Winter came sudden and cruel, and Clint fell ill almost immediately. Doctor Banner managed to save him from pneumonia, but he gave strict orders: no going outside, at all, until he was fully healed. Clint was surprised by how difficult it was for him to accept this. He was still freer than he had ever been, but the walls haunted him, taunted him. He missed the air, the sky, the horses. Most of all he missed target practice.
He didn't lose his knack for archery fully, as he'd feared, but the wreckage of his left arm and his newly acquired limp made it feel new and difficult. His balance needed to be adjusted; the force behind his pulls was lacking. He had to re-learn the movements and the patterns, pull-aim-release, and it was frustrating and scary, like an ache in unhealed wound. Clint spent as much time at the archery range in the backyard of the manor as he could, trying and trying and trying again, fretting over his struggle as if it meant something other than regaining his skill.
It probably did; he had no doubt, now, that the Starks would keep him on regardless of his shooting prowess, but it was something he had to find again for himself. Some shade of the old Clint, from Before, who could find this empty, singing space between himself and the target, could hit dead center with his eyes closed. Where he was invincible, untouchable, glorious. Where they called him Hawkeye, and where he had his freedom, such as it was.
Well, he had been making progress, but his illness had put a temporary stop to it. He had been trying very hard to occupy himself inside the manor walls ever since, and not create any disturbance. He was easier around Lord Stark, now that he accepted him as a man and not just a wounded animal needing aid. Lady Pepper was invariably kind and steady, a warm light suffusing the house. The Doctor stridently avoided him when his skills were not needed, keeping his eyes down in something akin to remorse when they were, and Clint wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed by that. Lady Natalia had visited several times, unexpectedly choosing to sit on his target practice and offer quiet, useful advice, or letting him share the care for Udova, but she was away on some unspecified business again. Clint found himself sharply and unexpectedly missing her: either the person or the weird feeling of being something of a comrade-in-arms to her.
At least it seemed that Lord Stark's mysterious enemies, whoever they were, had been thwarted by the sudden winter or were still recovering from their last failure. Everything was quiet, and Clint healed, and worried, and exercised, waiting for everything to start moving again.
Then one day Lady Pepper met him outside the doors of her suite and asked him to take some papers to Lord Stark to sign.
"He's been delaying dealing with them for several days in a row, and if I ask you he'll do it quickly just to not keep you standing for too long, you know? So please," she asked, as if he could ever deny her anything, really.
He took the handful of papers and limped determinedly towards Lord Starks' office. The manor was insulated and there was never a shortage of firewood, but long stone corridors still were cold, and he could feel his toes stiffening even in his new leather boots (an unheard-of extravagance; he hadn't had anything that fine even in his Before times, and probably never would have).
He thought he heard an unfamiliar voice inside as he raised his arm to knock and almost turned back; but Lord Stark's voice beckoned him on, and the thought of Lady Pepper's disappointment was unbearable.
There was an unfamiliar man in the roomnear the burning fireplace, clad in rich black and green robes and furs, with gold at his wrists and his throat and in his long dark hair. He turned at the sound of door's opening and looked at Clint, swift and assessing and dangerous, and his eyes fastened immediately at the mostly healed slave brand on Clint's neck.
Between a breath Clint fought to take and his next one the stranger was already next to him, gloved hands possessive and sure on Clint's shoulders.
"Ohh, my lord Stark, I didn't know you played these games, too," he said in a voice smooth and silken, "but he's gorgeous. I bow to your taste, truly. Do you think I could - try him, in the spirit of our new partnership?"
It was a testament to how comfortable Clint has gotten in the household, in his new position, that it took him a moment to recognize the swirling, dark terror inside him. He was promised - he was never used - but for somebody so obviously important, somebody dealing with Lord Stark, somebody who probably shouldn't be offended - and...
"Hands off, Lafeysson", Lord Stark snarled, and it was his truly furious voice, not the pretend scorn or amused sarcasm, and by the way the guest let Clint go almost against his will, it had startled him as much as it did Clint.
Clint sagged against the wall, breathless and disbelieving, while the stranger went back to the fireplace completely unruffled, as if nothing ever happened.
"Your Highness," said Lord Stark, calmer now, "we can do business or we can do pleasure here, but nobody in this household is for anybody to touch, and you will do well to remember it." The menace in the last words was soft and unmistakable, enough that Clint's knees almost gave out.
Lafeysson smiled, suave and seemingly unbothered, and said "Of course, of course, we should respect each other's customs. My apologies to you and your - liegeman."
"Very well," Lord Stark said, smiling again. "If you forgive us for a moment, I'm sure Clint had something to show to me,", and steered Clint into the hallway.
Outside he made Clint sit on the windowsill and push his head between his knees, and Clint took several grateful gulping breaths, feeling the swirling darkness in his head subside and the overwhelming sense of shame to come in its place. Lord Stark said "Breathe," warm and apparently unconcerned, and Clint shivered under his regard. All this talk of strength, all the days spent on the archery range, and here he was in pieces in the cold hallway, because a stranger touched him and talked about him as if he was a thing to be used.
"Sorry," he choked out, not even trying to raise his eyes yet, and Lord Stark said, "Here, none of that now. If anything, I should be apologizing for not warning you."
"I shouldn't have," and he choked and made a helpless gesture with his good hand, trying to encompass the whole unbearable situation, the hallways and Lord Stark wasting his time in it on Clint's utter uselessness and the important guest undoubtedly offended back in the room.
He made himself look at Lord Stark, miserable, and found him looking back, steady and serious.
"Clint," he said, quietly and gravely, "we're all glad that you're recovering, and making progress. But nobody expects you to just behave as if nothing ever happened to you, truly. You were horribly used, and you have every right to still be hurt and scared."
Clint nodded, dumbfounded. Lord Stark continued:
"Be you slave, liegeman or a free person under my roof, nobody will ever touch you against your will, do you understand? Be it prince or Duke or the King himself, you're under my protection, and you have my word on that. Do you know this?"
And Clint, to his surprise, realized that yes. He did.
He nodded again, swallowed, and let Lord Stark take the papers gently out of his clenched fingers. He signed them quickly, right there on the windowsill. The small tremors shaking Clint died down. Lord Stark said absentmindedly, his eyes on the paper:
"Lafeysson won't bother you anymore, and I will warn you next time I have guests. You don't have to see anybody you don't want to meet, ever. Do you think you want to wear our livery, as a member of the household? Something that will cover the brand, if you wish, or not - just talk to Pepper about it, if you want. It will be done."
Clint said, almost involuntarily, "Yes," collected the papers, and flew.
There were no repercussions to the episode, despite Clint's half-smothered expectations. Several days passed. His livery, hastily ordered by Lady Pepper, arrived, in red and gold, with a high collar fully covering his chest and neck. It felt weirdly too fine and too bright for Clint to wear; he loved it on sight.
On the third day Lady Pepper found him and said, gently, "Lafeysson's older brother came to render his apologies to you. You don't have to see him, if you don't wish, but he doesn't mean any harm. He's in the main salon with Tony now."
Clint's first instinct was to refuse, now that he was allowed. He made himself stop and consider, nodded, and went.
He entered the salon quietly, not wishing to interrupt the conversation that Lord Stark was having with the visitor. The man standing in the salon was enormous and broad-shouldered, with a mane of tawny hair and a broad, weirdly innocent smile. Hard as he tried, he couldn't find any resemblance to Prince Lafeysson's sinuous, dangerous strength in this man.
"The day I can't handle your little brother, they might as well bury me, Thor," Lord Stark was saying with some irritation, and the man said, somewhat unhappily,
"I don't doubt it, but I wish you wouldn't help him be more dangerous than he is, friend Anthony."
"If your father insists on treating this kingdom as a training ground for his spoiled offspring, he should be able to handle what they learn here," Lord Stark answered, then relented. "I'm not teaching him anything he wouldn't be able to find anyplace else, truly. No secrets of the craft. But I need him, for now, and he needs me as well."
Clint took a hesitant step forward, unsure whether he should reveal his presence or let them have the argument in peace. The stranger resolved his dilemma for him, turning towards him sharply and smiling with no trace of guile or anger on his face.
"Clint Barton! I'm glad to see you. I'm here to offer apologies for my kinsman; I swear he won't do you any harm."
Clint said, "Thank you, Your Highness", uncertain whether he'd gotten the title right, and suddenly felt the overwhelming weirdness of the whole situation, of one prince apologizing on behalf of another for treating a slave like a slave.
Lord Stark nodded at him from behind Thor's back, benign and slightly amused, and Clint felt steadier. Then Thor strode forwards, arm outstretched, saying "Can we shake hands so there's no ill will between us?" and Clint's brain fizzled for a second in a shower of white sparks.
This was unsupportable; he could probably be executed just for the offense of standing in the Prince's presence, or looking at him directly, or - and he wouldn't, not under Lord Stark's protection, but to shake his hand, to proclaim their equality so blatantly - it was impossible, intolerable, and he felt the urge to kneel, or run, to hide.
His hand stole up to touch the crest on his chest, almost involuntary. The crest of House Stark, that bowed to no one, of his Lord and Lady. Lord Stark was still smiling at him, sharper now, his eyes no longer indulgent, and Clint swallowed and took the offered hand, as firmly as he knew how.
"Friends?"
"Friends, Your Highness."