Author's note: Just a quick word: this story came out of wanting to write an interaction between Hawkeye and Ironman that wasn't just banter and nicknames. I thought Tony and Pepper's wedding would be a hell of a subject for them to discuss. Enjoy! :)
Stark is getting married. Since Clint Barton has been pouring over data screens for a few hours, running on no tea—fuck coffee—and no breakfast, he's not sure if he's imagining that bit of information. But this is what Agent Hill tells him on her third visit back into the room to make sure he's still filling out the reports he's neglected to do for a week now. Barton isn't sure how Natasha can stand to fill out any of these reports, as they're all mindless; full of dense academic words his brain can't fully register through the blatant hunger he's feeling. Stark's marriage announcement manages to break his focus on all that's annoying him.
"Really?" he asks.
Agent Hill smiles, something she rarely does. "Yes, he announced it this morning before he and Miss Potts could get into an argument. Convenient, don't you think?"
More like preemptive. Barton smirks at the thought. It's a good match. Potts keeps Stark in check, balances him out, and sometimes prevents him from sticking his foot in his mouth. Sometimes.
He speeds through the rest of his work and ignores Agent Hill's disapproving look. Better to let her fix his mistakes than go back through them himself. Barton is never this sloppy in the field, but filling out reports has none of the urgency that being in his line of work requires. He contemplates hiring a secretary and smiles at the thought of what Natasha would say.
Barton heads for the mess hall to finally get some well-earned breakfast. More like lunch, after a glance at his watch. It's two thirty in the afternoon, long after a lunchtime for most SHEILD agents, and sunlight is bursting through the windows as he walks into the room. Barton squints against the light and yawns. A reflex action. He lounges at one of the tables with his plate and scarfs down two bagels, eggs and bacon. Welcome energy floods through his body and he tops everything off with a hot mug of green tea, without any sugar as punishment to himself for procrastinating.
His palms itch with the need to hold the bow and he heads toward the personal gym made especially for the Avengers, where there are a few brand new targets waiting for him. Stark had purchased new ones for him and promised they would help with his aim. Whatever that meant.
With his thoughts back on Stark, Barton thinks of Miss Potts. She strikes him as sweet, good-natured, maternal. She is the kind of woman he would have liked before…everything. He couldn't be with a woman like that now. Barton frowns at these thoughts and stops them before they can sink deeper into his memories. He quickens his pace. Target practice is now a priority.
It's almost a surprise to see the gym empty. Usually Cap is there working the punching bag or even Thor. Bruce lifts and runs when he can. Natasha runs four miles in the morning after breakfast but sometimes Barton finds her and they spar in the boxing ring. She got him good in the cheek a few weeks ago and the bruise is still there, faintly yellow on his skin.
Barton takes his bow from the rack against the wall, where several other weapons lie dormant. He's no longer worried about leaving it this room; he's had his moment of obsessive over-protection and it's passed. With a quick snap of his wrist, the bow whips into position. The string twangs and he smiles. The quiver of arrows is next, straps easily over his shoulder and across his chest, tighter than normal through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The arrows clatter as he walks and it's a reassuring sound. He heads to the range set aside for him and scoffs out a laugh. Stark's new targets are positioned at the end of the range.
Barton knows they're his because Loki's face has been plastered in the center of them.
He appreciates the humor even if it irritates him to see the man's face again. It's close to a dark joke but Barton realizes it just might actually work in his favor. Stark is as every bit as insensitive as he claims to be, but Barton sees the affection buried deep in his gestures. In this case, very deep.
He knocks up the first arrow on the bow and aims easily. It's a standard, and thus flies gracefully, thudding into the image of Loki's ear. A little off target. Barton sighs and readjusts. Another arrow leaves his fingertips.
Thud.
The forehead this time. A little closer.
Barton hits a button on the quiver and it whirs and clicks a new arrowhead into place. It is steel-tipped and heavy, with serrated edges. Whatever this arrow hits, it's staying in it. He takes in a breath, aims, lets the breath out slowly and fires.
Thud. Right in the eyebrow. Close, but not a bull's-eye.
He hears footsteps and expects Bruce or Cap.
"How do you like the new targets, buddy?"
Certainly not Stark. Barton lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
"I see what you did there," he says.
Stark grins. Crow's feet tug at his eyes. They look good on him, make him seem as if he laughs a lot. Barton knows his own come from squinting in bright sunlight or dim twilight, observing individuals. Laughter has only reentered his life recently. He knocks up another serrated arrow and aims, squeezing one eye shut. Stark watches, tucks his hands in his pockets. Barton lets the arrow fly.
"Pepper and I are getting hitched," Stark says.
Thud.
The other eye—still not close enough.
Barton smirks at how ridiculous it looks. He rolls his shoulders and pulls out another arrow from his quiver.
"I heard this morning," he says. "Congrats."
He and Stark have never talked much. In fact, Barton finds it hard to talk to the man. And he finds it more difficult with an unexplained feeling of jealously nipping at his thoughts. He sets his jaw and refocuses, aiming at the other target at his three o'clock.
Jealousy is petty. Barton shouldn't even acknowledge it and he's mad for doing so.
"I'm surprised it took us this long, in all honesty," Stark tells him, watching another arrow sail through the air. It lands, quivering, into the other target.
"Pepper's a good sport, though. Both with me and the whole Ironman thing."
Barton knows how much Stark loves her. He talks about her more than he realizes he does. Whenever Barton sees them together there is a wholeness there, something perfect about them. No matter how flippant he is, Stark is crazy about her.
"I should hope so," Barton says, hitting the button for another arrowhead. "It's the best thing for you to find a woman who can stand to be in the same room with you for more than ten minutes. Hang on to her for dear life, man."
Stark looks at him crookedly, almost insulted, but not really. Barton feels he's entitled to a dig; he's tired of being called "Legolas" three times a day. He fiddles with his arm guard as Stark speaks.
"Pepper thought it would be nice if someone from SHEILD would give a speech at the reception. I thought it would be cool if you did it. I mean, if you're up for it."
Barton stares at him. This isn't happening. He laughs a little. Stark shrugs, pretending to be interested in the targets down the range.
"I understand if you're nervous about standing in front of a crowd. Y'know, being that you're up in that nest thing all the time, being all anti-social."
"It's not an actual nest," Barton says with narrowed eyes. "That's just what they call it. It's a joke."
Stark arches an eyebrow. "Ah. Clever."
They stand in silence for a moment, almost awkward. Barton sighs.
"Why me?"
Stark makes a face. "Well, no one should give Thor a microphone, Bruce is better off not trying to outsmart me, Romanov hates me, and Steve—God bless him—is a little boring."
Barton laughs in spite of himself. Stark smirks.
"What do I have to talk about?" Barton wants to know.
"I dunno, something about how you've worked with me and how I'll be all nice to Pepper and stuff."
Barton raises his eyebrows. They fought for the world together. That was a little different from just working together. But he sees the logic in what Stark is saying. He's just confused about one thing.
"What do you mean about "being all nice" to Miss Potts?"
Stark purses his lips. "Call her Pepper, c'mon. Or Mrs. Stark—she loves that."
Barton knows without asking she really doesn't. Stark takes a moment to contemplate explaining what he means.
"Just talk about how great a husband I'm going to be," he finally says. "Make something up if you have to."
Barton laughs and keeps a comeback to himself. He's going to spare them today, mainly because Stark is asking him a favor. Strange as it may be.
"It'd be cool if you made everyone cry."
"Now you're just being an asshole," Barton says.
Stark shrugs. "Am I? Everyone cries at weddings."
Barton rolls his eyes and thinks. He knows Stark and Potts are made for each other, but he doesn't know how to describe that to everyone else. It's the strangest thing anyone has ever asked of him. If Stark wanted him to put an arrow in someone's ass for shits and giggles that would be different. This seems too important to half-ass. Barton knows he has to think about it.
And then he thinks of her. He hates Stark for inadvertently bringing it up but knows it would've happened anyway. He thinks of the slim gold ring he still keeps hidden in the footlocker under his bed, the ring he no longer wears. He thinks of her white dress and her dark hair braided simply behind her ears. He remembers a frozen pond and cold, powdery snow sticking to her hair. He doesn't skate, refuses to, and she throws a snow ball at him. She calls him Clint, not Barton. Not Hawkeye. This is before, this is long before.
He remembers losing his wife.
Barton looks at Stark, no longer miles away. He thinks of Miss Potts and thinks of the woman he loved. He knows what to say for this speech that Stark dismisses as routine. He knows to tell him to never take his wife for granted. To fucking love her 'til death do they part.
Barton straightens up, shoulders his bow. He nods to Stark and claps him on the shoulder.
"I'll do it."
Stark smiles at him, genuinely. A smile reserved for a friend.
"Thanks, Legolas."
Barton rolls his eyes as Ironman departs, a spring in his step, laughter echoing around the room. He stares back down at the images of Loki, alone with the bow and arrow. Barton plants his feet, pulls back his arm. He exhales, releases the arrow.
Thwack.
Right in the nose. A perfect bull's-eye.