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Clint's been in the spy game for a long time. He's been assimilating, assassinating, and inciting anarchy across the globe for the better part of two decades. He's a master at what he does, one of the best in the world. A hundred countries would kill to have him in their ranks, and a hundred more would just plain kill him. He’s part of the most famous superhero team in the damn world and he’s still able to go undercover. That’s not a talent that most people possess. Even Steve gets recognized on the regular.
All of this is to say that he's experienced enough that he knows when a perch is safe enough to let his mind wander just slightly . He can tell when he’s finally found a safe spot; it’s a skill he’s worked hard to gain, and the first rule of determining this is knowing that nowhere is ever completely safe. That being said…
Maybe he's been sitting in the same place doing jack shit for nine and a half hours. And just maybe he knows he needs to go to the grocery store. So he might possibly be halfway through constructing a mental list of what he needs-- dog food, milk, coffee, shaving cream -- when something hits him in the head hard enough to make him see stars– that's right, stars not birds.
But as previously stated, he's one of the best in the world at what he does, so a quarter of a second after the initial reaction of ‘ow’ he's on his feet and ready for the fight he knows is coming. If this person is good enough to sneak up on him, even when he’s just a teeny tiny bit distracted, it’s going to be a tough one.
He's not expecting the next hit to come from the opposite direction of the last though.
Clint catches a killer kick to the head, but he's fast enough to grab the black-clad leg of the person who threw it, not that it helps at all when the person-- fuck, those horns look familiar-- immediately kicks him in the ribs with his other leg-- meaning neither of his legs are on the ground, and Clint suddenly has a solid hundred and eighty pounds of pure muscle yanking him down to the ground. Not a move Clint would’ve expected; normally people try to avoid taking a fight to the ground, and he hadn’t expected Daredevil to depart from this too much. Then again, he’s always heard the guy is unpredictable. And psycho. But he also isn’t a killer, which means there’s no real risk of death; only a risk of being paralyzed or put into a coma he’ll never wake up from.
That’s lucky for Clint, because the guy is a much better fighter than he’d expected. Sure, Clint gets a few good hits in, landing two roughly in the area of his attacker’s kidneys and another two across his face. Those don't seem to hinder Daredevil too much, and within another few seconds of grappling he has Clint pinned in a way he can't get out of without breaking his elbow.
Clint can feel the guy shifting his weight and digging his knee into his back even harder as he leans in closer. Hopefully Daredevil isn’t in a maiming mood today. But again, he’s unpredictable.
“Get out of Hell’s Kitchen,” Daredevil hisses right into his ear, every hair on Clint’s body standing on end. “If I find you here again, I won't go so easy on you.”
There's one last twist to his elbow before the weight of a whole damn person disappears from his back and he can breathe again.
Clint groans and gets up off of the gravel part of the roof he’s been shoved down into, knocking loose the stones that managed to get pushed into his palms hard enough that they stuck. He’s got a few scrapes, and he’s pretty sure his nose is broken from that one kick. He’s had it broken enough times to know how that feels. At least it’s a relatively clean break as far as he can tell from touching it with hesitant fingers.
While Daredevil’s physical weight has thankfully been removed from its place crushing him, he can still feel the weight of someone watching him, and a quick scan around the area shows that the guy is crouched on a nearby rooftop like a damn gargoyle, watching his every move.
It isn’t exactly imperative that Clint complete this op here and now-- he hadn’t been planning on doing anything more than observing today anyway-- so he decides to make his way to the fire escape and head down. He doesn’t exactly want to make an enemy of Daredevil, especially considering he’s going to have to come back to Hell’s Kitchen sometime in the near future to complete this job, so leaving without any more of a fuss than there already has been is the best choice to make.
His entire walk out of the Kitchen, Clint keeps spotting a shadow trailing behind him, on rooftops, in alleyways, and even once on the sidewalk. It’s not like he thinks that Daredevil’s going to kill him, or even that he’s going to attack him again since he is leaving. However, it remains that he has a job that needs to be done in Hell’s Kitchen under the cover of darkness.
Just how the hell is he going to manage that with the Devil breathing down his neck?
While he’s icing his wounds and soothing his ego later that night with a box of pizza in his lap and Lucky on the floor in front of him later that night, Clint has an epiphany. Those big, sweet brown eyes staring up at him remind Clint of someone else he knows. Someone who just might be able to get him an in with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. That is, if he can convince the kid to talk to him in the first place. How could he possibly manage that after the damage he did with the whole Daredevil situation last time?
“Hey Lucky,” Clint says, “you up for a job?”
On Saturday morning, just as Clint had expected, the kid is in Tony’s lab even when Stark’s out of the country on business. It’s kind of sweet, actually. Clint can’t recall Tony ever giving anyone else unlimited, unsupervised access to the lab, but then again, the kid is somewhat supervised by the greatest AI the world has never seen.
“Hey, Pete, thought I’d find you here,” Clint says with a smile and a half wave with the hand that isn’t holding tight onto Lucky’s leash. Considering how much Lucky pulls, Clint had to relegate that job to his less injured side, so the wave is more like he just raises his hand slightly thanks to the remaining soreness from Daredevil’s feral cat territoriality a few nights before. Seriously you’d think the guy would have some clue about being civil to the pros, even if he doesn't like them.
Peter's first response is a smile and, “Hi Mr. Barton!” because he's a sweet kid, and just like Clint had hoped, his second response is, “Hi Lucky!” followed by him hopping off of the stool he’d been perched on and kneeling down to pet the dog. Lucky’s tail thumps against Clint’s leg so hard that it hurts, but he just smiles and bears it. For the sake of the mission.
Tony’s probably going to murder him (or at least fuck with the next set of trick arrows he has him try out) for bringing a dog into his lab, but between Daredevil and Tony Stark, Clint’s picking the lesser of two evils.
While bringing the dog was a smart move, Clint’s words to Peter definitely weren’t the most well chosen ones. He realizes this once the kid’s third response of “Why were you looking for me?” comes. Not only a sweet kid, but a smart one too. Dangerous combination.
“I can't just want to spend time with Tony's prodigy child? The savior of my dog? The greatest spider-themed superhero under an age that I won't disclose for fear of disembowelment?” Clint announces, plopping down on the stool nearest to Peter (but not too close) and spinning around absently. He’s still got the high ground considering the kid is on the floor with his dog, but maybe that will put Peter somewhat more at ease.
For a second it looks like Peter’s less tense, which, good. It can't be healthy for someone his age to carry that much stress in his shoulders.
Regardless, after just a second the rigidity is back in every line of the kid's body, and this is probably going to be significantly harder than he'd originally expected it to be. Makes sense that the kid would develop some trust issues, but Clint had hoped he'd be left out of the scrutiny; an unlikely dream considering the rather prominent role he played in the whole we-think-Daredevil-is-a-pedophile fiasco that wasn't really all that long ago.
“What do you want, Mr. Barton?” Peter asks in a pretty impressive deadpan, both with the facial expression and tone of voice. It’s especially impressive considering he’s still scratching behind Lucky’s ears.
“You're a friendly guy,” Clint starts, smiling a little at the way Peter preens under the praise. He's a good kid after all. “You're popular with the press. You’re popular with the people. And most importantly you're popular with the city's minor league.”
Peter furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head in a way that's half cute, half creepy, and entirely unnerving. “Minor league?”
“You know, the ones who deal with the general gritty city shit,” Clint explains with another friendly smile.
“Do you mean Mr. Cage?” Peter asks.”And Iron Fist?”
“Yeah, those two,” Clint agrees instantly, even though he's not entirely sure who the second guy is. “But mostly Daredevil.”
“He's not minor league, Mr. Barton,” Peter says in a tone that leaves him feeling thoroughly chastised in a way that usually only Tasha and Cap can manage. “None of them are. They've saved New York and the world, just like you have, and they’ve done it without any of the support you had. Why are you interested in Daredevil?”
“Bad choice of words,” Clint apologizes first and foremost because it's important to keep whatever amount of the kid's trust he has, and criticizing his friends isn’t the way to do that. “And funny you should ask. You see, the other night I was in Hell’s Kitchen and I just happened to run into good old Daredevil.”
The slightly unnerving and guarded demeanor drops from Peter in less than the blink of an eye, and he's suddenly got a mildly disgusted look on his face, which, huh?
“If you're trying to get him to sleep with you, don't ask me. Please? I’m not going to help you, and I don't want to hear about it,” Peter says, and that just about makes Clint’s brain leak out of his nose because, what.
“Uhh,” he tries, but the kid just plows right on through.
“I don't know if he's single. I won't text him to ask. He's my friend. He's got a lot of issues, and if you're really that interested about getting him in bed, Deadpool never shuts the hell up about it so go talk to him. If you don't want to talk to him then try asking Frank Castle. Or Jessica Jones. Or Sergeant Barnes. Or half of the damn city at this point. Shoot your shot, best of luck and all that, but leave me out of it.” Lucky’s ears perk up at the mention of his almost name, and Peter pets him with renewed vigor as the dog’s tail smacks against the floor audibly.
Clint just about chokes on his tongue because first of all, what in the hell had he just said to make the kid assume that he was looking for Daredevil for a hookup and second of all, “ Barnes? ”
Peter shrugs and turns back to paying attention to the dog in front of him, his effort rewarded with Lucky flopping over into his lap for belly rubs.
“Okay, well, as fascinating as this topic is and as much as I’m going to enjoy harassing him about that-- hey wait-- does that mean he knew who Daredevil was during the whole… Thing a while back?”
Peter tenses back up; clearly mentioning the Thing was a bad move.
“I’d assume so,” Peter answers mechanically, glaring at the floor but otherwise continuing to pay as much attention as humanly possible to the dog in front of him.
“And he didn’t… turn him in over it?”
“Maybe he wasn’t as blind and moronic as the rest of you,” Peter snaps. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Ms. Romanov knew too.”
Good God does Clint want to hear more about this. He wants to figure out every detail and lord it over Barnes for the rest of the guy’s unnaturally long life. He wants to see just how many shades of red Stars and Stripes would turn over hearing about his bestie’s indiscretions, but above all that he needs an in to work with Daredevil.
“Look, as much as I’d love to learn about everything you just said in excruciating detail, I promise I’m not looking to hook up with Daredevil. I just need his… permission for something,” Clint says, trying to steer the conversation back on the vague and nebulous track it had originally been on.
“What do you need his permission for? You’re a pro; he’s just minor league ,” Peter snarks back, and Clint actually has to pause and wonder if that attitude is from Tony, Daredevil, or one of the other bad influences the kid hangs around with.
“I have a job I need to do in Hell’s Kitchen,” Clint explains, deciding to throw aside his pride in favor of maybe getting a chance to do what he needs to do. “And Daredevil wasn’t happy the last time I tried. So I need his permission to work in his neighborhood. I’ll need one night, tops. Then I’ll be out of his territory until he says I can come back.”
Peter stares at him with narrowed eyes for a second that stretches out for an uncomfortably long time before finally speaking. “No.”
“I--” No? Damn, he thought the kid would at least talk to Daredevil about it. He’d never expected Peter to be the harder wall to get through when it came to team red spandex. “Okay, why not?”
“Because you’re an assassin, Mr. Barton,” the kid says simply. “You’re government sanctioned, but that doesn’t change how Daredevil feels about murder. He doesn’t even let W- Deadpool kill in the Kitchen, and Deadpool’s his-- uh-- sorry, but I’m not gonna go to him asking him to let an acquaintance kill on his turf.”
There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence, and one of those things is his way in.
“Well, lucky for both of us, I’m not trying to kill anyone,” Clint replies with a smile. “I’m trying to steal something.”
Peter tilts his head. “What are you trying to steal?”
“That's classified.” Sorry kid, that's something he really can't tell.
“So it's government sanctioned theft,” Peter replies.
“Again, classified,” Clint says a little bit apologetically.
Peter shrugs. “I mean, he's not gonna be friendly about it, but I'm meeting him tomorrow night if you want to come with. I don't get why you wouldn't just go behind his back and do it though.”
“It's about respecting his boundaries,” Clint explains with a smile. “I like to keep working relationships with other heroes.” Almost as much as he likes to keep all of his joints in functioning condition.
“What the fuck is he doing here?!” Daredevil hisses at Peter, hackles raised and looking damn ready to jump off the edge of the roof.
“Hi Double D!” Peter says with what must be a bright smile beneath the mask, just flat out ignoring every ounce of irritation the other hero is throwing off. “How are you?”
“I’d be better if you’d tell me why you brought the fucking narc with you,” Daredevil snaps, turning away from Peter to glare at Clint.
Clint chokes on his fucking spit. “ Narc?! ” Jesus fucking Christ, Daredevil did not just say that.
Peter chokes, on laughter rather than spit judging by the way his shoulders are shaking and his hand is pressed to the mouth of his mask.
“You fuckin’ heard me,” Daredevil says with his lip curled back in a snarl. “You need me to say it louder?”
“Yeah, maybe I do,” Clint says even though he heard just fine, tapping on his hearing aid to punctuate the sentence.
For some fucking reason that has Peter just wheezing , doubled over with his hands on his knees while Daredevil glares at the kid and hisses something Clint actually doesn’t catch.
“Okay, look Double D, I’m sorry for bringing the enemy onto your turf or whatever, but he said he has a job he needs to do in the Kitchen and he wanted to ask you for permission to be here before he came in,” Peter explains.
The look that puts on Daredevil’s face makes Clint fear for the continued safety of his nose.
“Before?” Daredevil scoffs. “I already kicked his ass for trying his shit here. Pretty sure I fucked up your shoulder good enough to keep you away longer.” The last part is clearly directed at Clint, but the guy doesn’t bother with changing where he’s facing. It’s a bit unnerving, just like most things about Daredevil are.
“Double D!” Peter scolds. “That’s not nice! You know he’s one of Mr. Stark’s people! That would be like… like me beating up like… I don’t have an example that fits. All of your friends are my friends too. And you don’t have all that many to choose from in the first place.”
Daredevil glares but doesn’t try to correct Peter. He must know not to argue the truth, at least in this case.
“I don’t want him working here, Spider-Man,” he says a bit more seriously.
“But why not? He’s not even going to kill anyone,” Peter argues back. Well, it’s less arguing, more puppy dog eyes and sad tone.
“Okay well, I’ll be the one who determines that. Besides, not killing doesn’t mean anything. He’s still working for the government to further their interests,” Daredevil says patiently. “And what have I told you about the government’s interests?”
Peter sighs, his shoulders shifting in the motion of a very emphatic eye roll. “That they coincide with the interests of the one percent and helping them is helping to change our democracy into an oligarchy.” The way he says it is so tired and mechanical that Clint has to wonder just how many times it’s been drilled into his head.
“Good kid,” Daredevil says, rubbing the top of Peter’s head in a way that would ruffle his hair if not for the mask.
“I wasn’t aware you were so… politically inclined,” Clint says, looking at Daredevil a little warily. To have kept a secret identity for this long, the guy must be somewhat competent, but Clint hadn’t expected him to be… smart. As rude as that sounds. After all, he does spend almost every night beating the shit out of people. Vigilantism isn’t exactly a field well-educated people tend to gravitate towards, and that’s before all the traumatic brain injuries.
“Have you paid attention to a single fucking thing I’ve done?” Daredevil asks.
“Well, no. Not particularly,” Clint answers honestly. He’s been aware that Daredevil is active, and that he beats up bad people, but he doesn’t pay attention to every detail about the bad people and why Daredevil may or may not have beef with them. “I know you beat the shit out of people.”
Daredevil takes a rather menacing step toward him before another red gloved hand, this one not belonging to Peter, lands on his shoulder to stop him.
“Aw, Red, what have I told you about playing nice with the other kids?” the newcomer asks, transitioning from a hand on the shoulder to pulling Daredevil into a chokehold and tugging on his horns with the other hand.
Daredevil retaliates with an elbow to the gut, but Deadpool only coos at him in return.
“Aww, you pulled your punch-- you never do that for me!”
“Fuck off,” Daredevil snaps, yanking away as soon as Deadpool loosens his grip in the slightest.
“I’m sorry, I’m making you look bad in front of the professional, aren’t I?” Deadpool apologizes unapologetically, reaching out for Daredevil’s horns and getting smacked away immediately.
“Can’t be too fuckin’ professional considering I kicked his ass the other night,” Daredevil mutters sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Professional as in I get paid for it. You guys do it for free-- except you, Deadpool. Sometimes you make a profit,” Clint replies.
Daredevil snarls at him and Deadpool pulls him back into the chokehold.
“Be nice or I’m sending you back to the pound,” Deadpool warns. “And you know they put down 90% of the animals that go through there.”
“They kill that many?” Peter asks, sounding just heartbroken as he stares at the other two thirds of team black and red, he’d forgotten about Daredevil’s somewhat recent wardrobe adjustment.
“Great job, Deadpool,” Daredevil snaps. “Now you made Spidey sad, and he’s gonna try and get m- my lawyer reform the entire New York animal shelter system.”
“Aw, don’t worry, Red. I’ll be sure to compensate Murdock for his services,” Deadpool says with a grin, and this time the elbow ends up in Deadpool’s jaw; the punch definitely not having been pulled if the crack it makes is anything to judge by.
“Cut it out, guys!” Peter whines almost petulantly. “There’s an Avenger right here .”
It’s hilarious, really. Clint has dealt individually with Spider-Man, Deadpool, and, as of the other day, Daredevil. They’re serious and scary respectively and in their own rights, but the three of them together is shaping up to form a much, much different picture. It’s a wonder that these three have managed to take down a single purse-snatcher, not to mention multiple major criminal enterprises when this is the intellectual level they function on when they’re all together.
“I still don’t think you’re professional,” Daredevil mutters, continuing with his refusal to even look in Clint’s general direction.
“More professional than you considering I get paid to do this. As I said, you bust your knuckles on the faces of half of Hell’s Kitchen for free,” Clint points out. And yeah it might not be the most diplomatic continuation of their conversation, but Daredevil isn’t even trying to be polite so why should he?
Daredevil’s lip curls back into a snarl at that, and this time it’s Peter’s turn to poke him as well as Deadpool tightening the chokehold.
“Stop that, Double D. Mr. Barton is going to do what he needs to do, okay? I’ll keep an eye on him and everything so you two can go and do whatever it is you need to do,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Aw, babychild,” Deadpool says, letting go of Daredevil so he can place a hand over his heart dramatically. “You’re growing up so fast . In that case, let’s go do my thing now.” Deadpool removes his arm from around Daredevil’s neck, instead wrapping a hand around his wrist. As he begins to tug him towards the edge of the roof, Daredevil slips away once again. Guy’s like a damn eel.
Deadpool groans but doesn’t reach out for Daredevil again. He must know the guy’s tolerance for bullshit after working with him for this long, so Clint takes that as a sign that he should stop messing with the guy as well.
“Spider-Man, I appreciate the offer, but if I let an Avenger ,” he spits the word with more disdain than Clint thinks he’s ever heard before, which is pretty impressive considering the amount of disdain he’s heard over the years, “work in my territory it’s going to set precedent that I don’t want to have to correct.”
“Then come with us,” Peter says like it’s the simplest answer in the world. “If you’re there, then it’s a team-up and not someone working on your territory. Simple enough, right?”
Daredevil doesn’t quite seem convinced by this, but a solid minute of uninterrupted staring on Peter’s part (and possibly Daredevil’s too, it’s not like Clint can see his eyes through the lenses of his mask, actually he can’t see through Peter’s either. Maybe neither of them are staring), Daredevil eventually sighs and lets a tiny bit of the tension free from his shoulders.
“ Fine ,” he bites out. “Deadpool, we’ll do your shit tomorrow. I want him out of here as soon as possible.”
“You’re prioritizing him over me? I’m wounded ,” Deadpool gasps, clutching both hands to his chest and stumbling back a few feet and nearly off the edge of the roof.
“No, he’s prioritizing getting rid of Mr. Barton over you,” Peter corrects, his sadness about the shelter animals seemingly forgotten as he shoots out a web to yank Deadpool away from the edge and keep him from falling.
“ Red ~” Deadpool gasps. “Is he right? You want me around more than you want him around?”
“I don’t want any of you around,” Daredevil deadpans. “I want to go back to when the rest of the heroes were smart enough to avoid me. I never meant to adopt this many strays.”
“But here we are,” Deadpool says, throwing an arm around Peter’s shoulders and yanking him close enough that he can put his other arm around Clint’s shoulders.
It’s alarming, to say the least, to have one of the most prolific hitmen in the city, hell, in the country hanging onto him like that. But Clint’s being civil, so rather than shove the guy away, he throws his arm around Deadpool too.
“Your strays and whatever the hell this one is. A pigeon on your windowsill, probably,” Deadpool continues, tapping on Clint’s shoulder as he makes his bird comparison.
“I'm going to call animal control on you,” Daredevil deadpan, earning himself a sad sound from Peter.
“But Double D,” the kid whines softly. “I thought we were friends?”
“Fuck you,” Daredevil says without any force behind it before sighing in a tired way that reminds Clint of how Steve gets when he has to put up with some of the Avenger’s dumber shit. “Alright, Hawkeye. Tell me what we’re doing.”
“Well, the kid was telling the truth when he said I’m not killing anyone. It’s less of a hit, more of a heist,” Clint explains. “All I need to do is sneak in, reappropriate some government property, and sneak out. Ideally I do it without coming into contact with any of the bad guys, but if I do, then it’s up to me whether or not I choose to use lethal force. I’m more than happy to respect your wishes and keep it to major bodily harm at worst.”
Daredevil tilts his head, possibly in consideration, for just a moment before straightening it back out. “What are we stealing?” he asks.
“Well, unfortunately that’s classified,” Clint answers with a forced smile and a shrug.
Daredevil appears unamused, as do his so-called ‘strays’. It’s unnerving the way they all manage to go from happy-go-lucky to scary as hell at the drop of a hat, but then again most heroes can codeswitch like that. Deadpool in particular is well known for it.
“What are we stealing,” he says again, and this time it’s harder. Less inquisitive, more demanding. Almost like he knows the answer to the question but wants Clint to confess anyway. It’s freaky as hell, that omnipotence that’s hopefully just a trick of Clint’s own brain.
Clint weighs the benefits and detriments in his mind. On the plus side, Daredevil isn’t the type to blab to the media- at least he doesn’t think so. The guy seems like a pretty private hero from what he recalls hearing in the past (which is just about nothing). On the other hand, the answer to the question might piss Daredevil off to no end. But the guy’s already pissed off, so really the question is this: will he be angrier knowing the truth about their country’s incompetence or angrier with being lied to about it? Clint doesn’t know the guy super well, but judging off what he’s seen of the moral code Daredevil has begun to instill on Peter, he has a feeling that just telling the truth will have the best outcome.
“A weaponized strain of Ebola,” Clint says, and the resulting silence is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Even through the mask Clint can tell that Peter looks horrified. Deadpool looks grim, and Daredevil looks ready to get as close to murder as possible.
“Weaponized Ebola,” he says.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Clint replies.
“Who are we stealing it from?” Daredevil asks plainly. The ‘we’ is a good sign-- at least that means he’s still planning on working with him to resolve the issue.
“A terrorist organization,” Clint replies with a shrug, and Daredevil takes a step forward.
“ Which terrorist organization?”
“Just some up and coming group,” Clint tries, keeping his voice even and his breathing level.
“You’re lying ,” Daredevil snarls, only stopping his advance forward because Deadpool lays a hand on his shoulder. Maybe the omnipotence isn’t just an illusion.
“You can’t lie to him,” Deadpool says seriously. “So better just tell us what we need to know so we can fix your mistake before people die.”
Clint weighs his options again. Disclose top secret information to people who are all technically wanted criminals, or face the consequences of refusing to tell them? If they aren’t communicating well because of this tension, the op could go south and someone could die-- Tony’s prodigy child being a possible casualty. The choice is easy to make.
“It’s a splinter cell of HYDRA,” he admits finally. “They still have some people on the inside, and this group was laying low in the CDC in Atlanta. They were keeping everything lowkey after you guys dealt with their old colleague-- zombie guy. We don’t think they intend to unleash it anytime soon; we just know that they have it. And since we’re sure it’s here, it’s a good time to take it back.”
Daredevil stares at him with his head tilted in that, bizarre, creepy way, and Clint can see the way Deadpool tightens his hold on the guy’s shoulder.
“So we’re taking a biological weapon away from terrorists who used to be part of our government-- let’s be honest, who were our government-- and returning it to our current government who manufactured it in the first place . Am I getting all of that right?” Daredevil hisses, and Clint really can’t blame him. His reasoning is… spot on. It’s all true, every word he said.
“Yeah, I don’t like it either, but I trust our government now more than I trust HYDRA,” Clint answers, and it’s true. He has to believe in something after all, or else there’s no point in fighting at all.
“So you’d rather have weaponized ebola released on innocents in Pakistan than innocents in America. Is there a reason you value their lives less than ours?” Daredevil asks, and Clint doesn’t have the faintest fucking clue how to answer that.
He’s heard Steve rant about this sort of shit, but he’s never been on the receiving end of the rant; it’s usually directed at whatever Fox News anchor was dumb enough to grace the TV screen with their presence.
“Daredevil,” Peter says softly, but loud enough for Clint to hear, before going silent again. Daredevil tilts his head in the kid’s direction anyway, and gives a slight nod a minute later. It’s weird, but Clint’s not about to call him on anything.
“Fine,” Daredevil finally says. “Lead the way so we can fix your mistakes.”
They aren’t Clint’s personal mistakes, but again, not calling Daredevil out on these sort of things is definitely the best plan of action for the time being. All it would do is cause unnecessary fighting, even if pissing off the guy is probably not going to end with bodily harm, so long as Peter’s there. It’s a little funny; an internationally revered superhero only trusting in his safety because of the presence of a teenager who talks in 70% pop culture references and 30% voice cracks.
“Sure thing. You guys all good with hopping some roofs?” Clint asks, because better safe than sorry.
“The fuck do you think?” Daredevil shoots back. The guy’s got the attitude of a wet cat and morals stronger than diamond; no wonder he managed to (allegedly) get a home run with Barnes. That’s exactly the guy's type if Natasha and Steve’s stories are to be trusted.
Clint takes that as a yes and heads over to the edge of the roof, taking a deep breath before jumping over to the next one, close enough that a running start isn’t necessary. After the tension of interacting with Daredevil and Co. it’s somewhat relaxing to lose himself in the rhythm of swinging over guard rails and vaulting up fire escapes. After less than a minute it becomes abundantly apparent that Daredevil still has his territoriality issues, if the way he’s no more than a foot away from the person who’s supposed to be leading him is anything to judge by. Clint does manage to stay in the lead the whole time, but it’s a bit freaky the way Daredevil seems to be able to predict which turns he’s going to take, even when he tries his best to throw the guy off, as rude as that may be. Another tally in the box for the guy’s power being some sort of precognition.
They do finally get to a point where the gap between buildings seem slightly too far to jump, but while Clint sensibly slows to a halt, Daredevil picks up the pace and flings himself across the ten story drop. Clint’s sure he’s about to see the hero of Hell’s Kitchen turned into a mess of broken bones and spinal fluid on the sidewalk, but what he sees instead is Peter wordlessly swinging in and shoving Daredevil mid-air to get him that last few feet he needs to not end up splattered in an alleyway.
Deadpool comes to a stop beside Clint, breathing just a bit heavier than he would’ve expected.
“I swear to fucking Christ, Red,” he mutters under his breath before calling out a, “What about us, Spidey? We can’t make that jump either, and we sure as fuck ain’t stupid enough to try it!”
Clint swears he can hear the kid sigh from the other side of the abyss as he shoots a web and swings back over to their side of the divide.
“This is like that Poptropica island,” he says with a sigh. “But I’m not sure which one of you to kin assign to the chicken, the fox, or the bag of food.”
Clint’s not even going to pretend to understand any of that.
“I know two of those words,” Deadpool says. “And I don’t like either of them.”
“Which two?” Peter asks curiously.
As soon as Deadpool opens his mouth to respond, there’s a sharp “ No! ” from the other building.
“You say what I think you’re about to say and I’ll disembowel you,” Daredevil threatens.
“Promise?” Deadpool asks. He’s probably trying to seem somewhat cool, but any illusion of that is absolutely destroyed by the yelp that comes when Peter suddenly grabs him and just fucking throws him across the gap.
There’s something slightly unnerving about being reminded of the sheer, inhuman strength in Peter’s skinny little arms.
“Don’t worry Mr. Barton,” the kid says, ignoring Deadpool’s creative swearing. “I won’t throw you.”
No, instead he just grabs him under the arm and swings them off the edge of the building onto the next one without the slightest warning. Judging by the look on Daredevil’s face, Clint didn’t manage to silence his own sound of surprise as well as he thought he did.
Daredevil tilts his head to the side a little before snapping it around a few different directions in rather violent, jerky motions. Neither of the other two seem at all alarmed by this behavior, so Clint tries not to be either.
“That one, right?” Daredevil asks, pointing to a building behind him without even looking over his shoulder.
Sure enough, it’s the same boring brick building Clint’s been keeping tabs on for days.
“How in the hell did you--”
“It’s better if you don’t get an answer to that question,” Peter says. “You don’t need to be overthinking everything right before we go kick some terrorist ass.”
How horribly cryptic.
“Alright, might as well strategize here. Tell us what we need to know,” Daredevil says, cracking his neck and then his knuckles.
“Well, ideally we get the pathogen and keep it contained. Even more ideally we do it without them knowing we were there at all,” Clint says, narrowing his eyes at the scoff he gets at that last bit.
“That’ll be hard to do, you sure you got what it takes?”
“It’s my op. I wouldn’t have been assigned it if I didn't have what it takes,” Clint reminds, not entirely bothering to mask the irritation in his voice at Daredevil’s lack of faith in his abilities.
“Fair enough,” comes the response, accompanied by a shrug. “Deadpool, Spidey, mind causing a distraction?”
Deadpool clutches his chest in yet another show of melodrama. “Red, you know I was born to perform.”
“Sure,” Daredevil says, and Clint can’t help but snort slightly at just how dismissive he sounds.
“We’ll do it,” Peter assures, setting a hand on Daredevil’s shoulder for just a second before looking over to Deadpool.
“Race you down to the street,” Deadpool says a quarter of a second before jumping off the edge of the roof.
Clint’s heart jumps into his throat, but Spidey just groans and shoots a web down to catch Deadpool before he can smack against the pavement. If that’s the sort of behavior the kid is around when he works with this crew, Clint really can’t blame Tony for the recent increase in his alcohol dependence.
With Peter and Deadpool both out of sight, but certainly not out of mind, Clint turns back to Daredevil.
“So how will we know when they’re ready for us?”
“They’re causing a distraction,” Daredevil says. “If they do their job then we’ll be able to hear it when they start.”
Sure enough, two minutes later a car alarm starts blaring. Followed by another. And another. And another.
Soon all Clint can hear is a horrible symphony of car alarms, all slightly different in pitch and timing so that there's truly never a seconds break from the noise. The only thing that breaks the consistent, hellish noise is a loud crash followed by Deadpool screaming, “ You'll never take me alive! ”
“Is that the distraction?” Clint asks, getting nothing more than a derisive huff in response, but considering Daredevil makes a move for their target building he's going to assume it was a yes.
Within all the commotion Deadpool and Peter are causing, Clint could almost swear he hears a cat yowl like when a fight happens off-screen in an old cartoon, but he doesn’t have long to process this before Daredevil is snapping his fingers at him and gesturing to an unguarded door on the roof of the building.
Well, a door that looks unguarded from the outside at least.
Clint follows behind Daredevil as they approach the door, stopping when Daredevil holds up a hand. He stills for just a moment before picking up an old beer can off the ground and throwing it at the door full force.
If Clint had less self restraint he might make a comment along the lines of ‘so much for stealth’, but by the time he would’ve been able to get it out, Daredevil has already knocked out both guards that stormed out of the door; hitting them both with the exact same gorgeous kick. Even with all his training, Clint would be hard-pressed to knock out two men with one blow, and Daredevil does it like it’s easy. He’s definitely starting to get what Barnes might’ve seen in the guy.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare like a moron or are you going to help me tie them up?” Daredevil says, but rather than outright snapping at Clint he only sounds mildly irritated. That’s certainly an improvement.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your horns in a twist,” he says, coming to kneel by the unconscious bodies and disarm them while Daredevil does all of the actual restraining. The guy certainly knows how to tie knots.
Daredevil actually snorts at that joke, and damned if that doesn’t make Clint feel… accomplished maybe? It certainly makes him feel something.
“Most of their men are paying attention to what’s going on out on the street,” Daredevil announces suddenly, standing up from where he’s finished restraining their bad guys. “Only two have gone out there, but I want to finish this up and get out before too many end up out there shooting at Spider-Man.”
“Just worried about Spidey? That’s cold,” Clint says with a crooked smile.
“You’re right. If they hit Deadpool then I’ll have to listen to him bitch about all the repairs he has to do to his suit.”
Clint snorts at the deadpan humor and ejects the magazines from the guns as well as unchambering the round before tossing the guns off the edge of the roof.
“Anyone inside that we need to worry about?”
Daredevil tilts his head for a second in what looks like confusion, and Clint’s about to clarify his question when Daredevil replies.
“Not as long as you stay behind me and follow my cues.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Clint does, in fact, manage that. He follows Daredevil through the dark, labyrinthine hallways scattered with all sorts of detritus that the man seems to be able to navigate effortlessly. Clint finds himself with a hand on the shoulder or side every time he’s about to walk into something which could make a noise and give away their position to any of the number of guards patrolling the area.
It’s amazing, really. Clint’s sure that there are guards. There are scattered chairs, still smoking cigarettes left in ashtrays, and the occasional footstep, but thanks to Daredevil’s guidance that’s the most he ever sees of them. He’s racking up points in Clint’s guess of omnipotence as his power with every passing second as they snake their way through the building.
Daredevil comes to an abrupt halt at the bottom of a staircase; unfortunately it’s just a little bit too abrupt and Clint smacks straight into him, sending them both stumbling through the simple push door where they land in a nice pile on the floor.
Clint looks up and instantly locks eyes with a stunned looking man all decked out in black with almost as many guns on each of them as Barnes has in his damn Winter Soldier get up.
“Sorry..?” he tries.
“I hate you,” Daredevil says, completely deadpan just before flinging his baton at the nearest light switch and plunging them into complete darkness.
All of his intel gathering has told Clint that these guys are highly trained professionals, however, they did just have Daredevil fall through their door and turn off the lights; a situation that would have most anyone panicking.
With this knowledge at the front of his mind, Clint makes the split-second decision to hide behind one of the large metal lab tables just before the shooting starts up.
Clint has fantastic eyesight. It’s what gave him his name; it’s how he’s survived as long as he has. But even with all that hype, there’s only so much he can reasonably do when the only light is from the muzzles of guns and bullets are ricocheting everywhere. That being said, just because he’s not doing gymnastics and kicking guns out of hands like Daredevil, that doesn’t mean he’s being completely idle.
Once his eyes have adjusted as much as they’re going to with these lighting conditions, Clint makes sure to stay low to the ground. That doesn’t mean he’s just going to hide and wait for Daredevil to carry his ass through this fight, oh no.
Instead, while Daredevil’s busy drawing the attention and the gunfire, Clint starts picking off the guys further back, choking them out one by one until Daredevil drops the final guy and the only sounds are those of people groaning in pain.
“Thanks for helping out,” Daredevil says, his footsteps falling at an odd pace as he steps around and over bodies before flicking the light switch back on. “People usually lose their shit when I turn off the lights.”
“I’ve got good eyes,” Clint replies, stretching out his shoulder a little as he looks around and clocks the damage done to the room. “And judging by how you were fighting, your eyes must be fucking amazing.”
“Wow, Hawkeye, buy me dinner first,” Daredevil deadpans, the corner of his mouth ticking upward just slightly.
Clint snorts and rolls his eyes, delivering his response in the same disinterested tone. “I’m starting to understand why Barnes was into you.”
“The sparkling personality,” Daredevil says in agreement before tilting his head toward the other side of the room.
Clint follows behind and watches as he crouches down by a strange metal contraption that takes an extra moment to assert itself as a refrigerator in Clint’s mind thanks to the bizarre locking mechanism on the front.
“Shit,” Clint says, because although he can crack most safes (given enough time) this shit looks like an absolute nightmare. But before he can offer up a second word, Daredevil’s swinging the thing wide open and reaching inside.
“Be careful! You have no idea what could be in there,” Clint scolds, grabbing Daredevil’s wrist.
“Hopefully Ebola,” Daredevil says, staring at Clint blankly, which, alright fair. That is pretty much the worst thing that could be in there, and it’s what they’re hoping is inside. “But if you want to do the honor of grabbing it, be my guest.”
After Daredevil takes a step back, Clint looks inside the fridge to see two locked metal boxes plastered in all sorts of warnings.
“It’s Ebola alright.”
“Wonderful,” comes the response as Daredevil steps back.
Huh. At least the terrorists are thorough with the labeling, Clint thinks just before everything goes black.
Clint wakes up in a hospital bed with a pounding headache and a handcuff on one wrist.
He groans and moves his free hand up to his face, guarding his eyes at the fluorescent hospital lights that somehow manage to burn their way through his eyelids.
“Rough night?” comes a voice from near the door, and Clint jolts upright, looking towards the source of the sound.
There’s a man in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, definitely not the expensive shit that Tony wears, but still on the slightly nicer side of department store fashion.
“Should I be asking for my lawyer?” Clint asks, jangling the handcuff on his wrist for good measure.
“Not if you have a good explanation for why we found you unconscious with a bunch of terrorists,” the man says, taking a step away from where he’s been leaning up against the wall, the badge hanging around his neck swaying slightly.
“Fucking Daredevil,” Clint groans, bringing his hand back to his face and smacking it on his forehead. “Oh fuck-- where’s the Ebola?!”
“Ebola? Oh what the hell,” the man mutters, pulling his phone out of his pocket and walking out into the hallway.
Almost the second he leaves, Clint hears his own phone ping loudly with a text message. He jolts at the sound, not having expected it considering the cops are usually smart enough to remember to take away communication means from possible terrorists. Then again he is an Avenger, so this is probably more of a formality than an actual arrest.
Pulling out his own phone to check who exactly texted him, Clint is met by a picture sent from a number he doesn’t have saved. Upon opening them he sees that it’s a low quality selfie. Deadpool is undeniably the one holding the phone, offering up a peace sign from the lower right corner as he just barely gets two more people in frame: Spider-Man, Daredevil. Actually upon closer inspection it appears to be three people; Clint just didn’t happen to notice the third one since they’re literally on fire , and that isn’t something people tend to do. All of them are giving double thumbs up to the camera, so Deadpool’s peace sign isn’t completely out of place. Clint’s mildly disturbed staring is interrupted by another text coming through.
3:17 AM
(212)-070-9017: just wanted to let you know that we handled it! Sorry to turn on you at the last moment but DD threw a bitch fit at the idea of the fucking government getting their hands at that shit, so we had a friend fry the fuck out of it! (in a lab setting don’t worry. We didn't just light that shit up in public like a joint). Anyway DD wanted to apologize. Said he thinks he hit you harder than he meant to, and that he’ll make it up to you. He’ll get your number from spidey and hit you up eventually.
Clint stares at the message, reads it over and over again, yet the only words he can get his mouth to form are, “What the fuck.” This time it’s defeated rather than confused.
He saves the number under Deadpool.