We Are Defined By What We Do

One

The Barton family, with honorary member Kate Bishop, spent their Christmas morning opening presents and sipping eggnog. Their day consisted of playing with the new toys and games, gorging themselves on the cookies Laura and the kids had made the night before, and then ended with Christmas movies and the seven of them, Pizza Dog too, hunkered down around the fireplace.

Kate planned to stay with them through New Years, hoping to go into the next year surrounded by people who she now called family. After an eventful few days in New York, she didn't want to spend the holiday alone while her mother was in prison.

Plus, Clint wouldn't take no for an answer.

He had taken her under his wing -- much to his initial apprehension to warm up to her -- after she got into trouble for putting on his Ronin suit. That vigilante was long dead, but his spirit was very much alive to those who he had killed, so Barton, with the help of Kate, worked his way through the bodies he had murdered and found a final resting place for the hooded suit.

Now Kate lays with Pizza Dog by the hearth, her retriever winking at her wrapped into her side, as Nathaniel shows her his train set with the newly added car he just opened that morning.

"Dad gets me one every year," he explains, flicking the switches on the control panel. "We're going to have to get more tracks 'cause it's going to get big!"

Kate laughs, trailing it as it goes by in front of her. "You should get one of those tracks that hang from the ceiling, like in toy stores. Make it go all over the house."

Nathaniel's eyes light up as Clint comes into the room. "Don't give him any ideas," he warns.

Clint hands her a glass of eggnog, Nathaniel leaning toward her. "Can I have some?"

She extends a hand to tip him the glass but Clint's fatherly "No" stops her.

"This is grown-up eggnog." He gives Kate a wink. She winks back, getting the hint.

"How is eggnog grown-up?" Nathaniel asks, furrowing his little brow.

"It-it a... It's made from the eggs of the kid chickens instead of the parents'," Kate tries, sipping nonchalantly.

"Gross."

"Yeah, gross," Clint teases.

Laura comes in, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Alright. To bed, little man. You can play with everything tomorrow."

The two of them teeter off down the hall and Kate and Clint sit in the crackle of the fire.

"I like it here," Kate says, taking in the home.

Kid drawings litter the walls, little nicks of crayon and markers dotting the walls from happy accidents. The wood floors creak with age, and she had never been in a house that had been so... lived in. Loved in. Hers were marble staircases and iron railings. Everything sharp and hard and square. This home was round, soft, and warm. No elevator as a front door. No view of the skyscraper next to you. Instead a squeaky screen door and miles of field and trees.

She could get used to this.

"I like it here, too," Clint smiled.

"I've never had a home like this."

"What do you mean? Like this?"

"Like... with people. That people don't just live in but love in. Home was always just a place to sleep. A form of shelter, however expensive it might be. It was a part of your vanity. I've never seen a home like this."

"You're welcome anytime, Hawkeye."

Clint grins at her, knowing how the name makes her feel.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that."