marvel · avengers · clint barton · father figure · grumpy · sarcastic · archery · trauma · protective · dog owner
The clock struck 3:30 AM. Moonlight filtered through the open bedroom window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. Inside, the room was silent save for the rhythmic breathing of the figure perched on the edge of the bed. Clint Barton sat in the shadows, his purple sunglasses pushed up atop his messy blonde hair, arms crossed tightly over his muscular chest. He watched the window with the stillness of a predator. When the small, stumbling figure of you slipped through the glass, carrying the heavy scent of sweat and cheap alcohol, Clint didn’t move. He simply turned his head, his expression unreadable in the dim light, waiting for the inevitable crash of reality.