A/N So this is a mini headcanon that's been bugging me for ages, and then it got mentioned in my other fic I'm Alive, so I figured I'd give it a shot and explain the reasoning behind it. It was originally a one-shot, but then it wasn't. For anyone who's getting worried about I'm Alive, DON'T PANIC. I haven't given up on it, I'm just a bit stuck on where to go next, but I'll try and update at some point.

About this fic. I'm generally known for being unable to take Steve seriously, so please tell me if I got him right or wrong or whatever.

I can take flames. I'm Human Torch...

Oh yeah and I saw Thor: the Dark World today and OMFG \obur;gaern . rzjgh;ure *dies*

Anyhoo...


Clint glances sideways at Steve.
"You sure you want to do this?"
Steve just shrugs.
"I've got to learn at some point, right?"
They're strapped into the front seats of an old quinjet. Old by SHIELD standards, of course. It's actually only about three years old, but apparently the substandard interior trim (and the slightly more important difference in acceleration and handling between it and its contemporaries) is enough to demote it to the ranks of the training jets in Nick Fury's eyes. As such, it's currently being piloted by Captain America and Hawkeye, with the intent of familiarising Steve with the new-fangled control systems that are now the standard in modern jets. The two Avengers have escaped Stark Tower for a while; Stark is hosting a dinner party for some important-sounding people and Clint has prompted Steve into suddenly remembering that they have an incredibly important SHIELD task to do that unfortunately renders their being there impossible.

"You've been through the simulators and stuff, right?" Clint asks, eyes running down the checklist in front of him. He pauses, raises one eyebrow, and then apparently gives up on protocol and ticks everything off anyway.
"Shouldn't you be checking that with me?" Steve asks, sounding understandably nervous.
"You saved the world from an alien invasion. What more do they want?" Clint shrugs. "You're Captain fucking America. If you can't survive The Checklist of Shame, no-one can."
Steve allows himself a small chuckle at the top SHIELD agent's apparent disregard for the Director's rules.
"I didn't exactly save the world in one of these things, though - I might well have died in one if you hadn't been piloting it," Steve points out.
"Yeah, well, that's why you're not the teacher," Clint says vaguely, his expression darkening briefly. "How about you don't have to rely on me next time?"
Steve doesn't have any time to reply. Clint tosses the Checklist of Shame into the back of the jet, presses a few confusing-looking buttons, yanks the joystick back and suddenly they're hurtling along the Helicarrier runway, heading for the edge. Steve grips the edge of the dashboard tightly, suddenly remembering why he hates flying.
Too late to do anything about that now.

"Try to relax, Cap," Clint calls out as they near the end of the runway. "It's not going anywhere I don't tell it to."
"On it," Steve shouts back over the roar of the engines. He pushes his mounting fear to one side and focuses instead on the noise, but just as he is beginning to calm down, the floor drops away and they shoot off the edge. Steve finds himself forced back in his seat as Clint pulls the jet up at a sickening angle. He can just about make out the sea, seemingly millions of miles below them, ready to swallow them if they falter and fall out of the sky.
"I don't think I can do this," Steve warns, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. The last thing he wants to do is put them both in the water.
"Sure you can. It's dual controlled; I can take over if the shit hits the fan," Clint replies.

He's fairly certain that he should probably be trying a bit harder on the reassurance and support front, but hey, he's flying. It's a well known fact that men can't multi-task. Natasha has drilled it into his head enough times over the years that he has given up protesting and instead started to use it as his excuse for just about everything. It works wonders.

"Hey, Feathers, I need you to do something for me."
"..."
"Oi. Tweetie Pie. Favour needed."
"..."
"BIRDBRAIN. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME."
"..."
"Dammit, Barton! Stop shooting stuff for three seconds and answer me!"
"..."
"...Fine!"
"Hey, get off!"
"I've been standing here for two minutes yelling at you!"
"Oh right. Yeah, I can't multi-task. And I'm not doing that favour for you, by the way. Hey, ow!"

The jet levels out at the top of its ascent and Clint glances sideways at the super-soldier next to him, who's looking decidedly pale.
"Ready? I did the hard part, you don't need to worry about anything now. Except maybe passing pigeons."
Steve gives a weak smile before forcing a determined look onto his face.
"I'll do it," he says. "Let's go."
Clint grins and flicks the switch to hand control over to Steve.
"Remember - just keep it steady. Fury'll murder us both if anything goes wrong."

Okay, his people skills are shit, but then again you don't exactly tend to make a lot of friends in his profession. And he's developed a strange habit of killing them off, anyway.

Steve just nods and clenches his hands around the joystick, staring straight ahead out the window.

Suddenly the jet begins to dive.

Steve feels the bile rise in his mouth and he lets go of the controls as if he's been electrocuted. He's dimly aware of Clint swearing his mouth off next to him, but he can't seem to find the button marked 'speech' in his brain, and anyway there's no point because the scene is fading and he can't focus anymore, and they're falling -


A/N I feel like this merits an evil laugh. Mwahahahaha. Etc.

I would say I'm sorry for the cliff hanger, but I'm kindofnotreally.

So yeah. Review?

Hawk