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It’s never been a mystery as to why New York is regarded as The City That Never Sleeps. If not for the constant stream of never-ending noise, lights, and strange smells—then for the fact that this hellhole would simply never let Clint Barton stay retired.
As such, Clint’s brief trips to the city had him preparing against every little thing as if the world was governed by Murphy’s Law.
He’s just finished visiting Kate, having stopped by the bookstore to pick up a birthday gift for Lila (she’d recently started the Percy Jackson series, and had yet to stop talking about it). The trip so far had been a success, no alien invasions, no tracksuit gangs, no muggings— not even a belligerent subway goer to spit on him and yell obscenities.
Overall it was a pleasant trip. Kate was doing well, she’d gotten a new apartment, a stable job, and was doing relatively okay after the arrest of her mother. Still annoying, he thought, in a more affectionate way. And less of a spoiled brat, he supposed. He had a birthday gift in hand, good food in his stomach, and was waltzing across the fields of Central Park. All he had to do now was make it back to the airport. He had so much hope that the whiteboard on his fridge labeled‘Day’s since dad’s stayed retired’ could live yet another day.
His fault, he supposes, for letting his guard down around Murphy and his dumb fuck law.
It started with a flash of lightning, and a giant naked cannibal in Central Park’s Sheep’s Meadow.
Clint already had his collapsible bow out in hand—he was retired, but he was a retired spy. Paranoia was in the job description, and it wasn’t as if the city had ever taken kindly to his presence before—and was sprinting to the center field. Pedestrians and dogs fled the area left and right, stumbling over their own feet and fear in their haste.
The giant naked baby–because that was a sentence he was apparently saying now–was about 4 meters tall, with peach-fuzzed red hair. The thing had no lips, just bare teeth that gnashed and ground rhythmically. It stumbled for a moment, feet heavy and lumbering as it took weighted, labored steps. Its eyes–green and glazed and startlingly human–rolled, unfocussed around its eye socket, before seizing up and focussing on the grass where the people had been steadily fleeing.
Clint was already fumbling through his bag for an arrow–an explosive one would be the only thing strong enough to take down something of this size. Or a goo arrow to trap it in place–when the monster’s arm reached down with a speed unnatural for its size. It snatched up a woman–a jogger, with a neon jacket–with its grubby, oversized fist.
Okay. Fuck. He can’t get a killing shot using an exploding arrow now –not with the risk of blowing up a civilian along with the giant. He aims downwards, at the thing’s Achilles tendon. The taller the beast, the harder they fall, and maybe this woman will be able to land softer this way. He pulls back the string, takes aim, and–
BANG!
…Doesn’t take the shot. Because suddenly the back of the thing’s neck is on fire and it's falling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Clint was right about it landing heavy. Its knees fall first, slamming into the ground with a solid thump that he feels echo in his ribs. Then its torso follows, along with the fist holding the woman. She tumbles less-than-gracefully in the grass and lays there, curled in a fetal position and heaving loud, sobbing breaths.
She looks uninjured, just in shock. Clint doesn’t have the time to check, because he’s too busy trying to figure out who had the manpower to blow up the back of the giant’s neck. He’s scanning the now-empty meadow when his eyes land on it.
Hm. Okay. That looks like an anti-tank rifle.
And, hm, okay, that looks like a child manning the fucking anti-tank rifle.
One thing at a time, Barton, he thinks, and jogs over to the fallen woman. He touches her around and helps her to her feet.
“You okay? You hurt?” He asks, scanning her for injuries. The woman affirms she’s fine, still sobbing. He hears sirens echoing in the distance and points in their direction. “Go find an ambulance to check up on you okay? Take it easy.”
She’s nodding again, mumbling a thanks that he doesn’t necessarily deserve, before walking briskly towards the sirens.
All right. Now for the kid.
He turns back around and jogs lightly to the child. She’s sitting, cross-legged, hand held awkwardly under her face. She's got brown hair pulled up in a half-bun and a dress caked in dirt and grime. Most striking is the bloody nose that she is trying–and failing–to temper.
When he reaches the kids he’s startled by her age. Because, wow, okay. He joked about Kate Bishop being a spoiled brat who was like, nine. But this brat might actually be nine.
First things first, he has to deal with the potentially broken nose. Gun recoil is no joke, and the thing she’s holding is basically a fucking bazooka. He isn’t a stranger to bloody noses. Nate had a penchant for getting them in the middle of the night. Most of the time he’d just sleep through it, and then he or Laura would have to clean the soiled pillow in the morning. On more than one occasion, however, he’d woken up, toddled sleepily into his and his wife’s shared bedroom, and tried to wake one of them up to clean his face.
Clint is forever grateful that Laura forced him to stop sleeping with a weapon under his pillow. There’s nothing quite as adrenaline-inducing as your four-year-old son standing silently over your bed at three in the morning with his entire face looking like he just stepped out of a scene from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre .
Somehow this was worse. The kid had managed to smear the blood across the entirety of her face and cheeks. It had stained the front of her teeth pink like lipstick, and the blood fell in thick rivulets down her chin. The blood just kept going. She looked like what that monster would have if it had actually started using that woman as a chew toy.
He’s only a couple of feet from her when she notices him. He watches the panic stretch across her face in a flash, before she plants her hands in the grass and pushes herself up.
“Woah, woah, kid–calm down for a second. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he assures. Hands held in front of him placatingly. The kid sways on her feet. “I want to make sure you’re okay. I can check if your nose is broken, and then we can call your parents.”
She stares at him, shoulders tense, and looking remarkably mature for her age. Clint blames it on the blood. Eventually, she sighs and nods, and he completes the last few strides over to her.
“You wanna sit down while I check?”
She glares at him, looks like she’s about to refuse and stay standing, hazel eyes burning in defiance. It seems the fatigue catches up to her, however, and she simply nods and sinks back to the floor on her knees.
He follows her onto the grass. “Do you mind if I put my hands on your face? I’m going to check for swelling.” This situation is reminding him starkly of the first few days after he met Natasha, when he had to clarify his every move around her. Not unlike handling a spooked, wounded animal.
The kid huffs, “go ahead,” she says, words gravelly.
He places his fingers gently on the bridge of her nose, tilting her chin with his other hand. She hisses when he presses down and he mumbles an apology. Her nose isn’t crooked or terribly bent at all. She got off lucky.
“Good news,” he declares, “you have a mild fracture at the worst. Which is honestly a surprise.”
She nods, then begins rubbing the blood on her face again uselessly. It smears across her fist and she sniffs wetly, her breath choking off.
Yeah, that’s nasty. Clint reaches into his back jean pocket for his trusty pack of travel wipes. This is the shit that’s gotten him through 16 years and counting of fatherhood and has yet to fail him. He’s pressing it against the kid's face and swiping under her nose before she can protest.
And protest she does. She startles, making a petulant groaning sound, not unlike his daughter’s teenage grumbling.
“I can wipe my own face,” She groans, making feeble attempts to push him away. At one point she pushes her head backward, and he just grabs her by the chin and holds her there.
“Yea?” Clint says, barely paying her any mind. “Well, we don't have time for you to try and wipe all this shit off without a mirror. And I don’t think you want to be walking around looking like you’re fresh from a murder scene.”
She groans again and slams her palm on the grass. He guesses this is in lieu of stomping the floor like a child. She holds still at least and doesn’t move even when he lets go to grab more wipes.
“Why do you even have so many wipes?” She asks, glaring at his seemingly endless supply.
“I have three children and the youngest is four. I have mastered the art of wiping gross shit off my kids' faces. Now zip it.”
Shockingly, she listens to him. He’s able to clean the rest of the blood off her face without preamble, even though she’s obvious in her distaste for the entire situation.
Finally, he pulls back, squatting in front of her as he shoves the soiled wipes into his pocket to dispose of later. He heaves a sigh. Might as well ask some questions.
“What’s your name?” He begins. Simple enough.
Apparently not, because the girl hesitates, clearly turning it over in her head whether she should give her real name. A beat passes before she says,“...Mia.”
Maybe this would have fooled anyone else, had they not been trained in espionage and well versed in the art of fake identities. Unfortunately, Clint is not an idiot. He raises a brow at her. “Wanna try that again?”
At least she knows a losing battle when she sees one. “Gabi,” she mutters, resigned.
“There we go. You can call me Clint. Now, Gabi,” he points to the gun still lying in the grass. “You wanna tell me why a nine-year-old has a fucking anti-tank rifle in central park?”
Gabi’s eyes widen comically. “I’m twelve."
“Shockingly that is not the part I’m most concerned about here.”
Gabi glowers. “It’s not an anti-tank rifle. It’s an anti-titan rifle. Shouldn’t you know that? You saw me use it.”
Clint blinks, then thinks this situation could not possibly get any fucking weirder. “Hold your horses there, pal. I had never seen, nor heard of a titan until five minutes ago. How do you expect me to know there’s a cannon designed for shooting them down?”
The kid starts blinking at him, squinting like she’s trying to figure out if he’s joking. “You…you don’t know what a titan is? Really? You’re being for real?”
Now it’s Clint's turn to glare like a belligerent child. “No. Are they supposed to be common knowledge?”
Gabi shifts her position, now sitting fully on the grass, her arms across her knees. “Yes? They’re feared across the globe. It’s why Eldians are kept in internment camps. Or at least that’s what happens in M–where I live.” The end of her sentence rushes out of her as she hurries to correct it. Clint narrows his eyes, pocketing away that information for later. “But I heard it’s worse everywhere else. So whatever you have here, internment camps, or, I don’t know, sacrifices?” She tilts her head at him like he can give her all the answers. Clint has no idea what the fuck she’s talking about.
“Kid, I have no idea what you’re saying. I’ve never heard of an Eldian or Titan in my life. And trust me, with my job, I would know. ”
Gabi has the nerve to glare at him like he’s the dumbest motherfucker she’s ever had the displeasure of looking at. “What country is this?”
“United States of America. You’re in the state of New York.”
“I’ve…never heard of that in my life.”
Clint feels a headache coming on. Why do these things only happen when he’s stepped back into the city’s grubby clutches? “Yeah, well, that’s concerning. This country’s sorta a global superpower, it’s a little hard to miss it. Kinda obnoxious honestly.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Where are you from?”
Gabi mulls this over the same way she mulled over her own name. This time, however, she looks even less inclined to share. Hell, he’d go as far as to say she looks afraid.
The silence stretches, and he decides to take it into his own hands. “Look, whatever weird military shit is going on here, chances are I won’t know where it is you’re from. Can’t really care about government secrets when I’ve never heard of the government. And, even if I did, I’m not gonna tattle or arrest you or some shit. My best friend was literally an enemy assassin I was sent to kill, so I have a pretty bad track record on the mercilessly killing the enemy front. Especially when the enemy is a nine-year-old.”
Gabi looks appropriately taken aback at this. She only manages to offer him a distracted, “I’m twelve.”
“Don’t care. Country.”
“...Marley.”
“And there we go. Only Marley I know of is Bob Marley, and he’s a singer.”
“Oh,” Gabi mutters, rubbing her hands idly on her knees. “I guess that’s also an issue. Marley is a global superpower too.”
Clint heaves a heavy sigh. This is spiraling closer and closer to the inevitable conclusion he was trying so hard to avoid. He supposes it’s time to accept that situation is erring more on the side of magical bullshit. He’s never particularly enjoyed magical bullshit. It got his entire family turned to dust last time, after all.
Still, he stands up with a grunt and holds his hand out to the kid in front of him. She takes it after a brief pause, letting him haul her up.
“So, good news and bad news,” he starts, watching her brush the dirt off her black dress. “Good news is, I might have an idea of the issue here. The bad news is it’s out of my pay grade, so we’re gonna have to go on a little trip to figure it out.”
He’s already walking back towards the sidewalk as he says this. Gabi trots over to catch up. “What do you mean ‘out of your pay grade’? What’s going on? Where are we going?”
Clint heaves another breath. “Okay, so. Little hard to believe, I guess. But I’m under the assumption that you got wrapped up in some magic mumbo-jumbo. Maybe some multiverse shit, I don’t know. I’m not exactly well-versed in that kinda thing, I usually try to avoid it like the plague, actually. But I do know a sorcerer—or, well, know is a strong word. I’ve heard of him—and he can help. Maybe. Luckily he also lives in this godforsaken city.”
Gabi stares at him blankly again. He doesn’t expect her to get it. He barely gets it himself, and he’s had contact with this sort of thing. There’s no guarantee she’s had the same experiences as him.
“Huh,” she says. “Guess that explains why you were so bad at fighting the titan. I was wondering why there was a dumbass shooting at its foot with just a bow and arrow.”
Clint barks out a laugh. Not the reaction he was really expecting. “Ay now, cut me some slack. I was trying to tear through its Achilles tendon so it’d drop that woman. How do you propose I should’ve gone about it?”
“Well, titans can only be killed when you destroy their napes. And an arrow isn’t strong enough to break through its skin. The eyes, maybe, but you’d be better off with an anti-titan cannon. Or what the Paradisians use.”
They’ve reached the sidewalk now, going opposite the direction of the ambulances and cops, and cutting through the grass once more as they do so. “Good thing my arrows explode, then. And you’re taking this remarkably better than I thought.”
Gabi shrugs, wringing her hands. “I don’t really have a choice, I think. I sure as fuck don’t know what’s going on. And if your arrows explode, why don’t you just use a gun?”
“Better with a bow. More flexible. I also have other trick arrows.”
Gabi pads just a little ahead of him, turning around slightly to look him in the eye. “What exactly is your job? Are you in the military or something?”
“Geez, kid,” Clint says. “This twenty-questions?”
She nods soundly, chin jutted out. “Yes.”
He laughs again. “Fine, but you have to answer my questions, too.” At her agreeing nod, he continues. “Right now I’m retired. I wasn’t in the military, not really. But I was a spy for an organization called S.H.I.E.L.D, and then I worked for the Avengers.”
“The Avengers?”
Clint shakes his head and makes a buzzer sound. “Nope, my turn for a question. Are you in your military?”
Gabi bites her lip before responding. “Yea, I’m an Eldian Warrior Candidate,” she says. “Now what’s an Avenger?”
Well, that sounds concerning. Child soldiers have always historically been a bad thing. “It’s a band of, uh, superheroes I guess. Cheesy as that sounds. I was Hawkeye, known for the bow and arrow thing. There was a group of us. With varying skill sets and powers. Super-strength, telekinesis, lightning-summoning, turning into a giant green rage monster, the like.”
“That is so cool.”
He pauses, they’ve reached the edge of Central Park now, and have stopped at a crosswalk. There’s a subway entrance a couple of blocks down. “Explain the Eldian situation to me. You said they’re in internment camps. That mean you?”
“Uh, yeah. Eldians, or Subjects of Ymir, can turn into titans. There was a period when they were in control, and destroyed major towns, and killed lots of people. But then the power switched, so Eldians are regarded as devils. Nine of them can inherit abilities that allow them to shift into titans willingly. Marley has control of all of them and passes it on every thirteen years. If you’re chosen as a warrior, you and your family become honorary Marleyians. My cousin is one, he’s the Armored Titan.”
Well, this is sounding progressively worse. He turns to her with a look of concern. “That sounds…fucking awful, kid. I’m sorry. You’re not a devil, for what that’s worth. Even if you’re a tad annoying.”
She breathes a laugh through her nose at this, but looks distinctly uncomfortable. They’ve reached the subway by now. Gabi’s looking over her shoulder, taking in just about everything.
“What is this?”
He glances at her. “It’s a subway. Like an underground train, basically the city's main transportation.”
Gabi looks positively awed. “Udo would’ve loved this.”
Clint doesn’t know who that is. He doesn’t ask.
“All right. Twenty-questions is over,” he states, conscious of the crowds around him. He knows no one will pay them any mind on the subway, but, well, he’s not ready to get existential with the rats right now. He walks over to the map. They’re on 57th street. If his memory serves him, Dr. Strange is somewhere on Bleecker St. he traces the map with his finger. “All right, we need to take the E train to Washington Square, and then it’s a short walk from there.”
Gabi nods like she understands, when he turns to look at her, she’s not even looking at the right line. Clint smiles at that.
He swipes his MetroCard and settles into the station. They’ve made good time, they shouldn’t have to wait more than five minutes. Gabi is still looking around in amazement.
“Don’t have stuff like this in Marley?”
Gabi shakes her head furiously. “No, this shit is so cool. Even though it’s…really, really dirty.”
“Welcome to the Big Apple.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That’s a weird name.”
The train pulls in then, and Clint grabs Gabi’s shoulder so she doesn’t get lost in the bustle of commuters. They manage to snag two chairs next to each other, squished between the rail and a man with music blasting loudly through his earbuds.
The train starts with a loud screech and a jolt. Gabi sits with her back ramrod straight but settles over time.
“So, where are we going exactly?” She asks, poking his arm. “You never actually told me.”
“Uh, yeah. It’s called the Sanctum Sanctorum–” he ignores her snort, “--there’s a guy named Dr. Strange who lives there…works there…whatever. I don’t know. He’s a sorcerer, and he’s our best bet, basically.”
Gabi nods. She looks exhausted, suddenly. He notices the heavy bags under her eyes, and her nose is beginning to bruise. He sighs. “It’s about a twenty-minute ride. So get some rest, ok? You can lay on my shoulder if you want.”
She just grunts. It’s testimony to her exhaustion that she doesn’t refuse him outright. Eventually, her head droops, falling softly on his arm.
Clint looks down at her. He knows she’s not quite asleep when he says: “You’re a really good shot, by the way. Didn’t say that before.”
Gabi smiles, dozing off to the steady sway of the train car.
He sends a quick text to his family, telling them something came up, and he might have to stay a few more days. He gets a picture back, of a whiteboard that says ‘Days Since Dad’s Stayed Retired.’ There’s a big fat 0 circled on the bottom. He sighs. Looks at the kid sleeping on his shoulder, and finds he doesn’t mind this pull from retirement all that much.