that-hawk-guy

[that-hawk-guy]

"You got that right," Clint said strongly. "And I wouldn't ask for anyone else watching it either. So no worries there...not even Nat compares to you."

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

Clint chuckled. "Relax. She was fighting with us and she's my best friend. I just meant I sort of disappeared on all of them. And I know how to hide from her if needed. She's not looking to hurt me."

Dreams of the Past

@fan-maddson

The sky was still thick with smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs and made your heartbeat echo in your ears. Sirens wailed in the distance—ambulances, firetrucks, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. containment units—but Clint barely heard them.

He blinked, his body aching like he’d been crushed and rebuilt bone by bone. One hand gripped the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the other still clutched his bow. Familiar weight. Familiar burn. But everything else felt… off.

He sat up slowly, boots scraping over concrete dust. The chaos of the battle still lingered in the streets below, but it was over. He knew it. Just like he knew something impossible had happened.

Because he remembered dying.

He remembered the last breath torn from his chest, his fingers bloody and trembling as he reached for a face he hadn’t seen in years. Fanndas. The woman he’d loved from a distance, foolishly, stubbornly, believing she deserved more than a broken man with blood on his ledger. He’d walked away and let her live a nightmare.

And in death, he’d been told the cruelest truth—she was his soulmate. Not just a regret. Not just a fleeting “what if.” She had always been meant for him. And he had failed her.

Now he was here. Back. Reborn in the smoking ashes of Manhattan, the past roaring around him like it had never ended. His hands were younger. His scars fewer. His heart? Still wrecked.

“Son of a…” Clint whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He stood up slowly, surveying the skyline. Stark’s tower in the distance. Cap giving orders below. The city broken but standing. His timeline had been reset, and he’d been dropped in right at the start of everything.

No hesitation this time.

He turned away from the wreckage and pulled his comm earpiece off. There were things to deal with—debriefings, cleanup, Fury’s lectures—but none of it mattered. Not until he found her.

He didn’t know where she was, but he knew he had to be the one to get to her first this time. Before the wrong man did. Before the years stole her light again.

Clint Barton vanished from the rooftop like a ghost, nothing but shadow and grit, his heartbeat pounding one name through his veins like a war drum.

Fanndas.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

[that-hawk-guy]

"Agreed," he said. "I don't even want to imagine a world without you in it..."

Clint knew if he somehow lost Kate...he'd lose every good part of himself. She was what kept him grounded and kept him going.

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

He sighed and shook his head. "and I would choose you over me. Every time."

He wouldn't repeat his past mistakes...those mistakes lead to injury or death. He wouldn't add Kate's name to his own personal ledger.

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

"Ha ha," Clint teased. "I should have followed your lead during that mission anyways. Your ideas were more solid than mine..."

His words were honest and not biting. Hindsight was also crisp and clear.

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

“There’s things I need to tell you. I won’t keep any secret from you, and honesty is needed if we’re going to survive together.”

Dreams of the Past

@fan-maddson

The sky was still thick with smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs and made your heartbeat echo in your ears. Sirens wailed in the distance—ambulances, firetrucks, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. containment units—but Clint barely heard them.

He blinked, his body aching like he’d been crushed and rebuilt bone by bone. One hand gripped the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the other still clutched his bow. Familiar weight. Familiar burn. But everything else felt… off.

He sat up slowly, boots scraping over concrete dust. The chaos of the battle still lingered in the streets below, but it was over. He knew it. Just like he knew something impossible had happened.

Because he remembered dying.

He remembered the last breath torn from his chest, his fingers bloody and trembling as he reached for a face he hadn’t seen in years. Fanndas. The woman he’d loved from a distance, foolishly, stubbornly, believing she deserved more than a broken man with blood on his ledger. He’d walked away and let her live a nightmare.

And in death, he’d been told the cruelest truth—she was his soulmate. Not just a regret. Not just a fleeting “what if.” She had always been meant for him. And he had failed her.

Now he was here. Back. Reborn in the smoking ashes of Manhattan, the past roaring around him like it had never ended. His hands were younger. His scars fewer. His heart? Still wrecked.

“Son of a…” Clint whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He stood up slowly, surveying the skyline. Stark’s tower in the distance. Cap giving orders below. The city broken but standing. His timeline had been reset, and he’d been dropped in right at the start of everything.

No hesitation this time.

He turned away from the wreckage and pulled his comm earpiece off. There were things to deal with—debriefings, cleanup, Fury’s lectures—but none of it mattered. Not until he found her.

He didn’t know where she was, but he knew he had to be the one to get to her first this time. Before the wrong man did. Before the years stole her light again.

Clint Barton vanished from the rooftop like a ghost, nothing but shadow and grit, his heartbeat pounding one name through his veins like a war drum.

Fanndas.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

[that-hawk-guy]

He nodded. “Alright…there’s a spot outside of the city that uses beef tallow and there’s no coconut or tropical stuff. So safe for you.”

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

“Your mom told me you didn’t want to see me when I came looking for you…said you were betrothed and couldn’t be seen with another man,” he admitted.

He looked at her.

“That was about…two years ago.”

Dreams of the Past

@fan-maddson

The sky was still thick with smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs and made your heartbeat echo in your ears. Sirens wailed in the distance—ambulances, firetrucks, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. containment units—but Clint barely heard them.

He blinked, his body aching like he’d been crushed and rebuilt bone by bone. One hand gripped the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the other still clutched his bow. Familiar weight. Familiar burn. But everything else felt… off.

He sat up slowly, boots scraping over concrete dust. The chaos of the battle still lingered in the streets below, but it was over. He knew it. Just like he knew something impossible had happened.

Because he remembered dying.

He remembered the last breath torn from his chest, his fingers bloody and trembling as he reached for a face he hadn’t seen in years. Fanndas. The woman he’d loved from a distance, foolishly, stubbornly, believing she deserved more than a broken man with blood on his ledger. He’d walked away and let her live a nightmare.

And in death, he’d been told the cruelest truth—she was his soulmate. Not just a regret. Not just a fleeting “what if.” She had always been meant for him. And he had failed her.

Now he was here. Back. Reborn in the smoking ashes of Manhattan, the past roaring around him like it had never ended. His hands were younger. His scars fewer. His heart? Still wrecked.

“Son of a…” Clint whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He stood up slowly, surveying the skyline. Stark’s tower in the distance. Cap giving orders below. The city broken but standing. His timeline had been reset, and he’d been dropped in right at the start of everything.

No hesitation this time.

He turned away from the wreckage and pulled his comm earpiece off. There were things to deal with—debriefings, cleanup, Fury’s lectures—but none of it mattered. Not until he found her.

He didn’t know where she was, but he knew he had to be the one to get to her first this time. Before the wrong man did. Before the years stole her light again.

Clint Barton vanished from the rooftop like a ghost, nothing but shadow and grit, his heartbeat pounding one name through his veins like a war drum.

Fanndas.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

[that-hawk-guy]

“Whatever you want,” he said. “And it’s a bit of a drive. So yes on food. And maybe a motel or hotel too.”

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

He nodded. “Alright…then we’ll go somewhere we can be alone. So we can really talk without being interrupted or having assumptions.”

Dreams of the Past

@fan-maddson

The sky was still thick with smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs and made your heartbeat echo in your ears. Sirens wailed in the distance—ambulances, firetrucks, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. containment units—but Clint barely heard them.

He blinked, his body aching like he’d been crushed and rebuilt bone by bone. One hand gripped the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the other still clutched his bow. Familiar weight. Familiar burn. But everything else felt… off.

He sat up slowly, boots scraping over concrete dust. The chaos of the battle still lingered in the streets below, but it was over. He knew it. Just like he knew something impossible had happened.

Because he remembered dying.

He remembered the last breath torn from his chest, his fingers bloody and trembling as he reached for a face he hadn’t seen in years. Fanndas. The woman he’d loved from a distance, foolishly, stubbornly, believing she deserved more than a broken man with blood on his ledger. He’d walked away and let her live a nightmare.

And in death, he’d been told the cruelest truth—she was his soulmate. Not just a regret. Not just a fleeting “what if.” She had always been meant for him. And he had failed her.

Now he was here. Back. Reborn in the smoking ashes of Manhattan, the past roaring around him like it had never ended. His hands were younger. His scars fewer. His heart? Still wrecked.

“Son of a…” Clint whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He stood up slowly, surveying the skyline. Stark’s tower in the distance. Cap giving orders below. The city broken but standing. His timeline had been reset, and he’d been dropped in right at the start of everything.

No hesitation this time.

He turned away from the wreckage and pulled his comm earpiece off. There were things to deal with—debriefings, cleanup, Fury’s lectures—but none of it mattered. Not until he found her.

He didn’t know where she was, but he knew he had to be the one to get to her first this time. Before the wrong man did. Before the years stole her light again.

Clint Barton vanished from the rooftop like a ghost, nothing but shadow and grit, his heartbeat pounding one name through his veins like a war drum.

Fanndas.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

[that-hawk-guy]

“Oh definitely. She was a nurse,” he snorted. “It’s how I met her. I had been shot in the ass. When I hit on her, she said ‘At least you still have a nice ass, even if a bit holy’.”

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

“Do you need to call your parents so they know you’re safe?” Clint wondered. He just hoped that if she did, they wouldn’t suck her back into their world again.

He looked at her, his weary eyes taking her in. He reached out and pushed some hair back from her face.

Dreams of the Past

@fan-maddson

The sky was still thick with smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs and made your heartbeat echo in your ears. Sirens wailed in the distance—ambulances, firetrucks, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. containment units—but Clint barely heard them.

He blinked, his body aching like he’d been crushed and rebuilt bone by bone. One hand gripped the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the other still clutched his bow. Familiar weight. Familiar burn. But everything else felt… off.

He sat up slowly, boots scraping over concrete dust. The chaos of the battle still lingered in the streets below, but it was over. He knew it. Just like he knew something impossible had happened.

Because he remembered dying.

He remembered the last breath torn from his chest, his fingers bloody and trembling as he reached for a face he hadn’t seen in years. Fanndas. The woman he’d loved from a distance, foolishly, stubbornly, believing she deserved more than a broken man with blood on his ledger. He’d walked away and let her live a nightmare.

And in death, he’d been told the cruelest truth—she was his soulmate. Not just a regret. Not just a fleeting “what if.” She had always been meant for him. And he had failed her.

Now he was here. Back. Reborn in the smoking ashes of Manhattan, the past roaring around him like it had never ended. His hands were younger. His scars fewer. His heart? Still wrecked.

“Son of a…” Clint whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He stood up slowly, surveying the skyline. Stark’s tower in the distance. Cap giving orders below. The city broken but standing. His timeline had been reset, and he’d been dropped in right at the start of everything.

No hesitation this time.

He turned away from the wreckage and pulled his comm earpiece off. There were things to deal with—debriefings, cleanup, Fury’s lectures—but none of it mattered. Not until he found her.

He didn’t know where she was, but he knew he had to be the one to get to her first this time. Before the wrong man did. Before the years stole her light again.

Clint Barton vanished from the rooftop like a ghost, nothing but shadow and grit, his heartbeat pounding one name through his veins like a war drum.

Fanndas.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

[that-hawk-guy]

“I don’t think I should stay here,” he said. “Too many memories…of Nat. If I’m gonna heal? I need distance I think.”

When The Dust Settles

@scarredbookworm

The farmhouse hadn’t seen life in a long time.

Clint sat slouched on the back porch, a forgotten cup of coffee cooling between his hands. Morning pushed weakly at the horizon, all pale grays and worn-out blues, but the world felt stuck somewhere before dawn.

The wood beneath him creaked as he shifted, the sound barely louder than his breathing. The fields stretched out in every direction, barren and indifferent, like they didn’t care if he was here or not.

He remembered when he’d thought this place could be something good.

Laura’s laugh echoing off the walls.

Cooper kicking against her ribs, a restless little life already impatient to meet the world.

The dream of noisy holidays and a future so bright it hurt to look at directly.

Gone.

All of it.

Sometimes he could still smell the blood.

Sometimes he could still see the door swinging open, hear the silence that screamed louder than any gunshot.

The enemy hadn’t just taken Laura and Cooper.

They’d carved the good right out of him and left the hollow pieces behind.

If it hadn’t been for Natasha—

Her voice, her stubbornness, the way she’d dragged him back from the edge when he hadn’t wanted saving—

He would’ve disappeared a long time ago.

And now she was gone too.

Gone, and he was still here, somehow, breathing through lungs that didn’t want to work.

The screen door creaked.

Clint didn’t look up right away.

If it was another agent, another pity visit, he didn’t have the strength to tell them to leave.

But the air shifted.

Lighter. Sharper.

Like the world was holding its breath.

Something in him, something old and half-dead, stirred.

A memory surfaced—

A dusty circus lot, a laugh sharper than the crack of a whip, hands pulling him up from the dirt before Barney could kick him down again.

Kate Turner.

The name hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Slowly, Clint set the coffee cup down on the porch beside him.

His fingers trembled, just a little.

He turned his head.

And there she was.

Older. Weathered by time, just like him. But not broken.

For a moment, Clint couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Katie.

The name pressed against his teeth, desperate to escape, but he forced it down.

He didn’t have the right anymore.

Not after the years.

Not after everything he’d failed to protect.

His throat worked around the words he couldn’t say.

The porch stretched out between them, a handful of steps that felt like miles.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know if he should stand or speak or apologize for surviving when so many others hadn’t.

All he could do was stare—

And wait.

And hope he hadn’t already lost her too.

[that-hawk-guy]

“Then let’s go somewhere private we can talk and catch up,” he said. “We have a lot of things to discuss.”

With those words he lead her out of the apartment and down the stairs. When they reached the ground floor and stepped outside, the city was much quieter. In the distance an alarm was going off, but the aliens were gone.

Clint lead her away to a car relatively unscathed, and easily got into it and hot wired it.

“Let’s go.”

Dreams of the Past

@fan-maddson

The sky was still thick with smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs and made your heartbeat echo in your ears. Sirens wailed in the distance—ambulances, firetrucks, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. containment units—but Clint barely heard them.

He blinked, his body aching like he’d been crushed and rebuilt bone by bone. One hand gripped the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the other still clutched his bow. Familiar weight. Familiar burn. But everything else felt… off.

He sat up slowly, boots scraping over concrete dust. The chaos of the battle still lingered in the streets below, but it was over. He knew it. Just like he knew something impossible had happened.

Because he remembered dying.

He remembered the last breath torn from his chest, his fingers bloody and trembling as he reached for a face he hadn’t seen in years. Fanndas. The woman he’d loved from a distance, foolishly, stubbornly, believing she deserved more than a broken man with blood on his ledger. He’d walked away and let her live a nightmare.

And in death, he’d been told the cruelest truth—she was his soulmate. Not just a regret. Not just a fleeting “what if.” She had always been meant for him. And he had failed her.

Now he was here. Back. Reborn in the smoking ashes of Manhattan, the past roaring around him like it had never ended. His hands were younger. His scars fewer. His heart? Still wrecked.

“Son of a…” Clint whispered, dragging a hand down his face.

He stood up slowly, surveying the skyline. Stark’s tower in the distance. Cap giving orders below. The city broken but standing. His timeline had been reset, and he’d been dropped in right at the start of everything.

No hesitation this time.

He turned away from the wreckage and pulled his comm earpiece off. There were things to deal with—debriefings, cleanup, Fury’s lectures—but none of it mattered. Not until he found her.

He didn’t know where she was, but he knew he had to be the one to get to her first this time. Before the wrong man did. Before the years stole her light again.

Clint Barton vanished from the rooftop like a ghost, nothing but shadow and grit, his heartbeat pounding one name through his veins like a war drum.

Fanndas.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

[that-hawk-guy]

“Yeah…you guys would have liked each other. Probably would have ganged up on me a lot,” he mused.

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.

[that-hawk-guy]

He nodded. “Alright…I’ll let you lead then. Because I’ve never been just Clint. Accept when I was with you in the Circus.”

When The Dust Settles

@scarredbookworm

The farmhouse hadn’t seen life in a long time.

Clint sat slouched on the back porch, a forgotten cup of coffee cooling between his hands. Morning pushed weakly at the horizon, all pale grays and worn-out blues, but the world felt stuck somewhere before dawn.

The wood beneath him creaked as he shifted, the sound barely louder than his breathing. The fields stretched out in every direction, barren and indifferent, like they didn’t care if he was here or not.

He remembered when he’d thought this place could be something good.

Laura’s laugh echoing off the walls.

Cooper kicking against her ribs, a restless little life already impatient to meet the world.

The dream of noisy holidays and a future so bright it hurt to look at directly.

Gone.

All of it.

Sometimes he could still smell the blood.

Sometimes he could still see the door swinging open, hear the silence that screamed louder than any gunshot.

The enemy hadn’t just taken Laura and Cooper.

They’d carved the good right out of him and left the hollow pieces behind.

If it hadn’t been for Natasha—

Her voice, her stubbornness, the way she’d dragged him back from the edge when he hadn’t wanted saving—

He would’ve disappeared a long time ago.

And now she was gone too.

Gone, and he was still here, somehow, breathing through lungs that didn’t want to work.

The screen door creaked.

Clint didn’t look up right away.

If it was another agent, another pity visit, he didn’t have the strength to tell them to leave.

But the air shifted.

Lighter. Sharper.

Like the world was holding its breath.

Something in him, something old and half-dead, stirred.

A memory surfaced—

A dusty circus lot, a laugh sharper than the crack of a whip, hands pulling him up from the dirt before Barney could kick him down again.

Kate Turner.

The name hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Slowly, Clint set the coffee cup down on the porch beside him.

His fingers trembled, just a little.

He turned his head.

And there she was.

Older. Weathered by time, just like him. But not broken.

For a moment, Clint couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Katie.

The name pressed against his teeth, desperate to escape, but he forced it down.

He didn’t have the right anymore.

Not after the years.

Not after everything he’d failed to protect.

His throat worked around the words he couldn’t say.

The porch stretched out between them, a handful of steps that felt like miles.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know if he should stand or speak or apologize for surviving when so many others hadn’t.

All he could do was stare—

And wait.

And hope he hadn’t already lost her too.

[that-hawk-guy]

He nodded. “Thanks…but don’t worry. I’m not done weird person with a shrine or anything.”

He gave her a small smile, hoping she’d take the joke and help him lighten the conversation.

The Other Hawkeye

@scarredbookworm

Clint sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight as Nick Fury paced the room like a caged panther.

The debrief had been dragging on, but Clint wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. He already knew the mission had gone south. Knew the cost. He could still feel it bleeding under his skin.

Across the table, Katelyn Turner sat just as still, her expression a mask of calm that only Clint had learned to read beneath. Tension coiled in her shoulders. A tightness around her mouth she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

She was angry. At herself. At him. At how close it had come this time.

“You two are lucky you’re still breathing,” Fury said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. His one good eye pinned them both like insects under a glass jar. “But luck’s not a strategy. I need partners who watch each other’s backs without question. No second-guessing.”

Clint swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His hand tightened into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.

Once, a long time ago, he’d lost a partner because of a bad call. Natasha had barely made it out of her Red Room past before some goddamn bureaucrat sent them both into a no-win mission. She hadn’t survived it. Clint hadn’t survived it either—not really.

Since then, he hadn’t let anyone get close. Hadn’t dared.

Until her.

Fury’s voice dropped lower. “This is it. Official or not—you’re a unit now. From here on out, you move together. You fight together. You survive together.”

Clint didn’t glance at Katelyn, but he felt her glance at him. A flicker, a breath.

Something cracked open in his chest, sharp and dangerous.

When Fury finally dismissed them with a clipped nod, Clint pushed back from the table and stood, feeling the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

He waited until they were in the hall, away from Fury’s sharp eyes, before speaking—his voice low, rough around the edges.

“You alright?” he asked, because it was easier than asking if you’d died out there, I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done.

Clint exhaled slow. “Next time,” he muttered, “you stay behind me. Got it?”

The words tasted like fear. Like regret. Like a promise he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep.

Because somewhere between all the missions, the training, the teasing and the silence—she had become everything.

And sooner or later, one of them was going to have to admit it.