AN: If you've read CARRY ME HOME, this is more of a different story than a rewrite. In my original, everything was rushed - they met in the first chapter and were kissing by the second. (There's no evidence anywhere that Clint and Darcy actually meet, so Clint knowing all about her and vice versa is out there, even if this is non-cannon.) That was "super amatuer" work, in my own words.

CARRY ME HOME is more of a starting line, than an actual thing to pour over and make as long as possible. In this, their romance with be slower and more thought out than what my earlier self wrote out.

Enjoy reading, please! :D

NEW MEXICO SHIELD BASE, PRE-DESTROYER ATTACK:

After a call from Coulson, one giving a mission to find a lost object, Clint Barton is nearing the third hour of searching. He was looking for an iPod with a "cracked-to-shit-screen, a black back, silver, completely wasted apple on the back - I mean, why take one bite and then, like, just not even eat anymore? Who wastes food like that? - and a semi-new pair of green, gummi bear headphones." The voice who had screeched that long-winded description was not Coulson's, but an assumed young female's. Clint thought it was Darcy Lewis', Jane Fosters' quirky, sassy... what, assistant?

Clint didn't really know, but Coulson had been adamant about him finding the goddamn iPod. Said Darcy would kill him - castrate, maybe? Something like that.

After about twenty more grueling minutes, in which he pawed through several cases of confiscated Apple products, Clint decided this was so far beneath his level, he would just give up, find the next agent and say "orders from Coulson, find an iPod with a cracked screen, black back and green headphones." But, just as he was walking towards the agents in the corner of the hastily set up tent, his eye caught on a flash of green.

Deciding that any other agent he sent to look for the iPod would either fail epicaly or take hours upon hours, he rushed to where he had thought he'd seen the green. It wasn't in that case. He moved on to the one next to it. It wasn't in there, either. Why do we have so many fucking iPhones?, Clint thought angrily as he moved on to the case to the other side of the first one.

After pulling out an ancient iPod, gen two, he finally found the object of his searchings. It was as had been described, looking worse for wear, probably because it had been sitting in an old case full of iPods/iPhones-that-were-gathering-dust. Clint opened the iPod, expertly getting past the pass code - Pshh, seriously? Who actually put 0000 as their passcode? - and went straight to the music app.

A lot of the songs were some kind of pop - k-pop, j-pop, rock-pop, just pop in general - ugh - but there was classic rock, like Queen, a bunch of 80's hairbands, indie and country songs, too. Pressing the home button, he went to the notes app, only to see it hadn't been used in nearly two years.

Clint smiled evilly and made a note that said "Hawkeye is the best. U is wrong if u disagree."

Laughing, he called Coulson to inform him of his findings.

JANE FOSTERS' LAB, PUENTE ANTIGUO, NEW MEXICO, POST-DESTROYER ATTACK:

Darcy was sick of sitting there like a bump on a log. No, really, she was nauseous.

Really, at this point, her life sucked. She was in the middle of fucking nowhere for college credits - this isn't even her field! - she hadn't spoken to any of her family members since she was shipped off to college, her iPod was gone - probably on a remote island, like in Lost - she was guyless, and that is to not mention that the entire fucking town was just attacked by other worldly beings, was protected by other other worldly beings and one of them was hot for her one of two of her only friends.

Very few of the above problems could be fixed, at this point. Thing was, she wanted to talk to her mother to cry about all of this, but her iPod was gone. And, they hadn't come in contact since she was wondering what college would be like - the iFunny posts were true, it was all Ramen and no fun unless alcohol was involved.

Darcy couldn't go anywhere, couldn't talk to her family, couldn't snap her fingers like Sabrina the teenage witch and get a guy or her iPod or deal with the fallout of being attacked by ET wannabes with anybody but a bunch of jack-booted-thugs.

So, there she sat, at the desk that had miraculously held in there like the cat in the tree posters, sulking. Darcy stared at the stain on the floor that was "not from a murder, I assure you," as said by the previous owner of this place.

It could have been hours - it was mind-numbing, watching a fucking stain - before a tired voice from above and to the left of her hunched posture said, "your iPod, Miss Lewis." Darcy whipped her head up to see Coulson, her iPod - her baby - in his outstretched hand. "Let's both hope it is sufficient, because I am not having an agent buy you a new one."

"Oh my god! Thanks! For a jack-booted-thug, you're not that bad, I guess!" She grinned, yanking her iPod out of his hand.

Coulson smiled, "I'll take that as a compliment." Then, he walked away.

She only realized a few hours later, ones which were spent listening to every song in her entire library, that she should have asked who found it.

STARK TOWER, NEW YORK, POST-CHITAURI INVASION:

Clint was sitting at the thankfully not-mutilated bar in Stark Tower. He'd never thought he'd have anything to do with anything that was proudly labeled Stark, starting when he saw an old newspaper proclaiming that there was a Genius 4-year-old Who Made A Fucking Circuit Board! Who Gives A Shit If It's The Prodigal Son Of Howard Stark, This Is Exciting!

He hunched over his bowl of soggy, years(?)-old fruity pebbles - he's a grown man, he can choose whatever cereal he want, fuck you - they had to be old, Tony couldn't live by himself and would never think to buy cereal, going off what Natasha had told him after her "internship" or whatever. Clint was in a bad place, right then, anyway, so it didn't really matter all that much.

He'd gotten Coulson killed. That was what ravaged his mind - had for hours, ever since he woke up with a splitting headache.

Some part of his mind, the logical one that he ignored most of the time, whispered, it was Loki. Loki took over you and made you do what you did. And, Natasha stopped you before you got to Coulson. It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong.

He tuned it out.

Why? Because, it was his fault that Coulson, one of the very few people to ever gain and keep his trust, had died in the heat of battle - one that he, alone, had choreographed.

He wasn't the only one in the room - Bruce sat in the happily in tact arm-chair, not even that far from him. But, he still felt singled out and completely alone.

Tony was God-knows-where, Steve was in the gym with Thor, sparring - Clint didn't even entertain the idea that he'd ever be near their levels of strength - and Natasha was - what? Taking a piss? Marveling over Steve? Plotting his death for killing Coulson?

That thought brought his whole guessing-game to a screeching, hand-across-the-seat-over-passenger's-chest, huge-fucking-intake-of-breath halt. Clint nearly face-planted in his cereal. Bruce looked up, concerned.

Bruce isn't even that kind of doctor, so he should but out, Clint thinks.

Tromsø, NORWAY, POST-CHITAURI INVASION:

Darcy was pissed. She was also just slightly proud - Thor was worshipped by Nordic people, after all, slow clap - but still, very pissed.

It was her and Jane in a fucking empty room, because apparently real scientists liked to do work and not obsess over a god. Whatever. Their loss. Thor was fucking great.

Okay, she wasn't being as eloquent as she could be, but holy shit-on-fire, the Avengers, man.

The tv in their prison - sorry, "get away" - was tiny, circa 1970's and grainy-to-the-point-of-migrane. The little antenna's on top had to be propped up by red Solo cups, filled with water. Yeah, let's put water on a fucking tv. Great idea. Who are you? Einstein? Tony Stark? An EEE (read: you're fucking better than everyone else because you know stuff that they don't, lol - yfbteebyksttdl?) student?

So, in conclusion, they'd had about five goddamn minutes of a purely desolated New York, flashes of red - metallic, cloth, hair, blood - and thousands of slumped over not-so-little-green-ish-men. Yay. Then, the tv had shorted out and here they fucking were, sitting, boiling and festering in their rage.

Where the hell was SHIELD? Where was it? It better be on it's way to pick us up, so help me god...

She didn't want to be there anymore. She was going stir-crazy. Outside was a shitstorm of fluffy, blissful, ice-cold snow and inside was Jane's pitiful-ness.

Oh, what it'd be like to be with the Avengers, in New York...

(Cough, cough, not much better, cough, cough)

STARK TOWER, NEW YORK, POST-CHITAURI INVASION:

"Bruce, I'm fine." He'd been insisting his point for going on half-a-fucking-hour. Bruce had called Steve up, and with him came the rest of the gang - the Catin the Hat, Things One and Two, as well as Maria Alexandrova*. "I'm fine," he barked, venom dripping from his voice.

Steve looked across the small space between them - he was leaning over the bar next to Bruce, who was asking him stupid qeustions like when was the last time you slept? Have you used the restroom in the last twenty-four hours? Not to mention Thor's worried look, Natasha's own hidden worry and Tony's poking and proding.

Clint didn't want all of these people in his space. He couldn't breathe. This is why he stayed high up.

"Clint," Steve started reluctantly. "Whatever's bothering you, whatever's twisting your mind to mush...," his words came out artfully. "Well, it might help to talk...?"

Clint laughed harshly. "Ha, no. If anything's gonna help, it'll be you guys getting the hell away from me." He stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the ground before skillfully weaving his way through his teammates. He feet carried him to the terrance thing-y that Loki had recently ravaged. Asshole.

He looked around, gulping for breath. No one followed him, for which he was infinetly grateful. That was, until Tony came out, standing right next to him, even though there was a whole, empty thing-y to stand on.

"Thor was telling stories down in the gym about these two girls, Jane and Darcy. So, I'm thinking we should bring them here, surprise Thor, ya know?" Clint grunted in response and Tony continued. "Yeah, well, Old Man's busy and I don't want Natashalie to scare the girls, nor do I want the girls to scare Bruce. So, that leaves you."

Clint shrugged. "I don't know if I'm the man for the job, Tony. The only way I'm good with words is lieing."

"Nonsense. Get in line? That was perfectly fine. Also, I'm thinking we should find Bruce's lady friend, huh?" He elbowed Clint in the ribs - his poor, sore-as-fuck ribs - playfully.

"I guess Tony. Get me some numbers, I'll call. But you owe me so many bowls of brand-new cereal, it's not funny."

Tromsø, NORWAY, POST-CHITAURI INVASION:

Silence. Silence.

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, floating through the wind, wanting to start again?

Ugh.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Suddenly, the phone - what year is it? 1990? - rings, and before Jane can even stand, Darcy's across the room, answering the ancient phone.

"Oh my god, thank you. Who are you and what do you want? Also, can you say it in as many words as possible, please, that'd be great!"

"No problem...? Uh, I'm Hawkeye, an Avenger. Can I ask who I'm talking to?"

Darcy rips the phone away from her ear, checks the number - Unknown - and curses loudly.

"Fuck. Darcy Lewis. What?" It comes out harsher than she meant it to, but whatever. Too late now.

"Well, there's this guy, he's a prodigal heir of this huge company, it goes by Stark Industries, was an army weapons manufactuer, but now makes baby bottles and his name is Anthony Edward Stark. He's got these people, Earth's mightiest heroes, in his tower - it was called Stark tower, but now it's Avengers tower, I think because only the 'a' is left, not sure - and one goes by the name Thor."

"Yeah, okay, enough with details. What's the point of this call, Hawk?" She's angry - sue her.

"He's talking about you and Jane Foster like you're goddesses. Tony thought it'd be a good idea to fly tou out here and surprise Thor with you two. You in?"

Darcy sighs. "Hold on a second." She's got a brilliant idea. In a loud voice, she intones, "what do you mean we've got to pack our bags ASAP? We're leaving? Like, in twenty minutes?"

It works - Jane runs out of the stupid, boring room and in the direction of their bunk.

However, "uh, what was that?"

"Can we have Jane in on this, too? It'd be pretty fucking awesome to surprise both of them. I know Jane's dying to lip-lock with Thor, the god of thunder, the almost only guy she's ever wooed."

Claws - that's what she was going to call Hawkeye from now on, she didn't get a name - laughed heartily. "That'll only make it better, Miss Lewis. Since you've obviously said yes, I'll send an e-mail with the ETA?"

Darcy sighs happilly. Finally, something good was happening. "It's notaffiliatedwithSHIELD at gmail dot com."

She can practically feel the deadpan over the line.

"Fine. It's mew_mew_babe at gmail dot com. There's an underscore between the first and second 'mew's' and between the second 'mew' and 'babe.' All lowercase."

"Thank you, Miss Lewis."

"Not a problem, Claws."

And the last thing she hears is shocked spluttering.

AN: There we are!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of what you may or may not recognize.

*Maria Alexandrova is a Russian ballet dancer. I'm trying out nicknames right now.

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