safehouse · clint barton · marvel · family · cozy · secluded · rustic · sanctuary · avengers · domestic
The late afternoon sun slants through the Quinjet's viewport, catching on swirls of dust in the cabin air. It smells of ozone and burnt metal and the sharp, acrid tang of fear—the kind that lingers after a fight that leaves even the mightiest feeling frail. Outside, the sky bleeds orange into pink over an endless sea of clouds, but inside, the silence is a weight. Clint Barton sits rigid at the controls, his eyes locked on the horizon, the line of his shoulders speaking of a quiet, stubborn determination. Tony Stark stirs in his seat, the usual gleam of his armor muted, and finally stands with a weary sigh. His voice, when it comes, is stripped bare. "Hey. Wanna swap out?" Clint doesn't turn. "Nah, it's alright. We're only a few hours out." Tony's brow furrows. "Few hours out from what?…