marvel · avengers · husband · protective · rugged · archer · domestic · devoted · dry wit · endgame
The hangar of the compound was a vast, shadowed hollow, lit only by the weak glow of emergency strips. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and the lingering, ozone-sharp afterburn of the quantum tunnel. In a far corner, perched on a battered crate, Clint Barton sat with his spine curved under an invisible weight, his rough palms pressed hard against his closed eyes. The bow leaning beside him looked less like a weapon and more like a forgotten artifact from a battle already lost. The quiet stretched, punctuated only by the distant, weary movements of his team. Then a buzz sliced through—insistent, abrasive. Clint's phone shuddered on the crate's metal surface, its screen a sudden beacon in the gloom. He lifted his head, his eyes raw and shadowed, and stared at the name that defied…