#winterhawk

Bucky/Clint

Chapter Five on Ao3

~~

Bucky disappears for five days. It’s not on purpose or anything, it’s because the after-effects of being repeatedly brain-washed and frozen for almost a hundred years has given him brain damage. It makes him more prone to emotional outbursts, depression spirals, aphasia.

And the migraines. The goddamn migraines.

They’re so bad he chokes down enough pain killers to knock out a rhino and even then it only takes the edge off. The only thing that gets him by is curling up in a pitch dark room, forcing himself to guzzle water, and sleep as much as the pain will allow.

They usually only last a day, but sometimes that time stretches out for days and days. He eventually comes out of it aware that Steve has been in and out, making sure he’s eaten and stayed hydrated. He thinks at some point Steve urged him into a shower which must have been a chore because he freaks out at unexpected water.

He doesn’t really remember, but somewhere deep in his bones his body recalls a frigid spray of a hose—the only way Hydra ever let him get clean.

It’s why, in his cognizant moments, he lingers in long baths and never quite feels like he’s gotten all the grime off his skin or the blood from under his nails.

The lingering effects of the migraine, once it’s over, keep him in his place for days. JARVIS likely tells Steve he’s up and about on his own because he doesn’t show up at Bucky’s door and he’s grateful for it. Mostly. He appreciates that Steve has finally and fully embraced living in this century, having fallen in love and mourned his past but let it go.

Bucky isn’t really sure he has, but he doesn’t feel the connection the way Steve does because Hydra took everything from him and what he got back feels more like pictures in a magazine than someone’s lived life.

He’ll never tell that to Steve, of course. He won’t break his best friend’s heart.

He’s halfway into his coffee and a little jumpy though when there’s a knock at the door. JARVIS doesn’t alert him to who it is so either they asked not to be identified or there’s some sinister reason for it. Bucky’s still to groggy and low to care much. Plus he’s a walking weapon, not including the knife he has strapped to his side.

He opens the door and something in his chest leaps like it’s tumbling off a cliff when he sees Clint standing there wavering on his feet.

The archer lists forward and almost falls, and Bucky drops his coffee to catch him because he’s only got the one arm at the moment. Clint doesn’t seem to notice, and Bucky ignores the pain of hot liquid on his bare feet as he helps Clint inside and to the couch.

Clint more collapses than he sits really, and his eyes are moving back and forth. It takes Bucky a second to realize that it’s involuntary, but Clint manages to hone in on the stains now setting into Bucky’s sweats.

“Aww. Coffee,” Clint murmurs. Then his eyes shut.

He’s got his hearing aids on, the one with the little thing that presses to his skull which means he can probably hear some of what Bucky’s saying, but he doubts it’s enough. Clint doesn’t seem very inclined to move and while Bucky wants to know why he made his way there instead of to his own apartments, now isn’t the time to ask.

And Bucky is a master at self-denial, but even he’s not good enough to manage ignoring the warmth in his chest at the thought that Clint came to him. Because no one comes to him. Not even Steve these days. Steve shows up out of obligation or nostalgia, but Bucky’s hardly the person who can cheer anyone up or bring any sense of comfort.

He and Natalia have a shared past and with that a connection that most people won’t share, but she has the uglier memories of him.

And Tony. Well.

That’s a bridge that will remain burnt to cinders. Tony tolerates him because of Steve and Bucky can live with that because he’s not looking for absolution.

There’s nothing he can do to earn it.

Clint is something else though. He’s something different. He tugs at Bucky in ways no one ever has, not even in his past…he thinks. And somehow Clint makes it easy to do things like reach over and pull the heavy quilt from the back of the cushion and wrap Clint up like a little burrito.

Alpine appears out of nowhere and gives a soft meow before assessing the situation and then curling up in the space along Clint’s neck which is at a weird angle from how he fell asleep. Clint murmurs something too soft to be heard and he settles.

Alpine begins to purr and Bucky watches Clint as he sinks deeper into sleep.

A few minutes later, Bucky’s brave enough to grab some paper towels and mop up the coffee. The handle on the mug is broken, so he throws it in the trash, then rinses his hand before pulling out his phone and calling up Steve.

“Any idea where Lucky is?” Bucky asks when Steve picks up.

“With Clint?” Steve offers like a question.

Bucky shakes his head, then remembers he’s on the phone. “No. Clint’s here with me.”

Steve makes a noise. To any outsider it’s just a quiet hum of acknowledgement. To Bucky, it speaks an entire novel and he panics for a second because he knows that Steve wants him to feel worthy of people and love and…other things. And Bucky isn’t ready for that yet.

It’s too close to forgiveness.

“Want me to go look for him?”

Bucky sighs, then looks back over at Clint. “Probably. I don’t know why he showed up here…”

“Hawkeye had an appointment with the SHIELD docs today,” Tony’s voice says over the speaker. “He got in about ten minutes ago. I can confirm with Coulson about why…”

“No,” Bucky barks, then reigns it in when he hears Tony take a sharp breath. “That’s not our business. I just want to make sure that mutt is okay.”

“We’ll take him to the dog park and you can ask Clint if he wants us to bring him over.”

He will, Bucky thinks. Lucky isn’t just some dog. “He’s asleep. I’ll let you know when he’s up.”

***

Clint doesn’t wake up until there’s pizza. Bucky doesn’t even call out for it—he’s pretty sure it’s either Steve or Nat’s doing. But he smiles when he opens his door and it’s sitting right there on the floor hot and fresh.

He brings it inside and suddenly there’s a disgruntled meow. Bucky hears Alpine’s little paws hit the floor and then he glances over to find Clint on his feet, the quilt draped around him like a cape. He takes shuffling steps toward Bucky like he’s being led by his nose like a damn cartoon and Bucky’s heart somehow manages to beat harder.

Dropping the pizza on the table, he steps aside as Clint manages to hold the quilt with one hand and dig into the pizza with another. He’s seen the man drink straight from a hot coffee pot so it’s no surprise Clint just dives in mouth first, and he wonders how the man can taste anything through those burns.

“Do you want a plate?” he asks.

Clint blinks up at him, squinting and most people would think he was myopic but Bucky knows better. “Did you say plate?”

Bucky nods his fist and wishes he knew the sign for plate—or for most things, but he’s had exactly two classes and he’s managed to master about two-thirds of the alphabet and some basic greetings. Right now they’re working on facial expressions and the teacher said something about classifiers which is a stark reminder that ASL is a language.

It’s not just signs, it’s got all this other stuff that goes with it and he’s a little bit terrified because his brain really is damaged and he struggles to hold on to things—both old and new.

But he came out of both classes feeling like he was doing something right.

Even if it’s entirely unhelpful right now.

“…eat?”

Bucky realizes he’s missed almost all of what Clint has said, so he lifts his hand and signs, ‘Repeat.’

Clint’s brows go up the way they always do when Bucky shows off his current skill level which is not impressive, but it seems like maybe it’s better than most people in Clint’s life. Except that Coulson guy but Bucky doesn’t want to touch that with a ten foot pole.

“Are you gonna eat?” Clint’s arm has dropped and Alpine is there ready to seize some of the cheese that’s starting to fall off. “Aww. Pizza,” Clint moans.

Bucky sighs and grabs the box, balancing it on his palm as he jerks his head toward the living room. Clint follows and makes grabby hands and Bucky sets the box between them which makes him feel very alone suddenly with all that space.

It’s nice to watch Clint do this though. It’s like a strange self-care ritual which Steve has been trying to beat into Bucky. They didn’t have self-care back when they were…different, more human, whatever. They had surviving day to day, and him making sure Steve didn’t get himself killed.

Then making sure he didn’t get himself killed while also trying to actually kill Nazis.

And then. Well.

He almost laughs at the thought of Hydra proving a safe space for self-care. His warped sense of humor wants to ask Steve to draw a comic scene about it.

“How long was I out?” Clint asks when he’s satisfied. Most of the pizza is gone and Bucky stares down at the last two pieces but he’s not really hungry. He sets the box aside and Clint lets out a happy hum that Bucky thinks might be involuntary. He shimmies his body around and tucks his feet under Bucky’s thighs.

Bucky melts.

He just hopes it’s not that obvious.

He remembers Clint asked him a question. “About four hours,” he says.

Clint’s eyes flicker off to the side which means JARVIS is providing translation. “Shit.”

Bucky shrugs. “Feeling better?”

Clint rubs the back of his neck, then he flops dramatically backward and sighs as he shoves his feet even further under Bucky. It’s both the best and most uncomfortable thing he’s ever felt. “They put all this gunk in my ears, trying to take molds but the ear canals are all thick with scar tissue and there’s nothing left in there. My ear drums are gone, and the cochlea is damaged but apparently there’s enough left to make me dizzy. I puked on the way back to the Tower.”

Bucky doesn’t understand half of what Clint’s saying. It sounds like an anatomy class he didn’t pay attention to back when he was in High School. But he gets the more important parts.

“Not dizzy anymore?”

Clint shrugs, then tugs at his earlobe. “He said my vertigo is acting up so badly because one of my ears still has some residual hearing and it’s making me off balance. They want me to consider cochlear implants.”

Bucky already knows that’s a hard no. Clint was firm about that when Tony tried to bring it up the last time they decided to try and eat together. Clint had stormed off and Tony sat under the weight of Bucky’s glare the rest of the meal.

“I’m going to go with the other surgery. Phil says I can probably go in next week once they make sure my concussion’s totally cleared up.”

Bucky nods. He’s been there and done that, but he usually doesn’t have to be put under. It scares the bejeezus out of him, voluntarily losing consciousness. After coming out of cryo in Wakanda, he had nightly panic attacks when he was on the verge of sleep because it was just too…

Familiar.

Clint’s trauma is different, but he relates.

“I can go with you,” Bucky blurts.

Clint’s eyes snap over to him—sharp and absolutely Hawkeye in that moment. Like he’s reading every single minute twitch in Bucky’s body. “Why?”

Bucky decides not to lie because Clint is sitting there using him as a foot warmer and he doesn’t seem to want to leave. Bucky’s become something like a safe space and he doesn’t think that means nothing. Especially to a man like Clint Barton.

“Because I want to be.”

Clint’s eyes immediately soften and he drapes his arm across the back of the couch. He makes a pathetic little whining noise so Bucky reaches over and takes his hand. He rubs his thumb over Clint’s palm, over his wrist, his knuckles. They’re tense and calloused. Archer’s hands.

He wants to feel them more.

Clint makes a happy hum, then cracks one eye open again. “Where’s Lucky?”

“Steve and Tony.”

“They’re not keeping my dog,” Clint says fiercely. Then he shudders. “They should. I’m shit. I just left him there, and…”

“They’ll bring him back when you’re ready. You’re allowed to need help,” Bucky says. He’s just repeating a lot of what Steve and his SHIELD therapist kept telling him. It’s easier to let himself feed that advice to someone else. But he means it. “Lucky loves you no matter what.”

Clint’s face is kind of torn, but he twists his hand around so he can thread his fingers through Bucky’s. “Is this okay.”

His eyes are closed, so Bucky just squeezes gently and Clint seems to correctly interpret that yes. It’s okay. It’s more than okay.

It’s everything.

Clint/Bucky

Chapter Four on Ao3

Chapter Summary: “Then you went deaf,” Bucky says.

Clint reads that off his lips annoyingly perfect. “Then I went deaf,” he repeats. “Think they’ll let me out soon?”

Bucky nods. ‘Need,’ he signs and twists his hand into shapes. ‘H A W K G U Y.’

“Wiseguy,” Clint fires back.

There is totally a beginner ASL free class from Gallaudet you can do online.

~~~

Clint doesn’t make a call because, well, he can’t. He considers that a gain though because he’s always hated talking on the phone and now he has the best excuse in the world for ignoring the shrill ring and the needy person on the other end.

What he does do is send a text to Phil because he’s not exactly sure who he’s supposed to contact about letting some doctor dig around in his skull, but if he has to trust someone to find a safe doctor, he trusts Phil. Even if the history between them is still oddly tense.

Phil texts him back and says he’ll be in touch, and then there’s just silence—the profound, metaphorical kind since Clint is getting used to the physical kind and it’s odd how much he likes it. He sinks into it and lets it wrap around him.

He feels movement and vibrations…not more than he had before because he’s an Avenger, damn it. He’s always been hyper aware. He really does hope that those stereotypes about losing one sense makes the others stronger is a lie because he’s not sure what he’ll do if his vision gets any better.

Imagine.

Futz.

He putzes around the Tower though, and he makes it back down to the range where his aim is better because without the hearing aids vibrating against his skull, his vertigo is calming down as his inner ears heal. His first series of bullseyes feels like a massive triumph.

When he splits an arrow in half he turns around and feels some sort of betrayal that there was no one there to watch him.

“Aww. People.”

The words rumble in his throat and then he sees Lucky’s head pop up which makes him laugh. He drops to a knee and hugs his dog because the sorry little bastard is the only one who’s ever really there for him.

“Come on, let’s find coffee for me, pizza for you.” He doesn’t really mean pizza, of course. Everyone seems to think he actually feeds his precious little garbage dog pizza like he doesn’t give a shit about Lucky’s health.

Plus, the pizza dog farts are maybe the most toxic thing he’s ever smelled, and Lucky seems to love crop-dusting his bedroom when he’s got a rumbly tummy.

He takes the stairs, not the elevator. He skips up each one on the tips of his toes as he relearns how to find his balance. It’s not perfect. The scar tissue in his ears makes everything seem full and occasionally it’s like the world turns topsy-turvy. He thinks maybe he’s the best person in the world to really deal with that though because when he was in the circus, he was an amazing acrobat.

Hell, he’s retained most of his skill set which helps when he’s trying to shoot aliens out of the sky or take down clown-faced assholes in track gear, and he has to fire as he’s jumping off a building.

It’s just different when it’s happening all the time.

But he’ll get there.

He’s getting there.

The stairwell opens up to the common room and he makes his way into the kitchen, coming to a skidding halt when he sees Bucky eating a banana in the most pornographic way a man can eat a piece of fruit.

He’s just deep throating it and half of Clint is getting very interested and the other half of him is a little amazed that Bucky’s still alive.

Of course, Bucky always eats like this—like his meal is going to be the last one he’ll ever get. Clint wonders if it’s trauma from the Winter Soldier because he doesn’t think Hydra had a very thorough pamphlet on How To Feed and Care For Your Vicious Assassin.

But it might also be that the last real memories Bucky has is from being in the war, and from everything Clint read up on that—it wasn’t pretty. It was a lot of too young starving, terrified men being shot at and mostly dying.

Bucky sees him and smiles around the second half of the banana as he takes it down like a fuckin’ bird or something, and Clint turns away because he doesn’t want to know what Bucky’s throat looks like when it’s stuffed with something long. And hard.

God, Clint thinks, I’m a monster.

He brushes past Bucky once he’s gotten control of himself, his hands absently curling into fists, one circling the top of the other as he signs, ‘Coffee, coffee, coffee.’ Over and over.

It doesn’t magically appear, and he has an inner debate about whether or not he’s too tired to make the pot himself. He leans on the counter until his torso is pressed to the cool granite and he thinks, just gonna close my eyes for a second.

He wakes with his head pressed against something warm and solid, and the smell of coffee is fresh.

His head pops up and he looks around, blinking owlishly. “How long was I out?” he asks aloud.

Bucky’s still next to him, now sitting on the counter with his phone in his hand. He’s wearing his prosthetic, and Clint feels a small jolt because he hasn’t seen him with it on since he got there. It’s sleek and black. It’s missing the red star which settles frayed nerves.

‘Ten minutes,’ Bucky signs with his vibranium hand. He flips his phone around toward Clint and he shows him the screen.

The top reads Gallaudet University Beginner’s ASL.

By proxy of being alive and living on the East Coast, Clint knows what Gallaudet is, but only about as much as he knows what Princeton is, or Columbia. He was never going to be a college guy.

“They’re free classes, but they don’t teach much past the basics,” Bucky says, the words appearing in Clint’s periphery.

Clint watches his mouth. He likes Bucky’s mouth. He’s got nice teeth—straight, but not like evil villain straight. And he’s got a dimple in his chin, and perpetual five o’clock shadow, and he bites his bottom lip so much it’s kind of peeling.

Clint remembers there’s coffee so he snags the pot and hums happily. The feeling of his voice in the back of his throat feels good, and it makes him crack a smile as he lifts the pot straight to his mouth and drinks.

Bucky pulls a face and Clint doesn’t care, and it’s nice because Bucky’s eyes are kind of shining and soft like he’s amused.

Bucky’s eyes roam around the kitchen for a minute, so Clint gulps down another mouthful of coffee so hot it takes off a layer of skin. “You looking for another banana to fellate?”

Bucky’s face does something complicated and Clint thinks he’s probably making a choking noise. “Why, pal? You lookin’ to watch?”

Even though Clint’s only reading the words, they’re all Brooklyn and it gives him this absurd urge of joy knowing that so much of who Bucky was—or hell, maybe what he was supposed to be—is there. It’s like Nat, and how she’s kind and she’s soft in spite of what people think.

And Clint knows mostly it’s because that’s what people want to think about her. It’s easier that way to paint her as this cold, heartless killer because if they don’t, they have to face reality. A young girl who was stolen and abused and manipulated and managed to break free of all of it.

And she’s good—she’s better than most in spite of her circumstances and Clint knows that makes people uncomfortable because so many people are bad without reason.

“I feel like I’m losin’ my mind,” Clint murmurs. He’s not sure if he can be heard, but he’s got Bucky’s attention so he thinks maybe he is.

Bucky doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He just nods, then he shrugs, then he jerks his head toward the other room. Clint follows and he thinks Bucky’s just going to sit him down in front of the TV again, but instead Bucky leads him to the windows. There’s one that looks a little funky and Clint realizes that it’s been popped out.

There’s a latch, and he isn’t sure if it’s intentional, but if it isn’t clearly JARVIS hasn’t squealed.

Bucky pops it open and gestures for Clint to go ahead. Outside, there’s no translator for him to read, and it makes him a little nervous, but not as much as he’d be if it were anyone else at the moment. The air hits him full in the face, and it’s kind of muggy, but it’s nice. He can smell the sea on the air currents, and he can make out a guy doing some sort of 80s Jazzercize in his living room across the way—with the step stool and everything.

Rich people are fuckin’ weird, he thinks to himself.

A metal hand touches him and Clint flinches. It’s reflex at this point, and he thinks Bucky probably knows that, but he feels guilty anyway. Bucky doesn’t look deterred. He strokes a thumb over the top of Clint’s wrist almost like he’s trying to soothe him.

Bucky’s eyes are kind of distant though, and Clint knows he goes out, but he wonders what it costs him. He wonders if SHIELD—or whoever the hell is in charge these days, considering—has offered Bucky any real help besides having the Wakandans throw him on ice until he could be broken.

He thinks probably not. He’s being offered a surgery—an implant to make it more convenient for them when Hawkeye picks up his bow again.

No one really asked him how he was doing after having his ears busted out by a couple of arrows.

No one asked how he felt after finding Barney lying on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. Never mind Barney wasn’t a great brother.

Clint’s chest aches and he wonders if anyone would really come looking if he ran off.

He realizes they’re on the roof via a tall fire-escape looking thing. There’s stuff out here—old red solo cups and some benches and some cushions. There’s a fancy looking miniature telescope lying on its side.

Bucky’s sitting down with his knees up and his arms resting over them, just watching. His eyes are on Clint like maybe he knows he’s thinking of just scaling the building and going anywhere else. His mouth is turned down in a frown, and Clint wonders if he’d follow.

Probably not, which is okay.

They don’t say much. Bucky’s vocabulary is limited and so is Clint’s for that matter. But the wind is nice and the sun is even nicer. He thinks Lucky would like it up there, but he doesn’t trust his garbage dog not to accidentally topple off the side and if that happened, well, Clint would just tumble right after him.

Maybe he’ll be brave enough to try the park soon.

He eventually hunkers down next to Bucky and lets their knees knock together. Bucky laughs, his face going kind of light and ageless.

“You don’t look bad for a centenarian,” Clint says. When Bucky looks surprised, Clint scoffs. “What. I read. I have an amazing lexicon.” He taps his temple with two fingers.

Bucky nods, and Clint’s reminded of when he was young, before the signs, before he got the hang of any kind of lip reading. It was so isolating and terrifying.

He doesn’t feel that way now, which is unexpected.

“I wanted to buy a farm,” he tells Bucky. Maybe he’s taking advantage because communication can only really happen one way, but Bucky’s expression says he doesn’t entirely mind. “Instead I won a building in a poker game.”

“Then you went deaf,” Bucky says.

Clint reads that off his lips annoyingly perfect. “Then I went deaf,” he repeats. “Think they’ll let me out soon?”

Bucky nods. ‘Need,’ he signs and twists his hand into shapes. ‘H A W K G U Y.’

“Wiseguy,” Clint fires back.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs, then leans in and presses their shoulders together, and he doesn’t move for a long, long while.

Inspired by THIS art by @quicksillver

Clint is rarely arrogant but he knows his strengths.  “I can make an accurate shot with any bow and any arrow.”

Bucky buys Clint one of those cheap-ass dollar store toy bow and arrow sets with the suction cups.  He thinks it’s hilarious.  “Not even Hawkeye can make an accurate shot with this.”

Clint just takes it, stares at it, then brings it into his room.

Bucky thinks he’s won.

The next morning Clint shoots Bucky square in the bare ass cheek as he’s coming out of the shower.  And it sticks.  When Bucky pulls it off, there’s a little round mark almost like a hickey.

He proceeds to do that for a week until Bucky concedes he really is the world’s best archer.

Clint/Bucky

Rated: General

Word Count: 700

Warnings: PTSD, past trauma.

Blurb: More than anything, Clint hates when the captions don’t translate foreign language.  But he’s got his own personal assassin to do that for him.  And his own personal happily ever after to go with it.

Clint nestled deeper into his nest of blankets. He was full of pizza and feeling wall warm and perfect, heavy limbs and a half-smile on his face. His head lolled to the side, rubbing his temple back and forth, back and forth against Bucky’s shoulder.

Thick, clever, deft fingers played with the short hair on the back of his neck.

It was the best feeling in the world.

His gaze returned to the TV—the movie they were watching about two assassins who were hired to take each other out, but were slowly falling in love. One was a very beardy, Nomad-Steve-ish blond from California all biceps and perfect smile.

The other guy was a Russian beefcake with arctic blue eyes and a crooked grin.

Clint liked the way the captions did his dialogue. Missing articles and phonetics almost like a pronunciation guide of his accent. It reminded him of the way Bucky spoke sometimes when he was very tired or lost in his head. All back of the throat and rounded consonants.

“This year really is delivering on the queer tropey content,” Clint muttered, feeling his voice rumble in his throat. He was pretty sure he was loud enough for Bucky to hear, but his biggest struggle without his hearing aids was his own voice.

Bucky’s fingers pushed all the way up into his hair at the crown of his head, then back down again. His metal arm came up and his fist nodded.

More like a yep than a yes.

Clint loved that too.

His gaze moved back to the TV and his eyes followed the captions. [Dark, ominous music.]

The hot Russian appeared on screen as the other guy was taken down by an unknown sniper, heartbreak on his face. Bucky went tense beside him, but Clint was on the edge of his seat.

The assassin dropped to his knees, cradling the other man’s face in his hands and Clint thought, ‘this better not kill these fucking gays I swear to god…’

The assassin’s mouth opened. [foreign language]

Clint swore quietly to himself. He hated when the captions did that. Granted his Russian was limited—very limited—to the shit that Nat said to him whenever he’d managed to piss her off beyond English, and the occasional sweet and dirty nothings Bucky muttered to him in bed.

“Futz. I can’t understand it at all,” Clint complained.

There was a moment, just long enough for a single beat of his heart, then Bucky turned him and lifted his hands. ‘Don’t do this.’

Clint’s mouth works into a frown. “Don’t do…”

‘Don’t leave me. Please. I know it was you and I don’t care. My world, my sunshine. Don’t leave me.’

Clint realized then what Bucky was doing. His gaze focused on Bucky’s face and he saw the fear there, that with a handful of spoken words, it could be them some day. That he could crack, or with a bit of alien tech, Clint might lose himself again.

But it doesn’t matter—can’t matter. Not when they have this. He had no idea what was happening on the TV anymore, but he didn’t care. Not when he could be straddling Bucky’s legs and pushing him into the cushions.

“I’ll never leave you,” he promised.

Bucky cupped his face and his mouth moved. “You can’t say that for sure.”

Clint gripped the twisted knot of hair at the back of Bucky’s head and held him fast. “Yeah, I can.”

Bucky stared at him in the eyes for long enough that it should be uncomfortable. But it never is. With a breath, and then a blink, Bucky surged up and their lips met, and Clint doesn’t need the words on the movie interpreted anymore.

He’s got his own perfect deadly assassin all to himself.

And he’s got their own, perfect happily ever after to live.