A/N: Yes, Part Two is named after the song and the British comedy of the same title. When you read the story, you'll get why this title was chosen.

2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris.

Thanks,

~Sandy

Avengers

As Time Goes By

Chapter 1

It was Christmas Eve Eve when Naomi arrived at her mother's home. Night had fallen and it had grown much colder, though she wasn't sure if the cold was external or emanated from the region of her heart. Every day that Clint stayed gone without was another day that she felt no warmth.

Taking her bags from the trunk, she stepped onto the stoop and knocked on the door. It was opened by Francine though her mother was just coming down the stairs. Naomi dropped her bags on the floor and walked into Gina's arms.

Most mothers, especially the Italian ones, used food as a salve to the wounded heart. But not Gina DeLuca. For her, the best way to "make it better" for her adult daughter was to watch chick movies, listen to Alanis Morissette and drink the oldest and most exquisite of the wines in her wine cellar.

The DeLuca women moved the furniture from in front of the fireplace and spread a blanket down so they could play games, and by the end of the night, even Naomi was giggling.

When bedtime came, she was so tired she could barely make it up the stairs. Her mother, very wise and intuitive, knew her daughter wouldn't want to sleep in the same room she'd shared with the man who'd run out on her and had put her things in the room next to hers.

By morning, Naomi felt a little better about the situation and even helped with plans for the New Year's party.

Several Days Later

The young man entered the room with halting footsteps coming to stand in front of the desk. The chair was occupied by his superior, the one in charge of their activities within this region of the world. Small compared to some, but heavily populated with those who would prefer to make their living without the worry of paying taxes or that their work would be sanctioned by the local or federal government.

He waited patiently until the chair swiveled to face him, the coldness in the eyes making him quake inside. The fact that the man held a Persian cat in his arms made him want to laugh at the cliché of an evil genius fawning over an animal that he loved more than the humans who served him. "He's dead?"

"No, sir. But Dr. Romasky says that he's in a coma and unlikely ever to regain consciousness."

His response was immediate. "Take him away. Leave him on the side of the road at least one thousand miles from here. But before you do that, send me the one who did this. I gave orders that he was not to be permanently injured and the disobedience must be punished."

"Yes, sir."

Turning on his heel, he strode quickly down the corridor to the lift, rode it to the third basement level and scanned his card at the secured door at the end of the hall. Signaling two others, he led them to the only occupied cell. Unlocking it, he told his underlings, "Put him in the helijet. We're taking him for a ride."

They rushed to carry out his order, lifting the man between them, his feet dragging along the floor. At the helijet, they tossed him in the back and waited for their superior to arrive. A few minutes later he did and the aircraft took off.

It didn't take long to reach a stretch of deserted road he'd chosen. Ordering the pilot to hover, he rolled his now former prisoner to the hatch, slid the door open and shoved him out. He landed thirty feet below with a solid thump, a black case hitting the ground next to him. With a word, he ordered the pilot to return to base not once looking back or thinking about the man he'd just left to die.

~~O~~

Sitting at his desk, Phil again checked all the hospital, police and morgue reports for any word on his missing friend. He'd been performing the same task every day for weeks and still nothing. Clint Barton had been missing for more than a month. He'd been sent to do a three-day recon of the alleged compound of a consortium that had begun to slowly gain power within the US and parts of Mexico and Canada. There were even whispers of them moving into Cuba. They were into everything. Drugs, prostitution, weapons, protection, human trafficking, medical research, and many other activities. Even poaching and fishing in illegal waters off the coasts of North and Central America.

Barton had managed to get out a message just after he'd been found by the guards. He'd managed to convince them that all he wanted was a job. They'd given him a low level guard position from which he was able to observe their operation more closely.

However, the last communication with Barton had abruptly cut off in mid transmission meaning that he'd been made. Phil had thought that he would've been killed outright, but when his body didn't turn up right away, he had to rethink that scenario. The way this group operated, they would want everyone to know what they'd done. It fostered loyalty within the ranks and fear from the general population so the body would have been left in a conspicuous place. And each day that went by without hearing something, Phil lost a little more hope that his friend would be found alive.

Phil's computer beeped reminding him that he had a sparring session with Natasha. Groaning internally, he pushed away from the desk and bent down to retie his shoes making a mental note to stop at the med bay afterward. Each week they went without locating something about Barton, the Black Widow seemed to get angrier and angrier. She'd taken to prowling the ship at night instead of sleeping, and beating the crap out of anyone stupid enough to agree to spar with her. It got to a point where the other agents would run when they saw her coming, and in an unguarded moment, Phil had agreed to once again get the crap beat out of himself. It was the least he could do because it was his fault that Barton was missing. If he had tried a little harder to convince Fury that the young agent wasn't yet ready for this mission… But Phil knew differently. Barton had been ready. Phil had simply wanted him to have the best education possible in order to do his job.

He was alone when he entered the gym going immediately to the set of quarterstaffs stacked in the corner. Choosing one of the length and weight that suited him best, he made a few practice swings while waiting for Natasha to arrive. The door behind him whooshed open and he glanced at the clock. "You're late, Tasha. That's a twenty point penalty."

"It's me, boss." One of their newest agents, Gabby Lewis, stood in the doorway, excitement rolling off of her in waves. Her partner, Troy Bishop, was laid up for at least a year after being shot during Naomi's rescue. Phil had been impressed with her handling of the rescue that he'd offered her a job. "We found him."

"Excuse me?"

"Agent Barton. We found him."

Tossing the staff aside, he joined her in the hall, both walking fast. "How?"

Lewis passed him a computer pad. "He was found on the side of the road outside a small town in New Mexico." She consulted the file. "Hondo Valley. A ranch foreman found him and he was airlifted to County General in Santa Fe. He's been in their ICU for more than two weeks."

"Why weren't we notified sooner?"

Her mouth opened and closed a few times. "He was labeled a John Doe because they weren't able to use fingerprints and his DNA is classified."

"What do you mean no fingerprints? That's impossible."

They reached his office, Lewis going to his workstation and bringing up the info on the large monitor hanging from the ceiling. "He was tortured. Not just once, but repeatedly. The ends of his fingers had been burnt to the point that the doctors don't think he will ever regain feeling in them. But you know Barton. He could surprise us all. As it is, when he heals, he'll be left permanently without fingerprints."

"The pain must be incredible. He won't like being under sedation. Says it muddies his thinking."

"I don't think that's a problem at the moment, sir." The info on the screen rearranged itself until a medical report took center stage. "Over the time he was missing, he sustained three broken, two dislocated and four cracked ribs, and a broken tibia. Most of his toes had been broken too. He's had a severe head trauma, each of his shoulders has been dislocated at least once, the right one when he fell or was thrown from a height of twenty to thirty-five feet. And that's not the worst of it. When he fell he sustained a fracture to his pelvis and the L2 vertebrae meaning that he is partially paralyzed. There are also a host of scrapes, cuts and abrasions all over most of his body. Some due to the fall, but others were in various stages of healing when he was found."

"Let me see him."

Lewis shook her head. "It's not a pretty sight, boss." Phil just stared at the screen waiting. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

The screen blurred and a photo of a man swathed in bandages with a cast on his right leg, and wires and tubes being used to sustain his life. What could be seen of his face was unrecognizable. "How do we know it's actually him?"

"They found this." A second smaller photo grew into place beside the other. It was a photo of the black case that Barton took everywhere with him and contained his most prized possession: his bow and arrows. "They found his fake ID scattered on the ground near him. And inside the case was a note to him from Dr. DeLuca. Guess he was keeping it as a memento or something."

~~O~~

Against the wishes of Coulson and Fury, Natasha supervised the transfer of Clint from the hospital in Santa Fe to the helicarrier's med bay. She didn't really have to say much, her presence that for her.

Once his medical equipment had been connected to the med bay's systems, she drew a chair up next to the bed and wrapped her fingers around his wrist because his hands were still bandaged. He would come back from the brink, better and stronger. She would see to it, and they would go together to bring down whoever did this to him.

And not nearly as important, but still necessary to know, was what group worked out of the compound Clint had been doing recon on. There had been rumblings of a new conglomerate that was intent on pushing the smaller establishments out of business. Infiltration was her strong suit. She would speak to Fury about letting her take over Clint's original mission. Natasha felt a presence beside her and instinct told her it was Coulson.

"How's he doing?"

"Not nearly as well as he should be. I want to go after them, Phil. Make them pay for what they've done."

Coulson was already shaking his head. "Fury won't risk another agent so soon. Their defenses'll be up now that they know we're aware of their activities."

She huffed letting him know that this was not the end of the argument. She just chose not to continue it here. "Have you spoken to the doctors? What's their prognosis?"

"It's too soon to tell. Most of his injuries will heal, but we won't know if he has permanent brain damage until he wakes up."

Glaring, Natasha nudged Coulson with her foot. "It's good that you didn't say if he wakes up, or I would've had to kick your ass."

Rocking on his toes, hand clasped behind his back, Coulson said, "I try to look on the bright side whenever possible. The fact that he's still alive after all he's been through means a lot. He's a fighter."

"He will get better and come back stronger for it."

Coulson touched her on the shoulder giving it a slight squeeze. "I'm going to call Dr. DeLuca and let her know the situation."

"I will handle all communication with Dr. DeLuca, Agent Coulson," Fury said from the doorway. He stepped into the room giving the man in the bed a long assessing glance. "What's his condition?"

"About the same. He started coming out of the coma during the transfer, but the doctors have determined that it would increase his chances of full recovery if he were to remain in a medically induced coma for at least another week."

Fury was silent so long that Natasha thought he'd left the room. "I want twice daily updates on his condition." He turned and strode away, the heels of his boots ringing on the deck.

Sitting back in her chair, Natasha looked up at Coulson. His expression, usually bland to hide what he was thinking and feeling, showed his worry for Barton. The two men would deny it categorically, but they had become friends since the young agent had been brought into the fold. It would've been hard for them not to get to know each other while Coulson oversaw Barton's training.

She'd been pleased that Coulson had taken such an interest in the younger man she had originally been sent to seduce for information, and it seemed to work for both of them. According to rumors, when Barton arrived at SHIELD he'd been a mannerless lout. Coulson had turned him into an agent in record time. Barton was a sponge soaking up information and using it to his full advantage. He had been underweight and malnourished when he arrived, but with exercise and proper nutrition, he'd become strong and very fit. He had physical strength in the beginning. With training and conditioning, he'd become even stronger.

The biggest change had been how he treated the people around him. Barton still retained that glint in his eyes that told you he was assessing your possibility as a "mark." Are you someone he can con, a sheep to be fleeced? He had made the mistake of thinking she would be taken in by his obvious charm, but she had been trained by the best to be the best. Seduction was a tool of her trade and one of the things that made her good at her job. She could make a man forget that he had a wife and children at home, forget that he shouldn't be telling secrets to strangers, forget about anything but her.

And she was the last of her kind. All of the other Black Widows had been killed, locked away or "deprogrammed." She allowed a moment of sadness for her peers who would never again walk free, who would forever be kept out of the light. And when she was done, she got to her feet and bent down to place a kiss on Barton's forehead before leaving. "Be well, my friend."

~~O~~

Going back to his office, Fury stood for a long time in the middle of the room thinking. He'd told Coulson that he would contact Naomi DeLuca to inform her that Barton had been found and was in critical condition. But that would not happen. He thought it best for all concerned that the relationship between the psychologist and the agent was severed. A clean break. He would allow her to think that he had gotten cold feet and had moved on. To that end, he would conveniently "forget" to make the contact.

Fury sat down at his desk and called up the reports he'd been reading when Barton was brought on board, picking up where he left off and giving no more thought to Naomi DeLuca than he had before.

Ten Days Later

It had been almost two months since Naomi had heard from Clint. She'd wanted so much to spend Christmas with him, her mother and their friends. And for all this time, she'd held out hope that he would at least call to let her know why he'd left and never came back. But he didn't.

A small box sat on the table. She'd put his things he'd been left behind in it waiting for…she wasn't completely sure what she was waiting for. When she found his pendant on the bathroom floor, it had heartened her. It obviously meant a great deal to him and if he hadn't planned on coming back, he wouldn't have left it behind.

With a deep sigh, she realized that it was time to let him go, to admit that he wasn't coming back. If he'd just told her up front that he didn't want to be with her anymore, she wouldn't have been fine with it, but it would've been some sort of closure, an ending of sorts that would keep her from continuing to wonder.

She didn't have to go through the box to know what was there. A couple of his T-shirts, a pair of pants, a razor, a pair of socks or rather two socks that didn't match, a paperback novel he'd been reading for class, a magazine for the big gun, the one he called a Glock, and two of his knives. They were small. She'd looked them up and found out they were called boot knives.

Setting the book and pendant aside, Naomi divided up the rest of the stuff. The clothing would go to the second-hand store up the street, the razor went into the trash with the mismatched socks, but when she got to the magazine and knives, she had no idea what to do with them. She didn't own a gun and wouldn't. The best bet would be to turn it over to the police and say she found it. If it had his prints on it maybe that would draw him or his cousin out. She remembered that Phil had admitted they weren't actually related, but he was still the only person she knew to try to contact for info.

And that gave her an idea. Clint was very protective of his weapons. What if the knives were registered somewhere? If she pawned them and Clint or Phil were looking for them, they would be alerted that they'd turned up.

Naomi tucked the knives and ammo into her purse, grabbed her coat, hat and gloves and headed for the nearest pawn shop. She told the owner that they were her ex-husband's and he owed her back child support. The man was sympathetic, but unable to give her more than fifty bucks. On her way out, she saw a glass case filled with a variety of handguns. Fingering the magazine in her pocket, she carefully inspected each one until she saw the one she wanted. She held the magazine up, pointing with the other hand. "That one. Does this fit it?"

"Yeah. That's a Glock twenty-two, full size, forty caliber Smith and Wesson with fixed sights and a ten plus one capacity."

"Um, okay. What else do you have that's similar?"

The man grinned sensing an imminent sale. "If this is the style you like, then we have the baby Glock. It's just like the twenty-two, but smaller. I can give ya a good deal if ya throw in that mag."

Naomi looked from baby Glock to the magazine she'd set on the counter. "I'll take it."

He reached under and brought out a form. "Just fill this out and in a few days you'll be set to go."

Taking the pen he offered, Naomi started to fill out the form that would allow her to carry a concealed weapon. She hadn't written more than her first name when she thought better of it. "Never mind. And keep the mag."

On the way home, she turned over the cash from the sale of the knives to a homeless man standing on the corner with a cardboard sign. Back at the apartment, she picked up her mail, sorting it as she climbed to the second floor. In with the bills and junk mail she found an envelope with the logo of one of the top psychological facilities in the country in the top left corner. It was put aside for later reading as she placed the pendant and book in her bedside table for safe keeping. When Clint first disappeared, she'd worn the pendant for a time, but now it was time to put it away.

She went to the kitchen to see what was for dinner, but found that nothing in her freezer looked appealing. She still hadn't learned to cook though Clint had tried on several occasions. So her only option was to have something delivered. She dialed the same Chinese place she and Clint had called on the nights he didn't want to cook or was too tired, ordered her usual and turned on the stereo to listen to music. It was time to get on with her life and letting go of him and his stuff was the beginning. The letter was the next step.

While she waited for her food to be delivered, she opened the envelope to find an airline ticket and a request for her to come to Denver for an interview. It was too late to call and confirm so she stuck the letter on the front of her refrigerator so she'd remember to do it the next day.

~~O~~

Natasha tried to go easy on Coulson, but it was difficult. Mitigating her anger was like trying to tell Superman not to be invulnerable to bullets. She managed not to knock him senseless all the way up until Dr. Carrington came in. Neither of them had expected to be interrupted-it was an unwritten rule that you didn't walk unannounced into a sparring session, especially when she was one of the combatants. But when Coulson lost his focus at the intrusion, she accidentally smacked him with the end of her quarterstaff sending the agent tumbling against the padded wall. Both she and the doctor ran to his side. "Sorry, Phil."

Moaning, Coulson got to his knees then to his feet with Natasha's and Carrington's help. They walked him to the bench where he collapsed. She handed him a bottle of water staying with him just to be sure. "No problem. I just didn't zig or zag when I should've done one or the other."

Smirking, Natasha rubbed salt in the wound. "And that has always been your problem."

Coulson smiled though it was touched by pain. "Working on it." Carrington continued to hover though Coulson waved him away.

"Let me check you out, Agent Coulson."

His request was ignored. "Why are you here, Dr. Carrington?"

"You asked to be informed when Agent Barton regained consciousness."

Natasha's back stiffened as she and Coulson, their hearts pounding, walked quickly toward the exit. She wanted to rush, to get there quickly in order to see for herself that her friend was awake. "When?"

"About an hour ago. I wanted to run a few tests before calling you."

Making a "hurry up" motion with his right hand, Coulson asked, "And?"

"I would prefer you see for yourself. He began reacting to pain stimuli and sounds several hours ago. His pupils are equal and reacting normally to light, and his breathing has become more regular. Most of his injuries are healing quite nicely. Much faster than we would have expected considering the shape he was in when he first arrived. The cast on his right leg will be coming off in a few days and his physical therapy can begin. The dead skin from the burns is being sloughed off leaving new pink skin underneath. His ribs, however, are still rather sore. Because of the pain from the burns, we're keeping him heavily medicated."

"Has he said anything?"

"Some. He's tried to speak, but the medication and the brain trauma have left him mildly aphasic. It'll get better with therapy, but we won't know if he'll make a full recovery until we can do a full mental and physical evaluation."

"How long before that can happen?"

Carrington shrugged. "We'll just have to take it one day at a time."

The three colleagues arrived at the med bay just as a snarl of frustration preceded a glass flying through the air to land at their feet spraying water all over the floor.

"You can throw things all you want, Agent Barton, but that won't get you a cheeseburger, pizza, steak, cookies or anything else solid until the doc gives the order." The nurse, a man six feet and muscular, poured another glass of water and added a straw. "Drink. It'll help your throat feel better. And if you're a good boy, we'll get you some juice later."

"Get doc n-now! W-w-want to s-s-see him."

Smiling, Coulson crossed his arms and turned to Carrington. "I should've warned you that he's a very…impatient patient."

"I had noticed, but I'll make a note in his chart just the same, though I doubt it'll be necessary. He has quite the reputation already."

Coulson walked slowly to the bed and waited for Barton to finish sipping water while glaring at the nurse. With a glance, Coulson dismissed the nurse, Barton's eyes burning a hole in the man's back before finding Coulson's. The crinkling of his forehead in confusion pulling at the cuts that were still healing. "Hello, Agent Barton. How are you feeling?"

"Wh-why you callin' me A-agent B-b-barton? An' who-who are you? Where's B-Barney?"

~~O~~

Fury arrived in time to hear Barton's halting attempt at speech. The dismay and disappointment on Coulson's face that Barton didn't remember him saddened the director. But to give the agent credit, he didn't allow it to show.

"My name is Special Agent Phil Coulson. I'm an agent for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division."

"St-strat-t-tegic…"

"SHIELD." Barton's lips moved silently and he looked inward to match the words with his memory. "But don't worry about that. It'll all come back to you eventually." He glanced around when Fury cleared his throat and Natasha stepped into Barton's line of sight. "I'll leave you to Natasha's tender mercies. We're glad that you're awake, Clint."

There was no response from the man on the bed because he had just seen the Black Widow. From the doorway, Fury watched Barton's eyes drop down to her feet and make their way slowly back up to her face. If he'd done it while in full possession of his faculties, Dr. Carrington would now be treating Barton for multiple bruises, cuts and contusions, but it looked like the Widow was inclined to give her friend some latitude. For now. No promises about later.

Out in the hall, Coulson stopped and looked back at the door. "Sir, I confess I'd hoped that he wouldn't have amnesia."

"False hope, Agent Coulson."

"Yes, sir." Fury left Coulson standing in the hall, striding away from the second saddest sight he had ever seen.

~~O~~

"…eighteen, nineteen, twenty." Bishop grunted in pain as he finished the last rep of the exercises given to him by the physical therapist. His left shoulder had caught the second blast from Gina DeLuca's shotgun. She hadn't been prosecuted for discharging a firearm inside the city limits because officially, the incident at the church never happened.

Now he had to pay the price for her mistake with months and months of therapy, physical and mental. It hadn't taken long for him to get approval from Joan Erickson to return to work, but the surgeon refused to allow him to do more than drive a desk. The man was being overcautious and it annoyed Bishop to no end.

Lewis had been to see him just last week to let him know that Barton had been found. Another annoyance. Bishop had been an agent with the FBI for five years applying every year to SHIELD and being turned down each time. And along comes some hotshot whose only real skill seemed to be shooting a bow and arrow. Lame, as the kids said these days.

Making his way to the kitchen, he shoved a frozen dinner in the microwave, set the timer and went to the 'fridge for a bottle of beer. His left arm was still painful and the action of twisting the top off sometimes pulled on the still healing wound just above his clavicle. He held the bottle in his left hand and used a pair of pliers to open the bottle. Tossing the pliers and the cap on the counter, he took dinner from the microwave, slid it onto a plate, grabbed a fork and returned to the living room to eat.

Before he'd even taken one bite, coughing wracked his body so hard that bile traveled up his esophagus and into the back of his throat. He hurried to the bathroom to spit it out and was more than a little dismayed to see blood. This thing with his shoulder had taken most of his attention and he'd neglected to call the doctor and make an appointment as he'd told Lewis he would.

After rinsing his mouth and brushing his teeth, he wasn't hungry any longer. Instead of going back to the living room, he lay down on the bed fully dressed and went to sleep.

~~O~~

His employers were extremely happy with the completion of his most recent contract. His job had been to remove the daughter's government agent boyfriend, Clint Barton. What better way to do that than to have him assigned to recon then made as an agent?

But it turned out that he had a strength of will they hadn't counted on and hadn't been able to circumvent. He'd been starved, beaten and tortured for weeks without breaking. In all that time, he had continued to stick to his story, that his name was Marlow Fenwick, a former construction worker from Abilene, Kansas. The only thing he would tell them was that his grandmother had won numerous prizes for her sweet potato pie. Had even recited the recipe complete with directions for making a flaky crust.

One of his guards had gotten fed up with his non-answers and had hit Barton so hard he'd fallen into a coma from which their doctor said he would never recover. But even after he'd been left for dead, the man had refused to die and was at this moment recovering onboard the helicarrier.

At least they'd managed to separate Barton from Naomi DeLuca. Not the best ending, but it worked. He didn't know why breaking them up was such a big deal and didn't really care as long as he got paid. The master plan for his life was on schedule. He was a patient man. In just a few years, he'd have everything he ever wanted.

TBC