[The house and the fields reminds him of a farm that had once been his own. That had once been home. He walks out among the bushes because it feels so warm and inviting under the sunlight, even when the leather he wears makes that familiarity a lie. If he closes his eyes and thinks about it, allows himself to forget just enough to believe it, he can almost picture Lila and Cooper. He can almost imagine Laura- her smile, and the kids' faces.
He knows he wont find them here, but he lets himself walk among the bushes, pausing occasionally to pick the ripest ones to place in the basket. Something to take back with him, at least. Losing his family had changed who he was, the Decimation might not have touched this place, but it didn't make him Clint again. They were still dead, and he was a murderer. He'd killed before, of course. But it was always in service to someone, something else.
A soldier for the army, then for SHIELD- there was a difference in completing a mission and the campaign that he's waging these days. Put down the bad because it was the only way he could make it make sense. The only way he could live with what happened, the hole that ached inside of him. But eventually, the blueberry basket is set down next to him, napping in black leather in July is maybe not a great choice, but the draw was so irresistable.]
Where's Lila? The hot dogs are about done.
[The words murmured in his sleep. Meaningless, and yet there's a weight to it, to the dreams. Because he knows. Even dreaming, when he can let himself believe it-- he still knows.]
II. Nine, Ten, Never Sleep Again
[The horrors that Clint dreams to life are more subtle, more tragic. Ashes and screams. Voices that call for help, leaving behind only silence and a whisper of ash on the wind that sticks to the leather of his gloves like no one was ever there. Nothing to fight, to run from. Just inevitability, and the reminder of loss.
The voices are indistinct, sounds from around the corner, and his fingers clutch against the hilt of the blade that he carries, his face still hidden in the mask that he wears in public. Hurried footsteps on the stairs, a whisper of something like wind and then the unearthly silence stretched too thin, death that lurks just out of sight.
It strains, weighs against him. He follows it out into the street, and as the whispers vanish again he's left bundled in too tight, aching to lash out-- But he pushes it down, for the moment. The only way he stopped from melting into a ball of hate was to put rules on it. And strangers that happened to be too close didn't fit the bill. It comes again: a young girl, though the words are still indistinct, and he fights the urge to chase after her, knowing what waits as he looks toward someone whose eye he seemed to have caught. Ashes on the air and the vague scent of death.]
Can't tell if I'm still dreaming.
III. Keep Your Head Down
[He tends toward wearing his gear most of the time, just because, well there are people around he's not exactly looking forward to running into. Conversations he doesn't want to have. Some of whom were supposed to be dead. The mask at least offered a certain barrier to that, anonymity. But now he's just looking around town, hoodie pulled down low as he picks up some essentials for the house he'd woken up in. Which was his now, apparently.
He has no interest in the lobster festival, but it's a little hard to avoid regardless. People cuddling, drunks that have had one too many, people with their lobster ice cream cones. The kids would have liked it, he thinks. Even with them gone, he still finds those thoughts creeping through his awareness. Like he could grab a pint or take a picture back to them. Like all he has to do is make it back to the farm, and they'll be waiting for him. Like always.
The punch in the gut always comes, though. And he pauses, leans against the wall to catch his breath. They're still dead, still gone. Maybe you notice something's wrong with him, or he's just blocking foot traffic.]
V. Wildcard!
[So, Clint is going to be leaning into the whole Ronin persona, and avoiding owning up to being Clint Barton aka Hawkeye, so hit me up if anyone wants to call him on it. Elsewise, he's sad and angry and not feeling very superhero these days. natalia_vdova hit me up if you want to plot something specific or have questions you want to ask!]
Ronin | Clint Barton | MCU | Spoilers, yo
[The house and the fields reminds him of a farm that had once been his own. That had once been home. He walks out among the bushes because it feels so warm and inviting under the sunlight, even when the leather he wears makes that familiarity a lie. If he closes his eyes and thinks about it, allows himself to forget just enough to believe it, he can almost picture Lila and Cooper. He can almost imagine Laura- her smile, and the kids' faces.
He knows he wont find them here, but he lets himself walk among the bushes, pausing occasionally to pick the ripest ones to place in the basket. Something to take back with him, at least. Losing his family had changed who he was, the Decimation might not have touched this place, but it didn't make him Clint again. They were still dead, and he was a murderer. He'd killed before, of course. But it was always in service to someone, something else.
A soldier for the army, then for SHIELD- there was a difference in completing a mission and the campaign that he's waging these days. Put down the bad because it was the only way he could make it make sense. The only way he could live with what happened, the hole that ached inside of him. But eventually, the blueberry basket is set down next to him, napping in black leather in July is maybe not a great choice, but the draw was so irresistable.]
Where's Lila? The hot dogs are about done.
[The words murmured in his sleep. Meaningless, and yet there's a weight to it, to the dreams. Because he knows. Even dreaming, when he can let himself believe it-- he still knows.]
II. Nine, Ten, Never Sleep Again
[The horrors that Clint dreams to life are more subtle, more tragic. Ashes and screams. Voices that call for help, leaving behind only silence and a whisper of ash on the wind that sticks to the leather of his gloves like no one was ever there. Nothing to fight, to run from. Just inevitability, and the reminder of loss.
The voices are indistinct, sounds from around the corner, and his fingers clutch against the hilt of the blade that he carries, his face still hidden in the mask that he wears in public. Hurried footsteps on the stairs, a whisper of something like wind and then the unearthly silence stretched too thin, death that lurks just out of sight.
It strains, weighs against him. He follows it out into the street, and as the whispers vanish again he's left bundled in too tight, aching to lash out-- But he pushes it down, for the moment. The only way he stopped from melting into a ball of hate was to put rules on it. And strangers that happened to be too close didn't fit the bill. It comes again: a young girl, though the words are still indistinct, and he fights the urge to chase after her, knowing what waits as he looks toward someone whose eye he seemed to have caught. Ashes on the air and the vague scent of death.]
Can't tell if I'm still dreaming.
III. Keep Your Head Down
[He tends toward wearing his gear most of the time, just because, well there are people around he's not exactly looking forward to running into. Conversations he doesn't want to have. Some of whom were supposed to be dead. The mask at least offered a certain barrier to that, anonymity. But now he's just looking around town, hoodie pulled down low as he picks up some essentials for the house he'd woken up in. Which was his now, apparently.
He has no interest in the lobster festival, but it's a little hard to avoid regardless. People cuddling, drunks that have had one too many, people with their lobster ice cream cones. The kids would have liked it, he thinks. Even with them gone, he still finds those thoughts creeping through his awareness. Like he could grab a pint or take a picture back to them. Like all he has to do is make it back to the farm, and they'll be waiting for him. Like always.
The punch in the gut always comes, though. And he pauses, leans against the wall to catch his breath. They're still dead, still gone. Maybe you notice something's wrong with him, or he's just blocking foot traffic.]
V. Wildcard!
[So, Clint is going to be leaning into the whole Ronin persona, and avoiding owning up to being Clint Barton aka Hawkeye, so hit me up if anyone wants to call him on it. Elsewise, he's sad and angry and not feeling very superhero these days.