#dick thread: welcome home clint

[dramatisperscnae]

adding to @normaltothemax's draft count for reasons >w>

It's been a week. Maybe longer, it's hard to say; the days seem to blur together sometimes. Have ever since he got the news. Clint dead. Killed in action. Natasha told him, quiet and serious, and for all she's got a better poker face than he does Dick could still pick up on her agitation. She'd clearly been upset. That meant it was real.

He hasn't taken the ring off. Not yet. He can't bear to. It's all he has of Clint right now, until he's allowed to go back to Clint's apartment, start packing up his things. SHIELD thinks he's a civilian, won't let him in there until they've made sure nothing confidential is left. But Natasha had at least brought Lucky over; it's the least Dick can do, to make sure Clint's dog still has a home

Besides, having Lucky to take care of means he has something outside of his work to focus on. Which he needs. He knows from experience that living the life 24/7 is a bad idea, but it's his natural response to a situation like this. Lucky keeps him from doing that.

It's been a long few days, though; even without his throwing himself into his work, he's been unable to really sleep. His bed feels far too big, too empty now, with Clint gone. Stupid, maybe, since they hadn't always shared a bed as it was, but…well, they won't ever be sharing a bed again, will they? Clint's gone.

Dick runs a hand through his hair as he drags himself back up to the Wayne Tower penthouse, pulling his mask off and preparing to catch an excited Lucky as he usually does when he gets home from patrol. When he steps inside the penthouse, though, there's no sign of Lucky at all…and the television's on. It hasn't been on for days. And it's playing Dog Cops; he recognizes the theme song with a pang. Clint loved that show.

Surely Lucky hasn't figured out how to use the remote, has he?

Confused and cautious, he peers into the living room, not sure what he expects to see. Whatever it is, it's not a far-too-familiar blond man lounging on his sofa, drinking coffee straight out of the pot with his feet on the table and Lucky tucked against his side.

That can't be possible. It can't be. Dick's not even aware he's taken a step or two forward, staring in mute shock. This has to be some trick, or he's finally just snapped, or something; that can't be Clint Barton just sitting in his living room like nothing happened at all. Can it…?

[blushing-starker]

For my Gracie dear. What would I do without you in my life? Merry Christmas darling. @vaguekiwi

"Well, you wouldn't really be in this position if you had accepted my proposal, baby cheeks. In fact, I'm practically drooling over the thought of you saying fuck it and coming to visit with a few surprises beneath that second skin you're rocking." Two sentences, two very different tones of voice, both trying to coax him in. Reprimand and flirt, the only possible courses of action for Wade when it came to them.

"So I guess it's true what they say; chivalry died when you were born, Wade. Every single conversation between us is proof and the world knows it." He grinned as soon as he heard the exaggerated gasps over the landline, always loved these tennis matches with his partner in crime.

Sure, the 'red devil' of Cliffwood often threaded barely subtle, often outlandish innuendos into their interactions and never denied the neighborhood a chance of seeing him draped over Peter, but it was, God forgive him, fun. Exciting and a little thrilling.

And also past their bedtime. So to speak. "I gotta go and I know Wanda likes to cook late. Go help her in the kitchen, Mr Gifted Hands. Vision might give me an A in the next exam if I told him I encouraged you to make his favorite lasagna." It won't happen, obviously. The Maximoffs, because Vision had adopted the name on his second date with Wanda long before their wedding, were usually chaotic neutrals that tried sticking to the right side of the law. Hopefully, Mr Maximoffs' morality would at least allow the man to add a five point bonus on Peter's next physics test.

"Oh, you finally admit my hands are gifted, Mr Parker? How forward of you." If there was one thing that he loved about being friends with the incorrigible Wade Wilson, it was how the man oozed sex like it was nothing. His surety in it, in flirting, in courting and joking made Peter feel at ease. Most people, even those like Mr Rogers with his slightly conservative views, enjoyed Wade's antics because they were harmless.

Most of the time. The guy had slept with two thirds of the town, after all.

"I'm not sleeping with you, Wade. What would Vanessa say of-"

"Please, the woman basically throws me at people in the hopes of watching me sleep with them."

"you being with me before her?"

"..."

Peter squinted at a shiny red nail, worried he'd somehow messed up Morgan's job of decorating him in the Christmas spirit. The lamp next to the couch is a tad dimmer than usual, right, he has to swap the bulbs. He'd completely forgotten in the midst of playing with Morgan and Rocky, baking them brownies, battling the upstairs shower mold, decluttering the toy boxes and throwing something semi appealing for dinner. There was a spare light in the, was it the garage? No, his memory had been reduced to physics laws and the kids' allergies, but Peter's sure he would have noticed. Maybe Morgan had hidden them in the office, Rocky liked chewing on light bulbs so it's not too unlikely

"Shit, Parker, now I'm thinking about that, Jesus. Christ on a bicycle! Hmm? It's nothing, Wanda, just Peter being a brat and a tease."

"Hey, I'm not a brat!"

"Says you. I bet a certain member of the awesome facial hair club could evidence the opposite. Actually, I'll go right over and ask, hey!" The sound of Wade distinctly face planting onto the Maximoffs couch sent Peter into enough hysterics he could barely make out what Wanda was saying.

"I sincerely apologize for the little devil-"

"I'm almost two heads taller than you!"

"that can't seem to mind his manners no matter how many times we try to teach him how to be human."

"It's," God, he's wheezing like a freshman first day of gym with Coulson, "perfectly alright, Miss. I'm the one that should say sorry for keeping him up so late, I know he has chores to do around the house. Lovely Christmas lights, by the way. I think you guys might win the competition again this year."

There's a tiny worm of guilt crawling up his throat; how could he distract Wade when Wanda had her hands full with an energetic baby ready to sprint out of the house at any moment?

"Oh sweet Peter," she drawls out the vowels, like they're honey and she's trying her best to stretch them out, savour them, "you really think so? I thought the yard looked perfect, but Vision insisted on decorating the roof to 'ensure our win against my dear brother in law'. And please, a happy Wade that's finished his teasing for the day is wonderful for us. He cleans faster and doesn't kiss my cheeks as much."

"Wait, you did the roof?" He knew the Maximoff siblings were intense, had witnessed Pietro stabbing flamingos into Clint's lawn just to add some color to his already bright remodeling a weeks ago.

"You haven't seen it? Tell Morguna's father to take you outside to see it while the kids are watching television. That way you can go back with an excuse if you get too nervous with him."

Peter spluttered, ignored the fact his cheeks were flaming, pretended he couldn't hear Wade's howling through the phone. "I don't, I wouldn't, it's not like, I mean. The, the kids will probably sleep early tonight."

"Perfect, you won't have an excuse and he'll finally kiss you. Oh, Vision. Hello, dear, I'm saying goodbye to Peter. That idiot might kiss him tonight."

"Hello? Hello, Peter. I'm very happy for you both; but may I request you kiss after midnight? I'm afraid I made a substantial bet regarding that kiss and was hoping to get Clint back over Banner and Natasha."

Great, he'd died and entered a hell where the only thing he could do was stutter and flush crimson. Typical Parker luck, really.

"SurebyeMrandMrsMaximofflaterWade."

He slammed the phone back on its pedestal, dove into the leather couch and screamed until his throat ached.

--------

"Daddy? Peter, daddy's here! Don't let him go to our room until we're done with the Christmas card, please!" He yanked his head from under the cushions, scrambled to the door, tripped over Morgan's race car, narrowly avoided the destruction of Rocky's Lego chop shop, hastily stashed a pink apron in the drawers by the door, failed to straighten his sweater (a gift from the kids' grandmother) and took all of ten seconds to fix his hair before opening the door. In the exact moment the owner of the house leaned against it to enter.

There's a second where realization kicked in, worry is splashed over both their faces, he darted forward to help so the man's heart didn't shut down on them right then, said man wanted to preserve such a young, healthy body; they tried to control the damage.

They failed. Spectacularly. Crashed into each other, somehow elbows and knees sunk into bad spots, bone snapped, ligaments wept in pain, a chest became winded, one of them got a black eye and the other a constricted throat. This was, of course, before it started raining and two idiots got drenched while piled up on the front door.

Peter gasped, wasn't sure whether it was better to lie under his dream, his wet fantasy, his goal in life or allow his brain some oxygen.

To be fair, this would only happen the once. He could breathe for the rest of his lonely life.

"Uh, welcome home, Mr Stark. How was work to, today, sir, that's not my thigh." Wade would know. Jesus, Wade would find out Mr Stark touched his dick for the first time and it wasn't even on purpose.

"Kid, I'm so sorry. Here I was wondering if I could give you your Christmas gift without ruining the box and now look at me. Peter, you don't have to come back to work if you don't want to-"

"Wait, you got me a gift, Mr Stark?"

"I will pay you for this whole month, obviously." The man shuffled back, attempted to shakily stand up like a foal and immediately slid down onto the sleek young man.

"Not come back to? Mr, ow, Tony, I'm not going anywhere. Not on Christmas, not ever. Look at me." Don't look at what's between my legs, Peter prayed, don't look at how you are between my legs, don't look.

Tony Stark glanced down, inhaled sharply and snapped his gaze to the au pair's. He may have leaned against what he hoped was his Christmas gift. Maybe.

"I'm not leaving, Mr Stark." The rain kept drizzling into the house, his throat continued to ache, the distance between their two bodies remained the same. But there was something in Mr Stark's eyes now, yes indeed, something Peter had resolutely ignored for the past six months while working with the sweetest family he'd ever known. It was the same something Wade yelled about when talking about his best friend's employer's face as it regarded the au pair.

"I think Wade might kill me if -"

"Rhode's is gonna choke me out if-"

"Are you two gonna kiss or not?"

They risked whiplash to peer right at, or, in Peter's position, upside down at Morgan and Rocky who unflinchingly stared at the ridiculous site their fathers made. Rocky even shook his head the way Tony did when he was disappointed. Little Morgan criss crossed her arms and Peter thought he'd sob because that's just how he taught her.

"We were going to put mistletoe on the door when you came in; we finished the holiday card months ago so that was the one thing left on the to do list."

"Months ago? I helped you two make one last week!"

"Oh yeah, how were you going to hang up mistletoe, daughter mine? There's no nail." A soft thwump over the doorway. It seemed Clint had given Morgan her own bow. And she knew how to use it.

They collected their courage, scraps of reduced pride, some drool and a tiny drop of sweat before turning to the man they'd been waiting for for so long.

"Mr Parker, will you do me the honor of bestowing a kiss upon an old man with creaking bones and heating hair?"

Oh. Oh, this was happening.

"I love your hair and I'll get you a walker that has a cup holder for water and a few pain pills. Mr Stark, will you kiss a kid from Queens who's so into you the red devil of Cliffwood himself doesn't dare sleep with either of us and get in the way?"

"Well, first of all. A walker, really, am I that old. Second, nice call on the pain pills, very good save on the hair. And please. He'd never get in the way of us two-"

"Great, are you gonna kiss me?"

"Why, Mr Parker. Don't mind if I do." It was a soft statement he would otherwise confuse as a plea.

"Fucking finally." That was a bit more of a pained gasp instead of a sigh of relief, but Morgan and Rocky were doing enough sighing for the both of them afterwards.

Afterwards though, when the blood is finally distributed to the right places

"Yeah, I think I broke my wrist and you should get that throat checked. I'll get the car."

"Tony, it's the fifties. I can get the car while you call Bucky to look over the kids. Anyone talks to me and they'll think you had something to do with my throat."

"That is a fantastic idea, sweetheart. Save it for later, maybe raincheck?"

"Get the car, Tony."

"Yep. Come on, you rascals. Help an old man out."

----------

Wade can't look at Tony without howling, mutters something about a limp wrist while Vanessa sighs and apologizes, compliments Peter on surviving life with a ridiculous best friend by his side. He says it's ok. Wade's his go to guy for whenever Peter has to get his head in the game and his lips on Tony's.

[dramatisperscnae]

Clint.

It's Clint.

It's Clint.

Alive and real and here and *holding him and, oh god, he can't stop crying. Can't keep his tears quiet. Not with Clint's arms around him, holding him close, grounding him. Not with Clint's scent filling his nose.

Dick hadn't been able to bear throwing out any of Clint's things in the penthouse.

He's suddenly incredibly grateful for that*

Dick clings closer, arms tightening almost desperately as he feels Clint start to pull back, a sudden rush of grief and panic in his eyes as he looks up. No, no, Clint can't leave now, not now, not when he's only just gotten the man back.

But he's not leaving, he's not even letting go, and Dick presses into his fiance's hand, needing the touch, the contact, the reminder that Clint is here. Clint's upset too, he can tell; the hitch in the archer's voice, the flash of anger in his eyes, the way he pulls Dick back in, tightens his arms as if trying to shield Dick from the entire world.

Dick's own breath hitches in his chest as he just nods. He knows this hadn't been Clint's idea. Hadn't been Clint's choice. Clint would never just leave him hanging like that, not knowingly. Not willingly. He tries to hide a small sniffle, tucking his head against Clint's neck.

"I love you…"

It's the one thing he's wanted to say to Clint since hearing the news. The one thing he'd regretted not saying more often. The one thing he'd wished he'd said during their last conversation before that stupid fucking mission.

"I love you…so much…"

Clint doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Dick, pulling him in close, letting him hold on as tightly as he needs to. Dick’s weight, the feeling of him pressing against Clint, is somewhat grounding. It pulls him far enough out of his own anger, out of the mess that is his brain—how could they, how could they, how could they—that he can give all (well, almost all, because that sting of betrayal still lingers) of his attention to Dick. That’s all that matters right now. He can deal with SHIELD later. Right now, the only important thing is that he’s here, he’s alive, and he can hold Dick through this.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs into his fiancé’s hair. “I had no idea. I swear, I didn’t know. I never would’ve let them put you through that.” But he did, didn’t he? He’d put his trust in these people, believed they’d tell the one person in the world he wanted to know he was alive that he was, and they’d gone and let him down. He never should’ve put his faith in SHIELD. Should’ve made sure Dick knew himself.

He pulls back just enough to look at Dick’s face again, heart breaking at the grief he sees there (grief that should’ve never been there in the first place), swiping away a stray tear with his thumb. A fierce protectiveness rises in him, has his jaw tight and his grip firm, but he’s careful to keep his touch soft, his gaze gentle. Dick needs comfort, right now, not the raging inferno that’s blazing just under Clint’s skin.

“If I knew…” His voice hitches, he has to swallow hard before he can continue. Pulls Dick back against him again, holding him tightly. “I would’ve found a way to tell you. Fuck the mission, I would’ve…” His breath is shaky as he presses a kiss to Dick’s hair. Because he knows what he’s going to do. What he has to do. And it hurts. It hurts so fucking badly, but he can’t put his trust back into the organization that’s failed him time and time again, can’t give trust to the people who clearly don’t trust him.

“I’m here, now. For good. No more secrets, no more SHIELD bullshit—I’m done.” His voice cracks on the word, tears pricking at his own eyes that he refuses to let fall. “I’m done.” Quieter the second time, but just as certain.

“I’m here, Dick. And I’m not going anywhere.”

[dramatisperscnae]

Dick's eyes never leave the man Clint, watching him far too closely, too carefully. Every movement, every shift of weight is noted and analyzed, Dick looking for any hint, any sign, even the barest shred of evidence that this isn't Clint Barton.

But it has to be. It has to. The moves are slow and steady, each step clear and obvious, hands in plain sight, everything telegraphed, everything still with that deceptive grace Clint's always had, the kind of effortless fluidity that goes beyond martial artist and hearkens back to his circus brat beginnings.

And then there's Lucky. Lucky wouldn't let a stranger inside, not so calmly; the dog is friendly, yes, but Dick knows there's a limit to that. He wouldn't take to an imposter so easily, wouldn't be cuddling with one on the couch like that.

And on top of that there's his own damned security. What imposter could get through it without raising the alarm? Yes, Dick knows one or two people who could, but none of them would pull a trick like this. None of them were shapeshifters, and even if they were they wouldn't know the passcode he'd set up for Clint here.

Not even Bruce knows that.

So this has to be Clint. Or a hallucination, maybe…Dick can't quite remember the last time he actually slept, so a hallucination is not entirely out of the question here. Except that now it's reaching out to him, slow enough that he could easily lean back, lean away, and then there are hands on his arms, soft and gentle and running up and down, not grabbing but just touching, grounding, and it's Clint's voice speaking still and Dick still can only just stare, tears starting to prick at his eyes.

What's going on, Dickie?

His hands curl slowly around Clint's, squeezing in turn.

It's real.

Clint is real.

He has to be.

"You're alive…"

Okay, this is worse than he thought. Clint’s got no idea what the hell is going on, has no clue what’s running through Dick’s head at the moment, but just sitting there on the couch, hoping for the best, isn’t going to work for him anymore. Moving slowly, like he’s trying not to startle one of the horses at the circus that got spooked into running, he pushes through the exhaustion and pushes to his feet.

His steps are steady, hands in plain sight, as he makes his way, still slowly, toward Dick. If he runs, Clint doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t want to freak him out any more than he already is, but Dick probably isn’t in the right frame of mind to be running around the city safely, like this.

Not as a civilian, but certainly not dressed as Nightwing.

He’ll follow, he decides. Won’t chase him down, won’t try and stop him. Will just go after him, keeping a good distance between them. Just so that he’s there to step in, should anything happen. It doesn’t matter how tired he is or how strong the siren song of Dick’s bed is, how it calls to him—Dick is Clint’s priority. First and foremost, always.

“Who else would it be?” It’s a poor man’s attempt at lightheartedness, a joke that probably won’t land properly, given Dick’s demeanour, said with a small smile on Clint’s face that’s trying to remain upbeat. But joking around is normal. Maybe a bit of normalcy will help. God, he hopes it’ll help.

Once he’s finally standing in front of Dick, he reaches out. Again, moving slowly. Telegraphing his movements. Places a hand on either arm and slowly sweeps them up and down. Trying to ground Dick with the touch, to assure him that he’s alright, that it’s safe.

Clint will keep him safe. He won’t let anything happen to him. Not here, not while he’s by his side. He’d sooner die.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he assures him. “It’s Clint. Can you do me a favour, sweetheart? Take a breath for me, okay? Deep breath.” He’s breathing much too shallowly for Clint’s liking. “You wanna tell me what’s going on, Dickie?” Hands slide down to find Dick’s, to take them into his own and give them a reassuring squeeze, “What’s got you so spooked, huh?”

[dramatisperscnae]

Hey babe.

Like it's nothing. Like it's a normal night. Like everything's normal and Dick hasn't had his future shot out from under him again. Every time. Every time he thinks he's got a future with someone something happens to take it away. The priest had been killed when he'd tried to marry Kory, Babs had ultimately turned down his proposal, and then Clint-…

God, Clint.

Clint had died. A mission gone wrong, Natasha had told him. A risk of the business. A risk Dick is very familiar with, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

And now he's standing here, in his own apartment, staring at a ghost.

That can't be Clint. It can't be. Clint's gone, and the sooner he accepts that the sooner he can start trying to put his life back together. Tape around the emptiness until the wound heals over. But that's Clint's voice, Clint's tired smile - he looks exhausted, the thought flickers through Dick's mind and vanishes like smoke - and then that frown Clint always gets when he knows something's wrong…and there's Lucky, tail wagging contentedly like everything's normal, which means if this is some kind of imposter then they're incredible, because - much like his master - Lucky is a lot smarter than he generally lets on.

His ears are ringing slightly, heart pounding as two opposing thoughts wage all-out war in his mind: It's Clint he's back, but he's dead, he's gone, it's him it has to be, accept it he's gone, I never saw the body, it was in Bosnia, she showed me the report, it has to be Clint, I've met shapeshifters before, even Lucky thinks it's him, I can't afford that kind of hope, I can't not let myself hope.

Is he breathing? Is he still standing? He doesn't know. He's not even aware he's started shaking; he's too busy staring in absolute shock at the man on the couch, face pale, eyes too wide to be calm.

Dick? You okay?

"Clint…?"

The mission had been a rough one, and that’s putting it mildly. They send him in with bad intel, again (and seriously, who the hell has been gathering their intel, lately? Clint just wants to talk, honest), and Clint’s cover got blown. Badly. As in, had-to-fake-his-death-so-the-entire-mission-wasn’t-all-for-naught badly. Simply extracting him apparently wasn’t an option, and between faking his death and actually dying, Clint knew which one he preferred.

So, against his better judgement, he’d gone along with it. Had, stupidly, assumed that the people who needed to know he wasn’t actually dead would. Clint included Dick on that list. Fury, apparently, did not.

Unbeknownst to him, while he was on a different fucking continent, Natasha ‘broke the news’ to Dick. Explained to him how he’d been ‘killed in action’. All the while, Clint just continued on with his mission, made infinitely harder by the fact that he now had to do it all completely hidden in shadows and behind smokescreens. Ignorantly unaware of the utter turmoil his fiancé was going through.

By the time it’s finally over, Clint is exhausted, dirty, and hungry enough to eat about three cows. He wants to curl up with Dick and sleep for a year, and so he doesn’t bother sticking around for a debrief. Goes straight to Dick’s place and lets himself in instead. Being greeted at the door by Lucky is both surprising and confusing, but he’s honestly too tired to question it too deeply.

Dick’s probably out on patrol, so he shovels some cold leftovers into his mouth, straight out of the tupperware, until he feels less like passing out from starvation, feeds the dog on autopilot, and starts a pot of coffee. He showers while it brews. Steam billows out of the bathroom when he leaves it, and after he’s dressed himself in a comfortable pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he grabs the pot and collapses onto the couch, not bothering with a mug.

Dog Cops will keep him entertained until Dick gets back.

When he finally hears him, he lets his head fall against the back of the couch to give him a tired smile. “Hey babe. Sorry I’m late.” Not only had the mission been an absolute shitshow, it’d gone long. Clint, unable to reach out to anyone without pulling the plug on the entire thing, had trusted Nat to keep Dick updated.

Dick who’s looking at him like he’s seeing a ghost. Lucky hops off of the couch and trots over happily to greet him, while Clint sits up a bit straighter. Frowns. “Dick?” Concern laces his tone. “You okay?” Sharp eyes start searching for visible injuries from where he sits—he’d get up and move closer to check him over, if Dick didn’t look like he’ll bolt out the nearest window the second Clint breathes wrong.

[dramatisperscnae]

He can see the moment the penny drops, as closely as he's watching Clint's face and still searching for even the slightest hint this is fake. The sudden blink, the eyes widening, the shift to the voice, the slightest tremble to the fingers now tightening around his own as Clint's face falls

They were supposed to tell you.

A cover. A ruse. That was all it had been. Something had gone wrong, yes, and Clint had needed to fake his death - or SHIELD had needed to do it for him.

Dick's mind is already spinning, following the probable chain of events as he mentally tries to catch up with everything that's happened. Somehow, Clint's mission had gone south, badly, and rather than pull him out SHIELD had decided to fake his death. It had to have been SHIELD's call; Dick can't imagine Clint would've made that choice on his own. Not with how things have happened over here. Because Clint making that call would have insisted that Dick know the truth.

Maybe he had anyway, Dick has no idea how that conversation went down. But one way or another the decision had been made, and SHIELD had decided it had to look completely real. Which meant rather than simply leave Dick assuming things were fine - or, at the worst, had gotten a little tricky - they'd decided to tell him Clint had been killed in action. And they'd sent Natasha to do it.

Distantly, Dick knows that had been the best choice. He wouldn't have believed anyone else; as closely as he'd have watched anyone telling him that news only an incredibly skilled liar would have passed it off as genuine, and Natasha is among the best in the world.

But why would she keep this from him? Why would she have agreed? Surely she'd have tried to find a way to let him know it wasn't real, wouldn't she? But she hadn't. She'd lied to him - to his face - and told him his fiancé was dead, watched him shatter as his world dropped out from under him…

Suddenly his arms are around Clint, Dick clinging to his fiancé like it's the end of the world. Like Clint is the only thing keeping him steady, keeping him anchored. His head buries itself in Clint's shoulder as he just nods, shoulders shaking as silent tears start falling despite his best efforts to stop them.

Dick's eyes never leave the man Clint, watching him far too closely, too carefully. Every movement, every shift of weight is noted and analyzed, Dick looking for any hint, any sign, even the barest shred of evidence that this isn't Clint Barton.

But it has to be. It has to. The moves are slow and steady, each step clear and obvious, hands in plain sight, everything telegraphed, everything still with that deceptive grace Clint's always had, the kind of effortless fluidity that goes beyond martial artist and hearkens back to his circus brat beginnings.

And then there's Lucky. Lucky wouldn't let a stranger inside, not so calmly; the dog is friendly, yes, but Dick knows there's a limit to that. He wouldn't take to an imposter so easily, wouldn't be cuddling with one on the couch like that.

And on top of that there's his own damned security. What imposter could get through it without raising the alarm? Yes, Dick knows one or two people who could, but none of them would pull a trick like this. None of them were shapeshifters, and even if they were they wouldn't know the passcode he'd set up for Clint here.

Not even Bruce knows that.

So this has to be Clint. Or a hallucination, maybe…Dick can't quite remember the last time he actually slept, so a hallucination is not entirely out of the question here. Except that now it's reaching out to him, slow enough that he could easily lean back, lean away, and then there are hands on his arms, soft and gentle and running up and down, not grabbing but just touching, grounding, and it's Clint's voice speaking still and Dick still can only just stare, tears starting to prick at his eyes.

What's going on, Dickie?

His hands curl slowly around Clint's, squeezing in turn.

It's real.

Clint is real.

He has to be.

"You're alive…"