Avengers (the movie) Fic: Out of the Frying Pan, Part 1 of 2
Title: Out of The Frying Pan
Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, other team members
Rating: Probably R for language
Warnings: Spanking, and Schmoop I don't think there are any major SPOILERS, but read at your own risk
Summary: Steve's an old-fashioned guy
A/N: Inspired by a prompt on avengerkink. Thanks to ficwriterjet and astrangerfate for putting up with all my emailing about ridiculous things. Also, I'm not a weapons expert or medical person - just a suburban girl trying to have some fun - so if you're knowledgeable about such things you'll probably find mistakes. Just saying... :)
“What did you think you were doing?”
Clint glances up as Rogers falls into step beside him, his blonde, all-American countenance the picture of earnest disgruntlement. “Hey, Captain.”
Rogers slants him a look. “You were ordered to higher ground; Tony had it.”
Clint shrugs, reaching to brush some remaining ash from his arm. “I saw the shot and I took it. No thanks necessary.” The sooner they save the world, the sooner they can get back to their interrupted poker game, and Clint can have the pleasure of taking all their money.
“I’m not thanking you.” Rogers catches him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. “This isn’t a one man show, Barton,” he explains. “This is a team; we work together.”
Clint carefully removes the super soldier’s hand. “I know my capabilities,” he assures Rogers. Which happen to include taking out an engine with a well-placed arrow. The hovercraft careening toward his position before crashing to a fiery stop just inches from his boots was an unexpected variable, but Clint hasn’t lived this long without learning how to improvise. He starts uptown again, not entirely surprised when Rogers matches his determined pace.
“You were almost incinerated,” Rogers persists.
Clint’s mouth quirks slightly as he scans the surrounding area. “Tuesday already?”
“Don’t be flip,” Rogers snaps, his fingers curling into his palms as Tony Stark lands a few steps ahead of them, removing the helmet from his dark head and tucking it under his arm as they approach.
“Cap’s right, Barton; it’s really unbecoming,” Stark mocks, earning him a raised brow from Clint. Stark might be on friendlier terms with the Captain, but he annoys him twice as much.
“Your skills are an asset, but your attitude’s a liability,” Rogers tells Clint, blue eyes glinting in the dusty light.
Clint shoots him a narrowed glance. “What are you trying to say?” He’s tired, dirty, with the beginnings of one hell of a headache, and they still have to chase down the rest of the bad guys.
Rogers’ jaw tightens, and then he’s striding toward the nearby Quinjet. “We’ll regroup at thirteen hundred,” he throws over his shoulder to Stark. “Barton; you’re benched.”
Clint glares after him, his hand absently slipping to the back of his now throbbing skull and finding something wet.
Stark grimaces. “He actually does grow on you, you know. In a really slow, boring, goody-two-shoes kind of way.” He looks over to find Clint glaring at his blood-smeared fingertips. “You should have Bruce take a look at that when he’s back to being a real boy.”
“Yeah,” Clint says, still watching Rogers as he greets their teammates at the Quinjet. “I’ll make sure I do that.”
*************************************
Steve stands in front of the tall wall of windows, gazing out from Avengers Tower’s main conference room at the city below. From the distant 93rd floor, the city is quiet and almost peaceful, and Steve can almost forget that this isn’t his city anymore, that those he used to know are most likely gone.
“You are troubled again.”
Thor’s voice sounds from behind him, breaking the spell of his reverie. Steve glances up, taking in the Asgardian’s knowing expression. Steve’s mouth twists ruefully. “That obvious?”
Thor shrugs, shaking a stray length of hair from his light eyes. “You often appear thus after words with Agent Barton.
Steve frowns, turning from the window and toward the interior of the conference room. “How do you know we had words?”
Thor cocks a skeptical brow and waits for it.
Then, “We might have had a few words,” Steve admits, earning a grin from the demigod. “Combat requires discipline, and Barton’s too used to making his own rules,” Steve tells him. The guy had nearly become another stain upon the city’s asphalt this morning, and not for the first time. Steve runs an agitated hand over the back of his neck. “He nearly killed himself taking that shot, and for what? Who’s he trying to impress?”
“Agent Barton is a mighty warrior, but slow to trust. As I, he has much to learn,” Thor says, pulling out a chair from the conference table and taking a rather delicate perch upon its streamlined frame. Although Tony has assured him the chairs are strong enough to withstand even Hulk, the large warrior isn’t taking any chances. Steve has the same healthy respect for the microwave.
Steve considers. “You think he doesn’t trust me?”
“Nay, Captain,” Thor replies, with a wry shake of his head. “I think he doesn’t trust himself.”
Well, that’s perfect. What’s Steve supposed to do about that? “You’d think one loose cannon would be enough,” he mutters.
“You can never have too many cannons, Cap,” Tony says, striding into the room in that hurried way that always suggests he has bigger and better places to be. “I mean, for boys it’s really all about the toys, isn’t it? A bow and arrow, a hammer - I’m thinking about a giant water pistol.”
Thor chuckles as Bruce and Natasha make their own appearances, Bruce as unflappable as ever when he’s this color, Natasha slightly less so.
“Have any of you seen Clint?” she asks, glancing around the conference room as if Barton might have escaped even her vigilant notice.
“Not since our return here,” Thor tells her.
“He didn’t stop by Medical?” Tony asks Bruce, but the doctor only shoves his hands into his pockets and shakes his head.
“Haven’t seen him.”
“He’s never late,” Natasha says, and Steve needs to end this now.
“Hawkeye won’t be joining us.” Steve says it as plainly and clearly as he can, and watches as realization dawns on each of his teammates. There’s surprise, and some regret, and no one’s really looking at each other as they take their respective seats at the table, or at the empty chair beside Natasha’s.
“Well, this is awkward,” Tony remarks, but internal affairs will have to wait.
“We need a plan of action for eliminating residual threat,” Steve tells them. “Tony, will you - do whatever it is you do?” he asks, relieved when Tony uses his fingertips to activate the interface he’s built into the conference table. “Factor in remaining enemy numbers, and all prior camps and safe houses within a half-day’s travel distance; they’ll be close.”
Tony’s fingers sweep and glide through the screens, until a topographical map appears with a blinking red circle. “Target identified,” Tony reports, then frowns, eyes scanning the available data. “That’s funny.”
“What?” Bruce asks, leaning over to take a look.
“This search has already been run.”
“By who?” Steve wants to know.
“Our very own William Tell,” Tony replies, dark eyes narrowed on the screen.
“Why would Clint run that search and not share the results with the rest of us?” Bruce asks.
He wouldn’t. Not unless he has plans of his own. But that would be crazy. So Steve benched the guy - from one mission. It doesn’t mean... Steve asks anyway. “You don’t think he’d try to take them out on his own?”
Tony glances up from the console. “Seriously?”
Steve sighs. “Natasha?”
The redhead’s lips are tight with displeasure; she waves her hand slightly in concession.
“Gear up,” Steve commands, and heads for the hangar. “He’s had enough of a head-start.
*************************************
Hitting a moving target has never been much of a challenge for Clint. Ever since he can remember, he’s always had a keen sense of where speed, force, and mass will collide, and today is no exception. Gunfire scatters the arid ground around him, spitting up dirt and grit, and Clint reaches behind him for another arrow. Even in the hail of bullets, it’s strangely quiet without the constant communications of the team playing in his ear, without Rogers’ intel and commands. Clint scowls, brushes off the feeling. He doesn’t need the headache, figuratively or literally. If it’s a little lonely out here behind his rock, it’s only because he’s already disposed of the mercenaries’ safe guards, silently picking them off one by one until someone happens to notice the bodies littering the cave’s perimeter. By Clint’s calculations, about a dozen remain, two of which are starting to irritate the fuck out of him.
He blinks at the sweat stinging his eyes, takes a moment to steady his breathing. If only Rogers could see him now. With a narrowed glance over his shoulder, Clint turns and leans just enough to fire two more arrows, one after the other, then ducks and waits. The gunfire halts abruptly. Clint smirks, leaning from shelter once more to survey the damage. Two more men lay sprawled in the dust at the entrance to the cave, their weapons beside them. He’s considering a frontal assault when there’s a sudden growl of an engine, and a large truck roars from the interior, crowded with men and drums of stolen explosives.
“Not today, boys,” Clint warns under his breath. The truck heaves over the uneven terrain, and in a single, fluid motion, Clint reaches into his mechanized quiver and draws, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction as he releases the bowstring. The arrow hurtles toward the closest drum with uncanny precision, so that Clint doesn’t even mind when the bullet grazes his right bicep, burning as intensely as the hovering sun.
There’s a deafening blast, the sky shifting wildly, and then a gust of fierce heat sends him crashing backward.
*****************************
“Gotta give the kid credit, Cap,” Tony says into the com, as the team wanders the scorched area surrounding the cave. “He outdid himself this time. I don’t think he left a single one of ‘em.”
Steve frowns and keeps walking, his apprehension mounting at each body he passes. The place is desolate, stagnant, except for the flames still engulfing the remains of the truck. They have to find Barton; this is not how the battle ends.
“Got his sky cycle over here,” Bruce reports from the west perimeter.
“So where is he?” Steve asks, squinting in the bright light.
“Over here!” Natasha calls suddenly, from an outcropping of rocks. Steve runs to join her, stopping just short of stumbling right over the two of them. “Oh, my God,” the Russian breathes, leaning over the slumped form. Barton’s eyes are closed, his visible skin marked by burns and scrapes. Blood covers his right arm from a wound in his bicep.
“Bruce, we’re going to need you,” Steve lets the doctor know, before dropping to one knee for a closer look.
“Clint?” Natasha asks, patting gently at the man’s grimy cheek.
Barton’s eyes crack open slowly, regard them blearily. “Heyyy,” he drawls, mouth curving slightly. “What took you so long?”
A relieved smile flits over her worried face. “You asshole. It’s his arm, Doc,” she tells Bruce, suddenly there beside them. The doctor’s fingers probe the injury, dark eyes somber in their assessment.
“Ow…” Barton complains, suddenly sounding like a fractious five year-old.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Steve asks him.
“Yeah; everywhere,” he mutters.
“He’s lost some blood,” Bruce says, and there’s a sudden rending sound as Bruce tears a strip from the hem of his shirt and uses it to tie a gauze pad over the wound.
“I’ll buy you a new shirt,” Natasha promises, her green eyes still locked on Barton’s face.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce responds dryly, gently turning Barton’s arm to check his work. “My clothes don’t usually last that long, anyway.”
“Hey, Cap,” Barton mumbles, licking his dry lips. “Did you see me?”
The question takes Steve by surprise. Barton’s eyes are glazed, unfocused, and Steve glances at Bruce, sees his own concern reflected in the physicist’s face. “Yeah, I saw you,” Steve assures Barton, reaching down to brush a comforting hand over the man’s forehead.
“How fares Hawkeye?” Thor asks from behind them. Steve hasn’t even heard the Norseman and Tony approach.
“Better than the other guy,” Tony observes, with a nod to the surrounding destruction.
“We need to get him back to base,” Steve says, noticing Barton’s eyes have drifted closed. He doesn’t want to think about all the other ways this might have ended, the ways it has ended in years before; doesn’t want to think about his own part in the day’s events. For now, it’s enough Barton’s alive.
He swings the man into his arms, careful not to jar his injured arm. “Let’s go.”
****************************************************
“How’s he doing, Doc?” Steve asks, rising to his feet as Bruce steps into the lounge Tony had built adjacent to Lab and Medical, so that the physicist can nap in the odd hours he doesn’t feel like returning to his rooms. Tony has his own lab; partly for safety, and partly because he doesn’t like sharing his toys.
Bruce rubs at his forehead, gaze moving over Steve and the rest of the team, who’ve occupied every flat surface of the space since Barton’s recovery. “Well, medicine isn’t my specialty, but I’m pretty sure he’s going to make it,” he tells them, smiling at the grins the pronouncement wrings from the tired group. “He has a nasty bump on the back of his head, but the few times he’s woken he’s known where and who he is, so that’s a good sign,” he assures, glancing at Natasha. “I’ve given him some blood, and some fluids for the dehydration; he should be feeling like himself in a couple of days. Our biggest challenge is going to be keeping him out of the action while his arm heals.”
“Don’t worry about that; I’ll see to it myself,” Steve promises. “Did you see me?” Barton asked. The thing is, Steve always sees him; Barton kind of makes it impossible not to see him. But Steve should have paid more attention.
“It’s not your fault, Cap,” Natasha tells him. “Clint’s always been hardheaded; he never gave up on me.”
Steve shakes his head. “He deserved to be reprimanded, but I should have gone about it differently - ”
“There was no other way to answer such defiance,” Thor contends, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You could not have known he’d attempt something so foolish.”
“No, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Steve doesn’t have a problem with Barton’s stubbornness; sometimes stubborn is what you need. The guy just has to learn to use it with discretion. Steve expects a few skirmishes along the way, but after today, he’s pretty sure the team will back him. He confirms with Natasha. “You have any objections, ma’am?”
“To you clipping Clint’s wings?” She frowns, shaking her auburn head. “No. We committed ourselves to the Initiative, and he messed up. He needs to deal with the consequences.” Her eyes narrow on Steve. “But you do anything to hurt him, really hurt him,” she warns, “and you’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Steve expects no less.
“Someone’s going to have to debrief Fury,” Tony reminds them, folding his arms as they move on to the trickier side of the equation. A silence falls over the team; none of them want to give the report that’s going to result in formal disciplinary action for Barton, or even dismissal from the Avengers Initiative, depending on Fury’s mood of the hour.
“What do we tell him?” Bruce finally asks. But Steve’s first loyalty has never been to S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway.
“The truth,” he replies, his gaze circling the room. “Hawkeye went ahead for recon, we followed. Both the enemy and their munitions were destroyed - everyone on the same page?”
“That’s the way I remember it,” Tony says, raising his brows at the others, who quickly nod their agreement.
“Good,” Steve says, smiling briefly. “Then I’d better go get ready.”
“Cap?” Natasha asks.
“Yeah?”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to be the one to report to Fury,” she says. “Whatever you’re planning with Clint, I shouldn’t be here for it. Besides,” she adds, a hint of amusement entering her voice, “Deception’s really more my thing than yours.”
Steve considers. She has a point, and regardless, he never has liked turning down a lady. “Ladies first,” he replies at last, glancing up at the ceiling. “J.A.R.V.I.S., can you have them ready the Quinjet?”
Part Two here.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, other team members
Rating: Probably R for language
Warnings: Spanking, and Schmoop I don't think there are any major SPOILERS, but read at your own risk
Summary: Steve's an old-fashioned guy
A/N: Inspired by a prompt on avengerkink. Thanks to ficwriterjet and astrangerfate for putting up with all my emailing about ridiculous things. Also, I'm not a weapons expert or medical person - just a suburban girl trying to have some fun - so if you're knowledgeable about such things you'll probably find mistakes. Just saying... :)
“What did you think you were doing?”
Clint glances up as Rogers falls into step beside him, his blonde, all-American countenance the picture of earnest disgruntlement. “Hey, Captain.”
Rogers slants him a look. “You were ordered to higher ground; Tony had it.”
Clint shrugs, reaching to brush some remaining ash from his arm. “I saw the shot and I took it. No thanks necessary.” The sooner they save the world, the sooner they can get back to their interrupted poker game, and Clint can have the pleasure of taking all their money.
“I’m not thanking you.” Rogers catches him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. “This isn’t a one man show, Barton,” he explains. “This is a team; we work together.”
Clint carefully removes the super soldier’s hand. “I know my capabilities,” he assures Rogers. Which happen to include taking out an engine with a well-placed arrow. The hovercraft careening toward his position before crashing to a fiery stop just inches from his boots was an unexpected variable, but Clint hasn’t lived this long without learning how to improvise. He starts uptown again, not entirely surprised when Rogers matches his determined pace.
“You were almost incinerated,” Rogers persists.
Clint’s mouth quirks slightly as he scans the surrounding area. “Tuesday already?”
“Don’t be flip,” Rogers snaps, his fingers curling into his palms as Tony Stark lands a few steps ahead of them, removing the helmet from his dark head and tucking it under his arm as they approach.
“Cap’s right, Barton; it’s really unbecoming,” Stark mocks, earning him a raised brow from Clint. Stark might be on friendlier terms with the Captain, but he annoys him twice as much.
“Your skills are an asset, but your attitude’s a liability,” Rogers tells Clint, blue eyes glinting in the dusty light.
Clint shoots him a narrowed glance. “What are you trying to say?” He’s tired, dirty, with the beginnings of one hell of a headache, and they still have to chase down the rest of the bad guys.
Rogers’ jaw tightens, and then he’s striding toward the nearby Quinjet. “We’ll regroup at thirteen hundred,” he throws over his shoulder to Stark. “Barton; you’re benched.”
Clint glares after him, his hand absently slipping to the back of his now throbbing skull and finding something wet.
Stark grimaces. “He actually does grow on you, you know. In a really slow, boring, goody-two-shoes kind of way.” He looks over to find Clint glaring at his blood-smeared fingertips. “You should have Bruce take a look at that when he’s back to being a real boy.”
“Yeah,” Clint says, still watching Rogers as he greets their teammates at the Quinjet. “I’ll make sure I do that.”
*************************************
Steve stands in front of the tall wall of windows, gazing out from Avengers Tower’s main conference room at the city below. From the distant 93rd floor, the city is quiet and almost peaceful, and Steve can almost forget that this isn’t his city anymore, that those he used to know are most likely gone.
“You are troubled again.”
Thor’s voice sounds from behind him, breaking the spell of his reverie. Steve glances up, taking in the Asgardian’s knowing expression. Steve’s mouth twists ruefully. “That obvious?”
Thor shrugs, shaking a stray length of hair from his light eyes. “You often appear thus after words with Agent Barton.
Steve frowns, turning from the window and toward the interior of the conference room. “How do you know we had words?”
Thor cocks a skeptical brow and waits for it.
Then, “We might have had a few words,” Steve admits, earning a grin from the demigod. “Combat requires discipline, and Barton’s too used to making his own rules,” Steve tells him. The guy had nearly become another stain upon the city’s asphalt this morning, and not for the first time. Steve runs an agitated hand over the back of his neck. “He nearly killed himself taking that shot, and for what? Who’s he trying to impress?”
“Agent Barton is a mighty warrior, but slow to trust. As I, he has much to learn,” Thor says, pulling out a chair from the conference table and taking a rather delicate perch upon its streamlined frame. Although Tony has assured him the chairs are strong enough to withstand even Hulk, the large warrior isn’t taking any chances. Steve has the same healthy respect for the microwave.
Steve considers. “You think he doesn’t trust me?”
“Nay, Captain,” Thor replies, with a wry shake of his head. “I think he doesn’t trust himself.”
Well, that’s perfect. What’s Steve supposed to do about that? “You’d think one loose cannon would be enough,” he mutters.
“You can never have too many cannons, Cap,” Tony says, striding into the room in that hurried way that always suggests he has bigger and better places to be. “I mean, for boys it’s really all about the toys, isn’t it? A bow and arrow, a hammer - I’m thinking about a giant water pistol.”
Thor chuckles as Bruce and Natasha make their own appearances, Bruce as unflappable as ever when he’s this color, Natasha slightly less so.
“Have any of you seen Clint?” she asks, glancing around the conference room as if Barton might have escaped even her vigilant notice.
“Not since our return here,” Thor tells her.
“He didn’t stop by Medical?” Tony asks Bruce, but the doctor only shoves his hands into his pockets and shakes his head.
“Haven’t seen him.”
“He’s never late,” Natasha says, and Steve needs to end this now.
“Hawkeye won’t be joining us.” Steve says it as plainly and clearly as he can, and watches as realization dawns on each of his teammates. There’s surprise, and some regret, and no one’s really looking at each other as they take their respective seats at the table, or at the empty chair beside Natasha’s.
“Well, this is awkward,” Tony remarks, but internal affairs will have to wait.
“We need a plan of action for eliminating residual threat,” Steve tells them. “Tony, will you - do whatever it is you do?” he asks, relieved when Tony uses his fingertips to activate the interface he’s built into the conference table. “Factor in remaining enemy numbers, and all prior camps and safe houses within a half-day’s travel distance; they’ll be close.”
Tony’s fingers sweep and glide through the screens, until a topographical map appears with a blinking red circle. “Target identified,” Tony reports, then frowns, eyes scanning the available data. “That’s funny.”
“What?” Bruce asks, leaning over to take a look.
“This search has already been run.”
“By who?” Steve wants to know.
“Our very own William Tell,” Tony replies, dark eyes narrowed on the screen.
“Why would Clint run that search and not share the results with the rest of us?” Bruce asks.
He wouldn’t. Not unless he has plans of his own. But that would be crazy. So Steve benched the guy - from one mission. It doesn’t mean... Steve asks anyway. “You don’t think he’d try to take them out on his own?”
Tony glances up from the console. “Seriously?”
Steve sighs. “Natasha?”
The redhead’s lips are tight with displeasure; she waves her hand slightly in concession.
“Gear up,” Steve commands, and heads for the hangar. “He’s had enough of a head-start.
*************************************
Hitting a moving target has never been much of a challenge for Clint. Ever since he can remember, he’s always had a keen sense of where speed, force, and mass will collide, and today is no exception. Gunfire scatters the arid ground around him, spitting up dirt and grit, and Clint reaches behind him for another arrow. Even in the hail of bullets, it’s strangely quiet without the constant communications of the team playing in his ear, without Rogers’ intel and commands. Clint scowls, brushes off the feeling. He doesn’t need the headache, figuratively or literally. If it’s a little lonely out here behind his rock, it’s only because he’s already disposed of the mercenaries’ safe guards, silently picking them off one by one until someone happens to notice the bodies littering the cave’s perimeter. By Clint’s calculations, about a dozen remain, two of which are starting to irritate the fuck out of him.
He blinks at the sweat stinging his eyes, takes a moment to steady his breathing. If only Rogers could see him now. With a narrowed glance over his shoulder, Clint turns and leans just enough to fire two more arrows, one after the other, then ducks and waits. The gunfire halts abruptly. Clint smirks, leaning from shelter once more to survey the damage. Two more men lay sprawled in the dust at the entrance to the cave, their weapons beside them. He’s considering a frontal assault when there’s a sudden growl of an engine, and a large truck roars from the interior, crowded with men and drums of stolen explosives.
“Not today, boys,” Clint warns under his breath. The truck heaves over the uneven terrain, and in a single, fluid motion, Clint reaches into his mechanized quiver and draws, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction as he releases the bowstring. The arrow hurtles toward the closest drum with uncanny precision, so that Clint doesn’t even mind when the bullet grazes his right bicep, burning as intensely as the hovering sun.
There’s a deafening blast, the sky shifting wildly, and then a gust of fierce heat sends him crashing backward.
*****************************
“Gotta give the kid credit, Cap,” Tony says into the com, as the team wanders the scorched area surrounding the cave. “He outdid himself this time. I don’t think he left a single one of ‘em.”
Steve frowns and keeps walking, his apprehension mounting at each body he passes. The place is desolate, stagnant, except for the flames still engulfing the remains of the truck. They have to find Barton; this is not how the battle ends.
“Got his sky cycle over here,” Bruce reports from the west perimeter.
“So where is he?” Steve asks, squinting in the bright light.
“Over here!” Natasha calls suddenly, from an outcropping of rocks. Steve runs to join her, stopping just short of stumbling right over the two of them. “Oh, my God,” the Russian breathes, leaning over the slumped form. Barton’s eyes are closed, his visible skin marked by burns and scrapes. Blood covers his right arm from a wound in his bicep.
“Bruce, we’re going to need you,” Steve lets the doctor know, before dropping to one knee for a closer look.
“Clint?” Natasha asks, patting gently at the man’s grimy cheek.
Barton’s eyes crack open slowly, regard them blearily. “Heyyy,” he drawls, mouth curving slightly. “What took you so long?”
A relieved smile flits over her worried face. “You asshole. It’s his arm, Doc,” she tells Bruce, suddenly there beside them. The doctor’s fingers probe the injury, dark eyes somber in their assessment.
“Ow…” Barton complains, suddenly sounding like a fractious five year-old.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Steve asks him.
“Yeah; everywhere,” he mutters.
“He’s lost some blood,” Bruce says, and there’s a sudden rending sound as Bruce tears a strip from the hem of his shirt and uses it to tie a gauze pad over the wound.
“I’ll buy you a new shirt,” Natasha promises, her green eyes still locked on Barton’s face.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce responds dryly, gently turning Barton’s arm to check his work. “My clothes don’t usually last that long, anyway.”
“Hey, Cap,” Barton mumbles, licking his dry lips. “Did you see me?”
The question takes Steve by surprise. Barton’s eyes are glazed, unfocused, and Steve glances at Bruce, sees his own concern reflected in the physicist’s face. “Yeah, I saw you,” Steve assures Barton, reaching down to brush a comforting hand over the man’s forehead.
“How fares Hawkeye?” Thor asks from behind them. Steve hasn’t even heard the Norseman and Tony approach.
“Better than the other guy,” Tony observes, with a nod to the surrounding destruction.
“We need to get him back to base,” Steve says, noticing Barton’s eyes have drifted closed. He doesn’t want to think about all the other ways this might have ended, the ways it has ended in years before; doesn’t want to think about his own part in the day’s events. For now, it’s enough Barton’s alive.
He swings the man into his arms, careful not to jar his injured arm. “Let’s go.”
****************************************************
“How’s he doing, Doc?” Steve asks, rising to his feet as Bruce steps into the lounge Tony had built adjacent to Lab and Medical, so that the physicist can nap in the odd hours he doesn’t feel like returning to his rooms. Tony has his own lab; partly for safety, and partly because he doesn’t like sharing his toys.
Bruce rubs at his forehead, gaze moving over Steve and the rest of the team, who’ve occupied every flat surface of the space since Barton’s recovery. “Well, medicine isn’t my specialty, but I’m pretty sure he’s going to make it,” he tells them, smiling at the grins the pronouncement wrings from the tired group. “He has a nasty bump on the back of his head, but the few times he’s woken he’s known where and who he is, so that’s a good sign,” he assures, glancing at Natasha. “I’ve given him some blood, and some fluids for the dehydration; he should be feeling like himself in a couple of days. Our biggest challenge is going to be keeping him out of the action while his arm heals.”
“Don’t worry about that; I’ll see to it myself,” Steve promises. “Did you see me?” Barton asked. The thing is, Steve always sees him; Barton kind of makes it impossible not to see him. But Steve should have paid more attention.
“It’s not your fault, Cap,” Natasha tells him. “Clint’s always been hardheaded; he never gave up on me.”
Steve shakes his head. “He deserved to be reprimanded, but I should have gone about it differently - ”
“There was no other way to answer such defiance,” Thor contends, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You could not have known he’d attempt something so foolish.”
“No, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Steve doesn’t have a problem with Barton’s stubbornness; sometimes stubborn is what you need. The guy just has to learn to use it with discretion. Steve expects a few skirmishes along the way, but after today, he’s pretty sure the team will back him. He confirms with Natasha. “You have any objections, ma’am?”
“To you clipping Clint’s wings?” She frowns, shaking her auburn head. “No. We committed ourselves to the Initiative, and he messed up. He needs to deal with the consequences.” Her eyes narrow on Steve. “But you do anything to hurt him, really hurt him,” she warns, “and you’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Steve expects no less.
“Someone’s going to have to debrief Fury,” Tony reminds them, folding his arms as they move on to the trickier side of the equation. A silence falls over the team; none of them want to give the report that’s going to result in formal disciplinary action for Barton, or even dismissal from the Avengers Initiative, depending on Fury’s mood of the hour.
“What do we tell him?” Bruce finally asks. But Steve’s first loyalty has never been to S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway.
“The truth,” he replies, his gaze circling the room. “Hawkeye went ahead for recon, we followed. Both the enemy and their munitions were destroyed - everyone on the same page?”
“That’s the way I remember it,” Tony says, raising his brows at the others, who quickly nod their agreement.
“Good,” Steve says, smiling briefly. “Then I’d better go get ready.”
“Cap?” Natasha asks.
“Yeah?”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to be the one to report to Fury,” she says. “Whatever you’re planning with Clint, I shouldn’t be here for it. Besides,” she adds, a hint of amusement entering her voice, “Deception’s really more my thing than yours.”
Steve considers. She has a point, and regardless, he never has liked turning down a lady. “Ladies first,” he replies at last, glancing up at the ceiling. “J.A.R.V.I.S., can you have them ready the Quinjet?”
Part Two here.