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marvelstarker-mha98 · 7 months

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The Runaway Distance Life Of A Little Stark chapter 22: Life and death

Pairing: Tony Stark & daughter!Reader, Dr. cho & tony stark, tony stark vs mystery murder man, Clint barton & tony stark

Summary: Reader got shot, tony is a father who would do anything for his child gets revenge. Warning: conversation, guns and Fighting with a twist Co author with: callikc Tag: @venomsvl @geeksareunique

The thunder was so loud.

Clash after clash... The pouring rain...

Your senses felt numb.

You couldn't see through your tears. You couldn't hear over the bangs. You could barely feel the rain dripping over your skin. You couldn't taste anything except for dry air. You couldn't even smell. Nothing was working as the pain got more and more unbearable.

Eventually, your legs buckled.

It felt like time ceased to exist as your knees smacked the wet ground.

The briefcase slid some distance away when you dropped it to hold your stomach. In a matter of seconds, your hands were drenched in blood.

It hurt...

With squinted eyes you could just about make out your dad. He looked absolutely horrified, pure shock rooting him in place. He was looking at you, stunned, until something else seemingly caught his eye.

A figure was approaching the scene.

It was a man.

He was cloaked in black save for a purple mask covering his features. In his hand was a long gun. A sniper rifle.

He was the shooter.

He dropped the rifle to the ground to take another weapon from behind. This new gun was reminiscent of a bazooka. He raised it up and aimed straight for you. Tony finally found himself time to react.

He dropped beside you, very gently and carefully lifting you into his arms. The second you were secure enough he turned around and headed for the tower entrance.

The HYDRA team leader shot the bazooka.

It hit the car next to Tony and exploded on impact. People started to scream and run and Tony tried his best to shield your body with his own, taking most of the blast with his suit.

Your senses had gone from being numb to suddenly on overload.

The blast felt like a hurricane, the flames looked like giants, and the yells turned into screams of raw terror. You could hear the screeching of brakes as the cars swerved to avoid the explosion. Some stopped and crashed and others sped up to get away.

In the corner of your eye you could see the briefcase.

It was lying on the other side of the street in a puddle. You wanted to say something but when you looked at your dad you noticed the chain of a necklace.

That was the gift you left the day you ran away. It had to be.

He still had it after all this time.

You wanted to speak up but there was an explosion of pain from your new gunshot wound. All you could do was whimper instead.

You could feel your eyelids getting heavy.

Your dad was yelling at people to get out of the way as he carried you inside.

Dr. Cho and her assistant were at the reception when Tony burst through the doors completely drenched in rain and with you bleeding in his arms. At first they didn't realize how bad it was, but soon the sky was alight in orange and red as flames from the bazooka targets spread. Dr. Cho tried to get a look outside as the entire room seemed to shake on impact, like an earthquake.

"Stay inside!" Tony said. "Nobody leaves!"

He was panicked and barely aware of his surroundings or what was going on. For your own safety, he handed you over to the assistant.

"Careful." He warned, a desperate look in his eyes as he turned to Cho.

"Tony, what-" She tried to speak, but he was already explaining.

"She was shot. A-A rifle. There was some - somebody in the street, I don't know. Please help her!"

Dr. Cho nodded, trying to get a good look at you. "The abdominal wound?"

Tony nodded. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I'll have to get her to my lab."

You tried to speak, reminded of what lay in the street outside.

"Dad..." You whispered, finding it painful simply to utter that word alone.

"I'm here, sweetheart." He assured you, holding your hand tightly. "It's gonna be okay."

"No. The... Outside. The-"

You started coughing violently, your nerves alight with agony as the sudden movements caused your body to lurch upwards. Blood spilled from your lips.

Tony closed his eyes for a moment, the sights and sounds of your pain overwhelming him. It was like a force crushing his heart.

"Shh, shh, it's going to be okay." He said. "You'll be okay."

You shook your head, whimpering again. "It hurts."

"I know, babygirl, I know. But we're gonna fix you up. Dr. Cho can help. I promise."

He kissed the top of your head, holding your hand a moment longer. He was scared to let go, afraid that you'd be lost all over again, that he wouldn't have the chance to make up for lost time.

In fear of these thoughts, the sadness and guilt suddenly transcended into anger. The bastard who shot you wasn't getting away with this. He wasn't losing you because of some bad guy with a big gun. One tiny piece of metal wasn't going to destroy everything.

"I'll be back." He promised you.

"Where are you going?" Dr. Cho questioned, surprised. "Tony!"

"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!" He retorted, already at the doors. "You make sure she lives."

Outside among the chaos of fire and screaming, the HYDRA agent was crouched beside the briefcase, his manic smile hidden behind the mask. His gloved hands grasped the case like a beggar with gold, reaching for the clips.

There was a moment of tense quiet before all of a sudden the Iron Man suit barreled into him, causing them both to skid along the wet road. The masked man rolled onto his knees with a grunt of pain, his eyes searching for his aggressor.

Tony had circled around, already ready to take him down again. Acting quickly, the masked man searched his pockets for a small electrical device. As Tony flew right at him he tossed it, causing a loud spark to engulf the suit. It seemed to shut down on impact and Tony hit the ground a few feet away.

"Back so soon, Mr. Stark?" The man teased.

"No talking." Tony growled, already running at him with a raised fist.

The hit sent the masked man to the ground again and a faint patch of blood stained the material around his lips. He merely chuckled.

"How does it feel?" His tone was cold and almost... Mocking. "How does it feel to finally see your daughter after so many years? I was hoping you would be here to welcome her home!"

Tony punched him again. "Who are you?!"

He tried grabbing the purple mask but the HYDRA man parried the move, jumping back to keep space between them.

"How is she?" The man taunted. "Dead yet?"

"I'm gonna kill you!"

"But don't you want to know my plans, Mr. Stark?"

"I don't care about your fucking plans! You're with HYDRA, and you're dead!"

"Oh, but I am not." Even behind the mask, Tony could see the man flash a smirk. "Avenging your child is what you seek. Do not think you are alone in this endeavor. There are two of us."

Tony didn't reply, relentless in his assault of the man.

"HYDRA merely hired me to fix their failures. I would say the missions were a success."

Finally, Tony hesitated. His eyes were filled with tears of anger and grief. Every one of his senses were dialed to the max, overwhelming and crushing him.

"What missions?" He spat.

"To finish what Mr. Obadiah Stane started, revenge from an old friend." The masked man laughed a cruel and heartless sound. "I never knew the man but he was quite the visionary I have heard. Believe me, this was nothing personal."

"It kind of feels personal!"

"Your daughter was merely in the way. What she protected was the true prize. I need to deliver it."

Tony couldn't organize his thoughts properly. Everything was so muddled. You had been shot, this man was hired by HYDRA to do God knows what, and now he was apparently after whatever you were protecting.

What had you gotten yourself into?

The man saw the bewilderment pass over his face and chuckled.

"The director of SHIELD hides many secrets." He explained. "I assume Miss (Y/n) did not get the chance to tell you why she chose only now to reveal herself."

"She was scared. Of HYDRA. People like you!"

"You are only half right I'm afraid. But the briefcase she carried plays a bigger role than you and I. It is a special artifact, the tool of a god. Mischief, to be precise."

Tony remembered 2012 and the chaos Loki upheaved with the scepter. After the whole ordeal he was forced to hand it over to Alexander Pierce, along with the Tesseract.

"They were supposed to look after it." He said.

Again, the man laughed.

"Oh, how naive you were. They were taking the scepter to HYDRA agents. Only... It did not reach the delivery point thanks to your daughter. She meddled in something that did not concern her. HYDRA of course had no idea that SHIELD took it back." He paused, catching his breath for a moment. "What she knows will get her killed. You have no idea what this organization is capable of. They will stop at nothing now. Her death will be a mercy."

"No!" Tony raised his hand, the repulsor powering up. "She won't die!"

As he shot the beam of energy, the masked man raised a hand in the air. From something in his hand a large shield formed. It was pulsating with crackles of energy, reflecting the beam. It took out the tree behind the pair, obliterating it on the spot.

"You are not the only one with toys." The masked one grinned.

Then, in a movement so fluid it was practically a blur, he drew an electric knife from his coat and forced it into Tony's abdomen. If it had been an ordinary knife, it would have meant nothing. But this one wasn't ordinary, and pierced right through the armor, imbedding itself in his skin.

(pretend this is the man stabbing tony) The man tore the knife back out, letting his shield fall away as well. Then he lifted his arm, talking into a device on his wrist.

"Mission complete." He said. "I require extraction."

With that, he grabbed Tony and pushed him against a parked car, causing Tony to stumble to the ground. He clutched his new wound, wincing as the pain started to spread.

"Again, nothing personal, Mr. Stark." The man said, right as the sound of a chopper approaching filled the air. He backtracked over to the briefcase, picking it up. "Fear not, for you will survive. Unlike your daughter."

A chopper came into view, a rope ladder dropping from its great height. The masked man grabbed the end, securing himself against it.

"Until we meet again, Mr. Stark."

Tony closed his eyes tightly, blinded by pain.

"Stop." He tried to say.

But the man was long gone now.

It could have been seconds or minutes that passed but he couldn't tell. He just lay by the wrecked car, losing feeling almost everywhere.

Eventually there was a loud thud nearby and the ground shook, followed by a monstrous roar. A pair of running footsteps also showed up. They stopped right next to him.

"Stark's been hit." Clint said. "It's bad."

#tony stark #ironman #tony stark x daughter!reader #tony stark & daughter! reader #dr. cho #baron zemo #clint barton #hawkeye #bruce banner #hulk #mcu #marvel #avengers

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saltsicklover · 1 year

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The Same Stuff

Title: The Same Stuff

Pairing: Clint Barton x Reader (First Person)

Word Count: 6,320

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Age Gap (10 Years), Mentions of Death, Probably poorly written, not enough plot to justify the ending.

Disclaimer: I do not own Clint Barton, or anything related to Marvel within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that contains mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

Life has been swimming past me since I was seventeen. All of the choices I have made, things I have accomplished, life I have lived were made in some sort of fugue state. I was there, I know that for sure, but one day- today- at twenty-four, I "woke up". I was no longer treading just to stay afloat. And maybe that would be okay, to wake up from a muddled dream to actually feel like my life was back in my control, if I hadn't found myself in this situation. A job interview for a position I am well underqualified for and applied to when I was too stoned to think of the crushing anxiety that I might have to endure for such a task. How hard could being a personal assistant be, anyway?

I sit in a beautiful lobby, every part sparkling clean in the sunlight that drifts in through the wall of windows. I am completely underdressed, the dirt that has been worked into the threads of my jeans over years of wear is now meeting the white suede of the couch beneath me. Jeans, for a start, did not belong among the group of people I find myself in. Each person dressed in their business best, hoping to impress the interviewer and intimidate each other. My choice of jeans and long waffle shirt has earned more than their fair share of eyerolls. I wonder what they would say if they knew I washed my clothes at a laundromat.

I look down to my boots, the crumbling mud falling onto the pristine marble floor. I can't help but muster a laugh at the sight. I have no briefcase, unlike the other interviewees, let alone any paperwork to hold.

The bag I do carry is old, patches and visible mending holding it together. It was once my mother's, made for her by a man she worked with during what she called the Kermis days. As if the word spiced up what day to day life actually was for the two of us. We spent many hours under the big top, mending costumes and tending to the performers, most never knowing a life without her, or me, as I held tightly to her skirts, afraid to lose her in the shuffle.

I remember how she used to cut their hair with swift movements of her scissors, and the way she used to tend to their blisters and new forming scars with careful touches of homemade salve. I dreamed of the smell night after night, the clover mixing with the leftover firework smoke, powdery and full. During the Kermis days, we never had to worry about the clothes we adorned our body with or the way in which we presented, all of the thoughts busied on the performers as they were sewn into their tight costumes.

I left that life at seventeen, and life seemed to drift away from me. I loaded into a van with a couple of the token "gypsy girls" the derogatory term never escaping them for as long as they worked under that tent. We made our money reading tarot out of the back of the van and taking any odd job we could find as we drove cross country. "We will make it big in the city" We'd laugh like a prayer, each passing city limit sign feeling more like a death wish than a ticket to freedom.

In the years since, we have all lived in a one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city, our revolving schedules and bed sharing became a sort of solstice as we eclipsed each other with tight hugs and well wished words for the days ahead.

"Excuse me, is there a Miss L/N? here" A neutral voice pulls me from my thoughts, dragging me back into the lobby, my eyes still glued on the dirt I've managed to knock from my boots. "Miss L/N?"

"Oh! Hi! Yes I am here!" I stand quickly, absentmindedly pulling the sleeves of my shirt down over my hands, taking the cuffs into balls in my palms. A tall man in a almost fitting dark suit stands in front of the desk I checked in at about a half our ago. He looks at me, eyes wandering over my frame before gesturing me forward with the clipboard in his hands.

I try not to think about the trail of crumbling earth I leave behind me as I walk to him. He turns on his heel, not bothering to speak another word. I follow him down a large hallway, glass on either side allowing for beautiful views of the city. I'd look out them, if I cared to know what the world looked like from this high up, but the anxiety that twists my stomach makes sure to keep my eyes trained on the back of the man's head. His dark hair is beginning to twist at the nape, overdue for a cut. I move a bit to the right of him as he shuffles along, glancing at the length of his too-long sideburns and the way they are beginning to hide the sides of his face.

"You need a haircut." The words slip from my lips before I can stop them. There is no sweetness to the comment, only blunt direction. The tone sounding more like my mother than myself. My eyes go wide as I slap a hand over my mouth. He turns to pull a door open, looking at me with scrutinizing eyes, narrow and impassive.

"I'll take that into account," He deadpans with a crumpled up smirk. He quickly turns his attention inside the room, tilting his head to signal me inside. "Team, this is-" His voice moves to the background of my mind, introducing me to the group of people in the room before disappearing with the closing of the door.

I drag my eyes across the panel of people sitting on the plush furniture. Each wears a sticky nametag, names drawn out in pen. Bruce a dark featured, handsome man sits on one of the armchairs, a clipboard in hand. A cute, deep skinned man sits on the sofa next to him, the name Sam scribbled across his nametag. Sat next Sam is a very muscular brunette wearing the name 'Bucky'. Next to him is a very normal appearing man wearing a bright smile, my eyes dash down to the nametag- Scott. An unassuming name for an unassuming man. My eyes wander over to the loveseat where a beautiful young girl is sitting, the name Kate on her nametag in scribbles.

"Cricket?" A small voice whispers, sounding from the corner of the group. The nickname makes my heart jump, adrenaline soring through me at the drop of a hat. Cricket, a nickname I haven't heard since I left the big top. My gaze jumps from Kate to the man sitting next to her, his face a scrunched up mix of amazement and confusion. There is a murmur among the group as they look amongst each other for some sort of clarification.

I finally make eye contact with the owner of the voice, bravery surging through me. I look over his features more closely this time. Time has written itself onto his soft features, dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. I would know those eyes anywhere, their soft blue gray burned into my memory.

"Frass," The name spills from my lips, the end catching in my throat a bit. We hold eye contact like it's fragile, too heavy to let go of, to break, eyes boring into each other's. The memories of us spill into my head like oil slick, slippery, coating any other thought with their sticky image.

"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep trying to sew this up in the dark, and your Mama will have your head if I bleed on this costume," Clint scolds warningly, fidgeting beneath my touch.

"Well if you stopped moving I could sew this up and get you out before your cue with a proper costume," I stitch the sleeve to the yolk of his shirt carefully, the needle moving easily through the fabric. I stand carefully on a stool to reach the rip with ease. "Or I can send you out there with it ripped and we can see who's head my mother will have then." The archer huffs out a mumble of an apology, bouncing carefully on his toes. I keep sewing, moving along with his gentle motions, careful not to poke him with the needle.

"You know, you're pretty good at this for a kid." He sends the backhanded compliment my way, the words stinging my heart. I hum at him, a makeshift thank you.

"You know, as the adult here, I could leave you to fix your own costume." I inform him, bite in my voice, pulling the last stitch through. He fumbles around with the bow in his hands, fingertips brushing over it's length. "And I am twelve, basically a teenager, not a kid, and my birthday is coming up. Next week. " I tell him, cutting the thread with my teeth. I whisper the last part, trying not to over hint.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Cricket." He laughs, turning to face me. I make a spin motion with my finger. He holds his arms out and spins, allowing me to take in the rest of his costume in full.

"You're all set," I tell him, pushing the needle into the pincushion on my wrist. "Why do you call me that, anyway?"

"You'd hate the reason, Cricket." He laughs again, brushing a hand through his spiky hair. I huff at the man as I climb off of the stool. "Okay fine, if you really want to know. It's because you've always been such a small thing, and you always hum while you work, just like your mom." He states coolly. I can't help but roll my eyes. "See, I knew you'd hate it!"

I pluck the stool from the ground as I turn to wander off. "You know what, Clint Francis," I turn back to him, now standing a few feet away, "Just for that, you've earned yourself a new nickname." He quirks an eyebrow at me, still visible in the low light behind the curtains as he tries to hide the disgust that flashes across his face from hearing his middle name. A devilish smirk creeps over my lips as I look at him. "Have a good show, Frass." I wave at him with a wiggle of my fingers.

"What does that even mean? He questions me, eyebrows knit together but a small smile plays at his lips. I stop in my tracks, turning around to meet his gaze once more.

"Francis the ass," I state, corners of my mouth curling up into a deeply devious smirk. I don't even wait for a response before I turn to leave.

"Hey, Cricket!" He calls after me, "You're the most annoying kid sister I've ever had!"

"Not your sister, Frass." I shout behind me as I push a curtain to the side, ready to disappear out into the lot. "Go shoot something, would you?"

I always knew my little crush on the much older boy was silly, something I was teased for by my mother. Maybe it wasn't even a crush, maybe it was a sort of knowing, that his soul and mine were made of the same stardust. My mom used to laugh when I'd say that, a knowing look falling over her features. "Whatever you say, sweet pea, whatever you say." She would repeat as she brushed her hands over my hair. "You can love him when you are an adult. Then ten years won't be such a big difference, okay?" I would roll my eyes at her, fingers working over a costume piece as I worked on my invisible stitches.

Clint held a special place in my heart, a new sort of love I never knew how to name. Cashmere told me one night as she read my tarot that we had a destiny, the universe pulling us together. She said it in a teasing way, maybe to help justify my young feelings. Her words only cemented what I already knew, Clint and I came from the same stuff, the borealis where souls were made. Essence shimmering in the great nebula, stardust turned sentient.

I counted down the days until adulthood, but I only made it 547 days before Clint left the circus, leaving me behind at the tender age of fourteen.

"Is anyone going to fill us in here?" Sam breaks the silence. I can't seem to look anywhere but Clint, my eyes tracing over his figure. He wears a dark purple tee-shirt and a pair of black cargo pants, his muscle visible beneath the clothing. I fight off a smile.

"Right, right, hello." I finally speak to the rest of the room. I turn to nod a 'thank you' to the man who walked me into the room only to find out he had already disappeared. I try to fight off the embarrassment that crawls over my skin, leaving pinpricks in it's wake, turning my skin a bright shade of crimson as I walk over to the empty armchair next to Bruce. "My name is Y/N L/N, it's nice to meet you all," I offer my kindest smile, eyes drawing themselves back to Clint. I want to hit him, or hug him, or both. Maybe I just crave the feeling of his skin.

"And you're here for the job interview, right?" Bruce asks, his voice wavering slightly. I nod, running my sweat slick hands over the tops of my jeans. I look at Bruce, eyebrows raised in an attempt to seem inviting. I smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"I know we are supposed to ask questions about the interview, but I've gotta know more about what's going on here," Kate speaks as she looks around the room. She is picking at the ends of her hair with her fingertips like she is scrutinizing every split end. Clint adverts his eyes at her words, focusing his line of sight straight at the floor in front of his feet. The group voices agreements with Kate as they look between us again, each deciding on who they want to focus on with a trained gaze. Thankfully almost everyone settles on Clint, eyeing him carefully, but he doesn't acknowledge them.

"We sorta grew up together," I finally speak, folding my arms across my chest. "But, uhh, he left before I was grown." The tension in the air between us grows thicker the longer the silence lingers in the air. A guilty look falls over Clint's features, a blush crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. I stifle a laugh, if anyone should be embarrassed for how the situation went down, it should be me. But it's not like he would know anything of it.

"Mom, what are you doing with Clint's costume?" I question her, pulling out a stool to sit at the table next to her. She is making quick work of pulling off all the sequence and trim, sorting them into piles, small and careful. She looks up at me with sad eyes, a smile pressed over the thin lines of her lips.

"Oh Cricket, honey," She begins, tears welling up in her big brown eyes, "I don't know how to tell you this, but," She sets down the costume, holding her hands out to me. I take them cautiously, her bulbus joints creaking as she closes her hands around mine. "Clint left a couple of days ago, we were all hoping that he would be coming back, but there has been no sign of him. So, Mr. Carson is having me take his costume apart to save on materials for the new one we will have to make when they find someone to fill his place," She explains each bit slowly and carefully, running her thumbs over the backs of my hands to try and comfort the storm she knows is brewing within me.

I can feel my chest tighten, tears pushing out through my tightly closed eyes. I don't want to believe her. Clint wouldn't just leave, especially without saying goodbye. I can feel a distant sob escape me, my head too clouded with thoughts. I can feel my mom pull me into her arms, snaking them around me in a tight embrace. She coos and shushes me as the tears stream down my face.

That was the first of many instances like this that took over my life for the next sixteen months.

I can feel the long forgotten emotions begin to wrap themselves around my ribcage, causing a cough to crawl up the dryness of my throat. "Anyway, let's get this interview going, shall we?" I ask, pulling a cheek numbing smile onto my face. I try and push down the hurt, but it just squeezed me tighter.

"Of course," Sam coughs, clearing his throat of all the tension, "So, I suppose you know we are interviewing for an assistant. We are looking for someone to move into the compound up state and watch over everything up there. We all come and go so often for missions its hard to do simple things like grocery shopping. We try and keep up with each other's schedules, but we need someone to work as the go between when we aren't all in the same place. We do have a maid service, so you wouldn't need to worry about that." Sam explains, running a finger down his clipboard.

"Okay, sounds easy enough." I acknowledge with a nod of my head.

"What kind of skills do you have?" Scott counters, "How would you be any better than the rest of the people we have already spoken to today?" His tone is curious, not at all daunting.

"Well, I can cook, I can sew. I basically kept the big top turning after my mom passed away. That is, managing people time and making sure everyone was on the same page when shit hit the fan and we would have to move acts around." I explain, gesturing with my hands. "I am also quiet, and clean, despite my current appearance-"

"Mama died?"

"Clint, you were in a circus?"

Bucky and Clint speak at the same time, interrupting me. I can feel his eyes burrowing into my profile, and I know that if I look I will see tears in his eyes. I couldn't handle that, I know I couldn't.

"Yes, she did. When I was fifteen." I explain, wringing my hands. I stifle down more feeling of hurt before I continue. "But as I was saying, I haven't had any complaints when it comes to roommates, and I keep my word. Clint can vouch for that one." I pin that on him, knowing that he owes me as much. His name left my lips and it felt clunky on my tongue. I haven't called him 'Clint' in years, and it hurt.

The group gaze flickers over to Clint, and he just nods, a half hearted murmur crawling out of his lips. He has his head buried in his hands, elbows to knees. I can feel the pang of hurt run through me at the sight of him like this. It has always hurt the same way.

"Well, this has been, interesting. I think we will cut it here, take a break. Thank you for coming in. We will give you a call when we make our final decision." Bruce speaks, pulling my attention to him. He stands, holding his hand out for me to shake. I take it with a firm squeeze, just how Clint taught me so many years ago.

I bid the rest of the group goodbye before walking out the door. I follow back down the large hallway, the shock of the last fifteen minutes rising in me. By the time I reach the lobby, I can feel the broken pieces of my heart start to wobble in their place. After years of stuffing down the feelings of heartbreak and abandonment from Clint and his reaction to my mother's passing, all the old emotions seem to rush back through me.

I know I shouldn't hurt, so much life has passed since it all happened, but all I can think of now is the pressure of it all against my ribcage and the ever looming prayer that repeats itself over and over and over again. "Do not call me, do not call me, do not call me."

I duck into a nearby bathroom, crashing hard against the tile floor in front of the toilet before a mix of bile and anguish escapes me. I empty my stomach into the porcelain, the smell of lemon cleaner and bleach numbing the soreness of my chest. Tears leave hot, wet trails down my cheeks.

All I can think about is the last encounter I had with Clint before he left the big top. The way he spoke to me, soft and feathery.

"Hey Cricket, can I ask you something?" Clint grabs my bicep as I walk by, a big bowl of chili in my hands. Everyone is gathered around a caravan, dinner being served before we turn in for the night. The show has long ended, the crowds disappearing with the smell of popcorn and sickly sweet cotton candy.

"Yeah, Frass, what's up?" I peer up into his eyes, my heart thrumming against my chest.

"Are you happy here?" He questions, not quite meeting my eyes. I scrunch my eyebrows with question, never having expected those words to come out of his mouth. I think over them for just a second, mulling thoughts turning over in my head like acrobats.

"Of course I am," I chuckle a bit, "I can't imagine life anywhere else. This is all I've ever known, and these guys are my family, well most of them anyway." I let my eyes graze over the group around us, taking in each of their faces in a brief sweep. A warm feeling blooms in my chest.

Fourteen, living the life most people dream of, in love with a man I've known for most of my life, and a large chosen family, who wouldn't be happy with a life like mine? Clint lets out a strangled chuckle after a moment, his hand finally dropping from my arm only to run anxiously through his hair. I offer him a soft smile.

"Yeah, of course." He answers after another moment, eyes finally catching mine. He reaches up carefully to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch innocent and sweet. My smile blooms a bit wider.

"You're really a good kid, you know that?" He offers, his words holding a bit of sadness even with the upturned swing of them as they leave his lips.

"I'm not a kid, Frass" I remind him, pushing his shoulder. He just smiles down at me, squeezing my shoulder lightly before turning to the caravan. He walks away without another look back.

A few days later, I sit in the bathtub at the apartment, fully clothed with no water in the tub. The only place with any sort of quiet. I turn the pages of the novel in my hand, reading the words but none of them make it to my brain. My mind keeps drifting back to the interview and how strange the whole situation was.

It hit me yesterday, that the group was the Avengers, or what was left of them, I suppose. I interviewed for an assistant position with the damn Avengers, and Clint was there, barely making an effort to look at me. Maybe I shouldn't even be surprised with what the world has been through the past few years. At this point, you could tell me just about anything and I'd believe it.

My phone rings loudly, vibrating against the bottom of the tub, causing me to jump. I grab it quickly, answering it with a cool hello.

"Hey, hi, is this Cricket, I mean, Y/N, is this Y/N?" I cringe a little at the nickname coming over the phone.

"This is," I finally speak, my voice wavering in question, "How can I help you?"

"This is Sam, from the job interview" He notifies me. I swallow thickly, a lump forming in my throat.

"What can I do for you, Sam?" I wring my hands together, a new layer of sweat beginning to coat my palms. Fuck all of this nervous energy.

"I am calling to offer you the job. We all talked after you left and Clint spoke so highly of you, I mean, we all agreed that there couldn't be anyone better for the job after he told us some stories." My blood runs cold at his words. I flip through the memories in my brain, trying to figure out what Clint might have told them.

Before I can even think, the words leave my mouth like I am possessed. "Sam, I'd be honored to take the position." I later blame the hasty decision on the hunger that panged through me, and the yearning in my soul to be surrounded by people again, working and serving and creating.

A month goes by and I have completely moved into the upstate compound. Life is different now, steady most days. I grocery shop and tidy up the messes the team leaves after they ravage the compound when they come home from missions. I cook for them too, even though Bruce insists it wasn't a part of my job. It feels right in my soul, so I do it anyway.

I haven't seen Scott, Kate, or Sam since I moved into the compound. They have been on mission since shortly after my initial interview. I can't decide if that's better or worse than having Clint here, avoiding my eyes like he did before. We pass each other in the hall, or in the common areas, and each and every time he averts his eyes from me. I don't think he has said anything not work related to me since I moved in and it makes my soul ache.

A few months go by and no progress has been made between us. I can't help but look at him, snagging glances as we pass each other, or in meetings. The compound seems lonelier when he is on mission, and I breathe easier when he is here. Maybe I should push past this childhood crush, even if that means breaking my own heart.

I push the thought out of my head as I finish brushing my teeth. I spit the suds into the sink before rinsing out my mouth. I point at myself in the mirror, toothbrush still in hand.

"Do not mourn those who are still living, it's a waste of precious heart space," I tell myself, repeating the words my Mom used to say to the performers after they went through breakups. She used to then turn to me and tell me not to date my coworkers, a goofy smile spread over her lips. I would roll my eyes at her.

A knock at my door pulls me from the mirror pep talk. I throw my toothbrush back into the drawer before headed to the door. I pull it open, the sight of Clint greets me. I try and wipe the confused look from my face, the harsh line between my brows only easing slightly.

"Hey," He whispers, avoiding my eyes. He fumbles with his hands a bit, pulling on his fingers.

"Hi," I respond, the word barely loud enough to hear.

"Can I come in?" He questions, eyes meeting the middle of my face, not quite making it to my eyes, but definitely closer this time. I step aside, pulling the door open wider in invitation. Clint pads into the room just far enough for me to close the door behind him.

I look him over carefully as he stands awkwardly in my small living room. The dark colors of his clothes standing out against the light gray of the undecorated room. He looks like hell, deep lines of exhaustion making purchase over the tenderness of his features. The dark flesh under his eyes almost eclipse the pale blue of his iris's, offsetting their normally bright color. His hair stands up in all directions. Sweat and dirt coat his whole body, smudges greasy on the light skin of his face.

"You look like hell, Frass," I finally speak. I want to reach out and touch him, run my thumbs over the fullness of his cheeks, the apex of his lips, allowing the dirt to coat my fingertips. He chuckles a bit, light and scratchy.

"You look," He stumbles a bit, "Grown up," He finally decides on his words, bringing his lower lip between his teeth.

"I'm sure I do, it's been a long time since we talked like this," My smile falters a bit, wavering at my words. My lungs burn in my chest. "You've grown into yourself, I think," I drink him in, dirt and all. He is even more handsome than he was back then, I think, or maybe it's because I now see him through the eyes of a women, the way he is meant to be seen. A bit of guilt settles in me for looking at him so unbashful, but as he stands here in my living room, I can't help but take him in. He can't run from my gaze here.

He smiles at me this time, but its fleeting. The feeling that blooms in my chest however, isn't.

"I came to ask you about something, but I'm not sure you're going to remember it," Clint looks almost defeated at the thought, and the look on his face crushes the joy in my chest just a little.

"Okay." That's the only word I can manage. I nod, though, my lips falling into a small and tense almost-smile.

"I talked to your Mom before I left," He starts, coughing a bit to try and clear the tension, "I asked her about a rumor that was going around." I nod at him, urging him to keep talking, "But she, she wouldn't tell me if it was true or not, so I guess I am asking you if it is." He takes a step closer but there is still a world of unknown space and unsaid words between us.

I can barely think with his body this close to mine, the fog of decade old feelings clouding my judgement. It tastes sweet, nostalgic and comforting, like a glass of sun tea.

"I heard that you used to say that we were made up of the same stuff. Something about souls being created together." He mumbles the words like he is unsure of how they are supposed to be said. I can feel pinpricks of a blush blooming over my skin. His words hang in the air between us, time stopping for just a moment, freezing us in place.

Maybe, if this were eight, or four, or two years ago, I would crumble. If it was six months ago, I might be able to take them with a shot of forty proof nausea. But now, I only bristle a bit, more under his gaze than around his words.

"Yeah, what about it?" I finally question. I hate the words as soon as I say them, wishing I could snatch them right out of the air. Erase them from our history. But I know if I could, I wouldn't stop, rewinding my life to the last conversation we had about happy lives and I would lie and tell him I was just as miserable as him, and maybe he would've taken me with him.

"Did you mean it?" He looks pained, the words hanging over him, or maybe they are dragging him down.

I laugh and it's the loudest sound that has occurred between us in years.

"Frass, you came here to ask me about a childhood crush?" I lie a bit, the crush began in childhood, but I am still doing everything in my power to deny it's current existence. His eyes go a bit wide, but he tries to crinkle the rest of his expression to cover it up. I can't help but let a low chuckle fill the room again, the sound breaking through the dense air.

"Yeah, sort of, I guess," He runs a hand through his hair, but it does nothing to tame his messy locks, and I suspect it does nothing to quell his anxiety either.

"Sit, would you?" I gesture to the sofa, my voice soft. He moves to sit, not caring about the dirty he is covered in. "What exactly do you want to know, Frass?" He flounders for a moment, mouth opening and closing without a sound.

"What exactly did you tell your Mom? That's the first question,"

I smile at the memory, playing it over in my brain on fast forward.

"I told her only a bit, at first. I said that your soul and mine were made of the same stardust. She laughed at the thought, no doubt telling other people about it, because they would tease me all around the big top, and that's probably how you heard it. She knew I was in love, well, as in love as a kid could be, you know?" Clint nods at my words, taking them in carefully. "After you left, especially after she got sick, I told her more and more about the little moment we shared, and about how much I loved you. She always said it made her happy to see how happy you made me, even if it was just talk of memories."

"When did you leave?" Clint asks, his voice low, barely there.

"I left shortly after I turned seventeen. I left with Cashmere, Cherry, and Jacinda. We got in a van and travelled across the country. Those girls saved my soul, in a way, got me here. I owe them a lot. I was slipping before we left." I shake my head to get that thought out of my brain.

Clint scoots closer, placing a tentative hand on my knee. I take in the feeling of his hand on my body again, for the first time in so long, but his touch is gone before I can commit it to memory.

"Cashmere agrees with me, you know. Stardust turned sentient." I mumble the last part, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth.

"I like that." Clint smiles to himself, eyes closed, corners of his lips turned upward. For the first time he looks content.

"What was your other question?" I ask with a light voice, trying my best to not disturb the calm that has fallen over him.

"You said you loved me. Was that part true?" He seems hesitant to ask, but does anyway, avoiding eye contact. I don't blame him.

"Of course I do, Frass. We grew up together. I have loved you since I was eight. Of course, back then I just liked that I wasn't invisible, but you know what I mean."

"How could you be invisible when you clung to your Mom's skirts so tight that your knuckles were chronically white?" He laughs, the bright sound filling the room. I smile at that, a full smile that reaches my eyes.

"Do you love me now?" His eyes meet mine, a low burning beneath his irises. Maybe this is a trap, but I can't find it in me to care. After all, love is meant to be shared, is it not?

"Yes, Frass, I do love you. Always have, always will."

"Oh thank god," And with that, he grabs me by the wrist and pulls me into his lap, my legs straddling his as he takes my face in his large hands. His rough skin scrapes against my cheeks as he pulls me down to his lips, and the only thing that makes sense anymore is this. My hands wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into the too long hair at the nape of his neck while he kisses me like our lives depend on it, and maybe they do.

"What the hell was that?" I laugh as I push him away, a smile spreading across my lips.

"You have been living here for months now, and I have been slowly falling in love with you since you walked into that meeting room in the city. The sight of you almost killed me, Cricket, and living here at arms length from you has made me realize something. I can't live a second more without you, the stardust that runs through my veins is pulling me towards you and I just can't resist anymore, I love you, Cricket." Clint's eyes never leave mine as he speaks, each word filling me with a warmth that spreads over the whole expanse of my body.

"I love you, too, Frass," I whisper, leaning in to meet his lips again, I stop just before they meet. "Mama was right. All I had to do was wait, it just seemed to take you a long damn time, Clint Francis," Clint chuckles a bit, eyes bright now, standing out against the dirt that coats his face.

"And I thought coming in here and kissing you would be moving too fast," I just roll my eyes at him before closing the distance between us. Stardust calls to stardust, atoms to atoms, me to him and him to me; the feeling of our bodies settling into each other with each gentle touch, each caress of skin or hair, cementing the idea that we are meant of each other. Made from the same stuff.

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