Its been a while but I'm finally managing to get back into a routine.
This is being crossposted on AO3 which is now my main account and where I will post any new fanfiction I write. You can find me under the same username!
Sleep dragged her under easier than it had in months, the restful, dreamless kind that Lucie had convinced herself she had imagined. It had been so long since the early hours weren't filled with "could be"s and "almost"s. She didn't wake in the night fighting the comforter thinking that it was rubble crushing her to the Manhattan concrete, forcing each breath out of her lungs. There was no need to settle and remind herself that she was safe in her bed with half a dozen weapons within reach at any given time. For once it wasn't her growling stomach or the ghost of gunfire echoing in her ears that woke her; it was a small finger prodding the back of her head. Gentle and insistent. Still clinging to the last moments of sleep, Lucie begrudgingly turned onto her back to eye her seven-year-old alarm clock.
"Why aren't you still in bed? It's the weekend," she yawned. In truth, she had no idea what day of the week it was, the weekend just seemed like a decent enough guess.
"Dad's in the kitchen," the boy whined in warning.
Lucie propped herself up onto her elbows, easing herself into the day as her core groaned in protest. "Pancakes or waffles?" she asked through hooded eyes, assessing the potential damage before committing to dragging herself out of bed.
"Pancakes."
Her head fell back in defeat, there would be no going back to sleep.
"Ah shit. I'm coming." Using her thumb, she pressed gently on the back of her neck, pushing the unforgiving nerves into submission as the day before started to dawn on her. Muscles that she hadn't used in months gave a joyful, dull ache, grateful at once again being put to work. Crying out for more attention like an addict to their vice. She could already hear Natasha's frustrated voice in her head, reprimanding her for allowing herself to get so out of shape. What was hard worked for was easily lost, when she signed up to be an agent, she didn't really consider just how much maintenance she would have to do on her own body.
She didn't have the time nor the energy to get dressed so Lucie grabbed the oversized hoodie by the door over her worn-out pyjamas on the way out of the guest room and pulled it over her head as she followed Cooper down to the kitchen, immediately cocooned in the heavy fabric to fight off the November chill. The stairs groaned and squeaked on their way down, a feature that Clint was reluctant to fix, claiming that it added to the farm's character. Lucie saw it for what it was, a rudimental yet effective alarm system, nonetheless she said nothing, it wasn't her place to question how Clint choose to keep his family safe.
The mirror at the bottom of the stairs caught her by surprise, last time she had been at the farm it had been a painting but instead, she found herself faced with her own dishevelled reflection. She almost didn't recognise herself. How long had it been since the dark circles set up shop under her eyes? Had it really been long enough for her dark roots to regain control? Up in a bird's nest atop her head, she could barely see any of the honey ombre she wore. The logical part of her brain kicked in and began to make a mental picture of everything. As if her taut muscles weren't obvious enough that she was out of shape, her baggy hoodie didn't do much to cushion sharp joints and bones rather than accentuate and hug the curved plains of her body. Trying to push the thoughts aside, she focused once more on her face and scrutinising her face; she had forgotten about a run in her jaw had with a Chitauri soldier, the skin had been scorched and split but other than the initial patch-up job at the SHIELD infirmary she hadn't sought any further medical attention; it had healed to the point that it was slightly discoloured skin with the telltale sheen of a scar that had closed. She suppressed the urge to run her fingers across the mark, instead digging her hands further into the hoodie's front pocket and fidgeting with a scrap of paper she found there as she wandered towards the kitchen stove.
"Morning," she said, immediately turning the stove off, blocking Clint's eye line to the extinguished flame.
"Morning, there's coffee in the pot," Clint replied, keeping a level eye on the milk he was pouring into a measuring cup.
"Aunt Lu cussed."
Lucie turned in mock horror. "You dirty snitch," she spluttered, as Cooper grinned in triumph.
"Five dollars," Clint asserted, pointing to the empty mason jar on top of the fridge that Lucie was certain wasn't there the day before.
Instead of cash, she took the pad of paper by the phone and scribbled down 'IOU $5. Lu. xo' And stuck it to the fridge, well aware that she would probably end up handing over a fifty by the end of her stay.
"Does Laura know you're making pancakes?"
"Surprising her with breakfast in bed."
"Is this the part where we pretend that Laura isn't already awake watching Sesame Street with Lila?"
"Yes," he admitted.
"Noted. Stick to toast and coffee," Lucie urged, noting a couple of pieces of eggshell suspended in the pancake batter. Clint Barton was many things but being a decent cook was not one of the many strings to his bow. Pardon the pun.
"Who did you steal that from?" he gloated, offering a smirk as if he already knew the answer.
She looked down, noticing the SHIELD logo printed in white over her heart.
"You."
"I don't think so," he scoffed.
When she was packing a bag for Chicago, she didn't think particularly hard about what was taking with her so when she tossed the navy hoodie on the couch into her duffle, she didn't consider who it had actually belonged to. It wasn't unusual that people left clothes at her apartment. Clint never bothered with a New York base of his own, flying back to the farm at every opportunity. SHIELD had bought Natasha her own place but for the most part, it went unused. Between them, there was always extra laundry; a pair of cargo pants here, a t-shirt soaked in blood and sweat there.
She took the scrap of paper from the pocket and unfolded it reading the items on the receipt from the Grand Central Library. Every single title was from the world history section and it didn't take a genius to figure out who had checked them out. At that moment she realised her mistake. After the battle when the newly formed Avengers went their separate ways in search of sleep, Steve had stayed the night at her apartment the night, sleeping in the living room since the guest bedroom had already claimed.
Before she could get lost in her own thoughts, Clint handed her mug of half-burnt coffee and took a seat at the island.
"Tasha called last night,"
"What did she have to say for herself?" Whatever it was, Lucie was willing to bet that it wasn't good.
"Asked if you were here yet."
Lucie rolled her eyes. "I'm surprised she hasn't got a tracker on me." She eyed the burner phone where it lay on top of the refrigerator for a few seconds, considering how long it would take for the spy to track a prepaid burner across the country. "Control freak."
"That's not fair and you know it. You can't go off the radar for months and expect people, not to check in, we are allowed to be worried." Clint narrowed his gaze in a way that immediately made her feel small. He took a breath, sitting back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. "What do you want Luce? What's at the end of all of this?"
"I don't know."
"Are you getting out?" he pressed. Quickfire like he was trying to trick her into telling the truth.
"I don't know."
"Are you still injured?"
"No."
"Do you want to go work at Stark Industries?"
"No."
"Ready to live the socialite life?"
"God no!"
"Play princess with the rich and famous?"
"No!" Lucie spat, becoming frustrated with each question but trying desperately to keep her temper in check.
"Do you want to retire?"
"Course I don't!"
"Good. That wasn't so hard was it?" he smiled and just like that, the interrogation was over.
Lucie frowned. She had spent her entire adult life as a SHIELD agent, now when faced with the possibility of figuring out who she was, she fell back into the same world that she had repelled herself from. The darkness was alluring, the danger intoxicating. Was it worth it? With her cover blown and her face plastered over every screen and newspaper in the northern hemisphere? She wasn't sure, what she did know however was that she didn't know how to be anything else.
It took over most of the evening and a full bottle of conditioner to comb out the knots and mats that had formed in her thick hair but she methodically until her hands ceased to shake, working section by section until there wasn't so much as a stray tangle. The repetition was calming, reminding her of when she used to put on a box set in her apartment and make sure that each of her knives was perfectly sharp and spotlessly clean. In a way, her appearance had always been just another piece of equipment to take care of and maintain.
"Wow, look at you. You look great!" Laura cooed, pulling her into a tight hug that Lucie couldn't help but melt into. If there were a kinder, more genuine person than Laura Barton, then Lucie had yet to meet them.
Lucie pulled back and offered a smile in thanks. The hoodie and pyjama combo had been abandoned in favour of dark jeans and a leather biker jacket that she had found hung up in the closet from her last visit. It all hung a little looser than she would have liked but it was nothing a few weeks training wouldn't fix.
In the front yard, Clint stowed away her luggage in the trunk, making sure that she saw the cache he was sending her with. He was stood by the driver's side door as she walked across the yard, holding on to a familiar-looking brown envelope, the kind that stored briefings and dossiers.
"Passport. Plane ticket," he explained.
"Where am I heading?"
"Nat's got a job lined up if you want in."
A job? He sounded so casual when he said it as if he were talking about something as mundane as a trip to the grocery store. For a split second, her heart raced, the thrill of being back in gear and riding high on adrenaline. Then the horror set in. Things had been bad after Ashgabat but somehow New York had been worse.
"What if I'm not ready?" she whispered.
Clint took hold of one of her hands, stilling the tremble with a gentle but firm squeeze. "How about you get the hell off my porch and find out?"