Author's note: Just a little random story before I get back to the other one. Clint's relationship with his bow was always an interest. And this happened. Enjoy!

Clint Barton hated the word "routine." If said word was paired with "assignment" he was already tipped of as to what kind of day he was going to have. When target practice at Stark's new facility was interrupted by a group of idiots in para-military gear, he knew he should've seen it coming.

The soldiers were trained fairly well. They were mercenaries, judging from their style and attitude. As a career soldier himself, Barton understood the ego boost that would come from stealing some of Stark's technology. He almost didn't blame the guy who sent them; whoever it was had enough balls to try stealing from Ironman in the first place. What no one ever accounted for was the fact Stark and Dr. Banner were buddies, which meant Dr. Banner was always tinkering around the R and D departments.

So when the Hulk barreled through a building to assist Barton in getting rid of the mercs, he could plainly see the "oh shit" look on their faces.

He smirked from his perch on an outcrop at the top of an opposing building, hidden behind columns stacked with hanging plants that smelled too good to be fake. Hulk had done most of the dirty work, but Barton took down a few who tried to fight dirty with grenades and other devices they had by chance. The only problem was, Hulk was pissed.

Maybe it was the fact they'd attacked while Stark, Pepper Potts (who was very pregnant with Stark's child), and Barton were there. Or maybe it was because they simply interrupted the research in the lab. Whatever the case, Barton knew he was in trouble when the gunfire grew loud and the concrete trembled under his feet.

He realized too late he'd be in the Hulk's path; he rolled but the whole side of the building shattered as Hulk drove his arm through it. The last three mercs cried out as they flew into the air like ragdolls. Barton only managed a grunt as the sun winked behind his boots. He let an arrow fly, saw it hit the green flesh and ignored the dull crunch that told him two of his ribs were broken with the impact of the debris into his chest. He felt nothing; only the wind in his hair. He drew back the bow for a grappling hook. He fired the arrow, it held and the string pulled taught, but not enough to slow him completely.

Tree limbs snapped at his face and he hit a branch hard. The air gasped from his lungs. He heard a third snap, not sure if it was another rib. Barton finally hit the soft grass and watched, dazed, as the Hulk destroyed the rest of the building, a tranq arrow sticking from his jugular. It wouldn't take effect for five more minutes.

That was his last thought before the world went dark.

He recognized the blur of red and knew it was Natasha even before his eyes focused. She sat beside him, her voice humming in his ears. He shut his eyes against the light. She wasn't talking to him, but someone else. He could smell Axe body spray and the dry bitterness of alcohol—a martini, specifically, no olive. Stark must've been really worried about him to show up. Nat sounded agitated. Her voice floated into his thoughts.

"I don't care what you say. We shouldn't tell him. Not so soon."

"You really think he won't notice?" Stark asked. He sounded just as irritated. Natasha scoffed. Barton sighed. He sensed their eyes on him but he couldn't speak yet. His tongue felt too heavy to form words. He flexed his fingers, clenching sheets underneath them. It was a bed, but not his own. His brain scanned through memories sluggishly. The sterile smell told him it was a hospital—the sickbay of the Helicarrier, most likely. Machines beeped at the increase of his heartbeat.

Barton hated hospitals.

Natasha put her hand on his arm. He opened his eyes again, blinking hard against the light.

"Jarvis, power windows."

The sunlight was shut away. So, he was still at Stark's facility. Barton's vision finally cleared. Nat stood at his side, Stark at the foot of his bed. They looked worried if he could call it that. Natasha had the usual quirk of her eyebrow as she scanned his face. Stark looked at him like someone might look at a wilting tree. Oh, that's a shame…

"How bad?" Barton managed.

Nat's eyes flickered to Stark before turning back to him. "You're a little beat up. Two broken ribs, a mild concussion. A lot of bruises."

"I knew that already."

Barton winced at the pain in his chest. Natasha hesitated. Stark avoided his eyes and pretended to be interested in the tiles on the floor. He looked very subdued in jeans and an old AC/DC t-shirt.

"There's something else," Natasha said. She pursed her lips and looked right at him. "You survived…but your bow didn't."

Barton tried to let the thought sink in for a moment but found he couldn't quite process it.

"What?"

He sounded dumb to his own ears. But the bow was built to last. He'd updated it when necessary, never traded it in for a new one. He'd used others before, but the old standby had been with him through hell and back. He'd had the same bow for twelve years, ever since Coulson pressed it in his hand, fresh off the SHIELD assembly line. He told him to live up to his name, kid. Even though Phil was only four years older than him.

Natasha was bullshitting him. Barton didn't appreciate that. He frowned and tried to sound angry. It was difficult to make his voice threatening with the tightness in his chest, lying weak in a hospital bed.

"Where is it?"

Nat's expression changed only slightly and he knew she wasn't keen on the idea. He didn't care. Barton struggled to sit up.

"Where is it?"

Stark produced the evidence. He set a black bag at the foot of the bed, a non-descript bag, not even with the SHIELD logo on it. It rattled familiarly enough to confirm his suspicions. Barton felt a cold chill in his stomach.

"Sorry, buddy," Stark said.

He pretended not to hear the sincerity in his voice. Stark turned the bag upside down and the splinters of the bow tumbled on to the bed. Barton stared at the pieces, the gnarled string, the broken laser sight. That was the snap he'd heard when he hit the tree. He almost wished it had been one of his bones.

"Shit…"

It was all he could manage. Stark cleared his throat.

"I can make you another one in a few weeks. Just lemme know what you need and I'll get 'er done."

Barton shook his head. Stark didn't argue. He'd done his good dead for the day and wasn't going to try it again. Barton took one of the pieces in his hand and turned it over in his fingers. No amount of training, target practice, killing aliens or saving the world could've prepared him for this. He'd lost his bow.

If he went blind, fate would have her chance at screwing him over for good.

Phil had been the only person who didn't laugh in his face when he brought up the idea of using a bow and arrow in combat. He'd lobbied with Fury for months during Barton's training, especially once he realized how good Barton was with it. He'd been blessed with sharp eyes and steady hands long before his early adulthood gave him the cold sniper mentality he needed.

Barton had been an asshole, then; a guy with spiked, matted hair and piercings along his ears. Fury ran him through the mill a number of times, and each time he came out on top because of the bow and trick arrows. Piercings and bad hair cut be damned.

As soon as the pain was bearable, Barton left Stark's little ICU. Hospitals and sick bays were not his favorite places. He'd spent too much time in them to last him a lifetime. For the first time in years, he had nothing to do. No practice. No practical jokes. No eavesdropping.

His hands were empty and it was strange to know he couldn't fill them with the bow if he found real life too real for his taste. Stark pitched him a few Hunger Games jokes that Pepper found particularly insulting, weepy from hormones and Barton's injuries. He appreciated Stark's attempt at humor even if it was annoying.

Bruce approached him a few weeks after the incident. Barton refused to practice with a specialty bow SHIELD had on hand for him. It was too heavy and cumbersome to hold. He should've put on an orange cap and gone hunting with the damn thing. He'd taken to walking around Stark's facility with his pistol strapped to his thigh, his coat pulled tight around him in the fall air. He was good with a gun—about as damn good as he was with a bow—and weapons practice was still practice. But it wasn't the same.

Pepper seemed very worried about him. Barton supposed his brooding wasn't helping her maternal instincts. He didn't want to be talked to, babied, joked with. Nevertheless, Pepper made him escort her to different places, go on walks with her when Stark couldn't. Barton went only because he couldn't stand the guilt trip if he let an eight-month pregnant woman walk by herself. Her path always mysteriously went past the outdoor driving range, and he couldn't miss the tiny smirk on her face when she saw he was judging distance, compensating for the wind, what he was wearing, who he was with.

Bruce approached him the day Pepper and Stark were trying to test new rocket boot models for the suit. They were further down the range, half-arguing in their husband and wife voices that made Barton shake his head. Stark still wore his three-piece suit he'd put on for the corporate meeting that morning. His pink necktie fluttered in the wind. Barton didn't glance behind him at Bruce's arrival; he knew who it was.

"How much are Armani suits?" Bruce asked him, nodding to Stark.

He shrugged. "Seven, eight hundred dollars."

"He's putting it to good use, then."

Barton smirked. He looked over at the doctor; his smile fell at the sight of the long wooden case he carried in his right hand. Bruce read the look on his face, adjusting his glasses somewhat nervously.

"I told you I wasn't interested in having Stark make anything for me," Barton said. He couldn't bear to see the Industry logo in his face every time he raised the thing to aim. Bruce shook his head.

"Tony didn't make it. I did."

In all honesty, Barton hadn't expected that. Far ahead of them, Pepper yelped as Stark shot abruptly into the sky a few feet over her head. Her cry of "Dammit, Tony!" echoed across the field. He fell back to the ground with a thump, laughing his apology.

"It's my fault," Bruce said. "And I'm sorry for what happened. Believe me when I say that, Clint."

Barton pursed his lips. He watched Stark launch back into the air, this time only a few feet off the ground. He spun slowly so Pepper could get a look at the gear, mark down any faults. Knowing Stark, there probably weren't any. Bruce's voice brought him from his thoughts.

"I can't let the Big Guy ruin anything else for me. The Avengers is all I have left." Bruce flicked open the clasps on the box and held it out to Barton. "At least take a look at it."

Barton glanced at Stark and Pepper and then back to Bruce. He raised his eyebrows and smiled a little, a gesture of apology. Against his better judgment, Barton pushed up the lid.

A new bow lay inside in protective foam, the color of dark oak wood. His old one had been solid black, but this one looked cleaner, sturdier somehow. Pretty damn beautiful in all actuality, but he wasn't going to admit that. He cleared his throat.

"Nice," he said.

Bruce laughed shortly. "It's much better than nice."

He reached over and tapped a small, thin button on the end. The image of the bow shivered, and suddenly, it was gone. Barton looked at Bruce, confused. He grinned.

"Optic camouflage. Say you're caught, but you want to hide the bow, or infiltrate without someone knowing…might come in handy, huh?"

Barton had to smile. "Stark helped you with that."

"Well, I barrowed it from him. He'll find out later."

They looked back at him, flying around Pepper in circles, kicking at the new boots a few times to stay afloat. Bruce nodded to him.

"You should try it out."

Barton laughed a real, mischievous laugh. He observed the scene for a moment, felt for the wind on his face, saw the sway of the tree limbs and Pepper's hair. Stark flew up and down, side to side.

"How about the knot of that tree?" Bruce suggested.

There was a tall elm further ahead of them, past where Pepper was standing. Barton narrowed his eyes, judging the distance. The wind flicked Stark's salmon pink tie out in front of him and a smile curved the archer's lips. He gripped the bow.

"I'll do you one better, Doc."

It was light as a feather in his hands. The string was soft but pliable; it caught the right way on his calloused fingers. Bruce handed him a lightweight practice arrow—non lethal tipped with neon purple fins. Barton sucked in a breath, knocked up the arrow and aimed. He pulled on the string until the arrow was flush against his lips and let it go.

He knew he'd aimed right when Stark hollered across the field.

Pepper whirled around to see Barton still in position. She grinned at him and burst out laughing. Stark fell to the ground, stumbling on the new Ironman boots. He clutched his collar, fingering the threads where the missing buttons were ripped out of place. Bruce chuckled and clapped his shoulder.

"Nice shot."

The arrow had pierced the knot of the elm tree, right down the center. Hanging limply from the shaft was the tattered remains of Stark's obnoxious pink tie. Barton smiled. He shook Bruce's hand.

"Thanks. But you know I never miss."