Author's note: I'll warn you again; OCs ahead, mateys. No turning back now. Read and enjoy! More to come!
I'd like to let you know right now that none of this was my idea.
I wouldn't even be writing this down unless SHIELD wasn't making me do so. Just getting the facts straight, recording the real story for future generations, blah blah blah. I'm technically not even a SHIELD agent, but no one bothered listening to that bit. They just kind of shoved a computer in front of me and told me to get typing.
Well, I guess I should say "us". All eight of us are here, filling in tiny details and reviving memories we wouldn't have thought of otherwise. Nik's going to be doing a lot of this report, apparently, because he pushed his way to the front of this little teenage huddle and is currently trying to narrate it for me. Knock it off, sensei.
Now he's glaring at me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting off topic or if I just tried to call him a ninja (which he insists he's not), but we should probably start from the beginning.
My name is Tara, daughter of Tony Stark, and these are my best friends; Nik, Sky, Sage, Jeremy, Hel, Mary Anne, and Travis. We're here to tell you why you should never, ever tick off the Norse Gods.
Nik emerged from the practice room with smoking, recently-on-fire hair and a smirk on his face. He tossed the fake computer chip to his boss and plopped himself down in a swivel chair.
"And that, sis, is how you run a Level 10 training course," he said.
"I know, I know!" Skylar growled, unusually cranky as she fidgeted in her own chair. Their friend and fellow agent Michael Coulson sighed.
"Sky, if you don't sit still you're going to make it worse!" he exclaimed, referring to her dislocated shoulder. One little slip off a ledge onto a metal floor could do quite a bit of damage, apparently.
As Michael set Sky's shoulder, Nik turned to the computers to check his results, which he didn't really need to do, having been keeping track in his head, but seeing it in black in white led to quite the sense of accomplishment.
Nik let out a low whistle. "You've got to admit Alexander, 4.23 minutes is a pretty impressive time."
His boss nodded. "You could do better, though. Up for another run?"
The final agent in the room shook her head as she typed furiously on her keyboard. "Not today, boss," chirped Gwendolyn Fury. "Sky and Nik broke all the training robots."
Alexander sighed. "Again? We just got three dozen shipped in last week!"
"Well, we're going to have to order more," said the soft-spoken, tech-savvy granddaughter of the late SHIELD director.
Alexander rubbed his brow. "Director Hill is not going to be happy about this."
"Dude, you know you're allowed to acknowledge that she's your mom, right?" asked Michael, now off of med duty and polishing his gun collection.
"It's true. The rule book doesn't say that you cannot acknowledge family members in the workplace," said Gwen, who was surprising knowledgeable for an 11-year-old.
"It's unprofessional," Alexander insisted. "And as Training Director—"
"Oh, cut it with the whole 'I'm a cool guy because I have a cool job and you all have to listen to me' thing," Sky said, rolling her eyes. "Really Xander, you're, like, 4 months older than us."
"Alexander," he corrected, bringing on another eye roll. "And you know how important this job is to me. If I don't take this seriously, I'm practically back to the kids table, and that's about as challenging as working a cashier."
He straightened his standard-issue Co-Director uniform and smoothed back his short dark hair. "Well, if we can't run the practice room, we could at least get some sparring done today."
"With stun guns?" inquired a trigger-happy Michael.
"No stun guns."
"Bleh."
Three hours, four cuts, and at least seventeen bruises later, Nik and Sky shuffled into their house, promptly collapsing on the couches in exaggerated exhaustion. Their father, who was dancing around the kitchen making waffles (as part of what appeared to be a breakfast-for-dinner situation) and blasting the Wicked soundtrack, expertly lowered the music volume while still dishing batter into the waffle iron. He leaned against the marble countertop and switched into Super Mega Stereotypical Dad Mode.
The appropriate cliché for this scenario was, as he phrased it, "So how was training?"
Nik and Sky let out very Twin-ley exasperated groans in unison, which they were allowed to do, seeing as they actually were twins.
Their father whistled. "That bad, huh?"
Sky lifted her head "I dislocated my shoulder," She said before letting her head flop back down on the cushions.
"Again," Nik added.
"You know," he began, "back when I was in SHIELD training, I never—"
"Yes," Sky interrupted "the great and powerful Hawkeye, Archer of Justice never fell off of anything. Ever."
Clint Barton shook his head in amusement. "I always knew you were a sharp kid. Also, the 'Archer of Justice' is new."
"If you'll excuse me," Sky said, tossing long flowing curls that she didn't have. "I'll be in my room, doing something of importance." She flounced out of the room. The boys watched her white-blond head disappear down the hall and heard her take the stairs two at a time.
"What's her problem?" Clint asked.
"We made her leave for training during the climax of her book."
"Ahh. Makes sense."
Nik surveyed the the countertop. Frozen hash browns, a carton of eggs, some orange juice, and… a box of spaghetti. He sighed internally. At least he tried. Clint Barton was never much of a chef, and it didn't run in the family either. Sky burned everything she touched, and the best Nik could do was whip up a batch of mac 'n cheese. At least their mom could throw together a balanced and decent meal once in a while. But even if she could find time to cook while on a mission, which was currently occupying her time, there's no way she would be able to ship it to them in 20 minutes or less from Norway.
About halfway through an episode of The Ouran High School Host Club (his guilty pleasure), a knock came from their front door. A very military knock. Three taps, on the knuckles, in a rhythm typically used in SHIELD to silently signify very, very bad news.
His father just barely beat him to the door, wiping his batter-covered hands on his "Eat the Rude" apron before pulling the door open. A young man around his thirties stood stiffly in SHIELD uniform on their front stoop, awkwardly shifting from side to side. A dark car idled on the curb, waiting. A dark car with a black flag swaying in the breeze on the hood.
"Mr. Clint Barton?" the young man asked.
"Yes," said his father, aware of how grave this news would be.
"I have a message for you from Director Hill of SHIELD."
With slightly trembling hands, Clint took the letter and shut the door, but Nik heard what the man had started to say before the door closed.
He had said, "We're very sorry for your loss."
It was only a matter of moments before the envelope was open. Clint read it, again and again, over and over, probably memorizing every word, or trying to make sense of what he was reading. His hands shook, and his fingers dropped the paper as he untied his apron. He hung his apron on the banister of the stairs and mumbled something like "I have to go," before rushing up the stairs, leaving the waffles to burn. Nik heard the door leading to his father's custom-made lookout open and slam shut.
He reached for the paper, skimming it quickly as he tried to catch himself up. Agent Natasha Barton…lost signal…presumed dead…
Clutching the paper tightly in his hand, he barreled up the stairs, bursting into Skylar's room. He found his twin sitting upside down in her beanbag chair, engrossed near the end of her book.
"Sky."
"Dude, not now. This is a really important part."
"Sky."
She looked up, clearly annoyed. "Shut up! I think Jace and Clary might be—"
"SKYLAR LOUISE BARTON!"
Sky grasped the tremble in his voice, the shake of his hands, the worry in his eyes. She gently set her book on the floor and turned herself rightside up. "Yeah?"
"Mom's been compromised."
Clint sat on the floor of his lookout tower. When they built the house, they had made it especially for him, rising a full story above the rest of the house, open air with a wooden fence to prevent accidents and a spiral staircase leading up to it. It would have been quite the sight for neighbors to behold, if they had any neighbors.
He stared intently at a picture in his hand. It was of Natasha and himself on their wedding night, on the rare occasion that she had allowed herself to be seen smiling on camera. They had made the wedding as quiet as possible. Well, as quiet as it could be when you invited Tony Stark to an event featuring alcohol. Pepper had kept him in line, mostly.
It was very low-key. Little church, little town, an old pastor sworn to secrecy. Twenty undercover guards posted in various positions within a 75-foot radius. The usual. There was, excluding themselves, only nine people invited; Tony and Pepper, Bruce, Thor and Jane, Steve, Fury, Maria Hill, and Phil Coulson, whom they were overjoyed to find he had survived the attack after all. Clint had wanted to invite Loki too, as a joke, but common sense had won over pretty quickly.
He always kept this picture with him. It was such a great memory, the best day of his life. Becoming a Dad was a close second. Technically, he was never supposed to have a picture with him, especially on the job. Someone could find it and figure out his connection to her, which would wreck any chances they had of success on a mission, especially if they were playing strangers. But Natasha. She looked so overjoyed in the photo, so full of life that she looked like she was glowing. It was hard to believe that what they said had happened, happened.
"You never told me that it was this bad, Tasha," he whispered to the photo. "When I was compromised. Then again, you knew I wasn't, well, you know."
He choked up. It was becoming hard to talk, but he pushed on. "I hope you come home soon. You know I can't cook a decent meal, and the kids need that once in a while. They need you, Tash. I need you. You're my world.
"Please come home."
Maybe it was his emotional state, or maybe he was out of practice, but he didn't hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. He turned, expecting to find one of his children. But it wasn't them.
He didn't even have time to cry out before the stranger in front of him touched his forehead and he blacked out.