A/N: A little bit of filler on the Barton Farm for you guys.

Thank you to JarvisDaBest for betaing :)

The washing machine spun like it was trying to explode, shaking so hard it half convinced Clint the house was trembling.

This was the third load of the day. The first two hadn't had a single item of Barton clothing.

He wondered if maybe rattling the foundations was the machine's way of protesting the overwork, but quickly dismissed the idea because he'd already seen the robot uprising and it hadn't started like this.

The cacophony died down every now and then to ready itself for the next audio onslaught, letting the voices from outside filter inside to Clint standing alone in the utility room. Laura and Steve. Wanda and Nate. Hill and Fury. Cooper and Lila.

He sighed.

The washing machine drowned it out.

When the cycle ended, he ushered the clothes into an empty washing basket. Something floral clung to the fabric. He grabbed one of his shirts and pressed the wet sleeve to his nose until his nostrils were full of the scent that had filled every day of his life, which he'd never noticed until it was gone.

Laundry detergent wasn't high on Ronin's list of priorities.

"You know, inhaling them isn't how you get your clothes dry. That's what that is for."

Clint jumped in surprise and bashed his hip against the countertop when he spun round, almost as violently as the washing machine, to find Hill sporting a sly smile and pointing over at the dryer. "What the fuck! Don't just sneak up on a person."

"Isn't that how you made a living?" She asked, still with that goddamned smile and a glint in her eyes that always meant trouble, then changed the subject before he had time to answer. "Suppose I should be glad it's your washing your sniffing."

"M'not some sort of creep," he said, and he could tell she was fighting the urge to quirk her eyebrow at him. "Didn't realise how much I missed the smell."

Her eyebrow stopped fighting its restraints, and the mischievous eye glint faded into a glimmer of understanding. "C'mon. Weather's good so we decided to have a BBQ, but you're a little low on, well, most BBQ related things. You coming to the store?"

Household chores were one of the many banes of Clint's life. His job was high octane, fast-paced, full throttle. He liked to think of chores as high mundane and slow-paced and no throttle.

"Nah," he said, "I'm good. Welcome to take my truck, though."

No throttle is what he needed.

Hill gave him a long look, like she was evaluating him. And he had no idea if he was passing or failing. She gave him a nod and left with a muttered thanks.

Clint shoved the washing into the dryer and resumed his silent sentinel position right beside it. Natasha's boxes sat on the shelf behind him and, though decidedly not sentient, they stared him down and tried to get his attention. Papery voices sliced through the back of his mind.

See what's inside, open us.

They made promises he knew they couldn't keep. Didn't make it any less tempting.

You'll feel better. She's in here. It will help.

Almost too tempting. He so wanted to rifle through everything to find out just that little bit more about her life. To find out what was important to her. To find out who.

It was stupid.

He already knew the whats and whos. He knew it better than anything a few boxes could tell him. But he just wanted to surround himself with whatever was hidden inside them because, even though it would always be a poor substitute, it was all he had left of her.

And a part of him, some stupid, foolish, hopeful, childish part of him, thought that if he went through her stuff he'd turn around to find her glaring at him for having the audacity to invade her privacy.

Instead, he'd turned and looked straight at the boxes, which was a total surprise because he couldn't remember doing it and- what was that noise? He looked down at the counter to see his fingers drumming a steady beat against the solid surface.

Because this doesn't scream Loki-has-your-mind vibes at all, Barton. Well done.

Maybe he should have gone with Hill after all.

Right, forget about the boxes. He thought to himself. Cue his ever treacherous mind turning back to the journals and mentally flicking through the pages. A bitter sigh escaped his lips.

Forget about the journals. His thoughts tried again, but his heart wasn't really in it because if he forgot about the boxes and forgot about the journals, then he might as well be forgetting about Nat.

And he would never.

Could never.

"Ow." Cramp crushed his hand. At some point he'd stopped tapping his fingers in favour of clutching at the edge of the counter. He stretched it out, massaging the sore spot and waited for the pain to subside.

She was too essential to him, as he had been to her.

And the voices that kept slipping into the room from outside were wrong. Because they should be Clint and Cooper. Laura and Lila. Natasha and Nate.

Then where did you go for those five years, dumbass?

That voice in his head was cruel and cold. It dripped venom and burned with frost and he didn't know who it belonged to. So he treated it like spam email and filtered it through to the junk folder of his mind.

He couldn't listen to it anymore.

He hadn't been there to talk Natasha through confusing emotions. But Korg had.

He hadn't been there to remind her of the good she had done and was doing. But Aaron had.

He didn't bring her home from her trip down memory lane. But Tony had.

He might not be able to forgive himself. But Natasha had.

And that was who he should listen to.

Natasha. Trapped in those boxes. He reached out to them, giving in at last, and Murphy's Law intervened when Laura chose that moment to walk in. He snatched his hands back.

"Why are you reminding me of a six-year-old Cooper getting caught sneaking cookies right about now?"

"Ummm," Clint said, if a noise counted as saying anything.

"Dryer's done," she pointed at the machine behind him and he hadn't even noticed it'd stopped, "should really get the clothes sorted."

"I was about to."

"Mmhmm."

"I was."

"I believe you."

"Then why does it sound like you don't?"

"Honey," Laura grabbed his hand and pulled him closer so she could leave a kiss on his cheek, "has anyone ever told you you're paranoid."

"Nat, all the time."

Laura's laugh filled the small room as much as the furious washing machine had earlier. He relaxed, releasing the tension he hadn't realised had been building up in his joints and muscles.

"We can go through those boxes properly, you know," Laura said because of course she knew exactly what he'd been thinking about before.

"Nah," he said, and meant it now that he'd been snapped away from the temptation. He pulled the dryer open with a lot of dramatic flair, "got my chores to do."

The boxes were for another time.

He knew that.

And he would wait.

"Better hurry up, then; Maria and Steve will be back soon."

He did as he was told and folded the clothes into bundles for each Barton, not daring to spare a moment to enjoy the laundry detergent again, just in case Hill turned up just in time to taunt him.

Clint needn't have worried.

He was making his way upstairs, armed with the bundles, when he heard his truck pull up outside. The vehicle's doors slammed shut when he almost tumbled back to the bottom in a cloud of flower-scented washing because Nate came rushing down from the landing with all the urgency of a kid who's about to miss out on ice cream.

"Just because Pietro was a speed demon doesn't mean you have to be."

"Sorry Dad." Nate tried to run off again, as if those two words were enough for almost committing accidental patricide.

"Wait." He lifted the small bunch of clothes at the top of the pile that belonged to Nate. "Go put these on your bed."

"But-"

"And make sure you do it at a pace natural to humans, not cheetahs."

Nate clambered back up the stairs, took the clothes held out for him and continued his clambering, with Clint following behind. They parted ways when Clint sidled off into Lila's room, which he was quick to leave in case she turned up and unleashed her wrath. Things were better between them, but that didn't mean they couldn't go backwards.

There was no such fear in entering Cooper's room. Clint strolled in, popped the clothes on the end of the bed and turned to leave, only to catch sight of his desk.

Cooper was the sort of kid who defied the very notion of being pigeon-holed. He liked his facts because they gave him solid ground (Clint tried not to wonder if the very real possibility of him not returning home from work had helped to create this part of his son), but he would also hideaway somewhere with his head stuck firmly in the clouds while he sketched improbable things; he was an attentive big brother who respected his sister while still looking ready to kneecap anyone who so much as looked at her wrong, and yet there were days when his most favourite thing in the whole world was terrorising her; sometimes he was tidy and sometimes he just wasn't.

And his desk was in a state of distress.

The eye of the storm? The article opened on his computer. The main image was very dark and very grainy, like a still taken from security footage. Clint stepped closer and studied the just-about-visible outlines of two figures waiting for the traffic lights to change. He grinned as the pieces clicked into place before scrolling up to make sure. The headline read: Superhero Date Night?

There were more articles idling in the printer tray, looking much more factual than what was on the screen, and open on the desk was a folder with a whole bunch more slipped into plastic sleeves. Or at least, he assumed they were meant to be because about half of them were strewn across the desk in what Cooper must have thought was an orderly fashion.

Some were about events that happened during the Blip, some were about the Avengers, and a lot were about Natasha. There were all sorts of publications printed across the pages, from magazines like Wired to regional newspapers. Some of the stories featured in Nat's journals, quite a few didn't.

Cooper was trying to get a more complete picture of the time he was away.

He was gathering his facts.

Because the rug was pulled from under his feet when she didn't return, and he just wanted to find some solid ground.

Was this a healthy way to heal?

Even if it wasn't, who was Clint to lecture his son when he'd done so much worse?

He left the room before he had a chance to nose around and see if there were any articles about Ronin caught up in the mess.

"I want mayo with mine!" Nate pulled at Laura's trouser leg until she looked down at him

"I know."

"Lila says mayo and hot dogs is dumb."

"I know"

"I said she was dumb."

"Nate!"

Cooper snorted and turned it into a cough after catching Laura's glare. Clint stood in front of them all, tongs in hand, waiting to take their order. He was supposed to be cooking, but after a near miss involving terrible dance moves, a divot in the ground hidden by a patch of deceptive grass, and a nearby full-on flaming BBQ, Fury relegated him to dishing up. He handed a plate to Nate.

"But-but there's no mayo."

"Little boys who call their sisters dumb don't get mayo with their hot dogs," Clint said, quite happy not to enable his youngest in committing this disgusting food sin. His face was so crestfallen that Clint couldn't help but add a get-out clause. "If you say sorry to her I'm sure that can change."

The youngest Barton furrowed his brow and prodded what was on his plate, then stuck his finger in his mouth because what was on his plate was fresh from the fire-spitting coals.

"Nathaniel Pietro Barton, you go and apologise to Lila right now or I'll make you do it and you won't get any mayo."

He looked up at Clint and did his best to put on the puppy-dog eyes, but one quirked eyebrow from his dad and he gave in. Reaching up to put his plate on the table he, ever his father's son, knocked it against the edge and almost lost his dinner to the same grass that had thieved what little dignity Clint had. Laura caught the plate and its contents and urged Nate to go and do as he was told.

"He's never not going to be a handful, is he?" Clint said, watching him approach Lila with his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"They will all never not be a handful, Clint," Laura said.

"Hey!"

"Oh, come on, Coop. It's a Barton trademark." Laura smiled at him, and the flimsy scowl faded away. Clint did his best to read what he could from the expression, to find some sort of sign he should worry about the articles. There was nothing.

"Only since you married into the family," Clint said, which earned him an exasperated-but-not-really sigh from Laura and a high five from Coop. In the background, Clint caught sight of daughter and youngest son and added the desperately sought after condiment to the hot dog idling on the table. Laura raised a questioning eyebrow, and he jerked his chin towards two-thirds of their brood.

Lila was giving Nate a hug.

"Well, I guess that's that disaster averted," Laura said. "Two with mustard, one with ketchup, please."

Clint's eyebrows knitted together as he tried to compute the two statements. "Disasters?"

"Hot dogs, Clint, hot dogs."

"Right," he cleared his throat, "that makes more sense."

He obliged with the orders and loaded their plates up, which they took with a thank you (in Cooper's case) and a kiss to the cheek (in Laura's case). He only had a few seconds to himself before all the essential hot dog components and a plate floated in front of him.

"Should you really be using your powers for such small things?" He asked when Wanda appeared.

She shrugged, and everything in her orbit shrugged with her. "Nat thought I should." Clint waited for her to elaborate, but she furrowed her brow and spent an inordinate amount of time assembling her food.

"She had a theory," she said when she was done, "that confidence with the big things would come from confidence of doing the small things."

He was going to ask if it worked, but it was a stupid question because of course it had. Wanda had entered that battle at the compound consumed by anger, weighed down by grief and still in complete control of the powers that surrounded her.

She walked away, nibbling at her food, looking nothing like the woman who had owned that battlefield. Left to his own devices, Clint fixed himself something to eat and undertook one of his favourite hobbies.

People watching.

The young Bartons were all together, sitting on the grass. Cooper had his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands planted in the grass behind him and his head slung back to watch the clear sky above. Lila sat beside him, balancing her plate on one knee and Nate and his plate on the other. Her chin rested on top of his head, which was resting against her shoulder. Since he was made to apologise, he couldn't quite bring himself to leave her.

Wanda had gravitated towards Laura, They shared quiet words and seemed to forget they were surrounded by other people, caught up in whatever topic had captured their attention. Laura was sitting straighter, gesturing more while Wanda slumped a little against the back of her chair, lethargic in the way she chewed. The nights were still rough on her even though she'd moved to the jet.

Hill was talking to Fury, the man diligent at the flames even with the distraction of conversation. Like Laura and Wanda, their words were hushed but Clint got the feeling if he approached them the chat would stop. No doubt planning whatever super secret adventures they had coming next. Once upon a time, he would've wanted to be a part of their next chapter. But once upon a times were a thing of the past and now he was interested in living as happily ever after as he could. He didn't approach them. He let them talk.

Steve was... well, he wasn't really sure what Steve was because he'd disappeared. Who on Earth loses Captain America? Well, apart from everyone in the forties.

At least there wasn't any freezing water around.

"What's got you so concerned, Barton?" Fury had crept up on him.

"Local World War Two veteran has gone missing."

"Ah, he's currently undertaking a rescue operation," Fury said and pointed behind Clint towards the chicken coop. Steve was climbing over the fence with a very unhappy Liho in his arms.

"Well look at you. Grill king, spy master - you're picking up all the accolades."

"I'm a man of many talents, Barton."

Having spotted them looking his way, Steve joined the two spies, while Liho did her best to look dignified in Steve's arms.

"She," Steve said, scratching her behind the ears, "has an uncanny ability to get into places she shouldn't be."

"Hmmm," Fury said, "just like a certain red-headed spy."

"In which case," Steve said, "you're gonna need some Stark-level security for the coop. Might slow her down a bit."

"I'm retired now, not sure I can afford that. And to be honest, I don't think I'd mind her getting at a couple of them." He held up his thoroughly pecked hands, still healing from the day Steve and Wanda arrived. The other two men laughed.

It was a couple more hours before everyone had their fill and the flames turned to embers, the remnants of which crackled and filled the air with a lingering smokiness mixed with the freshness of outside. Everyone sat near each other, conversation filling the spaces between them until a natural and comfortable silence settled over them and their full stomachs.

Steve raised his drink. "To good friends, both present and absent."

Everyone raised their glasses and before anyone could drink, Fury added: "To agents who've completed their last mission."

Clint and Laura looked at each other and spoke together. "To Natasha and Tony."