In the dimly lit basement of a Brooklyn brownstone, Clint Barton—known to the world as —wasn't fighting aliens or super-spies. He was fighting a stubborn 1x4 plank of cedar.

He ignored her, running a calloused thumb over the rough edge. This was the "1x4" project: a simple set of trophy racks for Kate’s growing collection of "World’s Mediocre-est Archer" awards. But for Clint, it was a rare moment of quiet. No high-stakes missions, just the smell of sawdust and the rhythmic shhh-shhh of a hand plane.

"Exactly," Clint grinned, finally picking up the wood glue. "Being a Hawkeye is about making the shot no one else can. But being a person? That’s about finishing the shelf."

"Okay, I get it," she admitted, a thin curl of cedar landing on her boot. "It’s... grounding."

"I’m telling you, Kate, it’s all about the grain," Clint muttered, squinting through his hearing aids at the piece of wood. "You rush the cut, you splinter the soul. Precision isn’t just for trick arrows."

Kate Bishop leaned against a workbench covered in purple fletching and half-empty coffee cups. "Clint, it’s a shelf. We’ve been here for three hours. The Avengers have saved the planet in less time."