Clint finds the pizza somewhere between midnight and 2am.

It's not his fault that he's up. Honest.

Well.

Like.

Sort of?

He's pretty sure that it's the Russian mob's fault, though.

Like 99%. Super duper sure. Okay. Fine. 92%? 84%. That's as far as he's willing to go. It might also have something to do with him having a minor— completely minor, thank you very much, no matter what Phil says, he totally knows how to take care of himself— and getting high-key lost in the subway station until a college student with a cold cup of coffee directed him home.

He finds the pizza between two cushions of his seat which, really, just typical.

Lucky peers at him, squinting from his spot on the edge of the couch.

"Hey, boy," Clint says, rubbing Lucky's back.

Lucky closes his eyes, and thus Clint cannot really be blamed that he doesn't realize he's sitting on Lucky's tail until he finds the pizza and shifts, Lucky yelping a bit as he does so.

"Sorry," He whispers, and Lucky is either very forgiving or very tired, because he just closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

Clint yawns.

It's dark, his light dim, cushions saggy, and he wonders in the back of his mind how bad it would be if he at the pizza.

"Can't be that bad," he muses to himself, "I mean, it hasn't decomposed yet or anything. Probably from last night or something."

There is mold on the pizza.

Fuck it.

He eats it anyway, because Clint is stupid and he's always been stupid and it's been a long day and he fought the Russian mob or something and his head aches but it's alright because even if it's a concussion, it's minor.

The pizza is chalk and dust and ash in his mouth and he wants to stop but he keeps eating anyway, because Clint has never really know what's good for him.

The mold isn't too bad.

He doesn't feel sick yet.

"Maybe I have a super immune system," he thinks out loud.

Sure. Why not. He doesn't have super powers, right? Maybe he got to survive eating moldy pizza without getting sick in return.

Or maybe that concussion was worse than he'd thought.

It could go either way, honestly.

"What do you think?" He asks Lucky, finishing off the crust and licking his fingers. They, too, taste like dust. Gross, but Clint does it anyway. "Yeah," he sighs, closing his eyes, "I'm pretty stupid."

Lucky makes a noise, as though to disagree, or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

He's not sure.

(It's very had to be sure when you're tired. Just for the record. What record? Clint doesn't know. He's tired, okay?)

He pulls out his phone and watches Steven Universe, falling asleep somewhere around Ruby evaporating all of the water in the pool and Sapphire freezing over the room of a motel.

Or he assumes that he's fallen asleep. If he had passed out, this would be sort of awkward.

These things tend to make the others worry for some reason. Wild, honestly. He could never quite understand it.

He blinks, and when he wakes, his phone has fallen under the sofa, light has spilt through his window and his face is half buried in Lucky's fur, short, golden ends in his eyes and around his nose.

It's a wonder that he hasn't suffocated in his sleep.

"Morning, boy," he laughs a bit as he gets up, groaning a little when his muscles protest at the action. "Ugh. What fight did I get in?"

"With some of the Russian mob, if my intel is right," 'Tasha, shiny red curls and curled lips, green eyes and a smile that knows she's right, that she always is.

"'Tasha," he leans back onto the couch, covering his eyes with an arm, "You here to steal my hot chocolate again?"

"Phil says that you passed out," 'Tasha says, sipping a cup of what's likely his hot chocolate.

Clint frowns.

"Phil isn't monitoring my vitals anymore."

'Tasha smiles again, that cat-got-the-canary smile, as though to say is that what you thought?

Oh, Clint thinks, sort of dumbly, and pats himself, "Where is it?"

Resignation.

A smile from 'Tasha. Almost worth it, if it weren't creepy as fuck.

"Your hearing aid," she says.

"Fuck," Clint mutters.

"Language."

"Fucking shit."

Another lipstick red smile, crinkled eyes and dimples, "He worries."

"Yeah, well, he can worry without watching my vitals," Clint debates taking off his hearing aids, "I need these, you know. Can't just rip them out."

"That's the idea."

He puffs out his cheeks, "You're terrible."

She examines her nails, shiny polish, pretty black dress, "Considering that you ripped yourself open to get the last tracker out, the higher ups probably thought this was a last resort. Honestly? Most of them didn't think that it would work."

"Taking advantage of my disability," Clint says, chalk and ash in his mouth, and he starts to lift the sofa cushion, looking for his toothbrush.

"It wasn't like we could put it on your clothes, you always found it."

"I don't like being tracked, 'Tasha."

"We couldn't put it on you, you felt it."

"Toothbrush?"

"You need a new one."

"Fuck you."

"And when we put one under your skin, you cut yourself open to get rid of it."

"Goddammit, 'Tasha, where'd you put my toothbrush?"

"Garbage."

Clint moves to the garbage and pops it open, shifting around cans and plastic wraps in vain.

"I wasn't really surprised when you cut open your leg," 'Tasha says, "But when SHIELD put one on your collarbone? Didn't expect you to almost commit suicide there."

"It's not in here."

"You are disgusting."

"Where did you put my toothbrush?"

"It's gone. We're getting you a new one."

"I liked my toothbrush."

"You haven't changed it since Christmas."

"So?"

"It's September."

"…So?"

A sigh, one the indicates that 'Tasha thinks he's being ridiculous again.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms over his chest, and moves to the kitchen sink to spit out the taste of mold lingering on his lips. "Undercover ops again?"

"Maybe I just wanted to look fancy."

'Tasha once said something like that, maybe I just wanted to look fancy, as she leaned over to kiss her target, hands on his back and on his chest and she kisses his neck until the poison gets through and he's dead, symptoms showing like a heart attack and her screaming and pretending she's normal when it's always seemed clear to Clint that she's not, not even when she looks like a little girl who knows nothing but giggles and clumsy sex.

Clint had watched from the scope of a sniper's nest, her backup (not that she needed it, she had never needed it, the higher-ups knew that, but they sent him anyway because they didn't trust her yet and Clint had been the only one that 'Tasha had trusted back then, the scruffy kid who didn't have the guts to shoot her) as the guards rushed in and she sobbed into their shoulders.

Clint doesn't mention this, because that was a long time ago and the memory doesn't quite click right into this situation anyway, it doesn't belong in this conversation and his brain is stupid.

"You always look fancy," he says, quirked up smile and hopefully something like a leer (but he's tired, and that kind of stuff requires effort).

"Flatterer," 'Tasha says. She runs a finger along his kitchen counter, slow, thoughtful, dragging his gaze to the movement. She's always been amused by that, how Clint zeroes in on movement.

He says it's because he's a sniper.

She says it's because he's paranoid.

It's the same, really, in the end.

"Why are you here, 'Tasha?"

A side glance, "I already told you. You passed out. Phil was worried. You listening?"

"You wouldn't be here just because I passed out," Clint examines his fingers. Blunted ends. Arrow callouses. "Mission?"

She is silent.

"Don't try to play me," he says, voice scraping over itself, low, rough, because he knows that look, that silence.

"Some of the higher ups don't know if you should keep up with your solos."

"I can damn well keep up with my solos."

"You're an Avenger now, Clint."

"So are you."

She is quiet, looks him in the eye, "They want me to quit my solos, too."

Clint sucks in a breath, sharp, fast, because 'Tasha's one of the best, hell, he's one of the best. "What are they thinking?"

She shrugs.

"It isn't some test, is it?" He asks, because it'd be just like the higher ups to pull that.

"HYDRA's becoming a lot more active. Aliens are pouring in, missions are slowing, we've got new recruits…"

"What's your real aim, here?" He cuts in.

'Tasha has never been quite straight with him. It isn't her style, she isn't the type to be so blunt, she likes to beat around the bush, and she's only straightforward once she's had her fun. "They're making excuses. Fury can't fight this one straight."

Clint doesn't speak, because if he does, he might do something stupid like say you think I don't know that?

He stares at her fingers instead.

"This is about Japan, isn't it."

(This is about the council saying we want SHIELD to assume control of the criminal underworld and Fury snarls I'm not risking my best two agents on a plan like that and the council stares with cold eyes that say we'll see while Clint waits in silence, knowing he's a pawn in a grander scheme.)

She stares at him as though to say stupid.

If this were Kate, she would have said something like duh. Idiot.

Fuck.

"Fuck," Clint mutters.

She smiles at him, a quirk of her lips, fast, light. "Just to prove we can handle it."

"They're baiting us."

"They need us."

"And they can't just ask?" Clint drags a hand through his hair.

'Tasha keeps smiling. That's her weapon. The ease in her shoulders, her lips, her poise, as though everything is wonderful and the world is at peace.

He can see it already, her, smiling at the higher ups, crisp thank you's ringing with hollow disdain.

(She is always an assassin, Clint thinks, even when she gets ice cream with him or falls asleep on his gross pizza couch.)

Clint sighs.

Looks down at his own fingers.

"Living without solos can't be so bad," he muses.

'Tasha gives him a look, one that looks right through him, refuses to buy what he feeds her.

He grins at her, crooked and wide and laughs, "Yeah, alright. Let's go to Japan."

Clint told Kate once that he didn't kill anyone.

He's a liar.

He knows this.

But Katie deserves something better than knowing Clint, who's cold and a sniper through and through, so he offers her someone else, Clint whose coffee overflows because he's too tired to notice it spilling over the counter, Clint who loses pizza between seat cushions, Clint who fights up close because she doesn't need to know how many he's killed from afar, how many scapegoats he's created.

He calls her to watch Lucky.

"Going to Japan," he says, sliding on those big shades that Kate seems so fond of, "Take care of him, 'kay?"

Kate squints at him, like she's trying to figure out whether or not he's being serious. "Why are you going to Japan?" she demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Heard the coffee's good," he shoots her a sharp smile before realizing it's too Stark-ish to sound like a good excuse.

She gives him a Look. "Avengers business?"

He rolls his eyes, "'Tasha wanted to go to some fashion show or something. I honestly have no idea."

She nods, a bit more satisfied, because she's met 'Tasha and she knows her whims enough to think that could be a legit excuse. "So she's dragging you to Japan? Seems a bit much."

"She's mad at Stark," He grins, "You know what that means."

Kate looks amused now, "He's overcompensating?"

"Don't drink any of my coffee," Clint flips his keys between his fingers, showing off, maybe, and Kate rolls her eyes in that way she does when she tries to act like she isn't impressed. (She totally is.)

"Your coffee is gross," she says, like she hasn't finished it off the last two times that he left her to babysit Lucky.

"I will weigh it," Clint threatens.

A wrinkled nose, now, from Kate, "Obsessive much?"

"I mean it, Katie-Kate." He took that coffee from some mob boss' lair when he shot him a while back. It's good stuff. Foreign. Imported. And if Kate tastes it, she'll know. And if she knows, she'll be suspicious. She's clever that way, his Kate. "Love you, treat yourself, blah blah blah. Make sure you don't spoil Lucky too much. No trying to let him sleep in some fancy doggy bed, the couch is fine."

"Right," She crosses her arms over her chest, leans against a wall as he slips his shoes on, "You going to Japan with just a duffel bag?"

He shoots her a confused look, "What more do I need?"

She grumbles something like men under her breath, and says, "I want something nice."

"I'll buy you a keychain at the airport."

"Cool story, bro," Kate's mouth says, but her eyes say I will shoot you and peel your skin off to decorate my welcome mat if you even think about it. Kate examines her nails, waits, and, predictably, because the women in his life are the time who will gauge out his eyeballs with a melon scooper, Clint folds.

"Something cute. Fancy. Whatever."

Something of a smug smile, and Clint wonders why he's so weak to her. "I'm sure that I'll love it."

"Sure," Clint throws his hands in the air, "It'll be fantastic."

She raises an eyebrow.

Clint's hands fall back down, "Sorry," he sighs.

A laugh. She wishes him well. He talks some more. She acts completely unimpressed. (Actually, she might not just acting. But Clint doesn't want to let his pride think about that.)

He throws her his spare keys, or, um, he would, except, um, he kind of lost them, and um, Katie-Kate?

Turns out she had both pairs, because he accidentally dropped one in the vent over the toilet and it fell out while she was trying to figure out what the weird clanking sound was. (The key being blown against the grate.)

"Pull yourself together," she says, completely unimpressed.

"I am totally together," he lies.

She does not buy it.

Kate typically does not buy his lies. It's very annoying.

(She buys the big ones, doesn't know she's even shopping, always trusts him in those things, trusts him to be good in ways he can never be.)

"Love you, boy," Clint tells Lucky, ruffling his fur.

Lucky brushes against the back of his hand, smiling in that cute doggy way of his, and Clint feels a pang.

My will is in the kitchen's second drawer, under a false bottom, he thinks of saying.

I'm going on a suicide mission because the council isn't sure they want me around anymore, he thinks of saying.

"Keep your keys in the second drawer by the fridge," he says, smiling at Kate, "'s where I keep all my important stuff."

She looks unimpressed.

It's alright.

If all goes well, she'll stay that way.

It does not go well.

It very, very obviously does not go well, because Tsuna, head of the largest mafia family in Italy, is visiting relatives in Japan, and he's friends with the third target that Clint went after.

He had gone after six in total, in one night, running himself ragged, disguising them all as someone else's work, letting someone else take the fall as the underworld falls into a controlled chaos that lets SHIELD run the game for a while, and he's succeeded, but he might not survive.

"I hope you understand that it's nothing personal," Tsuna says cooly, calmly, as his minion traces Clint's collarbone with the tip of his sword. It's warm, he feels the blood trickle down, and Clint keeps his face blank.

Poker face.

Poker face.

Poker f-uck-ow.

Poker face.

"If it's nothing personal," Clint says, eyes on Tsuna's, "Then you should let me go."

A laugh, short, amused, from the henchman on his back as Tsuna says, "I know that you're smarter than that, Barton."

They know his name.

Fuck.

Fuck.

F u c k.

Yeah. He knows better. If it isn't personal, that means it's to keep up a rep. And keeping up a rep cannot be ignored. Personal can.

"I was close to Bianchi," Tsuna says. "I hope you understand. It's a bit of a pain to clean up, cover up deaths. But, well, you know how it is."

Light. Almost apologetic, like it's a minor inconvenience, the same way that Clint forgetting that he's run out of milk is a minor inconvenience. Like Clint dying is equatable to running out of milk. Annoying. But easily fixed.

He smiles a bit at Clint, holds out a hand.

The henchman to his right plucks the cigarette from his lips and puts it in his boss's hands.

It is fit in the small of his neck, the little spot at the bottom, right between his two collarbones.

Clint grits his teeth and keeps his face blank.

"Sorry," Tsuna kicks his face, "Couldn't resist. Takeshi, Gokudera. You two can take care of it."

Something like a smile in the voice of the one on his back, "Thanks, boss."

Clint forgets his poker face somewhere later, after time has begun to blur in pain and the thought of plans being laid out and discarded for escape (and a fight, because Clint can't get away from these goons without a fight, pathetic as that is) and it's another ten minutes before he manages to rip out his fingernails and dig it into the neck of the one with the cigarette.

He knocks the other one unconscious, and slips into one of the vents.

Clint gets out a few minutes later and finds 'Tasha waiting in the hotel room, bodies littering the floor around her.

"You're late," she says, a scar on her cheek and bullets in the walls.

"Sorry," Clint says, smiling awkwardly at her, "Forgive me?"

'Tasha clicks her tongue at him, "So much for under the radar."

He offers her the most apologetic expression that his face can form, and then, tucking his hands into his pockets, "I saw an outdoor ramen stall on the way here."

"Your treat," she says, wiping the blood from her cheek and putting on a bandaid, concealer quick to do its job.

Clint cleans up, too, though he doesn't bother with the bandaids before he puts the concealer on.

"That's not good for you," 'Tasha says, leaning against the bathroom wall.

"Neither is getting a cigarette on my neck," Clint leans into the mirror, "Think that I can pass these off as hickeys?"

She rolls her eyes at him, which is a no.

He sighs and puts concealer over it. "This is a real pain."

"Unless you want to show your face in public, looking like that," 'Tasha sounds unhappy with him, "Deal with it."

He sighs, and does that.

(The ramen, at least, is delicious. So. Worth it?)

Returning to New York, is, as always, an oddity.

The smell of street food and the bustle of people, always dressed so fashionably, is an odd contrast to the blood and dark and the still silence as he pulls the trigger of a gun (Clint has never been one for guns, but SHIELD is, and Clint understands that he can't use a bow and arrow for assassinations, that has always been out of the question).

Kate is standing in front of his apartment when he arrives, pulling out of the taxi with a fading black eye and the taste of gross airplane food still on his tongue.

She looks, as always, impeccable, straightened black hair and her bug-eyed sunglasses, black and white cigarette pants with a pastel pink crop top.

Faintly, Clint can make out the outlines of a kevlar bra beneath the crop top, offering it a stiff appearance.

"You're late," she says, and he is by about twenty minutes, but that isn't his fault, okay, there was a puppy and then he dropped his ice cream so obviously he had to get another except he got lost and… Okay, fine. So it was his fault.

Oops.

"Oops," he says lightly, carelessly, holds out his hands and Kate is rolling her eyes, he knows, she's moving her eyebrows in that way that she does when he gives him the look, the one that says 'I am too cool to hang out with you but I am allowing you to hang with me anyway, but why do I bother?".

It's their Hawkeye-telepathy working here, he knows it.

"Thanks, Katie-girl," he says, blowing her a kiss.

She drops the keys in his outstretched palm with a nonchalant posture, fingers slowly unfurling and doing that thing where it looks like she's slouching even though her posture is perfect, like he isn't worth her time. It's alright. Clint knows that's her way of showing affection.

"What happened to your eye?" She asks, nose crinkling, "You didn't open the door in your face again, did you?"

"Four times, and you think this is a pattern!" Clint throws his hands up in the air, "Of course not!"

Kate stares at him.

Okay.

Fine.

So, he opened the door in his face a few times. To be fair, he was very tired.

(To be fair, Clint is always tired.)

"Would you believe me if I said that I got beat up by the Italian mafia boss' goons in Japan?" Clint asks, pouting.

Kate gives him a Look. "I wouldn't be surprised," she says in a disbelieving tone, "And yet."

Clint huffs, "Well, that is totally what happened."

"Right, then," she shakes her head at him, "Why are you like this?"

"You love me," he winks at her, "How's Lucky?"

"Still cuter than you think you are," She says, examines her fingernails, bright purple and shiny, "How's Natasha?"

"Still deadlier than you think you are," Clint shoots back, which Kate rolls her eyes at because she knows that Natasha's deadlier than her honestly. "Hot dogs?"

"You are disgusting," Kate takes off her sunglasses and tucks them in the lining of her pants, off to the side so they rest against her hip, "Street food? Really?"

"Street food is good," Clint says defensively. "Street food defines the culture of a place."

"Right," Kate purses her lips together, "My father's holding a gala tonight. Want to come?"

Clint is immediately on guard, because Katie-Kate rarely invites him to galas for fun. "Why?"

"No reason," Kate smirks because neither of them are inclined to believe that, "One of the clients is acting shifty."

That is reasonable.

Perfectly so, in fact.

So perfectly reasonable, and straightforward, that Clint can't help but think…

"You're not trying to set me up with someone again, are you?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

The corners of Kate's lips quirk up which means yes, and he groans as loudly and obnoxiously as he can while she slips her sunglasses back on. "The limo will pick you up at 6:30," she says, clear, light, no room for argument. "We'll take care of your outfit, since your tux still has some blood on it from last time."

"I can dress myself," Clint says, which is what he always says, and what never works.

"Shabbily," Kate says, which is what she always says, and always brooks no room for argument.

"What if I have plans?" Clint demands.

Kate looks amused, "Do you?"

Clint shuffles.

Huffs.

Sighs.

"…No," he mutters, grumbly and low.

"That's what I thought," Kate says, satisfied. "See you tonight, Hawkeye."

He rolls his eyes at her so that she knows how annoying it is that she keeps trying to set him up with random people, "Bye, Hawkeye."

She saunters away, and Clint wonders how bad it would be if he at just one hot dog.

(Just one.)

Yes.

Yes to the hot dog.

(This is such a bad decision.)

He'll give Lucky some, too.

(Why is Clint like this.)

He takes Lucky out, and eats three hot dogs.

(Lucky eats one, proceeds to be very happy, and decides that slobbering all over the hot dog vendor is the way to demonstrate this affection. Clint, full of three hot dogs, sluggishly pulls Lucky away with a sigh.)

Overall, he calls this a success.

"Really?" Kate demands, eyes narrowed as she squints at the ketchup stain on Clint's shirt, "You went out for hot dogs?"

Clint does his very best not to look sheepish.

"Okay, okay," she pinches the bridge of her nose, "Whatever. Let's fan out."

They move, Clint is dressed in a fancy tux, they go to the gala and lo and behold…

"Barton!" Stark says, clearly delighted as he moves over to them, wine glass in hand and Pepper looking distinctly horrified some feet away. "What are you doing here?"

Clint's luck is terrible.

"Kate has kidnapped me," Clint says, doing his best to sound panicked and putting as much save-me-NOW into his voice as he can. "Quick, steal me away before she notices."

"Hardy-har-har," Kate says, fingers digging into his arm, looking disturbingly exquisite in her floor length lavender dress with it's high waist-line and beaded amethysts and saffron decorating the top. "I'm here to get Clint laid."

Stark nods approvingly, "I suppose that it would be hard, what with that face of his."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are," Clint says, reaching out to snatch some fancy rich people snack from a passing man in a butler suit. "I don't need to get laid."

Stark and Kate give him the flattest looks ever, and he rolls his eyes, brushing the crumbs from his mouth.

"You two are impossible."

They sigh at him in unison and he regrets them knowing each other.

(In the end, Clint does not get laid, a super villain attacks, and they end up going to get ice cream, Pepper sighing Tony and Stark giving her a Look and Clint is vaguely amused as Kate mutters online dating under her breath.)

Clint is a mess of worries and anxieties and…

He pulls back the string. It sings in his fingers.

Light.

Soft.

Twang.

The arrow flies, lands perfectly in the centre, the slick of the arrowhead flying through wood, cutting a perfect, neat line through the middle and he nods approvingly as Stark beams, smug.

Archery has always been easier. So much easier.

It's easier to shoot than think.

Maybe that's the carnie in him, the kid with no education, but it is.

He moves, his muscles burn, his arm aches as Cap comes in and whispers to Stark how long has he been doing this? And Stark says back two hours straight in wonder, as though Clint has not done this before, self destructing as he pulls back the arrow and erases any thoughts still trying to swim in his stupid head.

String.

Back.

Elbows straight.

Breath steady.

Eyes sharp.

The arrow sings.

Everything is simpler this way.

It's clear. Straight.

He holds the bow.

The target is in front of him, moving, and he can see the pattern as he moves his arm back and…

It lands.

Perfect.

Neat.

Stark and Cap are whispering as Clint moves to take a swig of his water, to retrieve his arrows, and again, he stands, still, perfectly still, arrows on his back and bow in hand and his arm moves back.

Bruce intercepts him before the third hour arrives, bleary-eyed and worn out like an old shirt, but something calm to his smile that wasn't there before he began spending so much time with Tony.

"What's up, doc?" Clint says, light, easy as he takes a sip of water and pulls back his bow.

Bruce stares at the fallen plastic bottles, five of them empty and Clint going through the sixth, something to the crease of his forehead and the lines between his eyebrows as he says, "Nothing," but it's obviously something as he leads Clint away.

They don't say much, working in silence as Clint puts his bow against the rack, puts away his arrows and they are silent when Bruce reaches the kitchen, Clint trailing behind, and a zucchini is shoved into his hands.

Clint raises an eyebrow, smooth and uncertain.

"Chop," Bruce says, voice rough as he clarifies (thin, even slices) and pulls out a pan.

"Vegetable timbale?" Sam asks when he appears, ten minutes later, grocery bags in hand and a song under his breath.

"You got what I asked for?" Bruce asks instead of answering and Sam rolls his eyes as he hands Bruce a bag of kale.

Bruce nods approvingly and inclines his head, "Peel and chop the carrots."

Sam laughs, says something about immediately putting him to work that's light, teasing, and Bruce rolls his eyes as Clint dices the garlic, smooth, practiced movements.

(Clint has always been good with a knife, but those thoughts are bleeding away, the single-mindedness of the range is bleeding away into something else, something that he can't quite identify properly.)

Time flies, Sam singing old songs and trying to serenade Bruce, Clint joining in with his most off-tune, terrible singing voice that he can muster as he dredges up some stupid carnie song about falling in love with a girl in a paper bag, Bruce laughing as he shoves their faces away with the heel of his hand on the bridge of their noses, but he joins in after some coercion.

When they are finished, oven cooking and the three of them waiting, Sam suggests Dog Cops which is how they end up marathoning it as they try to eat too-hot food, bouncing it between fingertips as Bruce laughs at them, fork in hands and Clint huffs I can handle it as Sam pops some goat cheese in his mouth and says something about heaven.

It's lazy and ridiculous and stupid and Clint doesn't usually eat vegetables but there is something warm and good here, all the same, that he relishes as he closes his eyes and puts his head on Bruce's shoulder and the three of them fall asleep to the dim light of the TV and the dramatic shouts of Dog Cops.