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Clint Barton aged 11 years, 2 months and 16 days, stares at the endless blanket of stars that stretch out across the Iowa night sky. He’s got a book about space tucked away in his back pack, a gift for his 11th birthday and the last thing his mother had ever given him.
“Did you know that sailors could use the stars to guide themselves home?” Clint tells Barney. “And do you know that it takes millions of years for the light to reach us, so when we look at the stars it’s like looking back in time?”
His brother isn’t looking at the stars though, instead he’s got a map and a torch and he’s plotting their way to the outskirts of Des Moines.
“Stop ya star gazing and help me,” Barney growls at him, scratching a line on the map he’d stolen from a bodega. He’s convinced the circus will take them in, two minors running from a parade of state sponsored foster homes. When the last place had wanted to separate them they’d made their plans and run.
Clint sits up and moves over to his brother, pulls down the edge of the map that’s being kicked up with the wind. Barney makes a few more lines and then sits back satisfied.
“If we walk all day tomorrow we’ll get there by sundown. Just let me do the talking,” his brother says. Clint doesn’t argue because Barney’s always had a way with words, got it from their father and if anyone could convince the circus to take in two broken kids it’s him.
Barney tucks the map away and both brothers huddle closer against the cold. Clint hugs his bag to his chest, feels the edge of his book peek out of the worn material. The night chill sweeps in but the stars are bright and blue-tinged and Clint knows they'll guide him home.
*****
12 years, 3 months and 19 days after two boys join the circus, Clint stares at the same gorgeous stretch of night sky from atop his very own trailer. He lost his book long ago but the facts still swirl around in his mind and on quiet nights he can almost hear his mother’s voice reading to him softly about the stars. This isn’t a quiet night though.
“Hey! My wallet!” A voice yells from the crowd of circus goers below.
Clint pops his head up over the side of the trailer and sees someone in a red hoodie running through the crowd, a man in a black suit giving chase.
Before he thinks about it he’s jumped from the trailer, bow and arrow in hand and is dashing through the main alley after the thief. The man in the hoodie is making for the main entrance, trying to use the crowded thoroughfare as cover. Clint has the advantage of knowing the layout though. The thief is running against the flow of people, following a path that twists around trailers and booths but Clint knows where there’s a gap in the tents between the ball toss and strength tester because Skinny Will who runs the ball toss likes to sneak out and smoke. He ducks between them, Skinny Will yelling at him and keeps running towards the front entrance that leads out into the car park and beyond.
Clint tries his best to dodge innocent patrons as he goes but a few corn dogs bite the dust. The stranger is fast and even with his shortcut Clint thinks he’s going to be left behind soon if something doesn’t change. He makes the decision and reaches over his shoulder to pull an arrow out of his quiver. The thief has made it to the sandy field that’s operating as the makeshift car park, moving impossibly fast down the line of parked cars, weaving in and out. The forest line is half a mile away and if he reaches the edge there’s no way Clint will find him amongst the trees.
The archer grits his teeth and scrambles up the hood of an old pick up to give himself enough height and then sets his feet and lines up the shot. The arrow is swift and silent, striking the ground right underneath the thief causing him to trip and fall, sending the wallet tumbling out of his hands and underneath the chassis of a white Toyota.
The thief looks back at Clint, eyes wide in shock at the unexpected projectile and maybe its Clint’s imagination but did he just blink sideways?
“What in the world?” Clint huffs. The thief casts one last longing look towards the wallet before deciding better of it, bouncing up and dashing towards the tree line. Clint lets him go, dismounting the truck and making his way to the white Toyota to fish out the old leather, picking up his arrow as he passes.
He gets a round of applause when he walks back towards the main tent, the crowd hooting and hollering as if it was all part of the show. The man in the suit smiles at him when he hands over the wallet.
“That was quite impressive,” the man says, tucking it safely back in his suit pocket.
“It was okay,” Clint ducks his head shyly. “Hopefully you stick around and watch the show; we got a few more tricks.”
“Oh I will,” the man smiles politely. Clint shakes his hand and then hurries off to prepare for his act. The ringmaster hates it when he’s late.
“What you do that for?” Barney yells at him later in their trailer.
“What do you mean?” Clint thought he’d done well; hell a few people had even asked for his autograph which led to Clint awkwardly scrawling his stage name across the front page of the circus program.
Barney is angry though and he throws his own quiver harshly against the wall.
“You got to make a choice Clinton, either you’re with us or you’re not.”
“And what does that mean?” Clint asks, reeling at his brother’s tone.
“It means you think we scrape by on what we take from the shows?” Barney growls. “You think that pays for living on the road? Food? Fuel? Repairs to the trucks? You’ve always been a dreamer little brother. Soon you’re gonna have to choose – keep your head in the stars or live back down here with the rest of us.”
Barney storms out of the trailer, slamming the door as he goes and Clint is left there stunned.
When Barney comes back later that night he doesn’t say a word and Clint can’t find the courage to ask. Maybe he should have.
One month later Clint’s too busy pulling glue from a busted fletching to notice he’s walked into the wrong trailer.
“Barney?” he asks, eyes flicking from his brother to the large pile of cash on the table. He feels Jaques and Buck move behind him, hears the lock on the door click. Barney frowns.
“Well little brother. Looks like you need to make that choice.”
*****
With great effort Clint eases himself out of his hospital bed, wincing at the pain that shoots up his leg. In his uncoordinated state he manages to catch the back of his gown on the bed rail and guesses by the offended huff in the corner that he’s accidently flashed his roommate.
“Sorry,” he grunts, his jaw still swollen and slurring the word.
Leaning on the bed rail he bends down and repurposes an empty HAZMAT bag from the bin and begins shoving his few belongings into it.
The lack of light makes it hard to see but he doesn’t want to alert any wondering doctors about his escape plans. It’s not like he didn’t appreciate the patch up job and the pudding here is divine, but Clint’s got maybe twenty dollars to his name and no insurance to speak of. He’s not sure where he’s going to go but he’ll figure it out, he’s slept rough before.
He’s stepping into blood stained jeans when a tapping sound from his roommate makes him look up and Clint groans when he sees a shadow walking down the hallway. Hurriedly he shoves the bag with his belongings back in the bin (isn’t that a metaphor for his life) and then drags himself back on the bed, shoving his jean-clad legs under the sheets and grimacing again at the pain.
The new figure enters the room and heads straight for his bedside. Clint thinks about feigning unconsciousness but halts that plan when he realizes the visitor isn’t a doctor. He’s a vaguely familiar man in a plain black suit holding a bag full of something heavy at his side. Immediately Clint tenses, ready for flight. The mystery man pulls out the visitor chair and takes a seat by Clint’s bed.
“Good evening Mr Barton.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Clint mumbles. Maybe this guy is some kind of ambulance chaser. Clint has no money and even if he did he’s not pressing charges because…well, because.
“I’m not a lawyer Mr Barton. My name is Agent Coulson.”
Agent? Clint thinks, and then his heart stops because maybe Barney’s been doing more than petty theft. “Like a federal agent? Because I know nothing about-”
Agent Coulson clears his throat, effectively cutting Clint off and smiles a little, or at least Clint thinks so, his vision is still a bit blurry.
“I’m not that kind of agent,” he says a little smugly. “I have an offer for you Mr Barton, when you’re feeling better of course.”
Well, Clint thinks, that doesn’t sound ominous. Agent Coulson reaches into his jacket pocket and Clint tenses but the man simply pulls out his wallet. It’s an old black leather thing and suddenly Clint knows why this guy looks so familiar.
“It’s you.” Clint accuses, “you’re the guy who got his wallet stolen back in Iowa.”
“Yes, and you got it back for me. From a Sephlapoid no less.”
“A what?”
The agent opens his wallet and plucks out a small white business card, handing it to Clint. “When you’re all better I’d like to speak to you about a job opportunity.”
Clint inspects the card, fumbling with clumsy fingers. On the front are the initials MIB, no name or number but on the back is a street address. 403 Battery Park.
“So what, I just turn up?”
“Yes.”
Clint can’t feel his face but he’s pretty sure his eyebrows are raised in a ‘what the hell’ expression. “Look,” he begins, “I appreciate the offer but-”
“Oh no, no problem at all,” Agent Coulson grins; standing and placing the bag he brought on Clint’s hospital tray. “I also brought you pudding, the caramel kind here is wonderful and I’ve taken the liberty of handling all your medical bills. Consider it a thank you.”
“Uhhh,” is Clint’s intelligent reply. Unbothered, Agent Coulson smoothes down his suit and checks his watch.
“It’s been a pleasure Mr Barton, I look forward to seeing you when you’ve recovered.” And then he’s gone, leaving Clint looking at the space he once occupied in stunned silence.
“I’d take the job,” the old guy in the next bed grunts. “You gonna share those puddings?”
*****
Twenty six days later Clint is discharged from the hospital all expenses paid and a business card burning a hole in his back pocket.
“Well,” he sighs, “not like I got anything else to do.”
403 Battery Park is a large white stone building with absolutely no windows and only one door. It looks exactly like the kind of building a shady government agency might occupy and Clint spends twenty minutes standing outside frowning at it. When no one comes to arrest the weird guy with a bow and arrows on his back, he figures he might as well walk in.
The lobby turns out to be empty, save for a single guard nose deep in The Daily Bugle sports section, a table and an elevator at the end of the hallway.
“Uh hi.” Clint says to the guard. “I’m here for a job interview?”
The guard, who doesn’t bother to look up from his newspaper, grunts. “Put your weapon on the table and proceed to the elevator.” He tells Clint and his head bobs a little towards the only other piece of furniture in the space.
Sitting on the table is a silver tray with five handguns, magazines removed. Clint checks for some kind of hook or stand, something to hang his bow on but the only thing on the table is the tray. He shrugs and pulls his bow and quiver off his shoulder and then tries to balance them on the small tabletop. A few arrows fall out, clattering as they hit the floor so he scoops them up and tucks them back in the quiver. When it’s all balanced he goes to stand in front of the elevator, chancing a look back to make sure his weapon hasn’t fallen off the table. The guard has broken away from his paper and is staring befuddled at his bow.
“Take care of that!” Clint calls as the elevator doors close.
The elevator descends smoothly, so smoothly in fact that Clint doesn’t think it goes anywhere at all until the doors open to reveal a room similar to the hallway with all white panels and polished floors. Inside are six pod shaped chairs and in five of them are various men and women dressed in military uniforms. A bald man with glasses and the same black suit as Agent Coulson stands at the front.
“Mr Barton, we’ve been waiting for you.” The agent says, giving him an unimpressed look over and Clint is suddenly very aware of his faded bruises and coffee stained shirt.
“I uhh….sorry I’m late?” Clint offers and sheepishly takes the empty seat. He would feel bad but he’s pretty sure this isn’t how most job interviews go…then again he ran away to the circus when he was 11 so what does he know?
The agent in charge clears his throat and taps his pen against a clipboard.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending. I am Agent Sitwell and I’ll be running you through the process today. Now before we begin we just have some preliminary paperwork to get sorted.” Agent Sitwell moves around the room handing out paper and pens. Clint takes his and begins to read.
“Uh, sir?” Clint asks, unsure if he should raise his hand or not. “Where it says primary residence, is that like, where I’m staying right now? Because the circus didn’t really have an address, and then I was at the hospital and my motel is only good till….” Clint trails off at Agent Sitwell’s stone-faced look. “I’ll um, I’ll just put my motel down,” the archer mumbles and turns back to his papers.
The room remains quiet, save for the scratching of pen on paper.
“Uh, Sir?”
“Yes, Mr Barton.” Agent Sitwell does not look pleased.
“Where it says highest level of education, your check boxes only start at High School level. What if I didn’t quite get…” Clint stops again at Agent Sitwell’s glare. “You know what, I’m just gonna round up.” Clint waves the question off and goes back to his paper. He manages to answer the next few questions fine…
“Sir?”
“What now Mr Barton!?” Agent Sitwell growls, whirling around to glare at the archer. Even the other recruits pause in their paperwork.
Clint grins sheepishly. “My pen ran out?”
After that amazing first impression Agent Sitwell herds them down another long white corridor. It gives Clint another chance to eye the pristine uniforms of the other recruits and he only feels a little self-conscious that his sneakers are held together by tape. It’s a short walk before they arrive at a shooting range and Clint gawks at the size of it. It’s larger than the main tent at Carson’s, a cavernous space that seems to go on forever and Clint wonders how on earth this fits under the building. Apparently so do the other recruits.
“This is not on any Army record!?”
“What kind of weapons are you firing down here?”
Agent Sitwell does not answer their questions but points to a table set out by the firing line. It’s the same table from the lobby and their weapons are still there including his bow and quiver balanced precariously.
“This next simulation will test your reaction time in the heat of battle. Ladies and gentlemen please take your weapons and walk to the line.” Sitwell orders.
Clint’s pretty sure he’s already bombed the interview but he’s not going to turn down a chance to shoot. He walks to the table and picks up his quiver, slinging it over a shoulder and takes his bow. Weapon in hand he moves to a mark on the firing line, knocks an arrow and waits…
…and waits some more.
He turns, wondering if he’d missed something but finds the other five recruits staring at him incredulously, weapons still on the table.
“I uh, I don’t like guns...” Clint explains, as if it’s that simple.
The others continue to stare.
“At the ready,” Sitwell barks, finally spurring a flurry of movement as the other recruits claim and load their weapons. They take their positions at the line and the room is plunged into darkness. Clint takes a breath and pulls back on the bowstring.
The siren sounds and suddenly the room is full of targets, large monstrous things that look like a child’s nightmare. The targets are moving, weaving in out of smoke screens and flashing lights and emitting high pitched noises that Clint can feel in his teeth. It’s not enough to put him off though, Clint trained in a circus after all and he makes the shots easily.
“Time!” Sitwell calls and the lights come back on. He takes his clipboard and starts walking down the line, calling out the scores as he goes.
“Nine out of ten, eight out of ten, nine out of ten, nine out of ten.” He reaches Clint and looks down the range to where the arrows are embedded in the cardboard targets. “Nine out of ten,” he says somewhat grudgingly.
“Uh, actually,” Clint says. “I hit all ten.”
Agent Sitwell frowns at him and then points to the last target. It had been the hardest of the lot with a cartoonish spiky green monster holding a man hostage. There had been barely anything to aim at, the green body hidden behind its human shield so Clint had to think creatively.
“There’s no arrow in that one.” Agent Sitwell argues.
“Check the back.” Clint urges, because he’s sure.
Sitwell sighs and walks down the range. He reaches the last target, unclips it from its wire and turns it around and…there’s an arrow in the back, center mass.
Clint is suddenly aware that everyone’s attention is back on him and he fidgets nervously.
“Boomerang arrow,” he shrugs.
*****
“He’s good,” Coulson says looking at the video feed from the range. “No one’s ever scored ten out of ten before.”
“He’s a carnival act.” Director Fury scoffs. “A bow and arrow isn’t exactly subtle.”
“He’s unconventional but he’ll pass all the tests. Hell, I saw the kid chase down a sephlapoid. Plus he’s got something more valuable than a perfect military record. The kid’s got heart.” Coulson argues, watching the screen whilst the archer walks down the range to pull out his arrows from the targets and pop them back in his quiver. “And look he recycles!”
Fury rubs at his temple and sighs. “I can feel the headache coming on already.”
*****
After the tests, Coulson pulls him aside from the group and takes him to the park for hot dogs.
Clint takes a large bite out of his chili dog with the lot, swallows it down almost without chewing and says, “So, you want me to join a covert government agency that monitors and polices alien activity and keeps it a secret from the public?”
“Yes.” Coulson says, tucking a napkin in his shirt collar before taking a more sensible sized bite of his hot dog.
“And everything before this, it will be like I never existed. Even to my- to the people that knew me.”
“Yes.”
Clint nods but doesn’t say anything else. Coulson doesn’t push him, just sits and eats in the quiet but efficient way he seems to do everything. When he’s finished he gets up and stretches, the lines of his suit still pristine and unwrinkled.
“Well I’ve got some work to do. I’ll give you until tomorrow morning, ten o’clock to decide.” And then just like that he’s walking off again.
“Hey wait, Coulson!” Clint calls to him, still sitting on the bench with mustard on his fingers. “Do I have to wear the suit?”
Clint sits on the bench till dusk, eyes the stars that twinkle between passing clouds and even with the pollution and city lights they feel close enough to touch. In the end it’s an easy choice.
When he arrives back at the big stone building at 10am, he’s unsurprised to find Agent Coulson waiting for him outside. He is however surprised to see him holding a small dog under one arm.
“I’m in.” Clint says in greeting.
“Excellent.” Coulson beams and then shoves the dog at Clint. “Hold this and come with me.”
Clint absentmindedly pats the dog whilst Coulson types a code into the elevator panel. The machine dings and then begins to repel down, keeps going down for a lot longer than Clint feels any normal elevator ride from street level should. When it finally stops, the doors don’t open right away.
Instead Coulson takes a moment, adjusts his tie and clears his throat before he hits the side panel and releases the doors.
Clint almost drops the dog. He was expecting some kind of office, maybe with cubicles and fancy computers. He was not expecting…this. Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him out of the elevator and on to a small platform. From here he can see the many men and women walking around the vast space in the same black suit as Coulson. He can see the holographic displays that dance around white walls, sleek looking furniture and desks that are all shiny surfaces and round edges. There’s also the aliens; lots of aliens all sizes, shapes and colours.
Agent Coulson grins.
“Welcome to your new life. From now on you'll dress only in attire specially sanctioned by MIB special services. You'll conform to the identity we give you, eat where we tell you, live where we tell you. You'll have no identifying marks of any kind. You'll not stand out in any way. Your entire image will be crafted to leave no lasting memory with anyone you encounter. You're a rumor, recognizable only as deja vu and dismissed just as quickly. You don't exist; you were never even born. Anonymity is your name. Silence your native tongue. You'll no longer be part of the System. We are above the System. Over it. Beyond it. We're "them." We're "they." We are…the Men in Black.”
“Uh-huh,” is Clint’s thoughtful response. He looks on in awe for a few more moments before turning to Coulson and asks, “how long have you wanted to give that speech?”
“A long time. Was it good?”
“Yeah,” says Clint.
“Super,” says the dog.
This time Clint drops the dog.
*****
His first week at MIB is eerily similar to his first week at the circus. He spends a lot of time in a suit he doesn’t like, running around and cleaning up dubious body fluids.
“It’s to get you familiar with how we do things, be thankful we’re easing you in. I know one rookie who had to deliver a squid baby on his first day.” Coulson tells him. “Also I’ve told you the purple sunglasses are not part of the uniform.”
“What’s wrong with a bit of colour?” Clint grumbles, returning his shades to his pocket.
“Men In Black. It’s in the name.”
Regardless of colour choices, Clint finds he takes to the job well. Not that being in the circus could possibly prepare someone for the life of an MIB agent but it doesn’t hurt and Clint’s always been adaptable.
“You make the worst coffee.”
“Hey, at least we don’t drink from the pot!”
“Yeah Hawkeye, we have manners.”
“Manners? I saw your grubby little claws using my coffee pods.”
“Clint stop fighting with the worms,” Coulson admonishes when he catches him in the break room.
“They started it,” Clint mutters, drinking the rest of the coffee in one go so that Neeble can’t have it. The worms holler at him and Sleeble even throws a spoon which Clint ducks as he leaves, falling into step beside Coulson.
“So what’s on the schedule for today? Please tell me I’m on something other than clean up duty today? Come on Coulson, I’ve been here for weeks now and I haven’t even got my own neuralyzer. I’ve done all the training; I’m ready for the big leagues.”
“I’ll think about it,” Coulson says in a tone that means he probably won’t. “But for now you can help me check on a situation. We have a bug problem, Cap is on it but he might need a hand.”
“Okay, sure,” Clint shrugs, happy to do anything but clean up. “Who’s Cap?”
“You’re Captain America.” Clint says dumbfounded. There is a giant cockroach terrorizing Manhattan behind him but Clint’s focus is solely on the agent in front of him.
The man is wearing an all-black suit but it’s definitely him, shield and all, the same hero Clint used to watch on old VHS tapes back in his foster homes.
Captain America ducks his head shyly whilst causally using his shield to deflect a car bumper the bug has thrown at him.
“Well, kind of. The man you know as Red Skull is actually a rogue lieutenant from Planet CA-7. He tried to take over a television station and announce he was going to rule earth. I stopped him but not before everything was beamed live into people’s living rooms. So we did the only thing we could. Mass nueralysed everyone and told them they were watching a TV program.”
“That’s….disturbing?” Clint isn’t sure what to feel. “So what else don’t I know?”
Captain America puts a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“That’s the best part about this job. There’s always something you don’t know,” he says and hands Clint his shield. “Hold this for a minute.”
Clint takes the shield and then watches as his childhood hero takes a running jump into the mouth of a giant cockroach and is swallowed whole.
“Uh Coulson,” Clint calls. “I think a giant bug just ate Captain America!?”
“Give him a moment.” Coulson says, calmly pulling out his shades and putting them on. Clint gives him a look but does the same. The bug roars up, angry eyes set on both agents and lunges, but before it can reach them its stomach explodes sending slimy entrails everywhere, covering both agents head to toe.
Captain America gives them a nod from where he’s now on the ground amidst the viscera.
“Okay that was gross,” Clint sighs. “You want me to clean this up don’t you?”
Turns out there is a lot Clint doesn’t know.
“I need you to deliver this to Tony Stark,” Director Fury tells him, handing him a small metallic marble. “Don’t drop that.”
“Tony Stark is an alien?” Clint asks. To be honest Tony Stark being an alien wouldn’t really shock Clint; the goatee looks like it’s drawn on and Clint’s seen better disguises.
“No,” Fury growls. “Tony Stark is a pain in the ass who occasionally consults on alien tech.”
Well that makes sense, Clint supposes. And hey, if he’s gone from clean up to transport that’s a positive sign isn’t it?
Maybe it isn’t.
“Sorry Tony Stark’s not home.” A man who is clearly Tony Stark tells him when he enters the office the robot A.I. had led him to.
“Uh,” Clint stalls for a moment before recovering himself and pulls out the tiny marble from his pocket. “Not even for this?” he asks.
“Oh hey, I was looking for that.” Stark says, plucking the sphere out of Clint’s hands. He inspects it for a moment before walking to his desk. There’s one of those swinging ball contraptions perched on the corner and Stark places the newfound sphere in the middle and then sets the contraption swinging. Clint waits, expecting something to happen but frowns when he realizes all he’s going to get is the quiet click-click sound of the balls.
“That’s it?” Clint only sulks a little. “I thought it was a weapon.”
“Oh it can be, Pepper threw it at me last week.” Stark says with a grin that only gets bigger when his eyes slide past Clint.
“Speaking of, what is that?” Stark is looking behind Clint to the quiver on his back. The MIB techs had disguised it to look like an architects mailing tube but Stark had clearly seen right through it. “Are they arrows? You think a Paleolithic weapon is going to survive the best the galaxy has to throw at you? You’re better off with the marble.”
“It does just fine.” Clint grumbles. He dodges left and right, trying to keep an interested billionaire scientist away from his prized weapon but Stark is like a bloodhound.
“Carbon shafts, explosive plasma tips, sectional quiver…pfft amateurs.” Stark smirks and rubs at his goatee. “Okay, I’ll upgrade it for you.”
“I didn’t ask?”
“We can make the bow more compact, how do you feel about inter-dimensional storage pockets?”
“Not favorable.” Clint says but Stark looks like a kid at Christmas, already pulling up holographic displays of various arrowheads. Clint gets the feeling he needs to extract himself from this situation immediately. He grabs for his phone.
“Oh hey Coulson. What? Big emergency? Fate of the earth? Sure I’ll be right there.”
Stark narrows his eyes. “That didn’t even ring.”
“Sorry Stark but you heard the man, big emergency. Huge. Gotta go,” Clint says, nearly tripping over himself to get out the door.
“Barton!” Fury growls at him. “Why do I have an invoice from Stark for bow and arrow designs?”
“It’s not for me?” Clint offers. Fury gives that response the look it deserves and Clint finds himself back on clean up duty.
“Come on Coulson, I’m ready. I’ve got some fancy new arrows thanks to Stark. I’ve read up on all the alien species admitted entry to earth, I can even tell the difference between Bob and Idi-Idikia-… well I can’t say his name but I know which one he is.” Clint grumbles, trying again to push his case for anything other than clean up duty. It’s been almost six months and while he’s been more than patient, part of him is itching to get out there and prove his worth. Sure he’s helped out here and there but he still hasn’t been assigned a partner and he doesn’t even have his own neuralyzer yet.
“I know you’re keen but this isn’t a race. You’re ready when you’re ready.” Coulson says and hands Clint a stack of hot sheets. “Help me look through these.”
Clint grumbles but does so, flipping between stories that range from Talking Raccoon Stole My Prosthetic Leg, which Clint files as not suspicious, to Mutant Worm Responsible For Nine Hour Subway Delay.
Clint holds the newspaper up for Coulson. “Geoff’s been naughty.”
“He’s going through a growth spurt, I’ll make note of it,” the older agent replies unfazed.
Clint sighs. That’s it, he thinks, I’m never getting off clean up duty.
He shouldn’t have been worried. Like most things in Clint’s life, it just kind of happens.
“I thought Coulson talked to you about this?” Clint asks the giant Kronan currently standing on the corner of Broadway with a stack of papers under one arm. Thankfully Korg is wearing his skin suit this time but he’s still a seven foot tall behemoth and Clint can see why people are a little apprehensive about some crazy guy on a street corner trying to recruit them for a space revolution.
“I just wanted to give out some pamphlets, gauge the interest you know.” Korg says, trying to hand out a flyer to a woman passing by who scowls and flips him off. It doesn’t deter the giant rock man. “I printed them on recycled paper this time.”
“That’s not the-” Clint rubs at the back of his head. “I’m not sure people are ready for a space war.”
Korg shrugs and continues to offer out his flyers, “Hi would you be interested in a revolution?”
It turns out the man walking past is very not interested as he roars at Korg, his face and skin rippling to reveal many long and unnaturally sharp teeth, his eyes turning into yellow slits. There’s also a lot of goo dripping out of…everywhere.
“Guess that’s a no on a flyer.” Korg says, before pulling his phone out. “Hey Miek, I reckon I just saw your cousin…what do you mean he’s dead, no he’s not we played WOW with him last week…”
“I guess I should follow him.” Clint sighs, watching the stranger disappear around the corner, already pulling out his phone to report to Coulson the unlicensed alien.
He tracks the stranger to an old Navy yard where he meets up with Coulson and Sitwell.
“It’s not good.” Sitwell says. “Scans show the place is crawling with bugs and they’ve got an Arquilian hostage.”
“What would bugs want with an Arquilian?” Clint asks.
“They want the galaxy,” Coulson realizes. “The Arquilian galaxy is one of the greatest sources of subatomic energy in the universe. If the bugs get their hands on it they’d be unstoppable.”
“But the galaxy isn’t on earth.” Sitwell eyes Coulson.
“It’s not in New York.” Coulson says pokerfaced. Sitwell frowns.
“We’re going to need the big guns on this, the Arquilians aren’t going to like it if one of theirs is terminated on our watch.”
“Where’s the Captain?” Coulson asks.
“Out of town.”
Coulson turns to Clint. “I need you to go back to HQ to collect a weapon.”
Clint groans, “I swear if this is that noisy cricket thing again-”
Coulson shakes his head. “Ask only the Director. We need the Black Widow.”
Coulson had described the Black Widow as a weapon. He’s not wrong, Clint thinks, but that’s not all she is. Clint watches her fight her way through an army of bugs and its incredible and he has to remember to dodge the oversized pincers that come at him because his focus is on the way her red hair looks like fire in the light of the plasma blasts.
“We have more bugs incoming!” Coulson yells, bringing him back to reality. “Barton, Widow, the Arquilian is being held on the second level. Rescue the hostage and get him out of here. The rest of us will hold off the reinforcements.”
“Got it.” Clint calls and turns to the Widow who is already making for the stairwell. Clint pulls another arrow from his quiver and follows.
He covers her whilst they ascend to the second level of the warehouse, taking out any bugs that try to follow them. It’s only a matter of minutes before they reach the room the Arquilian is being held in. The solid metal door is locked but Clint’s got a fancy Stark arrow for that.
“Want me to knock?” Clint asks.
The Widow nods, trusts him and braces herself against the wall. The arrow does the job and the door is blown inward.
Clint takes down the first bug through the door before the Widow takes off, moving through the room at speed. For a moment Clint feels like he’s back in the circus, watching the acrobats defy gravity. The Widow takes down two bugs with a shock of electricity from her wrists and Clint puts two arrows into another.
In no time they’ve cleared the room of several very angry insects and the Widow is stepping over the carcasses to get to the Arquilian whose been encased in some weird cocoon structure.
“We’ve got the hostage.” Clint radios in and then-
The Widow’s eyes go wide as the arrow sails past her temple and takes out the bug that’s risen behind her.
She frees the Arquilian and then takes another glance at Clint. “Nice shot,” she says.
“Nice…everything,” Clint grimaces as his brain fails. She smirks and behind her Clint sees the Arquilian roll his eyes.
“I hate this planet,” the Arquilian groans.
There’s the sound of brick and wood cracking downstairs and Clint can hear another wave of bugs breaking through the warehouse walls, obviously not happy that MIB have crashed the party.
“They’re going to need some help downstairs.” The Widow says, “Go, I’ll get him to safety.”
Clint is about to take her up on the offer because it doesn’t sound great downstairs when an idea hits him.
“Arquilian, that’s the tiny guy right?”
“Yes.” The Widow gives him a confused nod.
Clint pulls out a grappling arrow and points to the broken window. “They’ve got hands, reckon he can hold on?”
“I hate this planet.” The Arquilian repeats but doesn’t disagree and the Widow is already unlocking his face plate to reveal the small grey alien sitting at the controls. Clint nocks the arrow and the Widow loads the Arquilian on, his grey fingers holding tightly to the shaft.
“Hang tight.” Clint says and the Arquilian responds in a language that’s definitely not English but Clint gets the gist of it. He releases the arrow and watches it strike a safer rooftop a block over. In the dark Clint can just make out the Arquillian scrambling off the shaft and running across the capping before jumping out of sight.
He turns to the Widow, who’s already drawn her guns. “You know the earths policy on bugs right?” He says. “Bugs check in…”
“They don’t check out,” the Widow finishes, her grin bright and sharp and perfect.
With the Arquilian gone it doesn’t take long for the rest of the bugs to scatter. At the end of it Clint surveys the scene, the warehouse now littered with bug guts and gore. His own suit is covered in slime that is beginning to harden and he’s pretty sure he’s pulled a muscle in his shoulder. The Widow is beside him looking just as worse for wear but she turns to him, offers him a tiny smile and bumps his good shoulder with her own. And though he’s tired and sore, and covered in extraterrestrial goo, for a moment Clint feels like he’s home.
“Glasses,” Coulson says and Clint barely has time to get his shades up before the neuralyzer goes off.
“What the-” Clint gives Coulson a confused scowl before looking at the Widow, his heart sinking.
The Widow’s hands are by her sides, she’d never even reached for her shades.
“Did you just neuralyze an agent? What the hell!”
Coulson returns the neuralyzer to his pocket and turns to Clint. “The Widow is not an agent, she’s a weapon.”
“Bullshit.” Clint growls.
Coulson shakes his head and turns to the Widow. “We’re done. Return to the director,” he orders, causing Clint’s heart to sink when she simply nods and leaves.
Clint looks at Coulson, the feeling of betrayal twisting in his stomach. For the first time since joining MIB he wonders if he made the right choice.
Coulson’s eyes soften and he rubs a tired hand over his temple. “Let’s get coffee,” he says, pointing to a diner down the road.
The diner isn’t busy and the waitress wastes no time in pouring them some coffee.
“Have you ever neuralyzed me?” Clint asks before Coulson can take his first sip. Maybe he’s being petty but right now he doesn’t feel like Coulson deserves hot coffee after what he did.
“No.” Coulson says and Clint thinks he’s being honest. Coulson reaches into his pocket and pulls out the neuralyzer, placing it on the table between them.
“The neuralyzer is not an M.I.B invention, it’s not even alien. It was invented by Soviet scientists and used to create some very deadly sleeper agents during the war. It worked but had some harmful side effects. Sometimes it caused a psychotic break, sometimes it wiped the agents completely till nothing could be recovered. MIB shut down the program as soon as we came across it but there were some subjects we couldn’t save. The Black Widow is one of them. There’s nothing in there anymore, she’s just a weapon to point and shoot.”
Clint frowns, thinking of the woman with a sharp grin and glint in her eyes. “You know that do you?”
Coulson smiles sadly and pushes the device across the table towards Clint.
“I don’t want to use that.” Clint nods to the neuralyzer.
“I know.” Coulson says, “That’s how I know you’re ready for it.”
If Clint thought the life of a fully-fledged MIB agent was always world saving theatrics, he’d be very wrong. It turns out it’s still a lot of clean up and general grunt work.
“Look kid, you really need to stop,” Clint tells the skrull teenager who’s glaring at him like he just told her the internet’s been cancelled. He holds the confiscated beer further out of her grasp.
“It’s legal to drink back home on Skrullos.” She argues and Clint rolls his eyes.
“I’m not falling for that one and it should be illegal to buy Natural Ice when you could pick literally anything else. Think of it this way kid, I’m saving your taste buds and your dignity.”
The skrull teenager does not think of it that way. “I’m just going to change and go back in there,” she says, nodding to the liquor store behind them. Already she’s shifting, growing taller and…looking kind of familiar?
“Hey no, no turning into me,” Clint says sternly. “How about this, you promise not to do any more unauthorized shape shifting and I won’t tell your parents about your crappy choice of beer,” he bargains a little hopelessly.
The teenager mulls that over and seems to decide against the grounding she would inevitably get.
“This planet is boring,” she whines but thankfully leaves without argument or further law breaking.
Clint sighs and begins the walk back to his car. It’s been a long day, made even longer by the fact that he still hasn’t been assigned a partner. Coulson had said they were waiting for the right time but Clint secretly suspects that many of the current agents just don’t want to partner with an arrow shooting ex-carnie. It only hurt a little, definitely not enough to make him contemplate opening the crappy confiscated beer...
As if to save him from temptation his phone starts to beep.
“I need all available agents on this,” Coulson says.
“Of course you do.”
“A juvenile Tarantian broke out of quarantine an hour ago. Its recovery is our top priority.”
“Okay,” Clint says. “So we’re hunting for a rogue Tarantian…they’re the fluffy eight legged things from Jupiter right?”
“Not even close. I’m sending you a picture now.” Moments later Clint’s phone vibrates and the image pops up on his screen. Clint stops walking.
“Coulson, this is a blue koala?”
“Don’t be fooled,” the older agent warns. “Fully mature Tarantians are some of the most vicious creatures in the galaxy. It’s cute now but will grow up to be a single minded killing machine. You should approach with extreme caution.”
“Uh huh,” Clint huffs, eyeing the cute creature on his phone that looks like it’s come straight out of a Disney movie.
“It was last seen heading into the sewer line on Fifth Avenue.” Coulson continues, “I need you to cover the Upper East Side. Radio in if you find something.”
“You got it boss,” Clint says, mentally plotting his way there in the afternoon traffic-“Wait, did you say sewer lines?”
One hour later Clint’s in the New York sewer system regretting all his life choices. It’s dark and humid and the sewer smell is horrendous.
He’s spelunking around a particular dark corner when he senses movement up ahead, a dark shadow against the black. It’s not the Tarantian, the shadow’s too big so Clint draws his weapon because surely MIB aren’t the only ones tracking the creature. He crouches down just on the other side of the corner, waiting for the figure to walk into range.
He can hear the steps coming closer and tenses ready to spring into action…only the footsteps stop just a few feet away. Clint waits, is about to lean forward for a look when suddenly someone lands behind him. He turns, bow drawn and sees his attacker charge their weapon, a blue glow of electricity illuminating the tunnel. Not taking any chances he fires a stun arrow that goes wide and cops a well-placed kick to the side of his knee for his effort. He rolls with it, sweeps his bow to bring his attacker down too and then he’s got an arrow in his hand resting at his attacker’s throat. He’d feel great if he didn’t have the feel of metal on his neck in turn. The blue glow is still emitting from his attacker’s wrist and in the dim light Clint blinks, recognition finally hitting him.
“Hi,” Clint smiles dumbly at the Widow. “Do you remember me?”
The Widow tilts her head.
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Clint sighs, trying to ignore the pang of sadness that hits him. “Well I’m MIB too, so how about we both keep our heads tonight and work together?”
Carefully he removes his weapon from her throat and stays very still while she does the same. He gets to his feet gingerly, very conscious of the fact that he’s now rolled around in sewer water and he’s totally going to burn his suit. Coulson can shout him a new one.
“So, friends?” Clink asks and ignores the butterflies that stir in his stomach when she nods with the hint of a smile. Clint radios in their new partnership and working together they manage to cover more ground. The Widow isn’t that talkative but Clint doesn’t mind, her steady presence fills the empty air just fine.
It’s a further two hours of searching the sewers before Coulson calls it. The tarantian is still missing but by now it could have gone anywhere, they’ll have to wait for a new lead.
“Barton, neuralyze the Widow and return her back to Op Control. Then go home, you deserve a rest,” Coulson tells him.
Clint calls in an affirmative and then looks at the Widow who stands ready at attention. She’s covered in dirt and grime, her hair is matted and they both smell more than a little funky. He goes to grab the neuralyzer out of his pocket but suddenly thinks better of it.
“Hey,” he asks her, “do you like pie?”
Thankfully the diner isn’t busy. Clint takes a seat at the counter and starts perusing the specials menu. The Widow hovers beside him obviously conflicted until he kicks out the seat to his right and motions her to sit down. He waives the waitress over.
“I’ll have a peach pie with whipped cream and ice cream and maybe some chocolate sauce.” He smiles at the Widow. “You?”
She glances briefly at the menu, almost too quickly and then says, “Apple.”
“Are you picking that one because you like apple or because it’s the first one on the list?” Clint’s suspicions are confirmed when her only response is a glare.
He whips the menu out from in front of her.
To the waitress he says, “We’ll have an apple, a cherry, a rhubarb and then maybe some pecan with cream on the side. Oh, and two coffees. Thank you ma’am.” He hands the menu back to the waitress with a polite smile.
“What are we doing here?” The Widow is still glaring at him, brows furrowed and Clint can’t help but notice she looks kind of adorable like that. Deadly but adorable.
“Pie tasting, we need to find your favorite,” he says like it’s obvious. Their coffees arrive and Clint dumps a spoonful of sugar into his before offering the sugar pot to the Widow who doesn’t acknowledge the sweet goodness at all.
”You were supposed to neuralyze me.”
“Yeah well I’m bad at taking direction.”
The pie arrives and after some (a lot) of cajoling Clint watches eagerly as the Widow tastes each one. He even offers her some of his peach, just to be sure.
“So, final verdict?” he asks with a mouth full of whipped cream.
She tilts her head and considers, blue eyes studying each plate carefully. Then she reaches across and steals the remainder of his peach pie.
He grins and barks out a laugh. “Should have seen that one coming.”
After all the pie is eaten (mostly by him) he removes himself from his chair and throws some cash on the counter. “I suppose we should head back.”
She follows him out onto the street and back to his car where Clint pulls the neuralyzer out of his pocket and waits for it to charge. The Widow stands to attention, left hand clasping her right wrist, looking slightly uncomfortable and Clint thinks maybe she’s wary of the mind wiping device until she huffs and says, “Thanks…for the pie.”
Clint blinks, the neuralyzer beeps to tell him its ready and then…he pauses.
“You know what,” he says, tucking the device back into his pocket. “I think this thing is broken. Let’s just not and say we did, yeah?”
The tiny smile she gives him is way better than any pie.
Two weeks later he sees the Widow at a clean-up job. She’s covered in some kind of glowing blue goop (but so is the street) and is being ushered into the back of a MIB transport van. Over the carnage and clean-up crews her eyes meet his and he waves. She doesn’t acknowledge him at all, lets her eyes keep roaming, keep assessing and disappears into a throng of suits.
Clint fights down a sudden pang of sadness in his chest. He joins the clean-up effort, helps decontaminate the scene but only half laughs when Rumlow slips in some goo and goes ass up.
When they’re done he walks back to his car, pops open the door and nearly jumps. There is a styrofoam container sitting on the driver’s seat. He scans it first with his phone and when the reading comes back as organic but not dangerous, he cautiously opens it.
It’s a slice of peach pie with whipped cream.
“I want the Widow as a partner.”
“No.” Director Fury doesn’t even look up from his screen.
“But sir-”
“No.”
“Then stop neuralyzing her.” Clint growls and Fury finally looks up, regarding his insubordinate agent coolly.
“I have a job for you.” The Director says and pushes a file across the table. Clint sighs and reaches for it, flicking it open to check out the photo clipped to the front page.
“Sir, it’s just a hammer?”
The hammer belongs to Thor Odinson, a prince of Asgard, who is disappointed to find out he doesn’t hold diplomatic immunity on earth.
“Okay…look Mr Odinson, I hate to break this to you but I’m going to have to issue you with an 091 infraction.”
The Asgardian looks concerned. “What is this 0-9-1 infraction?”
“It’s a fine,” Clint explains and points to where the hammer is sitting. “For littering.”
The Asgardian tilts his head and Clint sighs.
“Or you could just pick it up.” Clint suggests, expecting the Asgardian to do just that.
Instead Thor’s face grows grave and his eyes darken. “Then we may have a problem, for as of yesterday, I am not worthy.”
Ten days later.
“So that’s four counts of entry to earth without an approved VISA, one count of public endangerment with a…” Clint looks to the remains of the giant fire monster “…whatever that thing is, multiple counts of property damage and one count of bringing in an undeclared weapon… but hey at least I can now waive that littering charge.”
Thor scratches the back of his neck and almost looks sheepish. “Of course you shall be recompensed for the mess my brother has created, but now I must leave quickly back to Asgard before we start a war with Johteim that will plunge the nine realms into chaos.” Thor thrusts his hammer to the sky and grins at Clint. “You may want to step back.”
Clint takes three big steps away from the Asgardian as a precaution.
“But what about the fines?” Clint asks.
“Send a raven!” Thor yells just before the bifrost takes him.
“I want the Widow as a partner.” Clint says whilst handing in his report about the Asgardian on Fury’s desk.
“No.”
“She should be an agent, not an asset,” Clint pushes. Fury pushes back by sliding a file across his desk, not bothering to look at Clint.
“Another job? Woah why is he green?”
Dr. Bruce Banner is a mild mannered scientist who shares a body with the last surviving symbiote from planet Hulk. Unfortunately lots of people (and aliens) would like to get their hands on what makes Dr. Banner big, green and mean so Clint spends the next two months protecting the good doctor during his stint with Doctors without Borders.
“Have you been with the agency long?” Dr Banner asks him. Clint’s currently driving him across a border on the subcontinent. Their radio cut out an hour ago but the doctor is happy to keep up a polite stream of small talk.
“A little while.” Clint answers in the vague way that MIB has taught him.
“You know in my experience most agents work with a partner.”
“I’m working on that.” Clint says, though he’s distracted by the sound in his ears. The white noise is low to start with but getting louder and the dirt road in front of them is looking hazy in the distance. Clint pulls the car over.
“You might want to stay here,” he tells the doctor who looks worriedly at the road in front of them.
Clint grabs his bow from the back seat and then steps out of the car, walking a few feet ahead of the vehicle. The haze is still incoming, getting closer and looking more and more unnatural. Clint nocks an arrow and draws.
The dust cloud is a few feet away when the pitch of the sound changes and Clint squints at it, realizing all too late when the swarm of space mites solidifies and-
“Oh shit!” Clint has time to say before the swarm melds into one large form and comes at him like a vicious uppercut. The archer is hit so hard he’s thrown backwards with the force of it and lands on the hood of the car.
“Ouch,” Clint groans. The doctor pokes his head out the passenger window to look worriedly at his bodyguard imitating a hood ornament.
“Stay in the car,” Clint orders, rolling himself off the vehicle in a less than graceful fashion. “I got this.”
Doctor Banner frowns and opens his door.
“I think I should help with this one,” the Doctor says, removing his glasses. Clint tries to reach out to the doctor but he’s brushed off easily, the man growing rapidly in size and a green tinge spreading across his skin.
In the middle of the road the Hulk roars at the swarm of amalgamated space mites. The mites react by rushing towards the big guy, who leans back and lets swing with a meaty fist. This time the might of the Hulk prevails and the mites separate at the force of the blow.
“Here!” Clint yells and seeing their chance throws an arrow towards the Hulk. The space mites are near indestructible when coalesced but once separated they’re a lot easier to handle.
The Hulk catches the arrow and crushes the tip in his palm, detonating the arrowhead and sending a shockwave of fire that disintegrates the swarm. The Hulk only looks a little toasted for the effort.
Clint props himself up against the car bumper and watches as Doctor Banner returns to his usual self sans some now torn clothes.
“So you could control it the whole time?” Clint asks accusingly.
The doctor looks sheepish.
“What about the time the car got bogged and I had to get out in the rain and push? You could have just-” Clint mimes pushing the car, it would have only taken the Hulk a second to get them out instead of the thirty minutes he spent in the mud and rain.
“Yes, I do feel bad about that.” Banner says, but he doesn’t sound sorry. “I think it’s time for me to return state side. Stark sent me an offer and well, it’s probably safer for everyone.”
Clint checks out the dent he made in the bonnet and grimaces, yeah he won’t argue with that.
“The Doctor’s gone to live with Stark,” Clint informs the Director.
Fury nods but doesn’t bother to look up from his screen. Sometimes Clint’s convinced the director isn’t entirely human; he’s never known the man to take time off – and that includes to sleep or go the bathroom.
“Let me guess, new file?” Clint sighs, reaching for the folder set out on Fury’s otherwise sparsely covered desk. A broad hand comes down on the file before Clint can even touch it.
“That’s not for you.” Fury says, still looking at his screen.
“Oh,” Clint mumbles. “Good then.”
Clint only spends another thirty seconds standing there dumbly before realizing he should probably leave. Awkwardly he turns to leave the Director’s office and then stops.
The Widow walks in, ignores him completely and takes a seat at Fury’s desk.
Fury looks up from his computer, gaze travelling from the Widow to Clint. “The answer is no Barton.”
Clint glares. He looks to the Widow sitting so still and silent and then back to his boss. Nick Fury is unmoving.
“You’re more than a weapon.” He says to the Widow, turning on his heel before Fury can say anything.
*****
“He’s persistent,” the red head says, watching the archer as he stomps through the aisles of desks on the level below.
“He’s a pain in the ass. He is the least subtle agent we’ve ever had” Fury grumbles.
“You like him.” She states.
“I do.” Fury grunts. He looks up at the red head who’s still watching the archer. “So do you.”
The Widow’s smile is small but Fury doesn’t miss it.
*****
One week later Clint is arguing with the worms over his missing coffee pods when the Captain walks past and tells him, “Hey Barton, the Director wants you in his office.”
This of course sets the worms off with a chorus of “Ooooooooh busted!”
“I bet it’s about the purple tie,” Clint grumbles, “I told Coulson that wasn’t intentional, it happened in the wash.”
Clint has the perfect excuse ready as he walks into the Directors office, which he promptly forgets in favour of internally freaking out as he’s met with the sight of the Director and the Black Widow staring at him.
“Am I getting fired?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Fury says. “Agent Barton, I’d like to introduce you to Agent Romanoff, you may know her as the Black Widow. I need you both in Budapest.”
“Agent Romanoff…” Clint repeats, mind still ticking over and then, “wait, Agent Romanoff?”
Fury does that thing where he smirks without moving his mouth. “What Coulson told you was true. The Russians developed a program to create a perfect sleeper agent. Unfortunately their neuralyzer wasn’t yet refined to the point it is now. Sometimes its effects wore off without warning; sometimes it wiped the women so completely their minds couldn’t recover. By chance the MIB stumbled upon the project just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. There were few surviving agents. We did what we could to mitigate the effects of the frequent neuralyzations but had limited success. One of those limited success stories is Agent Romanoff. She had an interesting reaction to the frequent neuralyzations. She became immune.”
“So the flashy thing doesn’t work on you? But why pretend…” and then it dawns on Clint. “Oh, you’re like an undercover-undercover agent.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Fury says. “We pride ourselves on selecting the very best for MIB, unfortunately when you give a person a device that can effectively control minds, some people make less than ideal choices. Agent Romanoff’s ability has proven very useful however she’s decided she’d like to take on a new challenge. Congratulations Hawkeye, you finally have a partner.”
The Widow steps forward and offers her hand. “Agent Natasha Romanoff. It’s nice to meet you again Agent Barton.”
Clint is unable to hide his delight.
“So you do remember me,” he grins and takes her hand.
Romanoff raises an eyebrow and Fury rolls his good eye.
“Budapest agents. I need you both in Budapest.”
They save the universe in Budapest.
“The worms love you, why do the worms love you?” Clint watches in shock as Neeble, Geeble, Sleeble and Mannix fall over themselves to make Natasha a coffee. They’ve been partners for a year now and she still won’t tell him how she does it.
“Try my coffee Natasha,” “No, try mine!” “кофе для моего сладкого паука”
Natasha ends up leaving the break room with four different cups of coffee and hands Clint one when she catches him sulking. Two are placed on Hill and May’s desks and she keeps the last one for herself.
“You don’t even like coffee,” Clint grumbles.
“I don’t but we’re due to check in with the Kree scientist today and I need you caffeinated and not fighting with the worms.”
Clint frowns at his coffee on principle. It’s good but he’s never going to admit that out loud. “MIB are still trying to recruit her?”
“Yes. They hate relying on Stark.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Stark.” Clint says, knowing full well there are a lot of things wrong with Tony Stark.
Natasha gives him a look.
“There are a lot of things wrong with Stark,” she says. “Besides you and Lawson seem to get along?”
Clint throws his head back and groans. Dr Wendy Lawson is infatuated with Clint’s choice in weapon and not in a good way. She delights in letting Clint know how fascinating she finds his bow, often using words like archaic and primitive and ineffective, though unlike Stark she hasn’t made him any fancy arrows.
“If we want to win her over why don’t we just send your flerken?” He asks.
“Liho is not a flerken.” Natasha frowns at him. “Also, not my cat.”
“Really because you feed her and she sleeps on your sofa. It sounds like she’s yours.”
“I feed you and let you sleep on my sofa. Does that make you mine?”
Clint takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs. “We’re partners,” he says, instead of yes. In response he thinks he sees Natasha hide a smirk behind her coffee cup.
“Well partner, finish that drink you’ve got a Kree scientist to sweet talk.”
“Awww, Nat.”
Clint was heading to the car, really he was, only Fury had caught him whilst stalking past one of the lab rooms where Clint was hiding stopping by and yelled at him.
“Barton why aren’t you in New Mexico?”
“Uh…” Clint stumbles a little under the Director’s death stare. “Wait, Lawson is in New Mexico?”
“Lawson? No I need you in New Mexico with Coulson. Romanoff can talk to Lawson and then meet you out there,” Fury growls.
“You mean that?” Clint asks in his excitement and then immediately winces as Fury glares at him. “Uh yes, no sir, absolutely I’m on my way.”
“Where are you going, the garage is this way?” Natasha asks Clint as she crosses him in the hallway heading to the transport bays.
“Change of plan. Fury wants me in New Mexico, something to do with a glowing blue cube. Coulson’s got a spare seat so I thought while you talk to Lawson, I’ll get a lift and start recon early.”
Natasha frowns at him. “What happened to partners?”
“Divide and conquer.”
“Chicken,” Natasha calls at him.
“Sticks and stones may break my bow but words can’t hurt me.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clint smiles and begins his walk to the transport area. “I’ll see you in a few hours partner!”
Luckily he catches the transport to New Mexico in time and straps himself in next to Coulson. The older agent smiles at him.
“Don’t think I don’t notice the purple socks” Coulson says.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Clint grins and Coulson shakes his head. “Hey you knew what you were in for when you picked me.”
“I did indeed.”
The transporter engine begins whirling, preparing for take-off. “Hey Coulson,” Clint says, voice a little bit louder to be heard over the noise. Did you know how much I needed this? He wants to ask. Did you know this feels like home and thank you, thank you, thank you… what he says though is “Why me?”
“It was easy,” Coulson answers. “You had-”
“-heart,” Loki says, pressing a glowing staff to his chest and all Clint can think of, all he can remember is a fact from a book he read long ago. Did you know that the hottest stars burn blue?
Four years, one month and twelve days into his life at MIB, his mind is taken by an alien god.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to sweep this one under the rug.” Natasha says, sitting beside him in the ruins of lower Manhattan. “It’s going to be a brave new world.”
Clint looks at the mess they’ve made, fallen Chitauri everywhere and buildings destroyed for blocks. Loki had opened up his portal right above Stark Tower and it had taken everything MIB had to stop him. It was going to take one hell of a cleanup crew to fix this.
“Maybe,” he says hoarsely. He wonders if the world is ready for it. He’s not.
There’s something pressing on a fresh bruise in his breast pocket and he reaches in and pulls out his neuralyzer, staring at the tiny device. All it would take is one twist of the dial…
“Four years, one month and fifteen days,” he tells Nastasha, handing the pre-set device over. She looks at him in horror.
“No.”
“Tasha.”
Natasha holds the neuralyzer and glares at him. “You really want this? To forget everything from the last few years? All the good you’ve done?”
“I want to forget that it’s my fault he’s dead,” Clint whispers, voice breaking. Fury had come to see him in the med bay after he’d come back to himself. He’d handed him a weathered leather wallet and told him it wasn’t his fault. He believed in you, Fury had said, you’ve got heart.
Natasha leans across and takes his face in her hands, the contact almost jarring.
“You are more than the weapon he made you,” she says, echoing the same words he said to her a year ago. She slides the neuralyzer back in his pocket, hand resting for a moment on his heart. Then she stands up.
“Come on,” she says, hand outstretched.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to get some pie. You’re going to taste them all and we’re going to find your favorite.”
Clint calls up a wry smile that hurts his busted lip. “What if it’s not the same?”
“We’ll figure it out together,” she promises.
Clint slides his hand in hers.
“Did someone say pie?” Stark calls out.
“You know what, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” Steve muses, coming up behind him with Bruce and Thor in tow.
“A celebratory meal, most excellent idea friends!”
“There’s a pie place just down this way. I think I threw a Chitauri sled through the front window,” Bruce says sheepishly. “I should probably remove it.”
“Then pie it is.” Stark decides, striding past them on his own invitation and starting off a procession of the most awkward ducklings Clint’s ever seen.
Natasha rolls her eyes but moves to follow.
Clint pauses though.
Natasha turns back and looks at him, her hand still in his, red hair framed by the silver star from Steve’s shield, slung over his back as he walks with the people and aliens Clint thinks of as his family.
Thank you, thank you, thank you…
Sixteen years, five months and four days after two kids huddled together in the cold in Iowa, Clint realizes the stars have led him home.