Avengers (the movie) Fic: Into the Fire, Part 1 of 3
Title: Into the Fire
Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, other team members
Rating: Probably R for language
Warnings: Spanking, and Schmoop, some SPOILERS for the movie, so read at your own risk
Summary: Clint's never been all that good with nice
A/N: Ah, well, going to the special hell. Thanks to just_an_acrobat and ficwriterjet for going with me. No Beta on this one, so all errors are my own. Also, I don't own the Avengers. They own me. At least for now. ;)
Clint doesn’t know how it happens, exactly. He’s wiping up from a last round of speed drills, rubbing the training room towel over his arms and the back of his neck, when Thor frowns in his direction.
“Hawkeye; you have injured yourself,” the warrior says, slinging his own towel around his neck.
Clint blinks. “What?” His muscles are singing with that familiar burn, but he certainly isn’t injured. In fact, this is the best Clint’s felt in weeks. Being shot and nearly blown up he considers a professional liability; even a probability. The pain’s been negligible, but the boredom’s been excruciating.
Thor looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “Your arm,” he says, gesturing in that direction.
His - oh. “Shit,” Clint says, craning his neck to get a look at the back of his right bicep. Sure enough, red seeps slowly through the bandage, and Clint doesn’t have to unwrap it to know he’s split his stitches.
“The Captain won’t be pleased,” Thor observes; rather unhelpfully, Clint thinks.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy?” Tony asks, slanting him a knowing look as he throws his own towel down an automated chute to who the fuck knows.
Clint glances up from his arm. “Hey, this is me taking it easy,” he returns, although he doubts Steve will think much of that excuse. Apparently, the 1940’s outlook is a lot more black and white.
“Yeah, well, take it any easier and I won’t be the only one wearing an iron suit,” Tony warns, then smirks. “Or maybe he’ll just put you in a really giant bubble.”
Clint gives him the finger.
Thor chuckles, reaching for a bottle of water from the dispenser. “You should not feel embarrassed, Hawkeye; the Captain honors you with his friendship,” he says, twisting the cap from the bottle with his usual delight in all things Midgardian. “Though I don’t doubt he’ll have much to say of your carelessness.”
“Who’s going to tell him?” Certainly not Clint. After some initial conflict and insubordination, he and Steve have slipped into a sort of awkward truce. Steve scolds, and worries and sighs, and Clint tries to be respectful. Because Steve’s also quick with a “good work’ and a clap on the back, and well, because Steve is nice.
“Ahh, Bruce? Thor? Me?” Tony ventures. “The gorgeous redhead I’m pretty sure could kick any of our asses?”
“That was a rhetorical question,” Clint mutters. But Tony’s right; Bruce will feel obligated, and Thor can’t lie. Tony can, but won’t bother. And Natasha - well, Nat has her own ways of dealing with things, and all of them scary. No, Steve will find out about this one way or another; Clint might as well take his medicine and get it over with. His lack of excitement must show, because Tony slings an affable arm around his shoulders.
“Oh, come on, I’ll walk you over to Medical,” Tony offers. “I’ll even hold your hand when Bruce sprays the antiseptic.”
Clint eyes him sourly, damp towel crumpled in his fist. “You just want to see if there’s going to be trouble, don’t you?”
“Little bit,” Tony admits.
**
As it turns out, Steve is already in the lab with Bruce, discussing the hypothetical side effects of Hulk B Gone, a sort of temporary remedy for those times it’s really inconvenient for the big guy to makes an appearance, like on the Helicarrier, or Costco on a Saturday.
“We don’t know what else it might do,” Steve is saying, spreading his hands in a familiar appeal to reason. In his civvies, he’s just a clean-cut guy from Brooklyn, with a creased bomber jacket you’d think he bought that way and the earnest conviction of a Cub Scout. It really should be annoying.
“Does it matter what else it does?” Bruce fires back, but without the heat that would bring on an episode. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “We’re talking about something that might save lives - your lives, even - ”
Steve shakes his head, brows drawn together. “You don’t know that.”
Finding Steve’s protective instincts already engaged seems like a sign; one that flashes EXIT in large, fluorescent letters. Clint spins on his heel, fully intending to retreat when Tony’s fingers catch him by the wrist.
“Hey, birdy with a broken wing here,” the billionaire announces brightly, causing Steve and Bruce to look up in surprise.
“I will hurt you,” Clint swears under his breath, causing Tony to chuckle.
“What happened?” Bruce wants to know, immediately approaching Clint’s side and carefully turning his arm for appraisal. Tony steps back and gives them some space, obviously intending to enjoy his handiwork from a distance.
“Not sure; must have busted some stitches during training,” Clint says, shrugging within the doctor’s grip.
“I thought you were going to take it easy?” Steve asks, appearing confused as he moves closer to assess the situation.
“I did,” Clint says, and there’s a faint arch of the guy’s eyebrows. “You know, for me,” he adds lamely, and maybe Clint is off his game. Just a little.
“Well, I’m afraid this is going to be unpleasant - ‘for you,’ ” Bruce says, his nimble fingers already unwinding the bandage. He prods experimentally at the damaged flesh.
“Ow,” Clint complains, glaring at the doctor. Bruce doesn’t even blink.
“Stand still,” Steve tells him, watching Bruce’s examination with some concern, and Clint decides discretion is the better part of valor here. The team leader’s made it pretty clear it doesn’t matter that Clint’s perfectly capable of sewing up and treating his own wounds, that he’s done so since age eleven. No, as long as Clint’s an Avenger, he’s on the medical plan, without option to decline. Clint thinks he should have negotiated his contract better.
“You might even get a lollipop,” Tony puts in, now leaning comfortably against the lab counter.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Bruce reminds him, peering curiously at the injury. “Exactly what kind of exercises were you doing?”
“Few speed drills, maybe a shot or two,” Clint admits. Disapproving silence follows.
“You know it’s too soon for that kind of exertion,” Bruce says after a moment, glancing up from beneath his dark, rumpled hair. “Do I need to put you back in the sling?
Steve folds his arms, and Clint bites back the sharp retort he’s about to release. “That won’t be necessary,” he assures Bruce tightly.
Tony cocks a brow. “Have you ever considered a really giant bubble?”
“Tony?” Bruce asks.
“Yeah.”
“Get out of here and quit agitating my patient. And you,” he adds to a suddenly smug Clint, “have a seat in Medical. We have some work to do.”
**
Steve waits with Clint as he sits in Medical; either because he has nothing better to do, or because he’s afraid Clint won’t stay of his own volition. Maybe a little of both. At any rate, his steady pacing and staring is starting to wear on Clint’s nerves.
“Guess it might have been a little early for shooting,” he confides, a little sheepishly.
“You don’t say.”
But Steve doesn’t sound pissed, exactly. Clint takes that as an encouraging sign. “C’mon, Cap; you can’t expect me to just sit around while you guys have all the fun.”
“Better than not sitting at all,” Steve replies sternly, his expression softening slightly when Clint flushes with color. Clint doesn’t like to think about that particular disagreement, or how strained things were between he and Cap just weeks before. And he’s pretty sure Steve knows it. “Look, I know how hard it is to sit out a fight you believe in,” Steve promises, “but sometimes you have to look beyond the battle, and focus on the war. This isn’t something you can just ignore,” the blonde maintains, blue eyes seeking Clint’s. “If you don’t start following Bruce’s instructions, that muscle might never be the same. And I need to know you have our backs.”
Clint frowns. “You know I do.” Damn straight he does. Why else would he be up in the rafters?
For some reason, Steve actually smiles. “Then give us all a break, and mind the doc,” he says, bumping Clint’s good arm gently with his shoulder.
“Yeah, okay,” Clint agrees, unable to resist the good-natured request. But he guesses he doesn’t sound all that enthusiastic, because Steve’s giving him that look again.
“Promise?” the guy persists.
“You want a pinky swear? Yeah, I promise,” Clint says quickly, when the team leader’s eyes narrow.
Steve nods his approval. “Good,” he says. “I have some reading I need to get back to, but I’ll check in with you later.” Bruce is returning with an armful of supplies, and Steve jerks a thumb at Clint as he makes his way to the doors. “All yours, Doc,” he tells the mild-mannered physicist.
“Just like I’ve always dreamed,” Bruce replies, setting up his loot on the counter. But he tosses Clint a Blow-Pop, which Clint catches on reflex. Cherry. Not bad.
“Oh, and Clint,” Steve says, lingering in the open double doors to the lounge.
“Yeah.” What’s it going to take to convince him Clint’s going to be a good little soldier?
“Saw some of the target analysis you put together for Fury on the remaining Chitauri; nice work,” Steve says with a slow grin, slapping the glass with his palm once for emphasis before disappearing.
Clint doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he notices the smirk on Bruce’s face. “What?” he asks, and Bruce shakes his head. “I’m awesome. Ow!” he gripes again, as the doctor injects him near the wound site.
Bruce gives his arm a brief pat of sympathy before reaching for the sutures. “Shut up and have your lollipop.”
**
“You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself,” Natasha remarks, just moments after sliding from Clint’s hips. She’s propped up on one elbow, all bare limbs and impassive features, but there’s a glimmer to her eyes that Clint recognizes as amusement.
Clint smiles lazily. “I was pretty fantastic for a guy who just laid there.”
Natasha snorts. “If you call some dirty talk and five minutes of foreplay fantastic.”
“I think we both know the answer to that,” Clint replies, raising his brows when the Russian suddenly leans over him, snatching a Rubik’s Cube from Clint’s nightstand.
“What are you doing with this?” Natasha asks, dropping back to Clint’s side and studying the puzzle with a suspicious eye. She rotates one of the axes, then another, scowling when the colors refuse to line up.
“Dug it out of some old stuff; thought Cap might get a kick out of it,” Clint tells her, his calloused fingers threading absently through her hair.
Natasha huffs softly and sets the cube aside. “It’ll drive him crazy.”
Clint’s smile broadens. “That, too.” Clint’s doing the guy a favor, after all; the soldier can’t be serious and somber all the time; sooner or later the guy’s sense of humor will thaw with the rest of him.
“You like him, don’t you?”
What? The candid question has Clint’s brow furrowing. “He’s okay. What?” he has to ask. “Are we in high school now? Should we call him on the phone?” Clint teases, making to roll toward his cell, but Natasha puts a stop to it, shoving him back beneath her naked body with an ease that could threaten Clint’s masculinity if it weren’t so hot.
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about American high school,” she says, making Clint’s arm her pillow and daring him with arched brow to protest. He doesn’t. She has Clint exactly where Clint wants him; he’s hardly going to complain.
“Thor watches a lot of CW.”
Her mouth curves the slightest bit before she rolls to her back, turning her attention to the ceiling. They lie in companionable silence for a while, in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. Real sleep doesn’t come easily to either of them, so Clint isn’t surprised when Natasha eventually speaks again, her voice soft as shadow. Clint strains to hear her. “It’s strange here, isn’t it?” Her forehead wrinkles. “Like having a family again.”
Clint shrugs at the unexpected confidence. “Wouldn’t know.” The team isn’t like any family he’s ever had. Clint’s not even sure he knows what real family is, outside Natasha.
The redhead slants him a knowing look. “Wouldn’t hurt you to find out.”
Clint sighs. “Are we talking or sleeping?”
“Sleeping,” Natasha promises. Then, “You obviously share a connection with these people,” she explains, ignoring Clint’s groan as he pulls his pillow over his face. “You should explore that.”
“I’d like to explore a good night’s sleep,” he tells her, wondering when he acquired an ex-Russian spy as his therapist. He’s about to ask as much when his cell phone vibrates against the floating night table. On top of Clint’s dresser, Natasha’s phone buzzes as well. Clint tosses off the pillow and grapples for the phone, frowning as he scans the text.
“What is it?” Natasha asks, sitting up again in all her threadless glory. Clint curses the timing of supervillains everywhere and reaches for his pants.
“We’ve got a mission.”
**
“Per Agent Barton’s report, the Chitauri are holed up here, in the basement levels of the old Bank of America building,” Fury is saying, as Steve and the rest of the Avengers study the holographic display rotating from the center of the conference table. Outside the conference room, the Helicarrier bustles with activity, the impending mission creating an almost tangible anticipation. Strangely enough, Steve feels more comfortable on board SHIELD’s mobile headquarters than he does on the streets of today’s New York City. Despite the advanced technology, SHIELD is military, and military? Steve gets.
“The building’s been vacant for a year due to contract disputes,” Clint says. “They’ve been lying low, but Bruce was able to help us track them by their energy emissions.”
Bruce’s mouth twists ruefully. “It’s actually a little more complicated than that - ”
Fury’s good eye levels on the physicist with barely contained annoyance. “Is anyone going to understand the more complicated explanation?”
“Oh! I am,” Tony says, raising his hand with a smirk.
Fury sighs. “Besides Stark?”
“Has anyone been able to determine why these Chitauri failed to perish with the others?” Thor asks, and Steve throws him a grateful glance for keeping them on track.
“Yeah, because I seem to remember shoving a nuclear warhead up their collective asses,” Tony gripes.
“It’s possible these remaining Chitauri are drones, and didn’t share the neural link with the mother ship,” Fury surmises. “We intended to go after them once we had sufficient Intel, but the situation has become urgent.”
Yeah, that doesn’t set off any alarms. Steve’s eyes narrow. “How urgent?” he wants to know.
“The energy emissions began spiking two hours ago,” Fury admits.
“Do we know what’s causing the spikes?” Natasha asks.
“Not yet,” Bruce replies, his face reflecting the grave concern of his teammates’.
“We’re not waiting to find out,” Steve tells them, glancing at Fury and daring him to disagree. The last thing they need is the Chitauri calling home for a ride. Thankfully, the Director doesn’t contradict him. “What about the civilians, Hawkeye?”
Clint folds his arms. “It’s a commercial area with a few scattered residents,” he replies. “We’re going to need to set up a perimeter and evacuate.” He glances toward the doors, and Steve turns to see Agent Hill enter. She reminds him a little of Peggy, with her crisp, no-nonsense demeanor.
“Agent Hill?” Fury asks.
“We’re approaching target, sir.”
Steve manages to catch Clint while the rest of them are filing out of the room. “Hawkeye.” Steve clasps the guy’s shoulder, holding him back while the team disperses.
Clint glances up at him, his brows drawing together in expectation. “Cap?” His face is absent of any resentment, and Steve releases a soft huff of relief. He’d expected more resistance when he’d told Clint he’d be working the mission from the command center, but since their discussion in Medical, he’s been unusually cooperative.
“We’ll see you topside when it’s over,” Steve promises, knowing that the archer probably won’t breathe easy until the team’s returned. “Your research should make this an easy-in, easy-out.”
“It’s never an easy-in, easy-out,” Clint informs him darkly. Then, “I don’t like it. You do know my aim with firearms isn’t exactly bad, right?”
“I do,” Steve assures him, feeling a little guilty about leaving Clint behind, even if it is part of the strategic plan. He remembers seeing Bucky walk away that first time, off to a war Steve seemed destined to never become a part of. How helpless he felt. But Clint’s a force to be reckoned with, even without the bow, and Steve knows the guy won’t hesitate to reinjure his arm if it aids the mission’s objectives. “We need your eyes and ears here in the air,” Steve says, then quirks a grin. “Just think of it as doing your job from a little higher than usual.”
**
“Call it, Cap.” Clint folds his arms at Tony’s familiar request coming over the comms, slowly pacing the command center so that he can keep an eye on SHEILD’s monitoring systems along with the other agents. Fury and Hill stayed on the bridge; plausible deniability, Clint guesses, but that’s just fine with him. He doesn’t need Fury up his ass right now. Or ever, for that matter.
“Widow will flush them out. Thor and I will be there to meet them,” Steve says in his Captain America voice, the one Clint finds always inspires confidence. “Iron Man, Hulk; we need a five block perimeter. If you can’t take it down, turn it around.”
And everything goes according to plan, right up until they realize the Chitauri have more functioning skimmers than predicted, and the battle in the air begins to rival the one on the ground. Steve’s clearing the area while Natasha and Thor contain the situation on the street, and Hulk’s swatting skimmers down like flies, so Clint focuses his attention on Tony.
“Remember, they can’t corner for shit, Stark,” Clint advises, watching Iron Man’s maneuvers on radar and trying to ignore his growing frustration. He should be down there with his team; they need him, and since when does Clint follow orders, anyway? “Turn sharp and let ‘em fly. Where are you, Captain?”
“Half block west of the mark. We’ve got some civilians here; we’re evacuating now,” Steve reports above the surrounding mayhem. Some kid is crying in the background, and then there’s the distinctly quavering voice of a little old lady.
“But what about Mr. Snickerbuttons? I can’t just leave him here!”
“Cap, are you clear?” Tony checks loudly, and Clint can see him approaching their target location with three skimmers in hot pursuit. His lips press into a tight line as he watches the red blips move across one of the monitors.
“Negative. Gonna be just a minute, Iron Man.”
“Do not go back for Mr. Snickerbuttons, Rogers,” Tony warns, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Are you listening to me? I will kick your star-spangled ass. Do not - ” Tony sighs. “He went back for Mr. Snickerbuttons.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clint mutters, briefly covering his mic. Then, “Captain, get out of there.” Clint’s calculating the speed, angles, and potential trajectories, and he’s got an antsy feeling things are about to go sideways.
“Got it,” Steve says triumphantly. “On my way.”
“Hurry up, Cap, we’re almost at your door - shit!” Tony exclaims, and Clint hears the repeat of skimmer fire on armor, and Tony’s blip takes a sudden dive to the right. The skimmers follow and there’s a sudden roar in the comms, the blips abruptly disappearing. The command center goes eerily silent.
“Tony; sit rep,” Clint requests quietly.
“I’m okay, but the building’s down.”
“And the Captain? Did anyone have an eye on the Captain?” Clint asks.
“He didn’t come out,” Natasha says, then grunts as the familiar sound of boot crushing windpipe comes over the comms.
Clint ignores the weight of other eyes on his skin. “Captain? Come in, Captain.” Clint makes it an order, because Steve is supposed to follow orders, and Steve always does what he’s supposed to.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony wants to know.
“I’m seeking the Captain now,” Thor says, and Clint hears the demigod begin tearing through the wreckage.
Clint glances at the monitors again. “Radar says the air is clear; can you confirm?” he requests.
“Hulk just took down the last two,” Tony says.
“All down here, too,” Natasha reports grimly.
“Thor?” Clint asks.
“I’ve not found him,” Thor replies, and Clint briefly closes his eyes. It’s like Coulson all over again, only not, because this time Clint hasn’t been mind-fucked by a Jotun sorcerer with daddy issues, and Clint still can’t manage to save anyone. He rubs a hand over his face, eyes snapping open a moment later when static comes over the comms, followed by a now familiar voice.
“Captain America reporting in,” Steve’s voice says sheepishly. “Sorry, lost my comms for a minute there.”
The command center breaks into applause, and Clint turns from the noise. “Copy that. We’ve got him, guys,” he says, thankful the words emerge strong and steady.
“Hey, Cap,” Tony says cheerfully. “Nice that you could join the party.”
“We get invited to the worst parties ever,” Natasha grumbles, and Clint releases a short bark of relieved laughter.
“The tiny beast owes you a great debt of gratitude,” Thor adds.
“Is that a rat?” Tony asks.
“I think it’s a Chihuahua,” Steve tells him, sounding a little confused about it himself.
“Puny dog,” Hulk rumbles in the background, and Clint smirks.
“Hawkeye out; see you guys on deck.”
**
The elevator doors are about to close when the other agent steps in - Claussen, if Clint remembers correctly - Clint doesn’t spend a lot of time at the office.
“Not in this one, huh?” the guy says, as they wait for the doors to close again. He’s standard issue as far as Clint can tell, probably recruited from the military and hungry to ‘get some.’
“Not today,” Clint agrees, wondering if the Quinjet’s landed already.
“What? Suddenly you’re not good enough for Captain America?” Claussen asks, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. The guy’s been frozen for a hundred years, and he thinks he can just come back and - ”
“Seventy.”
Claussen frowns in Clint’s direction. “What?”
“It was seventy years,” Clint tells him, as the elevator doors finally slide closed again.
Claussen scoffs. “Whatever; the guy still fights with a shield.”
“You should shut up now,” Clint advises, because the guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and it’s starting to piss him off.
“Hey, no one’s blaming you; his fan club loves this shit. A real American hero,” the guy carries on, apparently unable to take a hint. “You know they can’t really confirm how many Nazis he actually killed. All that flag-waving self-righteousness; it’s all public relations spin.”
Clint punches the up button again, because an elevator on a goddamn Helicarrier should move faster.
“I mean, come on, Godliness and virtue; this is what’s going to save us?” Claussen wants to know. “They should have left him on ice where they found him.”
Clint’s used to acting on reflex; it’s kind of a necessity in his line of work, so when his fist swings on its own accord, Clint’s content to go with it. The tell-tale crack of bone beneath his knuckles and the blood spurting from Claussen’s nose is pretty satisfying, too.
“Tell that to Mr. Snickerbuttons,” Clint drawls, shaking out his hand as the other agent groans and holds his face. There’s a burn at the back of Clint’s bicep that tells Clint he’ll be getting more stitches, but he’s pretty sure this was worth it. Behind him, the elevator finally dings and the doors slide open on the flight deck. Apparently the Quinjet has arrived. Clint turns and aims a crooked grin at his disheveled teammates, ignoring their stunned expressions. “Hey, guys. Good to have you back.”
Part Two here.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, other team members
Rating: Probably R for language
Warnings: Spanking, and Schmoop, some SPOILERS for the movie, so read at your own risk
Summary: Clint's never been all that good with nice
A/N: Ah, well, going to the special hell. Thanks to just_an_acrobat and ficwriterjet for going with me. No Beta on this one, so all errors are my own. Also, I don't own the Avengers. They own me. At least for now. ;)
Clint doesn’t know how it happens, exactly. He’s wiping up from a last round of speed drills, rubbing the training room towel over his arms and the back of his neck, when Thor frowns in his direction.
“Hawkeye; you have injured yourself,” the warrior says, slinging his own towel around his neck.
Clint blinks. “What?” His muscles are singing with that familiar burn, but he certainly isn’t injured. In fact, this is the best Clint’s felt in weeks. Being shot and nearly blown up he considers a professional liability; even a probability. The pain’s been negligible, but the boredom’s been excruciating.
Thor looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “Your arm,” he says, gesturing in that direction.
His - oh. “Shit,” Clint says, craning his neck to get a look at the back of his right bicep. Sure enough, red seeps slowly through the bandage, and Clint doesn’t have to unwrap it to know he’s split his stitches.
“The Captain won’t be pleased,” Thor observes; rather unhelpfully, Clint thinks.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy?” Tony asks, slanting him a knowing look as he throws his own towel down an automated chute to who the fuck knows.
Clint glances up from his arm. “Hey, this is me taking it easy,” he returns, although he doubts Steve will think much of that excuse. Apparently, the 1940’s outlook is a lot more black and white.
“Yeah, well, take it any easier and I won’t be the only one wearing an iron suit,” Tony warns, then smirks. “Or maybe he’ll just put you in a really giant bubble.”
Clint gives him the finger.
Thor chuckles, reaching for a bottle of water from the dispenser. “You should not feel embarrassed, Hawkeye; the Captain honors you with his friendship,” he says, twisting the cap from the bottle with his usual delight in all things Midgardian. “Though I don’t doubt he’ll have much to say of your carelessness.”
“Who’s going to tell him?” Certainly not Clint. After some initial conflict and insubordination, he and Steve have slipped into a sort of awkward truce. Steve scolds, and worries and sighs, and Clint tries to be respectful. Because Steve’s also quick with a “good work’ and a clap on the back, and well, because Steve is nice.
“Ahh, Bruce? Thor? Me?” Tony ventures. “The gorgeous redhead I’m pretty sure could kick any of our asses?”
“That was a rhetorical question,” Clint mutters. But Tony’s right; Bruce will feel obligated, and Thor can’t lie. Tony can, but won’t bother. And Natasha - well, Nat has her own ways of dealing with things, and all of them scary. No, Steve will find out about this one way or another; Clint might as well take his medicine and get it over with. His lack of excitement must show, because Tony slings an affable arm around his shoulders.
“Oh, come on, I’ll walk you over to Medical,” Tony offers. “I’ll even hold your hand when Bruce sprays the antiseptic.”
Clint eyes him sourly, damp towel crumpled in his fist. “You just want to see if there’s going to be trouble, don’t you?”
“Little bit,” Tony admits.
**
As it turns out, Steve is already in the lab with Bruce, discussing the hypothetical side effects of Hulk B Gone, a sort of temporary remedy for those times it’s really inconvenient for the big guy to makes an appearance, like on the Helicarrier, or Costco on a Saturday.
“We don’t know what else it might do,” Steve is saying, spreading his hands in a familiar appeal to reason. In his civvies, he’s just a clean-cut guy from Brooklyn, with a creased bomber jacket you’d think he bought that way and the earnest conviction of a Cub Scout. It really should be annoying.
“Does it matter what else it does?” Bruce fires back, but without the heat that would bring on an episode. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “We’re talking about something that might save lives - your lives, even - ”
Steve shakes his head, brows drawn together. “You don’t know that.”
Finding Steve’s protective instincts already engaged seems like a sign; one that flashes EXIT in large, fluorescent letters. Clint spins on his heel, fully intending to retreat when Tony’s fingers catch him by the wrist.
“Hey, birdy with a broken wing here,” the billionaire announces brightly, causing Steve and Bruce to look up in surprise.
“I will hurt you,” Clint swears under his breath, causing Tony to chuckle.
“What happened?” Bruce wants to know, immediately approaching Clint’s side and carefully turning his arm for appraisal. Tony steps back and gives them some space, obviously intending to enjoy his handiwork from a distance.
“Not sure; must have busted some stitches during training,” Clint says, shrugging within the doctor’s grip.
“I thought you were going to take it easy?” Steve asks, appearing confused as he moves closer to assess the situation.
“I did,” Clint says, and there’s a faint arch of the guy’s eyebrows. “You know, for me,” he adds lamely, and maybe Clint is off his game. Just a little.
“Well, I’m afraid this is going to be unpleasant - ‘for you,’ ” Bruce says, his nimble fingers already unwinding the bandage. He prods experimentally at the damaged flesh.
“Ow,” Clint complains, glaring at the doctor. Bruce doesn’t even blink.
“Stand still,” Steve tells him, watching Bruce’s examination with some concern, and Clint decides discretion is the better part of valor here. The team leader’s made it pretty clear it doesn’t matter that Clint’s perfectly capable of sewing up and treating his own wounds, that he’s done so since age eleven. No, as long as Clint’s an Avenger, he’s on the medical plan, without option to decline. Clint thinks he should have negotiated his contract better.
“You might even get a lollipop,” Tony puts in, now leaning comfortably against the lab counter.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Bruce reminds him, peering curiously at the injury. “Exactly what kind of exercises were you doing?”
“Few speed drills, maybe a shot or two,” Clint admits. Disapproving silence follows.
“You know it’s too soon for that kind of exertion,” Bruce says after a moment, glancing up from beneath his dark, rumpled hair. “Do I need to put you back in the sling?
Steve folds his arms, and Clint bites back the sharp retort he’s about to release. “That won’t be necessary,” he assures Bruce tightly.
Tony cocks a brow. “Have you ever considered a really giant bubble?”
“Tony?” Bruce asks.
“Yeah.”
“Get out of here and quit agitating my patient. And you,” he adds to a suddenly smug Clint, “have a seat in Medical. We have some work to do.”
**
Steve waits with Clint as he sits in Medical; either because he has nothing better to do, or because he’s afraid Clint won’t stay of his own volition. Maybe a little of both. At any rate, his steady pacing and staring is starting to wear on Clint’s nerves.
“Guess it might have been a little early for shooting,” he confides, a little sheepishly.
“You don’t say.”
But Steve doesn’t sound pissed, exactly. Clint takes that as an encouraging sign. “C’mon, Cap; you can’t expect me to just sit around while you guys have all the fun.”
“Better than not sitting at all,” Steve replies sternly, his expression softening slightly when Clint flushes with color. Clint doesn’t like to think about that particular disagreement, or how strained things were between he and Cap just weeks before. And he’s pretty sure Steve knows it. “Look, I know how hard it is to sit out a fight you believe in,” Steve promises, “but sometimes you have to look beyond the battle, and focus on the war. This isn’t something you can just ignore,” the blonde maintains, blue eyes seeking Clint’s. “If you don’t start following Bruce’s instructions, that muscle might never be the same. And I need to know you have our backs.”
Clint frowns. “You know I do.” Damn straight he does. Why else would he be up in the rafters?
For some reason, Steve actually smiles. “Then give us all a break, and mind the doc,” he says, bumping Clint’s good arm gently with his shoulder.
“Yeah, okay,” Clint agrees, unable to resist the good-natured request. But he guesses he doesn’t sound all that enthusiastic, because Steve’s giving him that look again.
“Promise?” the guy persists.
“You want a pinky swear? Yeah, I promise,” Clint says quickly, when the team leader’s eyes narrow.
Steve nods his approval. “Good,” he says. “I have some reading I need to get back to, but I’ll check in with you later.” Bruce is returning with an armful of supplies, and Steve jerks a thumb at Clint as he makes his way to the doors. “All yours, Doc,” he tells the mild-mannered physicist.
“Just like I’ve always dreamed,” Bruce replies, setting up his loot on the counter. But he tosses Clint a Blow-Pop, which Clint catches on reflex. Cherry. Not bad.
“Oh, and Clint,” Steve says, lingering in the open double doors to the lounge.
“Yeah.” What’s it going to take to convince him Clint’s going to be a good little soldier?
“Saw some of the target analysis you put together for Fury on the remaining Chitauri; nice work,” Steve says with a slow grin, slapping the glass with his palm once for emphasis before disappearing.
Clint doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he notices the smirk on Bruce’s face. “What?” he asks, and Bruce shakes his head. “I’m awesome. Ow!” he gripes again, as the doctor injects him near the wound site.
Bruce gives his arm a brief pat of sympathy before reaching for the sutures. “Shut up and have your lollipop.”
**
“You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself,” Natasha remarks, just moments after sliding from Clint’s hips. She’s propped up on one elbow, all bare limbs and impassive features, but there’s a glimmer to her eyes that Clint recognizes as amusement.
Clint smiles lazily. “I was pretty fantastic for a guy who just laid there.”
Natasha snorts. “If you call some dirty talk and five minutes of foreplay fantastic.”
“I think we both know the answer to that,” Clint replies, raising his brows when the Russian suddenly leans over him, snatching a Rubik’s Cube from Clint’s nightstand.
“What are you doing with this?” Natasha asks, dropping back to Clint’s side and studying the puzzle with a suspicious eye. She rotates one of the axes, then another, scowling when the colors refuse to line up.
“Dug it out of some old stuff; thought Cap might get a kick out of it,” Clint tells her, his calloused fingers threading absently through her hair.
Natasha huffs softly and sets the cube aside. “It’ll drive him crazy.”
Clint’s smile broadens. “That, too.” Clint’s doing the guy a favor, after all; the soldier can’t be serious and somber all the time; sooner or later the guy’s sense of humor will thaw with the rest of him.
“You like him, don’t you?”
What? The candid question has Clint’s brow furrowing. “He’s okay. What?” he has to ask. “Are we in high school now? Should we call him on the phone?” Clint teases, making to roll toward his cell, but Natasha puts a stop to it, shoving him back beneath her naked body with an ease that could threaten Clint’s masculinity if it weren’t so hot.
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about American high school,” she says, making Clint’s arm her pillow and daring him with arched brow to protest. He doesn’t. She has Clint exactly where Clint wants him; he’s hardly going to complain.
“Thor watches a lot of CW.”
Her mouth curves the slightest bit before she rolls to her back, turning her attention to the ceiling. They lie in companionable silence for a while, in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. Real sleep doesn’t come easily to either of them, so Clint isn’t surprised when Natasha eventually speaks again, her voice soft as shadow. Clint strains to hear her. “It’s strange here, isn’t it?” Her forehead wrinkles. “Like having a family again.”
Clint shrugs at the unexpected confidence. “Wouldn’t know.” The team isn’t like any family he’s ever had. Clint’s not even sure he knows what real family is, outside Natasha.
The redhead slants him a knowing look. “Wouldn’t hurt you to find out.”
Clint sighs. “Are we talking or sleeping?”
“Sleeping,” Natasha promises. Then, “You obviously share a connection with these people,” she explains, ignoring Clint’s groan as he pulls his pillow over his face. “You should explore that.”
“I’d like to explore a good night’s sleep,” he tells her, wondering when he acquired an ex-Russian spy as his therapist. He’s about to ask as much when his cell phone vibrates against the floating night table. On top of Clint’s dresser, Natasha’s phone buzzes as well. Clint tosses off the pillow and grapples for the phone, frowning as he scans the text.
“What is it?” Natasha asks, sitting up again in all her threadless glory. Clint curses the timing of supervillains everywhere and reaches for his pants.
“We’ve got a mission.”
**
“Per Agent Barton’s report, the Chitauri are holed up here, in the basement levels of the old Bank of America building,” Fury is saying, as Steve and the rest of the Avengers study the holographic display rotating from the center of the conference table. Outside the conference room, the Helicarrier bustles with activity, the impending mission creating an almost tangible anticipation. Strangely enough, Steve feels more comfortable on board SHIELD’s mobile headquarters than he does on the streets of today’s New York City. Despite the advanced technology, SHIELD is military, and military? Steve gets.
“The building’s been vacant for a year due to contract disputes,” Clint says. “They’ve been lying low, but Bruce was able to help us track them by their energy emissions.”
Bruce’s mouth twists ruefully. “It’s actually a little more complicated than that - ”
Fury’s good eye levels on the physicist with barely contained annoyance. “Is anyone going to understand the more complicated explanation?”
“Oh! I am,” Tony says, raising his hand with a smirk.
Fury sighs. “Besides Stark?”
“Has anyone been able to determine why these Chitauri failed to perish with the others?” Thor asks, and Steve throws him a grateful glance for keeping them on track.
“Yeah, because I seem to remember shoving a nuclear warhead up their collective asses,” Tony gripes.
“It’s possible these remaining Chitauri are drones, and didn’t share the neural link with the mother ship,” Fury surmises. “We intended to go after them once we had sufficient Intel, but the situation has become urgent.”
Yeah, that doesn’t set off any alarms. Steve’s eyes narrow. “How urgent?” he wants to know.
“The energy emissions began spiking two hours ago,” Fury admits.
“Do we know what’s causing the spikes?” Natasha asks.
“Not yet,” Bruce replies, his face reflecting the grave concern of his teammates’.
“We’re not waiting to find out,” Steve tells them, glancing at Fury and daring him to disagree. The last thing they need is the Chitauri calling home for a ride. Thankfully, the Director doesn’t contradict him. “What about the civilians, Hawkeye?”
Clint folds his arms. “It’s a commercial area with a few scattered residents,” he replies. “We’re going to need to set up a perimeter and evacuate.” He glances toward the doors, and Steve turns to see Agent Hill enter. She reminds him a little of Peggy, with her crisp, no-nonsense demeanor.
“Agent Hill?” Fury asks.
“We’re approaching target, sir.”
Steve manages to catch Clint while the rest of them are filing out of the room. “Hawkeye.” Steve clasps the guy’s shoulder, holding him back while the team disperses.
Clint glances up at him, his brows drawing together in expectation. “Cap?” His face is absent of any resentment, and Steve releases a soft huff of relief. He’d expected more resistance when he’d told Clint he’d be working the mission from the command center, but since their discussion in Medical, he’s been unusually cooperative.
“We’ll see you topside when it’s over,” Steve promises, knowing that the archer probably won’t breathe easy until the team’s returned. “Your research should make this an easy-in, easy-out.”
“It’s never an easy-in, easy-out,” Clint informs him darkly. Then, “I don’t like it. You do know my aim with firearms isn’t exactly bad, right?”
“I do,” Steve assures him, feeling a little guilty about leaving Clint behind, even if it is part of the strategic plan. He remembers seeing Bucky walk away that first time, off to a war Steve seemed destined to never become a part of. How helpless he felt. But Clint’s a force to be reckoned with, even without the bow, and Steve knows the guy won’t hesitate to reinjure his arm if it aids the mission’s objectives. “We need your eyes and ears here in the air,” Steve says, then quirks a grin. “Just think of it as doing your job from a little higher than usual.”
**
“Call it, Cap.” Clint folds his arms at Tony’s familiar request coming over the comms, slowly pacing the command center so that he can keep an eye on SHEILD’s monitoring systems along with the other agents. Fury and Hill stayed on the bridge; plausible deniability, Clint guesses, but that’s just fine with him. He doesn’t need Fury up his ass right now. Or ever, for that matter.
“Widow will flush them out. Thor and I will be there to meet them,” Steve says in his Captain America voice, the one Clint finds always inspires confidence. “Iron Man, Hulk; we need a five block perimeter. If you can’t take it down, turn it around.”
And everything goes according to plan, right up until they realize the Chitauri have more functioning skimmers than predicted, and the battle in the air begins to rival the one on the ground. Steve’s clearing the area while Natasha and Thor contain the situation on the street, and Hulk’s swatting skimmers down like flies, so Clint focuses his attention on Tony.
“Remember, they can’t corner for shit, Stark,” Clint advises, watching Iron Man’s maneuvers on radar and trying to ignore his growing frustration. He should be down there with his team; they need him, and since when does Clint follow orders, anyway? “Turn sharp and let ‘em fly. Where are you, Captain?”
“Half block west of the mark. We’ve got some civilians here; we’re evacuating now,” Steve reports above the surrounding mayhem. Some kid is crying in the background, and then there’s the distinctly quavering voice of a little old lady.
“But what about Mr. Snickerbuttons? I can’t just leave him here!”
“Cap, are you clear?” Tony checks loudly, and Clint can see him approaching their target location with three skimmers in hot pursuit. His lips press into a tight line as he watches the red blips move across one of the monitors.
“Negative. Gonna be just a minute, Iron Man.”
“Do not go back for Mr. Snickerbuttons, Rogers,” Tony warns, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Are you listening to me? I will kick your star-spangled ass. Do not - ” Tony sighs. “He went back for Mr. Snickerbuttons.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clint mutters, briefly covering his mic. Then, “Captain, get out of there.” Clint’s calculating the speed, angles, and potential trajectories, and he’s got an antsy feeling things are about to go sideways.
“Got it,” Steve says triumphantly. “On my way.”
“Hurry up, Cap, we’re almost at your door - shit!” Tony exclaims, and Clint hears the repeat of skimmer fire on armor, and Tony’s blip takes a sudden dive to the right. The skimmers follow and there’s a sudden roar in the comms, the blips abruptly disappearing. The command center goes eerily silent.
“Tony; sit rep,” Clint requests quietly.
“I’m okay, but the building’s down.”
“And the Captain? Did anyone have an eye on the Captain?” Clint asks.
“He didn’t come out,” Natasha says, then grunts as the familiar sound of boot crushing windpipe comes over the comms.
Clint ignores the weight of other eyes on his skin. “Captain? Come in, Captain.” Clint makes it an order, because Steve is supposed to follow orders, and Steve always does what he’s supposed to.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony wants to know.
“I’m seeking the Captain now,” Thor says, and Clint hears the demigod begin tearing through the wreckage.
Clint glances at the monitors again. “Radar says the air is clear; can you confirm?” he requests.
“Hulk just took down the last two,” Tony says.
“All down here, too,” Natasha reports grimly.
“Thor?” Clint asks.
“I’ve not found him,” Thor replies, and Clint briefly closes his eyes. It’s like Coulson all over again, only not, because this time Clint hasn’t been mind-fucked by a Jotun sorcerer with daddy issues, and Clint still can’t manage to save anyone. He rubs a hand over his face, eyes snapping open a moment later when static comes over the comms, followed by a now familiar voice.
“Captain America reporting in,” Steve’s voice says sheepishly. “Sorry, lost my comms for a minute there.”
The command center breaks into applause, and Clint turns from the noise. “Copy that. We’ve got him, guys,” he says, thankful the words emerge strong and steady.
“Hey, Cap,” Tony says cheerfully. “Nice that you could join the party.”
“We get invited to the worst parties ever,” Natasha grumbles, and Clint releases a short bark of relieved laughter.
“The tiny beast owes you a great debt of gratitude,” Thor adds.
“Is that a rat?” Tony asks.
“I think it’s a Chihuahua,” Steve tells him, sounding a little confused about it himself.
“Puny dog,” Hulk rumbles in the background, and Clint smirks.
“Hawkeye out; see you guys on deck.”
**
The elevator doors are about to close when the other agent steps in - Claussen, if Clint remembers correctly - Clint doesn’t spend a lot of time at the office.
“Not in this one, huh?” the guy says, as they wait for the doors to close again. He’s standard issue as far as Clint can tell, probably recruited from the military and hungry to ‘get some.’
“Not today,” Clint agrees, wondering if the Quinjet’s landed already.
“What? Suddenly you’re not good enough for Captain America?” Claussen asks, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. The guy’s been frozen for a hundred years, and he thinks he can just come back and - ”
“Seventy.”
Claussen frowns in Clint’s direction. “What?”
“It was seventy years,” Clint tells him, as the elevator doors finally slide closed again.
Claussen scoffs. “Whatever; the guy still fights with a shield.”
“You should shut up now,” Clint advises, because the guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and it’s starting to piss him off.
“Hey, no one’s blaming you; his fan club loves this shit. A real American hero,” the guy carries on, apparently unable to take a hint. “You know they can’t really confirm how many Nazis he actually killed. All that flag-waving self-righteousness; it’s all public relations spin.”
Clint punches the up button again, because an elevator on a goddamn Helicarrier should move faster.
“I mean, come on, Godliness and virtue; this is what’s going to save us?” Claussen wants to know. “They should have left him on ice where they found him.”
Clint’s used to acting on reflex; it’s kind of a necessity in his line of work, so when his fist swings on its own accord, Clint’s content to go with it. The tell-tale crack of bone beneath his knuckles and the blood spurting from Claussen’s nose is pretty satisfying, too.
“Tell that to Mr. Snickerbuttons,” Clint drawls, shaking out his hand as the other agent groans and holds his face. There’s a burn at the back of Clint’s bicep that tells Clint he’ll be getting more stitches, but he’s pretty sure this was worth it. Behind him, the elevator finally dings and the doors slide open on the flight deck. Apparently the Quinjet has arrived. Clint turns and aims a crooked grin at his disheveled teammates, ignoring their stunned expressions. “Hey, guys. Good to have you back.”
Part Two here.