Rating Note: This story is rated T for some mild profanity and action violence.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier was still scarred from the battle with Loki six weeks prior, but it was functional, patrolling for the moment in the area of the infamous Bermuda Triangle. Two days ago, a marine research ship had disappeared, lost from radio, cell, and satellite contact. It might be nothing, or it might be something. In the wake of recent inter-planetary events, the decision had been made for S.H.I.E.L.D. to check it out.
In his small armory in the bowels of the helicarrier, Clint Barton didn't really give a shit where they were. There was nothing for him to shoot, nothing for him to kill, so no one came looking for him. When he did venture out, some of the looks he got made him regret his decision to show his face. Sure, he'd stood in the circle in New York City, back to back with Rogers, Stark, Thor, and Natasha, even the Hulk. He'd gotten the job done and then some, down to his last arrow. No one disputed that. But, he'd also been the one to fire into the heart of this ship, to start the cascade of events that had almost brought it down, that had led to the death of Phil Coulson and almost killed Natasha - he'd almost killed Natasha, with a blade and his bare hands. She kept insisting it hadn't been him. Loki had been in his brain; he'd been compromised. It was such a clean, neutral word. Compromised. Perhaps Loki had been pulling the strings, but it had been his eyes, his hands, his weapons. If those things weren't him, weren't Hawkeye, then what was?
With a small growl, he tossed aside the arrow he'd been working on. They'd put him through a battery of scans and tests for three weeks, trying to discover exactly what Loki's staff had done to him and Erik Selvig, so that next time, if there was a next time, they could neutralize it. Then... nothing. There was no mission for him, and "vacation" was not in his vocabulary. He had retreated down here to work, to replenish his supply of arrows. At least it felt like forward momentum, creating rather than destroying. No doubt they were still lab-ratting him, keeping an eye on his movements and mental status. Selvig had been sent to a research facility to work on better understanding the wormhole that Loki had opened. Even without the tesseract itself, which had been sent away from Earth with Thor, there was all kinds of data, or so the doctor had enthused. Something to do...
A soft "ahem" came from just outside the half-open door, along with a soft rap on the metal door frame. Clint looked up to see Bruce Banner standing there. Had he been waiting? When their gazes met, there was an unspoken request to enter from the other man. Despite that creeping feeling of being watched and examined he nodded, turning on the high stool he was sitting on so that he faced his visitor.
Stepping into the room, Banner looked more or less like he always did, at least few times Clint had seen him in the past few weeks: vaguely rumpled, posture slightly rounded, hands pushed down into his pockets. He wasn't a large man, physically speaking. Intellectually, that was a different matter entirely. Clint was no dummy himself, but he'd dropped out of school when he'd run away from the orphanage, picking up the things he knew in a mostly piecemeal way since then. He'd overheard that Banner had gone toe to toe with Stark in a battle of words and come out more or less even with the cocky billionaire-genius-whatever. He was curious about the man, and the "other guy"… and why either one would be seeking him out.
"Interesting..." Bruce said, picking up Clint's discarded arrow from the worktop and holding it by the shaft, gently probing the tip with one finger. "What does this one do?"
"Explosive tip," Clint said huskily.
"Oh..." Bruce retracted his hand, but continued to peer intently at the blunt, cylindrical metal tip, spinning the shaft in a slow circle. "I understand you've made several novel innovations to your arrows, Mr. Barton. A master of your craft. Unparalleled."
"Yes."
There was no point in false modesty, at least where his archery was concerned. Whatever else he might or might not know, might or might not have done, that was a proven fact.
Bruce pursed his lips and nodded, then laid the arrow down and turned his softly inquiring eyes onto Clint. "I've been wanting to talk to you."