➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

[arches]

<sub>( In battle, he can forget. Eyes on a target, a mission to fulfill, and no room for error, there is no time to think about who he is or what’s been done to him. In battle, there is purpose, and the adrenaline of living each moment between life and death, and the thrilling feeling of victory.

And then, it is over, and he is left with the things he has done.

Eating shawarma does not give him purpose. It does not help him forget. It’s delicious, to be sure, but Natasha’s presence beside him is really the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing stopping him from bolting. He doesn’t belong at this table—the men around him are heroes, and Natasha as much as any of them. And he? He spent his week sniping innocent security guards and his own associates.

He puts his leg up on her chair, and she touches his knee, briefly. If one woman was capable of absolving him of everything, it would be her. But even she can’t do that for him, so he munches into his sandwich and smacks his lips and tells Banner that green is really his color. And Stark is going on about how he deserves a statue, and Thor is clapping him on the back, and the captain? The captain Clint can’t get a read on. He’s an American hero, a living legend. And Clint Barton is nothing but a man with blood on his hands.

They wrap up their food and get up, and Natasha is touching his shoulder and whispering something about keeping a promise (he finds out later that she’s conferring with Banner, finding him a way to vanish and a place to vanish to), and Thor and Stark are still wrapped up in their conversation, so despite Clint’s best efforts, he finds himself face-to-face with Steve Rogers, genuine American hero. )</sub>

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[arches]

Are you kidding? This is the guy who put his name on a ten-foot tall marquee outside a tower. Just wait, he's gonna be gunning for "Stark and the Avengers" before long.

_{( It was strange, including himself in that group. But not unpleasant. )}

[usavatar]

[That startles a real laugh out of Steve, which is something, given that his humor is usually as quiet as his temper.] No, more like 'Stark's Avengers', or 'The Avengers, brought to you by Tony Stark.'

[He shakes his head.] Howard had an ego. But never like that.

[Which is a profoundly unreal thing to say, even after aliens. Howard's son. Older than the father.] They're more alike than I thought at first, though.

[arches]

Probably more alike than Stark wants to admit, too.

_{( After all, who wanted to be told they were like their parents? )}

You must have been close. You and Old Man Stark.

[usavatar]

We were. [He's gotten used to the past tense, but he doesn't like it. It feels strange and uncomfortable and all-around wrong. It's too soon for Howard and Bucky and Peggy to be the past tense in his life, but he can't exactly say we are about someone who's been -

No, not thinking about that.] Me, Peggy, and Howard. They were the ones that kept us all in one piece in the field. Stark with R and D, obviously, Peggy with intel.

[arches]

Peggy. _{( He says the name like a question, considering. From what he knows of SHIELD's history, he has a feeling, but it also seems rude to just assume. )} The woman, in the pictures?

[usavatar]

[It's not that he's planning to deny it. He's busy reliving that last conversation yet again, playing their last promises back and hating everything that broke them, himself included. Steve knows he's being too quiet, knows it's lasting too long, and finally clears his throat and resettles against the couch just to fill the silence.]

Yes. Agent Margaret Carter.

[arches]

She's a legend.

_{( He says this without much inflection, but it's more than apparent the words are true. And he doesn't envy Steve his position, now, because if there's one thing Clint knows about it is attraction to spy ladies. He can't imagine what not being with her must be like. )}

I'm, ah, sorry. It must be hard, for you.

[usavatar]

She's the best.

[There's bitter irony in it. Adrenaline fading, the carnage and chaos miles off, with night pouring in through the windows - he's hit that part of the fight where it feels almost like it never happened, and the only thing he can recall with immediate clarity is Romanoff taking the leap off his shield and thinking as he watched, Peggy will like her, without giving it a second thought.

Except she's not there. There's no citadel to retreat to after blowing the enemy to hell, no Howard to say he could have done it in half the time. No Commandos trying to drag Steve out and see if maybe this time he'll get drunk after all. No Bucky leading the charge. Peggy is a legend, a file, a footnote in a training brochure, and Steve is making himself sick.

He gets up. Then stops. Not sure what he planned to do beyond 'move'.

Which is why he stands there, looking confused. There's always something to do in a war, but this one is over - there's no reports to write, no debriefings to attend that he'd consent to right now. Clean-up will go on for days. They have Loki to worry about. But right now he and Clint are just two fellas in an apartment in Brooklyn - and Steve doesn't have a television, which is probably what two fellas in an apartment in Brooklyn do on an average night.]

They thought they were getting a corpse. [It doesn't occur to him that Clint must know that. Steve glances down, uncomfortable, and slowly sits again.]

[arches]

<sub>( Clint Barton is not a man who understands being at the center of things. He said that he saw things better from afar, and he meant it. His entire life he has been looking down at things, analyzing them without knowing them, calling shots before anything could get too close. And while most of those things were enemy assailants or flying projectiles, some of them were other people. He's used to losing men in the field, used to not caring--or at least not letting that caring eat away at him. So he can't know what Steve's going through, at least not really.

But even so, he can try and empathize. He rises slowly to his feet, and offers Steve a wry smile. )</sub>

I heard them radio it in. You've never seen a bunker of tight-lipped secret agents get so excited.

[usavatar]

[That coaxes a smile onto his face.]

I don't know about that. I've seen my fair share of secret-agent-filled bunkers. [He rubs the corner of one eye, remembering fondly the looks on the faces of the agents when he walked back through the doors of the facility he'd smashed his way out of after waking up, Director Fury leading the way.]

[arches]

_{( Clint remembers a different scene, the one at the lab base in the desert. Their communications head had run into the room, arms flailing. People had looked up, shocked, and then slowly begun to let their excitement grow. Clint, high up in the rafters, had looked on. )}

They're a fun lot, huh.

[usavatar]

[He ducks his head, smooth a smile off of his face with one hand. For all the gravity of the War, the desperate resolve of the people in the SSR, they still had their nonsense moments. Christmas parties, birthdays. Small games tucked between disasters.] They can be. If you give them the chance.

[arches]

Giving out chances really isn't my style.

_{( But he sure does like taking them. He won't pretend there haven't been fun moments, and ones of reckless abandon. Pranking Nick on New Year's and drinking wine with Natasha on Christmas Eve. He's had his moments, they've just been few and far between. )}

[usavatar]

How does it go - the first step is knowing you have a problem? [He's teasing again. Steve wanders over to a window, which affords a view of a few buildings and the river beyond.]

[arches]

I don't have a problem.

_{( That comes out sharper than he intends, because he wishes, beyond reasonable measure, that it was true. )}

[usavatar]

[Steve's eyebrow goes up. He half-turns back toward Clint, not saying anything, studying the man in that particular way he learned in stare-downs with bullies and orphanage staff. Neutrality, expressionless solidity - radiating a willingness to fight without picking it himself.

Really, it's an ability to be, like a cliffside or a thunderstorm, implacable. In this case it comes across as a silent question: Well? Is there something you want to say?]

[arches]

_{( Chances. Something a younger Clint Barton had wasted a lot of. Fury had handed him one, and he in turn had offered it to Natasha. He thought he was done with second chances. But now he wanted one, more than ever. And he knew Steve had given him something, the beginning of something, when he'd trusted Natasha and taken him along, today. There was a debt, there. And it sat uneasily on Clint's shoulders. )}

I don't have a problem taking chances. But I like having earned them.

[usavatar]

[Just like that, the commander-presence dissolves into bemusement.]

Do you want me to hold what Loki did against you?

[arches]

Don't be stupid.

_{( Clint snaps that, then looks down at his feet. His hands find his way to one of the buckles on his suit--why are there so damn many of those, anyway?--and he begins toying with it, for lack of anything better to do. Gratitude does not sit well with Clint, either. So he goes a different route. )}

I'm just saying-- you ever need an eye in the sky, Captain, you call me.

[usavatar]

[For some reason, Clint calling him 'Captain' feels more gratifying than hearing it from any of the soldiers or police Steve's met today. Maybe because Barton gives the title weight. Real value, instead of a facade.

Steve's stomach ruins the moment by complaining, loudly. He sighs.]

You mind if we grab something else to eat?

[arches]

_{( For some reason, that just makes Clint grin. )}

What, you have a super-metabolism, too?

[usavatar]

[He coughs.]

It's about four times faster than the average of someone my size, yes. Normally it's not a problem, but... Well. It's been a busy day.

[arches]

Well, I'd say it's too late for anything to be open, but who am I kidding? This is New York.

But your kitchen didn't seem too sparse. We may be able to whip something up, here.

[usavatar]

I guess the odds of anyone delivering tonight aren't great.

[He gives the kitchen a considering look. Normally, he wouldn't think twice about home-cooked versus the excessive cost and ridiculous luxury of having someone else make and bring food. But laziness is so very appealing right now.

With a sigh, he ambles back past Clint and drags a few pans out from undernead the counter.]

[arches]

<sub>( Clint doesn't waste any time. Without asking, he digs through Steve's fridge, pulling out eggs and vegetables and cheese. He lays his findings on the table, then rummages through drawers. Sorry, Steve, but he's just not very polite.

With time and patience, he could've made them a passable meal. As it is, he's probably going to end up piling half the contents of Steve's fridge into two enormous omelets. )</sub>