Author's Note: So in the annual Be_Compromised Promptathon, my friend Inkvoices asked for this: Clint Barton didn't give up collecting strays just because he became an Avenger. AKA how did it take until Wanda for the other Avengers to notice? (Or a 5 times fic for each time an Avenger notices?) This really is not that story. But it is a five-times fic about Clint and strays. So maybe that counts just a little bit…?

Thanks to JRBarton for the ultra-quick beta.

Five Times Clint Barton Picks Up A Stray

(And One Time A Stray Picks Him)

1.

The kitten looks like it hasn't eaten in days, and there are bald patches in its fur. But its bony little body vibrates with pure pleasure when Clint rubs its head, and it slinks up against and around his bare legs with a softness he's only ever felt when holding his bear.

"Are you hungry?" he asks the little creature.

Clint's voice still sounds a little strange to him, like he's hearing it through a pile of pillows. The doctor says his ears may fix themselves; they'll have to, since Daddy won't pay for the medicine. Which kinda makes sense, since it wasn't an infection that hit Clint on the side of his head no matter what Mom told the doctor, and if there's something you can take to get better from being whacked, well, he's never heard of it

The kitten meows, almost as if it understands his question. At least Clint thinks it's meowing, its mouth is open and it rubs itself against his leg again.

"Wait here," he says, and heads for the kitchen window. "Mom, can I have a sandwich?"

Mom usually says something about not eating between meals – which Barney had whispered was a lie, there just wasn't that much food around, ever. But she still feels bad over the ear thing and that means a bit more food for Clint, until it totally runs out or Dad finds out. Worth taking the chance, and sure enough, a sandwich gets handed to him through the open window.

"Thanks, Mom!" he says, even though Dad isn't around to smack him over the head as a reminder to be polite.

Clint holds the sandwich out to the kitten who almost does a cartwheel, it's so excited, and heads to his place behind the barn.

"Here," he says, ripping off a piece of the pink stuff. "But don't think you can move in with us, 'coz that just wouldn't go too well."

He watches the kitten scarf down the meat and look at him for more. Too bad – Clint likes baloney, but he figures this time he can just eat the bread. The butter tastes a bit of baloney, so that's good. They eat in silence, the kitten with an urgency Clint knows only too well.

When they're done, the kitten puts its head against his open hand and rubs hard; it's really soft, even the bald spots. It purrs again, and this time Clint can almost hear it.

...

2.

"Get rid of that mangy old cur, Barton. This is a circus, not the Humane Society."

"The what?"

Clint's hearing has been getting better, but that's not a thing he's ever heard about. He makes his eyes big, so Carson will know he's not sassing him but wants to learn something. The guy who owns the circus is miles better than Dad, but he's not above giving you a whacking if you screw up. The eye thing works, sort of. Carson doesn't raise his hand.

"God, you're stupid. Those parents of yours, didn't they teach you anything? The Humane Society is a place where they keep lost animals and feed them until someone wants them." He scrunches his eyes up, and gives first Clint, then the wheezing mutt the side eye. "And if nobody does, they kill 'em. Nicely, of course."

Clint senses an opening, and decides to take a risk.

"A circus needs animals, dunnit? Maybe I can teach him some tricks?"

Carson lets out a quick snort.

"That old dog? Tell ya what, kid. You got two weeks. Two weeks, one trick. Something people will clap for. Any food for that thing comes from your share. Yours, not your brother's – he's the sensible one."

And with that, he turns with a swirl of his red performance cloak and heads for his car.

Carson is one of a small handful of people the Carnival of Traveling Wonders who gets his own, which is fair enough since he owns the thing. Clint and Barney have to share Car Thirty-Six with the Fat Lady, Selma, and two of the roustabouts that nobody knows what their names are. People call them Larry-and-Moe, but Clint suspects Larry (or Moe) may be a girl.

Larry-and-Moe aren't exactly thrilled at having to give up more of their space; Selma takes up a ton already. They glare a lot, but when one of them gets drunk they just go to sleep instead of looking for someone to hit.

And there's a bonus to the arrangement: The Fat Lady has to, well, stay fat and so there's always bones to be had in the car, which is about the only thing she won't eat. (Barney claims he even saw her chew on the Swordsman's dick once during a matinee, which if that's true - ew.) Anyway, that evening Clint offers to take out the garbage and not only does he get a grateful pat on the head from Selma, he scores a couple of bones for Cur.

Pretty soon that becomes a nightly routine, despite Barney's razzing - like he would eat them bones himself if you gave him one. Selma figures out what's going on pretty quick and starts dropping things off her plate, pretending not to notice, and says nothing when Clint picks them up and sneaks them to Cur.

A couple days later, Clint finds a tin of dog food on his sleeping pad and Larry gives him a silent nod and doesn't glare. There's another tin a couple days later. By the end of the first week, Cur looks a lot better and his fur is starting to grow back.

The trick thing, though, turns out to be a lot trickier.

Cur is absolutely not interested in walking on his hind legs (well, okay, one of them is pretty mangled) and he won't bark on command or jump through a flaming hoop, either. He can't even bark – all he can do is stick out his tongue and pant. Besides, between earning his keep by doing chores around the tent and learning some arrow shooting from Trickshot, Clint is way too busy to teach the old mutt anything useful or cool. The only thing he seems to have figured out is to warm Clint's – and occasionally Selma's - feet at night.

The days tick by, and it looks like Cur's time's gonna be up come Friday. As if Clint didn't have enough stuff to feel bad about, like being born.

Sure enough, Friday night, the performance is done and there's Carson, looming in the entrance of the trailer. A toothpick hangs from his lip and he's strumming his fingers on the side of the door.

"Well?" he says. "That thing still here?"

Clint doesn't know what to say, because there isn't anything. He grabs Cur and holds him as tightly as he can, shaking his head and trying hard not to cry. Barney rolls his eyes at that, probably because he wants to show the boss that he's got nothing to do with this shit, that it's all Clint's fault. Which it is, of course.

But then Selma sits up on her mattress with a wheeze, her belly rolls spilling over her legs.

"Leave the kid be, Carson," she grumbles. "And the dog. No skin of your fuckin' teeth. They pullin' their weight jes fine."

Larry-and-Moe nod in unison, "Yeah, man." Which is about as much as they've ever said to anyone.

Carson just stands there for a minute and Clint almost forgets to breathe. Finally, he speaks.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says, spits out the toothpick and claps slowly. "Who'd a thunk it. You got that dog to turn Selma into a lioness, and teach Tweedledum and Tweedledee here to talk. The Miracle of Car Thirty-Six. Congrats, Barton, you win."

And with that he's gone. Cur's still there.

That night everyone stays up late. The roustabouts pass a bottle around (the stuff burns Clint's throat, but Barney takes a deep swig like a pro), the Fat Lady sings a beautifully sad song, Cur moves from feet to feet, and the trailer feels nice and warm.

...

3.

The days after someone steps on an IED are always the worst. There's the sundown service at the base, followed next day by the ramp ceremony at the airfield, when the coffin gets loaded on the plane to the sound of Taps.

And at one point there's the piss-up, where guys pretend turn over a glass for a fallen comrade, but really what most of them are doing is proving to themselves they're still alive. Outside the wire and in the provinces every camp is dry, but here in Kabul, booze is easy enough to come by for those who know where to go.

And sometimes, shit happens.

Clint hears the moan when he heads back from night patrol to his hut at the far end of the camp. He slings his M-24 off his shoulder and disengages the safety. It doesn't take him long to find the source of the sound.

Young guy, Private, looking like he went six rounds with a steamroller and lost. He looks vaguely familiar – new arrival? His tag says "Ahmad". His face and both eyes are badly swollen, his lips split and he's probably missing some teeth. Some of the blood is caked on his skin, no surprise in the dry Kabul air. He must have been lying there for a couple of hours at least.

"You alright, soldier?" Clint asks him, although it's pretty clear he isn't.

The injured man tries to get up but fails, muttering something that sounds like "sorry, Sir," as he crumbles and loses consciousness.

Clint slings his gun back over his shoulder and bends down to pick the guy up. Tiny dude, doesn't weigh much and Clint suspects most of that is his gear. Medical is a bit of a hike but there's no way Ahmad can walk. Fireman's carry it is, until he can flag down some transport.

Of course, there's reports to be made – to both the medics and the MP – and by the time he gets back to his hut, it's pretty late. But despite that the fact that morning comes early, the guys are still awake. Not surprising, really; McIntosh, the guy now in a coffin waiting for his plane home, used to bunk there before his transfer to the 27th.

Call it a wake, if you will.

There's an odd feel in the air, a mix of adrenaline, booze and that frantic hilarity some people get when they've gone over the edge. Clint's neck hair tingles a warning, and he stops at the entrance.

"Whoa, man," Thompson says when he sees the blood on Clint's uniform. His voice is slurred and he's incapable of standing up, even for a superior rank; there's an empty bottle of tequila under his cot. "What happened to you?"

"Found a casualty near the wire," he says. And then he sees that he's not the only one with blood on him; Krasinski's white undershirt has got splatters and Giordino's knucles are rapped in a bloody cloth. "You know anything about that?"

There's a sudden chill in the hut, and it's not from the night air. Krasinski looks to Giordino for support before getting to his feet. He's taller than Clint by about six inches, and outweighs him by at least fifty pounds. If he's the guy that worked Private Ahmad over, the little guy never stood a chance.

"And so what if we did?" he challenges Clint.

"You mean, 'And what if we did, Specialist Barton'," Clint responds. He doesn't usually pull rank, but Krasinski pisses him off. "What'd the guy do to you?"

Giordino gets up and stands, swaying slightly, beside Krasinski.

"He's a fucking A-rab, that's what," he slurs. "Fuckin' murderers, the lot of 'em. Killed Mac, didn't they?"

Nobody else moves, but they're all watching.

"So just to be clear, you admit working the guy over?" Clint assumes there's not much point in explaining the difference between Afghans and Arabs, or that beating up a fellow soldier is a Court Martial offence - not to this lot.

Krasinski is a broken record.

"So what if we did?" he repeats. But then he lurches forward and adds, "You a fuckin' A-rab lover, Barton?"

He takes a swing, easily side-stepped. Clint twists around and, using the big man's own forward momentum, sends him flying with a perfectly placed elbow to the kidney. Krasinski crumbles to his knees and starts retching up whatever he's been drinking.

Giordino, meanwhile, is grubbing for his service revolver, not an easy task giving his state of inebriation. The rest of the hut's occupants let out sounds ranging from shouts to curses, and are hitting the floor. With one fluid motion Clint pulls off the M-24 that's still strapped to his back and, using it like a bayonet, delivers a shattering blow to Giordino's collarbone. His piece clatters uselessly on the ground and a second blow, this one an uppercut to his chin, knocks him across one of the cots.

The whole thing is over almost before it began. Clint looks around to see whether Krasinski and Giordino have any more friends but that doesn't seem the case; they've always been assholes and the rest of the guys seem perfectly content to see them on the floor in a pool of their own vomit. Thompson, suddenly sober, staggers to his feet and heads for the door hollering for the MPs.

Transfers are way above Clint's pay grade, of course, but his superiors aren't idiots and if Specialist Barton wants to play Protector for a potential liability - well, they're only too happy to oblige. Besides, there are two free cots in his hut until the next roto comes in.

Clint introduces the still-bandaged newbie with the words, "Guys, this is Mo Ahmad. He's here to fight the Taliban and find Bin Laden, just like the rest of us. Anyone's got a problem with that, you let me know."

No one does.

...

4.

The thing about working for SHIELD is that once you get a rep for something, like Coulson for those pithy suits or May for her inability to crack a smile, you can pretty much get away with anything. People will just shrug and let you do you - especially when they know you can also kick the shit out of them if they comment.

So when Clint escorts a slightly scratched and dented Russian spy to the SHIELD cafeteria instead of killing her like he was supposed to, he doesn't think people will be fazed. No, he assumes they'll just go, Oh, that whacky Barton and his strays, musta picked up another one, and have another helping of Doreen's meatloaf.

Except Maria Hill, of course - which is why Clint is bringing his prize catch to the cafeteria first instead of to the tenth floor where he's expected for the post-mission debrief. The detour is supposed to gain him another fifteen minutes or so of peace, and probably would have if Hill hadn't been in the coffee queue at that precise moment in time.

"Barton," she frowns, waving her cappuccino at him. "Who's that woman?"

"Well," Clint says. "Shit. It's… ah… complicated."

The Black Widow has been reading the situation like she would a briefing book and doesn't hesitate.

"It's really not," she offers. "I'm supposed to be dead, but Barton decided to let me live, so now I'm here. He says you might offer me a job. If he's wrong about that, I suppose he'll need to kill me after all. Is the coffee here any good?"

The other thing about SHIELD is, when something dramatic or embarrassing happens, you can pretty much not get away without anyone noticing. The cafeteria had fallen deadly quiet right after the first "Barton", and by now all eyes are glued to the coffee section.

Clint looks wistfully at the dessert vitrine, then back at Hill, and sighs.

"That's pretty much it," he says. "Seriously, you should see what Tasha can do with her thighs. It would have been a complete waste … Wait. That came out wrong. Laura would kill me."

Hill takes a sip of her coffee, quite possibly for strength, and looks at the ceiling fixture, also quite possibly for strength.

"You gave her a pet name, Barton? Already? With that cobra you brought back from Jaipur last fall that took at least a week." She watches him shrug at the very interested (and growing) audience in the cafeteria and her jaw hardens. "You've had her for a week already? And without checking in. Tell me it isn't so, Hawkeye."

"She was hurt," he says airily. "I couldn't just leave her, and medical services in Tbilisi suck. She could have died."

"Wasn't that supposed to be the whole point?" Hill sounds exasperated. "As in, your mission, Barton?"

Clint can't stand it any longer. He lifts the plastic door of the dessert display, pries a sticky baklava off the wax paper, and tosses it in his mouth. His eyes briefly close in bliss before he opens them again and fixes Hill with a defiant stare.

"The mission parameters sucked and you know it," he says. "When it comes to policy choices, the Council is about as subtle as a bull humping a Bentley."

"Excuse me?" Natasha interrupts, to remind them she's still there. "That coffee smell will kill me if you don't. You have any change? All I have is rubles. Also, that metaphor was disgusting. "

Clint nods at Doreen, who doesn't usually work the coffee station but has bustled over to see what has everyone so fascinated.

"Latte, honey?" she asks Natasha. "You look like a latte person."

Natasha nods gratefully.

"Extra shot, and caramel if you have it." She flinches a little when Doreen hands her the cup, the holdover of whatever injury had kept them in Georgia, but manages to raise it in toast to Clint. "That's why I prefer the West," she says before taking a sip. "Choices."

Someone (Doreen?) starts clapping; it spreads through the cafeteria and increases in volume until there's a standing ovation. Clint looks at Hill, not even bothering to hide a smug grin now.

"The people have spoken," he says. "There'll be no killin' here today."

He turns to Doreen.

"I think we need a plate of baklava to celebrate. And someone from HR, with some forms and a pen."

...

5.

After Sokovia, the Avengers are divided into two camps: The ones who regard Wanda Maximoff as a potential fifth horsewoman of the apocalypse, and the ones who think they could rein her in. Clint sees something else altogether, and it gnaws at him until he just has to say something.

"Look," he says to Wanda. "I'm sorry. Really, really sorry. I called him a little shit, but he was a good man, and I know how much you loved him. He didn't deserve to die. Especially not for …"

She turns her luminous eyes on him and waves him off before he can finish.

"He didn't do it for you," she says softly. "He did it for himself. For me. For us."

Clint knows better than to argue. He goes over to the waif-like young woman and puts his arms around her shoulders. Whatever Strucker did to the twins in his basement, it obviously didn't involve a lot of food.

Wanda stiffens at his touch at first, but then steps into his embrace and leans her head against his shoulder. Clint touches his cheek to her hair when she starts shaking, tightening his grip as her body heaves with sobs.

He's not sure how long they can possibly remain like this, but he does know this: he'll be there as long as it damn well takes.

...

+1

The apartment is small and dank, the kitchen so tiny that Clint doesn't even have to take a step to close the fridge with his foot. The single window overlooks a back alley where the dumpsters for the entire block are festering in the sun.

One of those places left empty by the Snap, its owners not restored by Wong's magic with the gauntlet. At this point, it looks like they'll never come back. So many haven't. Won't. Can't.

On the positive side, the grimy walls now closing in on Clint are better than being outside, where sunshine and an obscenely blue sky mock his loss.

Laura. Cooper. Lila. Nate.

Maybe one day Clint will adjust to the fact that the Avengers' victory over Thanos was only partial - but today is not that day. For the umpteenth time, he fingers the Glock, grips it with long, still-bandaged fingers, spins it on the table. Butt, you stay. Muzzle, you get to go.

Fuck. For the fifth time, he's looking at the wrong end of the gun. What'd Natasha do, stick a weight in the thing to make sure it always points away?

He's just about to break the rules of the game when there's a loud curse from the alley, and more noise: a growl, the thud of something being thrown into a heap of plastic trash bags and far more disgusting things, followed by a yelp. The cursing continues and recedes; the yelping changes into a scuffling sound, then a series of hoarse, short barks.

Clint looks at the dark, matte form of the gun, the perfect shape to symbolize all the fucks he no longer gives. He reaches for it again when the barking crescendos into an increasingly desperate whine.

Daddy, he hears the voice in his head as clear as a bell. He sounds like he's hurt. Do something!

Slowly, he takes his hands off the gun and gets up. For Lila, he tells himself. For no other reason.

He opens the filthy window and looks out into the alley. There's movement in one of the dumpsters and a desperate scrabbling. A slightly misshapen yellow head with floppy ears briefly surfaces, only to disappear again under the sea of trash. The dumpster is only half full, its rusty walls high; there's not a chance in hell that the dog will be able to get out, not if it's hurt. Which it sounds like it is, judging by the desolate whimpers it now lets out.

Shit. Clint picks up the Glock, slides it into his waistband and heads for the door.

Sure enough, the pathetic excuse for a dog in that dumpster is injured. Kicked, most likely, and more than once; one of its legs is bleeding, as is one of its ears. To top off the picture of misery it presents, the dog looks like it's blind in one eye and hasn't eaten in days. Although it's the size of a runty lab, the animal weighs almost nothing when Clint pulls it out by the scruff of its flea-bitten neck.

Tossed away like so much garbage. Clint feels a momentary kinship with the pathetic creature – until he catches a whiff of the dog's smell, that is. The thing hasn't been in the dumpster for long, but obviously long enough.

"Man, you stink," he wheezes. "Go find a bath somewhere. Now run along."

But the dog doesn't make a move. Instead, he rubs up against Clint's leg and lets out a series of huffs, his tongue lolling out in the process.

"Oh, great," Clint says. "Now you want what? Food? Anti-flea powder? Protection gig, in case the asshole comes back? 'Coz I gotta tell you, adoption ain't in the cards."

It vaguely occurs to Clint that he's probably just spoken more words than in the last two or three days - and that includes ordering several pizzas from one of the joints that survived the apocalypse.

The dog looks up at him with its one good eye, puts his paws on Clint's leg and lets out a single bark.

"Whaddya mean, woof?"

The dog barks again and heads towards the door through which Clint had entered the garbage zone, turning around as if to ask what on Earth that human is waiting for.

"Fair enough," Clint says. "I'll let you out."

Of course, that's not how it works out. Before Clint knows it, the dog follows him up the creaky stairs of the old building and into the dingy apartment. It takes him about twenty seconds to discover yesterday's pizza carton on the kitchen table, with that now dried-up last slice that Clint couldn't be bothered to eat or toss. One jump, and ten seconds later it's gone.

The dog lets out a blissful sigh, makes himself comfortable on the ratty carpet under the table, rests his head on his paws and begins to snore. Oh, great.

Clint's cell rings. It's Natasha again, and this time he picks up. She wants to know if he's still alive.

"Yeah, sort of?"

"You were pretty badly bashed up when we dropped you off," she says, sounding worried. "You sure that place you're in is okay? Stark could put you up in the Tower, you know. A number of the floors are still intact."

Clint demurs.

"This is fine. Plus, I doubt Stark'll take pets."

He hangs up before she can ask the obvious question.

Clint contemplates his new roommate for a moment; the fact that the apartment is suddenly a lot livelier than it had ben just half an hour ago is not lost on him. He carefully takes the Glock out of his pants' waistband and puts it into the kitchen drawer, out of reach of scrabbling paws.

"Second you wake up, you're in for a shower, boy," he says. And then, more softly, "Lucky I found you."