A/N: As stated in the summary, I started this fic before Age of Ultron premiered, so while it features a Barton farm, there is no Barton family. It is set somewhere between the Avengers and The Winter Soldier, with the exact date and time of your choosing. I personally have it ballparked at mid-2013, but it can really fit anywhere in that range. Finally, visually, I am using the Barton farm from Age of Ultron as the setting for this story, and not the one from Endgame. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, so don't sue.

Steve drove his shoulder into the door of Clint's farmhouse with enough strength to send it flying off its hinges. "Hang on, Clint," he mumbled as he carried his teammate into the living room.

Having not yet regained conscious, Clint didn't so much as grunt as Steve stumbled into the dining room and laid him on the long wooden table.

"Barton!" Steve tapped his teammate's ghost-white cheek but received no response. He swore under his breath then hobbled into the bathroom where he grabbed all the towels in sight. He hurried back to the dining area where he pressed the wad into Barton's bleeding side.

"Gonna be fine..." Steve's mouth was making the words without his brain's conscious effort. "Jus' stick with me."

Steve tucked his useless right hand against his ribs, then pressed his left forearm against the towels and leaned forward, applying all his weight to the compress. He was rewarded with a soft groan.

"Tha's it," Steve continued as the towels began to turn a pinkish color. "You're doing great."

He stayed like this for another moment before realizing the compress wasn't truly helping; even though he was applying pressure, Barton was still bleeding out at an alarmingly fast rate. The second fact Steve realized was that, in his current condition, he wasn't going to be able to give Clint the help he needed.

Steve had phoned JARVIS on the trip back to the cabin, but in order to hold onto Clint with both arms, he had had to press the StarkPhone between his shoulder and his ear. It had worked fine for a moment, but then Steve's vision had blurred and he'd tripped on a rock, sending the phone and Clint flying. Obviously he'd chosen to save his teammate, leaving the phone to smash into a rock and break into at least four separate pieces. Steve wasn't sure if the call had gone through, but he had to hope that JARVIS was already alerting Tony—maybe even Coulson—and that a rescue was on its way.

If not though, there was only one other option.

"Be righ' 'ack." Steve grabbed the longest towel he could find and used it to tie the others in place. He hated leaving Clint but he had to get them into town, where help was. Walking was too slow and painful, so he needed keys.

Where had Clint left the keys?

Steve's vision was shifting like a Tilt-A-Whirl gone wrong but he managed to stumble into the main room and find two identical sets of keys hanging to the left of two identical doors. When Steve held onto the floor lamp and closed one eye, the two images finally merged into one.

He grabbed the key ring then stumbled back to Clint.

"Stay wi' me," he mumbled as he picked Clint up again and headed for what remained of the front door.

Thirty-six hours earlier…

"C'mon man," Clint Barton pleaded as he flopped down, chest first, on Steve's once-pristinely-made bed. "It'll be fun."

Though he heard the comforter crinkling, Steve didn't look up from the thick file he was reviewing. Clint had been harassing him all week about going on a vacation, and while a break from aliens and SHIELD and the future sounded pretty good to him right now, he was literally buried in other assignments. Every free surface in his room was covered in a stack of files someone at SHIELD has asked him to look into, thinking he was the authority on all things HYDRA. All of them had the same deadline: yesterday.

More than one person had told him to leave the files at work, so he could develop some work/life balance, but Steve never managed to get to them in the midst of all the missions and events and meetings that occurred during work hours. So he started flipping through them in his free time just to make a dent in the stack. His plan for this weekend had been to get through most of them, so he could at least try to regain some of his personal space again.

"I can't, Clint. There's too much to do here." As proof, Steve tilted up one corner of the stack of files in front of him.

"Anyone ever tell you you work too much?" Clint countered, swinging his arm around the room to highlight the stacks and stacks of folders. "Because you obviously do. Plus, I know you've maxed out your PTO."

Steve looked over the top of his current file at the archer. "Do you now?"

"Everyone knows that," Clint replied, scrunching up his face for good measure. "Plus, you've never missed an Avengers' meeting, which are never during normal business hours."

"Maybe all my vacations are around here."

Clint wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Then you aren't really living."

Steve frowned at him, but the archer just laid silently in Steve's bed, waiting him out.

"I have more PTO than I'd ever need," Steve said after a long moment.

"That's not the point." Clint shifted so his feet dangled off the long side of the bed then rested his chin in his hands. "You've met Jill from HR, right?"

Steve nodded. The dark-haired woman was the unofficial mother hen of the SHIELD agents. When he had first joined up, she had taken it upon herself to make sure he was welcome. It wasn't just a show for him though; not long after, Steve'd discovered that she acted that way toward all the new hires. She took the time to know each agent and their families, so she could do her best to get each agent the days off they needed for school plays or concerts or recitals, if applicable. "I'm not sure—"

"Do you remember when she found out that Coulson was still alive?"

Steve nodded again. Coulson had walked out of Jill's office looking thoroughly reprimanded. There was no mystery to what she had said, though; even the other end of the floor had been able to hear her yelling about how stupid it was for him to take on a demigod by himself, fall for Loki's ploy and to die (even if it was just for eight seconds), and not tell anyone when he returned from Tahiti.

"Now, when she finds out agents aren't taking care of themselves—especially blond-haired, blue-eyed agents such as yourself—she doesn't yell. In fact, she doesn't say a word. And trust me, the silence is worse than the yelling." Clint grinned conspiratorially. "So, you can either get out of town with me for the weekend, or face Jill's wrath. Your pick."

Steve lowered his file, scanned the high stacks of paperwork surrounding him, and sighed. "Just for the weekend, right?"

Clint sprang up from bed and clapped Steve on the shoulder, wincing only slightly as his hand contacted rock-like muscle. "That's the spirit. We leave tomorrow morning 0400. Pack your fishing pole."

"But I don't have—" Steve began but it was too late. Clint was long out the door.

In all the time Steve had known Clint, he only remembered three times when the archer had only shown up to something on time. Sure, his tardiness always had a good reason—the train was late, the street light was out, the corner bank was getting robbed—but the outcome was always the same. It was to the point where the Avengers started taking bets about what time Clint would show up to their meetings. Steve had won a majority of those bets, which had led Tony to accuse him of being in cahoots with Clint in order to pick that night's dinner. Really, Steve had come to have a fairly good idea of when his teammates would show up to places, depending on the weather, what had happened in the area the night before, and if food was present.

Today though, Steve stepped into the garage at 3:55 AM to find Clint already sitting in the driver's seat of a beat-up old Ford that Steve was honestly surprised Tony let park next to the Tesla, the Shelby, and a bunch of other cars whose parts were worth more than the entirety of Clint's truck. The archer was playing the steering wheel like a set of drums, and his head was banging to a bass-heavy rhythm.

Steve tapped on the window as he passed, not wanting to frighten Clint, who he suspected couldn't hear him over the music. Clint simply nodded a hello, turned down the music, and rolled down his window.

"I thought you were Mr. Punctuality," he shouted, which Steve suspected to be somewhat unintentional.

"It's only 3:55," Steve retorted as he chucked his bag in the back and slid into the passenger's seat.

"Yeah, but on vacation, ten minutes is on time and on time is late," Clint cheerfully informed him, before turning back to face front. "Now, since I don't know if you've ever been on a proper road trip, we need to lay down some ground rules. One, this truck only stops for gas and food. Bathroom breaks are to be handled in there too. It's a long trip as is and we don't want to waste any time."

He waited for Steve to nod before continuing, "Two, it's my job to get us there safely. Your job, since you don't know where you're going, is to distribute snacks." Clint motioned to the backseat where a slew of overflowing grocery bags were piled up.

"You have enough for a small army."

"Or for one supersoldier and an extremely junk-food-starved archer."

Steve conceded Clint's point with a nod. "Any more rules?"

"An addendum. Driver usually picks the music, but since you seem new to this whole road tripping thing, I vacate my title."

A small object was launched into the air, which Steve easily caught.

"You know how to work an iPod?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I actually like new tech." Steve quickly powered up the iPod then set about looking around for an aux cord.

Realizing what Steve was after, Clint grabbed what looked like a blank cassette tape from the cup holder and held the metal end of a cord out to Steve. "Truck's too old for an aux. Gotta make do with the tape player instead. Sounds a little different but works well enough."

While Steve grabbed the cord and plugged it into the iPod, Clint popped the tape into the deck and changed input streams. "I love everything on there," he said, motioning back toward the iPod, "so go nuts. Just shy away from the slow stuff until the sun comes up."

"Copy that." Steve scanned the long list of Clint's songs and played the first one he recognized.

Clint nodded approvingly and cranked up the volume before he threw the car into reverse and peeled out of the garage.

"Iowa," he shouted as the garage attendants hurried to raise the boom, "here we come!"

Unfortunately, Clint's farm was a 17-hour drive from the Tower, which in his own words, was "too far to drive for a weekend." He'd tried to sign out a quinjet but Fury had firmly kiboshed that idea. Clint had then found an acquaintance in Rock Hill, Pennsylvania, who owned a private jet and was willing to let Clint and Steve borrow it for the weekend. That gave them four hours of the stereotypical road trip before they switched to the jet, which Clint piloted smoothly all the way to Waverly Falls, IA.

"There it is," Clint said, tapping Steve's elbow with his. With his other hand, he pointed off to his right at a two-story, off-white house with a light green roof. A porch, draped in mosquito netting, wrapped around the entire front of the house and the wooden swing that hung next to the door drifted back and forth in the light breeze. Off to right of the house was what must have once been a field, but was now long overgrown. Just past that was an old barn, its front two doors secured with a shiny new combination lock.

"You own a farm?" Steve asked, incredulous, as they touched down in the spacious front yard.

"Technically, no. I don't raise any crops. This place is just my escape."

Steve looked over at the knee-high weeds that framed the dirt path running up to the front door. "It doesn't seem like you take your PTO very often either."

Clint absently pawed at his ears. "How else did you think I knew how upset Jill was going to be?"

Then, he crawled in the back of the jet and handed out the two duffel bags, which Steve gently dropped outside the jet. By that time, Clint had freed the plane cover and chalks, which between the two of them, only took a few minutes to put in place.

"Let's drop your stuff off and head for the lake. We still have time to throw a line in before it gets too hot," Clint said as he picked up his bag and headed toward the house.

"I didn't bring a fishing pole," Steve admitted. He slung his bag over his shoulder and quickly caught up to Clint. "Never owned one and had no idea which one to buy."

"I realized that when you threw your stuff into the back." Clint tapped his temple with his index and middle fingers. "Super spy and all."

Steve responded with a rather rude gesture but didn't think anything of it until a few steps later when he realized Clint was no longer walking beside him. He turned around to find the archer frozen in place, his bag on the ground, and one hand clutching dramatically at his heart.

"Are you okay?" Steve demanded, dropping his own duffel to the ground and racing back to his teammate.

"Captain America just flipped me off," Clint sputtered. "This calls everything I know about the world into question."

It was at this point that Steve realized Clint was messing with him. He shoved the archer slightly harder than he should have, then picked up Clint's dropped gear and headed back for his own. "You forget there was a time before all this when I was just Steve Rogers," he called over his shoulder.

"No, actually I didn't." In just a few steps, Clint caught up with Steve and stole back his luggage. "So, have you actually ever been fishing?"

"Properly, no. But Bucky and I used to go down by the docks when we found enough string."

"Catch anything?"

"Not usually. But that wasn't why we went." Memories of his childhood flooded back, unwanted, and Steve had to stop speaking to keep himself from physically reacting to them. What Bucky would have thought of this future, even though he had yet to see a flying car... "It was nice to get away for a while," Steve finished softly, once the memories had been shoved back in their box.

By this time, they had climbed the four rickety stairs to the porch. Steve, who was still in the lead, stopped at the mosquito net surrounding the porch, thinking it had to be opened somehow, but Clint blazed straight through; the netting simply popped open and snapped closed again behind him.

"Best As-Seen-On-TV purchase I ever made," Clint said as he dropped his bag on a side table and began flipping through a large key ring.

Steve turned sideways to accommodate his bag and easily stepped through the seam in the netting. While Clint began trying random keys for the door, Steve took better look around. On the porch itself, there was a stack of dusty outdoor chairs, the table Clint's bag was currently on, and a circular grill tucked in the far corner, buried under a pile of boxes whose purpose Steve could only guess. Outside the porch to the left, just visible above the knee-high grass, was a fire pit circled by strategically placed stumps. A well-worn but now overgrown trail led from the porch to the fire pit and around the house to the barn. Said trail branched at the barn and continued to the north, most likely to the lake Steve had seen on the way in.

"Aha!" Clint muttered as the fifth key he tried slid successfully into the lock. With one hand on the knob, he turned around to face Steve then dramatically flung the door open. "Mi casa es su casa," he crooned as the alarm started blaring.

Clint hurried toward the flashing panel a few feet inside the door while Steve stepped into the large living room and slowly surveyed the space. There was a staircase directly in front of him, dividing the large front room into two. Off to the right there was a living room, with the kitchen and dining area branching off behind it, and to the left was a space that was uncharacteristically empty. All the furniture in main area was draped with white sheets, though Steve could make out two couches around a coffee table and either a china hutch or a bookcase in back. The air was a little stale, but nothing opening the windows couldn't fix.

"It's a nice place," he commented, carefully lowering the bags in the entryway.

"It actually belonged to my mom's side of the family," Clint said as he pulled away the curtains in the furniture-less room, letting a beam of light into the front space. "Every few years I put it on the market and buy it again as one of my other identities." He then headed into the kitchen to open that window and stuck a wooden block in the track to keep it from slamming closed. "I just can't seem to get rid of it."

Steve pulled back the shades in the living room, revealing a medium-sized portrait of a family of three hanging on the side of the staircase. He walked over to it and looked at the proud parents, standing behind their daughter who couldn't have been more than ten. She was sitting in a high-backed chair, dressed to the nines, with a brown German Shepard laying at her feet. Their clothing was relatively modern so the portrait couldn't have been from that long ago.

"That was my mother, Edith," Clint said, startling Steve who hadn't realized he had walked back in the room. Clint's hand snaked over Steve's shoulder and pointed at the young girl. "I never got to meet my grandparents."

"I'm sorry," Steve said honestly. His mother's parents had stayed in Ireland, so he'd only met his father's parents. They'd died when Steve was young, but he had one small, happy memory of going over to their house for the holidays when he was little.

Clint shrugged. "What are you going to do? The James' didn't have the best genes. I'm actually surprised they lasted long enough to reproduce… which is probably more than you wanted to know about my messed up relatives, especially so early in our trip." He then spun around and strode toward the entryway closet. "I figured you weren't going to have one, but was ready to be surprised as hell if you did."

It took Steve a moment to realize that Clint had switched subjects back to fishing. There was much clattering and rustling but Clint finally emerged from the closet with two dusty fishing rods and a tackle box. "You can use this one," he said, holding out the red rod. "It's actually the one I taught Natasha on."

"So you do take some PTO," Steve said, as he gratefully accepted the fishing rod.

Clint scowled. "Only when they make me."

They spent a few more minutes cracking open the second-floor windows and plugging various electronics in, before Clint reset the alarm. "C'mon Rogers," he said as he sprinted out the door. "The fish are waiting."