Six
Clint needs to leave. It’s not so much wanting as needing to because if he is entirely honest, leaving now feels like running away from both his duties as a… well Not-Avenger as well as landlord.
He doesn’t know about the rest of NY, but his tenants are shaken despite their strong fronts – he can see them starting to doubt their security; and who wouldn’t. He cannot fault them in this. And usually as a good landlord – or so he believes – shouldn’t it be his duty to make certain that they have a save place to retreat to? Should it not be up to him to help create a place that they can come back to and feel at least moderately safe in; barring cosmic events?
And yet… here he is: packing.
Or rather angrily throwing clothes and possessions he deems quintessential into a backpack he knows nobody would steal from him – it looks ratty and old and threadbare, but it’s a SHIELD design and hasn’t yet been taken from him.
He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave his tenants or his house or Lucky, and most important of all he doesn’t want to leave Darcy.
Clint stops in his rampaging act of packing and takes a deep breath through his nose – tries to remain calm, collected.
Darcy, and he doesn’t doubt this for one moment, would fill the position he’d vacate as an intermediary landlord; she’d deal with the yolk-heads and the cephalopods and she would do a great job about it too. No doubt she’d have the fuzz over at her place a hell lot often than he does – and boy they know his name by now – and her relationship with Peyton would, undoubtedly, sour.
Matter of fact, he thinks all of her would sour.
It would start with condemning him for his bullshit running act and then condemning the house she lived in and then condemning the police that really couldn’t care less about yet another concerned landlord in Bed-Stuy and so forth and so on.
He sits down, slouches, groans as he falls backwards onto the lumpy couch that has served him as a bed more often than he’s used his mattress proper. His arm folds over his eyes and shuts him off from the world. Clint can’t see the sun around him and he can’t hear the steps through the open door; all he wants is a nap and maybe everything’s better afterwards.
Only, when he pulls the arm off his head, there is Darcy, pale, beautiful and eerily quiet, standing in the doorway of his apartment, hand raised to knock.
Well, shit.
Because this day hasn’t started off bad at all.
--
He can’t tell her that basically all of his covers are blown; that an unknown entity has managed to piggy-back JARVIS with increasingly difficult encryption packages and hide away data and intel of which they, now, know neither origin nor hideout. Stark has let them now that he is, now, at the very least in the possession of someone’s iTunes Top 100 but the pun has not managed to alleviate the situation any.
JARVIS is a computer program.
Clint doesn’t know what asshole managed to piggy-back, evade and trick him but given that Nat, Steve and their new third – he goes by Sam, Clint is already a little sorry for him – all corroborated that Zola managed to turn himself into a computer virus tailored for SHIELD it would not be surprising to find that HYDRA was now in possession of this information.
To be perfectly honest, he’s still a little whip-lashed from the fact that HYDRA even still exists. Talk about ‘extinguished with the Second World War’ – apparently, too, they are the new keepers of The Winter Soldier; the very man who’d taken over a grand portion of Nat’s training and turned out to be none other than a chryo’d Bucky Barnes.
This information, granted, Clint should not have.
Nat has been kind enough to forward it to him after he’d sat her down for a quick decomp-session the likes of which they’d had when he’d first brought her aboard the SHIELD-train. It hurts to see his protege-turned-closest-confidante shaken like this; after years of experiencing just how unshaken she remained in near-to all other situations.
Finding out that the man who’d trained her and – he only learned this three days ago – aided Natasha in fleeing from the KGB was (a) still alive and (b) Steve’s bestest buddy, still alive and kicking from back in the fucking days and that (c) naturally the blond wanted to go after him and Nat would of fucking course help twisted her up pretty badly. No matter how cool and composed she was in the face of the first and last debriefing of the Avengers as they had heretofore been known.
Steve doesn’t know who to trust.
Nat can’t say no to the man who has been her idol even before Clint met her.
Thor is still fucking off earth.
Stark has been pulled for a loop with someone able to trump his Jarvis-shaped-Ace.
Banner doesn’t know if he’s safe from the military, doesn’t know if his family is safe.
They’re in for one bad trip.
And all their fucking covers are blown and in the hands of HYDRA who has agents Fuck Knows Where.
So no.
Clint can’t – isn’t allowed to – tell her.
Never mind how much it would facilitate his situation to have Darcy’s ears and help for this because he sure as hell doesn’t feel up to running with the wolves.
Fuck.
FUCK!
--
You’re leaving
She doesn’t adorn the statement with a questioning look, avoids his eyes at all costs and instead keeps them stubbornly on the area around his torso where his hands have dropped and where she can see his backpack in the periphery of her futzed up vision. He’s learned that she’s far-sighted as fuck, enough that she might make a good sharp-shooter in fact, but has always been mistaken for short-sighted.
Clint can’t answer.
Doesn’t know how to.
The air in the room feels heavy, feels like it’s pressing down on his chest, disabling him from properly inhaling a sufficient amount of oxygen to properly function. He swallows; tries to catch her eyes – Darcy doesn’t fall for it and for a few painful breaths, she quiets her body and stills her hands until her eyes find his and he fights to not rear backwards.
Ice blazes at him, anger jumps from blue to blue and she doesn’t even need to touch him to deliver the slap that resounds in his head.
She doesn’t stomp; she doesn’t yell. Darcy doesn’t even say another word as she turns on her heels and exits his apartment – she slams the door though; he can feel that before he sinks back into the sucky cushioning of his couch.
Awww, fuck.
--
That night finds Clint on the top of his roof; not just the roof itself, but the very toppity-top he could find (the equally flat surface of the entrance from the stairs) glaring at the never-sleeping city around him. In that moment he hates it.
He hates not being able to hear it.
He hates it for never fucking sleeping.
He hates the rising crime-rate.
He hates it for not taking care of the people that live there properly.
He hates it. Oh my god does he hate it.
In Iowa – and that place was hell, not lying – at least you could see the stars from the rooftops, you could catch frogs that were not in some sort sick or diseased, you could go running around the fields that would swallow you hole in summer.
God he hates that place.
Not that this one is any better.
Clint groans; feels the sound reverberate in his chest as he plops back and stares into the velvet-black void of sky above him, stars too weak to compete with the electrical light around him, no matter how desperate he keeps looking for a point to focus on.
It swallows him and when it spits him out the sun is rising in the East.
--
When he comes down from the roof, Lucky is occupying his door-mat, giving him the biggest most gullible eyes known to man-kind and despite the fact that the new morning has brought new resolutions with it, even if it hadn’t the sight of his best furry friend alone would have stalled him long enough to come to his senses.
As it is, he already has and when he bends his knees to scratch the Lab’s head, what he gets is an armful of warm, furry, happy animal pinning him down – what he gets is a hug and a content being in his arms and, for now, Clint thinks that this is all he is ever going to need.
He can’t go to Darcy.
He might not ever be able to let her get too close to him while the Squid-Heads are still out there and hunting for him, but he can stay – he needs to.
Hawkeye hasn’t been out there for nearly a year now – it’s almost shocking how long he has gone without any of his buddies – and the purchase of the house has, Stark has related this to him, vanished from existence entirely. The AI had acquiesced that he’d watched its demise so… so Bed-Stuy – and this is funny because hello, irony – is currently the safest place to be.
No body knows of it.
So Clint will stay.
And he’s going to ignore these ridiculous stirrings of affection for the woman who is holding together his house and soul.
...He’s going to need a new hobby.
###
The situation was to be expected.
He is not saying that the brothers of SHIELD meant to invite ire with their goals to secure the peace of Midgard, but Thor himself has recently learned that the enemy that conducts the killing strike is not one that you see coming – it is one in your own ranks.
The Man of Fury and the Shieldmaiden Hill had held much contempt for him when he’d inquired about the trustworthiness of SHIELD warriors – The Man of Fury has quite succinctly let him know that all assembled warriors had been tested thoroughly and were trustworthy to the utmost.
It seems that even he has been caught off his guard.
And while his Lady Jane has been brought to safety by the very same brothers who have found themselves betrayed… it is time to return.
The Norns have sent him a dream and his presence on Midgard is no longer a hindrance to the developments there, his Lady might have need of him and while the afl-hirða Darcy might not need him as such – and he is not to intervene in her learnings either, on penalty of death – his presence on Midgard might ease the second part of her endeavor necessary for her Rísa. And on this will depend the well-being and balance of the universe.
Thus, Thor has no intentions of intervening.
He does not feel like starting Ragnarok. That is not up to him.
###
One of her Curious Georges brings her attention to the young girl running with them – Darcy admits that given her current mental state she might not have noticed her soon enough, but one of her regulars hands over his slice of Pizza to what appears like an unrelated bystander. The girl is maybe a few years younger than Darcy herself, nineteen or twenty even, if she’s that lucky and at her side even Lucky gives a small whine as if his attention had been equally riveted by one of her literal followers almost forcing the hot slice of cheesy goodness on the beat-up black-haired woman.
It is only when, even then, the other one insists on sharing the piece that Darcy makes a note to keep an eye on her. She might be feeling like shit currently, but that was no reason to not make certain that those around her were well.
Wasn’t that part of her duties as afl-hirða? Was she not meant to make comfortable those around her and give them a Hearth – a Home – to return to and feel safe at? Where had she failed with Clint? Why was he leaving?
Certainly it could be that now that SHIELD had had some kind of drawback that they’d need him again but… he’d say something at least, right? He wouldn’t just go; he can’t. He has tenants to look after, to think about, he has a whole house that won’t just manage itself and what about…
She stops at a corner and blinks herself into existence, realizing that her younger Curious Georges are stopping to give her confused looks. Lucky, at her side, gives her one too, soft, wet nose snuffing at a limp hand and Darcy busies herself with petting him as she collects her thoughts and shakes them off.
So what about her.
Clint has no ties to her; she’s not like Simone who was waylaid by Clint’s bastard brother and she’s not like Aimee who had had a bad hand with men before she discovered that she liked women so much better (and a much better hand with them too). She’s not like Grills either, who still talks about the time when Clint helped him move his father’s stuff and saved the two of them from a New Jersey Flood. She’s not like Deke or Tito who have some kind of manly-pride-relation-club with Clint where they’re all involved but no one talks about it.
Darcy is just Darcy.
She’s the weird kid who shoots at people crashing through doors and who bandages stupid idiots who don’t know when to quit jumping from flarking roofs. She’s the stranger who bunked in the basement until Clint took her in and gave her an apartment proper. She’s the tenant who has the dog whom Clint loves.
But it goes no further does it?
Looking at it cold, hard and factually – it doesn’t extend to anything else.
So there is really no reason to think higher of herself than necessary.
Considering she’s the woman who can’t even hold a boss for more than a year.
Still… it is now her duty, the only one she has left, to make certain that those who feel a link to her be safe and cared for; that they have a place to warm their fingers and souls at. And who knows; she’s saved up a little – she might be able to keep her place long enough to find a new job.
...Who knows.
--
Clint… doesn’t leave.
While Darcy can’t put into words how very relieved she is to see that the blond archer has decided to stay put where he is and take care of his house and tenants instead of running away from whatever it is that has had him packing, she, too, notices the distance he keeps putting between them.
It is a subtle and silent distance; a look for a greeting instead of a wave and a question; a nod to indicate agreement instead of a discussion about the necessity of something; turning to others for help instead of turning to her; going out alone instead of asking if he could take Lucky with him.
And she gets that. She does. They both have their own lives, don’t they? He’s an Avenger and she’s just… she’s just the person who hasn’t been able to reach her boss for seven days in a row now and who doesn’t know if opening up the diner as she does every day is even legal any longer.
Even talking to Lance about the maybe-disappearance of her boss hasn’t born much fruit. It’s not unheard of, he’s let her know, that people aren’t there any longer after a bigger scaled event such as the latest one – no matter if it has been in DC. And Darcy… well… she could take over the Diner couldn’t she? Legally it might even be possible… if Han was indeed… gone.
So now, again, Darcy needs to sit down and just think for a little while. Because would she, indeed, want to have a Diner? Is it something she can see herself doing? What would it cost? Would she keep the cook? What would she sell? Would she change anything?
There’s just… so many questions at the moment and Darcy doesn’t feel like she has the time to answer them all correctly so what she does – and she does this with perfected ease – is brew herself the strongest coffee known to man-kind (and Aesir -kind; Thor has had much to say and laud about her Morning Brew) unpack the small telescope that Jane had bought her for her birthday last year and settle down on top of the roof.
She won’t, probably, see much because light-pollution is a thing and stars are bloody finicky when they want to be, but as eleven o’clock rolls around and half of the lights around the city go out in order to save electricity, she can find one bright little bugger after another.
Spring is slowly stretching its limbs, reaching for the weather and the skies and she can find Beetle-guise on the firmament, the brightest star in the constellation of Orion and she sits, straining her eyes to find the rest of it before it occurs to her that she is looking at one of the mightiest archers in Greek history – immortalized in the stars and promptly leans away from the lens, blinking angrily at the black spots in her vision.
Damn it.
--
She’s closing up the Diner for good when the young woman enters her line of vision again, edges of her mouth turned down and her shoulders hunched up to her ears, hands pulled into the sleeves of her sweater – Darcy can see this even as she turns the keys for the last time and gives the door a parting pat to the frame. Tomorrow she is going to have to turn in the keys to some same bureaucrat but at least she is going to receive her pay either way. Coupled with her savings, she’s going to be safe for at least four more months.
That is, until the young girl approaches her.
“Hi.”
Darcy has been the one to talk first, but they’re opposite of each other and the girl – woman, really, it’s more evident close up, young though she may be – is giving her a wide, brown-eyed stare.
“Hi.” --she finally replies. “My name is Kate. I’ve been told to… come to you.”
Probably by her Curious Georges; the young woman gives off a polished air, despite her grungy clothes and her dirty skin, her speech is what street folk would describe as ‘proper’, doesn’t quite belong to Williamsburg… or any place close. Darcy smiles, offers her hand.
“My name is Darcy.” --they don’t quite shake, instead of squeeze hands and Darcy gets the feeling that they are somehow testing each other out with this subtle motion. “I’ve been told I’m good at helping. How do you feel about a shower and some grub?”
Lucky has finished his business on the corner behind her and as he reaches her side, bumping her hand with his wet nose in greeting, he steps out and towards the woman Kate. She is careful when she lowers herself, allowing him to put his nose to her neck, her hands and her knees before he seems content and takes a seat next to Darcy again. Kate, from her crouched position, gives her a crooked smile and with open hands asks: “Have I passed muster?”
And Darcy supposes that she has.
“Step into my parlor.”--said the spider to the fly; and the deal is sealed when Kate does indeed quirk a smile at the implication.
--
Kate isn’t just a Kate; Kate is the Kate Bishop . Daughter of the business Mogul Bishop who lost his wife some years ago and has never been rumored to have progeny – Kate lets her know that it has been her mother’s wish and the only thing that her father could hold himself to after he discovered various recreational medicines to ease his troubled mind. And while Kate would have had all the freedom to get away with stuff that ‘regular Joes’ would not have, she chose not to – which, for an eighteen year old, proves a lot of discipline and forethought.
Darcy’s not certain she’d have acted the same way back when she was eighteen.
Hell, give her a carte blanche now and she’ll hack whatever server she’ll have to and go back to university in no damn time.
...Which… granted, isn’t exactly deviant either (excepting talks of social deviance, because that’s a whole other business, ‘kay?)
Instead Kate Bishop, prized archer throughout the country, decided she wanted to join the Circus; or better yet: buy one and re-model it to her liking.
And while one would think that this wouldn’t be all that bad a venue to choose – stocks related to free-time activities are at an all time high in their current economical state as it is – it has been enough of a reason, apparently, to disown Kate Bishop. Now known as Katie-Too in the back-alleys of Williamsburg. She’s a dab shot and archer too and once ensconced in Darcy’s shower cubicle the older woman decides that she needs to get her head checked… or her Aura; whichever it is that keeps attracting those damn archers into her life.
--
The thing about Katie-Too is that she actually fits in splendidly with Darcy.
She sleeps on the couch, cuddled up with Lucky under a blue fleece throw that she has been keeping close ever since she’d first found it in some Salvation Army Shop and then under a real blanket that Darcy can’t stop herself from buying, because spring might be around the corner and summer won’t be too far either, but a blanket is still… it’s different from a fleece throw.
Even Kate admits this.
And because Clint has his hands full with whatever he is currently making of his life, he doesn’t have the time to spy on Darcy and judge her for taking in a stranger – and another stray… and archer – that is quickly becoming a good friend of Darcy’s keeping her up to date on her Curious Georges with small evening reports. Apparently the barrier talking to Katie-Too is lower than talking to Darcy herself; she can understand it to some extent – and helping her find a small job in a bar not too far away.
Not that it’s anything big; but the proprietor seems nice, straight and upstanding and he doesn’t take shit in his four walls either – which is a huge plus – Darcy knows, after the first night, that she is never going to have to worry about wandering hands in here.
Luke rules with an Iron Fist. It’s his bar and to hell with anyone who will not adhere to the House Rules – she’s watched him; he’s intimidating due to his sheer body mass alone and it’s enough to see him haul two grown men through the entry-way without so much as breaking into a bead of sweat to know that not crossing him is the better choice.
It definitely makes for a good work-atmosphere though and when Katie-Too comes to fetch her every evening, accompanying her back to the apartment-building in Bed-Stuy, the big man doesn’t even bat a single eye. So Darcy farewells him until the next day and counts her blessings.
Katie-Too doesn’t just help her find a new job and feed her Curious Georges on time nevertheless; there’s something about the young woman that wants… coddling. Some kind of paying attention to on an emotional level that Darcy is all too happy to provide: slinging her arms around the other as they walk home, lending clothing that she knows won’t fit her any longer but will do splendidly on Kate (and way better than the ratty clothing of which, it turns out, she only has two changes of), she introduces her to Aimee and her girlfriend, she takes her up on the roof at night to go looking for stars (finding Orion still hurts a little, but a little less when Kate proves to be a fountain of knowledge and recites her the whole story of the great hunter and his deal with the Pleiades from the top of her head).
Darcy and Kate fall into each other like long lost sisters and if it is the afl-hirða in her that makes it so easy for the younger woman to trust and open up to her, or simply her own charm, is irrelevant in the face of garnering a friend of the magnitude that once only Jane had been able to access.
It feels like flying.