Only You

Chapter One

     The move from a small, rural home to the large and modern headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. was a big one. Clint was, of course, familiar with the building and it's hallways, rooms, facilities. His kids were reluctant at the start, but found themselves day-by-day beginning to accept the gargantuan building as an acceptable place to live. They were the only kids living there, of course, and found themselves lonesome at times — but there was no shortage of activity.

     In fact, the Barton family was the only family living in the headquarters. The only other person living there full time was Wanda Maximoff. Unadjusted to life in America, having been born in raised in the recently demolished Sokovia, Agent Fury had been kind enough to offer her a permanent stay in the HQ if she wanted. (Graciously, she had accepted.)

     Wanda was impressively good with children. Young herself, not past mid-twenties in age, she was lively and vivacious. She had been through Hell and her ability to not resent kids with a life relatively normal and free was not surprising to Clint, but tremendously appreciated. She was more than willing to give Clint a hand with his kids, taking time to tell them stories about Sokovia and join them on adventures through the building when Clint needed time to himself.

     In his time to himself, Clint was on rotation with four things: sleeping, archery, maintaining his hygiene, and grieving. His archery sessions were demanding, mainly due to the pressure he exerted on himself. It seemed to be the healthiest way to cope with the combined loss of Laura and Pietro, and he refused to fall out of shape. His archery was followed by excessive (though also perhaps necessary) showers. He would vigorously rub at his skin, trying to get at an unpleasant feeling of failure trapped beneath his skin. He'd shave every week or so, though some were worse than others. After his showers, he'd sleep. Between the three things, grieving fell into place.

     He'd been finishing dressing when there was a knock on the door to his room. Hastily finishing the process of buttoning up his shirt, he opened the door to find his son and daughter. It was still a process to smile but it was slowly becoming a look more genuine again. "What have the two of you done this time?" He grunts jokingly, wrapping his arms tightly around them as they rush in for a forceful hug.

     "Where's Aunt Nat?" his daughter asks, glancing up at him after he releases them.

     "What, is Wanda too boring?" Clint laughs, catching a last glimpse of her as she exits the hallway.

     "No!" Both kids shout at once, with wide smiles. His heart swells a little at the expressions they give. He hasn't seen grins so big in weeks. "She's awesome," his son gushes. "Today she showed us her powers. She sent all these super heavy things flying!" His daughter nods with enthusiasm.

     "She told us about her brother, too!"

     Clint conceals whatever expression would have come to his face — whether it would have been pride, fear, pain, he didn't know. Wanda hadn't said much about Pietro in several long months. She couldn't have been over his death, but was she beginning to heal? Clint smiles and it hurts.

     "What about him?" Clint asks, sitting on his bed and patting it with his hand to motion for his kids to join him. They fling themselves onto the mattress and babble away, talking over and interrupting one another. Clint can't hear them clearly. Their voices are disoriented and distant, like murmurs of a large but quiet crowd.

     He loves to hear them happy but he doesn't want to hear them. He doesn't hear them. Instead he hears a deep and joking voice, filled with sarcastic bites and sharp quips marked with an unmistakable and thick accent. He closes his eyes and falls deeper into it, but the more he tries to hear the voice the further it floats away.

     Clint desperately holds onto Pietro's voice, scared for reasons unknown that he'll one day forget it entirely. The thought sends a chill down his spine.

That night, Clint jolts up in bed, covered head to toe in sweat. The thin sheets cling around his legs and he struggles to sit up straight. His chest rises and falls with a rapid rhythm that ceases to calm, taking a long minute to even begin to settle.

     It'd been another nightmare of the same thirty seconds of Pietro's death. Clint struggles to ease the guilt that swamps him; the guilt that he has more nightmares of Pietro than of Laura, and the guilt that he was the cause of Pietro's death. Of course, he had been there to see Pietro die. He'd watched everything fall apart in front of him. And Pietro had acted on his own — he chose to save Clint. But no amount of reasoning wins Clint even a moment of calm. He aches for Laura to be with him, for Pietro to be laughing at him for going to bed so early. He aches for the guilt to be gone because of the way it makes him feel so damn dirty.

     He reaches for his glass of water on the nightstand beside his bed, taking several long swigs. He breathes deep through his nose and out through his mouth before settling back into bed. Clint stares at the wall for an hour before sleeping again. No dreams nor nightmares wake him again that night.