Letters from Home

The expo is already loud, and it hasn’t fully begun yet. Clint can scarcely breathe as he takes in the sights, the people milling about and chatting to each other, the entrances and exits, the various vantage points for a sniper. He remembers too clearly being the one up in the shadows, ready to loose an arrow or squeeze the trigger. The job was as much a part of him as his past.

Now he doesn’t have the job with SHIELD anymore, but he has this. He still has his past. He swallows down the bile in his throat and flexes his fingers against his thighs. Pepper and Tony are still at the hotel, readying for the next three days of schmoozing and, in Tony’s case, showing off his creations. Despite his insistence that he loathes these events and should not be trusted in public for something so important, Tony loves being able to unveil the newest things to help make life easier for everyone. “Except Nazis,” he said, “and the president.”

Clint double-checks there are no hidden figures in the shadows before turning on his heel and heading for the door. He might as well wait for his charges outside.

The first night passes quickly, and Clint finally relaxes the longer the evening goes on without a hitch. He pays no attention to the speakers, staying close behind Tony as the man weaves his way through the attendees. He charms them in a way that still takes Clint by surprise—tactful, Stark is not. More often than not, he’s rambling without destination. But thrust him into the spotlight like this, and the man can thrive if he wants.

He knows how important this is, and he hates letting Pepper down. Clint knows the feeling. Pepper is the type of woman that Clint would bend over backwards to keep happy.

When they arrive in the venue the next evening, Clint frowns when he sees that security has been doubled. More guards stand at the doors, and dozens prowl the corridors surrounding the main room. No one else seems to notice. No one but Happy. The two exchange a speaking glance, then Happy places a hand on Pepper’s lower back, jerking his chin in the direction of the nearest guard. Clint obeys the unspoken order.

“What’s going on?” he asks in an undertone, and the woman gives him a withering look. “C’mon, you can clearly see I’m on the job right now. I should know of any potential dangers.”

“You’ve not been briefed,” she replies, words clipped and lips barely moving.

“Then brief me. Please.” He sighs and shifts to face the crowd. There’s Tony, ducking behind an attaché as another man approaches. Clint’s gaze stays on Tony. “Put my mind at ease here, ma’am. Should I remove myself and my client from the situation?”

She finally blows out a breath but doesn’t look at him. “There have been rumours of a bombing attempt. We have no way of knowing if they are true, and we’ve searched the building dozens of times. No bomb has been found. Now if you will excuse me, I have a job to do.”

She adjusts her stance, and Clint knows the conversation is over. He thanks her for the information then hurries without hurrying to Tony’s side. Unfortunately, Justin Hammer has managed to corner Tony. Tony whose lips are stretched into a winning smile sharpened with disgust. Hammer doesn’t seem to notice the hostility, instead chattering on and on about some new product at Hammer Industries. Even with Tony’s love of engineering and creation, nothing Hammer says keeps his focus, and his eyes glaze over. Clint clears his throat.

“Mister Stark, Miss Potts wants to talk to you.”

“Oh! I see you’ve got another one. What happened to—Happy, was it?” Hammer thrusts out a hand. “Justin Hammer.”

“I don’t touch people,” Clint says coolly before ushering Tony away who immediately starts babbling.

“You’re a lifesaver, seriously, Barton. Don’t ever leave my side. I don’t think I could deal with him again.”

“It’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

Tony doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. He merely squares his shoulders and straightens his jacket. “Time to dance again.”

The night can’t end soon enough, Clint thinks as he follows Tony through the crowd. He shudders with each brush of another person’s arm against his, and his breath hitches in his throat when the guard’s words echo in his mind. What if someone here decided to not go big with a bomb, but instead went with something as innocuous as an injection? No one would know until it’s too late.

The third morning dawns clear and bright, but the beauty of it can’t penetrate the ice settling beneath Clint’s breastbone. His hands tremble, and he wraps them tightly around his mug of coffee to hide the shaking. It does nothing to help. Thankfully, Tony and Pepper don’t seem to notice. Clint almost wishes they would, they would notice and ask what’s wrong. But he doesn’t have an answer, no discernible reason for the twisting of his gut and the acid in his throat. So it’s for the better that they don’t notice and ask.

“I don’t think—I don’t think we should go today,” he finally mumbles as Tony reaches for the coffeepot.

“Why?”

“I just. . . I feel like something bad is gonna happen.”

“The worst that’ll happen is I embarrass the company or, heaven forbid, Pepper.” Tony claps a hand to Clint’s shoulder. “Trust me. I’ve done this song and dance for as long as I can remember.”

Clint trusts Tony. He just trusts his gut more—even after the Disaster. But Tony is already off, heading toward his room as Pepper orders him to shower: “Really, Tony, how do you get so covered in grease when you haven’t been near your workshop?”

Tony only grins as he shuts the door. Pepper rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch at the corners. There’s amusement and love in her eyes while she gathers up the files she’s been reading. Clint knows their relationship fizzled out and now they’re left with the type of friendship he shares with Nat—minus the love-infused insults. Clint doubts that there’s any relationship as dysfunctional yet stable as the one he has with Natasha.

Sarge,
I don’t know if I’ll survive today. It was nice getting to know you.

Clint rips the page from the hotel stationery pad, folding the missive in half before stuffing it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He should rip it up, burn it to ash, but he can’t. Maybe if he dies, Natasha will find out and understand to send the short message to Sarge. The thought of Sarge getting such an impersonal, detail-less note, however, fills Clint with a wave of something unidentifiable. He’s been on the receiving end of “We’re sorry for your loss” speeches before, and it always sucks. Even if he didn’t know the deceased very well.

The door clicks open, and Tony steps out fully dressed in a fitted tux. Clint swallows, all thoughts of the not-quite-a-letter fleeing from his brain. It’s time, and he isn’t ready. He wishes Tony would listen—that they’d stay at the hotel and spend the evening watching some horrible sci-fi movie if only to distract Tony from the fact he can’t grandstand. To let Pepper focus on Stark Industries business and not the expo. To let Happy relax the way he doesn’t often do when he’s on the job.

The man may not like Clint, but Clint knows and appreciates how hard Happy Hogan works to keep Pepper and Tony safe.

Clint excuses himself, heads to the bathroom, and locks the door behind him. He barely gets himself seated on the edge of the enormous tub when it hits. He sucks in a shaky breath, one that freezes in his chest, one that strangles him as his body gives way to the trembling. The icy grip that keeps him paralysed as wave after wave crashes over him. He tucks his arms against his sides, hands coming up to cover his face. His stomach roils as he fights against the inevitable.

Images float, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind, and he gags at the stench, the sight of so much carnage caused by his failure. It’s going to happen again, and he can’t stop it. He’ll have failed Stark, ridding the world of such brilliance and the competence that is Pepper Potts. The only good thing is, Clint will be among the casualties, so he won’t have to deal with the fallout of such a horrible tragedy. He’ll still die knowing he couldn’t save anyone, just like before.

It’s a wonder Nat and Coulson still give a damn about him.

You don’t get to make judgement calls for others. Of course Doctor Brayden’s voice would infiltrate his thoughts. He clings to the familiar voice. He may not trust the woman further than he could throw her, but she’s doing her damnedest to help him. That’s gotta account for something.

His breathing evens out, and Clint slowly straightens his spine. A heaviness weighs down his bones, but he can move again. He pushes to his feet despite the lead in his veins, striding toward the opulent sink. Soaps and moisturisers, thick towels, even a basket of mints sit around the edge of the sink, and the light gleams off the narrow, curved faucet. He avoids his reflection in the bulb-rimmed mirror as he splashes cold water on his face.

By the time he emerges, Pepper is corralling Tony toward the door, and Happy shoots a sharp glance at Clint. Clint ignores it, trailing after his bosses, even though everything inside of him screams for him to turn back.

The most he can do, however, is remain on high-alert. He trusts Happy to keep Pepper safe, to keep her from harm as she moves gracefully between clusters of businessmen and wears a smile that says she loves to be here, loves to be talked down to and treated like little more than a pretty face. Clint has no idea how she does it. If he were her, he’d have punched someone in the face by now. Maybe that’s why she is the CEO and he’s just a lowly guard.

Following Tony, Clint’s gaze scans over everyone they pass, everyone they talk to. None of them give off a dangerous vibe—Hell, they barely give off vibes of being worthy of Tony’s time. But Tony schmoozes, he grins and bears the annoyance with a tact and grace that Clint still doesn’t expect from him. He’s watched Tony too often in the workshop where he rants and raves to his AI and bots, occasionally remembering Clint was there. There were numerous afternoons spent listening to the techno-babble that made no sense, and none of it was ever nearly as fluid as this Tony.

Hammer tries to get Tony’s attention, but Tony dodges him without hesitation, smoothly, effortlessly. Clint will never know the full reason behind the animosity, but even he knows that Hammer’s company tries too hard to do what Stark Industries does. He’s been in the board meetings, heard the discussions over patent violations and legal recourse, of which there was a load of legal options. Clint also knows that Hammer Industries—even the names are similar—has no compunction about sending products to market without strenuous testing. Tony may hate the delays, but he considers safety of others to be highly important. Just not for himself, judging by the frequent explosions and times he’s come out of the workshop with a rag wrapped around a bleeding hand.

Hammer looks put out when Tony disappears from his sight, but his expression clears when he sees Clint watching him. With a slight sneer on his face, he turns away to chat up the person beside him, someone who looks distinctly unimpressed and uninterested. Something shivers deep in Clint’s gut. The small voice in his head tells him now. Now is when things are going to change. Something is going to happen, and he’ll fail his job.

Clint doesn’t realise how close he’s gotten to Tony until the man goes to move away from the bar only to run into Clint’s chest. “What the—? Space, Barton, I know you know what that is. Back up, I need some breathing room.”

“Sorry, I—I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That doesn’t bode well for your job,” Tony says without any real heat or sass. “Just. . . Give me room to walk without tripping over your feet, and we’ll be good.”

Clint agrees and vows to do as ordered, despite the hulking dread filling his chest. He does his best. He tries so hard, but over and over, Tony turns to find Clint within inches. His expression sours more with each time, and finally, with a painted-on smile, he extracts himself from the conversation with the head of some conglomerate and drags Clint off to the side.

“Look, I know it is literally your only job to make sure people don’t actually kill me like they’ve threatened to do so many times—seriously, so. Many. Times. But is there any reason as to why you’re so far up my ass, I can smell your shampoo?”

Swallowing against the bile in his throat, Clint shrugs helplessly. God, does he hate feeling helpless. He struggles to find the words, the right ones, the ones that will convince Tony to leave without finalising contacts or planning more deals. Tony raises a brow as he waits; Clint can see the patience bleeding away, and his stomach lurches. It takes all of his willpower to not throw up at Tony’s feet. He finally manages to choke out something, a fragment at a time.

“Please, Tony, I—I can’t, I can’t explain it right now.” He shakes his head at the stuttering, at the uncertainty behind his words. He’s certain about this, why can’t he convey that properly? “I don’t know, I don’t know how to. Trust me, please, trust me when I say we need to leave.”

Tony’s brows furrow, lips thinning, and he stays quiet for a long moment. A quiet Clint only hears when Tony is contemplating some mystery with his engineering. “Fine,” he says after a pregnant pause, rolling his eyes. He finishes his drink in one swallow. “You’re lucky I’m bored.”

Tony doesn’t say anything about how close Clint stands as they weave through the people gathered until they reach Pepper’s side. Happy stands a few feet behind her—near enough to pull her from danger but far enough to give her a modicum of privacy with her discussions. She glances at Tony and Clint, says something to the man in front of her, and steps toward her boss.

“Tony?”

“I’m bored.”

Clint is surprised. He was sure Tony would have told her the truth, that Clint couldn’t contain his anxiety to the point that he’s begging them like a child to leave. Instead, here Tony stands with a put-upon petulance on his face that reminds them all of a child. Pepper, thankfully, doesn’t argue. She knows, probably better than anyone, that a bored Tony is a dangerous Tony, even when he doesn’t mean to be.

The valet brings the car around, and Happy helps Pepper into the backseat before rounding to the front. Tony mutters ‘I’m trusting you, Barton’ before sliding in beside Pepper, and Clint takes the front passenger seat. The drive to the hotel is silent except for the sound of Tony’s fingers against his phone screen and his mumbling to JARVIS through the earpiece he brought with him. Clint stares out the window and struggles to control his breathing. It isn’t safe to lose control here, not with his bosses so close by. If he lets his fears and panic take over, he risks losing his job. Then he would be back where he started with being alone with only his thoughts and the memories.

He paces through the suite, one end to the other and back again, occasionally glancing through the curtains to the city outside. Sweden is beautiful this time of night. Lit windows dot the horizon, cars snaking the streets down below, and somehow, he can still see the stars overhead. It’s unlike New York, but Clint can’t find the proper appreciation for the beauty. He lets the heavy fabric settle back into place and takes a step towards the wall again.

Tony glances away from his phone after half an hour, snapping, “Stop pacing, Barton, Jesus, you’re making me jumpy.”

“Sorry.”

He fights against the urge to continue pacing, sitting on the edge of the couch beside Pepper. She reaches over with one delicate hand, resting it on his knee, before pulling away. The contact does little to reassure Clint. Nothing can interrupt the flow of ice and heat, the tightening in his chest and throat and skin. He itches all over, and his eyes burn.

Time slips by. Another half-hour, then another. The others have distracted themselves with JARVIS (Tony), dozing off (Happy), and an American sitcom dubbed over in Swedish (Pepper). Clint lets out a slow breath, tension oozing away, and slumps slightly. He may be fired for this, God, is he ever fired, but he is glad that nothing’s happened. Everything is fine. The expo is ending soon, and nothing bad—

An alarm blares on the television, Pepper’s show cutting out, and a news reporter appears on the screen. Behind him is a building, a very familiar building. The venue is different only in that half of it has disappeared, crumbled to the ground, and the other half is on fire and engulfed in smoke. Pepper gasps, and even Tony sits up straight as Happy jerks awake. No one speaks as the reporter continues the live broadcast. It’s in Swedish, and Clint doesn’t know Swedish, but he knows what the aftermath of a bomb looks like.

And the destruction on TV? That’s absolutely a bomb’s handiwork.

He jerks to his feet and sprints to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him, he shoves the lock into place and falls to his knees in front of the toilet.