Warnings: language, ridiculously sappy, feel-good, happy ending. Yes, I warn for those.

Many thanks to my beta, irite, for sticking through this and not dying from hyperglycemia in the process.

I do not own The Avengers.

As Clint waited for Fury to pick up the phone, he tried to decide what, exactly, he was going to say. Because 'uh, I want my, um, job back' didn't even sound good in his head.

He got three rings to think about it; on the fourth, Fury picked up.

"This is Fury."

Momentarily, Clint considered just hanging up, but the idea of doing that made him feel like some sort of cowardly twelve year old. He was a lot of things, but 'coward' wasn't one of them (and he wasn't twelve, either), so instead he replied, "Um."

There was a long stretch of silence, until Fury barked, "Barton?"

Clint supposed it was good that his inarticulate humming was so recognizable. "Yes, sir."

More silence, broken after about an eternity by Fury's prompting, "I don't have all day, Barton."

Well, it looked like Fury wasn't going to make this easy. That was okay; Clint wasn't expecting to be coddled. He gritted his teeth. "I, uh, got the file you sent with Nat. Agent Romanoff. The reinstatement stuff?"

"I see."

Clint was again struck with the urge to just hang up—it would be awkward as hell at this point, but the longer this conversation went on, the more obvious it was becoming that Clint wasn't entirely prepared for it. Still, he barreled on, determined to see this through. "I want to come back to work, sir."

"Yeah?" Fury asked, and the disbelief in his voice was evident. "Why's that?"

Yeah, he's really not going to make this easy.

And Clint could understand. Really, he could. Fury needed to know that Clint was truly ready for this. Dedicated. Needed to know that Clint wasn't going to crack, fall back into the pieces that he'd spent three weeks breaking into.

Since Clint was still finding those pieces, still trying to fit them back together, he really did understand where Fury was coming from.

That didn't mean that he didn't resent how much of an asshole he was being about it.

As if sensing a prime opportunity to make himself useful, the cat (who'd draped himself back over the folder of papers Clint had laid out on the couch almost immediately after being moved) sat up and reached out a paw to bat at the cord of the phone charger that still connected Clint's phone to the wall.

Clint ignored this, absently stroking the cat's back. To Fury, he said, "I need to get back to work. Sir."

It didn't answer Fury's question, not really, but instead of commenting on that, Fury just repeated, "I see." He paused. "Have you looked at the paperwork?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fill out the necessary forms. I want to meet with you before we move forward. See if you're actually ready for this. I can fit you in—"

The cat's attack on the phone charger had become more fierce, and now both paws were involved. Flopping over on his side, the cat hugged the cord to his chest and kicked at it with his hind legs.

"Don't do that!" Clint snapped at the cat, unthinking. Then, it dawned on him that he was still talking to the director. Had, in fact, just interrupted him. To yell at his cat. Clint felt a blush creeping into his cheeks.

That's really not the way to prove you're not crazy.

Fury didn't help matters. "Don't do what, Barton?" he asked, sounding some combination of annoyed and concerned, like he was talking to a toddler who'd just injured himself doing something stupid.

Clint decided it was probably better to own up to the situation than to either act like nothing had happened or to lie. Fury would probably see through both. "I'm sorry, sir. I was...talking to my cat."

Fury took this in stride. "Hmm. Can your cat determine if and when you resume employment with my agency?"

Clint sighed. "No, sir."

"Then maybe you could stay focused on the conversation at hand. Now, I was saying that I can fit you in tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. Does that work for you, Barton?"

Going to a meeting at eight o'clock never worked for Clint, but he didn't say that. He just sighed again and answered, "Yes, sir."

"And does it work for your cat?"

The blush that had been fading from his cheeks flared back into Clint's face. Still, his voice was steady when he replied, "I'm sure it does, sir."

"Great. Don't be late, Barton."

"Yes, sir—"

Fury hung up before he could finish. Clint shook his head before tossing his phone onto the couch cushion next to him. He glared down at the cat, who was doing his best to look innocent and adorable.

"You made me look like an idiot, cat," Clint told him, his grumpy tone softened by the way he fondly scratched the cat's belly. "And I don't need any help on that front, I think I've got it under control myself."

He settled into silence, and for almost half an hour, he sat, petting his cat with one hand and massaging his forehead with the other. He didn't know if he was ready to see Fury tomorrow. Sure, he'd turned over a new leaf, but he hadn't even been sober for twenty-four hours. He didn't know if that new leaf was going to stay turned over. Maybe he was being too ambitious, trying to do too much too soon. But he felt that if he didn't start moving now he might never be able to. And that would just be letting Loki win, after all.

Fuck that right to hell.

The cat stood abruptly from where he'd been laying and dashed away. Used to the cat's mood swings, Clint just sighed and settled back into the couch. He cast a quick look at the clock. It was just after 1:00. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable time to have lunch. And having lunch was a nice, normal thing to do. Normal people had lunch all the time, and since he was now a normal person again (Keep telling yourself that, it might come true) he decided to find some food.

Unfortunately, all he had in his fridge was leftover pad Thai and ketchup. And something that might have once been celery.

Normal people go grocery shopping, Barton.

But that sounded hellish, as did eating leftover Thai, so he decided that normal people often go have lunch with their friends, and maybe he should pursue that avenue instead.

As he slipped out of his apartment to head over to Natasha's, he didn't notice his cat slipping out behind him.

Lunch with Natasha was pleasant enough. Clint told her about his conversation with Fury, and she ruthlessly mocked him for what had happened, calling him a "crazy cat lady" and insinuating that, after having one cat, having ten or twenty was just around the corner. Clint took this with remarkable good humor, only threatening to shoot Natasha once.

Towards the end of their meal, the conversation turned momentarily serious.

"You know, when you wouldn't talk to me, it really pissed me off."

Clint knew Natasha well enough that he was able to translate that into 'I was worried about you, moron.'

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Nat. I just thought..."

"What? That I wouldn't notice? I wouldn't care?"

"No! I thought...I was handling it. That I should have been able to do it on my own."

Natasha nodded. "I know that's what you're used to. What we're used to, but we're on a team now. The others..." she paused. "Well, Stark's an idiot, but Banner and Rogers are okay. You can trust them. Hell, trust Stark, too. He's an idiot, but he means well."

Clint scoffed, "Yeah, I really need to advertise how pathetic I am—"

Natasha cut him off, "Look, everyone...we've all been worried, and we all want to help you, idiot. Even Stark, and he's so narcissistic it's a wonder he's even noticed your existence. We know what Loki did, and no one thinks you're weak because it affected you. You're not."

"You sure about that?" He needed to hear it, needed to know that she thought he could do this. Needed to know this before he could even begin to think about taking what she was offering.

Natasha nodded solemnly before flinging a spoonful of applesauce on Clint's shirt.

He reciprocated, and by the time they left the restaurant, Clint was feeling almost entirely like his old self, like a huge weight had lifted from his chest.

"I need to do...something," he said, as they pulled back into the Tower's underground parking garage. "Kinda getting out of shape."

Natasha nodded, getting out of the car. "Fair enough. Have you been down to the weapons range yet?" Tony had it built once he'd known that everyone was going to be living at the Tower.

Clint shook his head. "Haven't really, uh, been in the mood." Using a bow while either drunk or hungover was inadvisable, so he hadn't done any shooting since the battle. "All my gear's down there, though. Rule three and all. But," he pointed out, gesturing with his broken finger, "Shooting's kind of out for the moment."

Natasha snorted. "Fuck rule three." She thought for a moment. "There's a pool. Swimming's low impact." They headed towards the elevator.

"That could be all right." It was probably a better idea than sparring, anyway, and that was kind of what he'd been leaning towards.

"Okay. Meet me in the 70th floor common area in fifteen minutes?" They got on the elevator, and Natasha hit the button for her floor, then Clint's.

"Sure."

They parted ways on Natasha's floor, and Clint made his way back to his own apartment. Opening the door, he called, "Hey, cat, I'm back. Did you miss me?"

There was no answer.

Because cats can't talk, dumbass.

Shrugging, Clint headed back into his bedroom and started digging through his closet, trying to find something to swim in. By the time he'd finished changing into his swim trunks (which he'd found stuffed inside a spare uniform boot—in his defense, when he'd packed, he hadn't been entirely with it), the cat still hadn't made an appearance.

Given how much Clint knew the cat delighted in being an annoying shithead, this was concerning. With an irritated huff, Clint pulled a t-shirt on and commenced Operation: Find the Fucking Cat.

A quick yet thorough sweep of his apartment revealed that the cat was no longer on the premises.

What the hell? Seriously? Where the fuck could he go?

His first thought, of course, was that the cat had been kidnapped. Because Clint was an assassin, and that made him paranoid enough to think that was actually a viable explanation of the situation.

Thankfully, his logic intervened before he could start planning a rescue mission. Cat probably just escaped somehow. Probably still in the building. Somewhere.

Of course, the building was huge, had about a billion entrances. So if the cat had escaped, it very well could have made its way back onto the streets of New York. Clint sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

When a knock sounded on his door, he jumped.

"Barton, are you coming or what?" came Natasha's voice through the door.

Clint walked to the kitchen to let her in. "Sorry, Nat. Cat's...missing. Must've escaped or something."

"You sure he's not here?"

"Yeah, I checked. I think he must have—" Clint felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. With a quizzical look on his face, he pulled it out. It was a text message. From Tony.

It read, 'I'm going to kill your cat.'

Clint shoved his phone back in his pocket. "Nevermind, Cat's apparently tormenting Stark."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Better go rescue him, then."

Neither one of them was sure if she meant Tony or the cat.

As they made their way back to the elevator, Clint felt his phone go off again. It was another message from Tony. Expecting the worst, Clint opened it with trepidation. But this one read, 'Scratch that; I'm going to love this cat forever.'

"Now I'm really worried," Clint said to Natasha, showing her the message.

"I'm not even sure I want to know," she agreed.

They found Tony in his workshop. The billionaire was surrounded by half-full cups of coffee and design sketches. He was typing furiously with one hand while attempting to pet Clint's cat (who'd curled up in his lap) with the other. Tony's inexperience in dealing with animals was evident, but the cat put up with his efforts patiently, even giving the occasional purr.

When Clint and Natasha entered, Tony looked up and called to them, "Holy shit, Barton, your cat's a fucking genius!"

"What d'you mean?" Clint asked, as Natasha muttered, "You need to lay off the caffeine, Stark."

"I mean I'm going to hire this fucking cat to work here. It's going to be a billionaire. Well, at least a millionaire. Damn, it's good."

Seeing that someone more competent at cat-petting had come along, the cat hopped out of Tony's lap and wandered over to Clint to weave between his legs. Clint reached down to pet him. "So why'd you go from 'I'm going to kill the cat' to 'I'm going to marry the cat'? And the cat's a dude, Stark, not an 'it.'"

Tony ignored Clint's snark and launched into his story, "So, I was just sitting here, solving all of the world's problems and shit, right, and your cat comes wandering in like his presence in the building ISN'T a violation of rule seven. I told him to get the fuck out of my lab, but apparently his English needs some work or something, and instead of leaving, he hopped up here and started wandering through my holographs and stepping on my keyboards." He paused for a breath. "Then the damn cat wandered straight into my design model and deleted it, so I decided right then that he had to die."

Even though Clint knew Tony would never actually hurt an animal, he felt himself bristling on his cat's behalf. "Hey, now—"

Ignoring him, Tony continued, "So I got up and chased him around the lab, but all that did was make him run through some more stuff. I thought I'd give it up and just cut my losses, so I sat down and when I looked up, I saw that, somehow, your cat had done this." Tony gestured grandly at the screens in front of him; Clint had no idea what they said, but Tony looked thrilled. "I never would have thought of this on my own, but it's fucking perfect."

Clint felt his eyebrows creeping up towards his hairline, and he wondered briefly about Tony's caffeine consumption habits. Then, deciding that he had exactly zero room to judge anyone, he muttered, "Glad to hear it. I think."

Tony nodded enthusiastically. "Fucking right. That cat's staying, Barton. It's staying forever. I'm going to start building his floor in the morning. There'll be litter boxes in every room, and the kibble shall overflow."

He went back to typing, and Clint bent over to scoop his cat up into his arms. Slowly, he and Natasha crept back out of the lab. Once outside, Clint cast a sideways look at Natasha, and that was all it took. They both burst into laughter.

Swimming was cathartic and everything that Clint had been looking for, and after he'd sent Natasha away so he could shower and change back into normal clothes, he found himself with several hours worth of time before it would be appropriate to go to bed.

Even second graders don't go to bed at 6:30, Barton.

The real problem, though, was that, for the first time since his phone call to the director, he was without distraction and thus was actually thinking about the ramifications of his early morning meeting. Which got him thinking about Loki.

But then, just about everything got him thinking about Loki.

This wasn't really something he was particularly interested in doing. A lot of his actions over the last month had been aimed at not thinking about Loki. At forgetting Loki. Preferably, some combination of the two.

He was settled onto his couch, staring blankly at the television, and was well into his let's-not-think-about-it oh-but-I-can't-stop-thinking-about-it spiral when his cat jumped into his lap and demanded his attention.

The cat landed with his claws out, and Clint's growled, "Fucking cat," sounded loud in the silence. It distracted him and he shook his head slowly before looking down at the animal in his lap.

Natasha's words came back to haunt him. "...if adopting some mangy stray helps you get your head out of your ass, well, I'm all for that."

"You know what, Cat?" Clint asked the cat. "Not all distractions are bad." He stood abruptly, dumping the cat unceremoniously onto the floor. Before the cat could move, Clint reconsidered, and reached down to scoop him up. "What the fuck, right? Stark loves you now, I don't think you need to stay here."

And with that, making sure he had a good grip on the purring animal in his arms, he headed out of his apartment.

He found most of the others (everyone but Bruce, actually) in one of the communal living areas, gathered around the television, watching a movie. It hadn't occurred to him that they did things like this, and it seemed odd. He couldn't help but wonder how long they'd been hanging out together, if it had started immediately after the battle, or if they'd grown closer in the time since.

But then he remembered Natasha's words about how they were part of a team, and he figured that maybe this wasn't strange, that maybe he'd been the odd one out for weeks.

Well, that was done. Natasha trusted these people, and he trusted Natasha (even though he'd done a shit job of showing it for the last month), so it was time he accepted what they were offering.

Pointedly ignoring how Tony, Steve, and Natasha turned to stare at him as he wandered into the room, he plopped down into one of the empty recliners, clutching his cat to his chest. "What're we watching?"

"You seriously don't know?" Tony asked, incredulous, distracted from whatever snotty thing he'd been about to say, either about Clint's presence or about the cat's. "Have you been living under a rock for the last decade?"

"Hey now," Bruce said, entering the room with an enormous bowl of popcorn. He handed it off to Steve before settling into a vacant corner of a couch. "There's no shame in being a little culturally...deficient."

"Banner's never seen it, either," Natasha informed Clint conspiratorially.

"Neither have I," Steve offered (like anyone would be surprised by this). "Really, it's just those two," he gestured at Tony and Natasha, "So don't feel bad. Besides, Tony's just upset because his girlfriend ditched him on date night to go over a few files from accounting."

Tony sputtered angrily in response, but Clint tuned him out, focusing on the movie to mitigate any lingering awkwardness of the situation.

The movie, as it turned out, was some incredibly violent, ridiculous drama called "The Boondock Saints." Clint leaned back into his chair, enjoying watching the blood and excessive usage of the word 'fuck.' His cat, though, grew quickly bored with the situation and wiggled out of his arms, heading towards the popcorn.

To get to his goal, the cat indifferently walked over everyone in the room, until he was sitting on Steve's lap and sticking his paw into the bowl.

"Do cats even like popcorn?" Steve asked, watching the animal's attempt to snag a kernel.

Clint shrugged. "I'm really the wrong person to ask. I've never had a cat before."

The cat managed to get a piece of popcorn out of the bowl. He picked it up in his mouth and carried it over towards Tony, looking like he was going to lay down. But Tony said, "Don't push it," and, like he actually understood, the cat curled up on Bruce's lap instead. The physicist stroked the cat's ears, looking pleased.

After the movie's overblown ending, Clint moved to stand up and head back to his rooms (all this community time was stretching the limits of his sociability), but before he could even move Tony piped up, "So, um, not to be rude or anything, but why're you here?"

"That was rude," Natasha and Steve said at the same time. Bruce just sighed heavily.

Tony waved them off. "I mean, it's been almost a month, and I've seen you like six times. And more than half of those were in, like, the last two days. So what gives?"

Keenly aware that he was the center of attention (and hating it) Clint muttered, "I'm trying to be..."

"Less of a self-destructive asshole?" Tony supplied helpfully.

"Tony!" Steve chastised. Natasha shot Tony a warning glare.

But Clint wasn't offended. In fact, he was stifling a laugh. "Something like that." He paused, and briefly met Natasha's eyes before finishing, "I just...had to get my head out of my ass. Had to see that the 'self-destructive asshole' thing wasn't working out for me."

Tony scoffed, "So that's it? One revelation and you're fixed? You're all better now?"

With a snort, Clint answered, "Fuck no, I'm not." He didn't especially want to have this conversation, not like this, not publically, but this was something that he needed to accept about himself, and what better way to do that than to make it public?

And maybe...by making it public...maybe he wouldn't have to deal with it alone. Wasn't that what being a team was about? And that was so eye-opening, so overwhelming, that he rushed on, "Loki fucked me up. I didn't know how badly 'til a few days ago." He chuckled, "I couldn't see it, couldn't see anything except how bad I didn't want to think about it."

His cat stood up from where he'd been laying on Bruce, stretched, and slunk over to Clint.

"I think we can all relate to that. To some degree or another," Bruce said from his corner of the couch. Steve and Natasha nodded.

"Guess getting the shit kicked out of you worked out pretty well for you, then," Tony opined. "Knocked some sense into you, maybe?"

Clint smirked, scratching the cat's ears. "Something like that." He shrugged. "I think the 'mangy stray' might have helped. Gave me something other my own shit to think about."

"Oh God, this is turning into Old Yeller or something," Tony groaned, standing up. "Look, I'm glad you're getting your shit together, and if you want to talk about what the fuck ever, fine. You know where to find me. Now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go see if I can convince my girlfriend to put the spreadsheets away for the night." With a cheery wave, he departed.

Bruce stood up as well, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "What he said. Except less vulgar. And rude. Seriously, though, you shouldn't try to deal with this stuff on your own... It just goes really badly. My door's always open." He paused on his way out of the room to give the cat a parting scratch.

Steve looked between Clint, Natasha, and the cat, before saying, "Well, sometimes it's hard to see the big picture. I'm glad you're finally getting there, Agent Barton. And I'd be happy to help in any way I can."

Clint sighed, wondering how long it would take to break the supersoldier of using titles. When he'd slipped off in the same direction of the others, Clint found himself alone with Natasha. Awash in the warmth of the support the others had so freely offered, he asked, "Walk me upstairs?"

Of course she obliged.

At 7:55 the next morning, Clint found himself on the street outside SHIELD's headquarters. His stomach was twisting with anxiety, and as he looked at the building towering over him, all he could think about was how badly his last mission had gone, how it had left him in pieces.

Do you really want to go back so it can just happen again?

But then he shook his head. Because yeah, that was a risk, sure. It always would be. Missions could always go south, it happened all the time.

Shattering into a million pieces though...that wasn't going to happen again. Because he had people who cared, people who were going to be there to make sure he kept it together. They'd keep him on track. The team might be nascent, but it was a team. They'd only get stronger.

And at the end of the day, when the team had been put to rest...

He'd have his fucking cat.

Which, all together, Clint had to admit, was probably more than he'd ever had before.

End

And so ends the tale of Clint and his cat.

Don't worry, though; it's not over for good. I had way too much fun writing it for that. I'll probably come back to these two in a couple of weeks for an all new 'adventure.'

Please leave a review so I know you didn't die from excessive sappiness. I'll feel bad if I've killed you.