The Son of Apollo
Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers, Hawkeye, or Marvel. Neither do I own Percy Jackson and the Olympians. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: In which Clint Barton is a demigod. A son of Apollo, specifically.
Rating: T for language, and mild violence.
Author: tlyxor1.
The Son of Apollo
He hates the PEGASUS base. It's underground, far from the sun, and he's on duty 16 hours a day. There is no time to shoot - no time for much of anything, really - and the tesseract is probably the most uninteresting object he's ever guarded in his life. Moreover, his ADHD makes him twitchy and unable to focus on much of anything for a prolonged amount of time, and therefore, it's almost a relief when the artefact starts acting up.
That is, of course, until an alien demigod shows up with delusions of grandeur, a magical sceptre, and ambitions of world domination.
"You have heart," Loki, of Asgard, says. He presses the sceptre against Clint's chest, his eyes flash an iridescent blue, and Clint feels an unfamiliar magic wash over him.
It's easy work to brush it off, and Clint attributes it to the practice the Hecate siblings have foisted upon him over the years.
"And you're an idiot," Clint answers lightly, sidesteps the sceptre, and reaches for his gun. "We're not fond of tyrants here."
While Clint distracts Loki, who is intrigued by his ability to shrug off the sceptre's thrall, Fury makes quick work of packing up the tesseract. Coulson watches his back, and they're almost at the door when Loki stops them.
"Please don't do that."
Clint fires his gun. Loki slows it's trajectory, the bullet clatters to the ground, and Clint holsters his weapon. At the same time, Loki has turned his attention towards Fury, and all the while, he simultaneously turns three more agents into mindless puppets. He is, of course, the puppet master.
One such agent fires upon Fury. The director staggers, but a bulletproof vest is a staple in his wardrobe, and Clint is unconcerned. In the distraction, however, Loki is able to summon the tesseract from Fury's grasp, and he sweeps out of the room behind his various underlings.
Clint follows, mindful that it's a futile endeavour, but unwilling to give up without a fight. He pulls a multi-purpose bottle opener from a discreet pocket in his tac-vest, flips open the corkscrew end, and greets the ornate bow that forms like an old friend. Then he draws back on the string, aims the arrow that the familiar motion conjures, and fires. It strikes Loki in the armour, but the alien metal holds, and the arrow clatters to the ground.
"Stand down, Hawkeye," Fury orders. "Hill, they're heading towards hanger five. Do not let him get away."
"On it," Agent Hill says. "Proceed with evacuation."
Clint makes a detour to retrieve his duffel bag from his quarters, and reaches the security garage as the ground rumbles ominously beneath his feet. His bag is thrown haphazardly into the passenger seat, his SHIELD issue bow and quiver in the footwell. Then he floors it out of the garage, and behind him, the PEGASUS base collapses inwards.
Clint imagines he can hear the screams of the dying.
"Hawkeye, do you copy?" Coulson's voice filters through the comm in his ear.
"I copy," Clint answers.
"Make your way to the Albuquerque base," he is directed, "The survivors are gathering there."
"Copy that, Coulson," Clint acknowledges, "I'll see you soon."
-!-
16 Years Earlier…
Clint is dying. He is in an alleyway somewhere in Chicago, he's just been betrayed by his own brother, and the pool of blood beneath him is hot, sticky, and growing larger with every beat of his heart. He is 16 years old, he is crying, and he doesn't want to die.
A beam of light pierces the gloom, and Clint blinks, dazed. There are spots before his eyes, but it's the dead of night, and he is alone.
"What's happened to you, kid?"
A stranger crouches down beside him, examines the wound Clint compresses with his hands, and grimaces sympathetically, "That looks like a sword wound if I've ever seen one."
Clint blearily wonders where he's ever seen a sword wound before.
He presses a hand over Clint's, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and a rush of warmth flows through Clint's entire body. The seeping blood between his fingers vanishes, as does the pain, and Clint's head is clear. He is as bewildered as he's ever been, however.
"What the fuck?"
"It's a bit of a trip the first time, isn't it?" The man is tall and blonde, tanned by the sun and clad in a tank top and jeans. There is a clunky set of headphones around his neck, perched on his shoulders, and he can't be more than a few years older than Clint himself.
"What did you do?"
"Healed you, of course," he answers, "Can't have you die on me so soon. You're meant for great things, Clint Barton."
Aw, man, you're fucking nuts."
Clint has spent his whole life hearing that he's an illiterate idiot, and this dude's as dumb as Clint if he thinks that's ever going to change.
But still…
"How do you know my name?"
"Never mind that," the man answers, crouches by Clint's side once more, and helps the teen sit up against the grimy wall, "I've been watching you for a while. You were supposed to head to camp years ago, but the car accident threw that plan out the window. It doesn't matter, really, you've learned what you need to already. Still, it'd do you well to head to camp, meet others like you. Finish school. Stay safe for a little while longer."
"What are you talking about, dude?"
"I'm talking about Camp Halfblood," he answers, "A place for demigods like you."
The explanation goes way over Clint's head, but the gist is: Olympians are real, Clint is a demigod, and he needs to get to Camp Halfblood, in Long Island, pronto.
"Here," the man says, offers Clint a backpack, and informs him, "There's food, cash, and some clothes in there. A few surprises that should serve you well, too. Good luck, kid. You'll need it."
He leaves before Clint can ask for his name.
"So…" Clint sighs, cards a hand through his hair, and wonders out loud, "Where the fuck is Long Island?"
-!-
Present Day
With the knowledge that the Norse equivalent of Hermes - or maybe Hecate - is somewhere in the world, wreaking havoc, Clint calls Chiron. He's not sure if it's something that the Olympian Council needs to know about, but neither does he want to be reprimanded in case it is. Thus, he dials the familiar number to 'Olympic Strawberries', and waits for someone to pick up on the other end.
"Olympic Strawberries, this is Katie, how can I help you?"
"Hi, Katie, I was hoping to speak with Chiron. Is he available?"
Chiron is the Activities Director at Camp Halfblood. He's a centaur, and has probably forgotten more information than Clint will ever learn. He is, as legend dictates, the immortal trainer of heroes, and he is probably the only reason Clint agreed to obtain his GED.
He is, also, a demigod's first line to the Olympian Council.
"He is, may I ask who's speaking?"
"Clint Barton," he answers, "Son of Apollo."
"One moment, please." Katie puts him on hold, Clint exhales raggedly, and paces impatiently. Beyond those moments necessary when sniping, Clint Barton despises waiting.
Particularly when he's on the phone. The threat from monsters inevitably wanes as a demigod grows beyond adolescence, but it will never fade completely. Electronic communication is like a homing beacon to beasties, and therefore, Clint's always a twitchy mess when it comes to phone calls, text messages, and emails.
"Clint," Chiron greets fondly, "It's been a while. How are you?"
"I've had better days," Clint answers. He explains his encounter with Loki, and with Thor the previous year. "I wasn't sure if the Council needed to know."
"It's likely they do," Chiron answers solemnly, "Unfortunately, due to a decree by Lord Zeus, Olympus is presently closed."
"What?"
Clint halts in his tracks, thoroughly dumbfounded. He's never known Olympus to close its doors, and he can't fathom what on Earth would possess the Big Z to do it now. He's about to question his former trainer about it, in fact, but his SHIELD issue phone buzzes in one of his pockets, and Clint's time is up.
"You'll have to tell me about it later. I've got to go."
"Of course," Chiron replies, "Keep me posted on the Loki situation."
"I will."
Clint hangs up without saying goodbye. He answers the incoming call as he does so, and he is unsurprised to find it is Agent Coulson on the other line.
After Clint had completed his service in the army, he had been recruited by SHIELD. Phil had become his handler after a number of others had passed him over, and they'd maintained an exceedingly successful partnership ever since. It had only improved with the inclusion of Natasha Romanov (codename: Black Widow), but something that had never changed was Coulson's tendency to mother hen.
"What can I do for you, Coulson?"
"Where are you, Barton?"
Clint sighs. There will, no doubt, be questions awaiting him in Albuquerque. He'd been the only individual able to shrug off Loki's thrall, and Fury has an absurd need to know everything. Clint doesn't want to deal with it, but regardless, he clambers back into his car, and answers, "I'm on my way."
-!-
14 Years Earlier…
It's not a decision he makes on a whim. He's considered it for months, listed the pros and cons, researched extensively at the public library. He discusses it with the older kids in the Apollo cabin - his siblings, as unbelievable as that is - and with Chiron, too. He talks it out with Laura, the daughter of Demeter he's head over heels crazy for, with the demigod children of Ares and Athena who know war like no one else Clint knows. Eventually, his 18th birthday arrives, and he's never been more certain of anything else in his life.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Chiron asks. He's chosen to accompany Clint to the army recruitment centre. He's in his wheelchair, of course, but that doesn't diminish the millennia of wisdom Clint can see in his gaze. "War is an ugly thing."
"I'm sure," Clint answers, "I need to do this."
Clint steps into the office, and Chiron wheels in behind him. The recruiter is already there, watching him. He has been for a few minutes, and his gaze is expectant.
"Are you wanting to enlist?"
"I am," Clint confirms.
The process is long, and extensive. He slogs through it, however, and there is something exceedingly satisfying at the end of it.
"Are you ready?" His recruiter asks.
Clint nods, and in the weeks that follow, the proceeding events are a blur. The oath, however, is not.
"I, Clinton Barton, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."
With the blessings of Ares and Athena a metaphorical weight on his shoulders, Clint receives his marching orders days later. It's months before he sees Camp Halfblood - and those therein - again.
-!-
Present Day…
While Natasha heads to Kolkata, India to seek out Bruce Banner (codename: Hulk), Clint is sent to bring in Steve Rogers (codename: Captain America). He'd sooner catch up on the most recent drama on Olympus, but duty is something he's never been able to walk away from.
The thing is, Captain America is a public hero, but in the army, he is remembered with contempt. He'd not finished basic training, he'd regularly defied senior authority - has, in fact, been celebrated for it - and was awarded the rank of captain before he'd ever truly earned it.
Suffice to say, there's a lot of bitterness there.
That said, Clint won't deny that the man's a hero. He'd 'died' to save the entire eastern seaboard, and if nothing else, Clint can respect him for that.
Whether he'll be able to respect the man for anything else, though?
That's a different matter entirely, and yet to be seen besides.
Clint pulls up at what is, according to his file, Rogers' most regular haunt. It's an old gym in one of the poorer parts of Brooklyn, and it should - by all rights - be closed for the evening.
It isn't.
Clint knocks on the door, steps inside, and studies the man stood by one of the punching bags. He's a few inches taller than Clint, with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. If not for the fairness of his complexion, he could probably pass for one of Clint's brothers.
"May I help you?" He asks.
"I'm here on behalf of Director Fury, of SHIELD," Clint explains, "My name is Clint Barton."
"You hear with a mission?"
"Something like that."
"Does he want me to get back into the world?"
"I believe he wants you to save it, actually," Clint answers. He hands over the dossier arranged for Rogers' convenience, and waits silently as he skims through the pages.
"So, SHIELD found HYDRA's secret weapon," Rogers observes, "Who took it?"
"His name is Loki," Clint replies, "All the information you'll need is in a debriefing packet at your apartment."
Rogers doesn't acknowledge him with words. He instead straightens out the equipment he'd been using, and then walks out. When he's gone, an unimpressed Clint scoffs, exits the building, and locks the front door behind him.
Then he produces his SHIELD issue phone, opens up a new message to Coulson, and sends him a text that will (likely) trigger an apoplexy.
I don't see the big deal. H.
-!-
When he arrives on the hellicarrier, it's late. He retreats to the barracks he is assigned to, and takes the opportunity to kip for a few hours.
When he wakes again, it's early morning, and Natasha awaits him on the deck. Another man stands close by, hunched and unassuming, and Natasha introduces him as Bruce Banner.
"Where's Rogers?" Natasha asks. She's never been one to observe pleasantries.
"Coulson's bringing him in," Clint replies, grin humoured. "He was quite… enthusiastic."
"Did he take his Captain America trading cards?"
"You bet your ass he did."
In a display of extraordinary timing, Coulson disembarks from a quinjet that has recently arrived, and Captain Rogers is a few steps behind him. The contrast in their expressions is comical, and Clint has to work hard not to laugh at them both.
"Coulson," Clint greets, "Captain Rogers."
"Barton, Romanov, Dr Banner," Coulson acknowledges, "We're all expected on the bridge in half an hour."
With a nod for the four of them, he heads inside.
Clint addresses Natasha. "Did you notice his ears?"
Natasha's smirk is barely noticeable, but her gaze is humoured. "I did."
They will never let Coulson live this down.
-!-
10.5 Years Earlier…
Afghanistan is scorching by day and frigid by night, and Clint Barton aches for the comforts of home. He aches for Camp Halfblood, for the familiar training routines therein, for the warmth of Laura's embrace. He's grown close with the boys in his unit - inevitable, he supposes, in the environment they're in - but he's tired of gunfire and IED's and the omnipresent threat of death. He wants to go home, and he's certainly not the only one.
Billy drops a parcel wrapped in brown paper beside Clint, and the son of Apollo eyes it curiously. Excepting the constant flow of letters between himself and Laura, he's never received anything from home. The postage stamps are from Long Island though, and thus, Clint doesn't hesitate to tear it open.
It's a care package from camp, of course, full of letters and childish drawings and food and small gifts. On top though, there's a small, wallet-size photo of himself and Laura from their last 4th of July together, and Clint can't tear his eyes off it.
"Is that your girl?" Billy asks, "She's pretty. What's she doing with a motherfucker like you?"
"Fuck you, asshole," Clint parries, brushes a reverent finger over the image of her face, and gingerly places it in his breast pocket.
There, she can stay close to his heart.
"You two serious, then?" Billy asks.
Clint shrugs, and answers with a certainty that, in retrospect, surprises him. He doesn't assume, immediately, that it's a rare display of foresight, but later, he wonders. "I'm going to marry her one day."
"Good for you, man," Billy says genuinely, "I hope I find a girl worth marrying someday."
Billy never gets the chance. A few weeks later, their squad is on a routine patrol in a village a few miles out from base camp. They're attacked by gunman, an IED is triggered, and four of their members are killed in the blast. Among them, Billy, who had only just turned 19.
There's a lot more to the story, but it results in Clint's honourable discharge, and he's never felt less like a hero.
-!-
Present Day…
Throughout history, the children of Apollo have inherited a wide array of abilities, skills, and talents from their divine father. To one degree or another, they have all been adept at archery, healing, and the arts, but beyond those baseline skills, their abilities vary.
Clint has heard of children who had possessed the ability to conjure sunlight in their hands, to see the future to the most minute of details, to pull someone from the brink of death with only their song (or put them there, of course). They're all different, they all shine in different ways, and it's always interesting to learn of his siblings' - past and present - talents.
Clint himself is an excellent archer, of course. He's fairly decent with the guitar and harmonica, but he's not remarkable in that regard. His rate of healing, however, is extraordinary, as is his uncanny ability to simply 'know' when something is about to go wrong.
The mortals call it gut instinct. His demigod siblings recognise it as a very primitive form of precognition, and they trust it implicitly. Natasha and Phil have learned to do the same. Captain Steve Rogers, however?
Well, that's another matter entirely.
"This isn't going to go well," Clint informs Natasha. She glances at him from where she co-pilots the quinjet. There's a minute frown on her face. "This is a really bad idea."
"What else can we do?" She asks, "If we don't confront him, those people will die."
"I know," Clint says, tone grave, pulls himself from the pilot's seat, and gestures for her to take over. As she does, Clint paces.
Rogers watches, Natasha waits, and the Atlantic Ocean disappears beneath them.
"Alright, Widow," Clint says, "Drop me half a mile out. I'm going to run a perimeter check."
"You got it, Hawkeye," Natasha answers.
"We need to bring in Loki," Rogers insists.
"And we will," Clint answers, "I'm simply concerned that he won't be the only threat we're flying towards."
"You can't honestly know that," Rogers protests.
But of course, because the Fates hate him, he is proven right.
-!-
His ADHD goes haywire as soon as Natasha drops him onto the roof he's chosen. The streets are full of Greek monsters, and even as he sardonically observes that the mythos' have collided, he's cursing up a blue streak in all the languages he knows. Because yeah, the absurd amount of monsters is concerning, and there's no way in Tartarus that Clint can take them all on his own, but even worse than that?
Loki has somehow dissipated the Mist, so everyone can see them. The Stuttgart police have been shooting at them, of course, but the bullets are unsurprisingly useless.
"Hawkeye, status report," Coulson barks in his ear.
"Aw man, this was a really bad idea," he reiterates, pulls his bottle opener from its usual pocket, and sighs to himself. "I mean, seriously, it's the worst."
He flips open the corkscrew end, runs a reverent hand over his familiar, personalised bow, and opens fire on all the monsters he can see.
From there, it takes them about three seconds to scent him out, and Clint is suddenly occupied with a simultaneous offence and retreat for his life.
"Widow, how's the Loki situation?" He asks, and his breaths are embarrassingly heavy, "I could use an evac."
He shoots at a cyclops that converges on his position, surrounded by hellhounds, and the monster dissolves into a spray of golden dust. The hellhounds follow suit, but Clint's arms have started to ache, and there is only so far that he can parkour before he is forced to retreat into a corner. His heart races, his lungs burn, and he wonders if he's going to die tonight.
"Seriously, Widow, any time now," Clint insists. There are harpies on the roof he stands on, screeching as they are prone to do. They are accompanied by griffins, and not even the nice kind.
"We've got Loki," Natasha says. She sounds rattled. "Get ready, Hawkeye. Cap is going to drop down a ladder."
"Copy that, Widow," Clint exhales a breath of relief, "I did not want to die today."
-!-
9 Years Earlier…
Laura Corner becomes his wife on a sunny day in winter, seven years after they'd first met. Officiated by Lady Hera, of all beings, the wedding and subsequent celebration takes place at Camp Halfblood, surrounded by the family they've made their own.
Afterwards, when the campers have gone to bed, the guests returned to hotels or their homes, Clint and Laura dance in the sand, and they dream of forever.
It's the best day of his life.
-!-
The quinjet is silent. Rogers, Stark, and Romanov have spent the last half hour absorbing what they've just learned, and Clint has spent it mentally counting his kills, checking for wounds, and glaring at Loki.
"So," Tony Stark says, "That happened."
"It did," Clint confirms. He is slumped in a seat across from Rogers, his eyes are closed, and he has a vice grip on his faithful bottle opener. He is, also, uncomfortably aware of Loki at the far end of the fuselage.
"Is anyone else surprised by the existence of unkillable mythical creatures, or is that just me?" Stark wonders.
"It's not just you," Rogers answers, "Though I noticed Barton didn't have a problem taking them out."
Clint opens his eyes, arches an unimpressed eyebrow, and doesn't take the bait. Loki begins to laugh, low, quiet, and mocking. Clint contemplates his bottle opener, idly wonders how long his suspension would last if he simply killed the bastard now, and restrains himself.
Outside, it begins to rain. Lightning flashes, thunder bellows, and Loki stills.
"Afraid of a little thunder?" Rogers jeers.
"Not quite fond of what follows," Loki parries.
Clint, who has acquired a healthy respect (re: paranoia) for storms himself, turns his gaze upwards. His thoughts are on Zeus, on what the big guy could possibly be grumpy about now, but of course, that's not what Loki's concerned about.
Rather, he's concerned about the enormous, armour-clad blonde guy who liberates him from the quinjet.
Because of course, one Norse god wasn't enough.
Even as he idly wonders what Zeus feels about a figure from Norse mythology infringing on his territory, Clint groans. "Aw, man, I hate today."
Natasha sighs. "You and me both, Hawkeye."
Too bad for them both, it's only doomed to get worse.
-!-
2 Years Earlier…
A few weeks before the last confrontation with Kronos, Camp Halfblood only houses a total of 120 demigods.
It's not enough to fight Kronos' opposing army.
Therefore, they seek out allies.
Although many of them have hung up their weapons, have put the life of heroing behind them, Chiron sends out an appeal to all of the mature-age demigods he can reach, and Clint is one of the few whom answer. He owes Chiron too much not to.
When he arrives, the first thing he notices is the fact that Camp Halfblood hasn't changed in the slightest. The campers are different, of course, and a lot more combat-ready besides. They all seem to be clad in armour and perpetually armed, but the buildings remain the same, and it's almost a comfort.
And, of course, there is Chiron, who remains timeless.
"Welcome back," the centaur greets him, "You look well."
Clint, who is fresh off an operation in Turkey, tired, superficially wounded, and probably stinking to high heaven, stares at him, unimpressed.
Nearby, an adolescent camper smothers a laugh. He has the quintessential Greek colouring - black hair, olive complexion, blue eyes - and there is a bow and quiver strapped to his back.
"Michael, meet Clint. He left camp in 1998."
Pleasure," Clint acknowledges. He shakes the younger boy's hand, and addresses Chiron. "Where am I crashing?"
At 30, he would feel rather odd in the Apollo cabin. At the same time, he wouldn't mind the opportunity to see it again.
"Lord Dionysus has been considerate enough to raise temporary barracks for the arriving demigods," Chiron explains, "You will, of course, not be limited by the same restrictions as the campers. We do ask, however, that you remain quiet after curfew - for courtesy's sake, you understand?"
"Of course," Clint agrees.
Thus dismissed, Clint is shown the way by Michael, who turns out to be a fellow son of Apollo.
"What do you do?" Michael asks, "I haven't heard of many adult demigods."
"There aren't a lot of us," Clint answers, "Not many left from when I was in camp, anyway."
"What happened?"
"They stopped training, and the monsters caught up," Clint shrugs.
If not that, than it had been something else. A shootout in Wyoming, a car crash, an overdose of some description. Demigods were never meant to live long.
Clint simply wonders when Thanatos will finally catch up to him, and Laura. Together and apart, they've escaped him often enough.
"You didn't though," Michael observes, "Stop training, I mean."
"I didn't," Clint agrees, "I joined the army."
Clint doesn't mention SHIELD, and Michael doesn't know to ask. And then, of course, there is what is dubbed the 'Battle of Manhattan', and Michael Yew will never get the chance to.
-!-
Present Day…
As a general rule, demigods are more durable than baseline humans. They are marginally faster, stronger, slower to incapacitate and quicker to heal, and Clint exemplifies all of these traits. On top of these inherent abilities, his circus training, uncanny marksmanship skills, and absurd tendency to adapt to any situation has landed him in the Avengers Initiative, and Clint isn't thrilled by the prospect.
Of course, it's flattering in some respects, but mostly, Clint is just put out by it. He already has a job, he has responsibilities, priorities and commitments beyond SHIELD, and he doesn't want to join a superhero boy band (plus Natasha) on top of everything else.
The thing is, Clint's not sure he has much of a choice.
Normally, he wouldn't be concerned by the Initiative. It was scrapped a long time ago, become something of a failed endeavour on Coulson and Fury's parts. He is not, however, ignorant to the fact that most of the prospective Avengers have been gathered on the Hellicarrier, and Clint's smart enough to put two and two together.
He exhales slowly, lifts himself into a handstand, and holds himself there. He's on one of the balancing beams, spotted by Melinda May (codename: The Cavalry), and in want of some peace of mind.
Instead, he receives Captain Rogers, who's been left idle while the others are preoccupied. Stark and Banner have spent the last hour geeking out while they search for the tesseract, Natasha's asleep, and Thor is in the midst of a video call with Jane Foster.
He idly wonders where Coulson is.
"Rogers," Clint greets, moves into a cartwheel, and spares a moment to check his balance. Behind him, Melinda mutters about insane gymnasts. Clint walks the length of the balancing beam, flips off the edge, sticks the landing, and offers Melinda a shameless grin. She rolls her eyes. Clint, finally, addresses the super soldier. "What can I do for you, Captain?"
"I get the impression that you don't like me," Rogers says, "I wanted to clear the air."
Agent May excuses herself quickly. She's not one to interfere in other colleagues' business, though Clint is mildly surprised regardless. He, like a number of other soldiers who've since found themselves in SHIELD's employ, have ranted about Captain America often enough. There are those, of course, who couldn't give a damn either way, but Clint isn't the only one to resent him. That said, Clint almost expects an audience.
"Do you 'clear the air' with everyone who doesn't like you?"
"Just the people I'm likely to work with," Rogers answers.
"Right," Clint mutters. No doubt, Coulson has provided Rogers with files on the prospective members of the Avengers Initiative, and Clint is irritated by the thought.
Where is the fucking protocol?
"Have I done something to offend you?" Rogers asks.
"I spent almost 12 weeks in basic training," Clint informs him, "Another eight in AIT. I know men who worked their asses off to earn their ranks. It is insulting that a man who didn't even finish BCT, who regularly defied orders, was not only ranked Captain but was fucking celebrated for it. That's why I don't like you, Captain."
Irritated by the reminder, and by the man's presence in general, Clint stalks into the change rooms, and Rogers has the good sense not to follow.
-!-
Clint's just hung up his personal phone when Natasha's voice crackles through his comm. His microphone is off, but he hears about Loki's plan loud and clear, and he's not impressed. He hates assholes who need others to fight their battles for them, and if that doesn't fit Loki to a tee, Clint's not sure what does.
Nevertheless, he's up on his feet in only a moment, his SHIELD issue bow and quiver strapped to his back, his multi-purpose bottle opener in his pocket. He flicks on the microphone to his comm unit, makes his way towards the labs, and meets up with Thor, already on his way there.
"Eye of the Hawk!" Thor bellows cheerfully, "Tell me, have you any grande adventures to share?"
"Pardon?"
Thor falters, but his volume is as loud as ever. "Are you not a son of the Olympians?"
His comm is uncomfortably silent, and Clint's heart thunders in his chest. He curls one of his hands around his bottle opener, and flounders for an adequate reply. His silence, however, is telling.
Resigned to the fact, Clint nods his head. "I'm a son of Apollo."
"And how does Olympus fair?" Thor enquires, "We on Asgard had heard of the rise of Kronos, felled by the mighty son of Poseidon."
Clint frowns. Chiron has just informed him of Hera and Thanatos' disappearances, of the monsters that reform in Tartarus in only minutes. It's concerning - more so than the disappearance of Percy Jackson - and it bodes ill tidings in the days, weeks, and months to come.
"Olympus has had better days," Clint answers grimly.
They reach the labs then, where everyone else of note squabbles between themselves. Rogers alternates between insulting Stark and throwing accusations at Fury, Stark returns them in kind, Natasha and Banner debate his presence in the lab. Coulson hurls questions at Clint, Fury defends himself and his actions, and all the while, Thor watches, patronises, and laughs.
It is the perfect opportunity to strike, and Loki takes full advantage of that fact.
-!-
They disperse. Stark and Rogers team up to repair the engine their assailant's have targeted. Natasha and Thor make an effort to subdue the Hulk. Fury disappears to locations unknown, Coulson to the detainment bay. In his ear, Deputy Director Maria Hill barks orders through the comm unit, and Clint isn't spared her commands.
"Barton, I want you to take them all out, yesterday!"
"On it," Clint answers. He skids around a corner, passed panicking scientists and disgruntled field operatives, and questions, "Am I incapacitating, or…"
He doesn't want to ask it. The thralls leading the operation are his colleagues, some he's known for years. For that same reason, he doesn't want to hear her answer.
"Incapacitate," Maria answers gravely, "By whatever means necessary."
"Copy that, Hill."
"Just a head's up," Hill adds, "They're all in SHIELD uniforms."
"Great," Clint grunts, "A challenge."
He foregoes his bow and quiver for the task. He doesn't want to kill his colleagues, particularly if there's a way for them to overcome the mind control. Instead, he knocks them unconscious with blows to the head, and prays that it's enough to counteract Loki's magic.
"We've lost Thor and the Hulk," Natasha declares, "Anyone copy?"
Fury answers, "Loud and clear, Romanov."
Clint subdues the last of Loki's thralls. All that's left are those recruited to hit the hellicarrier - enemies of SHIELD, and the like - and most of the field operatives have taken care of them.
"Engines are up," Hill announces.
"Thank God," Natasha exhales.
"Coulson's down," Fury says grimly.
"I'll get the medics."
"They're already here," Fury answers, "They called it. He's gone."
Clint stills in his tracks, a part of him unable to comprehend what he'd just heard. There's silence on the comms, but Clint's thoughts are on his handler. Clint's known him for almost ten years, has worked and fought alongside him for just as long, has laughed and argued and teased the man.
He can't believe it.
"How?" Stark asks.
"Loki."
-!-
They gather at the bridge, exhausted, dazed and silent. Maria is propped against the wall, Fury at the head of the conference table. Clint slumps in his seat, speechless, and he wonders how they can fix this.
Fury's babble goes ignored, but Clint can't take his eyes off the blood-stained trading cards. Natasha can't, either. Had it only been a few hours ago that they were joking about them?
""Yes, we were going to build an arsenal with the tesseract. I never put all my chips on that number though, because I was playing something even riskier. There was an idea - Stark and Barton know this - called the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, see if they could become something more. See if they could work together when we needed them to, to fight the battles we never could. Phil Coulson died still believing in that idea - in heroes."
Stark gets up and walks out, and Clint doesn't blame him. He doesn't want to listen to Fury's speech, either.
"Well, it was an old-fashioned notion."
Rogers walks out behind Stark, and Natasha turns to Clint.
"Avengers Initiative?"
Clint shrugs. "It was scrapped a while ago. Didn't think it was worth mentioning."
"And that son of Apollo business?"
"Would you have believe me?"
"I guess not."
They're still seated around the conference table when Rogers returns. He's suited up in his star-spangled uniform, and both Clint and Natasha stare at him, bewildered and unprepared.
"Time to go," he informs them.
"Go where?" Natasha questions, baffled.
"I'll explain on the way. Can one of you fly one of those jets?"
"Sure can," Clint confirms.
Rogers nods abruptly. "Good. Suit up."
-!-
Clint's suit consists of a pair of dark grey cargo pants tucked into a pair of steel-capped combat boots, and a SHIELD engineered, light-weight kevlar vest. It offers up a better range of motion than the standard kevlar, and also, it disregards the necessity of a shirt. He fills the various pockets with ammunition clips and a variety of other odds and ends, holsters a pair of guns to his utility belt, and then straps his SHIELD issue bow and quiver to his back. His bottle opener, of course, is deposited in it's usual pocket, and while the others are preoccupied, he prays. He's not the most devoted of sons, but he hopes Apollo hears him. He can do nothing else.
"Are you ready?" Natasha asks. She's stood in the locker room doorway, dressed in her usual man-eater getup, and Clint spares her a smirk.
"50 dollars Rogers chokes when he sees you."
"Sucker's bet," she answers.
They make their way to the hanger bay, where Rogers already awaits them. A jet is appropriated, Clint runs through the usual pre-flight process, and Rogers explains as he does so. Loki needs a power source, and intends to use Stark Tower to obtain it.
It takes a discomfortingly long time to reach Manhattan, and Stark's already in the fray when they get there. Thor and Loki are duking it out on top of Stark Tower, and they each spare a moment to simply stare.
"Aliens," Rogers says.
"Aliens," Clint agrees. "Why's it always New York?"
"Capitol of the world," Natasha answers flippantly, and Clint is inclined to disagree. Before he can tell her this, she addresses Stark on the comms. "Stark, we're heading North East."
"What, did you stop for drive-thru?"
The ensuing moments results in a crash-landing in midtown, and they each disembark into pandemonium. There are buildings on fire, there are explosions and panicking civilians, and Clint's not sure what he should address first.
And then, of course, it gets worse.
It's massive, larger than anything Clint's ever confronted. He'll learn, later, that it's been dubbed a leviathan, but as he watches the Chitauri army rain down on New York City, he's more concerned with how they're going to take that beast out. To shoot it down would send it crashing into the streets, but to leave it up there would cause untold damage to the buildings - never mind the civilians therein.
How many people were already dead?
"Clint doesn't register much of Stark and Rogers' subsequent exchange, but he does notice when Loki - accompanied by a retinue of Chitauri soldiers - starts firing upon civilians headed their way.
"Those people need help down there," Rogers observes. His attention is on the street below the overpass, where a large number of people have been beset upon by an even larger contingent of aliens.
"People need help everywhere," Clint answers, points out the people headed their way, and exhales.
"We split," Rogers determines, "Barton, you deal with them. Romanov, cover him. Both of us, if you can."
Clint doesn't protest, and heads the direction he is bid. With his pistols, he shoots down any alien in range, barks at the civilians to get into the subways - or, alternatively, into a basement - and prays for a miracle.
Natasha speaks through his comm. "This reminds me of Budapest."
"Romanov, you and I remember Budapest very differently."
"Do share," Stark glibly contributes.
"Maybe another day," Clint answers.
Clint, Natasha, and Rogers individually grapple with a ceaseless barrage of foot soldiers. It's exhausting, and they are persistently curtailed by the need to get as many civilians out of the line of fire as possible. Meanwhile, Stark and Thor are up high, attempting to contain the chaos with minimal success.
"Aw guys, hate to state the obvious, but this isn't working!" Clint exclaims, rams an arrow down the throat of an alien he's just tripped up, and questions, "What's Plan B?"
"We haven't got a Plan A, Hawkeye," Stark deadpans.
"What's Plan A, then," Clint amends.
"What's the story upstairs?" Rogers asks. He's taken to using his shield like a boomerang to lethal, decapitating effect, and Clint is impressed despite himself.
The exchange of information is rapid and scattered, and the situation is bleak.
"We gotta deal with these guys," Stark says.
"How?" Natasha asks.
"As a team," Rogers answers.
"I think I just got a cavity," Clint deadpans. Stark laughs.
Banner arrives on a decrepit motorbike - which is fortunate - because while they're all having a pow-wow or whatever, Clint catches sight of an army of monsters headed their way.
Rogers follows his gaze, and he swallows hard. "Any chance you can deal with that on your own?"
He determinedly does not think of the opened gates to the underworld. Instead, he thinks of his children, of his wife, of their hideaway home in rural Iowa, and firms his resolve.
"Yeah," he says, fidgets with his purple wristguard, and adds, "It'd be my genuine pleasure."
He doesn't notice, but an enterprising photographer captures him in that moment: his god-gifted bow raised, and arrow notched, and facing up against an army of mythological monsters.
Behind him, the Hulk and Ironman tag team the leviathan, Thor rockets into the air, and Natasha and Rogers methodically take down any foot soldiers within range. .
The photograph - and accompanying video - will later go viral.
In the moment, however, Clint's preoccupied by the hundreds of hell hounds, cyclops and harpies headed his way. He can see the Minotaur and Echidna. he can see Python and the Chimera, and he wonders how he is expected to take them all on alone.
Overhead, Loki sends in reinforcements, Rogers calls it, and Clint doesn't listen to a word he says.
"Nat?" He notches an arrow on his bow, narrows his sight line, and says, "Remember our deal, yeah?"
"Of course," Natasha answers, "What are you waiting for?"
Clint breathes in slowly, and releases his shot on the exhale. "Nothing."
He hits the Chimera first - right in the eye - and it dissolves into golden mist. He does the same with the Minotaur and Echidna - the heavy hitters, so to speak - and then the monsters left charge him.
Clint folds away his bow, releases his bottle-opener's foil cutter, and grasps the handle of his celestial bronze broad sword in two hands. It's a familiar, comforting weight, and Clint spares a thought to be grateful that Laura has insisted he continue to train with it, regardless of his preference for the bow.
The distraction doesn't last.
"Where the fuck did that come from?" Stark wonders through the comms. Clint's heart pounds, adrenaline courses through his veins, and his attention narrows to the monsters before him.
"T'is magic, Man of Iron," Thor answers sagely, strikes a series of lightning bolts through another leviathan, and then watches as the electrocuted foot soldiers collapse to the ground, dead.
The leviathan explodes.
- Then Clint charges towards the monsters before him.
He has no expectation of making it out on the other side.
-!-
When Loki is taken into custody, when the adrenaline fades and the fatigue sets in, there is shawarma, there is Powerade and ambrosia, there is the siren's call of sleep at the fringes of his awareness.
Clint isn't sure he's ever been so tired in his life. Not after the (first) Battle of Manhattan, not after Budapest, not after the 36 hours he'd stayed up while Laura was in labour with Cooper.
"Mother fucking aliens, man," Clint shakes his head, incredulous despite himself. His whole body aches, his skin is riddled by superficial, minor wounds that - even as he speaks - knit themselves back together, and he is fairly certain he could sleep for a year.
"I'm sorry, but I just can't get passed the mythological monsters," Stark opines. He picks absently at his flat bread, but his laser-focus is on Clint. "Are you telling us that everything out of 'The Odyssey' is real?"
"Pretty much," Clint answers, shrugs nonchalantly, and helps himself to Natasha's leftovers. He's always been able to pack away more food than most, and as things stand, he's able to keep up with Thor, Rogers, and Banner. "As far as I know, anyway. Never paid much attention to the history, to be honest."
There is a lull in conversation as most of them consider this fact, but Thor burps obnoxiously, Banner helps himself to another serving of food, and the topic is dropped for other - more important - things.
Clint is glad. As much as his divine father is an attention whore, Clint himself doesn't appreciate the scrutiny. Perhaps it's a byproduct of his job - he certainly hadn't minded it in Carson's - but these days, the attention makes him uncomfortable.
"So," Banner ponders, "What happens now?"
"We pick up the pieces," Rogers answers, "Rebuild. Bury our dead. Go home. Move on."
"Yeah," Clint acknowledges, and rubs at his tired eyes, "That sounds like a plan. The best you've made yet, Captain."
He thinks, wistfully, of his lovely wife, of his treasured children, of their home in Iowa, and he can't wait for 'now' to start.
It can't arrive soon enough.
Author's Note: I hope you like it as much as I do. -t.