So Barton, is it true that there's some weird part of you that feels something towards Dunn and those children, even though you don't know what it is? Rumours are starting to spread.
Pretty sure that's none of your fucking business. What I feel is my head being spread over with an axe whenever he walks into the room.
... And what do you want to hear? That it's "happily ever after"? Because then I gotta disappoint you. Liam is my brother's kid, of course I ... care. And Dunn doesn't deserve the crap that was piled on him and ... sure, maybe sometimes I think a minute of fucking peace would be nice. Get to know him. Try and understand the past better and ...
Fireflies Verse > Clint/Benji
When Clint regains his memory of being turned into a sleeper agent, he in turn loses all the memories of the years since his mission began. The memories of his husband and sons. With Benji no longer trusting him around the kids, Clint moves out of his diner, lost and confused because he woke up in a world he doesn't remember building.
Crapfish | A Clint(/Benji) one-shot (ca. 1800 words)
Since in our current verse, Clint and Benji spend nearly a year apart because of Benji's work, we decided to write drabbles one shots about what the other one did.
This one is mine.
In case you haven't been following the verse, there are some pointers at the beginning of the story.
Clint and Benji have been together for roughly 3 years by the time Benji leaves.
Liam is the biological son of Barney Barton, mother unknown. Liam was given to Clint after Barney was sentenced to 10 years in prison. Liam was around 6-8 months old at the time.
Clint and Benji married and adopted Liam very quickly.
Matthew is around 10 months and, biologically, probably Benji's (it seems more and more like it, though they haven't tested it) and officially Clint's and Benji's son.
Benji works for the IMF.
Clint runs a crappy diner in New York and does mercenary-type work, these days mainly for SHIELD.
The handles of the weird organic cotton bags Clint would have never bothered to buy dug sharply into Clint’s right hand where he tried to hold them while keeping the shopping basket on his arm level, gathering whatever they might need as quickly as possible, not really bothering to check for brand or price.
“Liam, please, put those back,” he said, mind already five steps further, trying to remember what else had been on the list he’d made himself write this morning and then promptly forgotten when picking up Liam and Matt after his meeting with Coulson. He’d just not seen it, or maybe he’d thrown it out when clearing the kitchen counter off its empty boxes and containers. He’d probably shoved it into the trash bag along with the mouldy green remains of the pizza he’d ordered two weeks ago and then hadn’t gotten around to eating because Liam had stuffed the hand of one of his play dolls up Matt’s nose. By the time they’d made it back from the emergency room, Clint had forgotten about the pizza and fallen asleep on top of the covers, the fourth time in as many days, still cranky Matthew lying next to him on his blanket.
“No, Liam, really I mean it. We’ve got candy. But the … no, don’t!” Clint snapped and snatched Liam by the back of his shirt, tugging him back a little more harshly than he meant to and regretting it immediately. But Liam had been about to push the box of – what even was that? Dark chocolate something or other’s – back into the elaborate display at random, nearly toppling the entire craftily built extravagance so Clint had to act quickly.
Predictably, his son began to cry in loud wails, box of chocolates’ cluttering to the floor and bursting open. Taking a quick breath, Clint put down the bag and basket before kneeling down, trying to get on Liam’s level and evade one of Matthew’s wild fists.
“Liam, look at me, Liam can you … Liam Barton, turn around and look at me!” The child refused to, instead trying to wrap himself around pillars at the entrance of the isle, still crying.
Clint knew what he should do. What kind of lesson’s he needed to teach and what boundaries to set. But it was closing in on 5PM, he hadn’t eaten all day, both Liam and Matthew needed a bath and, judging by the way his youngest son kept squirming, he would soon have two crying children if he didn’t find a way home soon or at least a diaper changer station. He’d not slept the night before, instead doing a quick surveillance stint for Fury that had kept him up on the roof of a windy building until the early hours of the morning.
So yes, he knew what he should do.
Instead he let go of Liam, hoping he would calm down before another harpy of a woman would bear down and try to bulldozer him with unwanted parenting advice and bend over to start picking up the chocolates himself.
He had just recovered from a sharp fist to the eye by a cranky Matthew when he saw a bottle-blonde, cringe-worthy sweet smiling woman lean down to Liam, fake-white teeth showing and painted nails digging into his son’s shirt.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, not even in the mood to censor is language and he kicked the last remaining bits of chocolate under the shelf.
“Sorry, I was just –“
“You realize I could have been a kidnapper! Your child could be dead right now while you were doing god-knows what!”
Again, Clint knew exactly what the right way out of the situation was. How he should charm her, get her on his side and probably end up with another phone number he’d throw under the next bus. If only he had the strength left to care.
“Kiddo, ear’s,” he snapped, and nearly smiled grimly when his son was smart enough to do exactly what he’d asked even while the stranger was holding on to him and with snot and spit bubbles covering half his face.
“Listen, lady, I don’t fucking care how bad your husband is in bed or how many of his assistants he’s cheated on you with. Right now, I’m gonne give you two pieces of free advice. 1 – get laid and fucking unwind. 2 – Let go of my son right now, don’t touch him again and never talk to him in any way ever again.” With a quick grip and twist, he had her arm twisted up and only a cold stare had her stifle her gasp. It only lasted a second, short enough that Clint hoped Liam hadn’t really noticed what he’d done, but he was pretty sure he’d driven home his point. He let go of her hand and forced a dark grin to his lips before looking down at his son with what he hoped was not a murderous expression.
Tugging Liam’s chubby hands from his ears with one hand, Clint checked his pockets until he found a tissue. “Come here, bud, let’s get you cleaned up and then we really need to get diapers.”
Matthew was still wiggling around, obviously uncomfortable and Liam, while quiet for now, obviously hadn’t forgiven him but it was the best Clint could do right now. He picked up the already heavy bag and shopping basket and herded his son to the diapers. They’d just rounded the corner to the next isle, when Clint spotted the blonde from before, manically loading bags of diapers into her shopping cart.
For a second, he just stood there, absolutely perplexed, until the bitch threw him a dirty, satisfied smirk which propelled him into action. Dragging Liam with him and swallowing a muttered “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, Clint reached the diapers right before the woman got to the last bag, snatching it from her greedy fingers.
“They won’t last you a day,” she grinned before taking off, leaving Clint with a small pack of medium-sized diapers that would fit Matthew probably fine, but Liam …
“Crapfish,” he muttered, dimly glad he’d remembered the fish part, because Liam started his best Daddy imitation right there, crunching up his face and muttering “Crapfish” over and over.
~+~
He nearly missed it in the rush of wind and the approaching subway and probably wouldn’t have even bothered to turn around, had Liam not gleefully turned around and exclaimed ‘JAM!’ happily, fingers already reaching for the red mess on the dirty floor.
“NO, LIAM!”
In all honesty, Clint wasn’t really surprised by what happened next, even wondered for a moment why exactly it suddenly felt like a punch to the face. One moment, he was trying to keep Liam from cutting his fingers open on the glassy, sticky mess and the next moment, Matthew was screaming in his ear, the last precious bag of diapers had toppled to the ground and got lost in the mass of bodies pushing forward and Liam was howling along with his brother while Clint nearly ripped his pants at the knees when he tried to grab the bag before it got lost and somehow … Clint was done.
For a moment, he nearly decided to just lean against wall and sit on the floor and whatever happened after would happen. He was not made for this. He’d known that when Liam had been put in his care but then there had been Benji. Calm and happy and warm, so good with Liam and … and Clint had believed that maybe it would work. And Liam was so good with them, too. Quickly growing from a distrusting, malnourished baby to a chubby-cheeked and happy toddler. Clint didn’t even remember when the idea of Matthew had come up, but it had seemed to fit and Benji wanted the kid so much, who was he to say no.
And then, just a few weeks after Matthew was born, Benji had left. Or been killed or … fuck knew what had happened. It had been more than eight months. Eight months of hardly any sleep, of diaper changing and feeding and washing, of holding a crying Liam that didn’t understand why his Dad never was around any more, why a second father had up and left him. And Clint had done it. He’d cleaned the bottles and washed the laundry and changed the diapers.
And right now, with stupid strawberry jam now sticking to his boots and both of his kids crying while what felt like half of New York rushed by him … He was done. For just a moment he was done. Done being stuck with the life he’d never wanted. Where he was … what, a widower? A divorcé? He didn’t even know which of the two applied.
A cold and wet hand touched his cheek out of nowhere and Liam, eyes still wide and watery, was peering at him where he had his head hanging forward, still on one knee.
His son just looked at him for a long moment, quiet and much smarter than any 3-year old should be. Then the boy leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to Clint’s cheek.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he nearly whispered and without thinking about it, Clint turned his head and kissed the small, dirty hand. He wanted to say ‘It’s OK buddy’ and ‘Thank you, Liam’. Instead he fought with stupid tears in his eyes and his heart tripping over itself because crapfish, it was war from the live he’d wanted to have. But he loved his kids with all his heart nothing would change that.
And so he did what he had to. He smiled at his son, he grabbed the bags and he walked them home. At home, he fed Liam apple slices and toast and maybe a small chocolate pudding he usually wasn’t allowed for dinner and he bathed them in the bathtub, Liam doing his best to help him clean a still unsettled Matthew. He put Liam to bed with the story of a red tabby cat that had gone out to play with another cat and lost his way on the way home and spend a little longer than normal stroking his son’s hair while he slept, he rocked Matthew to sleep while cleaning the dishes and hanging the laundry before putting him in his crib and then he crawled into bed. A bed that was empty and cold and hadn’t smelled right in months and he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling and pretended that there were no tears running down his face because he it had been 8 months and maybe, maybe it was finally time to move on.
Clint couldn't remember when he'd fallen asleep, knew it could have only been a few short hours because it wasn't even entirely light outside. He was still on top of the covers, cold now and curled in on himself. Sometimes, after a night sleep, things looked easier the next morning and you wondered why you even bothered with all the drama the night before.
This wasn't one of those times.
A while longer, Clint didn't move. He knew he should. Apart from all his usual routines, there was something a lot bigger looming outside the door that Clint still hadn't addressed. Even last night, staring into nothing, his thoughts hadn't really settled on anything and instead of sorting themselves out in the roughly two hours of sleep he had gotten, he felt even more unprepared now.
Still, he forced himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing the stiffness from his limbs and face. The boys would be up in no time, hopefully there would be another 30 to 45 minutes of silence before they'd need him and until then he needed to have something sorted out. Either the crushing realisation that Benji had left (again), or that he was still there. Right now, Clint didn't know what he preferred. He wanted to be excited about this. He was actually angry with himself nearly as much as he was angry at Benji. For weeks he'd waited, hoped for that moment where the door would open and he could clutch his silly english man to him again, kiss him and smell him and see him smile, just thinking about it felt like something hot twisting inside him. But that had been months ago. Then had come the fear. The pain and the anger as well, back then mostly directed at the IMF because they didn't give him any information. But it was mostly fear because he didn't even know if the man he loved was still alive. And that fear, mixed with all the other fears and pain, had settled so deep in him now ... he had been fucking close to declaring Benji dead, to make himself a widower, to try and move on with his life somehow, to miraculously find a balance with what his husbands absence had left behind and after he'd gotten there, finally found a tiny fraction to cling to, a little bit of believe that he could maybe do it, that all the lonely nights would be worth the happiness they had before ... he'd just found that, and suddenly Benji was back.
And he was fine and he wasn't dead and Clint ...
"Fuck it," He pushed to his feet and walked out of the bedroom, only hesitating in the doorway for a second and then refusing to move past the crushing pain in his chest when he saw that the couch was empty. Liam and Matthew needed breakfast and he needed coffee and there was still the mountain of laundry and the dirty dishes and ...
Clint nearly fell over his own bare feet when he stepped into the boys' room and saw Benji on the floor.
After a few seconds, he scrambled backward, into the livingroom and ripped open a window because he needed to breathe and fresh air seemed the right thing to do. He was there. He was still there, curled on the floor but not from being cold, Clint could tell. All of his muscles where clamped tight and he while he was sleeping, it hadn't looked like it was relaxing. The one-sided conversation from the night came back to Clint and of course, there was no way he slept peacefully.
"Shit, shit, shit."
Clint knew he should go in there. Knew, fucking knew that it wasn't Benji's fault ... or most of it wasn't. Knew that he should be there now, get his husband into bed and ... for better or for worse, in sickness and health and fuck, why was there nothing in the stupid vows that told you what to do in a situation like this. Because above all, Clint felt like he needed some help.
Because it hurt. Thinking about what Benji had to go through hurt, but thinking about letting him in again, being reminded that feeling so much for someone only to have it fuck you over ... that hurt even more.
Clint was blinking rapidly, but before it got out of hand, he took three deep, even breaths and then he closed the window. It was light outside now. The boys would be up. Breakfast. Coffee.
And because it was the only thing right now that made sense, Clint went into the kitchen, got the coffee going, prepared Matthews porridge and Liam's toast before purring himself a cup. He'd nearly picked it up to take his first sip when he found his other arm was halfway to reaching up again and taking a second cup out of the cupboard. It was a movement he hadn't made in months, trained out of himself the moment a future without Benji seemed more likely than one with him.
He hesitated, wrangled with himself and then ... then he purred a second cup and before he really thought about it, he carried it into the kids' room and placed it on the floor before reaching into Matthews crib and taking the little boy out with him because, for fucks sake, he needed something to hold on to right now.
[ cue ophelia casually settling in next to castiel with cheek kisses and an assemblage of flowers (okay, they were picked from the roadside, and she still hasn't quite grasped the line between platonics and romantics, but there was an attempt) ]
It has been some time since last he saw her. He hopes that she has been well in the interim, for he has thought of her and her wellbeing often enough. Ophelia is a quiet sort, not liable to attract chaos and confusion so easily as he.
Still...
He cannot shuck the uncertainty he feels for her safety, whilst knowing that there is nothing he can do to ensure that she remains as she is.
He cannot ask her to accompany him in his nomadic wanderings. It is inappropriate and unthinking and
She kisses his cheek when she settles at his side. Presses a small bouquet of wilted flowers and tangled weeds into his hands.
He can think of nothing he would prefer more than to have her at his side.
Turning his head, he greets her with a kindly smile and warm eyes - yet says nothing. Instead, he shifts - bringing himself ever closer so he may brush his lips against the arc of her cheekbone, not yet daring to lay consideration upon pressing his mouth to hers.
Even if the thought has crossed his mind.
More than once.
When next he wanders the highway, he will be sure to return to her with the sweetest flower that he can find. Day be damned, Castiel would take the time to find her all that he can.
