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There are few things Clint hates worse than formal gatherings.
However, as the newly minted ‘Lord Barton of Waverly’ -a pissant little town that Clint tried desperately to escape from for most of his childhood -he is, unfortunately, considered a newly minted ‘catch’.
He pointedly doesn’t readjust his cravat; Natasha might actually murder him if she has to spend another hour getting it right again, even if they could escape to do so.
It’s all so godsdamn absurd. Absolutely asinine, really. Five years of war, thousands of lives lost, and they’re having a summit. Thanos is still out there, somewhere, regrouping his forces, preparing for another assault, and rather than just combine forces to fight him off, the Starks and the Waynes are having a formal meeting to ‘cement the alliance’.
Because ‘cement the alliance’ sounds much better than ‘forcing our lords to intermarry’. No, no, that would be prostitution, and a sin in the eyes of the gods. A ‘meeting’ sounds far more proper.
Clint shouldn’t even be a lord; his father had been a mediocre butcher, who’d never held a title in his godsforsaken life, but given the death toll, combined with the fact that Clint somehow managed to become an officer in King Stark’s Shields, he’d been ‘rewarded’ by a lordship of the town where people used to beat him for digging in their rubbish piles.
His only comfort is that Bucky -now officially Lord James Buchannon of The Brooks - and Steve -newly minted Lord Stephen Rogers of Queens Peaks -look just as out of place and uncomfortable as Clint does.
“Stop frowning.”
Clint turns his glare to Natasha -Lady Romanova of the Rusk Plains now -and barely refrains from pinching her out of spite. She, of course, looks as beautiful, and comfortable as she always does, not a single hair out of place. Not that it’s unusual; he’s seen her walk of battlefields, covered in blood and guts, and still look completely put together.
“What, that ‘unmannerly’ as well?” he asks, carefully stilling his hands in his pockets because the urge to get into a brawl is becoming stronger. “If it is, will it get me out of this ridiculousness?”
She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “No, but it would make our king look poorly.”
He growls, low, quiet, so no one other than maybe Bucky on his left can hear. Because that’s the rub, isn’t it? That’s why they’re all here.
Anthony Stark is their king; they followed him into battle after battle as his Shields, and now they’re following him into this, a different form of warfare, because by the gods, he’s the first man to ever win Clint’s loyalty.
The young prince -who insisted on being called Tony after their first battle together-is now the king of York, and Clint, Natasha, Steve, Bucky, hell, the entire godsdamn kingdom will do anything for him. Not just a good king, but a good man.
Clint looks out across the ballroom, and sees his king laughing and flirting with King Bruce’s daughters; Tony’s given up everything for his kingdom, and even now, he’s agreed to put his beloved Pepper aside, to marry one of the Wayne girls for the sake of the alliance.
He steels himself. Takes a deep breath. One foot in front of the other.
Honestly, he’s not even entirely sure who he’s walking up to; he doesn’t allow himself to focus on the faces, as he stops in front of the first Wayne prince he spots -made obvious by their black and blue tartans - and closes his eyes. Just for a moment.
“May I have this dance, m’lord?” He forces out.
The chuckle is lower pitched than he expected, and he opens his eyes, realizing he’s staring at the Outlaw Bastard.
No, no, he mentally chides himself. That’s camp talk, soldier talk, and he’s a lord, and Tony needs these people. Needs these people to marry his own people.
So he stares up at Lord Todd of the Narrows, and forces himself to smile. “Something funny, m’lord?”
Lord Todd just smirks. “Didn’t expect any of you to bother with me tonight,” the man says simply. “My brothers and sisters are much finer catches.”
“Not much of a catch myself,” Clint says with forced casualness. “And I thought asking Lord Grayson to dance might be a bit on the nose.”
Immediately, he cringes; Lord Richard Grayson, heir of Gotham, probably doesn’t want reminders of his days in the circuses, or the fact that -like the rest of King Bruce’s children -he’s illegitimate.
Stupid. Even when he’s trying to do right by his king, he -
Jason’s loud, booming laughter catches Clint off guard for a moment, before he relaxes; it’s a nice sounding laugh, deep and real. “That it might’ve been; I’m not sure King Bruce’s halls could survive two carnivale dancing. Lord Clinton Barton, was it?”
“Indeed, m’lord,” Clint says, forcing himself to meet the other man’s eyes. “Though most call me Clint.”
“Formerly Hawkeye of the King’s Shields. My… Roy, one of my archers, he was impressed with the shot you made against Thanos’ lieutenant.” Jason quirks a smile. “Other than Lord Buchannan, you may just be the only interesting person in the room.” He drains his glass of wine, and sets it down on the table. “I’d love to dance, Lord Barton.”
He extends his hand out, and Clint hesitantly takes it; he’s never really danced before, but Natasha had spent the entire trip to Gotham working with him in his tent each night. And Clint isn’t entirely sure if he’s supposed to lead, or let Jason lead, and the music isn’t even familiar.
Of course, him and Natasha had practiced without music, since even the king didn’t travel with a band of musicians wherever he went. But the point remains that Clint doesn’t recognize this song, and as Jason leads him out towards the middle of the ballroom, Clint is desperately trying to figure out if he’s supposed to be the one putting his hands on Jason’s hips, or the one putting his hands on Jason’s shoulders.
Jason just chuckles as Clint stands there, hands halfway between hips and shoulders. “Whichever you’re more comfortable with, Lord Barton; I’ve never been much of a dancer myself, but I’m hoping if we sway awkwardly enough, my brothers will feel the need to come out, and show off how much better they are at this than I am; then, we can retire back to a corner and sit around glaring at everyone.”
Clint finds himself chuckling as well. “Well, in that case…” He sets his hands on Jason’s shoulders. “This seems less forward, and given that I’m a lord of a town with a motte and bailey as opposed to a keep, and you’re the son of a king, I should leave the forwardness to you.”
He fights back the urge to blush as Jason sets his large hands on Clint’s hips, and they start swaying -although not as awkwardly as Clint feared -to the music. It’s actually… not awful. While Clint’s not entirely comfortable with having someone other than Natasha in his personal space, Jason’s being a perfect gentleman: the bottom of his palms are just barely brushing against Clint’s hip bones, and he seems content to keep a few inches of space between them.
“The disinherited son.”
Clint blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be,” Jason says, giving him a crooked smile, even though Clint knows Jason knows that’s not what Clint meant. “I’m not. It just means I’m not in the running for the throne. And between you and me? That’s better for everyone; the kingdom, my brothers… myself. I’m not much of the ‘ruling’ type.”
“A sad day for the people of the Narrows then.” Immediately, Clint drops his arms. “Gods, Lord Todd, I apologize, I didn’t… My mouth runs away with me at times, I didn’t mean -”
But Jason just laughs, grabbing Clint’s hands and plopping them back down on his shoulders. “No apologies needed, Lord Barton; you’re not wrong. Luckily for me, my father’s seneschal Alfred set up a staff that keeps the place running in my absence. I occasionally send one of my men or women back to make sure my steward isn’t taking too much, and the people aren’t dying of the plague; beyond that, the people of the Narrows rule themselves, and it works well for all involved.”
Clint stares at him for a moment. “Is… is that something you can just do?” Because honestly, that would be so much better -for Clint, and for the people of Waverly -if that’s an option Clint can take.
“Well… I didn’t exactly ask for permission,” Jason admits with a small shrug. “But seeing as how my men and I form the king’s vanguard, I don’t think anyone’s going to complain too loudly.”
Jason and his ‘Outlaws’ are so much more than a vanguard; even beyond holding the front of the line, in travel or battle, they’re usually to be found in the thickest part of the fighting. And unlike Clint and the Shields, Jason doesn’t have the excuse of being bodyguard to his king.
In fact, he’s rarely near King Bruce at all, from what Clint’s heard, although rumor varies about whether that’s through Jason’s choice, the king’s choice, or just because the Outlaw Bastard and his men are the best fighter King Bruce has, and he doesn’t dare pull them from the fight.
“Hmm. Well, maybe if I can convince someone I’m not a total loss, your father will let me borrow his seneschal, and do the same in Waverly,” Clint says, as they continue to move across the floor in slow circles. “Trying to give orders to people who used to beat you as a child for stealing their garbage probably won’t work out well for me.”
Jason’s eyes narrow, and once again, Clint curses himself for being an idiot; out of all the Shields, only Steve had anything close to what could be called a ‘happy’ childhood, and Clint often forgets that most people find his casualness about his upbringing offensive.
“I… apologies; as I’m sure you’ve probably realized, I’m not exactly ‘polite company’,” Clint says quickly, putting on his most self-deprecating smile. “I’m a lord because Ton- King Stark needed someone dumb enough to deal with the idiots out there, and I was the closest to hand.”
“I’ve seen the shots you’ve made with that bow, Lord Barton,” Jason says, his tone low. “I’m absolutely confident that you being ‘close to hand’ had very little to do with anything. However, I’ve found it best, when dealing with people who knew you as a child, to acknowledge their little barbs and taunts with floggings. Not only does it tend to put a halt to any insults to your face, but it’s incredibly gratifying as well.”
Clint finally brings himself to look Jason in the eye, and he’s surprised to see a grim acknowledgement there, something he might see on Natasha or Bucky’s face. “I… see. I’ll take that under advisement,” he says slowly. Even though he knows he won’t; while he might be bitter about it, he can’t exactly blame people for chasing him off either. He’s well aware of what he was as a child, and people chasing off a stinking, bruised child rooting through their garbage for scraps isn’t uncommon.
“I doubt it.” Despite his words, there’s a soft sort of humor in Jason’s voice. “You seem like a good man. I’m sure which ever of my siblings ends up grabbing your attention will be quite happy. I do, however, advise you stay away Damian; he’s ruthless, and even if he doesn’t like you, if he marries you, he’ll kill anyone he thinks has ever ‘besmirched your honor’.”
Clint can’t help but snort at that. “I’ve heard your brother is no shirking wallflower, but even he might find that task a bit daunting,” he says with a grin. “I’ll admit to having little left to ‘besmirch’, but most people seem to enjoy trying. Hell, some of my closest friends have made it a hobby.”
“Oh, I understand that all too well. I -Richard. Making friends, are we?” Jason asks, as Lord Grayson comes out onto the floor with Natasha.
Lord Grayson practically beams. “I am. Lady Romanova is, perhaps, the only woman here who hasn’t been instantly won over by my dashing good looks, my roguish charm, or my wonderful sense of humor. But she graciously agreed to dance with me anyway.”
Another small snort escapes Clint’s lips; Natasha isn’t charmed by anyone. Ever. For any reason. But she’s also the only member of the Shields with any political sense at all.
Natasha is beautiful. She’s charming, graceful, intelligent, and -most important for a male heir -a woman. The fact that she’s one of the best fighters Clint’s ever met, the fact that she can take on five or six opponents at one time, and come out on top is less relevant to these people, but still: there’s no denying that Natasha is amazing.
She’s also the bastard get of a minor baron and a whore. She’ll never be allowed to marry Lord Grayson, anymore than a wolf would marry a fox. But she’ll make every woman in the room jealous, make them scramble to try and grab Lord Grayson’s attention. By agreeing to dance with him, Natasha has made Lord Grayson the envy of every man in the room, and ensured that every woman of good breeding will rush to try and get his attention.
It’s a nifty trick; Clint’s often wondered how she manages to be so politically deft, because it’s helped Tony out more than once. Unfortunately, Clint’s better off at getting people to laugh at his rough manners than he is at trying to convince them to win his king’s favor.
“I agreed, Lord Grayson, because otherwise my dear friend Lord Barton here would continue to suffer on his lonesome, while Lords Rogers and Buchannan fuss with their cravats and stare on in horror,” Natasha says, smiling at Clint. “Hopefully now that the shortest of the men, and the only woman, have braved the terrifying prospect of dancing, they’ll join.”
“M’not that short,” Clint grumbles. “Steve and Bucky are just freakishly tall.”
Jason grins down at him. “I do believe I’m taller than Lord Buchannon.”
“Mmhmm. Bet you hit your head on all the doorways.”
This time, it’s Lord Grayson who laughs uproariously. “You should’ve been here when he shot up six inches in two weeks,” the man says, traces of his laugh still written on his face. “Believe it or not, when he was thirteen, he was shorter than Damian is now. All of the sudden, he was bashing into doorways, or hitting his head on branches, and there were more than a few times he’d knock himself clear unconscious. He was like the world’s clumsiest colt.”
Despite his words, there’s fondness written on Lord Grayson’s face, and he stares at Jason like he’s something precious, something worth protecting. And for just a moment, Clint looks at Lord Grayson and sees the man who took a small force of elite warriors sixty leagues behind enemy lines to rescue his brother and two lieutenants.
Jason, however, ducks his head, nearly bashing his chin into the top of Clint’s head. “Shut up, Dick. I was perfectly normal, literally every other person in the world looks awkward and clumsy during their teenage years. Just because you’re some sort of freak of nature -”
“So’s Natasha,” Clint interjects, grinning at his only friend since he was thirteen. “I went through puberty, and my voice cracked constantly, my aim was all off, and I only had two places where I could grow any facial hair; right below my left ear, and the right side of my chin. And then, here’s Natasha, hair perfectly done, graceful as a swan, with a voice like warmed up honey.”
Natasha just rolls her eyes. “Clint, you still can only grow facial hair in those two places.”
Both Jason and Lord Grayson laugh, but before anyone else can comment, Steve marches out onto the floor, looking like a man being led to his execution as he comes towards them.
“I… Lord Grayson. I wondered if… Perhaps you would like to uh… Dance. With me.”
Clint doesn’t snicker, because that would be rude. And also because Natasha is close enough to step on his foot.
“I would love to, Lord Rogers. However, I can’t leave Lady Roma -”
“Oh, no, Lord Grayson,” Natasha says, stepping back, and waving Steve closer. “I’d be delighted to go and talk to Lord Drake; we have several friends in common, and I’m sure we’ll get along swimmingly.”
She pats Steve on the back, and wanders off towards Lord Drake, who’s been watching everything from his seat at the main table. Jason, on the other hand, starts moving Clint towards the edge of the dance floor.
“I think that’s enough of that,” he says, although his tone is mild. “We’ll let Richard have his spotlight.”
Clint doesn’t argue or resist, following him over to one of the smaller tables surrounding the ballroom floor. “I don’t know; Steve -Lord Rogers -might appreciate less spotlight,” he says quietly. “This is… No offense to you or your family, but I hope you realize what our people are giving up. Steve and Bucky… They’ve been best friends since they were children, and they’ve been together since they were fifteen. King Stark and Lady Potts almost as long. And I understand we need the alliance; I understand nothing cements like marriage. But…”
He trails off, unsure of what else to say. But when he looks up at Jason, he finds that Jason is giving him a small smile.
“I understand. And I wish it wasn’t necessary,” Jason admits quietly. “Richard… He’s always believed in love at first sight. He’s a sappy idiot like that.” He chuckles softly. “And our father… he wanted him to have that. He tried so hard to let all his children have that. But… the good of the kingdom will always come first, when it all comes down to it. And Thanos is a big enough threat that dreams of love have to be put aside.”
For a brief moment, Clint feels horrible; he’s been so caught up in how this whole thing is ripping his friends apart, he never stopped to think that the Waynes were probably giving up just as much. No one wanted to be here, no one wanted this.
“I… I apologize, Lord Todd,” he says quietly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Is there… Do you…?” He lets his voice trail off a bit.
But Jason just shakes his head. “No,” he says, giving Clint a small smile. “I’m not exactly a ‘fine’ catch, the king’s ‘Bastard Outlaw’, just as like to leave them in widows reeds as an anniversary gift.” He shakes his head, as if physically shaking something off. “What about you? I’ve heard you and Lady Romanoff…” He raises an eyebrow.
Clint can’t help but smirk. “No. We’ve been friends since we were children, and she’s more of a sister to me than anything else. Plus, she always says I’m too ‘sweet’ for her tastes.”
“And no one else? I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m a mostly illiterate carnivale who’s only real skill in life is that I can hit anything I aim at,” Clint says with a shrug. “Up until three months ago, I had no titles, no land, no property, and nothing I owned besides my bow and my horse.”
“You’re a member of the King’s Shields, one of the finest bowmen I’ve ever met outside of Harper, you go drinking with the king, and you care about your friends,” Jason retorts. “You’ll make someone a fine husband. I’d have no qualms about you with any of my siblings. Except maybe Damian; you’re far too sweet for him. Maybe we’ll send him to Lady Natasha; let them try to kill each other.”
Clint was caught a bit off-guard, first by the compliment, and the sincerity in Jason’s voice, secondly by the idea of Natasha and the young Lord Al’Ghul. “I -”
He isn’t even entirely sure what he’s going to say, truthfully. But it doesn’t matter, because Jason’s attention -along with everyone else in the room -is dragged towards the large ornate doors being thrown open.
Clint’s familiar in passing with Roy Harper, second in command of Jason’s men. But the tall, red-haired man is clearly in a hurry, shoving past people as he makes his way towards Jason.
“Jay, we have a problem,” he says bluntly, grabbing Jason’s arm. “Two dozen war ships are sailing into the harbor. And as far as I know, your father wasn’t expecting an armada.”
Jason curses, loudly and colorfully, before looking at Clint. “Is your king expecting -”
“No,” Clint cuts him off quickly. “We have to -”
“Richard!” Jason is already moving towards his brother. “Lock down the city. Roy, send Artemis and Kori out with messages to the armies.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Steve demands. “Problems?”
“War ships in the harbor,” Clint explains, and Steve’s face darkens.
“I’ll tell Tony, and get the Shields ready.”
“Lord Rogers, wait!” Lord Grayson grabs his arm, and stops him. Which, given the near thunderous look on Steve’s face, isn’t a great idea. But Lord Grayson continues, “We have to organize a defense. Not two groups of men fighting in darkened city alleys.”
Clint frowns as people start moving towards them, talking in hushed whispers. “We’re going to have a room full of panicked nobles on our hands if we don’t do something,” he hisses. “Steve, Lord Grayson, go let King Bruce and Tony know what’s happening. I can send Natasha to get the rest of the Shields, and Lord Todd can get his men assembled. Let the kings figure out who will be in charge of what, but none of it will mean a damn thing if we’re trying to fight Thanos’ assassins in the streets in our dress clothes.”
He feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, as all three sets of eyes turn to look at him.
“Would you believe,” Jason says slowly, “That he tried to convince me he was an idiot?”
Steve gives him that half-smirk half-grimace thing he does when Bucky’s doing something foolhardy, and brave. “Yes. He has a habit of that. Don’t let him fool you. I’ll gather my men in the courtyard, Lord Todd, and meet you there. Clint, have Nat inform Tony. And tell her to keep him here. If they’re attacking the city, they’re desperate; I don’t want their shadow walkers finding him on the field.”
Jason nods slowly. “You’re right.” He turns back to Roy Harper. “Get the men assembled; have them meet Lord Rogers’ Shields in the courtyard. I’ll meet you there once I know the fabulously wealthy aren’t going to run headlong into the bay and drown themselves in fear.”
Nearly eight hours later, Clint found himself sitting on the steps of a temple to… someone, he was too tired to try and figure out who. His dress clothes are covered in blood, dirt, and soot, and the sleeves are missing.
Maybe he tore those off himself, but as long as Natasha doesn’t find out, he should be fine.
He looks down at his bow, carefully inspecting it for damage; smacking people with his bow is about his least favorite thing to do, but unfortunately, sometimes it’s also the most necessary, given that he doesn’t carry any other weapons on him.
But there doesn’t appear to be any cracks, or even splinters. It’s a good bow, one he made himself, and it’s seen him through a lot in this war.
He glances at one of the bodies laying a few feet away. At least they were able to keep most of the civilians out of direct combat, but… not everyone escaped. Par for the course, really, but seeing non-combatants always bothers him a little. It isn’t -
“Lord Barton!”
Clint debates on pulling himself to his feet for a moment at the sound of Jason’s voice, however, before he can come to a decision, Jason plops down on the step next to him, his black and red armor covered in blood and gore.
“Lord Todd. You fought well.” Which is a massive understatement; Clint has never seen anyone fight like that, except maybe Bucky when Steve isn’t around. Jason had carved through Thanos’ men like they were stalks of wheat, until he’d been in the middle of the enemy army.
Jason gives him a smile. “So did you.” He holds out one of Clint’s red tipped arrows. “Roy says this belongs to you.”
“Hmm. Odd,” Clint says, with as straight a face as he can muster.
“Odd indeed. I pulled it out of a shadow walker about to stab me in the back.” Jason settles back a bit, leaning against the stairs. “It was a beautiful shot. Roy says you might even be as good as he is. And I’ve never heard Roy say that about anyone in the almost fifteen years we’ve known each other.”
Clint shrugs as casually as he can, even if the compliment -coming from Harper, who’s considered the best archer in Gotham -makes him pleased. “That’s kind of him to say.”
“It’s really not. Roy is many things, but he’s never handed out an undeserved compliment,” Jason says bluntly. “You’re a damn good shot, Lord Barton.”
“Clint. Please.”
“Clint then. Clint, you’re a damn good shot. And you saved my life at least once tonight that I know of.”
Blushing, Clint waves his hand. “If you die, who’s going to sit in the corner and glare at the other nobles with me?”
Jason goes quiet for a moment, and Clint feels a pang settle in his stomach; once again, he’s let his idiot mouth run away from him, and say things that show exactly how crude, and unrefined he is.
“Perhaps… Clint,” Jason says slowly. “You’d be willing to come to the Narrows with me. I could show you the best corners for glaring there. Designed the castle with corners for glaring specifically.”
Clint blinks. “I… You want me to come to the Narrows?”
Shrugging, Jason stares out at the bodies littering the cobblestone walkway to the church. “If you’d like. Then perhaps, I can bring my father’s seneschal to Waverly, and help settle things there.”
“Are… are you… is this a… a proposal?” Clint asks unsurely. “Because I have to say, Lord Todd, you can definitely -”
“It’s not… exactly a proposal. Or rather, a proposal to get to know each other better,” Jason interrupts, sounding unsure for the first time. “And perhaps see where things go from there. I understand I’m not the greatest catch; the Narrows isn’t all that wealthy, and out of all my siblings, I stand to inherit exactly nothing. But -”
“I’d enjoy that,” Clint says quietly, before he can think about it too hard.
“Oh. Well uh… Good then. That’s… Um. Good.”
“Good,” Clint repeats, giving Jason a small smile.