A/N: Hello again :)
Another chapter for you. I had the photos included from the rough draft, and then the final Black Widow trailer came out and I just had to mention the hair when I came to revise it. I hope you enjoy.
Stay safe and well!
The one thing that really bothered Clint about the damn journals was that it was like he hadn't lived the last five years.
Yes, he remembered his pain and his anger and his grief. He remembered the slashing of his sword and the bitterness vengeance added to his life. But he didn't remember the world changing or moving on. He didn't remember the monuments going up, he didn't remember the uproar with Thor or the big missions the Avengers completed. Hell, he was even a bit fuzzy on the rollout of the whole global WOOPS thing. It was like he was sleepwalking for the almost 2,000 days he existed as a survivor of the worst tragedy in the history of history and he only woke up when Natasha found him slaughtering the Yakuza in Tokyo.
He tried to shove it to one side, act like his selective amnesia wasn't a thing and he'd remember if he put his mind to it. But then his goddamn best friend would mention something of worldwide importance like the goddamn monuments and his mind would draw a goddamn blank.
A blank he tried to fill in, or scratch away, or whatever it was he was supposed to do with blanks. There had to be recollections somewhere in his head, he reasoned. Then he realised he was missing what Laura was saying and that just wouldn't do because why would he ever waste Natasha's words like that?
Then Maria goddamn Hill went and asked the question everyone was thinking.
Anyone know who the heck Yelena, Melina and Alexei are?
And there was another blank. Well, a sort of blank. He knew the names, knew they were something to do with the Red Room but that was it. There weren't any details hidden in his mind and he hadn't forgotten anything because there was nothing to forget. She never said they were important people, only ever mentioned their names as casually as she'd mention Sitwell or Rumlow, back in the day.
While everybody took the question as a signal for their next break, Clint slipped out of the room. Laura's eyes were the only things to follow him. The kitchen was cool in comparison to the crowded living room. As was the utility room. The boxes, the sum total of Natasha's existence, sat on the shelf. He'd shoved them up there a few days ago, afraid that if he didn't people would see them out in the open and consider it an invitation to browse their way through her belongings. Which, to him and therefore to her, was a violation of her life.
He brought them down from the shelf, settled them on the dryer, and hated how much like a trespasser he felt as he opened the very solid lids. It didn't matter that she wouldn't mind him being the one to look through. It didn't matter that they were probably committing the ultimate transgression against her by going through her journals. These things in the boxes were truly personal. The few things she found important enough to keep safe, the few trinkets she allowed herself to collect throughout a life that wasn't supposed to allow for any.
She could edit her words.
But she couldn't edit her possessions.
He did what he could to respect that privacy she so adored. He did what he could not to look at anything other than what he was there for. And even as he worked through the small pile of photos he pulled together from the boxes, he tried not to analyse what was in each of them. Or who.
Because while he drew a blank on memories that held the names of Yelena, Melina and Alexei, he just couldn't un-snag himself from a barely registered memory of her getting cagey over a photo he found in her Shield quarters. One he never meant to see and even then it was for only a couple of seconds before she snatched it from his grasp and told him to piss off and annoy someone else.
Everything in him jolted when he found it, and a second one he never knew existed. Confirmation of an untold secret.
Hers was the only face he recognised and he wasn't sure whether to admire her loyalty to them or hate the secrets she kept from him. He sighed to himself as he grappled with his emotions. It was an ongoing battle and he wasn't ever sure he was winning.
Is this how she felt for those entire five years? Feeling everything amped up to eleven, on the wrong end of a fight.
If he'd been in her shoes he probably would have thrown himself off a mountain, too.
He sighed again, picturing the twist of her lips and glint in her eye at the dark humour yet still finding it within himself to regret the stray thought. The joke at the expense of his partner. She might have appreciated it, but he just wasn't at that point yet.
Putting the two photos to one side, he put the boxes back where he took them from and hurried out of the room before he could think too deeply about shelving what was left of his friend.
It turned out that while he was pilfering the photos, everyone else had decided to call it a night. He wasn't sure what he planned to do with the pictures, but he lost his nerve and slipped outside to soak in the coolness of the night and calm his thoughts.
Not that he got much time with them. The back door opened, throwing more light out into the darkness. Wanda made her way across the yard towards the jet, still doing what she could to avoid Clint's loud dreams. She was followed by the stampeding footsteps of his children as they made their way upstairs for the night. Laura called up behind them saying she'd be up there in just a minute. He should be too, he knew, if he wanted to continue mending his relationship with the kids. But the most selfish part of him kept him rooted to the spot, kept him out in the darkness.
At last the back door closed. The soft creak was soon followed by softer footsteps creeping along the decking and it took Clint everything he had not to sigh again.
"How you holding up, Barton?"
Hill's voice behind him didn't come as a surprise. What he didn't expect was the next one.
"You've looked like a kicked dog all day," Fury said. He was by no means the largest man Clint had ever met, not even the scariest looking, but there was something about his presence, the way he held himself, the look in his eye, that always made the archer wonder how he was capable of sneaking up on anyone without a sound. Especially in those boots.
"How am I supposed to look?" Clint said, not bothering to turn around and formerly welcome the two to his brooding spot on the stoop. It came complete with a railing to lean against (patches wearing smooth as a testament to how often he visited), a view of the tree line and barn. If he found himself there during the day he was treated to the somewhat infuriating and somewhat soothing clucking of the chickens, and a sliver of sunlight. Best of all, there were absolutely no windows for anyone to spy on him through.
Fury stood next to him, Hill to the other side and Clint couldn't shake the feeling of being flanked. It might have been an intentional display on their part, but they'd worked together so many long years that such movements had long ceased being second nature and become first.
"Hell if I know," the man shrugged, his leather jacket rasping at the movement. Hill huffed and the three of them watched whatever their eyes landed on.
"I'm sorry about Rambeau," Clint said, "I know she was a friend."
No one said anything and, even though she wasn't the easiest person to read, Clint saw Hill deflate a little in the dimness of the night. The silence was broken by a grunt from Fury.
"Damn shame losing her. She had a lot more to give. Why is it we're supposed to be celebrating everyone coming back, yet everywhere we look there's loss?"
No one had an answer for him so they settled into silence once again and resorted to listening to the night's creatures and looking at nothing in particular.
The former director eyed up the house itself, back rested against the railing, elbows propped on it for support.
The former agent looked to the distance without seeing. His mind ticked along as it digested all the entries and all the events.
The former commander scrutinised what was clasped in the archer's hand, crinkled from the pressure of his fingers.
"What's that," Hill said, nodding towards his hands. Clint didn't miss the way Fury turned his head slightly to see what had caught his second-in-command's attention. A part of him was reluctant to share what he'd found, but wasn't that the reason he went searching in the first place?
"The answer to your question," he said. He looked again and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with sweet night air but that wasn't quite enough to stop the bitter thought of her loyalty to them straying into his mind once again.
Not like she never mentioned them, he had to remind himself. Yes, he'd heard their names before, but never with the context of their faces. It felt like a puzzle was coming together, all that was missing was their shared history. But he didn't expect to find that out now his only source of first-hand information was gone.
"These are the mysterious Russian acquaintances she mentioned?" Hill said and tapped the photo with a fingernail. Fury moved to stand beside her, zeroing in on the image. It was the most recent one, the other hidden underneath. Clint was the only one who didn't inspect it. The single once over he'd given it in the utility room was all he needed to ingrain every last detail in his memory. The surroundings were unfamiliar. It was possible Natasha had safe houses he didn't know about, sensible even, but there was an edge to her eyes that said she was somewhere that was not one hundred percent Romanoff approved. That and the kitchen behind her looked much used and much loved, which were two afflictions no safe house kitchen had ever been diagnosed with. Everyone looked guarded. Natasha glowered, always uncomfortable in front of a camera, but she was outdone by the blonde at her side. Whether that was a natural reaction to the camera or to the close proximity of the redhead, Clint supposed he'd never know. What was a little surprising, though, was that yes the dark-haired woman and the giant of a man were also on edge, but they were more at ease than the two younger members of their party. There were slight smiles threatening to break across their faces and there was a tentative lean in towards each other. All in all, despite the jagged line drawn between them, there was a familial feel to the whole set up.
Do we know if she had a family? Tony's voice came back to haunt him.
The words found a comfortable nook in his head to cram themselves into and he knew he'd think about them for weeks to come. At the time he wanted to snarl at the stupid question. Of course she had a family. He was her family. Him and Laura and Cooper and Lila and Nate. But then Thor had stepped in with a passion for their teammate Clint wasn't aware he had. And it didn't feel so wrong when Steve called the Avengers her family.
Her blood and her name were different but she was a Barton.
She was less about vengeance and more about redemption but she was an Avenger.
These guys, though, which part of her did they represent?
"Why do I feel like I recognise that guy?" Hill said, drawing Clint from his thoughts. He studied the man in the back of the photo, face hidden behind a beard, eyes hard but gleaming. Then there was a sigh to Hill's right and both she and Clint looked towards Fury who seemed to be grappling with something.
"Before I say anything I need to slap on a massive caveat," he said after a few seconds, the furrow on his brow reaching untold depths, "she had her secrets and she had them for a reason. That is Alexei Shostakov."
"Hang on," Clint said, not sure which question was going to fight its way out of his mouth first, "isn't that the Cold War guy? Dumb name. The Red Guardian."
"Not sure you have a leg to stand on when it comes to accusing people of dumb codenames, Hawkeye," Fury bit back and Clint had to clench his fists to keep himself from decking the man. It's not that he was totally against the idea of punching a guy with one eye, he'd hurt people who suffered from a lot worse. But he was against punching the guy with one eye who had an infinite amount of connections and could pull on any one of them to make Clint's life hell.
"Okay," the archer spoke through his teeth, "let me rephrase the fucking question. Why the hell did she tell you about them? Why the fuck do you know?"
"You've rephrased it so much it's a whole new question, Barton. And let me refer you to the massive caveat I slapped on this conversation. She had her secrets and she had them for a reason. I'm no mind reader."
Hill, who was leaning between the two against the railing, straightened up and Clint knew it was to stop him from attacking. There was no way Fury would ever strike first.
"Nick," she said with just a hint of resentment, "did you know Nat knew him?"
The lack of words was enough of an answer. Long moment followed long moment and each stretched on just enough for Clint to convince himself they weren't going to get a definitive answer. But Fury was nothing if not full of surprises. In the darkness of the night and shade of Natasha's memory, he nodded. He held a hand out, too. Hill passed him the photo.
"The dark-haired woman is Melina Vostokoff, a trained Widow, the blond is Yelena Belova, also a Widow." They all stared in wonder at the photo for a few seconds, knowing just how deadly the people pictured were. Knowing just how tragic.
"And you know because?" Hill asked and did an admirable job of not sounding offended that he'd left her high and dry earlier.
"She wasn't settling. The Council noticed. They were still calling for her blood. So we had an all-cards-on-the-table chat. Just the two of us." For a man promising answers he was incredibly vague.
Would this have bothered Clint normally?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
Did he care right in that moment?
Fuck no.
Instead he was wrestling with the very ugly offspring of jealousy and anger that had reared up and roared as soon as he knew that Fury knew. Wasn't he, Clint, supposed to be the one Natasha shared everything with? Wasn't he, Clint, the Black Widow whisperer? Wasn't he, Clint the one she trusted most?
So why didn't he, Clint, know?
Why hadn't she said anything?
He took a slow breath as Hill urged Fury to spill the beans, then trapped it in his lungs until they ached. Willing it to absorb all the bad feeling he could feel bubbling in every cell of his body, before he breathed out just as slow as before.
"Full story, Nick, no one can be bothered with your bullshit right now," Hill said and Clint was pleased to hear the heat behind her words. It wasn't just him, then. "Like you said, she hadn't settled. There's no way she trusted you back then."
"She didn't have a choice, but," Fury interrupted himself as another sigh escaped his lips and he took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose, for just a second he looked old, "I made concessions."
"Natasha Romanoff, doing the impossible since 1984," Hill muttered with an unconvincing laugh.
"She checked me for bugs and wires," her boss admitted as if it was the most embarrassing thing in the world, "and then we went to a non-Shield safe house of hers. Didn't like not knowing she had those. All she gave me was the basic outline. She knew them. Worked with them. They were a remnant of her past she was worried about confronting. I agreed if anything came up I wouldn't assign Strike Team Delta to the mission."
He said it all as if any of it was standard procedure, as if none of it spoke to how much he'd risked for someone who was technically nothing more than a rookie agent at the time.
"You mean you agreed you wouldn't assign her to the job?" Clint said.
"No, Strike Team Delta."
"Why?"
"I didn't pry. That shit was between the two of you. But tell me, Barton, if you knew they meant something to her and came across them in the field, with or without Romanoff, would have made a non-bone headed decision?"
Words of denial were on Clint's lips before he realised, but something stopped them from going any further. He was a man to rely on, one of Fury's go to agents. Ask him to steal information and he'd steal it, ask him to go deep undercover and he'd go the deepest he could, ask him to save the world and he'd save it, ask him to terminate someone and he'd terminate them. He always did the job.
Except once.
Just once when he knew better. Just once when he couldn't bring himself to kill his mark.
He swallowed the denial that still played on his lips and looked Fury in the eye as he refused to say them. Clint saw the truth in it as it unfurled within him. Yelena. Melina. Alexei. If they were important to Natasha he wouldn't even think. He'd jeopardise the mission. He'd aid and he'd abet and he'd lie and he'd trick. He wouldn't feel comfortable but he'd do it.
Because they were Natasha's people.
Because they were a link to her past.
Because he'd want to make up for taking her from them in the first place.
Oh. It was all he had time to think before the crashing realisation turned into something more painful and it took everything he had not to succumb to the tide that wanted so desperately to wash him away.
That was why she hadn't told him.
She didn't want him to feel guilty.
As if you have anything to feel guilty for, a voice in his head said and it was hers, fully hers with all the tone and the snark and the little swallow she sometimes did when she was fighting off emotion. He heard it with such clarity she could have been standing right next to him. He decided to ignore how impossible that notion was. I chose to go with you. I chose to leave them behind.
As much as his own conscience would try and alleviate the guilt he felt, he knew those would have been her words had he ever found out and confronted her about it. He knew she would never blame him.
Clint swallowed again, this time to try and clear his throat, maybe even his whole head.
"Well," he said, "bone-headed is my middle name."
"Sure it is, Francis," Hill chuckled, then reached over and plucked the photo from Fury's hand. That's when the other one, which Clint had forgotten all about, came loose. Hill caught it before it fluttered away. "Holy crap is that Natasha?"
And even though he'd seen it just over half an hour earlier, Clint joined Fury in looking. Same four people, years apart.
"Yeah," he said.
"Stark would have had a field day with this," she said, "proof the Black Widow was an actual kid."
"Blue hair, huh," he said, bemused at the detail, "I think this might be my new favourite photo."
It was a little aged and a little worn and he could see everything perfectly as Hill handed it to him. They were in a different place, the four of them closer together this time and there really were smiles on their faces. Natasha stood in front of Alexei, Yelena in front of Melina. It was obviously staged but it didn't feel forced. That didn't mean anything, of course, all four of them were highly trained individuals. Even at that age.
When he thought that he realised Natasha's eyes weren't much different to the ones he'd known so well. Most observers wouldn't notice but he did, because he really was the Black Widow whisperer. There was a hollowness where innocence should be. A harshness where wonder usually resided. They were eyes that had seen too many things they shouldn't have. He knew she'd started young, listened to her as she admitted it, held her after nightmares about it, watched the protectiveness she had for all children because of it. His children in particular. Lila in particular.
This piece of evidence had him regretting his earlier cavalier comment. Had his throat tickling in a way that said he was going to throw up if he wasn't careful. And it melted all his residual anger at Fury knowing instead of him, at her not trusting him to overcome his guilt. It melted until it created a run-off so large there was no choice but to find an outlet. He clasped the railing in front of him, hung his head and sucked in a breath. The decking at his feet absorbed the droplets that fell. A breeze tugged at the photo still caught between his thumb and finger.
"Let's talk about something else," he said, straightening up and something, somewhere, clicked in his body, "anything else."
The spectre of the photo hung heavy around them all and the other two were more than eager to comply. They filled the air with the smallest of talk and the most mind-numbing bits of information. Numb was good. Numb was relief. Numb helped him regain his equilibrium.
It was almost normal. Almost like being back at Shield and getting stuck in the lift with them, or walking together to the same place, or the rare occasions he got to a meeting early.
They each slipped behind their masks and pretended like they were still those people. Like the world was still the same as it was back then. It might have made them delusional but it also made them comfortable. Comfortable and capable of ignoring the pain that came with a world changed beyond recognition.
Soon after, they parted ways. Each feeling the lateness of the hour in the way their eyes itched and eyelids drooped. In the ache of their backs and shoulders and feet. A long day making its mark.
Laura was already in bed by the time Clint made his way into their room, but she wasn't asleep. The bedside lamp was on and she was reading for all the world as if she hadn't spent her whole day doing the exact same thing.
"Just thought something fictional would be a good palate cleanser," she said when she caught the look Clint sent her way. She popped in a bookmark and slid the book onto her bedside table, watching Clint as he readied himself for bed, still clutching the photos in one hand. "Where have you been?"
"Outside," he said as he hopped around trying to get into his pyjama trousers one handed, "talking to Hill and Fury. I found these." He handed her the photos and immediately used his free hand to sort his clothing out. He went to brush his teeth and when he came back out of the en suite Laura was still looking at the pieces of paper.
"I've never seen these before," she said when he slipped into bed beside her, the photos were resting on her lap, she touched them with such reverence anyone would think they were sacred, "are those the people she mentioned?"
He nodded and she continued to admire them. Where he found evidence of a fracture and a dark history she found something different. A smile played on her lips and it fascinated him. She studied them and traced the photos with her fingertips, a hand went to her heart when she reached the young version of their mutual friend. The smile was still there. Graceful and knowing and Clint just couldn't understand what he'd missed. Just as he was about to ask, Laura looked up at him and for the first time he noticed the unshed tears. It pained him to know that neither of them would ever fully stop hurting. He pulled her into his side and kissed the top of her head. Knowing it was little comfort but all he could give her. She clutched at his chest and her head rested on his shoulder, the photos went undisturbed.
"What are you seeing that I'm not?"
"Her life wasn't easy," she said, understanding him because she always did, "but at least it wasn't all bad."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because she kept these," she said and pushed herself away from Clint in order to grab the pictures, "I don't claim to know everything about Nat but I know it means something and I know it means something good. She kept them."
"She kept them," Clint repeated as he took the items in question and gave them one last look. Reminders of the hell she had grown up in and maybe, just maybe, reminders that not all of it was dark, "so we'll keep them."
"We'll get some frames," Laura said as he reached over to open the drawer of his own bedside table and put them in, "they'll go with the rest of the family photos."
When Clint shut the drawer and settled back down Laura's hand sought out his, squeezing it slightly to make him look at her.
"What's up" he said and reached his free hand up to stroke her cheek, wanting nothing more than to take away the strain he saw there.
"The kids," she said, it was barely a whisper but the hint of hysteria was not difficult to pick out, "they've got it into their heads they want to go find their names on the memorial in town. I just don't have the brain power to deal with that right now."
The archer had gone to the memorial precisely once. It was similar to the one in San Francisco except it looked more like gravestones. Dark marble, names etched in light grey. He'd ran his fingers over each letter of his family, hoping something there would bring him back to a reality where they were still together and laughing about mayo and hotdogs. He was left disappointed, finding neither that reality or the sense of calm that was missing since Thanos visited Earth, and never went back.
Even now, there was something within him that balked at the idea of going back there, just in case he found himself back in that same reality where all the missing pieces were still missing. Yet, he reminded himself, this wasn't about him. It was about them.
"Maybe it's not such a bad idea," he said, "if that's what they feel they need to do next then maybe that's what we do."
"I should have known you were going to say that," she sighed but it wasn't annoyed, "it's just, isn't it a little morbid?"
"And reading the journals isn't?" Clint chuckled. "At least we'll be getting out of the house."
Laura rubbed her eyes as she considered his words. "I guess, but after the journals," she said, "I don't know if I can cope with both at the same time."
"That's fair enough," he said and kissed the top of her head once again, "speaking of memorials and after the journals-"
"You want to do something for Nat," Laura cut in and it was her turn to stroke his face, from the look in her eyes she was wishing she could take his strain and pain away as much as he did hers.
"Yeah," he said and swallowed hard, "I'm just not sure I know how to say goodbye."