So this was supposed to be a Steggy fic. It's not. I mean, it is, but it also focuses more heavily on Clint. I've never read the comics, so I probably have a really weird combination of comic canon, fanfiction and my own headcanon, but I don't care.

This is obviously not Age of Ultron compliant. Actually, it's not compliant with anything really after CA:TWS. We're just not there yet.

May 2012, Brooklyn

Manhattan was a mess, the four-block radius around the Tower scattered with debris from buildings and vehicles and bodies both human and alien.

Natasha wanted to get as far away from it as possible.

"Can we stop by Bed-Stuy?"

Natasha glanced at him. "Why?"

Clint shrugged. "Told Rodriguez I'd be back three weeks ago; should probably check in."

Natasha sighed, but altered her course. He had been worryingly silent since they left Central Park; at least he was now talking. "Only you could accidentally become a landlord."

"I did not accidentally become a landlord," Clint said. "I bought the building on purpose."

"You just didn't consider the landlord thing before you did it," Natasha said with a smile.

Normally, Clint would keep the banter going.

Today he just heaved a very heavy sigh. "No, I suppose I didn't."

Natasha frowned. "They're lucky," she offered. "I remember all the complaints your neighbours had about the last guy."

"I guess," Clint muttered.

He wasn't going to talk yet.

That was fine. Natasha may not have been a sniper, but she still had the patience of one.

She could wait.

There was a traffic cop outside the building when they pulled up, and he approached them immediately. "Sorry, ma'am; you can't park there."

Natasha gave him her Natalie Rushman smile and showed him her SHIELD badge. "I'm so sorry, Officer. We'll only be about five minutes, I promise. It's just that I was on the ground in Manhattan yesterday, and I'd really rather not walk further than I need to on this ankle."

It was only a sprain, thankfully, and the ice pack had done wonders, but it wasn't completely an act.

The cop faltered, his eyes darting between her and the car. "Five minutes," he said finally.

"Thank you," Natasha said sweetly. "We'll be quick, I promise." She took Clint's arm and steered him into the building, playing up the limp just a little.

"Need me to drive?" Clint asked.

"Eventually," Natasha said. "I'd rather not stop on the way and it's like a seventeen hour drive. I'm alright for now."

Clint didn't look convinced, but knocked on one of the doors without comment.

The man that answered it was tall and skinny, glasses perched almost right on the end of his nose.

"Hey man! Starting to worry about you!"

"Sorry," Clint said, his tone a little clipped. "Work took longer than expected. I'm gonna be out a few more weeks; you okay holding the fort?"

Rodriguez frowned. "Yeah, of course. You alright?"

"Fine," Clint said. "Thanks."

Natasha sighed as he turned on his heel. She knew that Clint kept SHIELD as far away from his home as possible, so his neighbours-turned-tenants wouldn't get inadvertently caught up in anything.

He had even bought the building as a cash purchase so there wouldn't be any paper trail - technically, she supposed, given that she had made a donation (freelance work paid very well, and it wasn't like she had anything else to spend it on), it would be more accurate to say that they owned the building.

Either way, the confused man in front of her had no idea - or clearance to know - what happened to his landlord yesterday.

"We got caught up in Manhattan yesterday," she said softly, not untruthfully.

Rodriguez cursed under his breath. "He alright?"

"Yeah," Natasha lied. "We just need a … change of scenery."

Rodriguez nodded firmly. "Yeah, of course. Tell him to take his time. I got things here."

Natasha thanked him and hurried after Clint. He had taken the stairs, which didn't surprise her, but one of the things he had done (that the previous landlord hadn't) was make sure the elevator worked, and she wasn't about to make her ankle worse for the sake of sprinting after him.

She stepped out on the top floor just as Clint got there.

"I'm just getting a bag," he said. "You don't need to babysit me."

Natasha would have rolled her eyes and retorted, but something had caught her attention.

There were voices coming from his apartment - the TV, it sounded like, but Clint wouldn't have left it on.

"There's someone in your apartment," she said.

Clint paused, rattling his keys, and there was a sudden clatter and a bark.

"Lucky!" A girl's voice said. "Let the man get through the door!"

"Yeah, it's Katie-Kate," Clint said.

Natasha had met Kate Bishop before, several years ago when she was an eight-year-old, and she knew Clint taught her archery when he was home, and spoke very fondly of her when he wasn't - but she didn't know the girl had a key to Clint's apartment.

Not to mention …

"Lucky?" She repeated.

Her question was answered a second later, when Clint opened the front door and was hit by a yellow missile.

For the first time since the whole mess had started, a genuine smile crossed his face, and he dropped to one knee to fuss over what Natasha could now see was a Labrador, practically writhing with excitement.

"Hey buddy," Clint said softly. "Yeah, I know; I missed you too."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "You got a dog."

"Did I forget to mention that?" Clint asked, nudging the dog to one side so Natasha could get in.

"I think I'd remember," Natasha said.

It seemed like a strange decision, considering he was so frequently away from home.

"I found him in the alley out back. Some asshole was kicking him."

"Nat, you remember Kate?" Clint asked.

"I do," Natasha said, giving the now-fifteen-year-old a smile.

Kate grinned at her. "I still think you're too pretty for him."

"She is," Clint agreed. "I just need to grab a bag, Nat."

Kate's smile faded. "You're leaving again?"

"Just for a few weeks," Clint said. "Make yourself at home."

Natasha watched him walk into the bedroom, Lucky close at his heels.

"What happened?" Kate asked.

Natasha sighed. "Long story."

Kate tilted her head to one side. "He's some kind of fed. There was an archer yesterday, in Manhattan. Was that him? Is he okay?"

Natasha considered lying to her, telling her that she was mistaken, but there was a glint in the girl's eye that told her that wasn't going to work. "Have you mentioned this theory to anyone else?"

Kate snorted. "No. I'm not stupid." She met Natasha's gaze with no trepidation, but the slightest tinge of fear. "Look, you don't need to tell me anything specific. Super secret, I get it. But he's more like a dad than my actual father; I cannot lose him. Is he okay?"

Natasha sat down beside her on the couch. "Not yet. That's why we're heading out of town."

Kate nodded. "Do you need to take Lucky?"

Natasha considered that. It was true that seeing the dog had made Clint smile, but at the same time … "The safe house is in the Everglades."

"Oh, god, don't take the dog," Kate said immediately. "He's an idiot; he'll get eaten by alligators or something."

As though he'd been summoned, Lucky padded out of the bedroom and over to Natasha, looking up at her with one big brown eye until she gave in and scratched his ears. "How'd he lose the other eye?"

"Not sure," Kate said. "I assume it had something to do with the aforementioned asshole."

"So you rescued the dog and Clint adopted him?" Natasha asked.

"Not exactly," Kate said. "My parents tried to tell me that the landlord wouldn't let us have any pets, except of course he's the landlord and I knew that was bullshit. So he adopted him, knowing I'd need to look after him when he was away."

Natasha smiled. "He's a good dad."

"He is," Kate agreed softly.

Lucky let out a huff and rested his head on Natasha's knee.

"Yeah, we know," Kate said, as though he'd spoken. "You love him too."

Clint emerged with a duffle over his shoulder. "Lucky, don't be a ham."

"I mean, he's your dog," Natasha said, gently nudging the dog off her. "Ready?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah, think so. Kate, you okay for dog food and stuff?"

"Yeah I stocked up last week," she said. "I know where the cash is." She side-stepped Lucky in order to hug him.

Clint rubbed her back. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, I know," Kate said quietly. "This is for me. I watched the news yesterday."

Clint flinched a little, but put on a brave face and pressed a kiss to her temple. "It's over now, Katie. Promise."

The motorcycle raced through the city and, as it left Manhattan and headed into Brooklyn, Peggy felt the tension in Steve's shoulders shift - not disappear, but change as they left the destruction behind and joined the icy nostalgia of his childhood home.

Setting her mouth near his ear, she gave him gentle directions, skirting around the outskirts of the borough to the suburbs, and then past the end of the road to a small house tucked away out of sight.

"Alright, this is it," she said finally, patting him on the shoulder.

Steve brought the bike to a stop alongside her car and she dismounted, rummaging in her purse for her house keys.

"How long have you lived here?" Steve asked.

"Since this house was pretty much in the middle of nowhere," Peggy answered with a smile. "That neighbourhood we passed is only about fifty years old." She unlocked the front door, showing him inside. "But this has been here …"

"Forever," Steve finished with a grin. "When I was little, my lungs wouldn't …" he trailed off with a weary sigh, staring at the photograph on the wall at the bottom of the stairs by the coat rack. "Why?"

Peggy slipped off her shoes and hung up her jacket. "Why what?"

"Why that photo?" Steve asked, a little petulantly.

"I wanted a picture of my best guy," Peggy said with a shrug, brushing her fingers against the frame out of habit. "Is that so surprising? Jacket."

"But it's a really bad one," Steve said, handing her his jacket.

"It's not my fault there's no other pictures of you before the serum," Peggy said, hanging his jacket up beside hers.

"So why not use one after the serum?" Steve asked.

"Oh, I have those," Peggy said with a smile. "But that's the guy I fell in love with. And my job … it's difficult, Steve. Sometimes, my job feels impossible, and some days, I get out of bed wondering how I have the strength to go into work and keep fighting." She tucked her arm through his, resting her head on his shoulder. "And then I come down here, and I look at your face, and I remember how hard you fought for what was right, even when it was nearly impossible - and it always gave me the strength to keep going. Shoes."

"Pardon?" Steve asked, startled.

Peggy's smile widened. "Take your shoes off, please."

"Oh, right, of course," Steve said, bending down to undo them.

Peggy watched him fondly. It was a habit he had never broken, treating his clothes like precious silk. It harked back, she supposed to the days when his mother had to scrimp and save for each article.

It also tended to disappear when there was a fight to be had.

"Come on," she said. "I'll put the kettle on."

Steve followed her into the kitchen. "Did it really help that much?"

"It did," Peggy said. "And don't say you don't understand - you kept that picture in your compass for a reason."

Steve ducked his head with a smile, his eyes travelling around the kitchen. She couldn't help noticing that he seemed far more at ease here than in his stuck-in-the-forties apartment or the ultra-modern Stark Tower (except her apartment, but then Pepper had decorated to Peggy's tastes).

"What were you saying about the house?" She asked.

Steve refocused his attention on her. "Well, when I was little, before Ma died, when my lungs were bad, she would try to take me out for walks when she could, but she always thought the air in the city was bad for me, so she used to bring me further out here where the air was cleaner."

"Smart woman," Peggy commented. "Given that most doctors were still of the opinion that cigarettes were good for your lungs."

"We used to walk past this house," Steve said. "At least, I think it was this house. If not, it was one very similar. Ma used to say that if she ever had the money, that's where she'd want to live."

Peggy raised an eyebrow. "Well, what are the chances?" The kettle whistled and she rose to tend to it. "I found it on a walk - Howard helped me out. With the legal side, I mean; I wouldn't let him put any money towards it."

"Where did you live before?" Steve asked.

"Well, first I shared a bedsit with a girl named Colleen," Peggy answered. "She was a sweetheart - we had one bed, but she worked nights and I worked days, so we used to trade off. She didn't know what I did though, and I …" she faltered. "This was before SHIELD, and I was trying to … I had to bring my work home with me one night. She'd stayed home because she was sick and … I was in the bathroom. I heard this noise and when I walked out, a man attacked me. He'd followed me home. I fought him off, but Colleen …"

"She knew," Steve finished.

"I wish," Peggy whispered. "She was dead, Steve. He killed her."

Steve rose as well, rounding the table to embrace her. She set the kettle down and leaned back against his chest. Even after all those years, the guilt still sat in her chest just as heavily as when she'd looked down on Colleen's lifeless body.

"And then," she said, her voice only trembling slightly, "I moved into a boarding house for unmarried ladies. The only problem was that the matron was under the impression that I was only staying until I found a husband and, since I wasn't intending on doing that any time soon, I needed to get out. So I asked Howard for help when I found this place."

Steve kissed the side of her head and released her so she could finish making the tea. "Well, it's exactly the sort of place I would have imagined you living, back in the war.

"Oh?" Peggy handed him a mug and led him into the living room so they could sit comfortably. "Did you imagine you'd be here beside me?"

"Sometimes," Steve said quietly. "Sometimes I just found it a miracle that you even looked twice at me. Especially before."

Peggy shook her head. "Steve, I seriously pity any woman who had a conversation with you for more than a few seconds and didn't."

Steve smiled - a smile she recognised as one that meant he was humouring her - and changed the subject. "What made you choose the boarding house before here, then? I'da thought you'd hate that kinda place."

The Brooklyn was coming out - their discussion had touched a nerve. For now, she would concede. "Oh, I did hate it. With a passion actually. Mrs Fry was a rather stern woman and, while the other girls were nice enough, they were all frightfully … unlike me. Except Angie." A smile crossed her face, unbidden. "Angela Martinelli was a waitress when I met her, but she wanted to be an actress. Her neighbour had just married and she talked me into taking the room."

"I … Have I heard that name somewhere before?" Steve asked.

"You might have," Peggy said. "She did make it as an actress in the end. Swanned off to Hollywood. But we always kept in touch, even if it was under a fake name. I never actually told her, but … I'm fairly sure she knows the truth."

"Is she still …?" Steve asked, trailing off as though he wasn't sure how to finish.

"She's still alive," Peggy said. "She's in a nursing home in LA."

Steve nodded. "That's good. It feels like … It feels like everyone from our time is gone."

"Not everyone," Peggy said softly. "Almost everyone we know, yes, but … You remember Logan?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "He's still around?"

"He's like us," Peggy said. "He works at a school upstate for kids born with special gifts - mutants. That's the school I called for back-up."

Steve paused. "You think he was there? In Manhattan?"

"Maybe," Peggy said. "I'll give him a call at some point, invite him over for dinner."

"I'd like that," Steve said, and she smiled, tucking her feet up underneath her to to settle against his side.

It was a quiet moment, all the more precious for its rarity. During the war, quiet moments were scarce and, even then, they were often fraught.

Peggy didn't count the evening they spent in the bar after Bucky's death as a quiet moment, but there was a moment, tucked away close to her heart, six months earlier.

A moment of peace and calm between missions and meetings and debriefs, brought about by chance more than design, when he brought some papers by her office and met her quiet reflection on what was starting to feel like an uphill struggle with an all-encompassing hug.

She had melted into his arms more readily than she would have liked to admit at the time.

She felt no shame about it now - Steve's hugs were something unique; whether it was because she loved him, or because of the strength in his arms, or because they both came from a time when physical contact was something to be cherished, she didn't know.

Today, though he would never admit it, it was him that needed comfort. He was shivering ever so slightly against her, even though the room was more than warm enough.

"Now that we have time," she said softly, "how are you handling it."

"The invasion?" Steve asked.

"No," Peggy said, then faltered. "Well, yes, I suppose. But I was thinking more along the lines of crashing a plane into the Arctic and missing sixty seven years."

"I'm fine," Steve said almost immediately.

Peggy sighed. "Darling, contrary to popular belief, you are still human. No one can go through what you did and come out on the other side 'fine'."

"Well, I did," Steve said.

Peggy set down her cup and sat up so she could twist to face him. "You've barely slept since you woke up. That apartment looked like it was stuck in the forties, so you were constantly going from one decade to another, like shock baths. The heating was lousy; then again, you're shivering now, so that may not have helped. And I bet if I check your file, you haven't so much as glanced at a psychiatrist."

Steve's gaze dropped. "You think I need one?"

"It's different now, Steve," Peggy said, her voice gentle. "Most soldiers return from combat with some sort of shell-shock, that's always been the case. Now we understand it more; it's called post-traumatic stress disorder. We see things in combat that no human should have to see. SHIELD should have given you some kind of mandatory psych treatment, and I'm guessing they didn't. On top of that, you've got this huge culture shock. Hell, it's only been - what - two months since you lost Bucky?"

Steve flinched, nodding.

"So you have to factor that in as well," Peggy said, liberating him of his tea before his grip broke the mug (it certainly wouldn't be the first time). She settled into his lap, gently guiding his head into the crook of her neck. "It doesn't need to be a psychiatrist, darling, but please talk to someone."

"Where would I find someone who understands?" Steve asked hopelessly, and she tightened her arms around him.

"Me," Peggy whispered, pressing a kiss to his head. "Talk to me, Steve. Trust me."

Steve took a shuddering breath, his arms looping around her waist to hold her tightly. "I didn't want to die, Peggy. Everyone seems to have this idea that I took the plane down because I'd lost the will to live or something, because Bucky was gone and he was all I had for so long, but I had people … I had the Howlers and I had you and …"

Her collar was beginning to get a little damp, but she disregarded it, stroking his hair in silence.

"I wanted to come home to you, Peggy - if I thought for a second that there was some other way, I would have done that instead. I need you to know that." Steve hesitated. "You did know that, right?"

Peggy was silent for a second, contemplating her answer. "Yes," she said finally, because she had seen it in his eyes so many times.

Because she had been worried about his self-preservation with Bucky gone - because she had had to steal a plane for him to reduce the chances of him getting himself killed rescuing Bucky, so what the hell would he do to avenge him?

Because half the reason she took a chance and kissed him, right in front of Phillips, knowing she would never hear the end of it, was to remind him that, even without his brother, he had something - someone - to come home to.

And she had seen it in his eyes, after they parted. A love and determination strong enough to be an oath, so she took it as one, carrying it close to her heart until it lay shattered on the floor of a radio room with nothing but static surrounding her.

"Yes," she said with more certainty. "I did know. But the thing about time is … it makes you think. Sometimes you think more than you should. So I would lie and tell you it didn't cross my mind once or twice that maybe I wasn't enough to live for."

Steve raised a tear-stained face and kissed her. He kissed her until they couldn't breathe, until their lips were swollen, until she knew with every fibre of her being, as surely as she knew her own name …

"You have always been enough," he murmured into the silence between them. "You have always been more than enough. I told you I needed to believe that I'd come home to tell you how much I love you, I wanted to come home. But the water was so much colder than I expected, and I … I couldn't move, Peggy. I was trying, but it was like my entire body seized up and I couldn't breathe and … I tried to fight, I did …

"I know you did, darling," Peggy whispered, resting her forehead against his. "I know you fought; I would believe nothing less of you."

"And then I woke up …" his voice faltered.

Peggy slipped off his lap and settled in the corner of the couch, coaxing him to lie down in her arms. He went willingly, curling up in a ball it seemed impossible he could form. His head rested on her chest, her heartbeat soothing him in the same way his had her.

"And then you woke up," she repeated. "And SHIELD turned out to be a bunch of morons."

"Yeah," Steve agreed quietly.

Peggy sighed, stroking his hair. "I'm so sorry, my love. If I'd known how badly it would be handled, I would have come home myself.

"At least the children are safe," Steve said.

Peggy smiled, pressing a kiss to his head. "True."

"I don't like sleeping," Steve whispered, as though speaking any louder would cause the words to turn into weapons. "I'm afraid I'm going to miss another seventy years."

Peggy tightened her arms around him. "I did think that might be it. Does it help when I'm there?"

Steve hesitated and she smiled.

"Trust me, remember?" She said lightly. "I'm not going to do anything I don't want to do."

"Yes," Steve said, a little ashamedly. "I can't imagine that. I mean …"

"I know," Peggy said soothingly. "Your eyes and ears can trick you sometimes. Touch is far harder to fool. I wasn't planning on banishing you to the guest room anyway." She tangled her fingers with his and he squeezed her hand. "Did having something familiar help? That apartment wasn't helping anyone, I'm sure, but did it do anything?"

"You were right about the constant culture shifts," Steve said. "It was disconcerting. I'd wake up and be able to convince myself that it was just a dream, and then I'd open the blinds or leave the apartment, and …"

Peggy winced in sympathy. "If it makes you feel any better, I still get overwhelmed sometimes."

"It did help having a touchstone," Steve admitted. "When everything got a little too … overwhelming. This is better," he added, glancing around the living room.

"It's not futuristic," Peggy agreed with a smile. "I love to have a touchstone as well." She nudged him. "But if you really want a touchstone, I can help with that."

Steve caught on to her intentions and sat up, allowing her to stand. "You already are."

Peggy pulled him to his feet and kissed him chastely. "Come on. I want to show you something." She led him upstairs and then up the little staircase into her attic.

"Do I want to know about the blankets?" Steve asked.

Peggy glanced at the nest in the middle of the floor. "Oh, this is Clint's room when he stays. I have tried to coax him into the guest room, but he insists he's more comfortable up here. Sometimes he takes the Hawk thing too far."

"Will he be okay?" Steve asked.

"It's not Nat's first rodeo with brainwashing," Peggy said. "She's the best person to help him."

"That didn't answer the question," Steve said.

Peggy raised an eyebrow. "Would you be? If someone had taken over your body and not just made you try to kill me but made you want to?"

Steve shuddered. "No. No I wouldn't."

Peggy sighed. "I'm sure he'll be by when he and Nat get back." She moved a couple of dust-covered boxes out the way to reveal two more boxes, this time devoid of dust, sitting in a clear space on the floor. "Go on."

Steve looked puzzled, but stepped forwards to open one of the boxes, pulling out a military dress uniform. "This … Is this mine?"

"Well, it's certainly not mine," Peggy said with a grin.

"They're not dusty," Steve said.

"Well, that's because I come up here when I miss you," Peggy admitted, sitting down beside him. "Be careful with those," she added, when he lifted out one of the sketchbooks. "I've only ever looked through the ones you left lying around, but the paper is starting to get a little fragile."

"Why didn't you look through all of them?" Steve asked, pulling out one particular sketchbook that he had always kept either on his person or under lock and key.

"If you left them lying around, you were practically inviting us to look," Peggy answered. "The others are private. I won't read your diary or your journal, so why would I look through those?"

"I drew you a lot," Steve said. "Des that offend you?"

"Certainly not," Peggy said immediately. "Considering how you feel about me, I'd be insulted if you didn't."

Steve smiled at her and tucked her against his side, opening the sketchbook she had never even glanced at. "You're not just anyone. I don't mind if you see them."