.”

Happy Hogan does not live up to his moniker. He’s gruff, stand-offish, and Clint can tell the two of them won’t get along well at all. He watches Clint closely, brown eyes narrowed the entire time. Clint slips from the room twenty minutes later with the very solid knowledge that Happy is going to distrust him for a while. Hell, the man might even hate Clint already.

Clint-

Sorry it took so long to get back to you. There’s been… a lot happening over here. Just now got a chance to breathe.

Yes, big band music. My grandparents used to babysit me and my sister when we were kids when our parents were working. It was a pretty good time, so it’s a nice memory. Pops taught me to do the Charleston. Wow, that sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?

Please don’t tell me you actually stole the dog and you’re just saying it sneaked into your house. I thought we agreed that stealing someone’s dog is a bad thing.

I understand feeling like a crappy human. Really, I do. It’s a never-ending darkness that steals your soul. But Clint, I doubt you’re a crappy human. Bad handwriting aside, you’re taking the time to write to a soldier you don’t know all because of some 10 year old kid. You’ve taken in a dog that isn’t yours just because it showed up. You coulda just ignored Alyshia and dropped the dog at a shelter, but you didn’t. I know I said Lysh is determined, but even she’d back down if you said no and meant it.

Don’t let your brain convince you of bad things. That shit sticks with you, and no one deserves that.

Yeah, I’m probably as ugly as you. I definitely feel like it - if not more.

Plums are amazing, man. You have no idea what you’re missing out on. Kiwis are the disgusting fruit. All those seeds. Gross.

I’m glad you have a best friend. They make life easier, even if they’re scary like you say Nat is. Yeah, Steve’s the most loyal person I’ve ever known. He’s a damn golden retriever in human form.

It’s okay, you don’t have to call me Bucky. Sarge or James works.

Remember what I said, Clint. Don’t let your brain win.

Sarge

Clint stares down at the letter. He’d meant the whole ‘horrible person’ comment as a joke—mostly—but here Sarge was trying to convince Clint he’s worthy of something good. He will never again deserve Coulson and Nat’s support; this job that pays so much, more than he has ever even been offered; the dog that moved in and won’t leave.

He hasn’t kicked Lucky out, so maybe he isn’t as bad as he could be. Only monsters harm or upset animals. But Clint is a monster of his own. A hundred dead will prove that of a man.

He drops Sarge’s letter onto the coffee table, makes his way to his bedroom, and calls for Lucky as he falls face-first onto his bed.

Sarge,

Didn’t sound pathetic to me. I’d kill for memories like that. Now THAT is pathetic.

Of course I didn’t steal the dog! Nat would kill me for even attempting to. Like I said, the mutt just… showed up and won’t leave. It’s okay, tho. He doesn’t do much but sleep and steal my pizza. Oh, and chase the Russian tracksuit mafia down the block. He’s a good boy like that. His name is Lucky - I don’t think I said that before. I think it is anyway. Wish he could talk.

Got a new job. It’s… weird. Not bad weird. Just weird. Haven’t worked in a few months so being around that many people is… weird. Is weird a word now? Because it doesn’t look like it.

How’s everything where you are?

Clint

There. No mention of Sarge’s last letter, everything he’d said. There is no reason for Sarge to know how much his words affected Clint. That would only make Clint feel more pathetic, and he really can’t handle that right now.

He slips the letter into an envelope and drops it into the outgoing post on his way to work.

His days are mostly following Tony around the tower, and boy, the man can talk. Clint can barely understand half of what Tony says, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind—it’s almost as if he talks just to hear his own voice. Clint has lunch once with Miss Potts, and she gives him her undivided attention. Her phone rings a few times. She silences it each time. Clint has never had this much attention on him. Not even Coulson was able to spend uninterrupted time with his subordinates.

Natasha comes by three days after Clint’s latest letter to Sarge. They spend the hours watching Say Yes to the Dress, which tickles Clint pink. She’s never going to get married—her goal is to die without once saying ‘I do’—but she loves these reality shows. He only wishes she liked Dog Cops as much as he does. Then he would actually be interested in what they watch.

She also goes to the range with him so he can fire off a few arrows while she complains about her partner. Well, as close to complaining as Nat ever gets. Clint can hear the carefully concealed rage in her voice when she tells him of Rumlow’s latest screw-up: Messing with her weaponry and lying about it. Natasha has always kept her firearms in impeccable condition. Clint was never allowed to mess with them, and they’d been partners for six years.

They aren’t partners anymore, but Clint still knows her well. Rumlow is lucky to be alive.

She doesn’t mention the new job until they’re on their way through the exit, and even then it’s a simple question: How is it? Clint debates lying to her—saying that he loves it—but he can’t. Not only would she see right through it, but he’s trying the whole ‘honesty’ thing at Doctor Brayden’s insistence. So he tells her the truth: He isn’t sure if he’s quite cut out for security detail, especially not for someone like Stark and Pepper.

Plus, he isn’t worth the money they’re paying him.

That second sentence earns him a pinch to the hip. Natasha’s eyes narrow, and Clint forces himself to not take a step back. She raises a hand to cup his jaw, an uncharacteristic display of affection, and her lips quirk into a small smile.

“You’ve never been able to see how valuable you are. Stark is lucky to have you, Barton. I couldn’t imagine anyone else who’s capable of what you’re doing, except maybe me.”

“No ‘maybe’ about it,” he mutters. “You’re the best.”

“Of course I am.”

She disappears with a fleeting smile, and Clint tightens his grip on his bow and heads off down the block. Lucky sits just inside the door when Clint arrives home an hour later, and all Clint can do is smile. He’s never had someone—something—waiting for him like this. The only time Barney ever waited was to smack him around for whatever mistake Clint had made, just like their father always did. No one else cared enough.

But now here’s a dog, one who isn’t even technically Clint’s, tail wagging and tongue lolling from his mouth as he stares up at the human with one eye. Before he can think about it, before he can stop himself, Clint sinks to his knees and sets his bow aside. Lucky licks frantically at Clint’s face as he buries his fingers into thick fur and leans forward.

The flat is finally starting to feel like home.

Clint,

I’m glad you didn’t steal the dog. But I’m glad you have something to care for. Especially when it’s a dog like that. I wish I had one now. I miss having a dog. You have a “Russian tracksuit mafia” living near you? How does that even work? Please tell me you don’t get involved more than letting Lucky chase them down the street…

I’m glad to hear you got a job. I know how… isolating it can be to be cooped up in your flat all day without a routine to stick to. Without social interaction. Hopefully the job is keeping you out of your own head. (And yes, weird is still a word.) Tell me more about the job. If you can, that is. It’s not one of those jobs where if you told me what you do, you’d have to kill me, is it? If so… keep the details to yourself. I don’t feel like dying… If this tour doesn’t take me out first

Things are fine here. Hot, boring. Can’t wait to stop this “hurry up and wait” bullshit.

Sarge

Clint snorts—his job is nowhere near ‘I’ll take your life’ levels, but it’s amusing to read Sarge’s fumbling words. He tosses the letter on the countertop and shuffles toward the couch. Lucky waits until he’s fallen face-first onto the cushions then hops up to curl between Clint’s side and the back of the couch. Clint’s lips twist into a smile.

He’s never had to take care of anything but himself before, but the dog is turning out to be less work than Clint expected when Lucky showed up.

“Aw, man, does this mean I have to find a vet?” Clint asks on a whine.

Lucky bolts toward the bedroom in response.

Sarge,
Yeah yeah, I’m a saint for taking in a stray dog who doesn’t judge me for being a mess. And yes. There’s a Russian tracksuit mafia that took over a building a few away from mine, and Lucky absolutely LOVES chasing them. It’s the only time I ever hear him snarl and growl. Otherwise, he’s a quiet thing. I swear he can understand what I say, though… And of course I don’t get involved… That would be dangerous considering all the guns. And the fact Russians never forgive. I do have some sort of self-preservation despite what everyone thinks.

Having a job is a lot harder than I expected after my last career ended the way it did. Basically, I’m now a security guard for a pretty crazy, rich billionaire genius. I don’t get much of a chance to think since he’s insane and likes to blow things up, so it’s definitely a job to keep him from injuring himself. But he’s pretty cool anyway. He lets me choose the music sometimes. Don’t worry. I don’t have to kill you now that I’ve told you. I don’t do that anymore.

Ah, standard SOP for the military. Make you miserable while they sit on their asses in their comfy quarters making decisions that affect only their cash-flow. I get it. Maybe Black Sabbath got it right: We should send the rich to war.

Clint

Despite his reservations, Clint keeps what Nat said playing on a loop in the back of his mind. It keeps him focused on what he’s supposed to do and not the never-ending existential dread. Happy has graciously relinquished the task of tailing after Tony, and Clint wonders if it’s meant to be a show of approval or punishment for some karmic mishap in a past life. Tony Stark is nothing if not a walking, talking disaster. Clint finds himself struggling to stay out of the way while also doing his job. More than once, there’s been a small explosion in the workshop that sent Clint rushing to check on Tony while Dum-E sprayed the both of them with a fire extinguisher.

Clint should really be accustomed to the chaos after a month, but it never fails to take him by surprise.

He finds a vet willing to see Lucky the week before Thanksgiving. Tony barely registers it when Clint tells him he’s taking the sixteenth off, and Pepper seems almost surprised when he tells her it’s for his dog. Her expressions smooths out almost instantly, and she smiles and grants him the day for the appointment. Five cabs reject Clint before a sixth decides to allow the dog into the backseat.

Despite being a stray with no known medical history—and the missing eye, Lucky is in outstanding health. Clint doesn’t tell the vet Lucky exists purely on pizza and kibble, though. Even he knows it’s not a healthy diet for anyone. He promises himself he’ll stop by the market on his way home to get some vegetables even as he leads Lucky out of the exam room. Wincing at the cost of the check-up, Clint passes over his nearly maxed-out credit card and hopes there’s still enough of a balance on there to cover it.

There’s another letter in the mailbox when he gets home, the second from Sarge since Clint sent out the last one. This one is full of idle rambling, complaining about heat and boredom and his plans for when he comes home. I’m gonna spend at least 70 years not doing a damn thing besides sleep. Maybe eat my weight in ice cream. Clint thinks it’s as good a plan as any, ambling to the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge to go with the Chinese takeaway he orders.

Between work and the dog, Clint’s life has become a routine, something he’s still unfamiliar with. He never had a set schedule with SHIELD—he was always ‘on’, even when there wasn’t a mission to work. He spent most of his time in the office annoying Nat or at the range annoying Nat or in the field annoying Nat, which says a lot about his level of common sense. But he likes to think he’s cute enough to annoy her without being stabbed. Too many times, anyway.

He wakes in the morning, lets Lucky out front to do his business while the coffee brews, dumps kibble and green beans into a bowl, then hurries to dress for work. He’s grown quite used to the suit; five more have joined his first one, and wouldn’t Nat and Coulson be proud of him. He’s even hired a dog-walker, some kid named Kate who extols Lucky’s mere existence every time she sees him. It’s a normalcy that’s helped settle his brain—slightly.

The nightmares still grip him tight in the middle of the night, though less devastating. They’re more muted, faded in a vignette sort of way that brings less of a chokehold and more the sensation of being bound at the wrists and ankles. He still can’t pull himself from the dreams, but at least he can breathe. He only ever comes to awareness because of Lucky, the cold wet nose and slobbery tongue. Clint wonders if it’s supposed to be this easy, after such an impossible situation.

Clint goes to therapy every Friday afternoon, and it’s another part of his routine. Letters from Sarge come, and letters to Sarge go out. As inevitable as the tide. The latest letter, which arrives a week before Christmas, says Clint sounds happier in the missives now that he isn’t “on the sidelines anymore”. He’d take affront to that, but he can admit that that’s exactly how he felt when he got assigned to desk duty before being pushed onto leave.

“Okay, so everything is packed and ready to go,” Pepper says the evening of the sixteenth, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a severe knot at the base of her skull. Her heels click against the marble as she paces her office, and her eyes skim over the itinerary in her slender hand. “Happy, you’ll drive, right?”

“Yes, Miss Potts.”

“Has Tony come out of his workshop?” she asks as her gaze cuts to Clint.

He nods and allows himself a small smile. “Yeah, he’s showering now. I double-checked with JARVIS. I even threatened to drag him out of the bathroom naked and bubbly if he takes too long.”

“I’m sure he loved that.”

“He didn’t exactly hate the idea, to be honest.”

Pepper rolls her eyes with a wry smile and chews on the corner of a nail. Just a small action, less than a heartbeat, but Clint realises she’s concerned. There’s something in her that’s worrying her. A small voice in his head says he should be worried, too. As the trio waits for Tony to emerge from his living quarters, Clint strides to the window and looks down upon the city. Ants of people walk along the blustering streets below, cars inching their way through dead-end traffic.

Tony arrives, to Clint’s surprise, with little fanfare. One second, he’s still in his bedroom, and the next, he’s ambling out with a briefcase in one hand and a glass half-full of booze in the other. A pale circle of blue-white light bleeds through his threadbare T-shirt, and Clint jerks his gaze away. He’s seen the arc reactor up close and personal, but it’s still a marvel to him. The world knows what happened to Tony Stark, that he was abducted and held hostage until he built weapons for a terrorist group. No one knows about the arc reactor, not since Tony had to go head-to-head with his surrogate uncle after an assassination attempt on Tony’s life.

Clint remembers reading the file, shivering at the cold ice in Obediah Stane’s eyes as he stared back from his prison mugshot. Even through a photograph, Stane had come across as the calculating type, ruthless and greedy. Of course, in order to kill the man you’d known since his childhood, you would have to be ruthless and greedy.

Clint eases the glass from Tony’s hand while Pepper distracts him with going over the itinerary once more, and Tony cracks jokes the entire time. She’d assured Clint that despite his persona, Tony really does care for the company and does his best to not hurt it. “Too much,” she’d tacked on gracefully, because they both know Tony has done damage to the company multiple times before.

The flight to Sweden is eight and a half hours of unusually peaceful nothingness. Tony tinkers with some contraption for an hour before reclining in his seat and falling asleep. Happy does the same only five minutes later. Pepper sits in her own seat, legs crossed at the ankles and knees pressed tightly together, and switches her attention from one tablet to another. Clint hesitates for a moment before slouching. He doesn’t doze—sleeping here will only prove disastrous—but he lets his mind wander to things away from his job.

It doesn’t leave him much to think about: therapy (not thinking about that), the Russian tracksuit mafia, Nat, and Lucky. Clint wonders how Lucky is doing with his absence. This is the first time Clint has left more than just the city, the state, since Lucky came into his life. It’s also the longest he’ll have been away from the dog. A whole week. Clint can’t help but question if Lucky will still be at home when he comes back. Maybe Kate will abduct him. Clint has no way of proving ownership, so it’d be a he said-she said. She would probably win.

After landing, the quartet heads straight for the hotel, an extravagant thing that has Clint gaping even as he follows the others. Happy double-checks the suite while Clint remains in the corridor with Tony and Pepper. His hands itch for his bow, too exposed though no one is around. After several heart-pounding minutes, Happy gives the all-clear, and Clint ushers the other two inside. He throws the lock as soon as the door slips into place, makes sure it can’t open, then stands awkwardly in the middle of the room as Happy sits on the couch. Tony disappears through one of the doors, and Pepper toes off her heels and pads barefoot to the kitchen.

It isn’t until later, when Clint is lying in bed across from Happy, that he wishes he’d asked to bring Lucky with him. Sighing, he settles in for a long, sleepless night.