He would have stuck out on a street in present-day New York. In a fifties entry way? He's a sore thumb. All in black, reinforced boots. The gloves and quiver are gone, but that doesn't help much. He has to do something, or he's going to bring down a lot of chaos on this house.

Despite not interacting with them very often, Clint's good with civilians. He's natural, he's affable. There's an old woman who lives on the third floor of the apartment building he rents out of. She's gotten so fond of him she bakes him banana bread every week, even though he's sometimes not home for months at a time.

Okay, Barton. Work your magic.

"Well, I'm at a bit of a lull at the moment," Clint says, with a half-smile. He walks up to Peggy, picks Josephine up out of her arms and tosses her over one of his shoulders. "So as long as the little ladies aren't kicking me out..."