Author's Notes:
This was written for the MediAvengers Mini-Bang. It was a glorious idea and has glorious stories submitted and wonderful art drawn for it. The art for this story is found here: archiveofourown collections/MediAvengersMiniBang2013/works/1094008 and Kim is amazing for drawing it.
On AO3 this is just one large one-shot, but I figured it'd be a little easier to manage on here with chapters. So, three very short chapters. Sorry, sorry.
Anyway, hope you enjoy!
The magazine hit the desk with a much louder noise than he would've thought completely necessary. Clint eyed it a little skeptically, but most of his attention was on the pacing figure of his boss a few feet away. Fury didn't usually get agitated easily. Usually he kept up the face of cool disappointment or something, but apparently this was problematic enough to bring out his slightly less stoic side. In any other circumstances it might've been interesting to see the middle ground between the director's normal extremes. Not completely calm, but not shouting - Yet, Clint had to remind himself. It would've been interesting normally, but as it was, he was having trouble doing anything but just observing things as if from a stranger's perspective.
"They have your picture." The words were still quiet. Hopefully that meant they'd stay that way, at least for a while. "Hell, they have your name."
They both knew the archer had seen the article already. He had expected Manhattan to still be front page news, even after the time he'd been gone, but the bright full-color US Weekly had stuck out to him immediately. The words "Superhero Squad" had been bad enough, but then it had sunk in that the pictures on the cover happened to include him. Two of him, actually, both in the middle of the battle and later in Central Park. As if things hadn't been damn complicated enough…
"We tried to redact it." Fury was still talking, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the agent hadn't actually looked at him once since he had come in. "Basic damage control wasn't really an option with something of this scale, but we were hoping…" The man trailed off, stopping on the other side of the conference table and closing his eye for a moment as he let out a breath. Clint looked up then with a slightly cynical smirk.
"Carnies have good memories," he stated plainly. "I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. Can't have helped that I kept the same name." He couldn't tell if the glare he got was actually aimed at him or just the situation in general, but his expression remained blank as the older man began pacing again.
"Few rumors would've been fine. We can squash rumors. Then this damn Rising Tide notices the stories getting pulled and makes them go viral, and then more people come forward, and hell if there's anything we can do now but pull the 'no comment' card every five minutes." The edge to the words suggested that it was taking a good deal of effort to keep them at normal volume and Clint took advantage of another pause to interrupt again.
"Sir, if you're not blaming me for something or giving me a job, why am I here?" Probably could've been slightly less direct about it, but Clint had found he didn't really have the patience to beat around the bush lately. The glare leveled on him again for a few moments before Fury sighed.
"You and Romanoff are off active duty, at least –" he raised one hand to quell the instant protest - "until we can assess the damage. Best case scenario, we only have to pull you from undercover work."
"And what's the worst case?" Clint growled, resisting the urge to try staring his boss down. Probably wouldn't help matters any at this point. His position at SHIELD had been one of the least of his worries, what with everything else going on, but it had definitely crossed his mind. He just hadn't expected problems to arise from a magazine article, of all things. Could just be a misdirection. Could be. Too complicated to look too closely at now.
"We'll deal with that if it comes up." Typical Fury answer - not actually leaning far enough either way to get any clues, made no commitments, nothing he couldn't easily retract if necessary...
It was silent for a few moments before the younger man nodded briskly, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the magazine off the table. "Am I free to go, then?"
Their eyes met and he wished, not for the first time, that that one eye would give anything at all away. After a pause the director nodded and Clint spun around immediately and strode to the door, trying to ignore the feeling of that damn eye on his back. He had grabbed the handle when Fury spoke up again.
"Barton." No acknowledgement except the pause in his steps, and apparently Fury didn't need any more than that. "I am sorry. About Phil."
Damn you, Fury... Clint managed a curt nod and managed not to look too hurried as he strode into the hall, mind working furiously to push that train of thought away. He'd seen the report, heard people bring it up quietly on breaks - though never when they thought he was close enough to listen - and the logical part of his mind knew it was true. The rest of his mind, however, was determined to simply not deal with it, especially not surrounded by people who still weren't afraid to blame him for the agents' deaths during the attack. Later. Deal with it later. Never mind the fact that he'd been telling himself that for the past three weeks.
At least the hallway was quiet, though he knew that wouldn't last very long. The helicarrier was in repairs, apparently. It had held out long enough to remain a functional command center in the middle of the attack, but the damage had been enough to make it risky to fly again until things were fixed up. Everyone who had been stationed on it - save a small skeleton crew, just in case another world crisis decided to crop up - had been transferred to the Virginia base. Clint definitely preferred it; he liked heights just fine, but being practically trapped in a flying cargo ship wasn't his ideal lifestyle. After seeing just how easily it could be compromised, many of the agents had requested the transfer become permanent, and he couldn't say he blamed them much.
The magazine was already creased, and his grip on it wasn't making it any better. Part of him wanted to open it again, read that damn page that he had already memorized just to verify, once again, that it actually existed.
...social media sites were awash with the revelation that the man bystanders heard referred to as 'Hawkeye' is, in fact, a former Iowan circus performer named Clint Barton.
Dammit... Clint paused outside the door the connected the administration hall with one more heavily travelled and forced a steady breath, hands clenching for a moment at his sides. He was better than he had been a few weeks ago, technically, but that wasn't really saying much. Don't want to be alone, don't want to be around people...the hell do you want, Barton?
Pointedly ignoring his own question he swiped his ID quickly and pushed through the door. Everywhere was busy lately, but two days back wasn't enough time to get used to the stares. Some accusing, some sympathetic, some just curious...and always too many of them. Years of training refused to let him do anything but stand straight, eyes locked in front him. He didn't know this base well enough to manage shortcuts and simply ended up walking as quickly as he could manage without looking panicked, very slightly satisfied that his presence seemed to part crowds now.
While Hawkeye appears to be human...
Stop it. Abruptly his path changed, from the temporary room Hill had assigned him to the stairwell he knew had roof access. Hell knew he wasn't about to sleep, anyway.
There also appears to be an obvious rapport between Barton and the Black Widow...
Dammit, Barton, stop it. It took a little effort but he managed to shove thoughts of the magazine to the back of his mind as he reached the door to the stairs. Brooding over it wasn't going to make the information disappear. People knew about him now. A hell of a lot of people knew, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to fix it. At least the roof door still accepted his ID. Fury probably realized he'd end up there somehow anyway - which was entirely accurate - and decided not to risk the property damage alternate methods might involve. It was cool in the open air and Clint let himself draw a proper breath for the first time in hours as he settled on the ledge, arms folded across his knees. Not like he was needed anywhere at the moment. New York was still being cleaned up - probably would be for months, at the least - and this base seemed to be running as smoothly as any SHIELD base ever did.
The public had his name. They had his picture on magazine racks across the country, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if they had gone global already. As if getting hijacked by a self-proclaimed god wasn't bad enough, now they had to worry about the press.
Clint wasn't sure exactly how long he was up there alone before the soft click of the door's lock brought him out of his own thoughts. The footsteps sounded heavy but sure, and whoever it was seemed pretty damn tall…
"Agent Hill said you'd be up here." Right. Rogers. Clint forced his muscles to relax a little but didn't make any further acknowledgements of the other man's presence. That didn't seem to deter him any, though. "Everything alright?"
Hell, he hated it when people sounded so concerned. Rogers managed to be a little better about it than most, but there was an underlying tone that was hard to miss. Hard, at least, for someone who was trained to hear it. Clint let out a slightly impatient breath before he turned enough to send the captain a half-hearted glare.
"Not really, no." Even that didn't shift the slightly-concerned expression.
"Fair enough. Anything I can help with?"
Be nice, Barton. Not like he's attacking you or anything. He hesitated a few moments before looking back over the base with a small shrug.
"No."
Rogers might've nodded - it was hard to tell without seeing his face - and the roof fell silent again. Clint had just started to wonder what the other man was actually doing when he spoke again, and his voice had a little more of a professional tone behind it.
"Stark offered us all a place to stay until things settle down. Some of the floors are still in repair, but the security system's back up. I'm headed back to New York tonight if you want a ride."
The archer had to pause a few moments before he turned again, propping one leg back up on the ledge as he examined Rogers carefully. There was a slight disadvantage, given the height difference, but he'd dealt with worse, and it wasn't like they were actively trying to intimidate each other. He wasn't sure what exactly the official verdict was on the whole Avengers thing, but he would bet a good deal of money that the Council wasn't exactly thrilled about it. Even if they were, it was even more likely that they wouldn't be too happy to have him in the ranks after what happened.
"What, little sleepover for the merry band of misfits?" The soldier shook his head.
"No. Just a room that's unlikely to have alarms going off every hour next door. It's strategic placing, too, in case there are any serious problems with the leftover alien tech." He paused a moment and then managed what looked like the beginnings of a smile. "Plus Agent Romanoff said she wasn't going unless you were."
That was believable, at least. To anyone else it probably just sounded like she didn't want to be stuck in a building with a bunch of strangers - which, granted, was most likely true too - but Clint knew she was still keeping an eye on him and going a few states to the north wasn't conducive to that. It was impressive that she was letting him roam the building alone now.
It might be bearable if Natasha was there. That damn tower was huge and he was good at avoiding people when necessary, so there was no reason to actually have any encounters with Stark...and hell if it wouldn't be nice to get away from all the varied looks he got from the agents downstairs. You're still exhausted, Barton. You're not thinking straight. If things went south he'd leave. Maybe it'd be possible to actually get some sleep when there wasn't the underlying and slightly irrational paranoia that SHIELD would send a strike team after him in the middle of the night.
"You said you're leaving tonight?" Rogers nodded and Clint let himself hesitate a moment longer before letting out a breath and pushing himself to his feet. "Why the hell not? Not like they're letting me do anything here." He started for the door, barely noting that the other man was following. "We flying or using one of SHIELD's submarines?" It was satisfying that Rogers looked very briefly curious, as if wondering whether that was actually an option - and in his defense, Clint was pretty certain they did have at least one sub - but his reply was simple enough.
"Agent Hill has a jet ready. They'll use it to ship some things back here tomorrow, so we'll be fending for ourselves when we get there, but I sort of figured..."
"Stark's got that covered, yeah." They were silent on the stairs and Clint was grateful that, if anything, Rogers at least knew how to be tactful. He half-turned toward his room when they came into the hall and then paused as a thought struck him. "Natasha has my bow, doesn't she?"
The other man blinked and then snorted lightly. "It's slightly creepy the way you two do that, you know?"
"Yeah, well..." Clint shrugged half-heartedly, sticking his hands in his pockets as they turned toward the hanger. "Worked together a long time. You get used to each other." There was a brief flash of something in Rogers' eyes - too fast to identify, but just enough to notice - and then he had what might have been called a smile if it hadn't been slightly bitter.
"Yeah. Guess I know how that is." He didn't elaborate and Clint decided very quickly to not press the matter. Things were easier when you didn't pry. Rogers was an open book most of the time, so anything he decided to keep close had to be worth keeping.
They spent the rest of the time in silence. Clint signed off on the jet, didn't meet Hill's eyes when he passed her, vaguely noted how Rogers' gaze lingered a little longer on her before he did coax out a slight smirk, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Good luck with that one, buddy...
Natasha came a few minutes later, halfway through the pre-flight check that Clint was letting himself take his time on. He could see his quiver slung over one shoulder and could safely assume that the actual bow was folded in its case in the duffel bag she held. Their eyes met from where she was tossing the bag into the jet and she lifted an eyebrow - a silent question he had seen all too often recently. After a moment the archer nodded briefly. That seemed to be enough, because she turned away again, pulling herself into the jet with an ease that he always felt should surprise him and simply didn't.
The takeoff was simple and quiet. It took a few minutes for Clint to actually speak up, and it was only because a slightly concerning thought occurred.
"Hell, Stark isn't going to try for any kind of group dinners or something, is he?"
