What do you know, today is Father's Day, and I happen to have a Gravesen Guardians chapter about Clint's father that directly corresponds to the chapter that I posted just yesterday. The way the timeline of this story lines up with the real world sometimes is kinda freaky.

Archer without a Target:

Natasha left a few hours before it happened. Edith stayed with him even after it was over. Harry cried through it. Then he ran away.

He didn't get far. The sound of Edith's gentle whispers cut off abruptly when he slammed the back door behind him, and before he could get more than a few paces, his legs collapsed beneath him. It had been mere minutes, and the weight of his grief was already crushing, literally pushing him into the ground. He couldn't have gotten up again even if he wanted to. And why would he want to? His son—his only son—wasn't in that house anymore. Just the empty husk of him. Out here, at least there was something more than that.

Clint's last bullseye still stuck proudly out of the old target hanging on the tree.

He sat on the ground and stared at it for hours.

Both of his legs fell asleep and he didn't even notice. How could he when his entire body was already numb inside and out?

At some point, he heard somebody pull into the driveway. He knew who they were, what they were here for. And he didn't want to think about it. So he tuned it out.

Edith didn't come outside to check on him. He wasn't sure if it was because she needed space or thought that he did.

His eyes burned and the rings of the target started to blur into one another. Only then did he realize he hadn't blinked in a while.

As he stared at the target, he let memories swallow him whole. The first time he taught Clint to shoot. How excited he got the first time he nailed the dead center. All the times Clint and Kate played together out here, challenging each other to beat their latest challenge shot. The days he couldn't bear one more minute of sitting by his son's bedside in the hospital and had come home to shoot arrows until his fingers bled. He could almost hear the thwip of a bowstring and satisfying thunk of an arrow hitting home.

Of all the things Harry had taught his son, he was most proud of archery. Were it not for cancer, Clint probably would have advanced further in the sport than Harry ever had. A lot of things could have happened were it not for cancer. He didn't look forward to the next several years, when all of those things that should have happened would pass him by. First days of school. Birthdays. First dates. Holidays. Driving lessons. The talk. Graduations. First drinks. Grandkids. The rest of Harry's life appeared before him in a gray haze, the promise of a family reunion lingering too far in the distance. For the first time in his life, Harry looked to the future and thought to himself, "I wish it wasn't so long."

The sky darkened. His legs and back ached. A rumble sounded from his empty stomach. Harry didn't notice.

Only Edith drew him from his fugue state. She didn't say a word, merely helped him to his stumbling feet and dragged him back inside. They bypassed the living room sofa entirely, neither willing to let their gaze drift to the empty space. Harry did note that the IV pole and other medical supplies were already gone. Good. Of all the tangible relics of Clint's presence in this house, he didn't want those to remain.

He didn't notice the sunburn until Edith pointed it out to him. Hours and hours outside in direct sunlight had rendered the skin of his arms and neck red and peeling. Still, he didn't even feel it. Not even when he showered, or moved in ways that pulled at the angry, burnt skin. It was fitting, he thought. To be branded like this. Damaged. When he looked in the mirror he could see pain in more than just his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. But the burns healed, even while the rest of him remained raw and weeping. By the funeral, all that remained of them was a few patches of slightly discolored skin.

Bob Lang was the first to reach out to them after they shared the news. And he was the first to arrive at the funeral. Harry's respect for the man, already formidably high, skyrocketed in an instant. Not until now had he truly understood the strength it took to put on a brave face after such a crippling blow. It had been almost seven years since Scott passed, and to look at him one would never know Bob had suffered such a profound tragedy. He was happily married with a young daughter. Harry failed to imagine how he would ever reach that point, even given that much time.

"How have you been doing this so long?" Harry asked him, nearly choking on the words. "I can barely comprehend the thought of another day like this."

"Don't think about a day. Think about an hour, and if that's too much, a minute. Then the next. Every interval, no matter how small, brings you closer to him."

Harry nodded slowly. Then he broke down crying in Bob's arms. He composed himself just in time for the crowd to really start trickling in. Edith stood beside him, far stronger than he could ever be, and did most of the talking. Harry was on autopilot, accepting condolences and hugs without even registering who they came from. Some of them moved on from him to whisper their own goodbyes to the casket beside him. He and Edith—well, really just Edith, but he'd stood there and nodded his approval of her every decision—had picked it out, along with Clint's clothes. Harry's only contribution was insisting they bury him with his first bow. He'd made it himself, shaping it from hickory wood from a tree Bob Lang cut down in his backyard. It had apparently been Scott's favorite tree to climb, but it started to die when he got sick. Clint hadn't even known the story behind the bow's material until after Scott died, and not long after that he outgrew it. He hadn't asked to be buried with it, but Harry knew he'd want to have it with him. Maybe he could show it to Scott.

All the Gravesen kids were in attendance, along with their families. Both of Natasha's parents hugged him long and hard. Even people he'd never met before, like Alex and Russell Weaver and Rebecca Banner, came up to offer whatever comfort they could. Their love and support could never patch the gaping hole in his heart, but it helped as much as anything ever could. Harry's eyes widened when the Howard Stark approached him. The man offered only a handshake, and Harry accepted it, trying not to let on how completely starstruck he was. This was the man who donated money to a pharmaceutical company when Vibranin manufacturing was at risk, saving who knows how many children from increased risk of relapse or death. Looking down at Harry now, Stark looked almost guilty, as if he wished he could've done more to help.

He sighed and looked away for a moment before returning his solemn gaze to Harry. "I've been in your shoes before, so I know how empty well-meaning words can feel. Take it from a man who's been living this for two decades: it doesn't get any lighter, but you learn better ways to carry it."

Harry had no clue that Howard Stark had lost a child. Dumbfounded, his jaw hung partially open as he watched Howard wipe a stray tear from the corner of his eye before leaving to rejoin his wife near the back of the room. He'd seen that man on the news countless times, and much like Bob, he no longer looked beaten down by grief. Harry had hope that one day that might be him. Today was not that day.

~0~

After seven years of cancer parenting, neither he nor Edith knew what to do with all their spare time. He no longer had to go straight from work to the hospital or to run errands so Edith could stay home with Clint. They no longer had to sift through endless bottles of medication and double check that they had the right doses to keep their son comfortable and on track for whatever phase of treatment they found themselves in the middle of. No more waking up in the middle of the night to calm a Clint screaming from pain, fear, or just plain rage.

The calendar on the wall behind the kitchen counter was blank where it once contained endless notes about oncology appointments, scans, and audiologist visits. Clint's door remained closed instead of cracked like he'd always preferred. It hurt Harry's heart too much to see it cracked and think, even for a split second, that he could push it open to find him in there sleeping soundly. Conversations with Edith were short, neither of them having much to say except, "I love you." They didn't need to update each other on how Clint's day was, what Dr. Potts said, or when the next phase of treatment began. For the first time since they became parents, there was no next phase.

Edith got a job a month and a half after it happened. She was going crazy puttering about in their empty house all day, and her only reason for not working was gone. Harry fully supported her. Work was the one thing that was still the same from before and after. It was a place where he could still have a purpose, and she needed that too. Turns out, cancer parenting imparted many transferable skills, and she got interviews everywhere she applied.

Harry supposed that constituted a next phase of sorts. It was something. But being out of the house nine hours a day didn't make it any less empty and silent when they returned. They still occasionally set three places at the dinner table by mistake. Whenever that happened, they both broke down.

Those first few months, their friends and family showered them with support in every form possible. The Bishops brought them dinner once a week, and so did Jackie Fury. Bob offered no-pressure invitations for Happy Hours and the like every so often. They accepted almost every time. Harry and Edith had become good friends with Bob since they met all those years ago. In the months following Scott's passing, they'd done for him exactly what Bob was doing for them now. It was a horrible favor to have to return.

One night, Edith accepted an invitation to Jackie's for a girls' night, leaving Harry to go out with Bob just the two of them. They ended up in a sports bar, not paying much attention to the game nor their drinks. For the entire night, they just talked.

"How were you feeling this far out?" Harry asked. It was mid-August. Almost three months after. He wasn't looking forward to seeing the school buses return to the neighborhood. They'd homeschooled Clint whenever he was home from the hospital, but those bright yellow buses filled with eager children still cruelly reminded him of all the other families who hadn't been viciously ripped apart. For seven years, he'd looked at them and dreamed of the day Clint would be healthy enough to hop up those steps. Now they taunted him.

"Anything and everything," Bob sighed. "Some days I was angry, some days just depressed, and pretty much any other feeling you can think of. That whole five stages thing is bullshit."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I know."

"Basically, I was feeling however my brain was telling me I needed to. You can't force yourself into being okay. It takes time."

"I know. I'm not trying to force anything."

"Good."

"I just don't want to let anybody down. My boss, or Edith…or Clint."

"Hey, you're not letting anybody down. Least of all Clint. You're doing what you need to do to survive and move through this, and that's all anyone is asking of you."

Harry took another sip of his drink, wondering in the back of his mind how many it would take for him to stop thinking about how much he missed his son. Definitely more than he'd ever drank before—and probably more than was safe to consume. "Do you think they're together?" he asked suddenly.

Bob smiled slightly and nodded. "I do."

"But do you actually think that? Or are you just choosing to think that because it makes it easier to bear?"

"Does it matter?"

He ran a finger aimlessly around the rim of his glass. "I guess not."

"Anything that makes it easier to bear, as long as it's not destructive to yourself or anyone else, is worth it as far as I'm concerned," Bob said, finishing off his own drink.

"That's good advice."

"Hey, the best I can do with what happened to me in the course of my life is to use what I've learned to help others. I wish there wasn't a need for me to help others through this, but that's not something I can control."

"That's a good way to think about it."

"You're going to get really good at finding good ways to think about things. One of the most important lessons I learned from grief group is that joy can coexist with all the other feelings, so always step out in joy. Smiling is not treason."

"Smiling is not treason," Harry echoed. "Maybe I should get that on a cutesy sign for the kitchen." It was good advice. For the past three months, he'd not only wondered if he'd ever encounter happiness again, but also how he would feel when he did. Was he betraying Clint if he stopped mourning enough to let a little joy in? According to Bob, no.

"Do it," Bob encouraged. "And while you're at it, get one for me too. Hell, you should make it yourself."

"That's a good idea." Woodworking had always helped Harry distance himself from his roiling thoughts. Clint's first bow he'd made during the worst phases of stem cell rescue round one. Edith sent him home after the third decontamination of the day; both he and Clint had sobbed through the entire process, and she kicked him out to avoid distressing him further.

"He looks to us to know how to react to things," she'd urged. "If we're upset, he's only going to be more upset. Go home, clear your head, and don't come back until you're ready to put on a brave face because that's what Clint needs from you right now."

And that's exactly what he'd done. He'd stood in his workshop until his legs nearly gave out and crafted that bow, dreaming of the day when his son would be healthy enough to use it. It was nice to be able to do something because back at the hospital he could do nothing but sit and watch. Busying his hands busied his mind, and by the time he put the sandpaper down for the last time, his head was clear.

The next day, he sifted through the pile of scrap wood in the corner of the shop that never seemed to get any smaller no matter how many projects he completed and found a piece he thought would do. He stained it a rich dark color and, once that set, dug out purple paint (Clint's favorite color) and with expert brush strokes painted the words, "Smiling is not treason." After walking around his kitchen for a few minutes, he found the perfect place to hang it.

"What does this mean?" Edith asked when she saw it.

"It's something Bob said. It just means…we're allowed to be happy sometimes, even though it feels like we're not."

"It looks like a piece of propaganda," she remarked.

Harry chuckled. "You're right, it kinda does. Do you like it?"

She smiled. Harry smiled back. "I do."