After Not-So-Long of a hiatus, I'm back with a bang!
Synopsis: After a life devoted to the Avengers, Clint is dealing with the realities of getting older. With a girl pestering him to be trained, and the threat of losing his eyesight, how can the once great hero continue to survive? So much has threatened his life already. From the Infinity War, to the Mutant Registration Round Up, and even buying and running his own target range, Barton has lived a life fraught in adventure. Though this story may only glaze over those intimate details of his past life, rest assured, what is to come will leave you begging for more. How can Clint survive as a blind Avenger? Will Captian America even allow it? And how will the rest of the team react to his own humanity glaring them in the eyes? Stay tuned for this wild ride and the amazing "Fight Night"!
Characters: GET READY FOR A MASH UP! Avengers: Hawkeye, Hank Pym, Spider-Man, Tony Stark, T'Challa, Iron Man, Thor, Captain America, Black Widow, and even Vision! X-Men: Logan, Gambit, Cyclops, Storm, Prof X, Jubilee, and more! Fantastic 4: Invisible Woman, Human Torch, and Thing! Guardians of the Galaxy: Star-Lord, Drax, Gamora, Groot, and Rocket! But that's not all! Appearances will be made by various OCs from my universe (Light Elves Linnor, Rinnon, Doodle, Haladarral, Asgardians: Odin, The Warriors 3 and Sif, and even more!)
A Sacrifice Worth Living For
Chapter 1 –Kate-
(This mirrors the Epilogue in another story, though there is more added here, please enjoy)
She leaned on the wall outside of his house, tapping her foot as if somehow it would inspire the old man to go faster. She knew better. Nothing could get that guy moving more than a snail's pace, even if she lit a fire under him. Even if Tony freaking Stark came down from his ivory Avengers' mansion and planted himself on his doorstep, Clint Barton wouldn't go any faster. Especially since he knew she was in a hurry, it was like license to be a slug.
"UGH! Would you hurry the Hell up already! By the time we get there, the place is going to be closed!" She shouted into the kitchen window.
Clint appeared at the front door and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ya kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"No, my mother is dead."
"Your father is dead, your mother loves you very much, and I doubt she wants you hanging out with me." Clint grabbed something behind the door, and slung his jacket over one shoulder. "Lock up." He said, not bothering to pull the front door shut behind himself.
"Isn't the Widow home?"
"If Nat was, she'd probably be talking me out of this. She's down at Cap's apartment in D.C. They're working an undercover case that I didn't just tell you about. She'll be home next week. So, in the meantime, close the door."
She groaned, but climbed his porch to yank it closed. She tried the lock once or twice to be sure it caught, then tumbled down the stairs after him. She was disappointed when he bypassed her brand new, luxury class, VW Beetle for his, less-than-enthusiastic looking, '89 Chevy truck. Two of the four hubcaps had gone missing on the NJ turnpike three years ago and he had yet to replace them, even though she bought him some for Christmas the same year. He had three tickets for the missing headlamp he refused to replace, and there was hardly a time he pulled out of the driveway in the clunker without breaking down.
"Can't we take my car?" She asked, sending a desperate look toward her beauty. She even displayed its readiness by remote-starting the engine. Clint took one look, lifted a wrinkling eyebrow, and climbed into the driver's seat of the Chevy. She groaned again, reluctantly following along. Her duffle bag of gear transferred from the trunk of the Beetle to the bed of his pick up and, with her fighting against the sticky passenger seatbelt, Clint pulled out of his driveway. They were on the road in only a few minutes.
"You bother me every Saturday. Then you started showing up on Tuesdays. If you don't have a calendar, let me inform you, today is Friday." Clint said. He tried to sound like the strict mentor, but it failed miserably on the girl.
"Are you going to shoot your bow today?" She asked, giddily.
The Hawk's blue eyes had grown dark with age, changing from crystal to sapphire. He sent a glance over at her. "Maybe, if you behave. And stop tailing me on missions, it's getting to be weird. You aren't an Avenger. Not yet, anyway, and it's freaking Cap out."
"But I'm getting good. As good as you! I Robin Hood-ed four arrows the other day . . . after I tried to prove to you there was no such thing . . . I mean, they did a show on Mythbusters about it, how should I know they got it wrong? Oh, and I helped Spider-Man bring in the Chain Gang last week, so that should get me like, two . . . no, three brownie points. Don't-cha think?"
They pulled up to a stop light, and Clint turned in his seat to stare at her. It was hard to imagine the little girl she'd once been. The first time he'd seen her, she was so young and defenseless. Now, time and sheer dedication had transformed her into something her mother would always blame Clint for.
"You gotta stop calling yourself Hawkeye." He said, sternly. "People are going to get confused. And before you ask, Mockingbird isn't available either. You can be Hawkeye when I'm either dead or blind."
Her smile widened. "So when's your next deadly mission coming up?"
He groaned. The light changed, and the two continued on down the street. Their turn came up, and soon, they left the main thoroughfare for Clint's private club. They parked by the street and got out together. He pulled his bag off the seats, and waited for her to get her own duffle before heading to the back door. Without waiting for him, she took his keys, rushed to the door to unlock it, then fluttered inside. Clint shook his head and followed.
"Evenin', boss!" a man called from the back office. He stepped out, adjusting his navy blue polo in the waistband of his jeans. "Thought I saw you pack it in for the night?"
"Hey, Bill. I thought I did, but some irritating little college kid came and bothered me at home." He dropped his bag by the back door, and picked his quiver out of it, along with his collapsing ex-SHIELD bow.
"Doin' some shootin' again? That girl's momma's gonna whip her good when she finds out."
Clint smirked. "Yeah, well, that's not my area of expertise."
He headed off down the dark alley to the back rows of gun ranges and indoor archery targets. Every time he walked through his second job, it was like stepping back into a part of himself he left a long time ago and never thought he would get back. He made this place like a shelter to his memories. Everything good, existed at the shooting gallery; from the lines of medals he'd been given along the walls, to the news articles of his exploits, even the fragments of battles long ago fought. There were cross beams from the Chitauri attack on New York, dried flowers from Frigga's funeral on Asgard, Arrow's collar and leash, a spear from the trial of Alfheimr, a piece of Cap's shattered shield, the golden rooks from Blenheim, Rocket's favorite pistol, a sprouting twig from Groot, and so many other memories that people never had to pay to see. Clint Barton had long left his spy days and shadow times in the past. He was out, for good now, and this was the place people could come and see everything he had done.
He'd picked the location for a few reasons. It was halfway between Banner's apartment, by Princeton University, and Avengers Tower in New York. Clint's home, and his training center, became the hub of travel for everyone. On rare days, like today, he was alone at the house. Typically, Bruce, Steve, Tony, T'Challa, Vision, Luke, Logan, and so many other heroes passed in and out of his guest room. It was an open door policy. Bring your suitcase, and crash at Clint's house. Bring your training gear, and go to "Clint's Place". That's not how he liked to refer to his "Advanced Weapons Training Center" but every known hero disagreed with him.
The training center was popular, not only because an Avenger owned it and people from the world over traveled there to meet him, but because Clint wasn't the only hero around. One day, he'd be doing self-defense courses with Natasha, and the next, Tony would stop by for target practice and a beer. Even the Hulk would sometimes cut loose in the underground danger room with Thor, Vision, or even Tony and Steve. Occasionally, Luke Cage and the Wolverine would mix it up, which was always fun to see. Anyone who wanted to watch was welcome. Clint knew first hand, when he stopped being a spy and started being a hands-on hero, how big an impact it had for the world to meet his human side. This was the one place even the heroes could go and be normal for once, and the public was welcome to join and watch.
He walked by the old and new memories, disturbing the shop dog, who lifted his head from the pile of crash pads in the corner. As Clint suspected, the girl was out back, and already on her second quiver of arrows. She'd shot through two round targets at distances of one and two hundred meters. The two hundred still gave her trouble. It always did.
"You're leaning too far back. Sacrificing your sight line to reach the target. I keep telling you, you need a bigger draw strength. Especially if you are planning to go anywhere near the 2000 meter." He said, slinging his quiver over his back and snapping it into place.
She stuck her tongue out at him. Sure, she'd tried to hit his mile-plus-away target before. That was the third reason Clint even bought that property in the first place. It was just flat enough and long enough for him to taper the outdoor range in increments of 100 meters, all the way to 2000. A single arrow stuck dead center in the 2000 meter target, and hadn't been touched in four years. At first, she wholly believed Clint made the shot. But the longer she was around him, the more she figured he'd just gone up and stuck it in by hand to fool with her.
"You just say that. I looked up the world record. It's some Hungarian guy, and he did 800 meters. Besides, you can't even use the super hard bow anymore either. So there."
Clint cocked his head back. "Wow, was that a challenge from the apprentice?"
She held her bow up between them menacingly. "And how 'bout it? This is the hardest draw they make for recurves today, and I modified it myself. It goes 150lbs, and I can shoot it like fifty times in a row. What have you got that isn't some thirty-year-old SHIELD relic?"
Clint considered her proposal. Besides, it was healthy, these days, to cut kids off at their knees. They deserved it. It was his duty to prove that she still had plenty more to learn, even from an old Avenger like him. So he decided to do something he hadn't done in a very long time. Shaken from the depths of whatever realm it had been banished to, he summoned his Asgardian bow to his fingertips. The gold, black, and silver etchings blazed like a bolt of Thor's lightning. The string, made from Sleiphner's hair, never frayed, even in the years of disuse. It waited for him, always, knowing that one day it may be needed again.
He pulled a single arrow out of his quiver, didn't even bother to look at the tip, or its conformation. He never did. He always assumed that, if it made it to his quiver, it was the perfect arrow for absolutely every one of his needs, whether that was indoor, outdoor, needed a clockwise or counterclockwise spin . . . the girl didn't know how he did it, but somehow he always made what he used, work.
The arrow pressed against the ebony string until it locked into place. In one fluid motion, he lifted the bow, leveled the shot for the 2000 meter target, and let the arrow fly. He wasn't lined up in front of the target, but instead shot diagonally from the 500 line. The projectile cut a path between two targets, and headed straight for the 2000 meter mark. Clint didn't look to see whether it hit or not. A shot that far away would need a scope to tell for certain. A wave of his hand banished the bow back to whatever hidden realm it came from, and folded his arms.
"Lesson #198: don't tempt the master. Now, you can spend the next twenty minutes walking down to that target, just to tell me how great I Robin Hood-ed that 2000 meter dead center from thirty degree angle difference. And on the way back, you can figure out how that is even possible. And then, you get to practice with my crappy thirty-year-old SHIELD relic."
She set her bow on its rest without voicing a reply. With steam erupting from her ears, the girl stalked off down the archery range to prove he was as full of it as he sounded. Bill walked up behind him, the shop mutt trotting along beside him. The dog waltzed over to Clint, and plopped down on the archer's left foot.
"Hell of a shot." Bill said. He eyed Clint. "Need some ice for that?"
Clint shook his head a little and rubbed his shoulder. "Nope."
"Awful hard on her. You tell her yet?"
Clint didn't reply.
Bill sighed and folded his arms. "Stark called. Said he picked up your bow on the scanners. Said you haven't used that thing in he didn't even know how long. Scared him when he saw it show up. Wanted to know if you were in trouble. I came runnin' out here like the dang Kree were fallin' from the skies again."
"No, I'm all right. Just trying to prove a point." Clint reached down and scratched Lucky's head. The one-eyed mix bathed his pant leg with his tongue.
"Thought you couldn't use that bow anymore?"
"I shouldn't, doesn't mean I can't." Clint replied. He turned, shoving Lucky off his foot as he and Bill headed back inside. It would be a while before the girl returned with his arrow.
"Think you missed?" Bill asked quietly.
"Nope." Clint said. "Not that time."
"They say how long you've got? Before the eyesight's all gone?"
Again, Clint shook his head. "Tony's not sure. Maybe a few months. Few weeks. Someone's gotta take over, keep the name alive. Kate . . . She's got something. Something that I have. I just gotta get her the rest of the way before..." Clint stopped by the back door and looked back at the field. He'd worked so hard to build this sanctuary. He knew every inch of it by heart. With or without his eyesight, he knew he could still get around it.
"Little Katie Bishop come a long way from where you found her. Deserves her shot at this."
"Yeah." Clint said, watching the hot-headed, stubborn, arrow-obsessed girl march her way down the 2000 meter line in a head-forward, shoulder taut, Army trudge, just so she could prove a point. He'd done that once with Trick Shot. Funny how things came full circle.
"She'd make a great Hawkeye one day. And Hawkeye deserves a legacy."
Bill smiled, but said nothing about Clint's assessment. He was fond of the girl too. She'd spent her entire childhood under the careful guidance of the best tutors money could buy, but all she ever wanted, was to be Merida from Brave, and to run off into the sunset as Hawkeye's protégé. After the training center went up, she became customer number one. Her mother, Martha, forbid it, but what could the woman do? Her daughter had been bitten by the hero bug. In the end, Martha knew her daughter was safe in Clint's hands. She had a soft spot for the hero. A lot of women did.
"I don't know how you do it." Bill said, shaking his head. "Always got some woman wrapped 'round your finger."
"It's the cupid in me. Women can't resist it."
They left the hall and entered Clint's office. He flicked the light on with one hand, and dropped his gear into the old leather chair behind the door. The room, with its high school lockers along one wall, file cabinets, and principal's desk looked remarkably similar to the false memory created by Barney Barton years ago. Tony and Pepper helped him design the place. None of the Avengers mentioned the likeness. Either they'd forgotten, or they knew better than to dredge up the painful circumstances surrounding that time. Mostly, the team wanted to help. After all, this place was built for all heroes. It was as much their home as it was his own.
"Fight's coming up Sunday. You still feeling up to it?" Bill asked. He sat to Clint's right, and propped his legs up on Hawkeye's desk.
"I think T'Challa's not about to let me back out of this thing, so I guess I'm ready. Panther's ready to take me out five ways to Sunday." Clint replied.
"Everyone's looking forward to the main event."
"Hulk vs. Thor in the Danger Room? Hell, I'm looking forward to watching those guys pummel the lights out of each other. It's so popular, Rocket, Groot, and Linnor will be around. Imagine what that crowd's going to look like."
"Then there's Johnny Storm and Cyclops. I think that will be a sight to see." Bill added. He sat back in his chair and leaned on the hind legs.
Fight Night had been a hit since the Juggernaut came to town and challenged the Blob to a round on the mats. A few heroes had been in attendance, and left their own training aside to watch the two square off in the ring. The result was an epic event that tested the very limits of Clint's personal Danger Room. Afterward, T'Challa and Tony built in a few improvements to the center ring so it might better withstand the heavy-hitting fighters. Two weeks later, Nightcrawler took on Vision, and ever since, the first Sunday of every month became Fight Night. Mostly, they sparred amongst themselves and lesser heroes branched out to the big leagues. There were no prizes or winners, and no outsiders. Nothing to lose, and everything to gain. A few times, like that coming weekend, a real heading would run. Hulk vs. Thor would be one of the greatest fights "Clint's Place" had ever seen. So far, only one had surpassed it, and that was the surprising bout of Rogue and Susan Storm.
A rap came on the doorway followed by a surprising entrance. Clint sat forward to see around his computer screen, but Bill jumped to his feet.
"Wolverine! How ya doin'? Haven't seen ya in f'ever!" Bill exclaimed. Whenever he got frazzled, his speech went the way of an Eastern European, New Jersey native with a splash of Alabama Clint could never determine the origin of (in essence, indiscriminate and hardly legible, with a little bit of his alien home of Blenheim thrown in). Clint had come across the man during his mission in Hungary years back. Once a Royal Guard of the tribal leader on Blenheim, he'd relocated to Earth for a change of scenery. As loyal as his brother-in-arms, Hogun, they'd been friends ever since.
Logan moved the butt of his cigar from his fingers to the corner of his mouth, and shook Bill's extended hand. "Hey, smiles. You still being slave-driven around here?"
Bill hiked a thumb at Clint. "Ask the boss for a raise for me. I got a wife and twelve kids."
"I don't think your cats count as kids." Logan replied, clapping him on the shoulder. He walked in a little farther and shook hands with Barton.
"Hey, Logan." Clint said. "Fancy seeing you around here. Didn't know you'd come back from Canada. Hiding from some Mounties?"
Logan smirked. "Still a smart mouth. Nah, passing through. Heading back to upstate New York. Stopped in for a bit. You got anybody staying at your house?"
Clint stood and headed to the key rack on his wall. Grabbing down one with a green "Guest House" label along the end, he passed it over. "Vacant for now, it's all yours. Got a car, or do you need that too?"
Logan stuffed the key into his trouser pocket. "Got the truck."
"Ok, great. Natasha's out of town for a while, so it's just me there. Fridge is sparse, but should have something in the cabinets at the guest house. You know your way around. I haven't changed your security code, so just punch it in. I just stripped the place down last week after Gambit left."
"He was here? I miss him?"
Clint nodded. "Yeah, just a week or two ago. Heard there was snow coming in, so he cut out to catch a plane for Louisiana. He's in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. You probably could have guessed that though. Starts next Friday. He said something about pre-gaming before then."
"Surprised he left so late." Logan chuckled. He removed the stub of his cigar, considered its unlit end, and dropped it in Clint's waste bin. "Heard you refitted the ring?"
"T'Challa gave us some supplies to fix the place up. Lemme show you the new specs. Are you staying for a couple days? Fight Night's this Sunday, and Thor's going to headline against the Hulk. We're testing out Tony's latest containment mechanics." Clint rounded his desk, and led Logan toward the downstairs lair. Bill moved ahead of them, flipping on lights. For a Friday morning, the place was relatively empty. Already past eleven, most of the men and women prepping for Sunday planned to do their final workouts in private. If they had any tricks up their sleeves, they didn't want the spies to know.
Before they reached the basement, the back door flew open, and Katie Bishop came running down the hall. Her pony tail bounded in circles, her chest heaved, as she produced the result of Clint's perfect aim. She bent over at the waist to catch her breath, while one arm held up the stuck-together arrows.
"All right, Kate, next thing we work on is going to be sprinting. I don't care if it is fifteen degrees outside." Clint said, nonchalantly.
Her dagger eyes burned into him. "Seriously?! This isn't even possible! No one can have aim this good. It's got to be some carney trick! I don't know how you did it but – "
Logan picked up the arrows and considered them. The original carbon fiber body had split down its underside to make room for the second arrow, which burrowed right through it from knock to tip. They were stuck together tight enough to prevent them being pulled apart without a set of pliers or a dremel.
Kate straightened, holding the stitch in her side as she tried still to catch her breath. "Hi, Wolverine."
"Hi, kid." He replied, handing the arrows to Clint. "Isn't that the one I saw you shoot in that far target? The one in the field?"
"One of them. The other one, I just shot now." Clint said. He leaned over and opened the old supply closet closest to them. He haphazardly tossed the arrows on a shelf, and closed the door again.
Kate pointed at the door. "How have I never been in that door before?"
"You've got me. I think you spend more time here than I do." Clint replied.
Squinting at him, as if waiting to see the magician reveal the rabbit from his hat, she grabbed the door knob and forced it inward. Her jaw hit her chest. The room was full, from one end to the other, of no less than a thousand Robin Hood-ed arrow shafts. It was possible that not all of them came from the same mile-away target shot, but there they all sat. Discarded, as if they meant nothing. She slowly turned to her mentor.
Clint sighed. "Look. You get aim as good as mine, and you start to lose a few thousand arrows here and there. Especially when target shooting. The reason I have so many targets is so I can shoot one arrow at each of them. Otherwise, they will always hit each other. Always. It's cool for like, maybe the first twenty times, then it starts to get tedious replacing so many arrows. One Robin Hood shot ruins two arrows. If you start off with a quiver of twenty, then how many shots can you make before you are out of arrows?"
Katie shook her head, trying to figure out how, suddenly, her uncovering the hoard of arrows turned into a math problem.
"Ten shots." Clint answered his own question. He reached forward and pulled the door shut again. "You get ten shots, and then you have to buy an entirely new stock. Your job is to start needing just as many targets as I do, so you can keep as many arrows in play as possible. Understand?"
Her jaw slowly closed, and she nodded, still mesmerized.
"Good. March back outside and take my crappy ex-SHIELD bow with you. Start at the 100 meter. When you can Robin Hood every shot, then we will start moving up. Before that . . . how old are you again?"
She told him.
"Fine, do that many laps around the whole building. Bill will go with you to make sure you do it. Then, and only then, will I come back out there and show you a new move."
Her face, progressing from doubts at her own ability to complete his challenge, to anger at having to run, and disbelief that Bill would be babysitting her, crumbled into the overwhelming glee of potentially learning something new. "The backward thumb draw? I wanna learn the backward thumb draw!"
"Ok, whatever. Run." Clint swept his hand toward the door, and Katie galloped off with Bill dogging at her heels. Clint rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Logan. "See the things I gotta deal with?"
Logan held up a hand. "Hey, I got stuck with Rogue hijacking my truck. You got the old First Lady's little hero-bunny."
Clint started down the stairs for the basement. "I still think you got the better deal."
"Tell me that when Rogue grabs your face one day with her bare hand." Logan shot back.
The basement Danger Room was modeled after the specifications from the X-men mansion, with inspiration drawn from every MMA ring, both real and imagined. In the end, an invisible field, reinforced with adamantium and vibranium infused struts, shot up from the elevated adamantium platform and progressively curved inward. The total width was the size of two basketball courts. The height rivaled two stories, necessitating four platforms of stairs to reach the underground fortress. So strong was the ring, that occasionally, their super-powered rivals found themselves trapped inside like a hold-over station before being shipped to prison. The inner adamantium and vibranium struts were lined in mattress-thick padding designed on Alfheimr as a favor to Clint. While it did nothing to stop the size of the Hulk, it was a softer cushion to hit for the less dead-proof fighters. Surrounding the ring were alternating benches, individual chairs, lockers, a few water stations, and an off-shoot to the showers.
Logan raised an eyebrow, setting the old army duffle he carried onto the closest bench. "Didn't spare much, did you?"
Clint didn't reply.
He approached the outer struts. Withdrawing his middle right claw, he tapped the metal. A familiar repelling energy vibrated through his hand. Vibranium, he considered. Explained why Black Panther was involved in the creation process. He then touched the invisible barrier. It was thick, maybe enough to withstand Thor's hammer.
"Stark pull out his card for this one? Or did you tap into that secret account we all know you have?" Logan asked. He retracted the claw, and stepped back a little to look at the entire arena. It was a lot more inviting than the Danger Room at Xavier's Institute. He knew Clint worked hard to make his life comfortable, for not only himself, but those who sought out Avengers as a refuge. Logan often allied himself to like-minded hard cases. Clint fit that bill, and then some.
So when Clint still didn't answer him, he looked over and said, "Hey, what's got you in the clouds, bub?"
Inexplicably, Clint dropped. His legs collapsed from under him, and his entire body hit the cement floor in a heap. Logan was so stunned at seeing it, he didn't move at first. When it became obvious Clint wasn't getting up again, he rushed over and turned the archer onto his back.
"Hawk? Hey, Hawk! What happened?"
He carefully straightened the archer's body out. Clint's head bled from where he'd smacked it off the floor. Logan rocked his knuckles along Clint's collar bone to rouse him, but at the same time looked around to see what could have taken him down. No one with half a brain cell would think of attacking an Avenger at Clint's Place. Especially not in the bunker.
"Hawk!"Logan scrutinized every corner of the Danger Room. To the empty area he demanded, "Who's out there?!"
So if you haven't figured it out yet, I'll be referencing a lot of Avengers history that may or may not have been written. These little plot bunnies are meant to tantalize your mind and...perchance?...even stir up your own little plot bunnies. Run wild little bunnies! If you would like to read my history of Clint Barton, just cruise over to my Author Page and check it out:)
Next Time: Meningioma
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