A/N: I haven't actually seen Age of Ultron yet, so tagging this as containing "AOU spoilers" is perhaps a bit of a stretch. But I've seen the trailers, of course, and read some of the speculation, especially about "That Farm" and the people on it. It is these things that inspired this tale. I have no illusions that any of this – including the powers I'm ascribing to Scarlett Witch, or to the Mind Gem in Loki's sceptre – will turn up as part of MCU, or is comics canon. Nor is this intended as the opening shot of a shipping war, character erasure, or anything of such a silly nature. It's basically an AU, a work of highly speculative (fan) fiction; what it boils down to is that this is a story I wanted to tell, as a fan of both Hawkeye and the Black Widow, and the things that their stories and experiences bring to the Avengers at different times.

The title is taken from John Mellencamp's eponymous song; BettyBackInTheDay may not even remember suggesting it to me as a "Clint-type of song but she did, so this story is for her. Infinite thanks are due to my BFF Runawaymetaphor and to geckoholic, who made this much better.

Rain on the Scarecrow

By Alpha Flyer

The first thing Natasha notices is the change in the light; the second is the absence of sound, once the noise of their immediate arrival has settled.

Golden afternoon light is streaming through the curtains, causing dust motes to dance in the air; Natasha can only imagine how Thor's and Steve's hair, backlit like twin halos, must look to the speechless woman and the children standing beside her.

Natasha casts a quick look around, checking for threats. She sees the others do the same, but the only things that stand out are a crayon-drawn picture, glued to the window by small hands, and a couple of plastic dinosaurs. Ordinary family living room, her brain signals to her, although under the circumstances it might as well be saying Outer Space.

The quiet, as it turns out, does not last long.

"Daddy!" comes a unanimous shout from two high-pitched voices.

The older of two boys launches himself into Clint's arms while the younger, barely three, just clings to his legs until Clint can free one arm to pick him up. For a moment Clint just stands there, burying his face in the two boys' hair and breathing deeply, as if he had been starved of oxygen for too long.

But then Clint turns to his companions, none of whom seem as surprised to have arrived here as Natasha does. With an odd expression on his face, he says, "Guys, let me introduce you. The big guy is Callum, and the human vise here is Lewis."

He looks at the woman, who shifts the baby in her arms to give him a smile and allows him to peck both their cheeks, while the two boys hang on, refusing to let go.

"The little lady here is Nicole, and the woman whose patience we're all about to stretch – well, that's my wife, Laura."

Wife. Of course. She'd known that. (Hadn't she?)

Laura seems pleasant, if a bit reserved. To Natasha, she seems vaguely familiar, although she can't quite put her finger on why. Maybe her face is just a composite of familiar features, the kind you think you should recognize but that seem elusive when you try? Oddly, the person she reminds Natasha of the most is Clint himself, although maybe that is an illusion fostered by the fact that the two boys seem such a composite of the two of them.

Her sense of humour seems fine, if quiet. She shakes her head with a smile when Tony blurts out, "What? You married Barton? Seriously? But you seem so … so normal!"

Steve raps Tony in the chest with the flat side of his shield, causing a bit of a rattle, and steps forward. His voice drops into that sonorous baritone it gets whenever he feels that the situation calls for old-fashioned courtesy.

"We apologize for the intrusion, Ma'am, but your … husband assured us that he had a place where we could stay for a bit. We had no idea that …".

Bruce finishes the sentence, without looking at anyone in particular: "… that there might be children involved. I think we should leave. This isn't safe."

He casts a slightly accusing glance at Clint, who seems unbothered by the suggestion and just raises a single shoulder in a shrugged response.

Laura just looks at Clint, content for him to answer for both of them – and surprisingly undisturbed by the sudden arrival of three costumed superheroes, a man wrapped in a blanket, and her husband and another woman in black spandex, armed to the teeth.

"It'll be fine," he reassures her, as much as he tries to convince everyone else.

"This place is entirely off the grid, and was never," and here he glances over towards Natasha, "in the SHIELD records. No cell phone service, no landline and no internet. It's the air gap equivalent of a safe house. I made sure of that a long time ago."

Surprisingly, Thor seems willing to settle the matter for all of them.

"Thank you, Friend Archer, for your hospitality. And you, Lady Laura. We accept with gratitude. I swear that we will not speak of this place to anyone, and that no harm will befall you or yours as a result of your trust."

"Well, that's that, then," Clint nods. "The hot water tank isn't that big, so I'd recommend short showers. We'll round up some clean clothes and try and scrape some dinner together."

He introduces his companions to Laura and the boys one after the other, pausing a little when he comes to Natasha.

"I've heard about you." Laura smiles at her, welcoming and without a hint of artifice. She strokes her baby daughter's cheek absently as she speaks. "Clint speaks very fondly of you."

Natasha swallows the obvious retort – funny, he never thought to mention you! – but decides to refrain. Now is not the time.

Laura turns to the others with a welcoming smile.

"Of you all, as well. Clint's friends are always welcome here. Why don't you all have a seat. You look exhausted."

The fact that Laura might have heard of Pietro Maximoff …. Quicksilver …. even though they have known him – let alone considered him as a 'friend' - for only the briefest of times, strikes Natasha as a bit odd. Just when would Clint gave found the time to speak of their enemy-turned-ally to his wife? She looks at the others for a reaction, but no one appears to have noticed.

Natasha is prepared to let the question go (for now) in favour of grabbing the first shower, especially as no one else seems inclined to ask anything, or to make a move on the bathroom. Which in itself seems odd, but it could just be the exhaustion of the last few days - and their trust in Clint.

Indeed, the place sure feels like him, in a way she can't quite articulate. The slight shabbiness and cluttered nature of the large family room, the lived- in feel of the kitchen… Safe. It feels safe.

Her own trust in Clint is implicit, and has been for a very long time. And for now, it will carry her at least as far as the nearest tap with running hot water. Natasha leaves the slightly incongruous sight of Ironman, Thor and Cap settling on a pair of slightly shabby couches and heads upstairs, confident of her ability to locate the bathroom.

"Top of the stairs, first door to your right," Clint shouts after her. "I'll get Laura to leave you a towel and some of her underwear. You're roughly the same size, and I suspect you'll be wanting something fresh."

So much for trusting her partner.

"Does the concept of discretion mean anything to you at all, Barton?"

Stark's holier-than-thou comment follows her up the stairs. Natasha feels inclined to agree with him, although in light of the lingering sense of displacement that has been gnawing on her since their arrival, she derives a surprising degree of comfort out of knowing that Clint's understanding of her personal needs and preferences remains fully intact.

The shower, as it turns out, is perfect. Natasha lets the dust and debris and blood of the last few days come off her body in rivulets of red and grey, swirling down the drain until the water runs clear. And the hot water never runs out.

…..

There is a mild evening breeze in the air when Natasha steps out on the porch after dinner; fireflies dance in the dusk, their lights winking in and out of existence. In early May? How long had it taken them to get here – two months, all the way into July?

For that matter, just how hadthey come to be here? Natasha searches her memory, and comes up short. One moment they were there, the next … Here. Didn't anyone else notice?

The world is silent except for the song of crickets, and a low, murmuring discussion between Steve and Tony that's coming through an open window upstairs. They seem to be arguing over who will sleep in which bed, with Tony taking the position that size is not supposed to matter anymore, Cap.

Some things, it seems, don't change, and Natasha is disproportionately relieved.

The bickering from upstairs notwithstanding, the contrast in the ambience between this place and the one to they had all just been to, a mere few hours ago, could not be more pronounced.

Screaming metal and people… the ack-ack-ack of gunfire… flashing lights ….a familiar, ominous blue glow… tendrils of red mist, like threads being pulled … smoke and ashes and falling stone …

And now …. this. A translucent sky, slowly turning indigo; rustling waves of long, lush green grass, dusted with silver by a waxing moon. Not a single sign of life, except for a far-off, twinkling light - probably another farm, like this one, but no discernible road that might lead there.

Most importantly, though, there is not a single glint of steel, except for what she carries on her, and the remnants of an ancient, rusted-out old truck, way over by the barn. The truck itself appears to be sitting on blocks, wheel-less; someone (Clint?) has gone to a lot of trouble to ensure it would never be driven again, but not bothered to remove it. Why? To serve as a playhouse for the boys?

Somewhere, in an unseen pond, an extended family of frogs has struck up a concert. For a moment, Natasha has the unsettling feeling that none of this is real, that she is trapped in some twilight world. A world where neither Seoul nor Jo'burg exist, where the ruins of Sokovia are but a page from a horror story, and where the Avengers could step through a door into summer.

"Pretty, isn't it?" a familiar voice asks, and she chides herself for letting him sneak up on her like that. Only a couple of hours out of the field, and already her guard is this far down? Maybe this place is doing things to her mind?

She turns to look at Clint, who seems oddly subdued, despite the outwardly innocuous question.

"Beautiful," she concedes. "And so peaceful. Hard to believe this place is on the same planet as Manhattan, let alone in the same country."

He smiles a little wistfully, refusing to pick up on what she is trying to say.

"Yeah. I really should come here more often. The kids…"

His voice trails off.

"They must miss you."

"I don't spend enough time here. There's always something."

It seems like a bit of a dodge, this answer, and Natasha bites back one question she would really like to ask - about Laura.

Laura, who had played the role of the dutiful wife all through the evening, cooking and fussing and making her odd and awkward guests comfortable, in return for what seemed like very little attention from her husband.

The husband who had never thought to mention her, even in passing, and who had spent more time talking to Natasha than the wife he supposedly never gets to see. Almost as if she wasn't quite there? Oh, he had been kind enough, and solicitous of her on occasion, but any affection he had seemed reserved for the children.

Maybe now is not the time, but Natasha resolves to challenge him on those things …. later.

There's a small movement over by the barn, and for a moment Natasha thinks she sees something – a person, gliding through the darkening evening, disappearing into an open door.

"Who's that?" she asks, instantly on alert.

Clint frowns.

"Who's what?"

"There, by the barn. Do you have neighbours?"

Clint shakes his head.

"We're the only farm for miles. And the only people here are Laura, the kids, and the seven of us."

Seven? Natasha does a quick mental . Maximoff. Seven.

She shakes her head, trying to clear it from the cobwebs that seemed to suddenly have cast a shroud over her mind. A gossamer-fine, red shroud…

But she knows what she saw.

"It looked like a girl, in a red jacket. You seriously didn't see her?"

Clint shakes his head again, slowly and deliberately this time.

"Probably just Laura, checking on the chickens. Making sure the fox can't get in. Wouldn't want to miss out on some spectacular free-range eggs in the morning now, would we?"

Laura had been wearing a checkered top during dinner, but the light is fading quickly and there's a chill in the air now, so maybe …. And Clint is as paranoid as she is, on any given day – and should still be, especially now. So why would he lie?

The farm really does seem isolated, and so Natasha shrugs it off. (As long as there is no glint of metal.)

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm getting tired, maybe I'm seeing things. The last few days …"

She doesn't get to finish her sentence. Clint nods his agreement and puts his arm around her shoulder. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through Natasha's skin, but she refuses to follow that line of thought. He has a wife and three children.

Clint gently steers her towards the door, his strong, calloused hand warming the small of her back.

"We came here to rest up and regroup," he says. "So maybe that's what we should all do. Laura has made up beds for everyone. Sort of, anyway."

He chuckles a little ruefully.

"It's not exactly the Hilton, but at least there's no electronic check-in to bring Ultron's army down on our heads while we're asleep."

He's right, of course; they do need to sleep. It's why they came here, isn't it - into the Middle-Of-Nowhere, Iowa. Or wherever this place is.

They enter the living-room side-by-side, as during their SHIELD days. There is no sign of Clint's wife. Laura must be putting the little ones to bed: a wail of protest can be heard from the upstairs. Baby Nicole, not used to so much excitement in her house, is refusing to go down without a fight.

All three kids will sleep with their parents tonight, freeing up the boys' room for Steve and Tony, who seem to have settled their differences over which bed was whose. (Natasha's bets are on Steve.)

With a nod and a smile that seems to contain just the slightest bit of hesitation, Clint heads upstairs to do his own bit in the family nighttime ritual. He offers no apology, nor does Natasha expect one; with the End of the World imminent, who could blame him for wanting to spend time with the children? He pauses at the top of the stairs, though, and looks back at Natasha.

"You gonna be okay?"

"I'm fine," she says. "I'll come up in a few minutes."

There are advantages to being the only woman on the team, the main one being that she scored the guest bedroom for the night. It's cluttered and dusty like the rest of the house, but it has a door you can close; a few hours of silence and privacy will be worth twice what mere sleep could provide.

Clint nods, and the door to the master bedroom clicks shut behind him; Natasha looks around the ground level at the rest of her team.

Thor has taken the warrior's approach, which is to seize every available minute of sleep that presents itself. He is stretched out on a rug by the fireplace (no Barton-sized bed could possibly hold him), his head buried in a loose sofa cushion. His long body is partially covered by his cape, and an old-fashioned crocheted quilt that looks like it must have been in the family for decades.

The God of Thunder does not snore; his face is almost serene and his breath light and even, and Natasha realizes not for the first time just how young he still is, in Asgardian years.

Pietro Maximoff is a different story altogether. Seemingly unable and unwilling to sit still, he blurs from one object in the house to another, picking up building blocks, inspecting rubber dinosaurs and crayons; setting them down again as if he had never seen their likes in his life and wants to commit the feel of each single thing to tactile memory. Natasha feels a little dizzy just from watching him.

"You're going to wear a hole in the rug," she chides him. "Why don't you sit down? Can you sit still?"

He gives her an insolent glare and mutters something in Sakovian; Natasha doesn't speak the language, but it's sufficiently close to Serbian for her to know the comment was not meant to be flattering. Maximoff disappears briefly outside – the door bangs open and shut, twice, and Natasha can feel the displacement of air his movements are causing even as she has no idea where he went – before re-solidifying beside one of the couches. (Is it her imagination, or does he leave a cloud of smoke behind when he moves?) He flops down on the couch with a scowl that makes him look like a resentful teenager.

"If it makes you feel better," he snarks, but it doesn't escape her notice that the second his head leans back against the couch, he's out like a light – still sitting upright.

For the umpteenth time, Natasha wonders just what Loki's sceptre and Baron Strucker's experiments have done to Maximoff's mind, and by extension, to his body. Both seem capable of operating on only two speeds: fast forward, and … off. A light snore confirms that, for the moment at least, he seems set on pause.

Good.

This leaves the last of their group – Bruce Banner.

There's a saying that no man is an island, but if anyone comes close to being a singularity in both mind and body, it has to be the Doctor. Banner sits curled in on himself in a corner of the shorter of the two couches, still wrapped in his blanket although Clint had insisted on giving him a shirt. He is clutching a pillow embroidered with yellow ducks to his chest, in a transparent attempt to stop his hands from shaking.

He's been in this state ever since Johannesburg, at the latest; it's almost as if that experience had exacted a far higher price than the usual exhaustion and sense of displacement he seems to go through after each emergence of the Hulk. Maybe the effects of transformation are cumulative, and eventually there will be nothing left of the Bruce Banner they all know (and need) for him to come back to?

Natasha shudders inwardly at the thought, but there is no denying the fact that he seems emptied of confidence, of self. He looks … scared.

"You okay, Bruce?"

She doesn't really expect anything more than the usual yeah, I'm fine, and is almost relieved when that's exactly what comes back. Still, she feels better for asking..

"You should get some sleep, too," she ventures. Her voice betrays her impatience, just a little.

"We came here to rest up, so that's what we should all do. You included."

She points over to the pile of blankets Laura had left draped over one of the armchairs, but Banner makes no move towards them.

"Bruce."

"I just want to be left alone," he mutters.

Natasha shrugs inwardly. You can lead a Hulk to a bed, but you can't make him sleep.

"Suit yourself. As long as you don't spend the next few hours beating yourself up over things you can't control, and that aren't your fault," she almost snaps.

Natasha understands about ledgers better than anyone she has ever met, but Banner seems to delight in wallowing in guilt. And for what? Without him, New York would be a smoking ruin, and even Jo'burg …

Well, he doesn't seem to be in a mood to be set straight, and she really doesn't have the energy. Time to take her own advice.

The small bedroom, when she enters, feels a bit like a – no, not like a trap, more like a cave that she can crawl into for a while. Force of habit has her check the headboard for cuff marks, but it's made of solid, knotty pine; no anchor points here.

Safe.

The tiny water closet that's been crammed into one of the dormers, hidden behind a curtain almost like an afterthought, is a welcome sight; battling Iron Man or Captain America for the use of a toilet or a sink in the middle of the night does not figure high on her list of wants.

Someone (Laura?) has even left a toothbrush and a half-used tube of paste on the side of the small sink, a thoughtful gesture of which Natasha gratefully takes immediate advantage. It's amazing, she reflects as she brushes all sorts of vile tastes out of her mouth, just how much comfort can be derived from the most mundane things.

As she sinks into the bed and pulls the old-fashioned duvet over herself, her thoughts turn back to the shadow of the girl (or woman) she'd seen by the barn. The memory is slippery and elusive, like the figure itself - indistinct, like an echo she can't quite hear, but feels compelled to follow.

Like her memories of dancing ...

Natasha knows what it is like to be unmade - and remade, time and again, in the image of those who would pull her strings. All those memories of things that weren't…

To whose tune is she dancing today?

But there is no denying her deep conviction that for the moment she is safe, in body if not in spirit. Thor, Steve and Tony (not to mention The Hulk) are but a shout away, but most importantly, the house they are in is Clint's. And if he is the one who opened these doors to them all, and they are content to be here for the night, then she can be too.

Sleep takes her before she can formulate another thought.

…..

The morning brings bright sunlight, the excited shouts of children somewhere outside, and the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon. Natasha allows herself a luxurious stretch in the warm cocoon of her bed, before resolutely pushing it all aside to brush her teeth and get dressed.

How long has it been since she last had a decent breakfast? The thought of having to get her share before Steve and Thor descend on what surely must be limited quantities of food drives her downstairs.

Too late – they're already there, albeit happily surrounded by an astounding amount of food: bread, muffins, a bowlful of scrambled eggs so large the Barton chicken coop will need generations to recover. Natasha finds a seat at the table and, encouraged by Laura, starts to help herself. Baby Nicole is happily waving a bottle in a high chair at one end, entertained by Steve, who is making faces at her while he chews. The sunlight makes the soft fuzz on the little girl's head shine like copper.

Bruce is sitting on the same couch where she had left him, wearing the same clothes, listlessly shovelling food into his mouth. At least that is something.

Stark comes stumbling gracelessly down the stairs – mornings are not his strong suit – while Pietro, to Natasha's slightly guilty relief, is nowhere to be seen. (A combination of Mr. Speed and an uncaffeinated Tony Stark this early in the morning would surely knock even the most well-adjusted person on the planet out of her groove.)

There is also no sight of Clint or the two boys, but judging by the sounds she heard earlier, they are busy with something outside. She doesn't remember – tries to, but can't – Clint being such an early riser, but maybe it's different when there are children around?

Natasha does her best to exchange a few polite words with their hostess, if only to avoid having to look at Thor engulf his third plate of bacon and eggs. Laura, as she had noted the previous night (now a bit of a blur), is conventionally pretty, with a no-nonsense air about her that must serve her well, out here in this isolated spot – not to mention being married to Hawkeye. She responds politely enough when addressed but does so in short syllables, giving out nothing that would allow Natasha to get a sense of who she is, or how she feels about this sudden invasion of Avengers.

The thought crosses Natasha's mind that this woman is nothing like what she would expect Clint to choose as a life mate. Clint, who thrives on sarcasm, irreverence and black humour; in whom equal amounts of bravado and self-doubt have created a volatile brand of heroism and derring-do that is uniquely Hawkeye.

Laura seems the perfect farm wife, salt of the earth, practical and willing to do the necessary – reminiscent of the way in which Clint once described his mother, but with a no-nonsense attitude that reminds Natasha of Maria Hill; when she shakes her head, sending her hair flying, there is a touch of Bobbi. Something – someone – else seems to be hidden in the way she sometimes narrows her eyes, or purses her lips.

Just who is this woman, whom Hawkeye has chosen as his wife, and the mother of his children?

Natasha banishes the thoughts, again. Trust Clint, trust the people who matter to him. Flaky as he can be, her partner's hard-earned instincts have never, to her knowledge, failed him. Or her.

Small talk it is, then, rather than questions - but not for long. There is only so much Natasha can take of that, even in the name of graciousness, or trying to unravelmysteries she doesn't know she actually wants to see resolved. The subject of the weather having been exhausted quickly (it had been a long winter, but spring turned into summer in less than two weeks, and it's been beautiful since…), she takes her dishes to rinse them off in the enormous sink – no mod cons like dishwashers anywhere in sight.

Casting a quick glance at Bruce, who still seems intent on continuing his solitary brooding, she puts a hand on his shoulder. He shrinks back a little, but smiles wanly and nods his acquiescence when she tells him to do them all a favour and at least have a making sure he actually disappears upstairs, she grabs another mug of coffee and heads out on the porch, to see what Clint and the boys have been up to.

It appears they have been building a scarecrow – one of those things built along the lines of two broom handles cross-tied together, dressed up and stuffed with straw. A mid-Western classic, by all appearances, right down to the slightly frayed Stetson that looks like a relic from Clint's days in the circus. Callum is chasing his little brother around it in circles, while Clint looks on with an odd expression on his face.

Natasha briefly wonders just how much of himself and his older brother Clint might be seeing in them: two boys on a farm, carefree and happy, as they should have been. As they might have been, before their father surrendered to his demons…. Another thought best left for another day.

The scarecrow is wearing one of Clint's old t-shirts: his old Springsteen one, from the Born in the USA tour, that he'd worn during that op in Odessa. It's complete with bullet holes (but, to Natasha's relief, no more obvious bloodstains); he'd tried to get Accounting to reimburse its full eBay value, but been forced to give up the fight after six months. So that's where it had ended up…

Natasha wonders briefly why some details are so clear in her head, while others - like how they had gotten here, to Iowa, and how long she has, or should have, known about this place – are hazy and indistinct, more vague conviction than actual memory. But then she feels her mind slide over those thoughts like water over glass, and the doubt is gone; instead, she inhales the sweet morning air, with eager lungs too recently abused by the smell of smoke and burning metal.

It's a beautiful day; clouds are starting to build up on the horizon, far past the line of trees, but they are too white and too far to cause any concerns in light of the steel-blue prairie sky.

"Every farm needs a good scare crow, don't you think?" Clint's voice interrupts her musings. "Especially these days, eh. Callum and I did most of the work. Lewis tried to help, but he mostly just got underfoot. We let him put on the hat, though."

The pride in his voice is unmistakable, and Natasha marvels at her partner's ability to be such different people, at different times: Assassin, agent, soldier … Dad. Who knew? Maybe she should have? (Maybe she did?)

"It's not really functional, of course. We don't have any crops to speak of, if you don't count Laura's herb garden, and I'm not sure there's crows in this here 'hood. But, you never know, I suppose."

Natasha is trying to think of something to say, like, You guys did a great job, but for some reason the words won't come. Luckily, they don't have to, as the screen door bangs just then and Steve and Tony emerge, in clean t-shirts and jeans (and just where would Laura Barton find something in Steve's size, out here?)

"We can't pay your wife back enough for her hospitality, Barton," Steve says in that slightly stiff, formal tone he sometimes gets. "So I suggested we'd chop some wood out the back, while we're still here. You know, as a thank you."

"Beats doing the dishes by hand," Tony says. "Besides, Winter Is Coming."

Despite his words, Tony's voice carries little of his usual sarcastic tone. If there is anything in the last few days that has caused Natasha concern – apart from Ultron's efforts to take over the world, obviously, and Bruce's internal withdrawal - it's the gradual failure of the Stark sense of humour, annoying as it can be when in full flower. It's become … empty, somehow, a rote response, rather than the usual assertion of his superiority over all living things. A little desperate, as in the days when he was dying of palladium poisoning.

"Great idea," Clint nods, seemingly oblivious to all the nuances. "It gets cold here, and we still haven't gotten around to putting in a proper furnace. Just the wood stoves."

No furnace? Now Tony is offended.

"This place really is a throwback to the pioneer days," he snipes. "But I suppose we shouldn't be surprised, given your Paleolithic taste in weapons."

Clint rolls his eyes.

"Go chop some wood, Stark," he says, and his voice has a little edge to it. "Get in touch with your inner caveman. May be better for all of us than the high-tech shit you've been playing with. Just sayin'."

"Hey," Tony starts, but Steve grabs him by the shoulder and steers him towards the back of the house where the woodpile is, shooting Clint a wordless, Don't, soldier! as he goes.

Callum chooses that moment to grab his father by the hand.

"Play some catch, Daddy, pleeeeease?"

Clint gives Natasha an apologetic look, but seems not at all unhappy at the unexpected defusing of tension. He heads into the house, presumably to get out the baseball glove, bat and ball, Callum on his heel.

Natasha takes a seat on the porch swing (of course there would be one here) and puts her feet on the railing, content for the moment to watch the clouds roll in. A break is a break, no matter how it comes about.

Thor's heavy footfall startles her out of her reverie. His presence almost fills the rest of the porch, but he says nothing for now. Instead he leans on the railing, looking at the seemingly endless pastures where crazy lines in the long grass suggest that Pietro Maximoff is burning off some excess energy with a morning run.

They spend a few minutes in silent companionship, when suddenly Natasha spots the girl in red again, over by the barn where she had seen her the night before.

"Thor," she whispers urgently. "Do you see that? The girl, I mean?"

Thor doesn't twitch.

"Of course I see her," he says simply. "She is there."

Natasha suppresses a sigh of relief – so she hasn't been imagining things after all - but then Thor continues.

"I am surprised that you can see her, though. You were not meant to, I believe."

Natasha frowns at that statement, and Thor explains.

"It is what you would call magic, and with such as Iron Man and Doctor Banner amongst us, the explanations would have taken far longer than the time we have to spend here, and become whole."

He frowns at her a little, and repeats what he had just said.

"I am surprised you would take notice. You are of Midgard, not trained to see the workings of the weft, or those who pull its threads."

"The what?"

Thor looks at her with calculation in his eyes, as if wondering whether he has said too much already. But then he comes to a conclusion, weighing his words carefully.

"The world is made of nine Realms, as you know."

Natasha doesn't, not really, beyond what she has picked up from the files dealing with Puente Antigua and Greenwich, but she is prepared to let it go. From behind the house she can hear Tony and Steve arguing, and maybe once in a while it is best just to listen, no matter how far-fetched the point being made might be.

"In between the Realms lies the fabric of the universe itself, the warp and weft that holds them all together. On Asgard, we call these connections the World Tree, Yggdrisil, because of its shape, but it is not truly a tree. There are infinite places and spaces between the Realms, all connected, yet not."

Thor looks thoughtfully towards the barn, where the small, red-clad figure has paused in her furtive movements, as if she were aware of their scrutiny. The blur in the pasture that Natasha had tentatively identified as Pietro Maximoff comes to a sudden stop beside the girl – woman – and for the briefest of moments, Natasha's mind chimes a memory.

"Wanda," she says, before the name can leave her again. "Wanda Maximoff. Pietro's sister. I can't believe I … we … Forgot about her. Unless she wanted us to forget?"

"Yes, Wanda," Thor confirms with a nod. "The Scarlett Witch is among those who can move freely between the fabric of the weft. My mother was another, although her powers were of a different kind. They do not usually wish to be seen when working their craft; it tears the weaving, she said."

Natasha considers this for a moment, then gestures to the pasture land before them, and the house behind.

"And this place is …?"

"A space between the worlds," Thor nods. "A Haven. They serve as places of respite, in times of need. My father would seek out a place of his own making, to restore his strength, when he would fall into the Odinsleep; his body would remain in Asgard. They are of the heart and mind and soul, not of the physical world. It seems that the Scarlett Witch has led us to such a place. How, I do not know. It is not my talent."

He stares at Natasha thoughtfully.

"You may be able to see the weaver and her threads, because you are not a stranger to the shaping of the mind by outside forces."

He is not wrong, of course. Natasha knows a thing or two about living in realities that aren't: castles of the mind, made of music and light; fortresses surrounded by gushing moats of red. None ever of her own making, even as she inhabited them for a while, thinking them hers. But over the years, she had learned to spot the seams and the gaps, to know falsehood from truth, to separate the dancer from the dance.

Suddenly, it all falls into place. Maybe the Witch had tapped into Clint's mind, taking advantage of the connection they shared thanks to the workings of Loki's sceptre? (Of all of them, her manipulations, when they were enemies, had left him unaffected…).

And he had allowed her to carve his memories into a space to keep them safe from battle, for a time.

"So we're not actually in Iowa - we just think we are? And this place is what? It's obviously something of Clint's…. His past, his present, what?"

A safe haven is a place where you hide the things you need to keep secret, in order to keep them, and yourself, whole. Natasha knows it would be futile to look for such a place within herself, and so she does not.

But Clint?

What is it that Clint would want to keep safe from prying eyes? Moments of his childhood, memories of a time before everything went wrong? (Lewis is three, the age Clint was when his father started his descent into hell. And Callum, the big brother… ) Baby Nicole, with her flaming red hair – who is she?

And Laura? The face that keeps on changing, sometimes looking like Bobbi, more often not, still working - even here - to remain concealed. A secret within a secret.

Natasha casts a glance through the window to watch Laura in the kitchen, a still figure now that there are no demands being made on her. Her hair curls dark, then red in the morning sun, and for a moment Natasha thinks she is looking into a mirror. It changes back to dirty blonde as soon as she catches Natasha's eyes.

The things you want to keep hidden.

Thor, having digested her question, throws up his hands.

"I am a warrior, Lady Natasha, not one who can unravel and spin the fabric of the universe, or the landscape of the mind. But tell me. Does this feel real to you?"

He bangs his large hand on the railing, causing the porch to shake under Natasha's feet.

"I know not how, but we are here. For now. And soon, it will be time to go. The storm we have left behind is closing in; we must face it again."

Natasha looks up involuntarily, and sure enough, the clouds on the horizon are coming closer, getting darker. She nods her thanks to Thor and heads inside, to check on Bruce. (And just when did the Black Widow become the mother hen of the Avengers? Wasn't that supposed to be Maria Hill's job?)

Bruce has taken a shower; his hair is damp and he, too, is wearing a clean shirt and jeans from the Armoire Of Plenty, or whatever they have in these magical realms of whose existence Thor has almost convinced her. His hands are worrying one of those toy dinosaurs that seem to litter the family room.

"Feeling any better?" she asks, careful not to sound too concerned.

He looks up, seemingly knocked out of a line of thought that he is unwilling to share. His hands grip the plastic figure more tightly, and Natasha hears the echo of a voice, all the way from Calcutta: I don't every time get what I want.

The children. More than anything, he'd been taken aback by the sight of the … Clint 's … children.

"Did you know about his family?" Bruce asks, although she has the feeling that's not the real question.

Natasha shrugs. In light of what she has just learned, the answer would have to be very long, or meaningless.

"We all have people we care for," she replies instead, "whom we protect by not talking about them."

Bruce huffs a little and sets the toy down on a side table.

"And some of us protect ourselves by not letting anyone in," she continues.

The comment seems to have shaken something loose, because he turns to her, his eyes blazing with more life than she has seen in them for days.

"Some of us can't afford to let anyone come close. This," he gestures around the light-filled room, "is not something I'll ever be able to have. The Other Guy will make sure of that."

And I played with children I knew I would have to kill so I could stay alive.

"I think you're underestimating him," Natasha replies, a little coolly. "I've touched him, and he listened. Stark fell out of the sky, and the Hulk caught him. He is not all rage and mindless violence. So stop blaming him for your refusal to want to be close to anyone. The only person here who insists on pushing people away is you."

But Bruce doesn't seem quite willing to let go.

"I'm a time bomb," he whispers, more to himself than to her.

With three quick strides, she is by his side.

"We all are," she says, and cups his cheek with her hand. "What makes you think you're so special? Get over yourself, and your fear of the Other Guy. Because I sure have."

If Clint can open his heart and mind to them all to keep them safe, Natasha can give Bruce Banner what he seems to need right now. And with that she leans in and kisses him on the cheek, leaving him in stunned silence.

...

"Storm front coming," Steve announces as he enters the house. His forehead is sweaty and his expression grim. "Looks like the kind that could spawn tornadoes. Are you sure this place is safe for your family?"

The question is addressed at Clint, who to his credit, refuses to take offence.

"This here farm has survived shit you have no idea about, Cap," he says. "And if things get really nasty, there's a storm cellar, with food for two weeks. But it would be better if we weren't here when the storm hits."

Thor, who has followed Steve and Tony into the house, nods in agreement.

"Our presence would make it worse," he says, although he does not say for whom.

"Can't argue the weather with the God of Thunder," Tony mutters under his breath before turning to Bruce. "You look almost human again, Banner. Finally had a cup of coffee?"

The screen door bangs and Pietro Maximoff appears in their midst, followed by a blurry shadow that Natasha realizes instantly must be his sister. Their time here, clearly, is at an end.

Wanda Maximoff is small, her elfin face and dark smudges under enormous eyes in odd contrast to the determination in her stance. She is wearing the red jacket Natasha had seen the night before; she must have spent the night in the barn, judging by a couple of strands of straw in her long, unruly hair. No one, except for Thor (and maybe Clint?), seems to notice her presence. For now.

"Time to go," Pietro announces imperiously; Natasha notices that Wanda's fingertips are beginning to crackle scarlet flames.

"You have been most generous," Thor intones, and it is clear to Natasha that he is speaking to Clint, not to the figure he had introduced as his wife. "The stay in your home has done us all much-needed good."

The room seems to fall utterly silent, with no one moving. Clint, Natasha notices, briefly looks over to where Callum and Lewis have taken up position beside Laura and baby Nicole. It's an odd tableau, and the look in his eyes is a mixture between longing, pride and pain.

You have heart, Clint said Loki had told him, before ripping it out and taking it for himself. How much of Clint's heart had remained in the sceptre's memory? Enough, it would seem, for the Scarlett Witch to create this place, this sanctuary - with Clint's full knowledge and consent.

It is one thing to let others see the things you fear, Natasha knows, but quite another to gift them with the spaces of your heart, where the things you hold sacred reside. To entrust them with knowledge of what you would protect with your dying breath.

Women who had held Clint's heart once upon a time, and always would, in different ways. The memory of two little boys, whole and happy, before their world and their lives would shatter. Baby Nicole, with her flaming red hair – the little girl who could not be saved (until she was).

Love is for children.

Natasha takes a couple of steps towards Clint, as the flames in the Scarlet Witch's hands consume the golden light of the old farmhouse and the silhouettes of its inhabitants. She squeezes his hand in hers, whispers a Thank you.

He smiles a little in response, as if he'd done something mildly embarrassing, and shrugs.

"That stupid mind suck had to be good for something at some point," he says simply.

"Time to go back," Steve says as he grips his shield, and Natasha wonders briefly just where Wanda has him thinking he is coming back from, and how. "Let's get this done."

As the world around them blurs, Natasha can feel the first, heavy drops of a grey, sleeting rain and a buffeting wind that tears at the trees in the distance. The last thing she sees is the scarecrow, ragged and random, but solid and unbowed.