Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America to SHIELD and Steve to his friends (not that he had many of them… that were still alive at least), having woken up from a decades long coma, was quite out of touch with… modern society. The internet was still taking a while to get used to, for sure, and he didn't think he'd ever understand things like 'advanced physics' or 'meme culture', not that some of the younger agents of SHIELD hadn't tried explaining either to him. He was just… a man out of time. Out of a time of war, and currently living in a world where Captain America, war hero and famed patriot, was no longer needed. Where superheroes still existed (as long as you stretched the definition a bit), Vigilantes roamed and he couldn't order a single cup of decent coffee without answering a million questions.

Which was fine, he understood things like allergies (and he refuses to think fondly back to a time before he was taller than everyone he met, and could break someones hand by shaking it too hard), and that people had personal preferences. It just… took some getting used to.

Gods, maybe he really was old.

"Hiya, welcome to Jasmine Coffee, what can we get for you?"

Shit, he'd gotten lost in thought about the past, again. And now the server was talking to him. What did he want again?Oh, yeah, a-

"Regular black coffee please," he replied, finally taking note of who was serving him.

She was a teenager, hair brown and cropped at her chin, framing her face artfully. Her eyes were dulled from the monotony of customer service, and she was chewing gum like it was her day job. Her uniform was a nice almost-army green, black apron worn overtop it stamped with the coffee shop's name in white, bold lettering. As he continued to stare, he noticed some faint scarring, almost hidden by the collar of her work top. It looked old, mostly-healed, but clearly deep enough that it still left this lasting impression on her skin. He took a cursory glance at her bare arms, which were as adorned with friendship barecelets and bangles as they were small white scars, criss-crossing and faint in the harsh lighting of the shop. Her hands were a similar story, the undersides covered in thick skin, speaking of a history in labour jobs (something in Steve's head rang in alarm, because while she was a service worker now, her job history is as irrelevant to him now as her favourite colour. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, thought. With her. With the scars and her hands-), the exposed tops displaying an impressive array of recently-healed scabbing and newly-aquired buising across her knuckles. HE was tempted to ask if she'd ended up punching one of the customers, but he knew from experience that bruising like that didn't just happen from hitting one guy. With a gulp, he dragged his eyes from the damning bruises, back up her arms to where a particularly savage-looking divot seemed to have been gouged into her arm. He didn't even want to know where that might have come from…

Eventually, he noticed a name tag, slapped lopsidedly onto her apron.

Hi, my name is ROBIN, my pronouns are SHE/HER

"Anything else I can get you?" She said, and even her tone of voice almost sounded dead. She had sucessfully managed to pull Steve completely from his inappropriate staring, and even more inappropriate assumptions, not that she really seemed to notice it at all (internally, Steve was thankful that she didn't aknowledge it. It felt like a mercy, that she let him get away without even a sideways look. Something about her… everything just seemed like he should avoid her at all costs). Or maybe she was just used to it. Maybe that's why her knuckles are so bruised.What a comforting thought, Steve.

Just as he was planning on asking about the scars, too, that his eyes were drawn back to on their way back up to her face. You know, out of his good old-fashioned kind heart, and the concern he felt just thinking about what she might have had to deal with to get any one of those marks, not permanently carved into her skin.

Gods, he was really old. Trying to be Chivalrous about some lady, teenager, whatever, that he's barely exchanged a sentence with. Get a grip, Steve!

"No, thank you ma'am."

Luckily, she seemed completely unbothered by the long silences in the interaction (a consequence of him indulging himself in his staring), though being addressed as 'ma'am' pulled her mouth into an ugly, judgemental sneer.

"It's just Robin, you read the name tag." The only sign that she knew that he'd been staring. It felt like a punch to the gut. He resolutely kept her eyes directly on her face as she contunued. A few harsh taps at the… touch screen? That it probably didn't earn, before- "Total's on the screen."

Suddenly, he noticed just how frosty the room felt, could see his breath fogging in front of him, see the condensation gathering on the plastic of the display cases on the counter, and he could swear there was almost an iridescent quality to Robin's eyes…

A hand from no-where appeared on her arm, gently pulling her around to face a man, her coworker. They locked eyes, neither saying a word as the room started to gain some warmth again. Robin sighed, eyes closing with exhaustion as she slumped into the man's hold.

"Why don't you go make the drink, I can take care of-"

The man didn't get the chance to finish his sentence before Robin was heading to the coffee maker, robotically grabbing the metal cup and going through the motions. Steadily, the condensation disappeared from the counter decorations, and Steve felt himself relax slightly, having not realised just how tense he'd gotten in the frigid atmosphere. Her coworker let out his own sigh before taking his place at the till, not commenting on her eagerness to leave the situation, or the cold. Apparently, he was used to it.

"Sorry, it's been a long day, you know how it is. Seems the Karens are all out to play!"

Despite his lack of understanding about what a 'Karen' is, Steve found himself nodding along to the worker's words. He was so… relaxed? The guy seemed naturally charismatic, like he was used to being popular and well-liked. Steve couldn't even say that it wasn't well earned, the man's slight yet noticable musculature peaking out from under the sleeves of his work top. He was in the same uniform as Robin, for obvious reasons, and his name tag read Steve, He/Him. His eyes, too, seemed dulled by the work of a service worker, though he was clearly more comfortable with dealing with large swathes of people than his colleague. He wore his hair longer than Steve-the-war-vet was used to seeing on guys, and it seemed… fluffy? It poofed in a way that could only be intentional, and reminded him painfully of the women Bucky would entice on a date, always ready for a fun time, always with money to burn.

Like Robin, Steve-the-cashier had scarring, fainter, but more prominent against his more tan skin tone, high near his hairline, carving jagged edges down the side of his face. They weren't large, but they reminded Steve-out-of-his-time of the stab wounds he saw the few times he found himself in the infirmary, uneven cuts, they always bled ugly and painfully. Luckily for the younger man, they seemed to have been caught and had healed well. It was probably only the elder's concerningly good vision that caught hold of it and dragged the mark to his attention.

Like before, he took a moment to look for any more scarring. Like before, he found it. It was clearer than on the Robin, again well-healed, as around his neck was what looked to be friction-burn like scarring. His arms were a similar story, more rope-burn and slices. More, fainter marks; criss-crossing and whip-long, as if he'd run through a bush, lined up like eager customers along his arms, disappearing where his sholders were covered by his work top. Even his hands weren't safe, where he was gently nudging the touch-screen before him, fingers calussed and pale from the sheer volume of scarring. There was even some slowly-fading bruising on his knuckles, a set match for Robin. Steve-the-starer shook himself out of his musings, hopefully in time to convince the worker he wasn't (intentionally) being rude.

Smoothly, he pulled out some cash — credit cards, theoretical money, were still something he was trying to wrap his head around. At least coinage still existed. He handed the exact change to other Steve and watched as the worker confirmed the amount and placed it professionally in the till.

"Okay, Sir, can I get a name for your order?"

And that was new too, really. Well, not really, but in all the old 'coffee shops' (if that's what you'd call them) that his mother or Bucky took him too back before… everything… they didn't really have the capacity for having someone's name on their order. Everything was just on a number system, and that was that. Just as Steve-who-was-captain-america was about to reply, the ding of the door openning caught the trio's attention.

The man standing in the doorway looked raggedy, his coat too-big and appeared worn down by age. Everything about him screamed 'world-weary', though his brand-new shoes and shiny glock spoke of money and will respectively.

"Son," Steve started in his patent-pending 'Captain America' voice taking a careful step forwards as he offered his empty hands - promise of peace - in the direction of the man, "Put the gun down."

His efforts only earnt him a glare from the robber — for what else could he be — and a muffled snort from… Robin? Luck was abundant here today, because the robber didn't notice the reaction.

"No, I don't think I will." His voice was as haggard as his appearance, smoke-thick and rusted like an old lead pipe. "You three, I want you to put your hands up. I want the Girlie to step away from the fancy-ass machine, Pretty Boy over there to gimme all the cash from the register, and from you, Blondie, the cash from that fancy wallet o' yours."

For a second, nothing happened.

"NOW!"

Apparently, this guy was impatient. Steve-who-can't-read-a-room decided to try again.

"Look, son, just put the gun down and walk away-"

Steve didn't even get to finish before the man was two feet in front of him and jamming the gun so deep into his forehead he started to get a headache.

—Steve really needed to get more used to not being a well-known war hero.

"Money. Wallet. Now." The unnamed man hissed, somehow managing to jam the barrel harder into Steve's head.

Slowly, clearly telegraphing his movements, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin walking around the edge of the counter, approaching Steve and mr. Unknown from the side. He couldn't see Steve-behind-the-counter, but that didn't mean much at the moment.

"Hey, looser! Get lost!" Called Robin, a fucking crowbar leant against her shoulder, gum still being chewed, bored expression still in full effect. The unnamed robber's attention shot from Steve to Robin (just as Steve's shot from the robber to Robin), taking in her gives-no-fucks everything.

"Oh yeah, what you gonna do, kid?"

"Robin, don't! You can't do anything, just… let Steve give him the money, okay?" Steve-who-doesn't-work-customer-service calls out, unfortunately bringing the robber's attention briefly, oh so briefly, back to him.

"Listen to Blondie, girl. Gimme all you got, and no one will get hurt-"

From Steve's other side, there was a blur of green-and-black movement, a wet thwak! sound. Suddenly the pressure of a gun against his head was lifted, and the unnamed man was left crumpled on the ground, glistening red seeping from between his hair follicles. Steve-war-hero couldn't look away from the out-cold form of someone who could have killed him.

"Huh," came Steve-Robin's-coworker's voice, from where he was standing with a nail bat clutched reverently in his hands, "Guess he was right."

And Steve-patriot could only gape as Steve-baddass took one hand from his bat and immediately made his way to Robin, giving her a once over and looking critically at the crowbar over her shoulder.

"A crowbar, really Birdie? When you perfectly well know exactly where under the counter I keep the nail bat when we're on shift together? I feel like we should be offended."

We. Like the nail bat should be offended that Robin didn't immediately grab it the moment the robber came through the door.

"One, you were at the till, I wasn't. You were closer. Two, you woulda needed me as a distraction anyways. It worked out, didn't it? Besides, I think the only thing that could really offend your nail bat is if someone else were to use it."

Steve-Robin's-friend looked almost offended, before what was clearly a wave of concern crashed over the pair of them.

"Robs, what if he'd turned the gun on you?"

Robin only sighed, bringing Steve-nail-bat-wielder into a close embrace.

Steve-supposed-superhero coughed, the pair observing him wearily as he started to speak.

"Robin, that was really irresponsible. Steve was right, what if he'd turned the gun on you, and taken the shot? You could have gotten really hurt."

Steve-'superhero' had never seen anyone look as offended as Robin did in that moment. He ignored it.

"And Steve, that was so risky, he could have seen you! What if you hadn't hit hard enough, he could have seriously hurt one of you! Did neither of you think this through?"

Now, Steve was aware he wasn't the most well-versed in social interaction. Even before his whole coma situation, his entire stint as Captain America was spent being admired by almost anyone he encountered, signing autographs and giving talks. Before that, no one wanted to really be around an asthmatic stick of a man. Even Bucky hanging around was mostly a fluke, especially at first, because he was a long-held family friend. Bucky got to know him, though, and they became incredibly close. No one before or after Bucky had ever stayed long enough to learn about the real him.

All of this is really just a long way of saying that he really didn't know how to read a room, and as he continued to dig his own grave, other-Steve and Robin just seemed to get angrier. Other-Steve though, seemed to have a bit of a lid on it, because Robin was the one to start-

"Oh, I'm sorry, who was the one with a gun to his head? At no point did that man-" she gestured to the guy on the floor, as her arms gesticulated as she spoke- "ever point that gun at anyone other than you. And you have the audacity to tell usthat we were being risky?"

She sounded so incredulous, Steve-who-misspoke could almost taste it.

"You're the one who antagonised him, could you not tell that he wasn't going to back down?"

He didn't even try to defend himself. Peggy would get like this, raving about his lack of self-preservation after he pulled one of his 'stunts' during a mission. In fact, this 'speech' seemed kinda similar to one Peggy pulled on him earlier in their joint-careers. Maybe he should introduce them, they could compare notes.

"Robin, it's okay. Nothing happened, we're all alright. Despite the fact that he's an idiot, we handled it. Like we always do, yeah?" Robin gave a nod, complete focus on other-Steve. It was a relief, there had been this not-tension building as she'd gone on, and it looked like other-Steve was perfect to calm her down.

"Soulmates forever, yeah?"

Robin's-Steve smiled, linking their pinkies together, and Steven-Grant-never-actually-dated-anyone-ever-Rogers finally understood.

Oh. They're Together.

He must have made a noise of some kind to attract their attention again, because soon both of their gazes were once again burrowing into his. Apparently, the couple had wordlessly come to the decission to let Robin's-Steve handle the rest of this… interaction.

"Well, I don't think we need a name for your order. Robin, did you finish it?"

The girl in question nodded jerkily in response, not taking her eyes off Steve-who-fucked-up. Steve… the familiarity with which they worked together was setting off some old alarm bells in his head. That and… nail bat… So, he did what SHIELD was starting to, slowly, train him to do: subtly dig for answers.

"A young couple like yourselves… do you deal with this kind of thing often while together?"

For a second time, the shop almost turned icy, though neither worker seemed to notice any chill. Robin seemed to have stiffened up completely, more remininiscent of a stone statue than any living being Steve-can't-be-subtle-for-shit had ever seen. Robin's-Steve didn't have any reaction, only a cursory glance at his girlfriend, probably because of how still she'd become.

"Your Coffee, sir." He handed the still-warm to-go cup to the super-soldier stiffly. "And, not that it concerns you but, me and Robin aren't dating. We're platonic soulmates."

"With a capital P." Robin agreed, eyes still boreing through to Steve-the-idiot's soul, despite not having moved an inch.

Okay, this was officially getting weird.

Steve-who-was-leaving-now nodded in bewilderment as he made quick strides to the door, taking a quick sip of his coffee, barely noticing as it scolded his tounge and he pushed through the door and into the early-evening air. He didn't know what would happen to the unnamed man, and he didn't particularly care. He just knew he wanted to get away from the way Robin was glaring at his back. He could almost feel it drilling through, like those military lasers SHIELD had tried to show him. As he walks down the street, he can't help but slow down and focus his hearing back to the shop. They were talking again, about… him?

"He's just so rude! No 'thank you for saving my life, Robin', or even a 'Sorry for putting you in danger, Robin, and then for scolding you afterwards like a misbehaving schoolchild, that was silly of me, here have a tip!'"

Robin's complaints were followed by Steve-the-not-boyfriend's agreeing hums.

"He was staring at me too!! What was with that, and he looked at you basically the same way?! Just because he's Captain Fucking America or whatever, just- aaurggghh!"

By the time Steve-Robin's-soulmate replied, Steve was too far away to make out his words. Robin's following yelled, "EXACTLY!" however, was still within his hearing range.

For now though, he didn't have time to focus on the fact that two coffee shop employees knew he was Captain freaking America because he was getting a call, the buzzing becoming rather insistent as he fumbled around trying to find which pocket he put it in, his movements catching the attention of some passing teens. The group had to hide their snickers behind gloved hands as he found the correct pocket, not even bothering with the teens as they slipped into the coffee shop. He couldn't help the snide thought that entered his head as Fury's voice filtered through the janky mic on the old phone.

Damned teenagers.

…

Gods, he really is getting old.

Chapter Text

Natasha Romanov was this close to just pulling out her gun and shooting the man in front of her. He seemed to radiate smugness — far too much for 4:23 in the morning — and the thumb drive he was fiddling with wasn't helping matters. Her training in the red room might have been highly specialised, and she knew how to withstand torture for days on end, but just standing in front of this man was enough for her trigger finger to be getting twitchy, and from the way he was looking at her, he definitely knew it.

If she didn't know any better, she might have thought he was sent by a higher power for the express purpose of fucking up her mission.

It also probably didn't help that the younger woman next to him practically radiated stubbornness, flip phone (who uses that kind of ancient tech anymore?) in hand and visibly tapping with impatience against her crossed arms.

It was too gods damned early for this.

SHIELD, to her everlasting surprise, was nothing like the red room. She could choose not to go on more… morally dubious missions, and she was no longer expected to kill. Even after years of working for them, she was surprised that more people didn't hate her guts.

I mean, she was raised as a living weapon, brainwashed since the ripe old age of too-damned-young to obey all commands, to always finish the mission, and to never flinch at violence. In all ways except physical, she was a machine.

And then Clint came along (he keeps inviting her to dinners with other agents, brings her into conversations. She wonders how he does it, act like she's not a monster when she's bathed in red), and then she was working at SHIELD, and she was no longer forced onto operating tables, no longer kept in a room that more resembled a prison cell, no longer forced to fight her sisters to grievous injury in the name of 'training'.

She still trained. Of course she did, it would just be wrong to not nurture her… unique skill set, especially when it was probably the reason SHIELD took her in in the first place. She was here to be useful, and that was what she would be. Clint joined her more often than not, watching from the sidelines, or asking her to walk him through some of her exercises.

She didn't think she'd ever laughed for as long before, watching him make a valiant attempt at some of her favourite stretches. The sight of him flopped on the floor in a wet-towel-heap was ingrained in the back of her retinas.

It was during one of these sessions that Agent Hill approached her, mission file in hand, and asked her to read it through and meet her later in the afternoon.

The mission itself was simple, undercover at a suspected corrupt company called OSCPORP. Apparently, they were experimenting with genetics. That in itself wasn't an issue so much, they'd applied for all the right licenses. But something was setting off SHIELD's 'suspicious bullshit' alert, and all current attempts at investigating were annoyingly rooted out before they could go far. So, they were coming to her.

It wasn't anything too bad, she would be undercover as a security guard called 'Jennifer Allastor', 23, and it was her second job in the security sector (a cover for her skills, so she wouldn't be handicapped by watching how she fought). Her mother was dead, father living in a different state, a though retired mechanic and healthy. No siblings, no significant other, an interest in cars (from her father) and having just moved into New York, looking for a stable job so she can afford a nicer apartment and get properly settled. Her job? Use her shifts as an opportunity to snoop around. Don't take unnecessary risks with uncovering information, and above all, prioritise not getting caught.

In the back of a file was a list of agents who'd attempted to infiltrate the company. All failed, some were never seen again. SHIELD was getting dangerously suspicious of OSCORP, and now they were sending an ex-Widow.

An ex-Widow, who'd just been called out by the most infuriating man to ever exist (not that she'd ever say that to his face, it'd make him even worse, and it might upset Clint if he never found out someone had taken his spot) as a spy.

How he knew, she had no idea. For all her skills, she hadn't even gotten a name out of either the man or his companion. They were visibly not agents, though the girl held herself like a fighter (something to take a note of, because she looked far too young for such a stance to be as natural as it looked), both wore bags, and their hands had noticeable ink stains. The girl smelled of cheap paper, and the reporters notebook in her back pocket was a bit of a dead giveaway that the pair were journalists of some kind.

For the third time, she gave a sigh.

"Look, you're both here illegally, on private property. All I want to know is why you're both here, and who you are."

Neither of the journalists even twitched, though the man's smile seemed to somehow become more unbearably smug.

"For a spy, you sure don't seem to be very discrete, or very good at interrogating people." Okay. She knew he was saying it just to rile her up. "I noticed the alarm we set off almost as soon as it went off, I knew you were coming. It couldn't have been from the regular security, we got past that just fine — and as an aside, it's really a miracle more dangerously minded people haven't tried to break it, it was embarrassingly easy — and it was tucked away in a place no one would think to put an alarm, especially considering the (weak) protections still in place. Suspicious thing one. Suspicious thing two is that you're the only one here, no one else is coming, you're the one who set up the alarm. You're the only one who knows that we're here. We could leave now and even if you told someone, they wouldn't believe you, because we left no evidence behind, and they'd be more focussed on why you were here about… Wheeler what time is it?"

The girl's, Wheeler's, eyes narrowed as she spoke, gaze still unwaveringly locked onto Natasha. "4:30. And don't say my name, she might have a wire."

"She doesn't. As I was saying, what will your colleagues think when they find out you were here at half four in the morning chasing ghosts?"

As much as she would hate to admit it, she was rather backed into a corner on that front. The man seemed to know that.

"Maybe my colleagues here, but if I'm a spy as you say, what makes you think I can't get my superiors there involved, maybe get the two of you to take a walk with me back to my apartment where we can have a more private conversation?"

Wheeler's shoulders tensed, and the man seemed to puff up. Suddenly, Natasha was aware that she may have made a mistake.

"Because, unlike you, we are wearing a wire," Wheeler ground out, fingers hovering over the call button on her phone, "and our friends are listening, right now, and know exactly what we're supposed to be doing, and where we are, and when we're expected back. If you attempt to do anything to us, or prevent us from leaving with whatever information we've gathered, they have full scope to dump the audio of this conversation online, and let the public form their own opinions."

Yep. She'd definitely fucked up. She should have noticed it in the 'wire' comment — maybe she was getting out of practise. There was no other way out of this, so with an unsatisfactory number of answers (none), and having achieved absolutely nothing from this unsolicited visit to her work, the two journalists were waved by her without much fuss. That didn't mean the incident wasn't reported to her superiors, though. They could get her all the answers she'd ever want. While she waited, though, she might do some digging of her own… not like she was getting back to sleep tonight anyways.

'Wheeler' was an annoyingly common name, and because she only had a vague appearance to work from (the streets are dark at night, and it wasn't like she was going to draw attention by flinging around her compensative flashlight), there was no shock that she got little to nowhere in her search for the journalists. She'd initially tried looking for 'Wheeler, journalist', and other iterations, but a brief article on the dangers of 'investigative journalism' was enough to convince her that both reporters probably used an alias when sharing whatever information they'd gathered. That, or Wheeler was the alias. So many possibilities. No matter the case, 'Wheeler' couldn't be found through a conventional search-engine.

She'd just been about to start searching through a more governmental resource for information on her mystery B&Eers when she got the call.

"Jennifer Allastor, private security, how can I help?" maintain the cover.

"Line secure agent, speak freely."

Fury.

"Of course, sir. Is there a meaning to the call?"

"You need to stop looking into those reporters."

Hang on, that couldn't be right.

"Sir?"

"They're not our jurisdiction, Romanov, your report apparently set off some flags in the system, some other agencies are trying to get their noses into our business, and they will if you try and get those reporters involved."

"But Sir-"

"Leave it agent, that's an order!"

The line clicked before she could reply.

Two days later, the news broke. She watched from the shitty sofa in her apparently now redundant apartment. The news stations appeared to be having a field day, footage of some of the higher ups of OSCORP being arrested, being brought to the police station. Flashes and questions and a headline.

OSCORP MANAGERS FOUND TO BE CONDUCTING FRAUDULENT SCIENTIFIC STUDIES TO EMBEZEL FUNDS FROM THE US GOVERNMENT.

The part that caught her attention wasn't so much the headline as the reporters listed as releasing the information that would help get the managers convicted.

Information released by Bauman and Wheeler of 'Hawk Investigations'.

A part of her was frustrated. This had been her first mission for months, and she'd barely had time to get anything. It was definitely over now. This was probably what SHIELD was looking for, and now police would be snooping around the grounds and staff, with a spotlight on recent hires. Her handler would sort her out, extraction wise, it was always risky taking missions in the states because of the home turf, but SHIELD had pulled far riskier stunts to get their agents out of the field. The fact that Bauman (because that was definitely the name of the man who figured her out, it even sounded like an asshole name) managed to read her so easily was evidence that she was getting sloppy, and she couldn't let that slide.

That, and when she was away from HQ, she could get away with looking into 'Hawk Investigations'.

She didn't care that she'd been ordered to stay away — she was her own person now, according to the United States government — she was going to find out what was up with those reporters if it was the last thing she did. They were too… well, lets just say the last time she came across people that competent at the kind of work they do, she was in the intelligence department of SHIELD, and before that she was getting information for her next mission in the Red Room.

Wherever she went next, she promised herself, she wouldn't stop looking into Bauman and Wheeler.

Chapter Text

Tony Stark was the definition of 'parenting from a distance'. If you looked it up in a dictionary, you'd find a picture of him there, right under a description of his childhood and almost-non-existent relationship with his father.

So, to say Tony was more of a 'let it grow itself' type of CEO when it came to Stark Industries was more than fair, and definitely accurate. It was honestly surprising the whole ship hadn't gone down before, though most of that was probably due to Pepper.

Now, in the aftermath of literally being kidnapped by terrorists and being made to build himself a rickety suit of armour (that actually FLEW! He was still kinda surprised that it even moved, not that he'd admit to it anywhere other than in his nightmares), then fight his old business partner… he'd taken more of an interest in the company and it's assets. He couldn't let someone like Stane get that close to him, never again, couldn't let anyone be in control of his company's products other than him. He was too vulnerable, so was his company, and he was now freakishly aware of it.

It didn't help that the press was dragging him for the whole 'I am Iron Man' reveal he did a month or so ago. Apparently, the world is so uninteresting that Iron Man is still a big part of the daily news. If some of his higher interns were to be believed, there were whole social media accounts dedicated to 'Iron Man Sightings', and documenting the price of the property damage he caused while in his suit. Luckily, the number had stayed low, but he had JARVIS check the numbers anyways, and donate the appropriate amounts to the people effected by his… er… nightly activities.

He wasn't a Vigilante (not that he hadn't looked into it, but there were plenty of them already, especially in the NY area), and there was so little to the definition of a 'Superhero' aside from kids comic books that he really didn't know where he stood. He wasn't a civilian, no matter what Rhodey or the 'UnItEd StAtEs MiLiTaRy' claimed, and he will probably never be one again. Not with his suit. Not with his dreams Nightmares.

Pepper, bless his loyal assistant-slash-secretary-slash-secret-CEO-of-his-company, had noticed just how much he was using Iron Man to… well don't tell anyone he said this, but he was avoiding… life. Living. Honestly, the only party he'd been to since getting out was the one where he ambushed (more like ambushed by, but a guy can live in denial) Stane. He hadn't hosted anything glamorous in the aftermath of… everything, hadn't slept with any errant reporters…

If he wasn't himself, was instead merely an onlooker like his dear assistant… it'd probably seem like he was wasting away in his workshop. Making more suits, improving them. Slowly but surely delving further into experimental physics and engineering than he'd ever done before — even while stuck in that fucking cave.

Of course, if Pepper had noticed all of that, she'd also noticed that he was, above all else, avoiding his company. Avoiding having to deal with… any of it. The investors, the financial teams, the lawyers, the R&D scientists. Signing off on new projects, confirming final products. Checking out any of the numbers, especially profit-related… jeez, just thinking about it almost sent him into a fucking anxiety attack. He never had issues like this before the desert.

It seemed, however, that his apparently not-so-loyal assistant was trying to force his hand, because one too-early Tuesday morning (it was past 11) he found himself being forced into the elevator in his 'work clothes' — he hadn't changed out of his dirty mechanic clothes from last night, where he'd fallen asleep at his bench while working on a new arm for U — with Pepper's voice chasing him down the elevator shaft.

"Today, you're helping out with interviews for new interns. The guys down at floor six can give you all the information you'll need to help choose the right hires. The most you'll have to do is sit in and make judgements after the interview-ee has left the room. You won't even have to talk to them!"

That was how he found himself sitting facing what appeared to be an overly-excitable chipmunk, basically vibrating in his seat (whether from nerves or joy, he couldn't tell). Pepper, it seemed, was a dirty liar on top of bring a traitor, because as soon as he'd arrived, he'd been directed to a conference room with an applicant and no other member of staff.

Tony really needed to check their security regulations, because was it really safe to allow an unknown to be in one of their well-connected and highly-outfitted conference rooms without adult supervision?

He'd barely sat down, mostly resigned to his fate, when the kid had started talking.

And boy, the kid was definitely excited by this,

"Oh My God Mr Stark it's amazing to meet you, I'm such a fan of your water filtration systems, and your recent work on prosthetic limps and walking aids for disabled people. They're really expensive so I've never seen one in person, but me and my friends are saving up to get one for our other friend who has muscle damage in her legs and struggles to walk for long periods without it hurting a lot and we think your aide will help. How are they powered, because from the schematics it takes a lot of power just to move some of the joints because of the tightness of the allowances between pieces. If you allowed for more movement there's be less friction and it'd be easier for the leg to move-"

Tony raised his hand, pausing the kid's word vomit abruptly.

He was… shocked? In Awe? This kid, barely high-school age, meets a modern day… not-Superhero, and the first thing he talks about is his work on prosthetics? That project itself was a few months old, something for him to distract himself with when his latest suit wasn't co-operating. Pepper had seen it and immediately sent it off to their R&D department to get an actual project running from it, to release more medical-esque robotic-mix tech to replace the void created when Tony 'impulsively' cancelled all their military contracts.

Apparently, he'd been in shock for too long, because the vibrations of excitement from the kid had turned distinctly nervous.

"Less resistance on the joints would mean it was easier to move, yes, but would also mean whatever position it moves into, it can move out of too. For people with weak musculature, this would just make it hard to walk. Which is the opposite of what the product is trying to do."

The kid didn't seem nervous anymore, at least.

"So the high power usage is to aid in the movement of the stiff joint because a loose one would undermine the purpose of the aide… why not find a way to get it to lock in place when it's not being moved, use the power to hold it in place, and when the system detects a certain level of force trying to move the joint, it unlocks and allows the joint to be moved?"

Tony genuinely thought about it. He'd come across the movement issue while making the damn thing, but he'd never considered using a burst of power to hold the joint in place…

"How much force would be considered for the joint to move? Does this take into account the possibility of the user falling while using? Any unbalances could use the user's weight into a moment, providing the minimum force for the joint to unlock?"

Okay, Tony will admit it, he was testing the kid now. But hey, this was still a job interview. And, screw it, the kid was smart. He'd clearly thought about this… a lot.

The kid in question shook his head, almost subconsciously as he replied,

"No, the joint unlocking would allow them to catch their balance, wouldn't it? Because their leg could move."

A moment of silence.

"Or…" The kid spoke quietly into the room, windows long since frosted as their conversation got more complicated, "how closely did you follow the way a human leg actually works? If you could re-build the base of the aide, add hydraulic muscles for tension and ligaments to hold it all together, the system itself should be self-supporting, with the person's weight swinging forwards being enough to extend the leg. That along with some pre-existing musculature should be enough to get the leg extended, and the pressure on the aide could press the system up into a 'free' position so that the user can walk forwards-"

"Kid, hold your horses, I need to pull up a whiteboard or something. JARVIS, you got me?"

"Of course, Sir. Though I would like to remind you that you're interview with Mr Henderson has about ten minutes remaining before you are needed for another appointment."

Tony waved his AI off. They had plenty of time. Besides, he wanted to see what this kid could do. With a flourish, he picked up the whiteboard pen provided by JARVIS, helpful thing he was, and offered it out to 'Mr. Henderson'.

"Here you go kid, show me what you got!"

Tony wasn't really a kid-person, but he could swear his heart grew three sizes at the sight of the kid's massive, toothy grin.

For the next hour or so, the pair worked on improvements to the official second edition of the SI walking aide, and made plans for features they could add in a third model once they'd figured out all the kinks with this one. JARVIS tried to interrupt frequently, and Tony was well aware that this was not what Pepper meant when she told him to 'help with the hiring process', but he was having fun with another human being, one he'd started to become friend-ish with, for the first time in almost a year. Obadiah's betrayal had cut deep into his insecurities, and he'd lost faith that he could form connections that wouldn't, eventually, hurt him.

Maybe the kid would be good for him.

Eventually, though, the kid got a notification on his phone. The alert seemed to be personalised, an old carousel-esque jingle that sounded like it was from the 80's. The moment it started playing, Henderson dropped the equation he was in the middle of and checked his messages — of which there were quite a few, from how quickly the kid went from a healthy-sunned skin tone to as pasty white as a sheet of paper.

"I, err."

For a moment, he didn't seem to know what to do, looking panicked between his phone lock screen and Tony. Luckily, the man himself was feeling merciful. The kid had grown on him, like a particularly fast growing fungus. Or maybe a bacteria. Either way, he liked the kid, and he was getting hired, whether he had an emergency to take care of right now or he was in trouble with his parents for overstaying.

"It's alright kid, you're hired. We can work on this next week, when you officially start as an SI intern, three days a week in the regular R&D floors, with fortnightly sessions with me in my private lab, so we can work on this prototype."

If they were in a cartoon, he was sure the kid's jaw would be on the floor and rolling away.

"Now answer your phone!"

Just in time, too, because the ringtone started up again. The kid picked up as he hurriedly started shoving some of his stuff back into his bag, notebooks filled with almost unintelligible scribbles and surprisingly accurate and detailed drawings, going beyond what they'd been talking about or what he'd expressed a high interest in. There was a metallic water bottle, several scattered pens and a few other pieces of stationary and calculators, all shoved into the bag as he, once again, started talking at a million miles an hour at 'Steve', who was apparently the one calling.

'Steve' was outside, and had been waiting for half an hour for him to come down, and apparently 'the paranoid security guy' (Tony's bets were on Happy) was starting to get antsy that he'd lingered for so long. The kid left in a blur after that, barely yelling a goodbye behind him as he stayed on the phone the whole way down the elevator and as he walked out of the building, only hanging up when he stepped smoothly into a well-cared-for BMW 733i, that if JARVIS is to be believed was made in 1983. Interesting, but not far-fetched. The rich weren't the only ones who liked to take care of their old cars.

It was only in the aftermath of Storm Henderson that Tony even thought to check the kid's records and CV. He had JARVIS prep the room for the next interview, saving their current workings in the same private network as the original prosthetic prototype and getting rid of the evidence that two scientists were completely geeking out in there just ten minutes earlier. He took the kid's file to his lab, opening it once he was sure he had privacy.

"Dustin Henderson, huh?"

Tony wouldn't admit it, not to Pepper, JARVIS, or the kid himself, but Dustin's CV was mighty impressive. External work experience at some local workshops and mechanics shops. A history of joining academic clubs and groups dedicated to robotics and radios, top grades in physics and, surprisingly biology, middling in things like English language and foreign languages, but those weren't necessary to be able to build something. He's entered competitions, consistently getting top-five.

Yeah, Tony was sure of it now, even if he wasn't before, that kid's gonna be my intern.

Chapter Text

Clint Barton had been a SHIELD agent for a decade. He was experienced, he was trusted, and he'd been on hundreds of missions. Most of the time, he was partnered up with a small selection of other trusted agents, though it was becoming more and more common to be running solo, or working alongside his 'pet project' (Nat would kill him is she ever knew that was how she was referenced behind closed doors, but the directors had yet to fully warm up to the newly-reformed international assassin. She didn't get a choice in this, and he didn't either).

Today, though. He was on his own.

It was a shorter mission, part of a wider network of connected strikes against what they believed to be a newly emerging organised crime syndicate, trying to unite international mafias to bring more profits. SHIELD couldn't let that happen, so, they did what they do best, being a god-clearance spy agency: they struck as one in the night.

No one should be expecting an attack, especially if they were all timed correctly. It was just Clint's bad luck that he was stuck with his slot being at midnight. You'd think, being an America-based agency, they'd let their American-operating agents sleep, but no.

And that's how Clint, operating as Hawkeye, found himself freezing his arse off in early spring, right by the NY docks, spying on what appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a regular warehouse.

A glance at his watch revealed that there was less than a minute left before he was to strike. All reports on the warehouse said that they were working on what could be considered a 'skeleton crew', so he wasn't expecting a lot of issues with this mission. It was one of the reasons why he was sent to do this solo, he was competent enough to handle any small issues that could pop up during his part of the operation. That, and Natasha was still on extended assignment.

A faint beep, so only Clint would hear, and he stood, carefully ignoring the aches of being sat in one place for too long in the cold. He could get over it.

Taking down the first two sentries was a piece of cake, they'd just switched out, so there was time before anyone noticed that they were out for the count. Just as he was securing their hands, one of their radio's crackled to life.

"Fitz, report! We're getting some weird feedback on the enviro' controls in here, you seeing anything?" The voice was alert, as if expecting something to come out of his shadow and drag him into the aether.

Hawkeye didn't reply, simply finishing what he was doing as the speaker kept asking for a report. By the time he started begging, Hawkeye had already gotten into the building, closing the corrugated door behind him smoothly and cutting off the desperate voice on the other side of the radio.

The warehouse around him was silent. It wasn't supposed to be silent. There weren't any lights this close to the entrance, the only illumination coming from deeper in the building, adding a sort of eerie aura to the entranceway. The ceiling was tall enough that the only hint of its existence were the looming support beams overhead, connected with sturdy columns of oxidised steel and giant square base plates. Boxes were towered all around, pale crates of unknown contents stacked one-on-another like some kind of highly suspicious game of Jenga. If SHIELD's information was correct, each of those crates held hundreds of dollars worth of 'product' — this organisation's code-speak for 'animals'. So far, there had been no evidence of human trafficking by this group, but if reports from other locations by the other teams were to be believed, that was going to change soon.

Not if we have anything to say about it-

A skittering, from the rafters. Sounded like something metal, dragging harshly against the supports. Hawkeye didn't even think, no time to even blink, as he reflexively pulled out his bow, drew and arrow and leased it, dulled thunk as it made contact confirming his suspicions: he wasn't alone here.

Whatever he'd hit didn't make a sound. He couldn't hear movement until there was a displacement of air behind him. Years of training gave him a fast recovery time, but by the time he'd both drawn another arrow and turned to face his attacker, they'd already reached up to slap his bow away. Clint watched in disappointment as it disappeared into the gloom. He'd liked that one, and it'd lasted him a good few months — longer than all his others so far. He let himself pout a little as he and the shadowed figure engaged in a flurry of melee, Hawkeye grabbing one of his emergency knives as his adversary did the same, matching each other blow-for-blow.

Hawkeye was… stunned, not that he let it effect his fighting, for all he knew this guy was trying to kill him. No one in any of SHIELD's files should be able to match him combat-wise, at least none that he wouldn't recognise on sight. So who was this guy?

"Chief, stand down!" Came a harsh whisper from Clint's back.

The sudden words made him twirl, free hand coming up in a slice attack. The other figure, more feminine from the sound of it, caught his flailing arm easily, redirecting it gently. Her attention wasn't even on Clint, entire being focussed intently on 'Chief', presumably the guy who just fought him and didn't loose-

"He shot you-"

Clint had to suppress a shiver from travelling down his spine. The man's — because there was nothing else he could be — voice was gravelly and low, he could hear the way he was speaking through his teeth, barely suppressed rage.

Okay, big man's protective of the smaller one, good to know.

"Chief," the other said in what came across as a 'disappointed mother' tone, "he caught the loose fabric of the hood. I'm fine."

Chief huffed, taking a step back from Clint, arms crossed, and by the gods, even in the dark Hawkeye could se the man had muscles for days, save me Odin-

It took Hawkeye a moment to notice that he was definitely the third wheel in this situation. And that the two… vigilantes? With him we're having some kind of staring contest.

Apparently, the smaller won, because Chief just huffed again and stomped off towards the warehouse proper, staying close enough that the other two could still clearly see his outline in the darkness.

"Apologies for Chief, he saw the arrow had hit me and… well, you saw what happened." Clint got the distinct impression that she was looking him up and down, as if criticising his entire personality. "I'm Sparrow, Chief's main partner."

Apparently, he'd passed whatever… that was.

"Hawkeye. Sorry for the whole… arrow thing-"

She waved him off, turning to face her partner as they regrouped.

"Don't worry about it, you missed. No harm no foul, right?"

And wasn't that strange, because Clint never misses. He's done blind shots before, will less to help guide his shot than rattling metal. Something is odd here-

His thoughts were cut off abruptly when Chief shoved his bow towards him.

"Here."

Clint didn't reply. Didn't reach out.

"Just take it, it's yours, ain't it? Besides, you're gonna need it. As least thirty guys in there."

Clint got the distinct impression that this was as close to an apology as he was going to get from Chief. Soon enough, the bow was back in his hand, subconsciously checking it for extra dents and inconsistencies that might effect his shooting accuracy. He found nothing. Thank god for H. Stark Tech.

"Thirty guys?" Clint intervened. Staring contests between Sparrow and Chief were apparently common. "My intel said there'd be max ten. They've been working on a skeleton crew for weeks."

Sparrow answered, turning to include Hawkeye in their planning session.

"Yeah, we don't know why either, our guys have been monitoring their outgoing secure communications closely, most of it is in some kind of code, but we detected some alert that the base received a few days ago. We haven't gotten it completely decoded yet, but it is probably the reason all these extra guys are here."

"That's why you're alone, right?" Chief said, gruff exterior barely shifting as the trio began to work together.

"Err… yeah, wait, how did you know I'm here by myself…"

The pair ignored the question.

"How long have you been looking at these guys?" Sparrow said gently. For some reason, Clint felt he could trust them.

"A month or so now. Why? You think they picked up on our surveillance? How can you be sure it's not yours?"

"Because ours doesn't involve sending people in to literally observe what they're doing."

He felt his suspicions rise, as for the first time he properly looked between Sparrow and Chief.

"You knew I would be here-"

"We knew someone would be here," Sparrow interjected placatingly. "When we were watching their communications, we caught some more secure ones coming out of the area. We thought is was another group, but when we decoded it, we found out about you. If we can intercept your transmissions, they probably could too."

This was… concerning. Not only had an unknown group been able to break into their comms system, but they'd been listening to their plans for long enough that they coincidentally bumped into each other on the night of SHIELD's planned raid.

"So you're here to… help." It wasn't a question. He still wanted an answer.

They just nodded in response.

"Okay. Work together?"

"Of course, Hawkeye. Though I think it's important for you to know that we are investigating this group for our own means, and have a mission we need to complete outside of assisting you."

"Of course, may I ask what?"

"You may," Chief started. Oh boy. He was sounding protective again, "We'll tell when you tell us what you're really here for."

That earnt him a look from Hawkeye.

"You know I can't tell you that."

Chief only shrugged in response.

"Ain't a trade if only one person is givin'. I'm guessing now we'll need a plan. Can you at least tell us whereabouts the thing you're looking for is?"

To be fair to Clint, he hadn't been explicitly told that he couldn't say where they thought the information was.

"If our intel is still accurate, it should be nearer the back of the warehouse, probably in some kind of office." Sparrow nodded in agreement.

"It should be, nothing so far has indicated that they're aware you're after anything other than trying to take them down. Our mission should be on the other side of the warehouse, though, relative to the office you are talking about."

Chief grunted into the ensuing silence, the sounds of others starting the echo into the part of the warehouse where they'd been talking. Nothing too close, but their window to chat was soon to close, and they needed a plan.

"It's settled then, we head in, take down as many men as we can while making out way to the back, Hawk and Sparrow will head to collect our respective missions and leave me as distraction for whoever's left. When you're done, Hawk, come back to assist if needed."

"Why won't Sparrow be coming back to help?"

"Our mission should take a lot longer than yours, depending on whether they stored whatever information you're looking for in a local private server or it's all on paper. Ours… will just take a while. You don't need to know details. When you're both done with the men, feel free to call in your agency, Hawk. We should be long gone by the time they arrive."

They were hiding something from him, he knew it. You know, beyond what they were looking for. Hawkeye had no idea what to think, though. They gave away basically nothing, they knew far too much about his 'agency' — they knew he was in an agency!!! These guys came out of nowhere, he was pretty sure SHIELD didn't even have 'Chief' and 'Sparrow' on their radar. And they seemed pretty confident that they could clear off quickly enough to avoid the rather pointed questioning they'd by now earnt themselves from his superiors.

He said none of this, accepting their help and their plan. He'd need the assistance anyways, especially if Chief was to be believed about the body count.

Together, they headed in, not worrying too much about stealth. At some point, Sparrow flew up into the rafters and disappeared from view, leaving Chief and Hawkeye to walk alone while she watched over from above.

Mutterings and muffled footsteps getting slightly louder, coming from straight ahead. He couldn't tell how many.

"Sparrow says three guys, guns all with safety on. Unsuspecting. No others nearby, but either way sound carries in here."

Clint only nodded, ducking behind a stack of boxes while Chief hid behind another. Three stun arrows later, the men were secured in the space behind a set of stacks, hands and legs secure, and soundly enjoying their impromptu naps. Sparrow remained in the rafters, warning them when small groups of muscle were getting close. This method worked surprisingly well, though maybe he shouldn't be so surprised — it was obvious from how smoothly Chief and Sparrow interracted that they were experienced, and knew each other well. This is probably something they've explicitly done before, maybe with extra team members, given how many times Chief had looked slightly to his left, as if expecting someone to be by his side as Sparrow gave them a preview of their enemies movements.

Time felt like it stretched on forever as they finally reached the main body of the warehouse. There was central lighting, finally, but what it revealed was almost enough for Clint to wish they were still in the dark.

Sporadically placed around the area were metal cages, each with a creature or two in them. The sizes of the cage varied little, despite the great difference in size between the pigmy animals and the large cats and dogs, and were placed side by side indiscriminately. If Hawkeye looked hard enough, he was sure he'd spot some more… exotic animals scattered through the more run-of-the-mill species. He could smell the mistreatment these animals went through, he didn't know how the men around them could handle it. Though, maybe that was why they encountered so many while on their way here — they were all trying to get away from the stench.

"Sparrow says there's about fifteen in the room," Chief whispered, reaching into a pocket and pulling out what looked to be a skin-toned lentil. A very small skin-toned lentil.

"This is a comm, when you put it in it'll automatically join our channel. You don't need to press it, it's microphone will pick you up. If it comes out it'll deactivate, and I'm not telling you how to turn it on, so just keep it in until one of us comes and gets it from you, yeah?"

Clint nods, gingerly taking the lentil and following Chief's hand movements to place the comm.

Upon contact with his ear, it crackled to life, almost startling him into dropping his bow.

"Sparrow to group, comms check."

"Sparrow, received. Chief to group, comms check."

Chief looked at him.

"Chief, received. Hawkeye to group, comms check."

"Hawk, received. Welcome to the channel. The office you're looking for is straight ahead down the centre of the warehouse, then the third door on your left. It's door is a dark brown with wood detailing, but it's heavy enough to be made of metal. There's one, maybe two people guarding at once. I can't see into the room to tell you how many to expect, so go in prepared for a fight."

"Sparrow, received. Thanks. Are we going in now, or is there some kind of signal-"

A startling pop echoed through the warehouse, followed by a deafening silence. The fainest sound of someone landing was the only noise, even the animals were silent from their wailing cries for help.

"Hello boys, fancy some company?"

Clint had the feeling that Chief was very much unimpressed by Sparrows signal.

"Time to go, Hawk. Try to keep up."

And with that, Chief literally flung himself over the boxes they were hiding behind, joining the fray with a looseness to him that spoke to years of experience, perhaps even more than Clint himself.

Chief was a tank on the battlefield, and Clint didn't even mean the way he could take hits like a pro — no, he was plenty good at dishing them out, too. He also seemed to be incredibly spatially aware, managing to direct his melee fights into open areas, where the animals weren't in danger of being harmed by the flying bodies and thrown fists. Some of those punches though… over the chaos, Clint could swear he heard the crunching of bones, usually accompanied by a pained screech and a spray of blood, usually from a nose. At one point though, he was pretty sure he saw someone writhing on the ground with half their femur sticking out of their leg; jagged, broken end catching on the floor or cages around him as the man writhed around, no doubt causing more agony.

Sparrow was something else entirely. Her style wasn't a dance, not like Natasha. This form spoke of no formal training in any dance, let alone ballet. Still though… it was so graceful. Chief was all stop-start. Punch, tank hits. Sparrow was a river, flowing between enemies like she could see where they were before they stepped forwards to even throw a hit. It was so similar to Nat, but there was less practised gracefulness to it, more… well, he was tempted to compare it to street-fighting. From appearances, neither Chief nor Sparrow had much official fight training, but they were both just so… there was a experience there, so that even if he, or Nat, tried to take them down, he wasn't entirely sure they'd manage it.

He was well aware of the trade-off when it came to fighting professionally, or even learning through any official means. When you fight against classically trained fighters, you come to expect moves from classically trained fighters. When you go against street brawlers… they knock you on your arse, because they fight dirty, with everything they have. They have no time for technique beyond being able to throw a punch without breaking their hand. He's been beat by a street-level vigilante SHIELD was trying to recruit before, a year or so back. They knew he was there before he'd even seen them, had tracked him from in front as he lead him on a wild goose chase through manhattan… that mission had been deeply embarrassing for him, but a much-needed reality check on the hidden strength of local vigilantes.

A brief snatch of pain brought him from his reverie, as he was rather violently reminded of the fact that he was supposed to be fighting, not analysing the fighting styles of his new vigilante friends. With a twang of his bow, his assailant was down, regular arrow shot through-and-through at the throat. He didn't spare the man another glance as he turned quickly, making sure to take in his surroundings again as he continued where he'd left off.

Clint didn't know how long they'd been fighting for before his comm crackled to life again.

"Hawk, you've got an opening. There are enough down now that I'll be fine for a bit. Sparrow, you go too. Godspeed, both of you. Return as soon as your objectives are complete."

Chief's words were punctuated occasionally by the sound of grunting from the force behind a hit. Whether he was giving them or taking them, Clint didn't take the precious time to check, simply parroting his agreement over the comms and sprinting for where Sparrow had said the office was.

Her instructions were near-perfect, and he found the place easily. There was one guard outside the door, easily taken out of the equation, and the door itself was, indeed, heavier than normal wood, despite it's textured appearance. Clint grunted as he pulled it, despite the warning he still hadn't expected that much weight. It opened easily enough, though, revealing the thankfully empty room.

In the centre hung a single, uncovered bulb, casting a cold-white glow across the room. Just looking at it too long sent a shiver up Clint's spine, and he quickly moved on. A medium sized desk sat in front of the far wall, cheap-looking and old, covered in scratches and dents. It's surface was littered with pens, a dusty desk lamp and loose papers, all bearing the same watermark. He grabbed a few that looked important, only looking at them for long enough to know that they weren't what he was looking for. Beside the desk was a stack of filing boxes, labelled though not conveniently. The words had beem written, re-written, and gone over so many times that they were barely legible. He reached over blindly, clicking on the desk lamp, pleasantly surprised that it turnd on at all. With the extra light, he bent forwards, squinting at the words. The only ones he could make out were the bottom two boxes, the rest was useless: 'finances 2010' on the bottom box and 'stock 2010' on the one above.

For a moment, he considered checking through the boxes, but he knew that they weren't what he was looking for. With any luck, though, they would still be here when SHIELD came through to scrape the place. He made a mental note of it and turned to the opposite wall.

Wall-to-wall filing cabinets, luckily with small legible tabs telling the contents within. Clint heaved a sigh. This might take a while. He approached, scanning until he found what he was looking for: Imports/Exports. Smoothly, he pulled open the drawer and started rifling through different folders, grabbing any that had different countries listed in the transport documents. His mission was simple; gather evidence of the groups international connections, and take as much evidence of malintent as possible. SHIELD wanted info, but they also wanted specific information. They could easily check manifests the other teams gathered from their own locations — Clint was one man, and he could only carry so much documentation before he wouldn't be able to fight his way back out. The possibility of human trafficking, though, made shutting this place down as quickly as possible an addition to the mission, which was why he was under orders to call in as soon as he completed his main objective.

Files in hand, he reached to activate his SHIELD com link. And he hesitated. Sounds of fighting were still echoing through the com that Chief had given him, in the background it was joined by mumbled words, comforting in nature. Clint didn't have the time to try and figure out whether it was interference or Sparrow, but… they'd trusted him. Given him a com, helped him even though they probably could have done their mission without crossing paths with him, theirs was apparently far away enough that it was plausible. They'd intentionally helped him, given him information that was accurate and helped him complete his mission faster by using themselves as a distraction.

His SHIELD com stayed in his pocket as he pushed back through the door, running back to where Chief was still resolutely holding the fort. Blood spatters painted the floor around him as he reflexively elbowed a masked enemy that came up behind him, the impact sending the other man reeling backwards, skull cracking against the concrete floor. He didn't get up.

The only acknowledgment Chief gave him was a quick nod as he turned to the next attacker, jumping into a wrestler's brawl with him, leaving some scattered remains of the trafficking ring's forces to Clint. With care, he placed his file on top of a (thankfully) empty cage, pulling his bow back out and getting to work protecting Chief's back, not that he really seemed to need it. Bodies littered the floor, spread out as if thrown back in an explosion. The way they lay, you couldn't tell how many were dead or alive — some were obvious, squirming around and holding various broken bones or bleeding wounds. Others were either unconscious or… well, you know. Chief was scarily competent, all that he faced were quickly dealt with, taken out of the action in such a way that they had no chance of coming back up to cause issues down the line.

"Chief to Sparrow, Hawk is back with me. Most enemies dealt with. Mission status?"

Now, this he had to hear, though he did try to pretend he wasn't listening in to their conversation. If they didn't want him to hear, they wouldn't have given him a way to eavesdrop into their conversation.

"Chief, received. Near complete," came Sparrow's surprisingly strained voice. She was whispering too, more of what sounded like interference coming through from her side of the connection. "having some trouble with the exit, but I'll be out in five tops."

Chief nodded as he gut punched another man, throwing him to the side where he flopped, boneless and gasping for breath around his broken ribs.

"Sparrow, received. Regroup at the tower in ten. Me and Hawk are just finishing up here."

Clint felt Chief's gaze as he shot another non-lethal through someone's shoulder.

"When you're out, I'll call in my agency to take care of the animals and clean up the warehouse."

Apparently that was the right thing to say, because Chief nodded again, what appeared to be a small smile pulling at his lips as he turned again and growled at one of the last men still standing, prompting him to run away. He didn't get far before Clint caught him with an arrow, pinning him to a crate through his hand.

"Hawk, received. See you later, then, boys! Sparrow out."

A small crackle and the background interference cut off. Apparently, it was on Sparrow's end.

The last man standing cowered before the vigilante and the spy. The aforementioned pair shared a look. Chief gestured to the man, as if to say your mission, he's all yours. With a sigh, Clint stepped forwards and swung his bow in a practised arc, clocking the last man on the head and knocking him out.

"Huh, guess that bow is useful for somethin' other than shootin' shit."

"Hey, don't dis the bow, man." That earnt him an unimpressed eyebrow raise from Chief. "Gimme a sec to grab my thing and then we can head out."

Clint turned his back before he got a reply, but the sight of Chief patiently waiting for him as he turned around, file in hand, was confirmation enough.

Together, they walked out, Clint fiddling with his SHIELD com as they went.

"You should probably contact them sooner rather 'n later." Chief broke the silence.

Clint nodded, fitting the com into his other ear and calling his activations codes.

"Hawkeye, reporting a success on the mission. Current location insecure, full report when back at base. Warehouse needs a clean, stock inside needs protection, targets within need appropriate containment. Signing off for the night, Hawkeye over and out."

He didn't get a reply before he pulled out the offending com and powered it off. The operators didn't usually reply, no one would be offended by his lack of conversation. Since learning that his new vigilante friends had managed to decode enough of their communications to plan around their mission… let's just say he was hesitant to share potentially dangerous information over a compromised system. He'd have to include the weakness in his report. If he brought up the weakness… he'd have to mention Chief and Sparrow. And then they'd get hunted down and either recruited or removed…

He couldn't let that happen, he actually kinda liked them. Besides, bringing them in this late in the game wouldn't really be an option, besides maybe as trainers for the next generation of agents. For now, he needed to keep them out of his report… he'd figure it out. For now, Chief was leading him to a tall building, a good few blocks away from the warehouse. This must be the tower — clearly a trusted building, if the familiarity with which Chief found it was any indication.

Behind its old-looking wooden door was what looked to be a rather dilapidated building. There was no sign of life, or use, anywhere that Clint could see. Not that that was very far, mind, it was still late at night, and the streetlights outside weren't powerful enough to reach through the boarded up windows.

Chief, once again, was the one to lead him down, deeper into the building, towards what looked like a set of stairs. Clint looked down them, a single red light visible at the bottom. Not for the first time, he felt unsure about following a physically imposing stranger into an unknown location. When Chief started making his way down, though, motion activated lights, dim and subtle, lit the path down. At least they had some concept of safety, he thought as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He was just in time to catch Chief entering something into a… he didn't even know, but it wasn't any kind of keypad he was familiar with. He didn't get a chance to really look at it, though, because the LED above the numbers switched to green and the pad sunk into the wall it was attached to. Clint's confusion only grew as the wall itself seemed to withdraw, pulling backwards and then… to the side?

What was revealed was any super spy's wet dream. The walls were a comforting light grey, none of that pure, sterile, headache-inducing white. The LEDs were artfully warm, providing what seemed like mood lighting in the corridor. The only thing he could see from his position outside was where the path turned, but it was more than enough to convince him that, even if he didn't think these guys were… extraordinarily strange before, he would have no doubts about it now.

Beyond the corner was what looked to be one of the most technically advanced intelligence centres he's ever seen. Chief walked off almost as soon as they got to the 'hub', as he called it. Leading off from most of the walls were more of he same corridors, no labels around but he caught glimpses of a paler room in the direction Chief had gone in, probably a medical room of some kind. He hadn't heard anyone getting hurt, at least not over coms. Maybe they just didn't wanna expose some kind of weakness in front of him..? No, they couldn't be too worried about that, they took him right to their base. Maybe that's just where Sparrow was right now, where she normally went after missions to decompress or something? Nat did something similar, often being found in the firing range or the lounge to relax, especially after the more… intensive missions. Recently, they'd done a particularly gruelling mission that involved children (legally, he couldn't say more about it), and she'd basically dropped off the grid after they debriefed. He'd found her hours later in an old ballet school, having rented out the studio with cash, upfront, for the day. That was the day Clint started learning the basics of ballet, and when he learnt that the one thing that seemed to centre Nat above all else was ballet — dancing to the old classics, performing practised moves to the nutcracker and the ugly duckling. She made fun of his abysmal form, and he sat to the side as she performed for him; he was the first she ever danced in front of willingly.

He understood things like partners decompressing together, meeting each other half-way when it comes to trying to compartmentalise what they saw while doing their jobs, or their duties. Whatever drives them, that kept convincing them that this line of action was worth it. He was glad they had each other. Now that he had Nat he found himself consistently wondering how he made it as long as he did without a long-time partner.

Besides, with both of them probably pre-occupied, he had an opportunity to actually take in his surroundings. And take them in he did.

Good lord, this place was a work of art. Large monitors anchored to the ceiling, angled to perfection so that, no matter where you looked at them from, you didn't get any glare from the lighting spaced around the room in the same manner as the corridors. There were large desks in an arc in the centre of the room facing the large screens, also covered with it's own array of computers and interactive screens, including what looked like an active map of crime around New York. How they managed this, he didn't know, but this definitely wasn't the work of just two vigilantes. They had to have a team of some kind, in order to run an operation like this. To get the information that they did. Unfortunately the screens of the computers all seemed to be locked, and the interactive map only seemed to have access to itself, so he could watch in real time as SHIELD trucks made their way to the warehouse they cleared, but not hack into the computers it was probably linked to.

Nothing else to see at the desk, he made his way to the clear walls. They were the same colour as the corridors around him, but looking closer showed him that the wall was actually made up of several panels. With a hesitant hand, he reached out, lightly fingering the scales of the panel in front of him. History and experience had told him that pushing random buttons in strange, unknown bunkers often lead to some rather dramatic consequences, but these people hadn't expressed any desire to hurt him, had actively aided him. He didn't feel like anything in here would hurt him.

Pep talk successful, he pushed in the panel, revealing that it was spring loaded. Pulling his hand away, the panel slid out to reveal what was very clearly an arsenal of vials of various liquids. Rather concerningly, one was glowing — Clint barely caught himself before he picked it up to study it closer.

"Hawk."

The sudden voice startled him, and he was very relieved he held off on picking up that funky vial — he definitely would have dropped it and he didn't want to find out what that liquid could do. He turned to face the person who spoke, revealing Sparrow, blessedly uninjured, looking at him with a time-perfected disappointed mother look, hands in hips and all.

"I, err…" Clint panicked for a moment, looking alarmed between where the vials were settled neatly in the panel drawer and where Sparrow was looking at him with an indiscernible expression — not that it would have been easy to see her look anyways, what with the mask and all. At least now, her hood was down.

"This isn't… I wasn't- look, I'm sorry, I'll just-"

Sparrow came over, gently pushing the drawer closed with a spring-click, stepping back out of Clint's space when the task was complete but staying close enough to give him a once-over.

"As long as you didn't touch anything, me and Chief hardly know what any of them do, and the others are rather particular about their little experiments . Why they insist on keeping them here of all places is beyond me, but here they are nonetheless. Now, you aren't injured, are you? Beyond the odd bruise or two?"

Clint shook his head, suddenly overwhelmed by the motherly concern — yeah, there was no way she didn't have kids.

"Either way, I want to check you over in slightly better lighting, this place is good for working at night because of the darker atmosphere, but medically brighter light is typically the way to go, come along now!"

And that was how Clint found himself sitting on one of their surprisingly comfortable medical beds as the trio talked a bit, about their history with their… profession, how long they'd been doing it, people they'd met, some of the things they'd accomplished.

(It was only later, when Clint had long debriefed SHIELD on his mission from that night, that he realised he still knew basically nothing about Sparrow and Chief beyond their vigilante names and the names of some of their allies, not that he got the impression any of the ones they named were ones that they were particularly close to.)

Just as he was about to leave (it was getting spectacularly late, and he needed at last a bit of sleep before he tried to come up with a cover story that kept Sparrow and Chief out of SHIELD's radar that his bosses would buy), Sparrow pulled him aside.

"Look, Hawk, I just wanted to say that it was nice working with you and maybe… if you happen to come across another group of those sons of bitches we fought together today, you could key us in? Who knows, maybe we'll be onto it already, and I'd enjoy working with you again. It's nice to have a long-distance shooter when it's just me and Chief."

Clint was surprised, but that didn't stifle the flicker of joy steadily building in his chest.

"That would be amazing. Do you have a… way I could contact you?"

She gave him a funny look.

"You already have one," she replied in an amused tone, gesturing lazily to his ear — the one that still had their com in it.

"I, err… don't know how to turn it off. Or on… Chief was kinda… yeah."

Sparrow gave a light chuckle at that, rolling her eyes. She got it, she knew what Chief was like. He came across as the kind of guy who hesitated to trust a baby, let alone someone who went by a clearly fake 'name' and worked for a mysterious 'agency'. Clint would want to keep secrets from a guy like that too.

"That's alright, hon. It should turn off automatically when you take it out. Here-" she passed him a small pot of some kind, a tiny thing with a surprisingly easy-to-open latch- "put it in this when you're not using it, and keep it on you whenever you're out. We have constant surveillance over our coms system, so if your com activates, at any time, we'll be able to mobilise quickly to help with whatever you need. Speaking of turning on your com, it should just do it automatically when you put it in again, though if that doesn't work just tap it a few times and it should sort itself out."

Clint took his com out, hearing the faintest of crackles as it turned off, and placed it gingerly into the case he'd been gifted.

"Thank you, and you're of course welcome to join me on any future missions in the New York area, if we happen to cross paths."

The two shared a look knowingly as Sparrow started guiding Clint to the 'front door' of their facility.

"Do you remember your way to the outer door?" She said softly into the comforting silence that had enveloped them.

Clint only nodded, casting one last look at his new friend before jokingly saluting, smiling broadly when she returned it and headed back into their base. The door closed smoothly behind her, leaving a blank wall with nothing to show for a secret stronghold other than a strange red LED, shining brightly into the sudden darkness of the still-dilapidated tower-building thing that the vigilantes had holed up in.

The next day, he attended the briefing with a plan:

He knew about the weakness because when he arrived, there were like, twenty more guys than he expected. He was lucky enough that they came in waves rather than all at once, but he left soon after finishing because of how exhausted he had been. He'd managed to find the office with little issue and collected the information needed to complete the mission only after taking care of the last few stragglers.

Most of his superiors seemed to buy it, but Fury wasn't a man easily fooled, and he knew Clint was lying. Things weren't adding up, like the excessively broken bones (very much not Clint's usual style of 'climb high and shoot them down'), and the frankly impressive volume of captured enemies who had pretty severe concussions. Clint had to suppress a smirk at hearing that particular one, he knew Chief wasn't the only one taking down the enemy like mad last night.

Luckily for Clint (and the vigilantes), Fury decided to leave well enough alone. The fact that he now had a security flaw in their communication system to patch up probably helped in the whole him-letting-it-go thing, but Clint wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

During the briefing, he also had the opportunity to learn what the other teams had discovered during their own attacks.

Apparently, they had been too late to stop the human trafficking operations at all the bases except for one: Clint's. It baffled him too, at first. He'd thought they'd have more time, they all did, but they'd been wrong. Their information was incorrect about the number of guys who would be babysitting the hostages (and let's be honest, the animals totally count as hostages. Could any of what they were 'keeping an eye on' really be called hostages though? There was no ransom, no expectation that anyone would try to take back what was stolen…). Something about this whole operation stank a little too close to incompetence to Clint. Which was strange, because SHIELD was well known for being the most advanced agency in America — the whole world, even. Especially when it came to spy tactics.

And then he'd thought of Sparrow and Chief. The mission they said they were on, how it was different from him. The 'interference' he'd heard from Sparrow's end of the comm, the comforting tone of voice…

Maybe that had been too late the human trafficking operations at the NY base, too. And maybe Sparrow and Chief knew about it, had tracked one of the missing people to the base, just as Clint's people had tracked the criminals to that warehouse on the docks. Maybe, Sparrow was saving those kids while he was busy picking up silly pieces of paper — in broad daylight, he could see one of the 'just in case' pages he'd snatched, petty correspondence between the person supposedly running this side of the operations and their apparent 'lover'. Any spy worth their salt knew it was in code, though.

Maybe that was why they didn't tell him what their mission was, so he'd actually be able to get his own done without the weight of knowing what his people were stealing information and didn't even know that there were people missing. That the group had already started their human aspect of trafficking.

This case was too deep, and there was too much missing or incorrect information. He was so glad Sparrow and Chief had turned up when they did, he would have been toast. Some of the other groups reported abnormally large numbers of guards posted around their sites on the night of the attacks, most had been surprised by the numbers they saw, expecting so much fewer than what they ended up facing. They were lucky no one had died. How did this go so horribly wrong?

In the end, Clint pondered as he walked out of the conference room, thumbing at the small coms case in his pocket, a new good luck charm if his future plans had anything to say about it, he at least had some new friends. Even if it came with a million fucking questions.