'You got to find your people
The ones that make you feel whole
That won't leave your side when you lose control
The ones that don't let you lose your soul.
You can't go it alone, everybody needs help
You gotta find your people—then you'll find yourself.'

"Find Your People" ~ Drew Holcomb & The Neighbors

~OL~

If Clint ever decided retirement wasn't for him and yet didn't want to go back to fighting aliens, he might just have a decent career as an actor.

He and Pete gave an Oscar-worthy performance of normality when the kids came home and told all about their day around the supper table.

Laura watched their fake smiles and laughter and the oddly relaxed way Pete moved around Clint, how Clint reached under the table and held his hand at one point when the boy's shaky fingers spilled mashed potatoes on himself and he looked halfway to tears. How Pete gazed up at him sometimes, half parts relief and dread in his eyes.

They convinced the kids though. Lila extracted promises out of Pete for a Mario Kart rematch and Cooper had a geek out conversation about laser physics in space with him.

Totally normal.

The kids tucked in early for a Sunday, with school the next day—their dreaded high school exam prep—and Nathaniel fell asleep after only two books with silly voices read by Clint. Pete hovered by his side the whole night, even when he was in Nate's room, and somehow still managed to feel scarce by the time all the kids were asleep and the two stood alone in the hallway.

"Do we have to?" Pete's voice wafted through the door while Laura brushed her hair before bed. Her silk house coat rustled against itself, in time with the mobile overhead.

"The kids are one thing, but I don't keep secrets from my wife. Not ever and I'm not about to start now."

"She won't get it."

"Maybe not. Doesn't mean we aren't going to try."

"It's safer if she doesn't know."

"I'm telling you, Peter, we do this together or not at all."

That got her attention.

She cracked the door, not wanting to intrude if this was a private boy talk thing. Pete spun around, then ducked behind Clint. Clint rolled his eyes.

"This is not helping your case for what we're about to tell her. Where's the big, brave hero now?"

To Laura's unending shock—Pete stuck out his tongue at Clint. Clint chuckled, ruffling his hair. Pete didn't even flinch. The unthinking nature of it rocked her back on her heels and she opened the door wider.

"Mind if we come in, Mama?" Clint asked, on principle because this was his room too. A warning for Pete that they were about to start.

"I think you'd better." Laura seated herself on the edge of the bed while Clint closed the door. Pete chose to fold his arms around his ribs in a self-hug and stand by the mirror, more nervous than she'd ever seen him. Not fearful, not a drop of wariness for being alone in a room with two adults. But nervous. "What's going on, guys? You can't fool me like the kids. I saw how wound up you were all evening."

Clint, also to her shock, sank down right next to her on the bed, like his legs wouldn't hold him up. He and Pete held each other's eyes for a long, long minute that Laura couldn't hope to read if she tried. And she did.

Clint took Laura's hand between both his own. "Honey, love of my life. This is going to sound insane."

"It is insane," Pete mumbled.

Another look from Clint.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll let you start." Pete flapped a hand.

Clint took a deep breath. "There was…a mind wipe spell cast by our resident wizard to save multiple universes—"

"He's a sorcerer, actually."

"Peter."

"Sorry."

Clint started again and Laura cottoned on that he was nervous too. He hadn't shared many things during the course of their marriage that gave him such a look of trepidation.

Stakes, she realized. Whatever he's about to tell me has a cost if I don't react well.

"You've told me a lot of crazy things over the years. I can handle it." Laura tried to comfort their grimacing faces. "I mean, remember the time you had to explain Wanda's telekinesis and how she got it from human experimentation? That was nuts. A wizard sounds par for the course."

Neither of them grimaced any less. Oh boy.

Clint spoke calmly and steadily for five straight minutes, all about multiple universes and reformed villains and how Pete had messed up a spell, which meant everyone in the world had to forget about him because his real identity got out and his aunt died.

Laura startled when Clint got choked up at this part.

None of the magic logistics clicked fully in her brain, but she tracked Pete's thread in the story most and it helped.

Clint then explained the aftermath and this was much worse. About how the world forgetting Pete led to him losing a dingy apartment because he couldn't keep a decent job without a social security number—turns out this wipe included digital records of him too—and he became homeless just before Christmas, mugged in February behind the dumpster where he'd lived in a refrigerator box. He hopped on a bus to escape the memories in New York and through a series of odd jobs and beatings in alleyways and gradual starvation…ended up on their property without even knowing where he was. Pete chimed in with small details here and there that allowed Laura the full panorama of how tragic his story was.

"What identity?" It was the first time she'd interrupted him. "Also, I'm so sorry for your loss, sweetheart."

Pete's eyes shone but he just nodded at Laura.

"He's…" Clint smiled for the first time in this conversation. "Let's just say we'll never need to own a ladder again."

"That's better than how I wanted to explain it?" Pete—Peter—demanded.

"You're a recognizable vigilante, Peter. And you fought Thanos on a planet I've never heard of. How is that not a distilled way of saying it?"

Laura snapped her fingers to reclaim their attention, her stomach flipping at the bomb drop hidden in the banter. "Which superhero are we talking about? Peter, who are you?"

He looked saddened by the question in a way that stole Laura's breath, but he side-eyed Clint. "Now can I—"

"Yes, yes. Go to town, kid. Somehow it's less weird than me saying it."

Since they'd hosted Wanda, Vision, Steve, Thor, and even Bruce for longer periods, she was used to bizarre things around her house that would make most people faint. Floating through walls and Wanda making tea without ever having to touch the kettle. That time Hulk chopped all their wood for the winter in twenty minutes.

But you know. There was just something otherworldly about watching a gangly teenage boy flatten his hand to the wall.

And climb it.

"Oh!" Laura stood up, instinct telling her to hold out her arms in case he fell. "Peter!"

Peter and Clint both muffled their chuckles at her reaction and she was too dazed to care. Peter scaled the wall with nothing but his bare hands and feet and gazed down at her from the ceiling. Upside down. Belly parallel to the ceiling. As seventeen year olds do. Or at least this one did.

He settled himself in the corner right side up, hands on his knees.

Clint's eyes were knowing on Laura. "Remind you of anyone?"

"Spiderman." She realized it the moment Peter unstuck his feet and hung one-handed from the ceiling by the mobile. His eyes were fond on the device. "You're the one who disappeared from New York. The news claimed those most recent videos of you from October are a copycat, that the…the real you died in that big Statue of Liberty battle."

Now Clint looked sad. "In a way, he did."

Peter hopped down to terra firma with nary a sound.

Laura immediately pulled him into a hug, checking to make sure he was okay. "You're seventeen—you should never have been fighting Thanos."

"Technically I fought Thanos when I was fifteen."

Laura clutched him with a gasp. "That's worse."

Pete gingerly patted Laura's back. He still smelled like their lemon shampoo and he still had the fluffiest curls she hoped he never tamed with product. Still Pete, still a kid. A kid who stole a gauntlet from Thanos.

Laura had to sit back down.

"Lo?" Clint knelt in front of her. "How are we doing so far?"

"So far?" Laura pushed back her bangs. "There's more?"

Peter stepped forward. "Th-that memory wipe thing we talked about…"

Clint and Peter both studied her with abrupt intensity now, like she was the key to a door only they could see.

Clint rubbed the back of her hand. "Do you remember Tony's memorial? We met a lady named May Parker. She was dating Happy at the time."

"Yes, of course." Laura blinked. "She was lovely. She told me about her late husband and her work with the homeless."

A spasm of something aching rippled over Peter. Clint smiled grimly at him and turned back to Laura. "Remember how Peter struggled with you at first because you remind him of someone who died?"

Laura glanced between them. A cry lodged in her throat and she held out her other hand for Peter to take, his fingers sweaty. He still wouldn't sit down.

"That was May, Peter? She was your aunt?"

Peter nodded.

"Honey, oh…oh that's awful." Grateful for his shorter height so she could reach, Laura cupped his cheek. "I wish you'd gotten to be at Tony's memorial too. I heard you guys helped each other on missions sometimes."

Clint and Peter both held their breaths.

"Laura." Clint's grip on her hand tightened. "Peter was at Tony's memorial. All five of us met him there for the first time, at least officially, in my case. Masks off, as it were."

A ringing began in Laura's ears. "That's not possible. I'd remember a sweet boy like you. So would my kids."

Peter looked away.

The yarn ball mess of it untangled in Laura's head by frayed strands, a few at a time. Villains and wizards and…

"Are you saying that I…" Faced with the bald truth, Laura fought to find words. "I was included in that memory wipe too? That I was made to…forget you?"

Peter went to his room and came back with a photo frame.

"Is this it?" Laura asked Clint. "The picture?"

Clint nodded, eyes brighter than normal. "The wipe didn't include anything hard copy. Lucky break, since it sure as hell triggered the memories for me."

Peter toyed with the frame for a moment, running his thumb over the corner in a way that looked habitual, a muscle memory tic that signaled the return of that intense longing. Peter's brows spread apart, eyes wistful on the photo. Then he handed it to Laura. She turned it over to view the secret that kept all the Avengers in suspense before the heist.

It was a picture of Tony and Peter. Chummy as can be. Laura cradled the precious memory in her hands, a happier Peter with, truth be told, a happier Tony.

"I-I have another one, actually." Peter turned suddenly shy, something familiar from these last two months that helped Laura breathe easier.

This caught Clint off guard too. Finally. A factoid he didn't know either. "You do? More photos?"

Peter nodded. He scampered back with his entire backpack and dumped some of it on the floor. Out came a red and blue suit. Retrofitted with multimillion dollar tech. Something else that was completely, totally ordinary for seventeen year old boys to have. Uh-huh.

If Laura repeated it enough times, maybe it would help the dizzy shake in her vision.

Next were some tools and trinkets that neither of the Bartons recognized…

Then a cheap photo album of five-by-seven prints. A dollar store album covered in stickers.

"I'm so glad I make a habit of printing them. I wanted to be a photographer when I was little." Peter sheltered the book against his chest like a newborn baby. "Th-this is my most prized possession."

Solemn, Clint extended his hand. "We'll treat it like our own, Pete."

Peter finally sat down on the other side of Laura and passed it over. Laura held one side while Clint flipped open the cover.

It seemed to be a yearbook of Peter's life, abbreviated. All candid pictures. The first photo was baby Peter in the kitchen sink, covered in soap bubbles. Peter asleep under the Christmas tree, a close up of his missing tooth, Peter in a man's lap while he opened a birthday present.

As Peter grew older, the photography got better and the subject matter more familiar: the Avengers compound, very, very high up shots of Manhattan, Happy asleep on a plane. Tony Stark surrounded by machine parts in a garage, screwdriver between his teeth.

Laura's brows drew back. "You really knew him. All of them."

Peter fidgeted, then flipped past some high school photos to the very last page, the most recent photos he'd taken. Some were of a curly haired girl with a broken necklace. And there, in the top left corner…

Laura cried out. "That's Cooper! I remember when Scott Lang got all sentimental and took this photo of everyone outside."

It wasn't particularly profound, not posed. After Tony's memorial, they'd had a big potluck cookout, since some families faced a long drive back and Sam Wilson wouldn't stand for anyone going hungry. This photo was taken after the meal, everyone in a food coma and emotionally exhausted.

Avengers and their families had scattered around the property on lawn chairs, Rhodey and Steve behind the grill. Harley Keener was asleep beside Hank Pym with a cowboy hat over his eyes. Morgan's sticky fingers were mid-filch of another chocolate brownie off Bucky's plate.

Laura remembered that day because Cooper skipped a rock six times across the water, his personal best.

"It's you." Laura ran her thumb over the boy beside her son in the photo, all gelled curls and familiar oak brown eyes. They both had rocks in their hands, both smiling. "Cooper's talking to you."

"We were figuring out a formula for the weight to water surface tension ratio." Peter wiped his nose. "Cooper showed me how he flicked his wrist to make the rock skip."

"You started crying when someone offered you a donut."

Clint and Peter stilled on either side of her.

Peter grasped her wrist. "I never told you that. It's not in any of the pictures."

"I know, I…" Laura and Peter stared at each other. "I just had an image, of you going behind Morgan's tent and crying after that. Nathaniel came and found you, then Steve. How do I know that?"

"Because you were there." Peter collapsed back on the bed in a fount of teenage limbs. "Two people know I exist! This is the best day I've had in months."

"Take that, wizard," said Clint. "Maybe the spell wasn't one hundred percent effective after all. Maybe it just covered the memories instead of fully erasing them."

"I still don't remember you," Laura confessed. "Not really, not like Clint does. But I know that I should know you."

Clint hummed. "Like recognizing someone's face at the grocery store from old school days when you can't remember their name."

"That's exactly it!"

Peter fell abruptly quiet. He stood up and with poignant reverence tucked everything back into his bag. The album went in last, double wrapped in a hoodie.

"Part of the reason I didn't tell you, well…now that you know I'm enhanced…" Peter met Laura's eyes through his lashes. "Am I still allowed to stay? I-I'll be good, I promise. I won't hurt Nate or-or Lila or Cooper and I can use my powers to help around the house if…"

He trailed off when Laura stretched out her arms and got to her feet. She hadn't felt this much upwell of love and devotion since a nurse placed Nathaniel in her arms.

She tucked Peter close against her chest. He was only an inch taller, so his chin landed on her shoulder. "Peter, dear. You wouldn't hurt a house fly if you tried. I don't know what happened to your lost family members, but I would bet every penny I own that it wasn't your doing."

Peter hid his face in her shoulder. He fit flawlessly there, like the spot was always meant for him. Clint had been right—Peter was their fourth child. The last week or so proved that too, how well he fit in with their kids.

Clint joined the hug, arms around them both.

"You're here for good," Laura whispered into Peter's curls. "Just try and get rid of us now, Peter Benjamin Parker."

Peter jolted in her arms. "You remember my middle name! That's how May introduced me to everyone at the memorial."

Clint beamed and clapped the boy's back. "There's hope yet!"

Laura couldn't get enough of the new life in her husband's eyes. For two years he'd been the perfect husband and father, at leisure in his mostly-retired state…but he hadn't been living. A caricature of himself right up until that fateful day two months ago.

Laura kissed both their cheeks. "It seems to be going around."

~OL~

Clint was thinking about dogs. A billboard sign of how deep he was in and how little he wanted to find the surface ever again.

Mid sized dogs, to be precise. Chocolate labs and retrievers or maybe a duck toller. Those were great in family environments, with kids. He lazily checked the locks, mind drifting and unhurried. A dog would really help with the adjustment period after Cooper went to college, if he decided on that route. Plus the dog could protect their chickens and herd any wayward hens back to the coop.

Clint reached for the knob of his bedroom, kids already asleep, lights off, mellow smile on his face after another mellow day—

THER-THUMP.

Some people jumped out of their skin at loud noises or yelped. Clint did neither of these things anymore, though he had in a past life. Now he switched directions on a dime, jaw set. A quick flick under the hamper produced a TAC knife that he wielded fist-over-wrist after peeling off the tape.

He headed for the stairs, the direction of the noise.

Whoever has the gall to break in here is in for a fun surprise. Just wait 'til I—

Peter's door across the hall flew open and out he stumbled, red hoodie, Star Wars pajamas, and all. He brandished his toothbrush like a sword. "What was that? It sounded like spitting."

Spitting? Oh. Super hearing. Right. Clint was going to have to get used to that. To his credit, he'd only had two days to do so.

He pointed. "Peter, go back in your room."

Peter stared at him. "What?"

"I'm going downstairs to check this out." Clint kept his voice level for the boy's sake. No use scaring him with details about how Clint was going disembowel this home invader. Slowly. "I'll come get you when it's safe."

"Safe?" Peter repeated dumbly. He padded out, closer to Clint, the exact opposite direction from where he should be going.

"Go inside your room and lock the door, okay?" Clint rubbed Peter's shoulder to calm the wide eyes and push the kid away from himself in one smooth—hopefully subtle—motion. "Everything's fine."

Something about the situation clicked. Peter's grip around the toothbrush blanched. "I'm coming with you."

Clint blanched too. "Absolutely not."

No way was this baby-faced child getting within ten feet of an armed intruder so long as Clint drew breath in his body. Just the thought of Peter in the line of fire, more blood on his body like the day they fought Thanos, raised Clint's blood pressure. He lost his steady breathing pattern for a moment.

"Why?" Peter's high brows looked genuinely baffled. He wasn't arguing for argument's sake. "You know who I am now, what I can do. I've fought hundreds of people. Let me help."

Clint cast a trained, sharp look over his shoulder, saw nothing, then turned his full attention onto Peter, aside from an ear on the scuffles outside. They grew in volume.

"Peter." Clint spoke low, measured, both to let Peter process the words and to keep everyone else asleep. "The fact I know who you are is the very reason I'm not letting you face this with me."

"That doesn't even make sense—"

"Peter."

"I'm enhanced," Peter hissed. "I can hold my own."

Clint cupped Peter's face with his free hand, the one not holding the knife in a ready stance. "I am the adult here, not you. Which means I'm the one who takes the hits to protect you."

"I can take hits too." The petulant tone didn't help Peter's case.

"But you are not meant to. Ever." Clint's jaw ticked. "Because you are seventeen years old. The fact you have in the past is an unfortunate fluke of circumstance."

"I've fought people a lot worse when I was a lot younger."

Foolish, precious boy.

"Peter—I'm not doubting your abilities or patronizing you. If something does happen to me, which it won't because I know what I'm doing, better me than you. Your life has barely started and I've no mind to throw it away."

"Then I'll stay up here and protect the others."

Clint shook his head. "If something happens to me—you wake Laura and she'll deal with this. You'll run to the bunker along with all my other kids and call for help."

Peter was one lip curl away from baring his teeth. Some part of Clint not desperate to keep this kid away from danger was a bit impressed.

"She's not enhanced either!"

"No, but she's the guardian of this house right along with me, and that means she's part of the first line of defense. Not you. You get that, Pete?"

Clearly not. Clint half wondered if the kid would tackle him to the ground and be done with it, go deal with the threat himself.

"I…" Peter squirmed, the teenager inside the weary warrior. "I don't understand why you won't let me help."

The injured tone nicked Clint, made him fight a wince. He held his ground. "Because you don't have to save everyone by yourself, no matter what life's taught you about that. Because you deserve to enjoy being your age. Because I'd happily die in your place if it keeps you alive for many years to come."

Wrong words altogether. The truth slammed into Clint at two hundred miles an hour when Peter's eyes hardened, darker and more mature than Clint had seen them since Peter scuttled away from him in the woods that first morning. A frothing inner storm.

"Clint. I'm coming with you. You can stand in front of me or whatever, but I've lost enough people to know how stuff like this ends."

Right. Something else Clint had to keep in mind. Not that he'd forgotten or could forget, but how this much death affected Peter on an everyday level would take some getting used to.

Compromises, Barton. The world runs on compromises.

If Nat were here in person and not a disembodied voice in Clint's head that he was half positive he made up, he'd swear at her. Loudly.

But there was no Nat, just Peter and his toothbrush and a heap load of stubbornness. The word floating around Clint's heart felt the same though, the one that always whispered to him whenever Nat had stayed with them, in this very guest room.

Family.

"Fine," Clint bit out. He recognized a battle he couldn't win. "But if you put so much as one pinky toe beyond the line of my arms, I'm never making you waffles again."

He didn't mention the part where he'd chain Peter to his bed with vibranium links if he had to. By Peter's eye roll, he got the message anyway.

THER-THUMP. THER-TH-THUMP.

They refocused on the racket. Together, the pair crept down the stairs and towards the front door in a procession that should have been laughable if Peter's face wasn't so serious and Clint's knife oh so very real and sharp enough to slice tendons. He held out his arms slightly, a barrier for Peter and a shield in case this got ugly. The boy tip toed along behind Clint with soundless feet that were honestly startling. Wheezy little nose breaths reassured him, however; the kid was still there, skinny and in one piece.

The breaths hitched.

"Pete?" Clint risked a peek behind him.

Peter's brow scrunched. "Now it sounds like…nails? Scratching."

"Scratching?" Clint adjusted his aid's volume. "I don't hear that. I'll open the door and you stay here while I—"

"Not a chance."

"Peter, please."

"If you're confronting this person, so am I. Think of me as your back up."

Clint grit his teeth. "You're not back up, you are my…"

He caught himself at the last moment and blinked. "You're just a kid, Pete. You're supposed to trust me with these things."

"I do trust you," said Peter, surprised.

"Then stay behind me while I stab this person."

"Deal."

To be fair, Peter had followed that instruction to the letter so far. Clint trusted him in return to follow it just a bit longer while he counted down from three on his fingers, unlocked the front door, and flung it open.

Something ran past their feet.

"Gah!" Peter jumped out of the way with a sudden lack of superhero grace. "Is that—"

"Randy!"

Clint threw his knife, missed, and swore after all. Nat was up there laughing at him, sure as the sun rose in the morning.

"Clint, he's stuck in the throw blanket!"

So he was. The raccoon had gnawed a hole in Elsa's face and it tugged along after his frantic and futile rollie pollies to get to the porch steps, blanket caught on a hinge in the swing. Clint snatched up the furry body and cut it free of the fleece. Randy clawed at his tattooed arm the whole time, ungrateful bastard, and Clint deposited him over the deck railing without ceremony.

Thoonk! Randy's body hit the grass in a satisfying sound and took off running.

"You're welcome," Clint called, dry. "And don't ever come back. Man, now I really have to follow through on my promise to Laura and set some of those newer traps…" He did a double take at Peter, whose face contorted in slow motion. "Peter? Hey, it's okay. It's all over. No intruder. Just a persistent raccoon who's become my nemesis."

But Peter's breath started to hitch again and his lips stretched up until his eyes crinkled.

Clint gaped at him. "Are you laughing right now?"

"Maybe."

Residual adrenaline prompted Peter to croak out awful snorting sounds. "Bested by a raccoon."

"Hey, I won that round fair and square. He's a menace."

This made the laughter worse and Peter sounded like a like an old man trying to hack up a hairball, cackling in gummy bursts that had Clint grinning too. With Peter around, he'd never be bored again.

Clint plopped down on the porch steps, Peter sitting beside him a moment later. A last giggle escaped when he saw the blanket on the railing, torn half to shreds.

Clint made a note to use the rag blanket as insulation and bedding for the chicken coop. "I'll buy a new one. The kids outgrew all the old blankets years ago anyway."

"Poor Elsa," said Peter and made himself laugh again.

"Earth's mightiest heroes, huh?" Clint mussed the kid's bedhead. "I think we just lost that title when you popcorned away from our fearsome beast."

Peter swatted Clint's hand. "I had it under control."

"Uh-huh. City boy."

"Lumberjack," Peter fired back.

Clint's grin hurt his cheeks now. Together they stared out into the night, peaceful once more with the lack of wind—or nosy raccoons. Fireflies winked in the grass, yellow and ginger spurts. Peter leaned forward to check on the daisy two steps below them, like Nate always did when he went out to feed chickens in the morning. It grew tall and white from the dark hole.

Note to self: search the barn for spare wood and bait traps.

Slender fingers trailed over the daisy petals with infinite tenderness and Clint's eyes softened. "Thank you for trusting me to take the lead tonight, even when we thought it was a hostile party. You're a brave kid. I hope you don't mind me saying, but May would be proud of you and how you turned out."

Peter shrugged, avoiding Clint's eyes. "I don't know about that."

Clint sobered at light speed. "What do you mean? Peter, you're the sweetest kid I've ever met."

Peter kept his eyes fixed on the daisy, socked toes coiling. A curl hung in the air above his nose. "Not sure I'm brave anymore."

Clint matched his tone, elbows on his knees. "Why not?"

"Did you know I tried to be Spiderman for a month or two after everyone forgot who I was? Before I lost my apartment at Christmas?"

No, Clint didn't. He'd figured the masked vigilante wasn't dead like all the reports claimed, mainly thanks to Jaimeson's dogged reporting. But there hadn't been many YouTube videos posted like the old days, as if Spiderman had dropped off the map. He'd assumed like Laura that the vigilante videos were a copycat.

He shook his head.

Peter smiled, but it didn't quite make it all the way up to those laugh lines from before. "Now I can't even bring myself to put on the suit. I don't want to do it anymore."

Fireflies hushed in the grass. Just crickets now. Crickets and Clint's heart breaking in his chest.

"That's okay, Pete," he whispered.

Peter turned to him. "Is it? My aunt's last coherent words were about how I have a responsibility to help people, now that I have these powers. And instead of doing that, I gave up. Chose to die."

Clint remained silent.

Peter hugged his knees. "I don't see how that's making her proud."

A cluster of fireflies swirled up in a mini tornado before disappearing. How and why they chose to light up at certain times remained a mystery, though they often did so together. Comets in the cosmos of Clint's front lawn. Drawn to heat and togetherness, drawn in by the promise of other lightning bugs.

"Nathaniel was born two weeks early."

Peter stilled.

"Not really a premature baby, by definition." Clint bit the inside of his cheek and let it out. "But early enough to worry doctors. I was away on a mission with Steve, infiltrating a known Hydra base for other human experiment victims. I missed Nate's birth by three days."

Peter held his breath. It felt a bit like telling him stories in the woods again.

"He was fine, just a bit underweight and he'll never be as tall as his siblings. When he didn't talk or vocalize as a baby…" Clint played with his wedding ring, spun it on a loop. "I thought maybe it was my fault, since Laura induced early because of a stressful day…and I wasn't there."

Clint huffed through his nose. "But you know the crazy part? The minute I walked into the hospital's NICU and reached through rubber coated holes in the Plexiglas to meet my son—he smiled."

Peter's hunched shoulders lowered.

"Really smiled." Clint beamed just remembering it. "Here I am covered in sweat and smoke—I came straight from the airfield—and my baby smiles for the very first time just at my touch and the smitten faces I make at him through two inches of sterile glass that he probably can't see anyway. He hadn't even done that for Laura. His vitals strengthened after I showed up and he ate better. I put my bow down for a long time once he came home from the hospital, because my hands were needed more elsewhere."

Clint closed his eyes to inhale the springtime scent of meadow grass, pine sap, and earth. The reminder that things still sprouted in the soil after bloodshed. When he opened them, Peter's eyes were on him. Imploring. Full of trust.

"Did your aunt say that being Spiderman came with great responsibility?"

Peter blinked. "Yes, she said…my powers…"

Clint waited while the boy's brain worked it out. He leaned closer, offering Peter a shoulder when he listed. His eyes went big.

"She didn't say Spiderman specifically, but…"

Clint smiled, small and full of affection. "She said your power was a weighty thing, not to be used lightly. Right?"

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"You know it's not." Clint watched him puzzle over it for a minute. "Even if you weren't enhanced, Peter, you have a lot of power. Compassion, intelligence, life experience. That's what she meant."

Peter hunched again, but he couldn't hide the wonderstruck gaze.

"Even if you never go out as Spiderman another day in your life, you have ways of helping people and using whatever's in your hands for good. I heard you tell Cooper this. You shouldn't exempt yourself from that truth."

Thin cheeks blushed crimson.

"You don't think May…she wouldn't be disappointed?"

Clint ducked in close. "No, Peter. She'd be so proud of you, so bloody proud. If I am, I can't imagine the depths of how she'd feel, just looking at you."

Peter reddened some more, but a slice of the smile returned too. Clint savoured the sight of him basking in this apparently highest praise, pleased to be sitting out on his porch with Tony and May's kid at nearly midnight, both mostly hale and with their guards down. Just two people who'd hung up their suits, two kindred spirits. Even with forty-eight hours since the revelation, the novelty of Peter's real identity still hadn't quite worn off, just mellowed out into a warm bonfire in Clint's chest.

After a minute, Peter's toes uncurled.

"Hey, Peter." Clint double checked how he wanted to word this, with abundant care. "If your friends hadn't forgotten who you are but the world didn't know, your secret identity in tact…if things were 'normal' and May still died…" Clint paused at Peter's flinch. "Who would have taken you in? Did May name someone as your guardian in her will?"

Peter startled and looked up at him, stunned. As if anything other than painstaking independence hadn't crossed his mind. "Oh. I'm not sure, actually. Probably Happy Hogan. We talked about that once, and he promised Tony he'd look out for me if anything happened."

They both lapsed into quiet. Quiet enough for even Clint to hear a rustling in the grass, more deer. They stood by the fence and ate wild clover.

"Not that it matters now," said Peter.

Clint's turn to startle. "Of course it does, Pete. What you want will always matter."

"I'd have filed for emancipation rather than stick Happy with me."

"He wouldn't have been stuck with you—"

"Adults in my life always leave." Peter too rested his elbows on his knees, hands in his hair so the springy sections looped around themselves. "Nobody ever stays and I…I should just get used to that."

I'm not going anywhere, Clint wanted to yell from the rooftops. He dry swallowed.

"Do you still want that? Emancipation?"

Peter listed even further to the side, into Clint. His voice was barely there. "No."

What do you want, Peter? Just you. Not other peoples' opinions of what you should want. After two months, Clint finally felt ready to ask the pivotal question. Courage and nerve sufficiently psyched up, Clint opened his mouth…

Then a curly head landed on his shoulder. A softer thoomp version of Randy's splat onto the grass.

Peter leaned his full body weight against Clint and his mouth snapped shut, flipping up, as Peter nuzzled his shoulder. Right over the more violent tattoos. Child on blood painted skin. The beginnings of restored innocence on a healed past.

Clint rested his left cheek on Peter's head, so the world fell into silence, hearing aid muffled by his hair.

That was okay. Clint had lots of practice speaking nonverbal languages with Peter.