Chapter Text
The shadows press in on all sides of him. They are waiting for him, somewhere in the darkness. Claws ready and teeth barred –
Vampires.
Clint wakes with a start in his car, nearly cracking his wrist on the steering wheel as he jerks upright. He curses and rubs at it, glancing around the car to make sure nothing has been touched during the night. His bow is still strung on the seat beside him, wooden-headed arrows waiting at hand. Clint breathes out a sigh of relief.
He hates keeping his beauty strung like this; he knows it’s bad for her back. It’s be ready or be dead, though, and Clint would much rather not be dead.
Outside, the sun is starting to peer over the horizon. Clint waits until the rays are shining strong over his corner of the highway before stepping out of the car. He pees behind the roadside billboard he’d parked behind the night before. Feeling better, Clint clears the branches he’d thrown over the hood as twilight fell. The hasty camouflage isn’t much in the light of day, but it was enough to get him through another night.
Back in the car, Clint digs a power bar out of the glove box and starts her up. She rumbles a little rough, but he coaxes her though it.
“Come on, baby,” he mumbles to the engine. She gives one last squeal and then turns over. Clint pats the dash. “Thatta girl!”
Clint touches the gas and edges her forward, peeking out from around the billboard sign before rolling onto the highway. He can see the mile marker for the Canadian boarder and grins to himself – not far now.
He would have been there already if he’d been able to drive through the night, but Clint hadn’t been willing to risk it. After a week on the road, stopping only for gas and take-away food, dodging vampires and cops both, Clint hadn’t felt like being stupid a half day from his goal.
The cops’ll stop chasing him once he crosses the boarder, and Trickshot swore he knew a guy in Montreal who could help him out. The vampires are another matter, but Clint can deal with them once he has the law off his tail. He’s proven that already.
He drives for an hour in thin, early morning traffic before the engine starts to sputter. Clint curses the car and downshifts, but she sounds rough. Fuck. He’ll have to stop at the nearest town and steal another. Trickshot had this car for years, but he never treated her right – she needs a whole new engine. Clint knew when he took Buck’s keys that she wouldn’t make it all the way. He should have left her in a parking garage States ago, but hadn’t been able to give her up while she was still running.
“Come on, girl, come on,” he coaxes her as he passes a sign for “Sunnydale”. Clint wants to stop and mock it, because the sign is bright yellow and looks like something better suited to California than upper New York State, but all his attention is focused on the car. He keeps an eye open for an inconspicuous place to park while he watches the temperature gauge on the engine. It’s a small town, but he finds the high school easily enough. Perfect. Clint slides the sick-sounding car into a line filled with other clunkers. When he turns off the engine, it dies with a hard choking sound, and Clint pats the dash again in thanks. There’s something in his eye.
“It’s alright, girl, you did your best,” he says, blinking hard. He feels stupid. The car’s a piece of junk, and it’ll probably take someone a week to call the tow-truck in such a small town. Clint will be long gone by then. She got him this far, though, and she was Buck’s. That alone is enough to make him hesitate to leave her here.
Buck Chisholm, aka “Trickshot”, was a jackass. Clint shouldn’t be tearing up over him; there were other people more worthy, like Annie the Bearded Lady, who rushed Clint with a mouth full of teeth. Clint staked her, and she erupted into ash.
He shouldn’t forget about Annie.
It’s early still, but the high school parking lot is filling up quick. Clint steps out of the car and watches his fellow sixteen year olds gather their things and head into school. They clap people on the shoulder and ignore others with the kind of petty jealousy Clint’s seen everywhere. It’s different here at high school, though, a place Clint’s dreamed about but never been. It’s like watching cable on Trickshot’s shitty TV, and Clint’s half convinced the scene in front of him is going to jump and scratch, just like it did on Chisholm’s ancient set. It stays constant, though.
For these people, this is real life.
Clint’s wide-eyed stare at the scene is broken by fingers snapping in front of his face. He blinks and backs away, and would have stumbled but for his new-found reflexes. As it is, his reaction is to jump forward and break the arm that’s now waving in front of his face, but he’s stopped by the sight of a smiling, dishevelled, very human face.
“Helloooo, Earth to New Kid. Come in New Kid!”
Clint slaps the hand away. “Fuck off, man.”
The guy grins. Clint looks at him. He’s ridiculous – scruffy, black hair that’s sticking up in every direction and a black goatee like Evil Spock. There are soot stains on his forehead and smeared across his cheek, but he’s wearing a shirt and jacket combination that even Clint can tell is worth more than Buck made in a year.
“You’re seriously spacing out here, kid, and I should know, I am the motherfucking space master,” the guy says. He’s obviously jacked up on something, manic energy pouring off him in waves. “I am the Master of all things science, and masters require minions. I am officially recruiting you.” He spreads out his arms. “Welcome!”
Clint can’t help but laugh at the guy’s wide grin. “Thanks buddy, but I got places to be.”
“Exactly!” The guy says, stabbing another finger at Clint’s face. “You have to come with me to Principal Sitwell’s office!”
Clint looks around at the mass of students milling around the school. No way in hell is he sticking around here. “Sorry man, no can do. Why don’t you find some other lackey to boss around?”
The guy honest-to-god pouts. Clint refuses to find it adorable.
“Because Principal Sitwell knows all my other lackeys,” the guy goes on. “I need someone new to defend my case. Also, if you come with me I will engage in the time honoured tradition of care and respect between Masters of Motherfucking Science and Minions – ” he jabs a finger at Clint’s belly, which rumbles threateningly. “I will feed you.”
Clint rubs a hand over his stomach. He had a power bar this morning, but hasn’t actually eaten since lunch the day before. “I am hungry,” he admits.
“See?” The guy says, and grabs his elbow to drag him forward. Clint shakes him off but finds himself following anyway. This guy’s got charisma in spades, and maybe Clint’s spent too long alone, washing in gas station bathrooms and avoiding human contact, because he kind of likes it. This guy’s like a splash of salt water, a little bit rough but clean. Clint follows him through the parking lot and the mass of students, and into the double doors of Sunnydale High.
It looks more and more like television, and less and less like real life. Clint tries not to stare.
“I’m Tony,” the guy explains as he ducks and weaves through the milling sea of students. Clint eyes them and swallows. He’s never been claustrophobic, but he’s used to having a crowd staring at him, not surrounding him in such numbers.
Teenagers are ducking through the hallways, shrugging out of jackets and grabbing textbooks from lockers. There are a few adults, obviously teachers, glaring at the troublemakers and herding people to class. They pass a boy with messy brown hair, bangs falling forward into his glasses as he struggles to carry three textbooks at once. Tony slaps him on the shoulder as they walk by, and Clint can see the boy look up as they pass.
“Tony Stark,” he goes on, “though I’m sure you already knew that.”
Clint shakes his head as he follows Tony. “Nope, sorry.”
The guy stops and spins around. Clint notices the students around them break like a wave, roll their eyes, and walk around the spectacle Tony is making. “What?” the guy says, sounding offended. He ignores everyone else and focuses solely on Clint. “You’ve seriously never heard of me? Stark? Tony Stark? Youngest genius to ever be thrown out of MIT?”
Clint squints at him. Tony can’t be much older than he is. “Aren’t you, like, sixteen?”
Tony rolls his eyes dramatically. Clint’s beginning to suspect Tony isn’t actually high on anything; this is just the way he is. “Seventeen, Jesus. What, did you grow up under a rock or something?”
“A tent,” Clint says, because he’s an asshole.
Tony shoots him a look, obviously checking to see if he was joking. “Was it a small tent? Did you have cable there?”
“Sure,” Clint shrugs, biting his cheek to keep from grinning. “Sometimes.”
Tony looks horrified. “Did you have internet?!”
Clint squints at him. “Like wi-fi? Only on Buck’s cell phone.”
Tony shudders. “Buck. You lived in a tent with a man named Buck. Jesus, kid. It’s a good thing I rescued you. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
“Walking with you to Principal Sitwell’s office,” Clint reminds him pointedly, “because you promised me food.”
“The best food,” Tony agrees with him. “You do this for me, I am taking you to fucking Denny’s, forget the cafeteria.” He turns and drags Clint down the hallway again.
Clint doesn’t bother trying to fight him off this time, because it’s getting crowded and he doesn’t want to lose Tony in this mess. “What exactly will I be doing at Principal Sitwell’s office, again?”
Tony waves the hand not currently clenching Clint’s leather jacket. “You are saving me from academic drivel. You are swearing to Principal Sitwell that I was at your house last night, valiantly finishing my three week overdue project for geography, when your father’s shitty cooking caught on fire and all our precious work was lost.”
Clint stares at him. “I don’t have a house, and my father never cooked a day in life. Also, what were you doing last night if it wasn’t destroying non-existent projects in geography?”
“Finishing my groundbreaking work on artificial intelligence and constructing a new robotic arm for Dummy. Duh.”
Tony stops in front of a door marked Administration. “You built a robot?” Clint asks.
Tony spins around and waves his arms. “Yes! Genius! MIT! What part of this is not getting through to you?”
Clint grins at him. “The part where you look like you escaped from a burning insane asylum and robbed a fashion store on your way in to school this morning.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “All geniuses are crazy; it’s part of our charm.”
“Seriously not finding you charming, right now.”
Tony held up a finger. “That’s because I haven’t fed you yet.”
Clint shakes his head but follows Tony through the door of the administration office. Inside are several desks filled with harried-looking secretaries and another, inner office, with the door thrown open. Inside is a balding man in a rumpled suit that Clint presumes is Principal Sitwell.
“Stark. What inventive excuse do you have for me this time?”
Tony grins and whirls to present Clint. “Ta-da!” Tony exclaims with true showmanship. “My geography partner! He will clearly and succinctly delineate the numerous ways in which the lateness of our project is not, and never has been, my fault. Go ahead, er – ” he peers at Clint. “What’s your name, anyway?”
Clint rolls his eyes. “Clint Barton.”
Tony snaps his fingers. “Right!” He grins at Sitwell.
Principal Sitwell shakes his head. “It’d like to say that you not knowing his name means you have clearly never met before this morning, and for anyone else that would be true, Stark.”
Tony waves away the insult. “We’re friends, best friends, know all about each other. He lives in a tent with a man named Buck.”
Clint grins at Sitwell’s sigh, but straightens when the Principal stops and looks over at him a frown. Shit. He shouldn’t have said his name. What if the cops put his picture out on the news or something? What if the Principal is about to turn him in?
“Clint Barton?” Sitwell asks, and turns back to his office. He starts rummaging through his desk. Clint eyes the exits. Tony gives him a funny look, but Clint ignores him. He could dive back into the corridor, but they could lock down the doors. There’s a plated glass window behind the secretary’s office, with only a few feet drop. He could totally make it…
“Ah, here it is!” Sitwell says, coming back to the doorway of his office with a purple folder. “Fury told me all about you. You’re the new transfer student.”
Clint stares at him. Sitwell starts thumbing through the report. “Yup, it’s all here,” he says. “Transfer records and all.” He looks up and catches Clint’s eye. He smiles. “Welcome to Sunnydale High.”
Clint blinks but can’t find any words. Transfer student? What the hell? Beside him, Tony smiles. “Good! Excellent! So he’s a real student and actually my geography partner, and can we go back to the part where I’m not expelled now?”
Sitwell rolls his eyes and ignores him, handing Clint a piece of paper from the purple folder. “Here’s your class schedule,” Sitwell says. “See Fury in the library for books and let him know you’ve arrived. Stark can show you around, since it seems he’s adopted you,” he turns to Stark. “Don’t even think of taking off to Denny’s until after fourth period, Stark. Ms. Carter is looking for you.”
Tony raises a hand to his chest. “Principal Sitwell,” he says in a shocked voice, but he’s grinning. “Would I, perfect student that I am, ever be so disrespectful of this institution of higher learning that I would skip school just to treat my fellow, hardworking geography partner to Denny’s? Would I?”
Sitwell gives him an un-amused look. He walks into his office, closes the door, and locks it behind him.
Tony grins and turns to Clint. “He loves me. I keep his life interesting.”
Clint ignores him – he’s caught by the class list he’s holding in this hands. His name is there in black and white: CLINT BARTON. FIRST PERIOD – SPANISH. SECOND PERIOD – MATH. THIRD PERIOD – GEOGRAPHY. FOURTH PERIOD –
“Helloooo, Clint. Helloooooo!” Fingers snap in front of his face.
“What?” Clint snarls. He has no idea what the fuck is going on. He wasn’t supposed to stop here – how do these people know his name?
“I said,” Tony repeated, sounding hurt, “meet me in the parking lot after fourth period, I meant it about the Denny’s thing.”
Clint shakes his head. “I’m not – fuck this. I’m not sticking around, Tony.”
Tony stares at him. “You’re seriously skipping out on your first day of school? I know Sitwell looks like a pushover, kid, but you’ve got balls of steel.”
“Don’t call me kid!” Clint snaps. Buck always called him kid.
Tony takes a step back. Clint closes his eyes and tries to wrestle his temper under control. He needs to get a fucking grip.
“I’m not skipping out,” he tells Tony, opening he eyes. He knows the words are true as he says them. He can’t leave yet, he needs to know what’s going on here. He needs to find out who the fuck this Fury guy is, and how he knows Clint’s name.
“I’m not skipping out,” Clint repeats, folding the class list and stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’m just going to the library to chat with this Fury guy. I’ll probably be busy until the end of the day.”
Tony rolls his eyes, but Clint can see he’s hurt Clint snapped at him. “Okay, sure, whatever. Meet me out by the parking lot after last period then.” Tony grins again, but it’s with a little less intensity than before. “I’ll take you to the Bronx instead of Denny’s.”
“The Bronx?”
Tony shrugs. “It’s the only bar in town. They won’t sell you alcohol or anything, but you can hang out and dance, meet some of the regulars around here. Steve will be there, and Bucky. You can meet the rest of my minions.”
“Can I tell them you refer to them as minions?”
Tony shudders. “Hell, no. Bucky’ll laugh, but Steve will look all disappointed and shit. He’s trying to teach me manners.”
Clint has to grin at that. He bets it’s a full time job. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”
Tony waves at him and leaves the office, bouncing off down the halls. Clint shakes his head but follows, turning to read the signs to the library.
Sunnydale High is actually a pretty big school, but the library, when he finds it, is empty. Clint steps inside the double doors and inhales the welcoming smell of wood and paper. Despite his best intentions, he relaxes slightly. He’s never been a big reader, but he used to treasure the few books Barney stole for him. For his tenth birthday, Barney had given him a copy of the Hardy Boys. The spine had been broken and the front cover ripped off, but Barney had written “To Clint, from your Big Brother” on the inside. Clint fucking loved that book.
It’d burned, back at the circus. Along with everything else.
Clint shakes off the memories and walks further into the library. “Hello?” he calls out. “Is anyone here?”
“Well, it’s about fucking time.”
Clint whirls around to see a tall black man wearing a stiff leather coat step out from behind shelf. He’s huge, easily over six feet, and he’s wearing an eye patch. He looks like a pirate, and Clint wants to laugh, but the guy looks as intimidating as hell. Clint squares his shoulders and reminds himself that he’s a stone-cold vampire killer, now. “You Fury?” he asks.
The man gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes. You Barton?”
That’s all it takes for Clint to find his spine. “Yeah,” he glares at him. “How the fuck do you know my name?”
Fury shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “The Council keeps notes on every Potential. Didn’t Buck tell you?”
Clint stares at him. “You knew Buck?” His voice absolutely does not crack.
Fury sighs. His shoulders slump slightly, and suddenly he looks a little more human. “Yeah, I knew Buck,” he says, and his voice is sad. “We were initiates together back in the good ol’ days, before Trés Rivers. He tell you about any of that?”
Clint thinks back. “Only that he did something stupid,” he says. “Called it the ‘story of his life’.”
“Yeah, well,” Fury snorts, “it was at that.” He stares Clint with his one eye. “Buck Chisholm was a member of the Watcher’s Council. He did something stupid – not my story to tell – and got drummed out. Ended up in the circus, of all things, performing with the bow and arrow. Met you there, from what I heard. Said he knew from the start you were something special.”
Unexpectedly, Clint feels tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. He blinks them angrily away. “He gave me the bow, then beat me till I couldn’t see straight if I missed. Fucking jackass, was what he was.”
Fury nods. “He was at that. A messy drunk, too, from what I hear. But he knew you were a Potential, and he trained you best he could. I’m not making excuses for the man – he’s dead now, and what’s done is done. But you know the basics, don’t you?”
Clint stares at him. “The basics of what?”
“Vampire killing.”
Clint forces himself to laugh. “No such thing as vampires.”
Fury gives him an unimpressed stare. “Now we both know that ain’t true. Vampire and witches, mummies and ghosts. Everything you told yourself wasn’t real and couldn’t be true – it all is. It’s all out there. It’s all real.”
Clint licks his lips. He thinks back to the smoke and the fire, Annie with her too-wide grin, and teeth coming for his throat. He shakes his head, backing away. “No.”
“Yes.” Fury says. Then he gives Clint a humourless grin. “And you get to kill it.”
“No.” Clint says, more firmly. “No. I’ve killed my vampires, I’m done with that.”
Fury levels him a look. “You aren’t done with that, Barton. You’ll never be done with that. You’re the Slayer.”
That stops Clint in his tracks. “The what?”
“The Slayer,” Fury says. “Into every generation a Slayer is born. They alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.” Fury stares at him. “That’s you, Barton. This gift you’ve been given? This power? It has a purpose.”
Clint shakes his head, thinking of his enhanced speed and reflexes. He’d give it all back to have the Circus whole again. “I don’t want it.”
“You don’t have a choice. The Powers That Be have selected you from all other Potentials, Clint. But you won’t have to do it alone. I’m a Watcher. I’m here to train you, to prepare you.”
“Prepare me?” Clint snaps back. “Prepare me for what? For burning down my home? For losing all my friends?” The memory of smoke rises in his eyes. He’s shaking, but he can’t seem to stop. “For killing the only family I’ve ever known? Go ahead,” Clint shouts. “Prepare me.”
He waits, but Fury doesn’t say anything.
Clint shakes away the tears. “I thought so.”
He turns away, ready to head back to the parking lot, to jack another car and get the fuck out of this messed up town, but Fury stops him.
“They’re here,” he says. Clint halts. He doesn’t want to turn around, but Fury goes on.
“They’re here – now – in this school. A boy was killed last night. She killed him and stuffed him in a locker down by the football pitch. I followed her, but I was too late to save him. They’ll be finding him any minute now.”
Clint closes his eyes. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this.
“Is that why you brought me here?” he asks, not turning around.
He doesn’t have to see Fury to hear his grin. “Me? Nah. Your car broke down, Barton.”
Clint’s shoulders slump. “How’d you do it?”
“Magic,” Fury says. “I’m no sorcerer, but I’ve got some skills.”
Clint sighs and turns around. Fury is waiting for him. He holds Clint’s angry, tired gaze, and his own eye softens. “I’m not your enemy, Clint. I’m here to help you. If I hadn’t gotten you off the road, they would have caught up to you on the Canadian border. I don’t care what Buck told you – you’re needed here.”
Clint’s shoulder slump further. He closes his eyes for a moment, and runs his hands through his hair. He’s tired – so tired. He wants to sleep for a week.
“He told me to head to Montreal. Said there were some people there who would help me, train me.”
Fury nods. “Guy is there, and Salle. They’re good people, and if you want you can still go there some day. But today we need you here, Clint. You’re the Slayer, and I’m pretty sure this town is built on a Hellmouth.”
Against his will, Clint frowns. “A Hellmouth?”
Fury walks over to the book cage. There are ancient tombs scattered all over the desk, and now that Clint is looking, he can see the titles of them. Vampyres, one reads. Another says Curses. There are other titles written in Latin.
Buck had books like that.
Fury taps the cover of one. “A Hellmouth is a confluence of dark energy – it draws in strange creatures from all over the world, calling to them like a moth to the flame. Most Hellmouth’s are stable, but something is wrong with this one. It’s – seething – for lack of a better term. I think something big is going down. The Council agrees.”
Clint wants to ask who the Council is, but he doesn’t honestly care right now. He grits his teeth. “Okay, vampires. Hellmouth. Whatever. I stop this, and you let me keep going, right? You won’t try to hold me here with magic or voodoo or anything?”
Fury gives him a serious nod, and Clint squares his shoulders. “Right. So – dead guy. Which locker is he in?”
The sudden screaming from the corridors answers for him. Clint sighs and turns towards the door. “Never mind.”