#clint barton (616)

[paanmoxi]

"what do you think of hawkeye?"

[redstrangers]

do you guys want some hawkeye

i do.

[purple--queen]

Happy Birthday Clint Barton

[cbartonscoffee]

happy birthday to THE guy ever

[hersheysmcboom]

The humid Budapest night pressed in on them as Natasha dragged Clint away from the bar. His drunken, stumbling gait was a testament to his state, but beneath the stupor, a frantic energy pulsed, a stark contrast to the man who’d threatened her moments before. He was a mess – reeking of cheap liquor and despair, his clothes rumpled, his hair matted. He was also, she realized with a growing unease, a child. A very lost, very broken child.

“Where are we going, tiny tyrant?” Clint slurred, his voice roughened by another bout of retching into the dumpster. He’d landed with a surprising grace that belied his drunken state, a testament to his training, perhaps. Or maybe just instinct.

Natasha ignored him, her focus sharp. “First, you stop talking so they don’t find us. Then, we are going to make you something less… pathetic.”

Clint opened his mouth, an instinctual retort forming, but the words died on his lips. He was drunk, covered in the detritus of a dumpster, and facing a remarkably self-possessed twelve-year-old who had just, with unnerving calm, facilitated his escape from the police. He couldn’t even muster the energy to argue.

She steered him through the narrow, cobblestone streets, her small hand surprisingly firm on his arm, guiding his unsteady steps. The scent of paprika and roasting meat wafted from open windows, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of fear that seemed to cling to Clint. Natasha’s mind, usually a well-oiled machine of calculation and strategy, felt a strange kind of friction. Clint Barton. Hydra’s “best.” A drunk, suicidal sixteen-year-old who’d been forced to drown kittens.

The hotel was discreet, a small, unassuming building tucked away on a side street. Natasha had chosen it precisely for that reason. Melina Vostokoff, her mother figure, and handler, was a woman of considerable, but not ostentatious, means. And Yelena, her sister, her shadow, was seven. Yelena, who loved dogs. Clint probably wouldn’t.

“This is where you live?” Clint’s voice was laced with suspicion, his eyes darting around the dimly lit lobby. He flinched when the doorman nodded at them, a subtle tremor running through him.

“We are staying here temporarily,” Natasha replied, her answer precise and carefully worded. “Melina and Yelena are here.”

Clint’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Your… mother? And sister?” He pushed himself straighter, a ghost of his earlier belligerence returning. “So, you’re not Hydra’s actual assassin. Just a recruit they sent to babysit me while they wait for the real talent to show up?”

Natasha felt a prickle of annoyance, but she kept her expression neutral. “Melina is not Hydra. And if you’d prefer to go back to the bar and wait for them to send someone else, be my guest.” She gestured vaguely back towards the street, her tone chillingly casual.

Clint’s gaze snapped to her, a mixture of fear and something akin to resignation in his watery eyes. He didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders eased infinitesimally. He clearly didn’t want to go back.

The elevator ride was silent, the hum of the machinery a low thrum against Clint’s ragged breathing. Natasha pressed the button for their floor, her small hand almost disappearing against the cool metal. As the doors slid open, a soft glow spilled from the slightly ajar door of their suite.

“Yelena?” Natasha called softly, pushing the door open a fraction wider.

A small, sleepy voice replied, “Natasha?”

Across the room, a whirlwind of blonde curls and wide blue eyes emerged from the plush sofa where she’d been napping. Yelena, her favorite stuffed dog clutched tightly, blinked at the sight of Natasha, and then at the hulking, disheveled figure hovering in the doorway. Her small brow furrowed in confusion.

“Who’s that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Clint, still unsteady on his feet, recoiled slightly at the sight of the child, as if expecting another blow. He instinctively took a step back, his hand twitching towards his belt, though the knife was gone, confiscated by Natasha earlier.

Natasha stepped further into the room, leaving Clint to hover uncertainly in the doorway. She knelt beside Yelena, stroking her hair. “This is Clint, Yelena. He’s… a guest.”

Yelena eyed Clint with the unvarnished curiosity of a seven-year-old who hadn’t yet learned to camouflage her thoughts. “He smells funny,” she declared, wrinkling her nose.

A choked snort escaped Clint, a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. He steadied himself against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on Yelena, then on Natasha. The realization that he was being brought into a semblance of a home, even if it was a temporary one, seemed to weigh on him.

“He’s had a… long day,” Natasha explained to Yelena, her voice gentle. To Clint, she said, “Come in. Don’t just stand there.”

He shuffled into the room, his movements hesitant, as if he expected the floor to give way beneath him. His eyes scanned the suite, taking in the comfortable furnishings, the neatly made beds, the small basket of fruit on the table. It was a far cry from the grimy bar or the even grimmer alley he’d escaped.

“So, a guest,” Clint muttered, his voice hollow. “Is that what I am now? A stray dog you picked up?” He looked at Yelena, who was now peering at him with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. “She doesn’t seem too thrilled.”

“Yelena is discerning,” Natasha said, a hint of a smile touching her lips. “She doesn’t trust strangers easily. Especially strangers who smell like they’ve been wrestling with a bin.”

Clint actually managed a weak chuckle at that. “Fair enough.” He glanced around again, his gaze settling on a framed photograph on a side table. It showed Natasha and Yelena, beaming, with Melina standing between them, her arm around each of them. For a moment, he looked utterly lost.

“So,” he began, his voice lower, laced with a weariness that seemed to go bone-deep, “what now? You going to ‘debrief’ me about my pathetic attempt to escape? Or are we just going to admire the wallpaper until your mom gets back and decides what to do with the broken toy she’s acquired?”

Natasha watched him, her young mind working furiously. He was a paradox. A terrifyingly skilled assassin who was profoundly damaged. A dangerous weapon who was clearly terrified of himself. She remembered Melina’s words: “Hydra’s best. A young man, barely more than a boy. They’ve twisted him, Natasha. Made him into something he’s not.” And now, faced with a twelve-year-old girl who was supposed to be his executioner, he was breaking down, not fighting.

“We’re not going to debrief you,” Natasha said, her voice firm. She crossed the room and picked up a clean towel from the en-suite bathroom. “And Melina won’t be back for a while. She’s getting us some supplies.” She extended the towel towards him. “First, a shower, and then we’ll get you something to eat that doesn’t involve rummaging through garbage.”

Clint stared at the towel as if it were a rattlesnake. He flinched when Natasha gently nudged it further into his grasp. “Shower?” he repeated, his voice reedy. “You want me to… wash?”

“Unless you plan on staying out here smelling like a brewery all night,” Natasha replied dryly. “The bathroom is through there.” She pointed to the door. “Melina,” she added, anticipating his next question, “she’s… capable. If you try anything, she’ll know. And she won’t be as lenient as I am.”

He looked from the towel to the bathroom door, then back to Natasha’s unwavering gaze. The unspoken threat, delivered with the calm authority of a seasoned operative, seemed to finally break through his haze of alcohol and despair. He took the towel, his hand trembling slightly as he did so.

“You really are just a kid, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice barely audible. He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind him.

Yelena, who had been watching the entire exchange with wide-eyed fascination, finally spoke, her small voice laced with concern. “Is he going to hurt us, Natasha?”

Natasha sat down on the sofa, pulling Yelena onto her lap. She hugged her sister close. “No, Yelena. He’s not going to hurt us.” She wasn’t sure if she was convincing Yelena, or herself.

She listened to the sounds from the bathroom – the hesitant running of water, the occasional choked cough, and then, finally, the sound of the shower being turned off. A few minutes later, a figure emerged, looking… different. The rumpled clothes were still damp, but they were cleaner. The stench of alcohol had been replaced by the faint scent of Melina’s expensive lavender soap. Clint Barton, still gaunt and hollow-eyed, but a little less like a lost cause.

He stood by the doorway, looking unsure of what to do next. Natasha gestured towards the other bedroom. “That’s your room for tonight. There’s clothes in the closet. They’re Melina’s, but they should fit, at least loosely.” She paused, then added, “And then, we eat.”

Clint nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. He walked towards the bedroom, his movements still stiff, but with a newfound purpose. He was still a child soldier, a victim of circumstances he hadn’t chosen, a broken weapon. But as he disappeared into the room, Natasha felt a flicker of something that wasn’t entirely despair. She had seen the flicker of humanity in his eyes, the desperate plea hidden beneath the bravado. She had heard the stories, the horrific fragments of a life ripped apart.

And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that her mission had just changed. She was supposed to track down an assassin. Instead, she had found a boy who needed saving, and in doing so, she had perhaps saved a small piece of herself too. The Red Room had taught her to kill, but perhaps, just perhaps, she was learning how to heal. Even if it was just one broken child at a time. And the thought of Melina, a mother and a warrior, returning to find a sixteen-year-old boy in their suite, was both terrifying and… intriguing. She had a feeling this was just the beginning.

[heilhawkeye]

why doesn't anyone talk about it...Clint-616 deserves such a caste.

[feralkidbucky]

My two fave boys and the meow meow, featuring Pinterest references Lol.

(Rip to Clint’s back, how to draw backs and shoulders 🤷‍♀️idk)

[loyal-squire]

Clint Barton likes birds. He likes bird-watching. He'd have a bird feeder. Spread the word.