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1.
Clint’s return to Earth isn’t nearly as low-key as he’d like. Like Coulson, he had an idea of walking into SHIELD or Stark’s Tower and acting like he’d just come back from a vacation. His time in Asgard was...well, it was something he didn’t want to think or talk about. Ignoring it, returning to a normal life, just seemed like a great idea.
The car hitting him minutes after his return sort of threw that plan out the window.
Had he still been human, the truck driver would’ve been responsible for the end of Hawkeye. As it is, he’s just thrown a few feet and the front of the truck gets heavily dented. It still leaves him feeling weak and bruised, and he could swear he only closes his eyes for a second before the ambulance is there with two EMTs trying to figure out how to get him out of his chainmail.
He has just enough presence of mind to wave them off and mutter, “Call Fury at SHIELD,” before he passes out, the faint sound of a needle breaking on his skin lulling him into darkness.
When he comes to again, he sees familiar grey metal walls with the SHIELD insignia on the door indicating he’s in the medical ward. Some things never change, he thinks, as the blankets are still too thin and the pillows not quite squishy enough. He allows himself all of thirty seconds to relax before muttering, “It’s not nice to scare the injured, sir.”
“When have I ever been nice, Agent,” Nick Fury asks, stepping out from the corner of the room, the one blind spot for anyone lying on the bed. He’s still dressed in the black leather trench coat and his head is still shaved and his missing eye still glares as intensely as his actual one.
Clint can feel a small smirk try to appear. “Never, sir. Must be my mind playing tricks, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
“Smartass.” There’s just a hint of affection in his voice.
“Always, sir.” He waits a beat. “Are you here to debrief me?”
“No.” He pins Clint with a firm stare, and he was right, it’s exactly like Odin’s, only worse because Fury actually knows every dirty secret stained on his soul. “Are you still compromised, Agent Barton?”
“No, sir.” He searches himself for the part that’s broken, the part that wants to worship and serve Loki, the part that once planned and executed an attack on this very helicarrier. It’s still there, but it’s tamed. One day he may even cage it, but for now it’s been relegated back to being part of his nightmares and doubts. He’s not looking forward to experiencing that again. “I never was,” he says quietly, trying to sound sure but instead sounding a little lost. At least, to his ears.
Fury nods once. “Good. If it had been mind control again the Council would sanction your incarceration, interrogation, and execution.”
“The Council are dicks. Sir.”
“Noted.” He steps forward and pours a glass of water from the bedside table. For himself, of course. Clint licks his lips, but doesn’t ask for help. It’s a test. With Fury, everything’s a test. Well, almost everything. “Agent Coulson will be conducting your debriefing and your psych evaluation.”
“Agent Coulson, sir?”
Fury sets the glass down, still half full. “Things have changed in a year. Agent Coulson has learned two new languages and earned a third degree.” Clint lets his surprise show. He didn’t know Coulson was still going to school. “It was decided when he became the Avengers’ full time handler that he should augment his skills. Especially since none of you are nearly as honest with our doctors as with him.”
Clint does smirk at that. “If we didn’t keep them on their toes, sir, they’d be bored.”
“They’d be less likely to file work-related stress claims,” Fury replies calmly. “You’ll be confined to the Avengers Tower for the duration of your evaluation.”
That’s better than sitting in SHIELD quarters that are more like a cell than a room. “Yes, sir.”
“And you are to make no contact with Black Widow.” Clint opens his mouth to protest, but Fury glares at him again. The one that he knows means shut up or go to lock-down. “The Widow is currently not associated with SHIELD. Any contact will be construed as an act of treachery and be dealt with accordingly.”
Something cold settles unhappily in his stomach. Natasha’s gone, perhaps back with the KGB or whoever’s there now. Or maybe worse, like HYDRA or AIM. “What the hell happened?”
He doesn’t realize he’s said that out loud until Fury replies, “That’s classified. And you will follow that order, Agent. Am I understood?”
Clint nods, feeling another part of his soul break. He just escaped, just got back to his life, and his best friend, the person who understands him better than anyone—the one who helped him get past Loki’s shit the first time—isn’t here. He clenches one hand under the blanket into a fist, to keep the way it shakes hidden. “Anything else, sir?” He keeps his voice level, hides how much it hurts.
“You’ll be released within the hour. An escort is waiting to take you to the Tower, where the Avengers are waiting.” He steps forward, and something softens in the way he holds himself. Clint has rarely seen this side of the Director, and he’s nervous as the man places a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome back, Hawkeye,” he says warmly. “I’m glad you’re home.”
He does shudder then, feeling the walls he’s built up fracture. Nick Fury, unflappable badass of SHIELD who’s stared down gods and aliens and megalomaniac politicians, is willing to show how much he cares about him. Even for a minute. That…that means something to him, something that settles inside his chest and twists and forces him to swallow a sob. “I…thank you. I’m…I’m…”
His shoulder is squeezed, and then the Director is backing away, nodding once as he subsumes the gentle side for the brusque, frightening face of SHIELD once again. “I’ll be in contact, Agent Barton.”
“I’ll wait with bated breath, sir.” And if his voice shakes at his attempt at normalcy, they’re both polite enough to not acknowledge it.
2.
Of course, Tony has a party ready when he gets to the Tower—his home, his new prison—and Clint puts on a grin as he steps across the threshold to JARVIS’, “Welcome back, Agent Barton.”
“Hey, JARVIS.” He can feel the energy as he rides the elevator up. “So how much booze has Tony appropriated for this shindig?”
“Enough that the city will be dry for the foreseeable future.”
Clint lets out a quiet laugh at the ceiling. “JARV, did you just make a joke?”
“Indeed, sir. Master Stark updated my personality subroutines approximately seven months ago.”
Seven months ago. Tasha’s gone, Coulson has a new degree, and Tony…how much could Tony update in seven months? In a year? He leans against the back of the car. “Pull it together, Barton,” he mutters. It’s not like Captain America, gone for seventy-something years. It’s only one year. That’s nothing in terms of catching up.
It just seems a bit daunting right now.
“Agent Barton?”
“Yeah,” he runs a hand over his face, “I’m good, JARVIS.” He feels the car stop, and he makes sure his grin is in place. “Let’s get this party started.”
He’s swamped by Thor and Tony before he’s even off the lift, and he has to laugh at how his feet leave the ground for the hug. Everyone’s talking and Tony’s pouring him a drink and Bruce is handing him a plate of something Indian and he just goes along with it all, something settling within him at being around friends again.
There’s music and more hugs than he’s ever had before and a little bit of a broken heart at the lack of Natasha. About two am he starts feeling a lot less energized and the alcohol is certainly not helping him enjoy the not-so-awesome attempts at karaoke. JARVIS’ voice just makes him want to hurl, and when Thor picks him up for his ninth hug he feels more like crying than laughing.
When he’s back on the ground again, arms are guiding him away from the terrible music and empty bottles and he leans against the warm body, letting out a long sigh as silence takes over in the elevator. He lets his eyes close and when they open again, he’s in a bedroom—his bedroom, part of him realizes, and wow, Tony kept it exactly as it was, good to know they never gave up hope.
His boots are stripped off and a blanket thrown over his legs and he mutters a quiet, “Thanks, Phil,” before letting the booze pull him into blissful, blissful unconsciousness.
The next day his head isn’t nearly as pounding as he expected, partly because he always could hold his liquor, and partly because of the painkillers and glass of water that were on his end table this morning. Around ten he feels human enough to emerge from his blanket cocoon and head for the kitchen, which he finds completely cleaned from last night’s events.
“Morning, Clint.” Steve’s there, sitting in the breakfast nook in sweats and a NYU shirt. He has a plate of eggs before him, along with an open book and notepad he’s writing on. “Did you sleep well?”
He actually takes a minute to think it over. His sleep in Asgard was never restful, just tense, with him always on the edge of wakefulness. Even with exhaustion, he didn’t want to let his guard down around Loki. Last night, though, last night familiar hands put him to bed and he felt…safe. “Yeah,” he says, surprised. “Yeah, actually, I did.”
Steve raises an eyebrow at him, but Clint doesn’t really want to go into it, so he opens the enormous fridge and looks for something for breakfast. There’re eggs, there’s bacon, there’s ham and potatoes and… “Oh my god,” he moans, “real food!” He ignores the inquisitive sound from Steve and starts opening cupboards. He grabs the cereal boxes and pop tarts and he actually hugs a loaf of bread to his chest. “My precious!”
That startles a laugh from Captain America, which makes Clint laugh a little as well, though he refuses to let go of the food just yet. “Nice reference,” Steve says standing. “How about I make you some breakfast, you rest up a bit.”
Clint hems and haws, but finally sets the bread down and grabs the Cheerios to munch on while Steve starts pulling out ingredients. “Thanks, man.”
“You’ve had a hard year. Plus, it sounds like Lo…you weren’t fed well.”
Clint snorts. “Oh, no, there was plenty of rotten fruit to go around. And frosthound meat. And one time I swear he made me eat dwarf, though I may have hallucinated that.” Steve blanches, and Clint wishes he could make a smartass comment, laugh it off as a joke. Instead, he pulls the open book towards him. “You’re studying?”
“Going for my Masters,” he stutters, then clears his throat. “In Military History.” He smiles. “Don’t want to be a Captain forever, after all.”
Clint pushes the book back. “You know, General America doesn’t quite have the same ring.”
“Tony said that too,” he replies over the sound of sizzling sausage. “Still, he and Coulson have been a huge help.” A flush spreads to his cheeks, and his grin turns shy. “They’re both very knowledgeable about military engagements.”
Clint nods absently, feeling that overwhelming displacement again. He lets out a low sigh. He can handle it. One year, just one year. That’s nothing. Just because it felt longer, felt like decades…really, he isn’t panicking about this. So the passage of time in Asgard was skewed, but really, only a year. Hell, he’d been hostage for five months before, followed by a two month rehab. Seven months. A year is barely more than that.
Still, the feelings must show on his face because once Steve places the plate of food in front of him, he takes a seat and licks his lips. “I know it’s not easy to handle.”
Frankly, it’s far too early for this, so Clint just offers a smirk. “Naw, the plate’s not that hot.” He pokes at the toast and ducks his eyes from Steve’s gaze.
Steve doesn’t take the out, though. “The time difference,” he continues, “the feeling of displacement. I’m here to talk-“
“It was only a year,” he protests, his fingers clenching around the knife handle. “Just a year.” He forces himself to keep smirking. “I’ve missed more than that on missions. I’m fine.”
He is. He is absolutely fucking fantastically fine.
“Bruce told us, how you thought years had passed.”
It’s said quietly, almost as if he’s apologizing for causing it. And God, Clint grits his teeth because Captain America is feeling guilty about Loki’s mind-altering abuse, the sadistic bastard. Or maybe at not getting him out of there sooner; or maybe at failing to be a proper team leader, or some other bullshit that is not. His. Fault.
He forcibly orders his whole body to relax and finally, finally looks Steve in the eyes. “I know,” he tries for nonchalant, but he’s pretty sure his tone is more pathetic than he’s aiming for. “And yeah, it sucked, thinking decades had passed, but it was a lie. The Liesmith lied, shocking.” He makes himself roll his eyes. “It didn’t happen. Only a year passed. It’s fine.”
Buy it, he thinks at Steve. Buy it, buy it, come on…
Unfortunately, it appears a year hasn’t made Captain America any less dense. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, though. And I know what stepping out, what missing so much time in the world is like.” Clint feels his whole body twitch. “So I want you to know,” he continues, voice gentle and gaze earnest, “if you ever want some advice to re-integrate, or ever just want to talk-“
And that, that makes something in Clint snap. “I don’t want to talk! I don’t even want to think about it! Fuck, Steve, you think I want to go over how Loki fucked with my head so I thought,” he stutters, “so in my mind you’d be old or dead and nothing, absolutely nothing was left on this world for me?!” He shoves the plate away. “You think I want to focus on that shitstorm of a year or century or whatever the hell it was?! No! I’m home and I’m not in Asgard and the last fucking thing I fucking want is to fucking talk or think or anything related to the Nine fucking Realms and the fact that I was nothing more than a god damned pawn and plaything for a demented asshole!”
He’s panting now, and shaking again. Two days in a row, and he wonders how long he’ll be plagued with this…this psychosomatic response to any extreme emotions. He can’t even grasp the table he’s vibrating so hard and he wants to scream and curl up and go back to his room because fuck, fuck, fuck he has issues triggering that he can’t even begin to process.
He’s even more of a mess than he was after Budapest.
Steve, poor Steve appears to be stunned, and Clint wants to feel sorry or control himself but no, no, he doesn’t have any energy for that. He’s not even sure if it’s the language or the admission or even just the physical reaction he’s having, but Captain America is sitting gob-smacked with his jaw open and hurt, raw hurt, on his features.
He’s about to jump out of the seat and crawl into the nearest air vent when he notices Tony at one exit and Coulson at the other and feels himself freeze. Well, his body is still trembling but he can’t move from the seat, can’t even fall off to his knees where he belongs and oh, oh fuck. The psychologists would have a field day if they heard that thought.
“Post Traumatic Stress,” Coulson says. Tony nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing, and fuck him; except Clint remembers he was captured in Afghanistan and yeah, okay, maybe he’s more aware than the Captain is. “Steve, help Tony in his workshop.”
Steve turns in his seat. “But-“
“Tony, have Steve help you in his lab.”
“Right, no problem. Come on, Capsicle. Dummy needs a good scrubbing.” He grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him out of the chair. Actually, it’s more Steve just goes with it on autopilot, but it’s still amusing to the small sane portion of Clint’s brain to see the muscled man be manhandled out of sight and down the stairs.
Coulson approaches then, same stoic pace, same vague amusement, and something in that grounds Clint, as much as the agent taking the vacated seat and grabbing his wrist does. Phil’s thumb rubs smooth circles into the back of his hand and slowly the tremors drain away from him, along with most of his energy, and he slumps back in the chair, breathing deeply and ignoring the way his face is wet.
He doesn’t cry, damnit, especially not in front of others.
Phil doesn’t count though, and when the man starts to let him go, Clint just wraps his fingers around his arm, holding on tight. There’s no sigh, no sign of impatience or annoyance. The circle rubbing takes up again on the bottom of his wrist, and he lets himself zone in on that, lets the world melt away into that simple touch.
Eventually—it could be minutes, it could be hours, apparently skewed time is his new thing—Phil pushes the giant plate of now-cold food in front of him. “Eat up, Agent, then we’ll get you to the couch.”
For a minute, Clint thinks he means the shrink’s couch, but the glance to the living room dissuades him of that. Instead, he takes a shaky breath and says, “What, no debrief? You going soft on me, boss?”
Coulson offers his non-smile back. “There’s plenty of time to debrief, after you’ve got the exhaustion out of your system.”
“I’m not that tired.” They both know he’s lying like a ten-year-old, but he stubbornly pushes the part of himself yearning for sleep as far down as he can.
“Considering how you returned to us and the non-stop train you’ve been on, I’m not expecting you to be decently coherent until at least next Thursday.”
And, okay, that actually sounds about right. “As you say, boss.” He yawns and picks up his fork. “Hey, you know they have no forks in Asgard? They just used their hands.”
“If you think I’m letting you regress on your manners, think again, Barton.”
That does draw a chuckle out of him, and Clint cuts into the sausage omlette, both of them ignoring how he refuses to release his grip on Phil. Despite how drained he feels, the hunger quickly takes over and he’s cleaned the plate in what feels like just a few blinks of an eye. He’s hardly swallowed the last bit before Phil is standing and helping him up, maneuvering him to the couch so he can lie down.
The panic is almost gone, and for a minute he turns his head, seeking Nat and her quiet strength. Except Tasha isn’t here anymore, and the calm he’s regained is almost jarred right out of him, until Coulson—Phil, Phil now—takes her place and lets him rest his head on his legs. Instead of his wrist, the hand is now just behind his ear, and the warmth seeps in, soothing over the momentary panic.
It’s not Natasha, but it’s a good substitute.
An episode of Big Brother—“Really, it’s still on after all this time? That’s a depressing thought,” Clint mumbles—appears on the screen, but he lets it become background noise and focuses on the grounding touch as he fades back into unconsciousness.
3.
It’s almost four months before he’s able to leave the Tower.
The first couple are full of debriefings, with Phil only allowing him to talk a few hours every couple days. Sometimes it’s simple, explaining a typical day under Loki’s eye. He’s been tortured before, so he doesn’t even blush when he describes how the god used his body some nights. It’s almost normal, in some ways, agent and handler going over enemy actions. Simple, detached. He likes those days.
Sometimes, he has to rush through everything all at once, and he hates those days. Like his first kill in the name of his master, and how part of him loved it, craved it, desired to be nothing more than a blade for Loki. On days like those he hurries through everything in a hushed voice and shuts up after an hour or so, unable to let anything else out. Phil doesn’t make him talk more on those days, and in the silence he tends to escape into the vents, never venturing far, but feeling safe in the hidden confines.
He can’t believe he’s missed air ducts, of all things. Sometimes, they even keep the nightmares away for an extra hour.
The worst, though, is when he can’t stop talking, when Phil lets him go on and on until his voice is raw and he breaks down against the man. It doesn’t happen often, but that last day, with Snorri and Odin and having sex with Loki… No, he couldn’t stop the words that day, and in the end he’d curled up against Phil, both of them ignoring his tears as he clung onto the agent for fear this was all a dream, an illusion, and he was still trapped in Asgard.
Afterwards, he felt raw, exposed, and missed Tasha in those moments the most.
Tony does his best to take his mind off the debriefings. They start with integrating the chainmail into part of his uniform, Thor having some help from his mother in turning it darker so he could continue to snipe with it. After a year, Tony’s been playing with artificial fabrics and cloth computing and his pants now have more processing power than his cell phone, which is actually pretty cool.
By month three, Clint’s back on the range with the latest compound bow Tony’s built—light as a feather, easy to fold up—when the man himself comes in and bounces on his feet. “Feel like testing your abilities again?”
He learns fairly quickly he still has his Alfar strength, speed, and healing, as well as his improved sight. His invisibility trick is left back with Loki, which he expected. Last ability to gain, first ability to lose, makes perfect sense to him. He also knows the bow is gone forever, and he mourns it briefly, imagining the perfect grip and the way arrows glided as if by his thoughts. He still dreams of it, but doesn’t dare ask for it back. He knows what price he’d pay.
The loss of flight is something he actually pouts at. It sounds insane, but he sort of liked jumping off buildings, the rush of adrenaline, the moment of fight-flight-fear that gripped his heart and the thrill he got as the air rushed by. Knowing he wouldn’t die because of it allowed him to experience that without the nagging guilt of Phil and the team worrying over him. He sulks for two days before Tony presents him with new boots that employ a mini-arc reactor each.
“What’s a hawk without wings, right? I was actually working on this a while, then you didn’t need them, what with...yeah.” Tony slaps the heel of one boot, which seems to turn the reactors on, though there’s no glow. “Stealth repulsor technology. Just for you, Barton.”
His first jump he slams right into the ceiling, which has Dummy washing him with fire retardant and Tony laughing his ass off. He’s got it by the end of the day, though. Not able to fly, but able to click his heels and glide to safety should the need arise. “I could kiss you right now.” It’s the first time he’s felt himself have a genuine grin in ages.
“Sure thing,” Tony waggles his eyebrows and that’s all the warning he gets before a grease-stained hand has yanked him forward and they’re kissing and wow, Tony has a hell of a mouth, and that tongue, it should be illegal, the way it moves and writhes and…
And…
And then he’s throwing himself away, grabbing the nearest weapon—the Iron Man glove, ironically—and huddling in the corner, remembering another tongue that was just as agile and dominating and a hand that clenched against his neck and damnit, damnit, god fucking damnit he hates these flashbacks!
Tony gets it pretty quickly and coaxes him out of it with obnoxious music and crude jokes, but it’s still nearly five hours before he feels in control enough to leave the corner of the workshop. It’s another day before he’s able to force himself to sleep.
Phil makes a note in his file, but doesn’t make him talk about it. He sort of loves the man for understanding.
Despite all of that, the debriefing and archery and uniform upgrades, by month four he’s getting cabin fever and the rooftop isn’t cutting it anymore. Fortunately, Phil recognizes the signs, and Fury gives authorization to leave the Tower, but not the city. Which, again, Clint is totally for and he may babble a bit before he changes and goes for a run with no thoughts of returning until well past the evening.
It’s just his luck that when he reaches Central Park a flash of red hair is the only warning he has before his ex-partner has him in a sleeper hold and he’s scrambling against her grip, sucking in air desperately.
He doesn’t know if this is Tasha’s way of saying hello, or if she’s actually trying to hurt him, but either way he feels himself grin as he finally grabs hold of her arm and flips her over his head.
The arrow that flies by his ear a second later distracts him long enough for her to pounce again, and it’s just like a sparing session, except her knife-sharp grin is the one she aims at her enemies, not at Clint, and he has a feeling if she gets the chance, she will totally take him out.
The next arrow strikes his foot. It doesn’t break the skin, but the explosion throws both of them apart, and Clint shakes the ringing from his ears as he works out the angles and narrows his eyes at the rooftops. Two…three…there, four blocks away. A sniper. And he knows that uniform. He’d know that uniform anywhere. “Fuck.”
Trick Shot. Ex-mentor. Ex-savior. Ex-criminal. Ex-brother.
Wait, he squints harder, and feels himself take a step back as he recognizes that posture, that hair, and that sneer of contempt. “Barney?!”
The next arm to come over his shoulder is made of metal, and this time, whoever is behind him has enough bulk to stand their ground. The next arrow aims for his thigh, and he wiggles just enough to let it strike on the ground instead
What the hell did Widow get up to?! And how did she find his brother who…fuck, she knows what he did, and Clint just gapes at his best…ex-best friend, because seriously. She knows how much this hurt, how much aligning with him is a betrayal of their…everything. Ever. “God damn,” he wheezes out.
Tasha—the Black Widow grins and pulls out a hand-held taser, something he vaguely recalls Tony building before he vanished into Asgard. He ignores the next arrow that flies towards him and pits all his strength into leaping backward, smashing his head into whoever’s face is there.
Apparently, an artificial arm means nothing when there’s still a nose to be broken. The grip weakens enough that he weaves and dodges and the electric bite—that’s what Tony called it, the Widow’s Bite—hits her metal-armed ally instead. He spares a glance at the convulsing man, the long brown hair and black mask and cold, dead gaze that shows signs of regrouping despite his profusely bleeding nose.
Clint’s seen that look before, and feels a lead-laced sucker punch as he realizes this man, whoever he is, was at the mercies of the same people who once held the Black Widow.
And that means he needs to get the hell out of there right now. He may have spent a year facing down elves and frost giants and even gods, and Loki may have trained him to be a deadly weapon even when unarmed, but he knows that training. He knows what it took to break through the first time with Natasha.
And he’s still broken enough now to know there’s no chance in hell he can pull it off a second time.
He dives to the ground and comes up with a small stone, one he launches towards his brother—and when did Barney become so proficient with a bow anyways?!—and leaps into a double round-house kick that knocks the Widow into a tree twenty feet away. He stays long enough to see his aim is still accurate and that his super-strength was enough to make sure he hit his brother right in the balls.
“Takes a bastard to fight a bastard,” he mutters before leaping over the mystery soldier’s shoulders and running out of the park and across two, three, six car lanes, down a few alleyways, and then straight towards the Tower.
It takes an hour, and by the time he’s there, he’s realized three things. One, Natasha may have turned, but she knew of his Loki-forced powers, and she would know there was no way that puny team would be enough to take him down. That means that two, that was a message to him and the Avengers that whatever op Tasha was on was now in the city, and they were all at risk.
Which led inevitably to three, he was going to kick Fury’s ass so. Fucking. Hard. He hasn’t felt this betrayed since being lied to about Phil’s death. Still, there’s a part of him that can’t stop smirking, because Tasha’s still Tasha, and this, this was the ‘welcome home Clint’ he’s been waiting for since returning.
Yeah, Fury was definitely in for an ass whooping.
4.
Fury isn’t on the carrier when he gets back. Instead, he finds Hill in his office with two folders. “Congratulations, Barton,” she slaps one folder into his chest, which he grabs instinctively, “you’re cleared for duty.”
Wait, what? Phil didn’t mention anything about that. “Ma’am-“
The second folder is slapped in his chest as well. “Here’s your assignment. We’re expanding the Initiative’s recruitment. Agent Coulson will be approaching Doctor Pym and this Spiderman character.”
Right. So they’re clearing him for convenience. Damned SHIELD. “You need me to guard him.”
She’s not the sort to roll her eyes, but he can tell she wants to. “Of course not. We need you going after higher risk targets.”
“Widow?” He’d gotten her once.
“Negative.” She nods to the folder. “Study your targets on the jet. Wheels up in thirty.”
Barely any time at all. If Clint had to guess, SHIELD had spotted his little altercation with Natasha and her gang and were now putting their contingency plan into action. That didn’t mean he was just going to jump to orders blindly. He’s had enough of that, thanks, not visiting that prison again. He ducks into an empty office and pulls out his cell phone, hitting his speed dial.
“Barton, you should be in the air.”
“In twenty I will be,” he replies. “When were you gonna tell me Tasha was on an op?”
There’s a beat of silence, “I just found out myself.” His voice is clipped, neat, and missing that usual unassuming tone. He’s pissed Fury lied as well. “I apologize for the abruptness of your reinstatement-“
“I’m ready.” He actually feels like he is. Well, ninety percent. Eighty. A solid seventy-three. Definitely.
He continues, ignoring Clint’s interruption. “-but we will be continuing our sessions.”
He feels his face pinch up at that, but there’s a small part of him that’s relieved. He hates the way Phil can strip away his defenses and leave him a shaking mess, but the way the man can pull him back together, can soothe the scars Loki has left… “You sure you don’t need me watching your back, sir?” He’s not sure he could handle it if anything happened to Phil. Again.
“I’m good, Clint,” he assures him. “I’ve been in contact with Pym for months, and considering what just happened with Doctor Connor, I believe the new hero wouldn’t mind some back-up.” There’s the sound of a door opening and closing, and the rustling of clothes. “Watch yourself, Hawkeye. Wundagore is hostile territory.”
He can’t help but smirk. “Nidavellir was hostile territory. Nothing beats cranky dwarves.”
“You’ve never seen Fury before his coffee.” There’s a choking sound from another agent in the car. “Stay alert.”
“You too,” he answers just as seriously and waits to hang up until he hears Phil’s disconnected the call. He just referenced a realm of Asgard and didn’t have an attack of…anything. He lets out the air between his teeth, then hurries through the halls, having only ten minutes to gather his things before the flight.
Wundagore, Phil had said. Who the hell could be at Wundagore?
In the thirteen hour flight to Transia, he discovers that two powerful mutants, both ex-Brotherhood of Evil Mutants members on the path to redemption, are hiding out somewhere on the mountain. The mountain itself has a history that could come straight from the history of Asgard itself, including the mad god twisting people to do his bidding.
He ignores the prickle at the back of his neck. He’s had enough mad gods in his life, he really doesn’t want to walk right into one’s lair, no matter how long ago it was last seen. Still, on the five hour car trip and two hour cart ride—seriously? Not even a train?—he reminds himself that he’s an Agent of SHIELD, he has a job to do, and mad gods? Fuck ‘em. He’s learned. This time, he’ll just shoot the bastard in the eye.
If he stumbles a bit as he hops off the cart, at least there’s no one to catch it.
The village is small, maybe ten structures in total, all wood and all at least fifty years old, just from the look of things. He wanders around a bit, feeling stares but deliberately ignoring them. When he reaches the edge of the buildings, he sees another village, just a speck, maybe five miles away. Shouldering the case with his bow, he starts walking. Intel couldn’t pin which village the two targets were staying in, but he doubts he could walk through their home unmolested, not with their history.
He’s taken his first step beyond the border when he feels the air current shift, and his reflexes, enhanced as they are, just allow him to glimpse the white-haired man coming at him before a fist slams into his temple and the world blacks out.
It doesn’t knock him out for long. At least, he doesn’t think it’s long. Actually, he’s not sure, because the world is still fuzzy, but he does know that he’s lying on a bed no where near as soft or supportive as what Stark bought him. Also, he’s chilly, and the shiver that runs through him has him register that someone’s removed his uniform. He tries to panic, but his head is still throbbing, and there’s a soothing hand stroking through his hair. Soft, light. Not at all like Phil’s.
“I’m sorry, my brother can be a bit protective.” The voice is light, with an unspecific Eastern European accent, and completely non-threatening. “Lady Bova detected the magic of Asgard, and we’ve had...dealings with them before.”
Right, Clint’s fuzzy thoughts are able to clear enough to remember the file folder of the mutants he’s searching for. It figured they’d clashed with the Avengers at least once. “S’not my magic,” he mumbles, because while he’s owned the change, he has no magic. He wants no magic.
“I can see,” the hand trails down his neck and over his shoulder. A moment later there’s a light kiss on his back. He’s face down. “I could change you back, you know.” There’s an alien warmth in her touch now. “I could unweave what you’ve become.” Another kiss, lower on his spine. “Would you like to be yourself again?”
His skin tingles, and he shuts his eyes to the red glow of the room, pressing his face into the rough pillow. Human. He could be human again, untainted by Loki or the Asgard or…or anything. It’s tempting, it’s so very tempting, to be rid of the last remnants of the gifts from that bastard.
He wants to agree. He wants to let this woman have whatever she wants, just so he can have his humanity back. Her hand on his hip is firm and he bites his lip. What she’s offering is a gift from the gods.
His blood runs cold at the thought.
No gods. Not again. Never again.
He tastes blood from biting his lip too hard, and the pain helps him focus, helps shake off the pain and brain haze and in the next instant he dives off the bed. The woman—Witch, the Scarlett Witch, he recognizes briefly—yells as he slams her into the floor, pins her with his weight and presses his forearm against her throat.
“No,” he growls, his eyes narrowing at the ruby glow in her hands. “Stop it. Stop your fuckin’ magic or I swear you won’t take another breath.” He feels the shift in the breeze, but this time, he just slams his elbow back. The crunch and leaden thump is more than satisfying, but he isn’t looking away from the Witch. “No more-“
“Magic,” she finishes breathlessly, the aura around her dimming into nothing. He feels his heart still racing, and he realizes she can feel it too, the way his arm is against her. He jerks back, stumbles and falls onto the bed, taking a moment to clasp his hands in his hair.
Fuck. Fuck, he was just about to kill a potential asset, all because she offered to help. Fury would have his balls. Phil would…Phil would…
“I’m sorry,” she says from across the room, and Clint snaps his attention in her direction. She’s helping her brother—Quicksilver, right—sit up. The man’s clutching his nose, blood covering his hands. “Had I realized the trauma-“
“Fuck his trauma,” Quicksilver says, muffled. “You mother fu-“
The Witch slaps him on the back of his head. “Language!”
“God damn—he broke my nose, Wanda!”
“Pietro,” her tone is chiding as she grabs a towel and holds it up to said nose.
“Fucking Avengers,” the man mutters, still glaring.
Clint glares back, but only until his skin shivers at the breeze from the open door. Remembering his state of dress, he glances around and sees his uniform, including the armor, on a nearby chair. He snatches it to his chest and starts dressing.
Ten minutes of tense, awkward silence later, Clint feels less like a hostage and the mutant siblings—twins? The folder had said they were twins, right?—look less like cornered animals. Finally, he clears his throat. “So…”
Pietro keeps scowling, but an elbow to his ribs from Wanda keeps him silent. “You were searching for us?”
“Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair. “So, the Avengers are recruiting, and we were wondering-“
There’s a snort, followed by a pained shout as Quicksilver clutches his face. “You,” he gags out, “want us.” The disbelief is palpable, even through the pain.
Clint grimaces. “Yeah, I know, not the best impression.”
At that, Wanda smiles. “It was not entirely your fault.” Her brother lets out a rough sigh at that. “However, we are back home. Why would we wish to return to…that field?”
Clint sits up, trying to channel the diplomatic skills he’s seen Phil use a million times. “We know you’re ready to make a difference in the world, to reconcile your actions with your father with your consciences.” Channel Phil, he tells himself. You’re on the thin line. “SHIELD knows about balancing ledgers, and about second chances. This is an opportunity for a clean slate.”
He tries to smile, but even he can tell it’s more of a smirk. Well, maybe it’s time to channel more of himself. “Saving the world gets you lots of props over past misdeeds.” Wanda smiles back at him, but Pietro doesn’t look convinced. He rolls his shoulders. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but the Avengers can use all the good people they can get. Even if they’re a little bad.”
That, at least, makes the speedy mutant roll his eyes. “Smooth,” he mutters.
“Hey, it’s my first pitch.”
“Obviously.”
Clint turns his attention back to Wanda as she stands. “We will consider your offer. It’s…not an easy decision for us.”
Clint nods. Not everyone can be recruited like him, shot twice; only once by the good guys. He sets the prepaid satellite phone on the table. “Speed dial one. SHIELD looks forward to hearing from you.” He moves carefully towards the door. He has a foot outside when Wanda’s hand rests against his and he feels his entire body tense up.
There’s no sign of her magic, however. Instead, she smiles sadly at him. “I did not mean to,” she pauses, then, “I merely wished to rid you of your pain.”
He offers his own tight grimace in return. “Thanks.” He slides his hand out from under hers and heads away from the hut. He’s up the mountain a bit, but he’s confident he can make it to the nearest village by sunset. He’ll call for extraction then.
He spends the walk down turning over her offer in his mind. He doesn’t regret rejecting it, not then and not now. His reaction, yes, but that’s it. A year ago, that’s when magic was the cure. Now, now the Asgard parts of him are too integrated, too much of who he is. A magic wand won’t solve it now, like it would then.
He’s worked too hard to reclaim himself to be undone once more.
5.
He’s back at the Tower all of ten minutes before the building’s alarms go off and JARVIS calls them to assemble by the landing pad. Clint nearly stubs his toe tripping out of the shower and wrinkles his nose as he puts on a clean uniform while still mostly wet. At least the chainmail isn’t directly against his skin, but it’s a small consolation when his shirt and pants are sticking to him in uncomfortable ways.
At least he’s not alone at the surprise summons. Bruce’s hair looks like he just woke up and Steve and Tony are still pulling their shirts on. There’s no sign of Phil, which Clint tries not to obsess over too much. It’s only been a few days, he’s probably still recruiting.
That excuse holds up mentally until he sees that Fury’s standing on the ramp of the quinjet. “We’ve got a situation.” It’s all he offers before retreating into the craft, and Clint moves fast enough to make it aboard before the others. He sees Thor already seated, clutching his hammer tight enough his knuckles are white.
“Situation indeed,” Clint mutters.
Once they’re on board and in the air, Fury knocks on the nearest screen. “For the past ten months, someone’s been gathering a team called, for lack of a better term, the Dark Avengers.” A series of pictures appears, and Steven sucks in a sharp breath as the man with a metal arm is highlighted. “Yes, Captain, I’m aware of who that is.”
Captain America jerks his cowl on. “You should’ve said something.”
“Tasha’s been trying to deprogram him. It’s why she volunteered to go undercover instead of on our honeymoon.” Clint feels like he’s been punched. Nick Fury and Tasha? Seriously? He knew he missed a lot but…well, no, that’s not fair. If the Widow had been part of the welcome back party, she’d have told him.
It still hurts, though.
Fury points to the screen again. “Speaking of, Widow’s been compromised. Agent Coulson tried to extract her.” He scowls. “They missed both contacts.”
“Shit.” Clint can’t help it. Widow missing a contact is one thing, but Phil, Phil never misses a contact. “Location?”
“They team’s leader seems to have commandeered Dulce Base in Arizona. We have a strike force moving in to re-capture the base. This group, however,” he knocks his finger against the screen again, “have holed up on Jerimoth Hill, Rhode Island. With luck, Widow and Coulson will still be there.”
Clint feels his heart begin to race. He can’t lose Coulson or Tasha. “Targets,” he says, trying to narrow his focus. “My brother…”
“Trickshot,” Fury nods, enlarging the picture of a man in a red and black uniform, almost identical to Clint’s old Hawkeye one. He’s wearing sunglasses and his hair is redder, but Clint would recognize his brother anywhere. “He’s been training, and according to reports, is claiming to be better than the infamous Hawkeye.”
“If Bucky’s been training him,” Steven says and nods reluctantly, “he was one of the best snipers.”
“The Winter Soldier,” Fury enlarges the next picture. Blond, hair shorter than when Clint saw him in the park, but the eyes are bruised and haunted, not hard like before. “He’s been brainwashed by the Red Room. I’m sorry, Captain. I can’t guarantee there’s anything left of your friend.”
“There is,” Steven says vehemently. “He’s too stubborn of a son of a bitch not to be.”
Fury doesn’t respond, just pulls up an Iron Man suit clone, this one painted red, white, and blue. “Based on War Machine’s plans, we believe Justin Hammer is piloting it.”
Tony smirks, patting his suitcase. “Sucks to be him.”
“Widow stated there were some upgrades she couldn’t look at.” Tony waves it off, as if it were nothing.
Bruce is tense beside him, a green tint pulsing just beneath his skin. “I can’t believe they released him.”
“Abomination.” The white skinned Hulk-like monster’s profile was short. “He was in our custody until two weeks ago.” Fury glowers at that. “We aren’t sure if they’re controlling him, or if he’ll be as mad as before.”
“He will be,” Bruce says firmly, clenching his left fist slowly. “And the other guy can definitely handle it.”
“Glad to hear it, Dr. Banner.”
Clint, though, he’s looking through the pictures. “We’re missing one.”
It’s Thor who nods, looking somber. “Loki has escaped the prison of All Father. We believe he is working with the Dark Avengers.”
Clint keeps a mask of neutrality. He’d freed Loki, given him the opportunity to leave the tree. He’d hoped the god would try to redeem himself. A stupid hope, it seemed. “And the leader?”
“Unknown,” Fury says, blacking out the screen. “We believe he has access to the Avenger Initiative files, but beyond that, we’re unable to narrow it down.”
His blood runs cold. “Someone on the World Council?” At Fury’s nod, both Tony and Steven go stone-faced. “And you just let them-“
“I didn’t let them anything, Hawkeye. Raids are being conducted as we speak. We had more important issues to handle.”
Like his absence in Asgard. Right. Fucking Loki.
Steven stands after a tense minute. “What’s our ETA?”
“Two minutes,” the pilot responds.
“Thor, you’re air support. If you spot Loki, keep him occupied.” The Captain looks around. “We each take our counterpart. Fury, I’m guessing you’re recovery?” The man nods once, and Clint would bet the SHIELD director has no less than a dozen weapons on him to make sure he succeeds. “Comms open at all time.”
“What about the helicarrier,” Tony asks. “Wouldn’t it be better against the underground base in Arizona?”
“Agent Hill and the carrier will be joining us for cleanup. The Council doesn’t want to risk extensive damage again in a primary assault.”
“But if the Council’s compromised-“
“Then they have no way of knowing that Stark has installed afterburners that’ll let us arrive in less than four hours.” Fury keeps the smugness out of his voice, but Clint feels himself smirk. “Once the Dark Avengers are down, we’ll begin interrogating the Council members.”
There’s a distant roar, and then an arrow explodes in front of the pilot windows. The jet jerks to the side, and Clint holds on as they start diving for the ground. “Guess that’s the welcoming committee.”
“It is one they shall regret putting together,” Thor says, hitting the ramp button and swinging his hammer twice before flying out. Thunder sounds as the pilot gets the quinjet back under control.
Tony gets suited up as Steven holds out parachutes to Fury. Bruce declines his, just takes off his glasses and jumps out the back. Clint can just hear him transform before smashing the ground below.
“Geronimo,” he mutters before launching himself out, flipping over once so he can face where the arrow came from. He has his bow out and his enhanced eyes have picked out his brother in less than a minute. “Nice to see you too, bro.” He shoots an explosive arrow into the tree trunk the man’s standing on, shattering the trunk and giving him just enough time to use the repulsors in his boots and land unmolested.
It’s only thanks to his enhanced speed that he’s able to duck around the flying trees and random debris being tossed up at the fighting. His brother’s arrows, on the other hand, are landing a little too close. Fortunately, both his Asgardian armor and cursed—blessed—Whatever! —blood is keeping the shots from doing any harm. He’s not firing his own back. He doesn’t want to take Barney down with one of his arrows.
This meeting deserves to be settled with fists.
He leaps the last twenty feet, twisting mid-air so the next arrow barely brushes his cheek, before landing a solid punch on his brother’s surprised face. The man flies back a good ten feet, but doesn’t drop his bow. Clint has to admire that, in any archer. “Nice shooting.”
Barney spits out a bit of blood and gets back to his feet, glaring and pulling out another arrow as his left cheek swells. “Some tricks, little bro. Learn that from your Russian whore?”
Clint nocks his own arrow and matches Barney’s stance. “She’s not,” he growls, “a whore.”
The smirk is cruel. “That’s right. That’s your title.” He nods over Clint’s shoulder. “Who’d you have to fuck to get on the team? Stark? Captain America?”
Clint fights not to twitch, but he does and Barney’s arrow flies. Clint falls back and let it graze his neck before shifting his weight and retaliating. From then it’s the two of them ducking and running, shooting arrow after arrow, Barney laughing in that harsh, vitriolic voice that’s haunted Clint’s dreams for years.
“No, not them. Not with your issues with daddy,” he spits out the title with hatred, one Clint more than understands. “I’ll bet it was that man. Agent Coleslaw.” He spins around a trunk and fires three shots before ducking back, letting Clint’s arrows hit the tree. “Begged to suck his cock, right? Just for a chance for little Hawkeye to be on the Avengers.”
Clint tries not to be affected, but he swivels left when he should’ve gone right, and shouts as an arrow embeds itself in his thigh. He has the presence of mind to dive behind a large rock before his brother can take advantage. “Fuck you,” he shouts, grabbing the metal arrow and tearing it out. “I earned it,” he mutters, then louder, “I earned my place, you asshole!” He bites through his lip as he clamps his hand over the wound.
“Down already,” Barney sneers, standing on top of the rock, an arrow at Clint’s head. “And cowering behind a rock. What’d Trickshot ever see in you?”
Clint freezes, but he feels the wound already healing. Another minute, and he’s pretty sure he’ll have enough control to tackle his brother. He knows that at point-blank range his body can’t deflect the impact of the arrow. “You really gonna to kill me?”
“Just finishing what was started all those years ago.”
Clint’s just about to take his chances and leap at his brother when the man is tackled from behind. There’s the sound of a taser and choked screams, and then Phil’s there, suit rumpled and torn and face bruised.
“Phil,” comes unbidden from Clint. The man is instead, taking a zip-tie and restraining his brother.
“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘I had it covered, sir,’ we’re going to have a long talk in the gym.”
“I had it covered, sir,” he responds automatically. Then, quieter, “I knew you had my back.”
“Always will,” he states, as if it’s an immutable fact. He stands up and eyes Clint over. “How’s the leg?”
Clint pulls his hand away carefully. It’s sticky with blood, but the skin’s healed. “Good.” He stands, tests it with some stretches. “Ready to return to duty.”
Phil nods, but he doesn’t step away. Clint feels a shiver down his spine, feels that unmistakable pull, and for a moment, an instant, the connection between them is obvious. And that next step, what they’ve been building to for a year—hell, for over a decade—is obvious.
Phil puts a hand on the side of his neck.
Clint moves so he’s right against Phil’s body.
This is it, he thinks.
Which is when the sky tears apart in a negative-infused flash and the world begins to end.
+ 1.
“It appears,” Fury says aboard the Helicarrier, “that the Enchantress was the final member of their crew.”
Thor shakes his head. “I have done my brother a disservice, accusing him with no grounds.”
“Please. This had all the makings of that tantrum-throwing drama queen.” Stark taps the side of his helmet. “The question is why they want Asgard to fall to Earth. Won’t that destroy both worlds?”
“Asgard is more resilient than your world. Though both will be damaged, the glory of our city will endure even as your world perishes.” He scowls. “Why she would do this, I know not.”
“She has a massive crush on you,” Stark says. “She’s bringing together your love of Earth and love of Asgard together.”
Tasha, both eyes puffy and purple, points to the map. “And it’s to land where Jane, her rival, lives. The perfect way to win you over.”
The growl from the Asgardian prince is lower, dangerous. Clint just looks out the window of the conference room. They’re currently moving at top speed to New Mexico, where they’re going to drop of Abomination and the others. Clint’s not thinking about it, the way his brother will be rotting in a cell. Again. Steve looks even worse, dejected at the way he wasn’t able to reach his friend. He’s keeping his distance from Fury and Tasha, too.
Some things seem unforgivable. Not everyone here understands that it only seems that way. In they end, they always forgive.
He’s pretty sure Fury plans it that way.
“So what do we do,” Bruce asks, redressed and staring at the image of the mountain currently emerging from the magical rift.
“We’re calling in all the reserves, all the contacts SHIELD has made. Doctor Richards is trying to find a way to close the portal. So is Doctor Strange.” Fury scowls. “Unfortunately, neither has come up with a plan.”
“Understandable,” says a voice that freezes Clint’s blood in its veins, “considering the trickery involved in undoing such a complicated spell.”
Loki.
The room’s up in arms in an instant, but Clint, Clint takes a deep breath and turns around in his seat slowly. He looks better from the last time, though his skin is still sallow, as if he hasn’t fully recovered from his ordeal on the tree. The devious spark is still in his eyes, but they’re haunted now, pained.
Clint doesn’t feel any sympathy, and that, that helps him relax enough to cross his arms and just stare down the god.
Tasha, Phil, Steve, and Stark all have weapons pinned on the man. Thor has twisted in his seat but not moved forward, still stunned. Fury, however, hasn’t moved. “Nice entrance,” he says. “Tell me why I shouldn’t make it your last.”
“Because I can help you stop the Enchantress’ plans.” He ignores the others and raises his chin towards Fury. “You’ve been in contact with a woman known as the Scarlet Witch. Her powers, if enhanced, would be sufficient to unmake the spell Enchantress has stolen from the Serpent.”
At that, Thor is on his feet. “She has not! Not from Him!”
Loki snorts. “Her own love has blinded her to the risk she’s taken.”
“Serpent,” Bruce asks cautiously.
“A vile entity, thrown to the depths of the sea, that feeds off the fear of mortals.” Another growl. “He has sought father’s throne for eternity.”
“So why help us,” Clint interrupts, still staring at Loki. “What’s in it for you?”
Loki finally meets his eyes, and there’s a familiarity there, even a comfort. “A final reprieve. I may be free from my bonds, but...” he waves his hands, as if to summon something. Clint’s seen that move a thousand times. This time, though, nothing happens. “I wish my powers restored. Only the All-Father can issue that.”
“Yeah, cause that’s gonna happen,” Stark says. “Last thing we need is you running around with powers again.”
“I’d be more worried about the current situation than the potential future,” Loki bites out, narrowing eyes at the billionaire. “My father,” the sarcastic tone returns, “in his brilliance, is blaming humanity, and intends to exterminate life on this world as punishment.”
Thor lets out a pained sound, but at Fury’s look, he nods. “It is something he would issue. Tearing apart dimensions is an act of war.”
“I don’t care,” Loki continues, “about your world, or the people who would come to live with my daughter in Hel. Unveiling this deception, and restoring both Midgard and Asgard, that is all I care about.” He shrugs. “Your choice, Lord Fury.”
Clint would glance over his shoulder, but he knows which way the Director will go. Better a deal with the devil than a world destroyed.
There’s a tense few minutes of silence.
Finally, Fury says, “Thor, get your ass back home and talk some sense into the All-Father.”
Thor nods and heads for the door. He stops in front of Loki, and Clint can’t read what they’re saying silently, but after a moment Loki shrugs. Thor nods, then steps out of the room, still unsmiling.
“Captain, you, Stark, and Banner go meet the other heroes we’ve contacted. In case Thor can’t help, we’ll need you to defend the world.”
Stark lowers his arm and glares at Loki another second, then says, “Sure.”
Steven is all business. “I’ll contact the X-Men. See if they can lend any support.”
“Good. I’ll expect an update in twenty minutes.”
And then there were three. Clint can already guess what’s coming next.
“Barton, Widow, you and Coulson take Loki to meet the Scarlett Witch.” Clint turns and Fury meets each of them with his one-eyed glare. “And if he pulls anything funny, I want his head on my wall.”
“A bit harsh,” Loki says.
“Tough.” And then he’s leaving for the bridge.
There’s a tense stand-off, all of them looking at each other. Finally, Loki steps away from the other agents. “You look good, my Hawk.”
“He’s not yours,” Tasha says sharply.
“Little do you know, Spider.”
“He’s not,” comes from Phil this time, along with the man stepping in front of the god. “And if you touch what’s mine again,” he says calmly, quietly, “I’ll make your father’s punishment look like paradise.”
Clint’s too stunned to flush, but Tasha takes a moment to punch him in the arm in congratulations.
There’s a crackling pause as Phil and Loki evaluate each other.
Loki breaks off the staring contest first, stepping back with only the slightest bow of his head in a show of acquiescence. “I understand.”
“Good.” And just like that, Agent Coulson is back. “Widow, please contact the Scarlet Witch. Let her know we’ll be arriving at the meeting location in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint stands, but Loki holds up his hand. “My…Agent Barton.” Clint can feel Phil tense. “You may be fighting gods once again.” There’s a flash, and Hrotti is in his palm. “I have no power over it,” he admits to Coulson. “Your Hawk saw to that. It is rightfully his.”
Coulson nods, and Clint reverently takes the weapon from its former master. Instantly, he feels the connection, but not the subtle, twisting one that he had last time. No, this is just to the bow, and though he’s sure Phil will have Thor confirm it, there’s nothing between it and Loki any more.
“Weapons of Asgard may have wills of their own.”
“It’s well forged,” he says finally.
“You both are,” Loki admits, a hint of jealousy and loneliness in his voice. “Perhaps in another lifetime, you’ll deign to serve again.”
“I don’t serve.” Clint lets the bow vanish from his hand. “Anyone.”
Loki studies him and blinks, then, with a quick nod to Phil, steps out to join Tasha at the comm station.
The tension leaves as Phil steps over. “Clint…”
“I don’t serve.” he says again, quietly. “I choose this. I choose to be wielded by someone I trust. Someone who trusts me.”
“You’re not a weapon.”
Clint can’t help but smirk a little. “But I’m yours.”
Phil doesn’t blush. Clint’s sure the man trained himself not to years ago. He can tell, though, that if he did, Phil would be blushing right now.
And it makes Clint ridiculously happy.
There’s the roaring sound as a jet takes off, breaking the moment between them. Phil straightens his coat. “Come on, Hawkeye. Time to save the world.”
“Two of them, sir,” he says cheerfully.
Thank you, he doesn’t say, for saving me.
He knows Phil hears it anyways.