Warning: This chapter contains a brief mention of past child abuse and parental loss. Comic canon.

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The Bartons

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Saturday, 31 October 2015. Morning.

Hawkingbird Floor.

Bobbi stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the Psyche costume she had finally settled on. Pepper had sent her two options, but the young mother couldn't bring herself to embody Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty — at least, not anymore.

Growing up beautiful, intelligent, and athletic, Barbara Morse had always been placed on a pedestal — deified. Everyone assumed success came naturally, that she sailed through life without ever struggling. However, every triumph carried a crushing weight of growing expectation, pressing, suffocating her. She had to constantly meet the high standards others set for her — and the even higher ones she had set for herself. Anything less than perfection felt like a failure. To the world, she was flawless. To herself, she was one misstep away from letting everyone down.

Grazing the swell of her stomach, she frowned. What's wrong with me? I should be happy… I am happy… Conflict churned silently within her, her joy as a mother colored by a lingering discomfort. The changes in her body had reshaped her self-image, leaving her feeling… lesser.

Yet, the mirror told another story. The deep V-neckline framed her fuller bust, while the purple sash cinched her waist, highlighting the sea-green fabric that clung to her hips — her alluring curves now even more pronounced. The thigh-length peplos left her toned legs exposed, and the delicate laces of her sandals wrapped sensually around her calves. Her tall, statuesque figure remained intact, with a clip-in bun and long blonde curls cascading down one side, held in place by a matching headband. Motherhood hadn't stolen her beauty — it had enhanced it, though she wasn't ready to see it yet.

Leaving their bedroom, Bobbi found Clint in the nursery, trying to soothe a teething and squirming baby. For a moment, he just stared, taking her in. Despite the colorful costume, or maybe because of it, she looked breathtaking. But Francis cried out, reaching for his mother the moment she came into view. Frustrated and feeling useless, the father quietly left the room, giving her space to calm their son. To the young woman, though, her husband's silence felt like cold indifference.

Sitting down to breastfeed, she held her baby close as he finally began to settle. As the room grew quiet, her thoughts grew louder, until the tears slipped out before she could stop them. "Your daddy doesn't want me anymore," she whispered, her voice cracking.

Unbeknownst to her, Clint stood frozen at the doorway, clutching a pitcher of fresh juice. Her words hit him like a blow to the chest, making his grip tighten on the glass handle. What the hell am I doing? His heart clenched with guilt, knowing he had failed her if she believed that. Taking a steadying breath, he turned away, trying to calm his mind and find a way to make this right.

A few minutes later, as Bobbi gently laid a now-sleeping Francis in his crib, Clint reappeared in the doorway. Dressed in the Cupid costume, he held up a heart-shaped arrow, giving her a lopsided grin. "Birdie… these things don't exist," he murmured, his humor softening with sincerity. "But if they did… I'd have been hit the day I met you. And every day since."

Her eyes widened, taking in both his goofy appearance and the weight of his words. As they locked eyes, his gaze startled her, filled with so much love and unmistakable desire. Before she could respond, he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply. The moment their bodies pressed together, she felt the warmth of his embrace and the certainty of his passion reassuring her she wasn't just a mother — she was his woman.

"I want you… every hour, every single day…" he whispered between kisses, his voice filled with reverence and a barely-contained hunger. When he finally pulled back, he took her hands, pressing soft kisses to her knuckles. "Forgive me if I ever made you feel otherwise. You're the love of my life, my wife, and the mother of our son." His hand brushed tenderly over her stomach. "Anything that reminds me of that… makes me want you even more."

Even though Clint had grown up as an orphan in the countryside with little formal education, his unmatched skill as a marksman came from his extraordinary powers of observation — he could see what no one else could. From the beginning, he had seen through Bobbi's carefully maintained exterior, recognizing the struggle she faced to uphold an image of perfection. And he won her heart by showing her she didn't need that with him. She remembered the first time he confessed his love, after they had fought their way through a gang of bandits, when she was at her worst — dirty, bleeding, exhausted. He told her she was beautiful. She told him she wanted to marry him. And they eloped the next day.

Once again, he saw her. Her breath caught as his words sank in, but he wasn't done. Stepping closer, he cupped her face, eyes brimming with tenderness. "But please Birdie, hear me out. You're Francis' mommy. I can't — I won't take you away from him. He needs you." His voice wavered, his hands unsteady. "I-I was seven, Bobbi. I needed my mom too… and then she was taken from me."

Her chest tightened. "Oh, Clint…" She reached up gently, her fingers grazing his cheek, grounding him with her touch. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry…"

He shook his head, silencing her with a tender kiss. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You. Are. Perfect." Her lips trembled, but he held her gaze, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "For me, for Francis — you're everything. Don't you dare think otherwise."

Their foreheads pressed together, her soft laugh mingling with the tension between them. His breath warmed her skin, and she felt the weight of his words settle in — heavy, yet somehow freeing. She realized there was so much she still didn't know about the man she had married, so much more they had yet to share. And now, as the depth of Clint's scars unfolded before her, her own post-pregnancy insecurities seemed to fade in comparison.

"You've never told me about your childhood before…" Bobbi whispered, wrapping her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.

His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, his voice roughened by memories he usually kept buried. "There's not much to tell. Harold… he was a coward… an abusive drunk. One night he got behind the wheel with my mom… and that was the end of it. They didn't make it. Her name was Edith." His voice broke, the pain cracking through. "They put me and my brother Barney in an orphanage. He was nine."

She hugged him tighter, instinctively pulling him closer as if she could absorb some of his pain.

"Barney took the brunt of it… my mom too. She tried so hard to protect us." His gaze grew distant. "Grandpa said Harold wasn't a true Barton, but by then he was already in a nursing home. He couldn't do anything against his own son."

She had always known Clint chose to name their son after his beloved grandfather, Francis Barton — the only family member he had ever mentioned before. Now, she understood why he had never spoken about his father.

His fists clenched, raw anger flashing across his face. "I… I hated him, Bobbi. Hated him so much." The confession left him visibly shaking, but he loosened his grip, breathing deeply as he rubbed his hands along her back, grounding himself in her warmth. "I promise you, I'll never be like—"

"Clint, you're nothing like him," she interrupted, reaching up to gently cup his face. "I couldn't have chosen a better father for Francis."

It was all so clear to her now. As their son had grown older and demanded more of her attention, Clint had kept his distance, afraid that his presence would take away what their baby needed most — his mother. His silence had never been indifference — it was the scar of a young boy who had lost too much, too soon.

Her fingers slid up to tangle in his sandy hair, bringing him to her in a kiss. As they held each other, the weight between them faded, replaced by a steady warmth that promised they would face whatever came next together.

"I just… I want him to like me, y'know?" he murmured, a small, almost boyish vulnerability in his tone.

Brushing her thumb along his jawline, she spoke softly, "He loves you. He's just little right now, and I'm the source of food, right?"

A small smile cracked through his tension as he replied, "Hard to compete with that."

"But trust me," she continued, her voice warm and certain, "as he grows, you'll see it. He already has that sparkle in his eyes when he looks at you, when you play together. I saw the same thing with my little brother and my dad."

A lopsided grin broke through his tension, easing the weight on his shoulders. "You're amazing. Did I tell you that today?"

Blushing a little, she smiled up at him, her heart warm at his words.

"I have no clue what I'm doing half the time, but you? You make it look so easy," he said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "Francis is blessed to have you. And I'm lucky you're crazy enough to be with me."

She let out a small laugh, her hands slipping down to rest on his chest. "I love you," she whispered, her voice soft but full of emotion.

Clint glanced down at himself, gesturing to his costume with an amused grin. "Look at me! I swore I'd never wear this ridiculous thing. But for you? I'd wear it every day. I'd do anything to show you how much I love you, okay? Every damn day." A mischievous twinkle sparked in his eyes. "And you know what? I don't even care anymore. Let them laugh. My wife is the hottest of all — and I'm not just talking about the costume, though that helps."

She groaned, covering her face. "Don't I look ridiculous in a miniskirt?"

"With legs like yours? Birdie, you make anything look good," he teased, the playful tone underscored with sincerity. "But let's not forget — I'm in a miniskirt too."

Bobbi's gaze swept over him, lingering on the way the short purple toga draped over his toned chest and broad shoulders. His legs, strong and defined, were laced in gladiator sandals that climbed up to his knees. She felt a pull between them, a quiet flame rekindling as she took him in.

"You look… hot," she admitted, biting her lower lip.

The spark in his eyes brightened. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Clint stepped closer, heat sparking in his gaze, his fingers trailing lightly along her waist before he captured her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. The world around them faded, the warmth of his body against hers igniting something deep within. His kiss was tender, yet filled with all the unspoken promises she hadn't realized she needed. When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, she smiled softly, feeling the familiar warmth of their connection.

A moment later, the soft sound of Francis stirring in his crib brought them gently back to reality, reminding them of the life they had built together. A tender smile spread across his face. His son — their son — the proof that he had, somehow, become everything he had once feared he could never be.

She promised, "The party's waiting. But later, it'll just be us, alright, sport?"

Clint chuckled softly, his playful glint returning. "Just us, huh?" He leaned in, his lips grazing her ear as he whispered, "I'll hold you to that, Mrs. Barton."

Bobbi laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek, her heart full and content.

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Author's note: Given Clint's abusive father, I created a loving grandfather to instill pride in his family name.

REFERENCES:

MARVEL COMICS:

Hawkeye & Mockingbird Vol 1 (2010) — Bobbi's relatives.

Hawkeye: Blind Spot Vol 1 (2011) — Clint's past.