Chapter Text
It’s a shitty bar in a shittier town, and Clint knows he shouldn’t be here. Barney had made it clear: Keep your head down, wait, I’ll be back in a few days. A few days had been a week ago, Clint is tired of motel vending machine food, and more dangerously, bored out of his skull. It’ll be fine.
He tells himself that over and over, like it’ll be true by sheer force of will. Barney is gonna come back. Despite the tension since they had to throw together an escape from the circus, Barney is still his brother. Barney got him out when Trickshot was gonna kill him, and Barney wouldn’t just leave Clint here after all of it. It’s a mantra that’s feeling more threadbare with every repetition.
He’s just taking a quick trip to the local bar, a hole in the wall that smells better than it looks. The aging sign proclaims it
Holy Falls
, though he has to guess at a letter or two by the sun bleached silhouette that remains. The inside of the bar is predictable. Half of the furniture doesn’t match anything, the other half looks older than him or like it’s been used in a few fights. Clint is just glad the stale air isn’t full of cigarette smoke or that distinctive tang of unwashed drunks.
His fingers itch when he spots an old faded target painted on the back wall, but he forces himself to the wooden bartop instead. Darts always ends one way for Clint, and it won’t count as keeping his head down, for sure.
The bartender is politely dismissive, gives him a chilled beer while completely ignoring every ounce of his charm. Clint shrugs and resigns himself to drinking alone among the soft din of the other patrons. He keeps a wary eye out from his place near the end of the bar, though he doubts there’s anyone passing through here worse than he is.
Two mind numbingly quiet beers later, he’s ready to jump out of his skin again. Being alone in a room full of people feels worse than being alone in the musty motel. He figures fuck it, no one in here is going to care about his aim, if they even bother to look up from their quiet tables. He saunters to the back wall, all casual like he’s gotta sneak up on it, maybe put on a show for the audience he definitely doesn’t have.
It’s soothing in a similar way to shooting his bow, the rapid thunk of each dart hitting the target wherever he sends it. Each hit unclenches the knot in his chest a degree. Clint doesn’t take long to start making trickier shots, every one a burst of joy against the overwhelming worry he’s holding on to.
Clint feels eyes on him, finally, when he’s got his own closed and three darts land in a perfect line all at once,
thunk thunk thunk
. He doesn’t turn to look, just puts a little extra slink in his step when he goes to retrieve them. The feeling doesn’t ease, the prickle of attention insistent on the back of his neck. It takes some extra focus to keep making more unlikely shots while studiously ignoring the rest of the room.
Either someone is going to come kick his ass in a minute, or they’re admiring his skills. He rolls up his short sleeves shamelessly and hopes for the latter. His luck is way too shit to get some action in Podunk, Nowhere, but maybe he can make a few bucks off of a cocky local boy trying to prove a point.
Whoever it is has more patience than Clint, his empty beer cup wins out over keeping his mysterious look going. He turns back to the bar, and the glass slips from his slack fingers. He doesn’t register the lack of shattering at his feet, eyes wide and overwhelmed as he tries to understand what he’s seeing.
There’s a man leaning against the countertop, unfairly pretty and watching him with a grin stretching his cupid bow lips. It’s the wings stretched out from his shoulders - six of them glinting gold and shimmering softly in and out of view - that have Clint’s feet rooted in place. He’s all relaxed lines, one hand casually playing with a circlet that’s glowing gold, matching the eyes he’s got settled on Clint. And the eyes that flow in and out of existence among his feathers.
No one else in the place seems to see it, or they’re just really good at pretending they don’t care. Maybe Clint’s in the midst of a really gorgeous hallucination with soft looking auburn hair falling in waves down his shoulders? Clint looks around - desperate that someone else see this - the feathers dragging along the counter behind the man, the dozens of eyes seemingly looking straight into him.
Clint knows he’s been staring too long when the guy winks, the gold of his eye shifting to a mercurial blue for one heart stopping moment. Clint’s feet carry him forward like he’s been given permission, every step closer to the man raising the hair on Clint’s arms. He knows deep in his gut that there’s danger here, either from his mind slipping or whatever the man in front of him is.
When Clint is close enough to reach out and touch, the man speaks up, voice startlingly deep and human where Clint expected something else.
“What’s a circus brat like you doing in The Holy Falls, hm?”
Clint answers, words tugged from his mouth without his input, “I’m scared that my brother abandoned me here, and I’m trying to get in trouble to feel something familiar.”
He claps a hand to his mouth quickly enough that it stings. He can feel the blush flooding down from his ears, embarrassment and confusion mixed with anger as the man laughs. That, at least, sounds as inhuman as Clint expects, a sound like glass and bells and snow, somehow.
“I’d say you’ve found trouble, don’t you think?”
Clint’s hand is still clasped over his mouth. He can’t trust that he won’t spill more words, isn’t sure if he could handle another burst of truth from himself. So he just nods, drops himself into the chair next to the man when he’s gestured to do so. A fresh beer appears next to him and he startles, glancing over to the other end of the bar where the bartender is serving another patron. They toss him a grin, the sparkling green of their eyes catching the dusty light, and Clint shudders. He preferred when everyone was ignoring him.
The man hums out a little questioning sound, and Clint’s focus snaps back to him. He can feel words curling behind his teeth, stinging the tip of his tongue. With a sigh he lowers his hand and says, “Maybe. You’re terrifying but you don’t look mean like my dad got when he was gonna be cruel.”
Gold darkens to black - for a moment Clint feels a deep true fear course through him - then the man takes his hand as gently as anyone has ever touched him and the fear slips away. The man’s fingertips are like brands to his skin, painless but more present than anything he’s ever felt. Clint watches as the wings fade into hints of themselves, soft shadows where before they were overwhelming. It takes him a while to realize the man’s hand is gold too, an intricate pattern that doesn’t settle into anything organic or mechanical while he’s brushing a thumb over Clint’s knuckles.
“The world has treated you badly, hasn’t it, Clint?”
“S’what I deserve.” Clint doesn’t flinch at the man knowing his name, frowns while he answers another undeniable question.
The man tilts his head, confusion clear across those ethereal features. “Humans can’t lie to me. Yet that’s a lie… but, you believe it, don’t you?”
This time Clint doesn’t have to reply, no compulsion leads him to nod, to stare down at his lap so he doesn’t have to face whatever expression graces the man next.
“Is this all too much, sweetheart?”
Clint whispers, “Yes.”
There’s so much weight in the silence that follows, only broken by the soft whirring of shifting plates in the man’s hand as he continues to caress Clint’s fingers. Finally, blessedly, the man leans in to press a soft kiss to Clint’s temple. It’s indescribable, the way those lips feel just brushing against his skin. There’s a tug of raw desire in Clint’s bones, something he’s never felt, even deep inside another person with their cries of passion around him. If the man hadn’t pulled back after the briefest moment, it would have been too much, too encompassing, too everything.
“That’s alright. You’ll see me again, when you’re ready.”
Clint looks up at that, into eyes that are an almost human blue, crinkled at the corners with a sad smile. He has to ask, “When I’m ready?”
The man doesn’t respond, not bound by whatever rules dragged Clint’s answers from him. Instead he pulls a long, intricately wrapped box from behind himself. He sets it on the counter and gives it a little tap with his golden fingers. He nods, seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s decided, says, “Accept my gift, move on from this town. There’s more of the world out there for you.”
Clint can feel the urge to accept it curling under his fingers for a moment before it retreats, the man looking sheepish as he adds, “Sorry, old habits. This one is your choice, and yours alone.”
Clint spends a long minute looking carefully at the man, like he could root out deception from a being that is clearly something far beyond his human understanding. There’s nothing in those blue-sometimes-gold eyes but a hopeful earnestness. It’s the hope of it that has Clint speaking up, “Okay, but only if you tell me your name.”
There’s a stutter to the sound all across the bar, and Clint can suddenly feel the attention of everyone in the bar focused on them. Every head is turned to watch, now, every one who had ignored Clint despite his best tricks now clearly invested in their interaction. The man’s eyes are wide, with surprise or delight or both. He leans in close like he’s going to kiss Clint again, but instead it’s a whisper of his voice that caresses the shell of Clint’s ear.
“I’m James, and I can’t wait to meet you again, circus brat.”
The way the words slip across his mind make Clint’s eyes flutter closed, and his heart beats harsh against his ribs at the promise behind them. When he opens his eyes, the man is gone. The rest of the patrons of the bar have their heads down again, like they had never looked up. Clint could almost believe he’d imagined it all, but his hand rests on the box that James left for him.
He fishes out a few wrinkled dollars to leave on the bar, clutches the box to his chest as he hurries out. There’s no point in heading back to the motel, he knows. Instead, he carefully coaxes his old truck’s engine to life and picks the road leading out of town.