Work Text:
I
Under Duress
Clint came to face down on the gravel, he could feel corners of the rocks digging into his flesh. He opened his eyes and quickly decided that that was a mistake. He felt like he'd had knives driven through his eye sockets. A painful grunt as he pushed himself to his hands and knees let Clint know that the gravel was in his throat too.
“Agent Barton.” The voice boomed through his earpiece like thunder. He winced and slapped the speaker/mic out onto the ground. The voice continued at a more acceptable volume. “New mission. Priority one objective. Retrieve package at 45 E 51st Street.”
Situation, threats, orient, plan. Clint rolled to a sitting position and pushed himself back against a brick wall. Why did that address sound so familiar? “Discretion level?” Clint winced.
“Zero.” Coulson’s voice sounded rough. “Just get the package, Clint. Nothing else matters.”
"45 East 51st," Clint confirmed. "Got it."
As soon as he stood, Clint knew that he had overreached himself last night. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. Now he felt every bruise and cut. The last thing he remembered was planning a little get together for Tony's birthday... something must have gone horribly wrong. Vertigo almost brought him back to the ground, but he steadied himself against the brick and took a slow breath. Completing a pickup in this condition would not be the easiest thing he'd ever done, but at least it wasn't going to require extensive wetwork.
Clint took a quick inventory: $80 in cash, two knives...both shoes intact, that's a plus. Ahh...he smiled as he found his Oakleys. I've accomplished more with less, he thought as he slid the mirrored lenses into place. I can do this. He turned toward 51st street and started walking the wide streets of New York. He had a mission.
II
Honors
“I know most of you are wondering who on earth I am, and I guess that’s fair.” The young man standing behind the slender, wooden podium was dressed sharply in a three piece suit, sleeves showing just the right amount. “I know he never talked about me at work, but he sure talked about all of you.” A quick smile showed his strength, but it never made it to his eyes. It was drizzling just enough that the young man didn’t know if the whether each droplet that ran down his face would taste salty or sweet until it touched his lips.
“Mr. Stark, he would laugh a little every time your name came up.” Tony nodded slightly, and his mouth twitched, not sure how to react. “He loved playing your little games with you, you know. Enjoyed the tete-a-tete, he really did. He respected your genius, if not always what you used it for.” An amused murmur flowed through the gathering. It wasn’t a large one, maybe thirty people at the graveside. Most of them knew each other, though there were a few strange faces in the crowd. “He spoke fondly of confining you to your own home with the threat of a taser. He said it was so you could solve some big problem that no one knew the answer to. Actually he said no one even knew what the question was... but he never doubted that you’d figure it out.” The heat of Tony’s flush warmed his ears and scalp. “That and many other things.” The boy added quietly. “He said if the earth ever had a hope of fixing what we’ve done to it, it was in you...but he really did want to taze you.” Everybody laughed quietly, a few smiled and nodded with sympathy for that sentiment.
“And if humanity had a hope of deserving the salvation that you guys were trying to bring, it was in you, Mr. Rogers.” Steve blushed outright, but held his composure. “The consummate soldier, he called you. Not because you always followed orders, but because you always fought for what was <em>right</em>. You always fought, you never quit. He often said that you judged a sacrifice by its benefit, not its cost. He said if I was looking for a hero, that I should look to you. I’m not sure whether or not he knew that I already had a hero...”
“Director Fury,” the boy continued after a moment. “Uncle Phil almost never talked about you. When I would ask why, he said that most of the things he knew about you were still classified.” This elicited a laugh from the men who knew him, and nervous curiosity from those who didn’t. “He said the two of you fought the way he and Clint played the piano together; it was art.”
“Clint.” Birn sighed. “He might have known you the longest. He certainly knew you the <em>best</em>, and you him. The way he talked about you was kinda the same as when he’d talk about my dad. He used to say that blood is thicker than water, but lead is thicker than blood. He and my dad may have grown up together, but you and he <em>fought<em>together.” The boy gave a short laugh. “Sometimes even on the same side, he said. He never let me call him dad, you know? Even though he pretty much raised me himself. Not because he didn’t love me enough, but because he loved his brother too much. It used to upset me, but he would just say ‘Brin, it doesn’t matter what name you<em>call</em>someone, that doesn’t define who they <em>are</em>to you.”
“I know that when someone...dies...” the word caught in his throat. “Usually we tell stories about them because we loved them. But today we tell stories about each of you, because Uncle Phil loves...loved... you.” he took a deep breath and shuddered as he blew it out. “And so this is how we honor him.”
He loved this country, his freedom... his car,” Brin waited for a chuckle to fade back into silence. “But most of all he loved you.” His eyes slid from one face to the next. “All of you.”
The rain let up as quickly as it had fallen. The afternoon sun was brilliant, blinding even... It reflected off of the white, stone crosses, giving glory back to the soldiers who rested beneath them. Brin opened his mouth to speak more, but the words didn’t come. He stepped away from the coffin to rejoin the front row of friends and family. He stood there stiffly, awkwardly. He could no longer see clearly through his red, swollen eyes, and his tears. At his right, Clint shifted, and Brin felt something pressed into his hand.
“Don’t you need them?” He whispered.
Clint spoke to him without taking his eyes off of the coffin. “Someday you’ll learn to wear your armor on the inside...until then...”
Brin unfolded the Oakleys and slid them into place over his eyes as Clint lay an arm across his shoulders, and gave him a gentle squeeze. This is how they honored him, with quiet words and twenty-one guns. Brin closed his eyes as the shots rang out.
III
Hanging Ten
The lifeguard tower was empty, seeing as it was a Monday, and Clint was enjoying the view. Phil and Tony were supposed to meet him here at 0900; Tony had never surfed before, and had asked Clint to teach him. He spotted them almost as soon as they’d left the beach house, two specks of black against a field of gold. The rhythm of the ocean passed the time pleasantly as his fellow Avengers grew into silhouettes, and finally into fully formed and functional human beings right before the archer’s eyes.
“Thought you were gonna miss your lesson.” Clint gave a knowing nod toward Phil as he shook Tony’s hand. Agent Coulson subtly returned the gesture with a glint in his eye. It wasn’t that long ago that these two were just tactical considerations as Clint’s mind and body were being put to use by Loki. Personal greetings would probably be awkward for a while yet. And if that wasn’t enough, Coulson’s funeral had only been a couple of weeks ago.
“Well, I had to make a few... uh, modifications to my board.” Tony spun the ten-foot longboard around so Clint could see a stylized arc reactor painted on the deck, and repulsor trails on the tail and fin.
“Huh.” Clint scoffed. That paint must have taken hours. “You should have waited until you knew for sure you liked surfing.
“I know for sure I like me.” Tony replied with a smile. “Even if I <em>don’t</em>like surfing.”
“True.” Phil admitted. “Your logic is hard to argue with, even if it only really applies to you...thank God.”
“Well, I am unique in the world.” Tony grinned without a hint of shame.
Clint snorted and headed for the beach. “Come on ween, bring that pop-out and let’s rip.”
Tony stared at Phil for a long second with his mouth hanging open. “What did he just say?”
Phil chuckled. “Let’s go shubee, I can’t wait to see you turtle!” Now Phil was the one grinning as he caught up with Clint.
“Oh boy.” Tony sighed. “This could be a long morning...”
Nevertheless, by noon Tony was managing to keep his feet long enough to yell “I am Surfer Man!” before wiping out.
“That’s pretty solid, cuz.” Phil allowed as they walked up the shore to a fire pit Clint had dug this morning. Lunch was hot dogs over the open fire and Tony tried to keep up with the conversation. Terms like ‘mauing’, ‘foamer’, and ‘janitor’ flew harmlessly over his head, and he glanced up and down the beach at the mention of men in grey suits.
“Ok..uh...shubees," Tony glanced from Phil's inscrutable expression to Clint's matching one when they had finished eating. "Let's shred it....?"
Phil opened his mouth to respond, but shut it abruptly as he and Tony both became jarringly aware of Clint's intense gaze directed out into the surf. "What do you see, Barton?" Agent Coulson demanded, suddenly all business.
"Kid's having trouble." Barton said without turning his head, not willing to break his line of sight. Tony squinted and searched, but he couldn't spot the person, much less see him fall. "He just went under." Clint bolted from the wooden picnic table; Coulson was on his heels, and Tony trailed a good teen feet behind.
Coulson barely slowed his sprint to grab his short board as he passed the lifeguard tower. Barton leaped halfway up the frame of the structure, and scrambled the rest of the way into the seat not bothering with the ladder on the surf-side of the stand.
"What can I do?" Tony couldn't abide helplessness.
"Get an ambulance here." Barton said without sparing a glance. He slipped on his sunglasses and his pupils dilated as the polarized, slate lenses cut through the blinding glare of sun, sand, and water. The world came sharply into focus, and he spotted the broken surfboard off to the left. He could see part of the surfer’s tether still attached to the board, and he hoped the other end was still attached to the surfer.
Coulson was already fifty feet from sand, glancing back every few seconds as Barton guided the rescue, directing him with a torpedo buoy. By the time Phil reached the man, and pulled his head out of the water, he felt the rotor wash of a Coast Guard rescue chopper. No, not Coast Guard, he thought as he glimpsed red and gold through the salt spray. Two divers hit the water, and minutes later Coulson was strapped into a seat on board while the rescue divers intubated a young man on the floor of the chopper.
Back on the beach Tony sipped whiskey from a flask.
"You put a Coast Guard rescue chopper on standby... for your surfing lesson?" Phil was not actually surprised.
Tony waggled a modified Life Alert button between his fingers. "Never leave home without one.” He downed the rest of the tumbler and rattled the ice. “Although, technically they’re not Coast Guard, more like... uh, mercenary rescue technicians..." The two agents stared incredulously. "Well, there are the sharks...." Tony muttered defensively. "...fins...and with their... uh, teeth... look it doesn't matter. Is the kid gonna be ok?" The concern in his voice was genuine.
"Yeah, brah." Clint slapped Tony 's shoulder. "Cherry. You iced it with that helo today, but damn I’m garshed.”
Tony blinked. “Right...” He poured another shot from his flask. “I think you guys are just making stuff up at this point. Do you just string syllables together at random or is there some set of rules?” They laughed, and Tony joined in, though he was still half-hoping for an answer. “So really guys, how’d I do?”
Phil arched an eyebrow as he recognized the rarely-heard tinge of doubt in Tony 's characteristically guarded tone. His eyes darted to the bright orange and white corner of a book just showing from the pocket of Clint's leather jacket. He couldn’t bring himself to draw it out any further. He cleared his throat and caught Tony’s attention as Clint tucked the Idiots guide to Surfing securely back into his jacket. "You crushed it, brah."
“Yeah,” Clint chimed in. “Wicked good.”
IV
Command Field Training
“We’re running out of time, Clint.” Captain Rogers reminded him. “You’ll have to make every shot count.”
Clint was annoyed, as if he would waste an arrow. He held his bow at full draw, arrow on the string. This mission was bullshit. If you asked him, SHIELD shouldn’t be wasting resources on some mid-level drug cartel in Columbia, but they didn’t ask him. Hell, they probably knew something he didn’t about all of this, after all that was their job; knowing things.
Steve glanced uncertainly at agent Coulson.
“Clint doesn’t waste arrows.” Phil said evenly. Steve was still learning the unique abilities and quirks of his team.
“Right.” Rogers furrowed his brow, and made a mental note. There was so much information to process as he desperately tried to catch up on half of a century of history that he had a splitting headache by the end of each day. Just sitting in the operations control center, surrounded by more tech than existed in the world the last time he commanded an op, was a bit overwhelming. “Do we need to call in Bravo element?” He realized too late that he was still broadcasting.
“Nope.” Clint drew out the syllable as he narrowed his eyes and loosed an arrow. The shaft sped to its target and buried itself to the fletching in the chest of Gerardo Alvarez’s largest body guard. Suddenly the courtyard was a buzz of frantic activity as two of the three remaining guards took cover and scanned for threats while the third pulled Alvarez into a deep alcove in the stucco wall. One of the two was sharp-eyed and started putting lead through the window that Clint had recently occupied on the second story of the courtyard. He waited. The time-delay fuse on his first arrow cooked off a miniature flashbang. Even muffled by the generously proportioned corpse it was enough to draw every eye. The archer popped up like a Clint-in-the-box, and both guards were feathered before they could turn around. The last guard leaned past his cover and sprayed Clint’s position with an AK-47. One round struck the iron bars on the window and shrapnel peppered Clint’s face, embedding into the ballistic lenses of his Oakleys. He quickly stripped off the useless shades and prepared to return fire, but found that it was unnecessary as a shadow detached from the alcove behind the shooter and ended his threat.
Clint hurried down the interior stairs and emerged into the courtyard to find Natasha restraining Alvarez with flex-cuffs and calling for extraction. The whole exchange had lasted less than two minutes, and as soon as the quinjet arrived they would have their package, and whatever secrets he held, secured. Precision extractions were something of a specialty for this pair of agents, at least since they learned their lesson in Budapest.
Hours later, during the debriefing, Clint asked Director Fury what was so special about a low-level drug lord with limited vertical potential.
“Absolutely nothing.” Fury answered. “But one of his customers is <em>very</em> interesting.” Nick smiled. “Who knew that demi-gods did their own shopping?”
V
Undressed
Clint clasped his hands together above his head and stretched, grunting appreciatively. Nothing better for sore muscles than warm sun on the skin and a good stretch. Well... almost nothing. The sound and smell of the sea didn’t hurt either.
Freckles and coarse hairs spilled lazily across his chest and arms, and he sighed. Just the right proportion of each, thought Natasha as she languidly rolled her head to the side to appreciate the view. His muscles were well formed, but not excessive. You certainly wouldn’t anticipate the level of physical strength she’d seen him display just by looking at him. She knew that those muscles were as solid as cordwood, even underneath that endearing little pooch below his rib cage. She stretched when she saw his eyelids flutter, and smoothly flipped onto her stomach, face turned away from him.
He squinted one eye open, and cocked a half smile as his glance slid slowly from her neck, down the slope of her back, and over her ass. She looked good in red. The rich, deep color played well with her fair skin. It brought out the flush hidden just under the surface. Toned muscles bunched and moved beneath the smooth skin of her thighs as she shifted her weight. Sunlight and sunblock mixed to produce an alluring glisten, and Clint felt some of his own muscles move. He shifted and flopped, somewhat ungracefully, onto his belly, and groaned as his muscles complained.
Natasha rolled onto her side, and propped up on one elbow at the commotion. “You ok?”
“Shoulders.” he slurred, half of his face stilled pressed into the lounge chair.
She straddled his hips and pressed her thumbs into his lower back, sliding her hands up between his shoulderblades and then outward. The sunblock served adequately for a massage, and the wet sounds of her hands on his body made him pretty sure he shouldn’t stand up anytime soon. He groaned as the tension released from his body under her deft ministrations. She traced her fingers lightly down his sides and giggled when he twitched involuntarily. His feigned objection died half-spoken as she slid her hips down over his ass, grinding against him. He twisted onto his back under her, squinted in the full sun.
“Sunglasses?” she offered, holding them out.
“Nope.” he smiled, as the shades dropped, forgotten, to the deck.