Prologue

Natasha recognizes the set of his shoulders, dark against the still-glaring lights of Tokyo’s Ginza district; she watches him wipe the blade of the katana on his sleeve.  He turns, sensing her presence.  

The look on his face is like nothing Natasha has ever seen:  Grief; anger; despair; and a raw, insatiable hunger.  

The brutal efficiency of the kill on that rain-sodden streets suggests an act played out many times before, to achieve whatever solace the universe may offer these days.  Judging by his eyes, Natasha suspects that no death will ever be enough.

Except, perhaps, one.

“Clint.” 

Once, she might have added the words, It’s gonna be alright, but they’re light years beyond that now.  Instead, she asks the question that opens every conversation these days, and to which she already knows the answer. 

“Laura and the kids?”

He fixes her with those eyes that have always seen too much, now sharp beyond endurance.

“All of them.  They were gone when I came home from the Raft,” he grates.  “I’ll never know for sure, of course, because I’ve been keeping them so fucking safe from the world, there was no one I could ask where they’d gone.  Turned to ash or just disappeared – who knows.  Joke’s on me, I guess.”

Natasha’s mouth falls open a little, but only for a second.  This is not the time to feel his pain.  She has a mission; Steve had made that quite clear.

“Whoever is left,”Steve had said.  And added, “With whatever they’ve got left to give.”

“The Avengers need you.  We’re making a stand,” she says.  “Steve thinks there’s a chance.  And if we win…”

“Win what?” 

He’s not even bothering to fake interest.  

“The stones back.  Wong and Thor believe that if we build another Gauntlet, we can undo what was done. Go back in time, change reality.”

This time, he snorts.  

“You forgot something, Nat.  They left before the Decimation.  That means even if you could bring them back, they won’t come back to me. I fucked up one too many times.  So there’s no reason for me to get involved in yet another of your Avengers games, is there.”

He’s starting to pull up that hood and turn away; she knows better than to tell him to stop blaming himself for everything. That’s never worked before, and it’s not going to work now.  What he needs to hear is much simpler.

“It’s not about you, Clint.”

*****

I

Sometimes, it’s nice to be normal.  Doing normal things, like celebrating an anniversary.  Sitting outside a Soho café in the late-spring sunshine, sipping coffee and watching New York’s diverse humanity go by.  

Natasha could get used to this; it sure beats chasing Russian infiltrators around the Baltics or alien strays around Canary Wharf.  She is about to reach for Clint’s hand across the table (just because) when he shatters the mood with four little words.

“There he is again.”

His voice is casual and he doesn’t look up from his triple espresso; only his eyes move, and that barely.  Truth be told, Natasha would have been concerned if he had been any more obvious. Clint can be flaky as all get out - that stunt with the manatee in Guantanamo Bay was a doozy - but when he sniffs danger, he’s one hundred percent the professional.  

She doesn’t move her head either, just takes off her sunglasses and positions them on the table to act as a rearview mirror.

He’s right. The saffron-y guru type they’ve noticed skulking around several times already this morning is headed directly towards them now.  There’s something determined in his stride, as if the various brush-ins they’ve had over the last couple of days have led him to some kind of decision point - and theyare at its very centre.

Clint, with the more direct line of sight, has come to the same conclusion.  He lets go of the cup; his shoulders relax imperceptibly and his left hand drops by his side, ready to produce a weapon in a split second.  Natasha, for her part, is done pretending she’s not aware of a threat and turns her chair around to face the impending arrival.

The first thing she notices is that ‘he’ is in fact a ‘she’.

Completely bald under her hood and pale almost to the point of translucency, the woman seems not quite of this world, but she carries herself with a feline grace and there is no mistaking the coiled strength and taut muscles under the bright-yellow tunic.  Natasha has the wildly irrational image of a delicate flower, its petals limned with a curse that can kill with a touch.  The most curious thing about her, though, is the utter stillness at the center of her being, holding everything and nothing in her orbit.  

Natasha knows without the shred of a doubt that this apparition with the lash-less eyes is the most dangerous creature she and Clint have ever encountered.

“You are agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., sworn to defend humanity from threats both alien and domestic,” the woman says without introduction, her soft voice like velvet on steel.  “As you believe in that task, I would ask you to come with me.”

Clint’s nostrils flare and his biceps twitches a little, a tell that he is now gripping the weapon he’d only reached for earlier.  He, too, has taken notice of the danger Natasha detected.  The woman gives him an indulgent smile.

“Your gun will not be needed, Mr. Barton.”  She turns towards Natasha.  “Nor will your stingers, Miss Romanova.  I mean you both no harm.  I require your assistance.”

“Assistance with what?”  Clint’s eyes narrow to a slit.  “Your ashram being attacked by Republicans-Against-Enlightenment?”

“Very funny, Mr. Barton,” she replies with the tiniest of smiles, “and not entirely incorrect.  Metaphorically speaking, that is.  Will you come?”

Natasha is briefly tempted to ask how this woman knows them – or how she knows that they work for S.H.I.E.L.D.  But there is something intriguing in that serene confidence and a genuine urgency in the woman’s voice, and so she looks over at Clint.  He wears that bemused oh, what the helllook that he gets just before pulling a stunt that could get them both killed, but more often than not moves things forward.  His lips twitch, and he waggles an eyebrow.

Seems like they’re on.

Natasha shrugs and gets up, her chair scraping on the pavement, and puts a tenner under the ashtray for the waitress.  Clint looks at the bill, frowns and fishes a couple of ones out of his pocket.

“You Russian or Dutch?” he snarks, smacking the extra money on the table and putting his empty cup on it.  “Cap would have a fit of righteousness if he saw how little you care for the well-being of the working class.”

Their odd guide observes the exchange with a bemused expression, but says nothing. She leads them down the bustling Soho streets for a few minutes, crossing Houston and eventually turning onto Bleecker Street.  She walks – almost glides – at a brisk pace, not looking back to see whether they’re following.  Finally, she stops halfway in between two unprepossessing storefronts, one a tattoo parlour and the other a Smoke & Beer.  

Clint is about to say something when the woman assumes what looks almost like a fighting stance – legs slightly apart, body perfectly balanced.  She steeples her fingers, takes a breath, and pulls her hands apart and down in a slow but precise arc.

The two stores respond by sliding apart and folding in on themselves; it’s like a shift in reality, a kaleidoscope of silently moving bricks and glass.  The opening slowly reveals one of those 18^thcentury buildings you can still find in this part of Manhattan, although their façades aren’tusually hidden by spells.  Because absent any psychotropic drugs or other physically acceptable explanation, that is what this looks like.  

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Clint mutters under his breath as the building completes its emergence.  “We just walk into a Harry Potter movie?”

He doesn’t move, but his hand is moving closer to his gun.  No one else on the street seems to have noticed anything unusual. 

“Please, come in.  I promise, it’s just a building.” 

The woman in the hood makes an inviting gesture with her hand.  The thought of what those hands appear to be capable of causes Natasha to shiver a little.  Monsters and magic…

Well, here goes nothing, as Clint would say.  Natasha pulls her shoulders back slightly, casts another look at him for reassurance as much as for encouragement, and heads up the wide front stairs.  He follows, his longer stride putting him at her side despite her head start.  

Inside, the building is even bigger than on the outside.  It’s the kind of mansion you see in movies involving vampires or crazy governesses, complete with great expanses of wood and green velvet.  The staircase alone is built for Hollywood entrances, and at the top the light of a chandelier reflects off numerous glass vitrines.

“Let me guess.  You bought this place from the Addams family?”  Clint steps up to a large metal urn at the foot of the stairs and peeks inside. “And what’s this for?  Make broth from the bones of your enemies?”

“That, Mr. Barton, is the Cauldron of the Cosmos.  I wouldn’t touch it, if I were you.”

The voice is soft and not unkind, but the warning is unmistakable.  Clint takes another look and steps back.  My God, it’s full of stars! he mouths soundlessly to Natasha, but she can tell that the attempt at humor masks an unusual level of disquiet.

“So what is it you want from us?” she asks their odd hostess, who has removed her saffron hood to reveal her completely bald skull.  “And why us, specifically?”

The woman looks down for the briefest second and then up again.  For an instant their eyes lock, and Natasha has an odd sensation of seeing into an endless pool of ancient wisdom, knowledge, sorrow and despair.  The moment passes, and the serenity returns to the woman’s face. 

“First, tea,” she says. 

As if on command, another monk-like creature appears with a tray holding an exotic-looking rakùpot and three cups.  The woman makes an inviting gesture towards a seating arrangement in over-stuffed green upholstery and nods to the server. Tea is poured while Clint arranges his limbs on the biggest couch; Natasha waits for their hostess to take the first sip before lifting the cup to her own lips.

“The universe, as you know it, in truth is a multiverse,” the woman says without further introduction. “A million worlds, some quite similar, some vastly different from the others.  They all have points of convergence from one to the next, but are built on different choices, different paths.”

Clint looks over to Natasha and rolls his eyes. 

“But even assuming that’s not just some Hare Krishna mumbo jumbo, this stuff would matter to us why, exactly?”

The woman studies the contents of her cup for a moment, then looks up at them, a sad smile hovering just around the corners of her pale emerald eyes.

“Because unless we take action, all of them are doomed, including this one.”

II

The story she tells them is so crazy it may just be true – especially since Clint has had personal experience with two infinity stones already, and has read the classified Foster file about a third.  And ever since his run-in with Loki and his off-and-on antler hat, Clint has grudgingly admitted to the possibility of magic (or at the very least, a form of science even Banner can’t figure out).  So, a crazy alien looking for the complete set of infinity stones just so he can destroy the universe?  Not that far-fetched, really.  Guy’s probably friends with Loki.

But a “multi-verse”?  A series of universes and the idea that you can hop from one to the other, and in the process fix the Crazy Alien problem for all of them?

Line, drawn.  Besides, the bald woman still hasn’t given them her name and there’s only so much mysterious shit Clint is prepared to put up with in one sitting.

“You better bring on some evidence, Lady,” he says.  “’Cause I’m ready to get outta here.  That tea of yours isn’t thatgood.”

Their host stands up in a rustle of yellow silk.  

“Come,” she says.  

It’s not a command, nor would Clint be inclined to obey if it was, but he feels oddly compelled to get up and follow her. Natasha must feel the same; she’s already on her feet.  Another spell?

They’re back at the staircase, beside that enormous pot she hadn’t wanted him to touch. She makes a hand-wavy gesture over it, and dammit if it doesn’t start to glow from within.  Although there are probably all sorts of answers for that, ranging from moldy fish to a secret light switch.

“Look,” she says, and steps aside.

There’s no way of knowing whether they both experience the same thing, but what plays out before Clint’s eyes and inside his head is much more than seeing.  It’s more like knowing, understanding and being submerged in each new reality that unfolds before them, even as they flash by at a dazzling, ever-increasing speed.  And each of those realities contains images of them.  

A thousand Clint Bartons and Natasha Romanoffs, some dressed the way they are now, others in tactical gear; some are wearing outfits that would be at home in Tudor England or a cheesy 1970s sci-fi flick; yet others are wearing very little at all.  Clint briefly wishes he could bookmark the page where Natasha is modeling a dental-floss confection from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, but by the time he’s finished the thought another dozen scenes have flashed past.

But however different the scenes, there is a sameness – in the way they lean towards another, exchange quick glances or words, fight together, protect each other. 

He casts a quick look at Natasha to check if she feels it to, that strand of them-nessthat runs through every image inside the cauldron’s smoky depth.  However odd those scenes look, whatever ‘they’ appear to be doing – battling aliens, crime lords or uniformed invaders; running a coffee shop or away from sabre tooth tigers – the underlying truth is always…them.   

They’re together across every one of the Bald Lady’s universes, if that’s what those scenes still racing by truly represent.  A running theme, almost like they’re meant to be.  It looks as unlikely as it feels right.

“Well, emm, wow?” he says somewhat lamely, reaching for Natasha’s hand.  But the witch - or magician, or wizard, whatever she is - seems oblivious and waves her hand again.  (So much for having a moment.)

“Yes, you have seen right.  But now look at this, Mr. Barton,” she says, regarding him coolly through those pale, lashless eyes.   

A new scene unfolds before them.  A farm, in the rolling lands of Clint’s childhood.  A house; he and Natasha, walking up to the front door.  But something feels different … The house is one of those mid-western staples, wood siding, painted shutters and window frames, big porch.  The odd way of ‘seeing’ the things in the cauldron gives Clint an extra shot of somethingand for a moment, the place feels like home.

Oddly, this time the scene doesn’t just flash away to be replaced by another. Bald Lady’s fingers are spread in a gesture similar to the one she’d used to reveal the house they’re in now; she’s putting the scene on hold, and the view remains.

Inside the cauldron the door opens and two children, a girl and a boy, tumble out, running towards the Clint and Natasha, all excitement and shining faces.  Although on second observation, they’re not running towards Natasha.  No – they’re swarming Clint, and Clint alone.  Only after a second-long eternity of clinging to him like a limpet does the girl turn to Natasha, hugging her with warmth but not quite the same level of enthusiasm.  

A woman steps through the door, slim and dark-haired.  She smiles at the scene before her and …

“The fuck?” Clint manages as Cauldron Clint embraces and kisses the stranger, while Cauldron Natasha watches, smiling and unconcerned, one hand affectionately ruffling the little girl’s hair.  A moment later, she and the other woman hug like sisters, or the closest of friends.

“Yes,” Bald Lady says softly.  “In this universe - this one alone - things between you are different.  And therein may lie salvation for all.”

III

Natasha accepts another cup of tea from the woman’s servant, even though she could really use something stronger.  

The scenes they were shown after the first go-around continue to haunt her:  People turning to ash, dissolving into nothing – in one universe after the other.  

Half of all life will be extinguished,the voice keeps echoing in her ears.  Thanos bends reality to his will, and those who disappear will have never existed.

“The Ancient One does not usually serve someone twice,” whispers the man (or is it a woman? does it matter?).  “You must be special.”

“I guess we are,” Natasha replies curtly, barely noticing as the server slips out of the room on soft-soled feet.  So that is her name?  The Ancient One?  Not the catchiest moniker on Earth, but somehow it feels right. 

The time spent blowing the hot liquid into something sippable provides Natasha with time for reflection, even as Clint argues against the validity of the things they’d both seen with their own eyes.

“So how do I know all that wasn’t some kind of 3-D projection?” he insists.

“You know,” the Ancient One replies, “that what you saw was the truth.”

“So I know it was true ‘coz I know it’s true?  Sorry, lady, you gotta do better than those Sunday morning TV gospel types, or we’re done here.” 

The Ancient One looks at him with infinite patience, and Natasha prepares herself for Clint to hurl his teacup at her supercilious face.  But apparently the time for cryptic pronouncements is done.  

“The warp and weft of the multiverse contains many different threads,” she continues.  “Some are a constant, a recurring pattern.  You, Mr. Barton, and you, Miss Romanoff are one of those threads.  Your spirits are bound to one another, and you find each other in all the worlds, except the one you saw last.  There, things are different between you; a random thread keeps you apart.  One that in turn gives rise other spirits, unique ones that exist nowhere else, and that are nonetheless also bound to you.  I found them when I started to search.”

“Search for what?”  Natasha can’t resist.

“Patterns that could bring about change.  A way to stop Thanos from destroying everything,” the Ancient One says. “The world you have seen is the one where his madness starts, and where it must end.  All the other worlds are linked to its fate, and will unravel as it does when their turn comes.”

“So why don’t you just go there and stop this Thanos guy yourself?”  Clint asks.  “You’re the one who can move buildings with your hands and look at universes in the sink. Which reminds me.  Do all those places have names?  Like, what’s this one called?  And the one where…?”  

His voice peters off.

“They do not have names, Mr. Barton,” she says, her patience wearing thin.  “Because within each one, the reality people see is the only one that there is, for them.  You call this one ‘The World,’ do you not?  But giving different realities a name helps you understand them better, by all means, make something up.”

Clint nods, and Natasha steels herself.

“This one, the one we’re, in is clearly Prime,” he declares.  “Just because.  The one with the dinosaurs we’ll call Jurassic Wonderland, and the mermaid one hasto be Waterworld.  And the one with those kids?  If you’re right and it’s the one that dictates everyone else’s fate, let’s just call it Ultimate.”

The Ancient One flicks him the briefest of glances and goes on as if he hadn’t said anything at all.  

“Call them what you will, Mr. Barton. That world is the one in which Thanos began his assault on reality, an act that will cascade out into all the other worlds, ours here being the last.  I would go to and stop him myself, but my spirit is no longer in that world. I can no longer influence it.”

“No longer?  As in you’re dead?”

She ignores Natasha’s question and takes a sip of tea, but quirks an eyebrow in what looks like a yes, so what? Clint, as is his habit, goes straight for the jugular.

“So, if you are dead in that world, how can you possibly know what will happen there after you’re gone?”

“Deductive reasoning, Mr. Barton,” she says.  “Oh, and this.”

She pulls a pendant out of her flowing robes.  It’s in the shape of an amulet, with a green stone at the centre pulsing with an alien energy, almost a life of its own.

“This allows me to see through time, up to a point.  I can no longer see everything you saw; it is closed off to me.  But my vantage point varies from world to world and I have seen Thanos’ destruction in some of them; I used logic to triangulate the result.  The world you call Ultimate is the earliest point, I believe; this one, the last.”  

She turns to Clint, who practically oozes skepticism.  

“I understand triangulation is your specialty, Mr. Barton.”

He harrumphs, but doesn’t deny it.

“And the Temporal Prime Directive stops you from walking into a universe where you’re dead?”  He frowns for a second.  “I can’t believe I just said that in a normal conversation.”

“Oh, this isn’t normal, Mr. Barton.” She smiles at him, as if he’d said something clever.  “Nothing about this is normal.  But you’re not wrong, if I understood that reference correctly. This is precisely where you come in. I need you to go back in time, cross into that other universe, find something that is unique to that world and help me bring it back.  We need to create a bridge between our two worlds – to help save them, and all the others in between.”

IV

It’s funny; he’d been the one first interested in following the Sorceress to her lair, out of curiosity or a sense of adventure or sheer Clint-ness. Now?  Not so much.

“I still don’t know why the fuck you let her talk us into this,” Clint grumbles. “Time travel. Inter-dimensional bullshit. I mean, how is this even going to work?”

“Well, if it doesn’t, we’ll still be here and nothing lost.”

“Except my afternoon.  I was enjoyingdoing nothing.  Just the two of us.  We don’t do that often enough.  Besides, what if they … that family … don’t want to come? Then what, huh?”  

He glares at the Time Stone around his neck and over at the Sorceress, who has started doing something with the Cauldron and her hands.  A tendril of green light flows between the two things, spreading and starting to envelope them.  

The Ancient One recedes from view, becoming translucent, and indistinct; something like a strong wind grabs the two of them.  The light changes, becoming every colour and none, flashing by at impossible speeds.  Natasha feels as if her body is being stretched, made both unbearably heavy and weightless at the same time.  

There’s a roiling sensation in her stomach and a rushing sound, followed by a bright light that shimmers through what looks like a door framed by a shimmering curtain of light.  On the other side, much more sharply defined and real,lies an expanse of green – waving fields of corn under a blue sky.  Iowa.

Natasha steps through; Clint follows with a muttered curse.  

V

The dust trail from a yellow school bus cuts across the rolling hills.  After the kaleidoscopic wormhole they’ve just come though, the sight is comforting in its ordinariness.  Except that Clint can’t remember whether he’s actually seen this particular scene before live, or whether it just looks familiar from countless movies.

The farmhouse almost glows in the afternoon sun.  It’s one of those typical mid-Western wooden structures with clapboard siding, a wrap-around porch complete with swing, and a vintage pick-up truck out front.  The paint is new and there’s a well-tended vegetable garden off to the side, past the neatly stacked woodpile.

“You could take some pointers from this edition of your good self, ” Natasha comments with approval.  “Looks like the local Barton has a domestic streak.”

“How’d you know they don’t keep a bunch of house elves chained up in the basement to do all the work?” Clint huffs.  “Maybe we’re in the Mirror ‘Verse here.”

She pats him on the arm.  

“I know, it’s hard to fathom that someone might actually want to live in a well-maintained, clean house instead of a one-bedroom dump full of dog hair and coffee stains, but…”

Their exchange is interrupted by a squeal.

“Daddy! Daddy!  Auntie Nat! Auntie Nat!”

There’s a streak of blue and yellow coming towards them from behind the barn, in the form of a little girl whose brown pig tails are flying behind her as she runs from where the school bus must have just dropped them off.  A boy comes up behind her, and dammit if he doesn’t look like Barney before the two of them ran off to join the circus? Right down to the skinned knee.

Clint doesn’t get the chance to rally his thoughts beyond that point though, let alone does he get to say anything.  The girl drops her Hakuna Matatalunch box and flings herself into his arms, with complete faith that he will catch her. He does, thanks to a quick calculation of her trajectory and a bit of luck.  Her hair tickles his neck as she clings to him.

“Mom said this morning you were still in jail,” the boy says, still catching his breath as he too piles onto Clint.  “Did Auntie Nat break you out?”

Clint gives Natasha a pleading look over the girl’s head.  Jail?  he mouths.  Shit, the Barton in this universe really isfull of hidden depths.  Maybe the house elves thing isn’t that far-fetched?

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, sweetie,” Natasha says firmly.  “The less you two know, the better you’re off when the Spanish Inquisition comes.  And that’s my final comment on the matter, Rosie.”

“Rosie?” the girl squeals.  “Rosie?? I’m Lila! Have you forgotten, Auntie Nat?”  

“Ah yes, Lila.  Of course!” Natasha slaps herself on the forehead. “Now I remember.  Jail does funny things to your head.  And I suppose that’s not Zachary?”

Lila giggles and shakes her head, making her braids fly.  

“Cooper! Coopie, she forgot who we are!”

Clint has no idea how Natasha does that – always coming up with the right answer; worming information out of unsuspecting people, even innocent children.  Hell, she even soundslike an Aunt.  A cool, fun, snarky Aunt.  One he wouldn’t mind having had in his life when…

Cooper giggles and gives him a squeeze around the waist.  He seems really happy to see his ‘Dad’, for some reason.   Who knew that was even a thing?  Also, it does nice things to the kid’s face; Barney didn’t look that way very often.

“Top Secret, I get it!” the boy says, in a voice meant to sound wise beyond his years, and waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.  “If you told us, you’d have to kill us, right?”

Lila hops out of Clint’s arms and squeezes Natasha around the waist.

“You’re the bestest, Auntie Nat,” she breathes into Natasha’s jacket.  “Mommy was soworried about Daddy.  Thank you for bringing him home.”

She gets an impish look on her face. 

“I hope you didn’t forget Mommy’s name, too?  Because, it’s Mommy.”

Clint should probably say something about now but can’t figure out what; best he can hope for is that the local Barton has that same problem, and that the kid’s won’t call him out for his silence.  It’s just as well, because Lila turns around and hollers towards the house, at the top of her lungs,  “Mommy! Mommy!  Come quick!  Daddy’s home!”

Oh, great. He’d hoped this moment would be indefinitely postponed - but sure enough: The door to the house opens and his ‘wife’ steps out.  

She’s pretty, with lines on her face that look like a mixture of worry and laughter; no doubt Ultimate Clint is responsible for a share of the former.  Her long dark hair is tied in a practical pony tail, and she’s wearing a pair of farmer’s dungarees over a pink t-shirt.

“Emm, hi,” he says as she marches straight towards them, hands in the pockets of her dungarees.  A name wouldbe helpful here.  “I mean - hi honey?  I’m home.”

He’s almost sure that he’d hit the proper tone, right up to the moment when the hand comes out of the pocket holding a gun.  

The woman looks at Natasha, but the gun is pointed – unwaveringly - straight at Clint’s centre mass.  Her voice is measured but firm, carefully pitched so as not to alarm the kids.  

“Natasha, good to see you.  Cap said you might be coming along soon.  But - who the hell is this?”

VI

“This isn’t the first time they’ve sent in a look-alike,” Mrs. Barton informs Natasha, the hand with the gun unwavering.  “Hydra tried to get me to rat out Clint’s location by sending me a video, of him supposedly being held hostage.  Then there was Stark’s Live Model Decoy.  And those Skype calls Fury tried to get me to buy into, so I wouldn’t notice Clint was in the ICU that time?”

She stops for breath and to let her indignation simmer down.  

“This one’s better than any of them, I have to admit, especially since he seems to have fooled both you and the kids.  But I can tell the difference.  I can alwaystell.  Kids, behind me. Now.”

“Well, actually…” Natasha starts to say, and then reconsiders.   “Look.  You’ve seen some weird things being around Clint, haven’t you?  Aliens, magic…”

“Yep,” Mrs. Barton replies.  “I sure have. And dealt with the aftermath, too.  Actuallywhat?”

Clint must have decided that this fierce, protective woman is unlikely to shoot him in front of her kids, especially not since they thought until a minute ago was their Dad. And maybe still do; Lila has stepped behind her mom as she’d been directed to earlier, but is peeking out at him from behind her back, looking confused.

“Actually, I am Clint Barton,” Clint offers. “The real one.  Just not yourClint Barton.  I’m … me.  Another Clint.  Apparently, there’s tons of us, who knew, eh?  We’re from a different timeline, me and Nat.  ThisNat, I mean.  MyNat. No, universe - that’s it. Different universe.  Anda different timeline, actually.  Bit of both, the lady said.”

He blows some air out of puffed cheeks and shakes his head, seemingly heedless of the gun still pointed at his chest.   

“Look, we really need to talk.  Because I have absolutely no idea how the fuck any of this is supposed to work if we don’t tell you what’s going on.”

He falls silent when the woman narrows her eyes and lowers the gun a few inches, leaving it to point at his private parts.

“You sound like Clint,” she says through gritted teeth, “but when I first met him. You look younger, too.  How is that possible?”

Clint eyes the gun and sighs.

“Guess having kids matures a guy, and I’m not there yet?  Can you move that thing, please, in case I might want to some day?” 

Something in what he’s just said has her flinch and she drops her arm entirely.

“Clint?” she falters.  “How…”

It doesn’t take Natasha long to assess the situation.  A magic phrase – something the local Clint might have said on their first date?  No matter. Time to seize the advantage.

“Can we come in?” she asks.  “There’s something we need to discuss.”

VII

Clint is perfectly happy to leave the explaining to Natasha and spend the time exploring the house that could be his, but for the fact that it’s several universes removed from his own reality.

Judging by the photos on the mantelpiece, this Clint Barton looks about ten years older than … well … him. Maybe having kids will do that to a man?  Or else these two universes are out of sync time-wise as well as in other respects; no wonder his ‘wife’ wasted no time spotting the deception. Next time, mystery lady might want to do spend a bit more time on research.

“Can I have a look at something?”

Natasha walks over to the table, where the day’s mail still lies in a pile, and flips through it frowning with concentration.

“No, guess not.  I thought they might have sent you the papers, Laura.”  She flicks a glance at Clint to make sure he’s processed the intel she’d just provided. He has.  Who knew utility bills could be so useful?

Laura tells the older kids to do their homework, a directive that results in a fierce negotiation.  There is obviously far more interesting stuff going on than maths and English assignments, so Cooper insists that their departure has to be worth at least two Oreos and a chocolate chip cookie.  Each.  Laura drives a hard bargain though, and they settle for an apple and a single Oreo before slouching off into the kitchen with a last strange look at Clint.

“He sure looks like Dad,” Lila mutters as she settles at the giant kitchen table and dump out the contents of her backpacks.  Cooper keeps looking in Clint’s direction, shaking his head.

There’s a baby, too, it turns out; he’s in a bassinette, sleeping the way babies do, on his back with both arms thrown up in the total surrender position.   It’s teeny-tiny, can’t be more than a few months old.

Clint watches him for a bit trying to find more of Barney in the little face, but the thing really looks more like himself, what with that stubby little nose and blond fuzz on his head.  Cute little bugger, all things considered.  Clint touches the baby’s cheeks with the back of his finger and marvels at the soft skin for a moment.  The baby turns his head, smacks his lips a little, sighs and scrunches deeper into his pillow.  

Funny, he and Natasha have never talked about kids.  And now that he thinks about it, for all of the Ancient Lady’s talk about him and Nat being a ‘universal constant’, he never saw any kids in any of the world’s they passed in that Cauldron.  Probably a good thing, you’d think; the Barton clan doesn’t have the greatest track record in the family department.  But this baby’s awfully cute, and Lila and Cooper seem pretty well adjusted.  So what’s that say about what is or should be possible?

Over in the kitchen, Laura’s voice is getting louder.  

“Even assuming I believe you, Tasha, I can’t just pack up and leave, just on your say-so.   What will happen to Clint?  My Clint?  When he finds us gone, he’ll think…”   

There’s a sudden whoosh and a hole opens up right there in the living room.  Clint grabs the bassinette and holds it so the bottom is facing outside, and he’s sheltering the baby against his chest.  He becomes dimly aware of four other shapes joining him, the kids and Laura shouting and screaming as they enter the vortex.

Looks like that bald wizard decided to suck them back into their own universe before Natasha even had a chance to get Laura to agree to make the trip.  

The wizard woman is probably one of those people with endless power who think it’s better to seek forgiveness than consent.  There’ve been far too many of those types in Clint’s life, and every encounter with one of them has resulted in disaster or loss – usually for him.

Looks like his local equivalent will be repeating the pattern.  

VIII

Lila is sobbing and Cooper sits on the floor in stunned silence, staring at the unfamiliar surroundings.  This was not how it was supposed to go, and Natasha wishes she could offer the comfort of knowledge, or even just hope.  

Still, lying is not an option.

“I don’t know why she didn’t wait,” she says.  “Believe me – I didn’t know that was her plan.  But the wizard who brought us to your world, and you now to ours, believes that … yourClint is instrumental to defeating Thanos.”

“Fine.  I get it; you said that before.”  Having reassured herself that her kids seem safe, the fury in Laura’s voice is palpable, far overriding any fear.  “I assume you aren’t our Natasha, either?  Bitch.”

Natasha can’t really say anything to that; it is what it is. 

“But why couldn’t we at least leave him a note?  Take us back.  Now.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

Somehow, the Ancient One has managed to materialize in the room.  She looks ragged and worn, as if she has just completed a marathon, and her voice is strained. Maybe opening doors to other universes is harder than she’d made it look?

Laura is not impressed.  She clutches the baby to her chest with one arm, the other circled protectively around Lila, and reaches for the pocket where she keeps her gun. Cooper jumps to his feet, in what Natasha recognizes as a near-perfect mirror of his father’s fighting stance.  

And Clint? Clint moves towards the Ancient One, as if ready to deck her in defense of this family that isn’t his, shielding Laura from her with his body in the process.  

The Ancient One raises a hand to ward him - them - off.

“Let me explain in terms that might make sense to you, Mrs. Barton,” she says, catching her breath.  “Have you ever melted chocolate to coat a cake?  If you want it to be shiny again after you melt it, you need to keep a small piece back and add it to the liquid after you take it off the heat. The extra piece helps the chocolate to remember and recreate the structure of its crystals. You see – reality is a crystal.”

Natasha has no idea what she is talking about, but the metaphor seems to have struck a chord with Laura, who relaxes the tiniest bit. 

“But why us?” she asks.  “What’s so special about us?  Why not – oh, old Mr. Mansfield, a plant, a chicken, or some useless politician?  Anything from our world would do, wouldn’t it?”

Clint seems to have decided that he needs to contribute.  He clears his throat, and shakes his head.

“I believe it had to be you, Laura.  Because you are unique – you, and the kids. Everywhere else…  in all the other universes…”  

He falters and looks at Natasha for help.  The Ancient One seems content to let them handle matters, and helps herself to a cup of tea.  

“You don’t exist anywhere else, Laura.”  Natasha speaks softly, not sure what reaction her next words will bring.  “In all the other places, it’s … us.” 

She doesn’t bother to explain who ‘us’ is, nor does she apparently have to.  The understanding is clear in Laura’s face.  Her eyes travel from Natasha to Clint and back several times before she takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders and turns to the Ancient One.  

“So, you’re the one who can tell the future?  So tell me, then: What happens when Clint is released from prison?  Our lawyer says they are working on a plea deal, and he could come home any day.”

The Ancient One does not mince words.

“He will return to the farm, and find it empty.  What he will do then, I cannot tell you; my eyes are closed to your world now.  That is the reason I had to bring you here when I did.  There was an incident, and I …  I ran out of time to act sooner than I had thought.  I am truly sorry.”

The apology doesn’t help.  Laura is getting agitated again; tears are beginning to stain her cheeks.  

“The last time I saw him, we were supposed to go camping.  He’ll think that we left because he …  Because I ...”  

She catches a sob in her throat, no doubt so as not to worry the children.  

“He’ll think he’s been abandoned … again.”

Clint looks up sharply at that, a glint in his eyes that Natasha has never seen before. 

“Yes,” he says, nodding.  “He will. He’ll be going through hell.  But he’ll survive. I know he will.  And when it’s over, he’ll be fine.”

He crosses the room to stand beside Laura; looking over at Lila and Cooper, he reaches out to stroke the baby’s hair.

“You know why?  Because it’s not about him.”