Deals
Notes: Au. Right. I don't know. It seemed like an awesome idea and it is one. But. Itallics are the past.
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Mist rises thick from the ground. Collecting along the edge of the pond and in the treacherous dips of the earth. Spidery tendrils spiral upward to dissipate in places leaving the grounds wreathed in the ethereal fog that gives it a sense of stillness and quiet that won't last when the sun rises enough to burn it all away.
In the midst of the fog a man stands. Feet perfectly placed and utterly still. As much a part of the scene below as anything else. His head is tilted back and the slight rise and fall of his chest is the only hint he lives until his eyes slowly open. He exhales, long and slow, and a mist rise up from his mouth in the cool air. Clouding his face as he moves his arms up. A bow pulled taught and then loosed.
Again and again. The arrows flying into the shrouding fog for a target not even the man can see, but each time a new one touches the string there's the sound of the one before it finding its proper target.
It goes for a small eternity. The archer drawing back and firing in steady motions that don't falter or slow until the quiver at his side is empty, and the sun is finally high enough that some of the enveloping mist starts to dissipate. The targets becoming clear as the man shoulders his bow and walks towards them. Each arrow buried deep in a pattern too even to be anything but deliberate.
The archer works the arrows out with the same methodical steadiness he fired them. Not stopping until his quiver is full once again. The man stops then and rolls his head slowly, one hand coming up to rub at muscles that have been obviously tense for the past week. He sighs, and the mist rising from his mouth this time is thin, before turning and heading back into the depths of the castle he came from. Leaving the small courtyard empty.
Nearly empty.
One thick patch of mist near the targets dissipates with unnatural quickness leaving a man behind to look over the holes left behind. Fingers finding them deep and well-worn from multiple hits over multiple days that never hit anywhere else except for the holes already made.
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"This is a stupid idea," Clint says to Natasha again. He ignores the look he gets from the Captain for it, because Clint knows that Steve agrees with him.
"His Majesty came up with it," Natasha says with a sigh that's reserved only for Tony and no other human being in the world. "Of course it's a stupid idea."
"Stupid idea or not," Steve's' face twitches on the last word before he schools his features back into something bland that only ever fools anyone who's never talked to him before. "It's going to happen. So, if we can stop questioning our King's plans and get to the part where we try to make it less stupid?"
Tasha turns on her heel to fix Steve with a bland look that speaks loudly. Clint bites his lips on a laugh because questioning is all Steve does when Tony makes a decision, and most of the castle knows it because the shouts echo. Steve bears up under the look easily though from long practice and it's Tasha that backs down first. For expediency if nothing else.
"There's not much we can do but be there," she points out as she turns back to the wardrobe that had appeared in the room the two of them use unofficially. To plan things, lay low, and to just hide from the rest of the castle when things get to be too much. It's crammed with clothing. Bright and gaudy enough to make even Clint wince when she pulls out certain gems. Like the orange and teal puff that had dots on it. "His Majesty wants a ball, and his advisors," Tasha puts the appropriate amount of scorn needed in the title, "are all for it. The easiest way to foil anything will be by being there and watching everything."
Making sure no one uninvited came crashing in, or that anyone decided to do something stupid with the heady power of anonymity granted by masquerades. Because of course Tony doesn't want just any ball. He wants one of the most dangerous types possible, where anyone could be hide behind the right mask and clothing.
"I'm more worried about the advisors, frankly," Steve says and reaches up to resettle the lay of armor over his right shoulder. Shifting the straps of his shield for a moment before grimacing at whatever he's thinking. "They're still looking at marriage prospects."
"They don't like Pepper," Clint does grin at that, because of course they don't like her. The Lady Potts does a better job than all of them combined at running the kingdom, and they're all smart enough to know a threat when it smiles at them and dismisses them with a wave of a silky fan.
"Too bad," Tasha says. Smug and grim all at the same time as she pulls out a black feathered mask from the closet. Something vaguely bird-like. A cross between an owl and rave that actually isn't all that gaudy or terrible. The feathers sweeping from the top and down the back are long enough to sufficiently cover Tasha's red hair when she pulls it on. "Pepper is staying."
Which is the truth. Clint knows it because Tony's lightning fast mind trips to a stop when Pepper wants it to. He also knows it to be true because Tasha likes Pepper, and has already threatened to castrate Tony if he chases the woman away for any reason. She then explained to him in great detail how she'd arrange things so that Tony's crown would end up in Pepper's hands anyway. Whether he lived or not a debatable prospect.
Steve sighs but only says, "There's only so many of my people I can put in the castle before people," nobles, goes without saying, "start to complain."
"Let them," Clint puts in as he wanders up to take his own turn poking at the wardrobe. The clothing is out of the question but there might be something usable among the masks. "There will always be complaints no matter what. Give them something obvious to complain about and they tend not to look for other things too much."
Tasha tilts her head in a manner that fits the bird features. "I'm sure the King wouldn't mind you giving the night off to the soldiers you don't need, Captain. He does enjoy knowing all his people are having fun at the events he throws."
"Right up until someone gets drunk," Steve says with a snort but his eyes are alert and thoughtful. Plans forming and being revised in an instant. He shakes his head sharply and turns back to the two of them. "And you? Should I ask where you two will be?"
Clint and Tasha don't have a position in the castle. They have their rooms and free run of the place, but few people know their names. Just their faces and the fact they go out at night, for days at a time, and come back shortly after someone dies or something important goes missing. Most people are smart enough not to look further than that when it comes to them.
Steve hadn't gotten that particular piece of information though, and is one of the few who know exactly what it is Clint and Tasha do for the kingdom. And what they don't do.
"Oh, you know," Clint fishes out something that feels almost like metal and looks down in bemusement at another bird mask. Purple though with a wickedly hooked beak that allows for eating and drinking. He holds it up to his face and turns to grin at the other two. "We'll be around. Watching."
Steve snorts again but he's smiling when he leaves the two spies alone to discuss their plans for the event.
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There's red on the woman's face, and it takes a moment to see that it's not blood. Her hair is soaked through and clings to her cheeks in waves that just look like the path blood would take.
"Why did we agree to this?" The man slumped against her asks. He does have blood on his face. It's mostly dry and mostly not his own. His eyes are startlingly bright against the grime that cakes his face when he turns to look at her. "I left my bed for this. Why did I leave me bed for this?"
"Because you're a good man," the woman replies. Voice flat with exhaustion that she turns into deadpan humor with effort. "Because you're paid to do this. Because you wouldn't have that bed if you didn't do this. Because I would have dragged you out of it kicking and screaming if you hadn't. Take your pick."
The man groans and watches the flurry of activity for a moment. The castle is burning, but the flames are being controlled. The grounds are littered with the dead. The castle guard mingled with Stane's personal army. The wounded and the dying are being dragged off to better places. Or worse, depending on the colors they wear.
"I'm out of arrows," the man eventually says and holds up the bow he's managed to hold onto through the whole battle.
"You'll get more," the woman says with a tired certainty as she closes her eyes and leans against the man as much as he's leaning on her. "There will always be more."
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Watching. That's really all it came down to most days.
Watch this lord or that lady. Watch the docks and the inns and the trading posts. Go watch at the universities, or no, wait, go watch that clandestine meeting of apprentices gathered away from the university.
Clint's very good at watching the world, sometimes it only ever really makes sense when he's up on the shabby roof of an inn peering down into the courtyard and counting the amount of gold switching hands. Or looking at the way one of the bar wenches leans into a man dressed too well for the area. Or watching the lips of an inebriated professor move as he spoke of things that went over most of the patron's heads.
He's good at watching and putting the pattern of it all together. It makes his position at the castle perfect for him, and Tasha's presence only helps.
There's no new pattern emerging from the shifting crowd of people in the extravagantly decorated ball room right now. Clint's alert and watching, but all he sees are things he already knows. Pepper is being swept around and around by Tony. Their masks and clothing matching in ways that have discouraged the more sensible people already. Leaving behind the stubborn and stupid to keep trying to cut in-between them. Something that Tony, rudely, laughs away each time. Refusing to relinquish his hold.
Smart man.
The advisors, older nobles and merchants of status from the previous King Stark's court, run their usual plots and ploys. The same old tired dances, the same lines, and the same tactics. There's no threat of anything new from them after Lord Stane was dealt with, but their persistence could still be deadly if not taken into proper account. Clint reminds himself of that each time his mind wants to dismiss them. They're still around and still have power. That will always make them a potential threat.
Clint's eyes pick out people from the shifting crowd. Puts mannerisms and clothing choices to names and faces. There aren't too many he can't easily identify within minutes, and no one looks to be acting out of character or suspiciously at all.
"Ready?" Tasha murmurs when Clint straightens up from his lean against the railing. Her darkly plumed mask and dress fading in with the shadows of the balcony they looked down from. The pale skin of her lower face and neck fairly glow in contrast. She's going to be the envy of the room in a few minutes and Clint doesn't envy her the position of attention getter.
"Nope," Clint offers her his arm. The clothing he's wearing is as dark as her own, but with slashes of color to match his mask. It'd appeared hooked over the door of the wardrobe a few days ago, and Clint hasn't bothered asking if it was Tasha or Tony's doing yet. It fits him, and is sufficiently bland enough to let him melt into the crowd of other darkly clad men moving in the ball. "Let's do it anyway."
Tasha's hand is light and deceptively delicate on his arm as they both proceed down to do their jobs.
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The Captain is a tall blonde man with a sharply chiseled face, and a voice too kind for his body and position. A kindness that doesn't show at all as he turns a flat gaze away from the new recruits. "What do you mean 'volunteered?'"
Lord Stane smiles. It's a jovial thing that makes the Captain's jaw go tight. Tighter when the man places a hand on one broad shoulder, using the other to gesture at the group of men and women standing nearly silent in the courtyard. "Magic, Captain, is an untapped potential in our kingdom right now. One that many of our enemies have already utilized. We cannot allow ourselves to fall behind simply because of backward thinking."
"Of course not, My Lord," the Captain says through teeth that aren't quite gritted. "However I was unaware that and wizards had volunteered to serve in the military. It hasn't happened in nearly a hundred years."
The Lord's smile is icy and doesn't reach his eyes as he pats the man's shoulder before turning away. His words trailing behind him. "Not every man in our army is there by choice Captain. Why should it be different for them?"
The Captain curses and casts a grim look on the wizards. All silent and not a single one meeting his gaze. He turns to his Lieutenant who watched the whole thing with a grim look that matches. "Get these people rooms, Sam. I need to go talk to 'them.'"
The Lieutenant glances at the ground near the castle. "You think the spies know something about this that ours don't?"
"They always do," the Captain says with a smile that's a little more genuine before he looks back at the people. It dims before his face settles into a mask of determination. "Take care of them, and see what in the nine hells that man has done to them."
"Yes, sir," the Lieutenant salutes before both men set about to their tasks.
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For once, things seem to be going alright. Aside from way too many eligible partners being thrown at Tony everyone seems to be behaving themselves. As much as a court full of scheming nobles and greedy merchants can that is.
Tasha was whisked away from him almost immediately, and Clint catches glimpses of her working her magic on the crowd. Easing into and out of conversations with the same grace and poise she uses to infiltrate guarded manors. Utilizing skills she learned before meeting Clint and perfected when they were both picked up by the previous ruler's personal spies.
Clint smiles blandly when eyes turn his way and pass over him quickly. Dipping his head and letting the beak of the mask shield him when he doesn't feel like smiling at some of the more unsavory characters that are attending. He works his way through the crowd and out into the gardens. Thrown open for the exploration of the guests. It has the highest concentration of soldiers -masked and not- at Steve's insistence. A plan backed up by General Rhodes. Which was almost as good as getting Pepper or Tony's approval.
He walks briskly through the paths anyway. Noting soldiers and civilians alike as he moves with a purpose. Eyes darting for the darker corners and the not-so-hidden areas. Finding nothing more unusual in them than one well-dressed woman in a sun mask clutching a bottle of wine and nearly breathing fire at anyone attempting to intrude on her solitude. A welcome change from the sweaty and moaning messes Clint tries not to look too closely at as he turns back to the more inhabited areas.
A man falls into step with him, standing up from his seat on a bench and giving off the air that he's been waiting for Clint.
Clint fixes his bland smile in place and turns his head. The hand furthest from the man clenched tight and hidden while he consciously keeps the rest of himself relaxed. "Good evening."
"It is," the man responds easily, and Clint can see the hint of white teeth under the shadow of his mask. Blue and white, and shaped like the moon. The voice is thick with the accents of the north, and Clint runs through a quick mental check. "I wonder if it could be better though."
"Oh?" Clint almost frowns as he turns up nothing. The man is too tall for most of the people he knows, and the strands of pale hair falling around the mask look real. Fair haired men are in short supply from the northern areas Clint is familiar with. "How so?"
The man pivots when they near the steps leading back up into the ballroom and bows formally to him, but his head stays up so that his eyes never leave Clint. They're blue too, and match the mask well. The shift in angle dispels the shadows enough for Clint to see the cocky grin he's being given. Rakish with the dusting of stubble that would make the court swoon in scandalous outrage. "It would be greatly improved if you would dance with me."
Clint feels both of his eyebrows climb high behind his mask, but makes sure that doesn't show on his lower face at all. They've already gathered attention as the man holds his bow, waiting for an answer. Clint can feel eyes landing on them both and forces a slight smile as he bows back, "Of course, I would be delighted to."
The cultured tones slip out automatically as he accepts the hand offered to him and let's himself be pulled into the room. A mask of gentility slipping over him as protection even as the man turns to lead him in the first steps of the dance still going. He takes the lead, forcing Clint to follow, and Clint doesn't fight it. He's already gotten more attention than planned just from being asked to dance. No need to compound it with an argument.
The man's clothes are pale, not white but layers of cream and a light blue that reflect his mask well. They speak of a refined taste and money that doesn't quite match the man's speaking patterns and unshaven face. Clint notes it and follows the subtle push of fingers as well as his own instinct to follow the music's cues. Tasha flutters past in a whirl of black skirts and a hard stare that takes in everything the stranger is and looks -briefly- as baffled as Clint feels.
"You dance well," the man says when the steps permit them to be close enough to speak lowly. Some of the cockiness has drained from his smile. "Do you do it often?"
"When my sister demands a partner," fighting is nothing more than dancing without music, Tasha is always fond of saying. Usually right before doing something strangely graceful that always hurts like a bitch when it connects with Clint. "Which is often."
The humor leeches into his voice unintentionally and the man laughs. It's a low and pleasant sound that Clint rather likes hearing. Almost as interesting as the hand that presses against his back. Lower than would be considered polite and with more strength than needed to keep them at their proper distances. More scandal for the court, and something that'd interest Clint more if he knew anything at all about the stranger.
Total strangers, in Clint's job, were always a threat.
"She has plenty to choose from tonight," the man says and inclines his head to Tasha who is being exchanged from one man to another.
It sets off a warning bell in Clint. That this stranger had noted the two of them coming in together and not immediately forgotten. It means that the man is either really observant or was paying close attention for a reason. The song ends and Clint steps back automatically, but is stopped from bowing when the man beats him to it. Holding onto Clint's hand -his left which makes another alarm bell sound- and brushing his lips against the knuckles there with a cheeky grin that makes a muscle near Clint's eye twitch. At the cheekiness and at being treated like a dainty damsel.
There's more eyes on them, more than before and Clint pastes the bland smile on firmly before slowly walking off the cleared floor. Away from the prying eyes looking for a fight or more information for the rumors he already knows will be circulating in the morning.
Tony is not going to let him live this down.
The man follows him. Staying close enough that Clint can feel the brush of their clothing against the other. A long fingered hand points past him, the arm not at all subtly steering him away from going deeper into the room, "A drink, Hawk?"
"Of course," the arm becomes a body and Clint moves with it like it's totally intentional that he's going back out towards the gardens. Which isn't all that bad of an idea. There's fewer people to see if Clint decks the man out there. For one reason or another.
The man is annoying, and he's a stranger to both him and Tasha. He's the one anomaly they've found in an otherwise predictable night, and he found Clint first. There's a handful of really obvious reasons for it all that are totally benign, and a dozen more that aren't. Clint's job is to find out those reasons and then act if needed.
Clint finds Tasha's eyes across the room and nods slightly at her narrowed gaze. She flicks a fan open and shut deadly quick and Clint feels himself relax a bit a she takes his own glass of wine from a servant. Ignoring the one that the man had taken and offered to him. Clint turns to walk outside and lets the gentile mask drop. "I can always use a few."
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The woman is small and frail looking. She would be totally unthreatening if it weren't for the spill of scars that trail down one side of her face to curl under her eye. Scars that aren't random, but elegant and tend to glow red with an eldritch power when she wants them to. When they flare to life the cell she's in doesn't seem large enough to contain her. The man, a lord of some kind, standing on the other side of the bars doesn't look impressed in the least.
"It is a simple deal," he explains in a tone of voice that almost sound fatherly as he turns on his heel to walk to the other cell across from hers. "The two of you would truly benefit the most from it. I do not see why you would hesitate."
The man in the opposite cell snarls at the lord. His scars run the opposite side of the woman's and glow a bright, piercing blue that never seems to fade like the woman's. His cell has always looked too small for him as he paces it. Prowling like a caged and feral animal. "It is no deal when you imprison us under false pretenses!"
"Does it matter?" The lord ask in amusement. Shaking his head sadly as he turns back to the woman whose face is coldly resentful, but is already nodding her head. Reluctantly. "Splendid! Trust me, you will not regret this. You are serving to protect your country after all. That will make you heroes."
The lord's laugh is sharp and dismissive as he walks away. Silence taking his place. The man stops pacing and cracks his neck abruptly before turning to the woman. When he speaks again it's not in the common tongue. "What are we doing?"
"What we have to," the woman says as she stands up and walks to the bars. Her hands curling around them as the resentment fades to thoughtfulness. "He's giving us no choice, but that doesn't mean we can't use him as much as he's using us."
"I'd rather use my hands to wring his neck," the man spits out as he mirrors her position. The anger there and gone in a flash before his head slumps against the bars. "I'm sorry, sister, for bringing you here. This isn't what I wanted."
"No, brother," the woman smiles. Soft and a little amused. "But it has, and I am saying we need to use this to our advantage. Two little witches on foot haven't made much progress, but two wizards in an army might have better luck at finding your archer."
"He's not my archer," the man says with a flare of temper that cools at one look from the woman. "Yet."
"Yet," she repeats and then retreats from the bars when a distant door slams open. The heavy tread of their jailers returning.
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Benign or not, Clint finds out rather quickly that the answers he's looking for aren't going to be all that easy. Which means he can't deck the man outright for the nefarious plans he may or may not be making, but still leaves the door wide open on decking him because he's an asshole. A well informed asshole who flirts with seemingly no regard to if his words will get him a kiss or a punch.
That he wants the kiss is obvious from the way he keeps edging in on Clint's space, but Clint's not entirely sure that he doesn't want the punch too from the way he keeps dropping casual insults and seemingly random observations about Clint that hit way too close to the mark to be accidental.
"Archery," Clint repeats and stares at the man. Not caring if the look on his face is appropriate or not anymore. They've claimed the spot that was being held by the angry woman from earlier, and her actions seem to have dissuaded anyone else from wandering by. There's no one around to see Clint give the man the same look he gives to people he's about to interrogate.
"Your callouses," the man explains with a serene smile Clint doesn't believe one bit. He reaches to pick up his hand -the left, again- and settles for running his fingers over the callouses that have built up from a lifetime of using a bow when Clint refuses to give it up. "You must practice a lot, Hawk."
Clint has many callouses built up from years of work, and he knows exactly how hard it is to get a read on what a person does when they've got them from doing several different things. He'd believe the man could tell he uses a bow a lot if that were the only set of callouses he has, but it's not. Clint uncrosses his arms and lets them drop to his sides. Loose and ready, feet shoulder width apart, and weight balanced slightly on his toes.
Ready and prepared for anything because this whole cat and mouse, back and forth thing is Tasha's field. Not his. "Who the hell are you?"
The man makes an attempt at looking hurt, but the smug smirk is too broad to be contained. He steps right back into Clint's space. Ignoring how he's in a very dangerous position as he hooks two fingers under the hollow end of Clint's mask. His blue eyes seem to light up from the diffuse light of the moon overhead as he stares intently at Clint. "I'll make you a deal. Kiss me and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
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The boy is angry, and the anger baffles the young man staring down at him. "You said it wouldn't be worse!"
The kid's angry enough that he isn't even speaking common anymore, but the young man's been around long enough to have picked up his language. He doesn't answer the boy back in it though. A lot of effort has been put into teaching all the kids common, "Yeah, I did, and it won't be any worse."
"You're leaving!" The boy is red in the face with his anger. The color clashes with the pale scruff of hair finally growing back on his head, and the shiny white lines of the healed scars on his face. Sparks of blue travel erratically along the lines, and the boy's whole body seems to shudder with it. The tenuous control all the children have slowly learned forgotten in that moment as he glares up at the teenager. "That is worse!"
"Kiddo," the young man looks helplessly over at the waiting horses, but the young woman with her red hair tied back in a neat braid simply stares back at him. Leaving him alone to deal with this. He turns back to the boy who looks closer to tears now than rage and sighs. He reaches out to run his fingers over his head, and the boy flinches still but doesn't try to escape. "Listen, you and your sister are going to be fine here, alright? These people are good. They'll take care of you all and help you learn to control this."
He's careful not to touch the scarred glyphs. It's an unnatural focusing of magic that forces the children to deal with power they were never meant to have. Any touch to the glyphs is painful for the children.
"I've got to go back, kid, alright?" The young man leans down until he meets the stubborn eyes of the boy, and smiles at him. He gets a fierce scowl in return that doesn't hide the way the boy's lower lip trembles a little. "I've got a job that needs doing, and a lot more people to save. Just like you and all the other children. I can't stay here."
The boy says nothing, keeping stubbornly quiet even when the young man stands back up and knocks his knuckles against his forehead. "Look, I'll make you a deal. Learn to control that crazy lightning under your skin first and then maybe we'll see about you coming out to visit. Your sister'd love to see the castle."
Blue eyes peer almost hopefully up at him at the promise that the young man knows isn't going to be followed up on. The specialists are already on their way, but initial assessments don't seem to be hopeful any of the kids will ever learn control. They weren't born with this power, and the natural ways to control it didn't come with the forced change they went through. The spell dampening field around the isolated farm kept up by the hedge witch and her daughters might be the only thing these kids ever know for the rest of their lives.
He doesn't let the sadness of that reach his smile though when the boy crosses his arms over his chest and brusquely nods. A look of sudden determination stealing away the tears that never quite formed. "Good, I'll see you later, kid."
The young man walks to the horses then and doesn't hesitate to swing up onto the saddle and ride away. The smile stays on his face until the farm is out of sight. Then his shoulders slump and he grimaces. "Crap."
"Love is for children," the woman repeats with an amused smirk she turns on him. "You know you're going to wake up one day to find that boy hovering over your bed."
"No, I won't," he says irritably. Shaking out his shoulders, much to the irritation of his horse. "And if some miracle does happen that lets any of those kids off that farm I'll deal with it later."
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This is definitely Tasha's field, and not his. But a kiss is just a kiss. It's no skin off of Clint's back to exchange one for clear answers.
Clint's barely nodded before his mask is clattering to the ground. The half-moon shape of the man's mask is cool and hard where it presses into Clint's skin. A sharp contrast to the soft and heated lips that devour him with a carefully banked hunger that sets off a different set of alarm bells. Ones he's used to going off for vulnerable looking girls in rough areas and not for him.
Instinct screams to push away, to get back and get some space, because this man is dangerous. He's a stranger to Clint but Clint is no stranger to him, and anyone that can get the drop on someone as paranoid as Clint about being spied on is so far beyond dangerous there's no word Clint knows for it.
Instinct screams and claws at the back of his mind but Clint's preoccupied.
Because he can taste the man now, and it's strange. He tastes like the way the world smells when the skies are filled with lightning. Two hands press against him. One at the small of his back to pull their bodies flush and the other at the base of his head to angle the kiss. But there's also one on his hip, and one on his shoulder, and Clint could swear there's one wrapped around his upper arm. Except if feels like the fingers are touching bare skin and Clint's still wearing his stiff coat. The body pressed to his front vibrates slightly, the shaking moving into Clint with each second the kiss lasts. Growing until Clint has to break away with a gasp for air that leaves him a little dizzy.
The moon mask is askew but the man's blue eyes a bright with a kind of awe that really floors Clint. His lips are red and slightly swollen looking. A sight that Clint finds himself focusing on stupidly as the man breathes a little too fast. One hand on Clint's hip and the other pressed between his shoulders. Not willing to give up his hold. "I waited a long time to do that, Clint."
He doesn't stop Clint from pulling the mask off and throwing it into the bushes. Only blink rapidly at the change in light as Clint gapes stupidly at the familiar scars that snake out from under his hairline and curl around his eye. They glow a bright blue that seems brilliant now that the mask isn't dampening it. The light doesn't flicker or spark like it used to, and now that memory is kicking Clint's ass the steady thrum in the body -still pressed against him- makes sense. "Holy, shit. Pietro?"
Pietro grins. Smug still but also delighted. "Hello, Clint. You're right. Wanda does love the castle here. I don't think she wants to leave now actually."
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A young man grins at the crowd of children. Bright and cheerful despite the grime on his skin and the pitiful state of the kids. "Hey," his voice is rough and cracked from smoke that they can all still smell on themselves, "want to see something neat?"
He speaks fast with an accent that would make anyone older suspicious, but the oldest two among them are only ten years old. Too young to know better. Too young not to trust the older boy who saved them all when their home caught fire. Coughing and choking as he dragged them all out and argued with an older girl. Her hair long and tangled, and her own voice thick with the lack of an accent.
The children are tired and scared, but a few tentatively nod. The young man grins even wider, enough to hide the way it cracks a little as he unshoulders his bow. He strides away a little before turning back to bow at them with a flourish that every child knows. It's the opening bow of a showman about to perform.
And perform he does.
The children forget that they're tired, that they're scared. They forget that they haven't eaten for days and that they haven't seen their parents for even longer than that. They forget that they're hurt and bleeding, and that something strange is running through their veins that men with loud voices put there with the sharp edge of a knife.
For a moment they forget everything as the young man amazes them with trick shots and seemingly impossible acts. Shooting with his eyes closed. Then with the young woman's hands over his eyes when he's accused of peeking. Then he shoots behind his own head when she is accused of helping him.
The positions and shots get more and more ridiculous but he makes the target each time. Not missing once much to the children's delight. Stopping only when the ground begins to shake a little, and a fearful silence brings with it the sound of hooves and feet.
"Hey, hey. It's alright, everything is going to be fine," the young man soothes as the children turn toward the noise. The road they'd been following all night long is empty for the moment. "Who wants to help me pull the arrows out?"
The cheer is forced though and the spell broken. The children are miserable again and it's only the oldest boy who stands up silently to help. His hands don't shake when he reaches for the arrows embedded in the trees but his eyes are fearful when he looks up at the young man. "Will it really be alright?"
The young man opens his mouth to answer and stops. He closes it and looks back at the children clustered around the woman before looking down at the boy. "No," he answers honestly and turns to lean on the tree. His own tiredness showing through and the cheer he'd worked so hard to keep up broken as he stares at the arrows he's holding. "It'll never be completely alright again, but it won't be worse. I can promise you that much."
The young man reaches down to pat the boy's head. A gesture he almost ducks away from, but the hands that touch him expertly avoid the lines of glyphs carved into his shaved head. Not even getting close to where the glyphs are still bleeding as they pulse a slow and steady blue.
"It'll never be worse," the young man says as a company of men on horses round into view, "I swear that."
.
.
"The kid grew up into an asshole," Clint mutters out of the side of his mouth to Tasha who looks like she can't decide if she wants to hurt someone or laugh. She fans her face quickly and watches with narrowed eyes as Pietro twirls Wanda -dressed prettily in gold and red to match her sun mask- around the floor. Both twins laughing and their masks hiding the marks of their power.
"Of course he did," Tasha snorts and fixes Clint with an accusing look as if that were his fault. "He likes you, and only assholes like you."
"At least I didn't wake up to him hovering over my bed," Clint says as the last conversation he'd had with Tasha about the children they'd rescued comes back to him. "Literally I guess, because those two have pretty good control over themselves now."
"The Maximoffs?" Steve comes back with the promised glasses of wine. Catching the tail end of their conversation and following their eyes. He's not wearing a mask as he's technically on duty, but the uniform he's wearing is his best one and no one casts a second glance at the guard Captain. "They're powerful and formidable wizards. Why are you two talking about them?"
Steve asks cautiously. Not quite accusingly, but with the air of a man ready to defend someone. Clint feels his own eyes narrow as Tasha slowly turns her head to look at him. Her voice low but hard. "Captain, how do you know them?"
"They served under my command. Briefly," Steve's lips thin as he offers up the information on the protectiveness that runs through his words. The man takes his responsibility towards his soldiers very seriously. His next word goes even farther to explain the reasons though. "Stane."
Stane.
Clint sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out in a slow, angry hiss as he looks down at the floor. Of course. Stane's the one man who's come closest to destroying the kingdom in several generations. He'd wormed his way into the very heart of the kingdom, into Tony's trust, and had systematically worked to destroy it all with moves fit for any spymaster. He'd taken Clint and Tasha by surprise, and they're still finding signs of his plans even now a year later.
"If he weren't dead, I'd fucking kill him," Clint growls at the new anger he has for the man. Anger at the things and people he's hurt, and at the promise he'd made that he hadn't even realized was broken until it's too late.
"Who?" Wanda moves with a grace that looks like the same poise the hedge witches had. Her smile is radiant when she turns her eyes to Clit and Tasha. Not dimmed in the slightest by the mention of death, and Clint feels guilty. "Oh, no," Wanda moves forward and reaches up to place her fingers lightly against Clint's chin. Her skin is cool, and the comparison to her brother's touch jars him enough for her to get a better read on him. He feels the combing fingers brushing lightly over his thoughts too late to stop it. "No, we left the farm and ran into Stane on our own, Clint. Your promise to protect us never extended past the farm. The others never gained control like we did. They're still safe there."
It doesn't stop the guilt, but there's relief in it all the same to know Stane didn't get his hands on all of them. None of them should have gained control. Clint had been told point blank it was impossible. Clint frowns a Pietro comes up with a glass for Wanda, and the woman backs away allowing her brother to slip into the space besides Clint.
"You know each other?" Steve asks. Head tilted curiously and the protective air gone.
"They saved us a long time ago," Wanda explains simply with a smile that turns sly as she looks to Pietro. "And gave us incentive to save ourselves. Multiple times."
Steve's eyebrow arches up in confusion, and Tasha laughs with real amusement. Clint's grateful the mask covers his ears which feel like they're burning from the implication as much as from the fingers he can feel wrapping around his wrist. Pietro doesn't seem bothered at all by it as he pulls on Clint's arm. Towards the dance floor.
"Again?" Clint grumbles to the smiling man and doesn't look back to see if the confusion is clearing from the Captain's face. He knows it is from the edge Tasha's laugh has taken on.
"Yes," Pietro says without shame as he uses more force to pull Clint out until they're near the center of the floor, and Clint can see Tony over his shoulder. Eyes bright with curiosity that's going to be hell to answer later despite the stern way Pepper turns the man away. "Are you saying you can't keep up with me? Come on, I know you're older but you're not that old."
Pietro's hands are unnaturally warm and Clint swears he can taste that lightning still when the man draws him closer than the dance calls for. A strangely pleasant combination that Clint thinks he might start to look forward to far too much. He snorts at the challenging note in Pietro's voice. "Call me old again and there won't be enough magic in the world to save your skin."
The song starts and Clint moves fast to take the lead. Pietro fumbles a bit before following along. Irritation doesn't dim his smile too much. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
Clint narrows his eyes and hopes Tasha's perceptive enough to start watching for both of them as he ups the pace and throws in the most complicated steps to the dance he can manage just to seek Pietro falter a bit and have to actually work to keep up.
.
.
"Do you hear that?" The man is young. Lean with whipcord muscles that come from hard training and not nearly enough food. He drops into a crouch and cocks his head to listen. Eyes shut and face screwed up into a frown.
"I hear a lot of things," the young woman is covered in blood that's not hers, and her hair is falling out of an overly elaborate style that doesn't match with her rough clothing and sharp knives. "Mostly I hear the ceiling caving in on our heads."
"No," he says, and his eyes open. Determined as he sets off away from the path they were taking. "It's screams. They're children here, Tasha."
The woman growls and holds her knives threateningly. Eyeing the retreating back before looking at the escape route. She spits out a vicious curse before following him deeper into the building.
.
.
The ball turns out to be one of the most eventless events Tony has ever thrown. Right up until it's winding down and the man announces his intentions to marry Pepper by the end of the month.
"Well," Tasha mutters as they both watch from the back of the room as smiles turn fake and eyes turn deadly. Plans for advancement ruined and now all the ire of the failure focused on one woman. "I think it's time His Majesty reopened the position of court wizard, don't you?"
Clint groans a little but leans back slightly against the vibrating presence that hasn't left his side once for the rest of the night. "Hell, he's going to need ten of them to keep Pepper from massacring the whole noble class."
"Would he settle for two?" Wanda asks sweetly, and she's going to fit in so well at court. Clint can see her exchanging honeyed tea and poisoned words with the oldest and craftiest of the noble women far too easily.
"You can have it," Pietro speaks dismissively. His pointy chin digging into the soft spot of Clint's shoulder. He's taken advantage of Clint's inattention to get closer, and is nearly wrapped around Clint's back. "I've got a different position in mind."
"Yeah, I got a few in mind too," Clint thinks about pushing the man back again, but it's late and the damage has already been done. At least his own face won't be associated with rumors of a love-struck couple from the ball. "Most of them involve you being thrown in the moat."
"I like mine better," Pietro says and Clint feels the brush of smile against the back of his neck. One that grows when Clint can't hide the way it makes him shiver.
His life. Sometimes Clint wonders what he's done to deserve it.
Sometimes, but not lately.
.
.