ᴀ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ - ᴘᴇʀᴄʏ ᴊᴀᴄᴋꜱᴏɴ x ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱᴏᴠᴇʀ

[I] O N E

That Friday morning, the wind appeared to have taken a keen interest in Clint. In the cool morning air, its long and curious hands were almost perceivable; it ran its long slender fingers through his blond hair (making his effort in combing it pointless) and dragged its long nails over his skin. 

It was foolish to wear short sleeves in the September chill, as it had Clint freezing within minutes. But this cold - this pathetic post Summer breeze - was hardly on par with the harsh blizzards he had endured.

From the balcony attached to his bedroom, Clint had witnessed the concluding droplets of sunrise flee the brightening sky; it was a glorious spectrum of colours painted on sky blue. Clint had watched as the sun rose from the eastern horizon, splashing the sky with streaks of colour in the process. He had felt the sun's gentle and tender kisses brush against his skin. The sunrise had always been something he looked forward to, and thanks to his habit of waking up early, he had always been awake to see it.

Something was soothing about the way the sun continuously broadcasted a warmth upon both the Earth - it would shine without fault, even when grey clouded the sky. Even when the planet below was enslaved by chaos and ruin.

To watch the clouds shift and bob upon the blue sky took both a slow pace and relentless eyes - and Clint Barton was happy to say he had both.

That particular Friday morning, everything was as it should be. At least, as for as Clint could tell. For once, he was afraid of looking for problems - looking for differences meant he would find differences. He was addicted to peace; to find problems would mean he would have to deal with them.

The events of The Snap forever remained fresh in his mind and haunted him in every movement - to endure something like that again would be disastrous. Clint didn't know if he could live through something so horrific again. So, to prevent finding another issue like that, Clint stopped seeking out trouble.

And, with his elbows propped up on the balcony rail, the Avengers Compound and surrounding SHIELD bases set before him, Clint only wanted to savour his laziness. He spent as much of his time as he could around his family. Although, occasionally, Clint spent his days at the Avengers compound - training with the other heroes. They had become some form of extended family. A cluster of relationships that he valued more than just the measly term, "friend".

Right on cue, there were three knocks at his door. The dominant sound of wind had almost engulfed the tiny pounding, but his sharp ears caught it. Clint sighed - there was bound to be trouble when living in the same building as the enhanced, wealthy, and downright dangerous. The Avengers made sure that there was always something to disturb him.

Stepping back into the warmth, Clint closed the balcony door behind him and beheld his room. The rooms SHIELD had given them were hardly as personalised as Clint would have hoped. After spending endless nights staring at the grey ceiling and looking at his ordinary wooden flooring, there were times when he wished it was more homely. Picture frames and photos lined his walls, but apart from those, his room was mediocre.

The knocking had sounded from behind his bedroom door, but noticing how messy his room appeared, he was reluctant to answer it. He was a grown man. A man who understood the importance of an organised workspace - but his designated bedroom looked like a bombsite. 

Clothes were flailing all over the floor, discarded weapons lingered in corners, and occasionally, Clint would stub his toe against a rogue arrowhead. His room had been this way for as long as he could remember.

Groaning, he stalked to his bedroom door. There wasn't enough time to make the room look presentable - who cared, anyway? It wasn't as if every Avenger didn't already know how questionable his bedroom looked.