an: i'm stealing some canon from Matt Fraction's Hawkeye series. you won't need to read the comics to get it, but i'd highly highly suggest reading them just because it's a wonderful series. if you like it, please review. it make me happy c: with that said, on we go!

Clint Barton visits Natasha's cafe every morning before work.

(Natasha had joked that it's the only way she ever sees him anymore, and Clint had shrugged, warning her to take the blessing while she can get it, because with Bobbi gone and all but a cat to keep him company surely one day he will crack and she'll be the only one to deal with it.

She said, with grace, that she'd done it before.)

Othertimes, when Clint works earlier or just plain sleeps in, he'll come after work instead. Natasha will make two more drinks and then close everything up—he enjoys watching her do it, even, from the closest table to the kitchen, watching her wash everything and hum to herself. She looks so blessedly content here, Clint's heart swells.

Their job before, as something like the government's lackeys, had taken its toll on her, he knows. She may have been solemn and lost from the start, scared and wounded and lost, but releasing a war prisoner only to make them fight in the same war that doomed them was hardly considered a mercy. Killing and lying and stealing were still killing, lying and stealing when done for the good side.

Clint would know this. They started from the same place, gone through it all together, the good parts and the bad parts and the parts that were nightmares now and worse then. They even left at the same time—when Clint married Bobbi. Natasha had said that she didn't want to stay with the agency unless Clint was there to interrupt by making dumb jokes during important meetings, but he was flattered anyway.

He would have never guessed that she'd find her peace at a cafe in the middle of New York, half-funded by Tony Stark. But every time he came and she'd look happy or sad or exhausted, only never—never lost, never broken.

(He'd thought he'd found his peace in a small but comfortable house with a woman he'd loved, and an office job, and a dog that stole his pizza. Bobbi didn't want peace, though, and Clint didn't want drama, and in the end he supposes it was a more clashing of needs than a clashing of people. Clint needed a rest, needed a break, and Bobbi needed to have air under her wings and places to fly and missions to go on and someone who could fight by her side.

In all of his previous love for her, though, in all of his justifications, he never quite got why she'd taken the dog. He didn't blame her for anything else, but come on, really?)

Where he was as lost as he started, Natasha had seemingly reached her end. He was happy for her, and so proud, so that if he was jealous of her content, then he could dismiss it and squash it with no hesitation.

They're like that now, both of them sitting alone in her cafe. It's like old times, he thinks. The both of them alone but for each other, against the world.

"So," he says, smiling faintly through a sip of coffee, "How are—things?"

Natasha smiles and shrugs, as if to say nothing fantastic, but the smile isn't a lie nor insincere.

"They're fine," she says. There's a pause, then, "I found out what Steve draws."

Clint's eyebrows furrow.

"Steve?" He can't recall any Steves that they both knew.

"The blonde man who sits by the window and draws," she clarifies, and it takes a second for Clint to think of who she's talking about, but vaguely recalls seeing him some mornings. He hadn't known she was on first name basis with any of her customers.

"Oh, him," he says. "What does he draw?"

"Strangers."

"Strangers?"

"People he doesn't know," Natasha says. Clint almost jumps in and tells her plainly that yes, Nat, he knows what the word 'stranger' means, but Natasha hums before he can. "I can't figure it out. He says he doesn't draw people he knows. But...I don't know."

Clint takes a sip of his coffee. (With milk and sugar, because he's always had a sweet tooth and coffee was just too bitter on its own.) He's not sure, exactly, how to reply to that.

"Maybe..." Clint starts, "Maybe he doesn't like to because it's like, they'll have expectations of you?" That's what makes sense to him, at least. He's never been an artistic sort of person, or able to draw much besides stick figures and chicken-scratch handwriting.

Natasha hums thoughtfully and raps her knuckle on the table.

"He wouldn't have to show them, would he?" she says, her eyebrows drawn. Something Clint's always liked about her was her love, it seemed, of learning about people. She'd used it cruelly, to criminals, to the good people she'd told him about in nothing more than a shamed whisper, but at the heart of her talent was a simple and innate love of understanding people.

(He wonders if it's because no one has ever understood her. He must be the closest too, after all they've been through, but even he still can't quite capture her. And, he wonders with some amount of fear, how much she understands him.)

"I guess he wouldn't," Clint says, as to not leave her unanswered, but in truth, he doesn't know how to keep up the conversation. He doesn't have the love, the passion, of understanding that she does. He prefers to let people live as they want—if that's raw and exposed to anyone willing to give a look, then fine. If that's hidden behind every wall they can build, then, there's obviously a reason that they don't want them to all come crashing to the ground. "I mean—was he good?"

Natasha shrugs again, and her eyes flicker back to him from where they'd wondered. Her eyebrows relax and she smiles quickly. "I only saw the one drawing, but I'd say—he's good enough, I think. Actually, that's unfair, if it was a work in progress. He was good."

Clint hums and nods, hoping she'll realize how inept he is at these sort of conversations, or else continue to talk. He has no problem with sitting back and listening to her talk, even if he knows it's not likely that she will.

"Anyway," she says, andGod bless her and how well she picks up on things.

"Anyway," Clint repeats, and then takes a sip of coffee. It's not exactly an awkward silence yet, but it could easily become one. He's trying to think of something to say when he sets his coffee back down, when some of the hot liquid splashes back over the edge of it on to his hand and burns.

"Aw, coffee," he says, looking at the mug mournfully and wiping his hand on his pants.

Natasha laughs slightly, shaking her head at him.

"Don't blame the coffee," she says. "It's not the coffee's fault."

Clint looks at her for a moment to frown pointedly, then, "Aww, mug."

Natasha arches an eyebrow, an amused smile on her face. "I was thinking that it was probably more your hand's fault."

Clint harrumphed and and examined his hand, as if it were some great injury. "'S not all the mug's fault, then."

"Is it broken?" Natasha says over her mug of green tea. Clint rolls his eyes at her.

"No," he says setting his hand back on the table. "It's not broken. Just severely mutilated."

Natasha snorts. "Well, besides your pitifully injured hand, how are you?"

Clint taps his thumb on the table. To tell or not to tell? On one hand...she'd find out eventually, she always did, and he'd feel bad for keeping it from her. On the other, he didn't want to burden her with the news.

"Okay." Clint begins, and then, before he can regret it, continues, "Barney called."

Natasha almost flinches.

"I'm sorry," she responds, earnestly. His brother has only ever called once while he's known Natasha, and yet he's already got the reputation. Clint would feel bad—and he does, even, that Natasha's only impression of Barney had been bailing him out of jail but he isn't sure how many other impressions there are to have of him. Maybe—but that was when they were both kids, when they had to stick together because there was no one else for them.

Maybe, if they had stuck together into adulthood, Barney would be okay.

Or Clint would be just as bad.

"'S'okay," says Clint, shrugging. "He didn't ask for much this time—and without Bobbi buying all those damn purses, it's not like I don't have enough." It's a very weak joke, as he and Natasha both know that his ex-wife was not the purse buying type, but he laughs gently anyway, to try and defuse the situation.

"It isn't okay," says Natasha, mouth pressed in a thin, angry line. Clint assumes it's for his belittling, or perhaps at the joke at first, but then—"It's not fair. You're his little brother, for God's sake. You don't even...it's not your responsibility to take care of him. He should be taking care of you."

Clint sets his jaw. He's not angry at her, he couldn't be, but—he still loves Barney. He still owes Barney, even, and he doesn't like gossiping and grousing about him behind his back. Maybe it's some stupid sense of adoration still left from being a kid, from when Barney knew how to handle their father, when he'd teach him how to punch by letting Clint practice on himself, when in the orphanage he'd make sure Clint had enough of everything until he turned eighteen and had to leave.

(I taught you how to care of you so I know you can, he'd said, bags thrown over his shoulder and a worn-out smile on his face, I'll be okay if you'll be.)

"He took care of me," Clint says, sighing.

"He's your older brother. He has too."

"He my older...we're just—brothers. Just—leave it at that, okay?" Clint says. Age shouldn't make a difference to it, in his mind. They should take care of each other and if Barney needs money or to be bailed from jail or help with a goddamn algebra test, then as a brother, he should give it to him. It doesn't matter if he's younger, if Barney had hurt or betrayed or abandoned him. It doesn't matter if Clint doesn't have a dollar left to his name after he helps Barney.

All that matter is that they're brothers, they're all the other has left. He can't deny him this, can't not help.

And if he hopes that maybe the money will help enough that Barney can get back on his feet, can be his big brother again, then—well, he's hoped farther fetched things, hasn't he?

Natasha frowns, but doesn't reply. Clint shrugs again and offers a smile, as if to say, it's okay, I'm okay, but she's always been good at detecting lies and she's always cared so fiercely for him, regardless of whether or not he deserves it. She takes a sip of her tea and he takes one of his coffee, letting his eyes wander to the window.

It's raining and dark, but the streetlamps and car lights cast a artificial glow on everything. People walk past the coffee shop every once and awhile, but it's late enough it's not often. Even fewer people look over to peer inside at the cafe, at the two people sitting inside at 8pm even though there's a closed sign on the locked door. He can't help but wonder where Barney is in all of the sprawling, living, beauty and mess of New York. If he has a place to sleep, if he's got a way out of the rain. Clint doesn't worry, exactly, but he thinks of him.

Hopes, for him, that he's got a safe place.

"How much did he ask for?" Natasha asks, after a moment.

"Don't," says Clint, pressing his lips together. He doesn't move his eyes from the window.

"How much did he ask for?" she repeats, her voice a decibel louder, noticeably harder, colder. She could never manage sympathy for Barney, no matter how much Clint had tried to reassure her that Barney deserved it.

"I said don't," Clint says, eyes moving to hers resolutely.

"'Don't' isn't a number, or any denomination of money."

Clint sighs.

"It's not bad, okay? I have a lot left over, now, and I'm not going to use it so it's—"

"I swear to God, Clint, if you don't tell me I'm not going to let you do it."

He might say that she can't tell him not to do anything, that it isn't her choice whether or not he helps Barney.

He just...doesn't have the energy, anymore.

"Couple hundred," he says, finally. It's not bad, though. He does have a lot of money now, he has a well-paying job and an already paid for house and it's not like one person can use up all that much money. A couple hundred isn't even inconvenient for him, honestly.

"What for?" Natasha presses.

"Dunno," he says, honestly. "He's not in jail, if that's where you're—he's not in jail again."

"Should he be?"

Clint rubs his forehead. Probably, maybe, he doesn't know.

"I haven't talked to him since last time. He didn't seem to want much to do with me other than—other than bailing him out, alright? I don't know what's up with him, why he wants the money, or what he'll end up doing with it. I just know I'm going to help him if I can," he says.

"Why?" she asks, her voice soft and concerned and imploring. It hurts to hear. "He just—he keeps doing this to you, he's done it before, and he'll keep doing it as long as he's around. It's not fair. You can't pick up his messes without so much as a thanks, from him. You're enabling him to keep going on like this."

Clint sighs and shakes his head heavily. He knows that she's just being caring of him, that she just doesn't want him to be hurt. But it's nothing she can help, and he doesn't need it right now.

"Look," he reasons, "What you're doing right now? Being protective over me? Barney did that. All while we were kids. We—there was a lot for me to be protected from, then. And he did it. He didn't leave me to get beat up when he could stop it. I can't—I have to do the same for him."

Natasha sighs, too, and her face looks softer now, if sad. "I'd take a bullet for you, you know that. I just—I don't want you to be hurt by someone you won't allow me to hurt back."

Clint shakes his head and chuckles at her.

"You and him both," he says, sounding like he meant it more for himself than her.

"He'd take a bullet for you?" Natasha asks, almost incredulously.

Clint doesn't answer for a moment, his eyes straying back out to the windows. The instinctive 'yes' falters and dies on his lips. Would he? He knows at least, that at one point, Barney would've. Knows that at one time, not even a second would pass before he'd answer yes, with such certainty and trust. Would he now, though? After all they'd been through?

(I know you can, Barney had said. Clint at the time hadn't thought that meant he'd need to.)

Clint took a breath.

"Yeah," he says, turning his head back towards her to look in her eyes, as if that would make what he was about to say anymore true, "He might be the one behind the barrel, but—yeah, he would."

Natasha looks considering, then her face softens and she nods minutely.

"You must really love your brother," she says. If there's a berating tone to her voice, or at very least a confused one, Clint chooses to ignore it. Just blinks and twitches his mouth into a slight smile that lasts only a second longer, and doesn't say anything in answer.

(When he gets home that evening, Barney's waiting at his doorstep.

For the first time in ten years, Clint hugs his brother.)

Natasha enjoyed running her cafe.

She really, truly, did.

It was something of a shock to her that she could be so content in a small building her own money didn't even pay for, making coffees and pastries and sandwiches. That the same monotony that damned her before was now a comfort to her. There was rhythm, a pattern to her days she'd never had the luxury of having before.

Maybe she was meant for a boring life. Was a love of difference and a hatred of pattern something that could run out, instead of a personality detail that ran infinitely? She once thought—knew—that the desire for intrigue, for a childish idea of adventure, was surely insatiable. Perhaps her well of it had finally emptied, or else had cracked from strain and spilled itself dry.

Whatever and however the reason for it was, she enjoyed running her cafe.

She still learned about people, but average, normal people. Not threats and spies and terrorists.

She knew of an old Russian woman, how she'd immigrated her in her youth and never quite found pastries like Natasha made them, save for herself, but her hands were too old to stir, she said. She knew the Russian woman's grandson was in the Navy, and her granddaughter played cello.

She knew about Tony Stark—more, perhaps, than most people did.

She knew about Steve. How he'd been in the Army, how he has a girlfriend who is also in the Army. How he draws strangers because the idea of capturing a whole person in a drawing was impossible, in his mind.

Maybe that's why she liked it—you met interesting people, but they were normal, average, non-dangerous interesting.

Though, Natasha wouldn't go so far as to say that she was happy. Happiness was something that eluded her for many years, but contentedness was almost the same thing, considering. It was certainly far more than she deserved.

Loki doesn't know why he picked New York to run to.

It'd have been so much easier to pick up and move to Paris, maybe, or Ireland or Scotland or somewhere that didn't involve getting a all-be-damned visa.

Except everywhere else had seemed so desperately close—two hours, three hours by train and entirely too reachable by his family. (Not-family? Adopted family? He hadn't the foggiest what to call them now.) Seemed like at any given moment they could knock on the door, ring the bell, and he'd have to face them and he'd tried so hard in the past week and managed, even, to succeed.

America, New York, felt so distant from them. Though by plane it could still be reached in mere hours, the ocean between them was a comfort.

New York felt safe.

Since he rented a furnished flat, he hadn't bothered to bring many of his own things with him. He packed a suitcase as full of his own clothes as he could manage, his electronics, toiletries, but nothing personal.

Even after he'd unpacked everything he'd brought, it would take scarcely a half an hour to make it look as if no one had ever lived there at all.

Maybe that was better, considering his visa expired in three months, anyway. Three months shouldn't be enough time to grow attached to any of it. There was no point, when eventually he'd have to go back to England, back to his flat there, when he would have to go back and face—everyone.

He pointedly tries not to think of that.

For the first week he was there, Loki hardly went anywhere. He went grocery shopping, of course, and then out again when he realized that he didn't have dishware to make anything in. But though he'd only been out twice, he already felt the off-ness of being in a different country, of a different world. People looked at him after they'd heard him speak, curious or appreciative of his accent, and his inherent fumbling with the different money was also all too noticeable. Though no one commented on either, it still made him feel clumsy and different.

Because of this, Loki mainly just...worked. His job as a computer programmer was done mostly if not totally on the computer, at his flat, and so there was really no where else to go, but for the basic necessities.

(He supposes he could explore the area, but in truth, he's afraid of it. Afraid he'll like it, afraid he won't. Afraid that he'll turn the corner and somehow, somehow, see Thor coming around it.)

Only, though perhaps he'd not sought it out as much as Thor or—or Baldur, he needed human interaction as much as anyone else. Being alone with yourself was hardly ever pleasant, exactly, but especially now Loki had no desire to be able to focus his sole attention to his thoughts.

So, with perhaps some uneasiness about him, he ventured out into the city.