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Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

By: Syntyche

Two: The Heart of Clint Barton

Seven days before the end of the test

Sensation returns slowly to Clint Barton, a gradual and prickly return to the land of the living that feels suspiciously like he's walking toward the fabled light that you should never, ever walk into if you want to see God's green earth again.

Clint's seen that light a lot.

He realizes, first and foremost, that he's lying on his back. Hooray that he doesn't seem to be draped over his quiver this time, because that, Clint can readily attest to, hurts like a son of a bitch.

His fingers twitch, scrabbling against small, grainy concrete pebbles as his hearing slowly settles in; the archer realizes that he can't hear a damned thing except the ringing in his ears and the crackle of intermittent static from his hearing aids. Clint wonders if he'd used a sonic arrow. Wonders whose life he'd changed this time if he had.

A multitude of tiny spiders crawling across his toes makes him simultaneously scowl in disgust and grit his teeth as the feeling spreads to his ankles and shins, his sprawled legs slowly coming back to life. Clint can't see anything except glaring white light, drilling into his upraised face even through his cracked sunglasses. There are varying degrees of illumination assaulting him from all angles - he's inside, he thinks; cold pavement is pressing against his back, yet he can feel outside light joining the cacophony attacking his eyeballs. What matters most right now is that it's all painful and Clint winces and closes his eyes again.

His body continues to awaken, sending him various alarms and alerts that whatever the hell he did, he sure hopes the other guys look worse. When his breath finally shudders haltingly in his chest and lifts his ribcage in a grating inhale, the archer becomes aware of discomfort all across his back and ass and legs and realizes that he can't really move anything, because everything feels like Banner fell on it. Banner as Hulk, anyway, 'cause honestly Clint probably wouldn't even have to step back if Bruce got tossed into him: the physicist isn't staggeringly heavy or sturdy unless he's much taller and much more green.

Well, shit.

Since he can't really do anything at the moment but formulate amusing mental images of Bruce bouncing off him and pinwheeling away, Clint decides a little fuzzily to drift off again. It isn't really a conscious choice, but his mind reasonably asks him where the hell else does he think he's gonna go, and he doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger, so he can wait oh-so-patiently for his team to come retrieve him. It's not like they don't pull his ass out of trouble often enough as it is - hell, Bruce has actually stepped up his basic medical training and triage just for little ol' Hawkeye's sake. Well, Tasha and Tony's too, but Clint's apparently the one with the very crackable bones and penchant for tumbling off of tall buildings and through large glass windows.

He doesn't plan it that way, of course. That's just how it happens. A lot.

Clint waits quietly, drifting in and out as his limbs continue to follow him back to life. The back of his right hand is starting to itch like crazy and he tries to lift his left hand to scratch at it with little success; he manages a sort of embarrassing flopping-fish motion that he's really glad no one's around to see. The archer chews anxiously on the inside of his cheek, the only outward sign he'll allow of his discomfort, as if anyone couldn't already tell he's feeling shitty just from glancing at the Hawkeye-sized crater he's lying in.

Shit, maybe someone did throw the Hulk at him...

When Clint opens his eyes again, he's still lying in the concrete crater. No one has come for him. No one's missed him. There's just no one around. Something somewhere far below him rumbles, and Clint thinks it might be the foundation of the building he's occupying.

Okay, he thinks, this looks bad …

A sick feeling digs into him like jagged shrapnel. Maybe the reason his team hasn't come for him yet is that they're waiting for him to come to them. It's eerily quiet, like all of the action has already happened and then everyone decided to call it a day and just packed up and went home.

Sucks that they left him behind, though. That's the problem with being the expendable one.

Clint takes a deep breath and tries to pull himself up. It doesn't go so hot.

When the world finally stops spinning and his stomach resettles back where it belongs - its contents thankfully still where they belong - a hazy thought surfaces in Clint's blurry mind:

Give me a lever and a fulcrum, and I shall move the world.

Of course the mostly uneducated carnie can't take credit for the abbreviated Archimedes' - that's all Coulson, something Phil used to mutter kinda snippily when Fury asked him to do the impossible. And of course Phil did it. Clint was his fulcrum, Nat eventually became the lever, and Phil moved the world, and they were ridiculously invincible.

Until Clint broke up the triumvirate to become Loki's fulcrum.

Clint shakes his head irritably, the movement dislodging tiny bits of gravel from his hair. He's moved on as best he can from the wholly overwhelming ordeal of having his mind and body used relentlessly by someone else, he's just waiting for the Council to do the same so Fury can put him back to work full-time. He's not even sure what he's doing out in his uniform; he's been grounded of late so if he's not wearing jeans and t-shirts he's probably working out in his gym shorts. He's also brushed up on his Russian (the language, not his redhead), driven the other Avengers so crazy practicing drums that Tony gave him an entire soundproofed floor to practice on, and volunteered for more city rebuild projects than he can count.

Bruce keeps trying to get him to take some time to himself, away from New York, claiming that it works wonders on a chaotic mind. Clint appreciates the advice - Bruce would know, after all - but he tells himself there's really no sense dwelling on his sins. It's a familiar litany that sounds suspiciously like Tasha - because she would know - and he figures that if she can say it and live it, he can sure as hell give it a try, too. It helps to climb into bed next to her at night and have her remind him that it's true and that really they're all a little fucked up anyway.

He's stalled long enough. Groggily Clint pulls his broken sunglasses from his face, grimacing at the light stabbing into his eyes, and flops around for his comm switch. His fingers graze his ear sloppily a few times before he gets it right and a crackle of static floods his hearing.

"Hawkeye to Black Widow," he growls, and speaking aloud he immediately notices that his voice sounds smaller, farther away which means his hearing aids are broken and that's just fucking wonderful.

Speaking seems to dislodge all of the dust clogged in his throat: Clint coughs and hacks and chokes and struggles to haul himself into a sitting position, water streaming from his eyes as he fights to ease the taut bands of tension tearing at his chest, bracing his hands against the cracked pavement behind him and leaning back. "Ow, shit, damn, fucking hell!" he mutters tightly. "Hawkeye to Iron Man … ? Hell, Hawkeye to anyone?"

More noisy static that makes him want to yank the comm out, then Clint hears weak gasping on the line that he barely places as Stark.

"Stark?" the archer demands with a frown. "Do you copy? What's your status?" he presses anxiously. There's no reply and Clint slams a loosely-clenched fist on the concrete in frustration. "Give me your location, damn it!"

Stark's out there somewhere and he doesn't sound good - and he's the only one responding to Clint's hails so far, which is worrying. Stark sounds terrible, and so, Clint snarks irritably, do the next several minutes of groaning and swearing and snarling the archer chokes out trying to gain his feet. He manages to sort of stand eventually and hunches over very still for a moment, hands braced on tattered black leather stretching taunt over his thighs as he waits for his breathing to even out. After a few deep inhales the dizziness roaring in his head fades to a whine and Clint straightens slowly, his body reminding him joyfully in a myriad of ways the torment he'd apparently put it through before he'd decided to take a nap in the middle of this concrete wasteland.

But Clint's also surprised he's not hurt worse. He's pretty banged up, but the archer decides he'll survive. "Stark?" he calls again, scratching at his hand absently, and his voice sounds like he's been snacking on gravel. His throat feels like it too; he needs to find some water. "Jarvis?" he grinds out hopefully. To his surprise, the AI sounds back.

"Three floors below you, Agent Barton. Section C, subsection 2. I would advise you to hurry, sir … " The rest is drowned in static.

Three floors? What the hell?

It abnormally slowly occurs to Clint now that he's upright that he's in an outdoor parking garage, a fact he tells himself irately he really should have noticed a lot sooner considering all of the empty parked cars and harsh artificial lighting that's not helping his headache at all. Waning sunlight streams through the open spaces between floors and Clint's sense of urgency increases.

"Okay," the archer mutters, deciding that three floors is manageable. His bow is nearby, thankfully intact, and he thanks God again he hadn't landed on his quiver - he's done that a few times and doesn't like to even think about the way that feels. Clint snatches his weaponry up and stumbles toward the nearest stairwell, surmising that the elevators aren't the best choice considering the trembling he can still feel rumbling beneath his boots.

If the archer were a little more in his right mind he'd have immediately noticed a lack of detail in his surroundings: no people, no background noise (a detail that if he did notice, he might write off as trouble with his hearing aids), nothing. This is a test program still in its beta stages, and the drugs Clint doesn't know his body's being given through the IV in his right hand are deliberately keeping his mind from displaying its normal sharpness. SHIELD and the Council are, after all, less concerned with how tactically intelligent Hawkeye is - which they already know, since he managed to swiftly plan and carry out the theft of priceless materials around the world and also almost bring down an entire flying fortress carrying SHIELD agents and superheroes - but rather the choices Agent Barton will make when compromised again.

Hence the headaches and impaired hearing, designed to throw Barton off his game just enough to keep him from making the calculated decisions he's known for so the archer will make choices rapidly and instinctively. That's what the Council is looking for: they want the heart of Clint Barton, not the mind.

So while Clint is hastily slogging his way down three levels of stairs to save Iron Man's life - a fact that Tony Stark, safely ensconced in Stark Tower a thousand miles away, is blissfully unaware of - Nick Fury is scowling and clenching his fists as he watches monitors displaying one of his organization's best assets being put through a test simulation the Director had neither willingly agreed to nor would have allowed.

But the Council was firm: it's Barton in the sim, or the Avengers on the block.

And Fury knows they'll need the Avengers again.

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Clint finally sees a flash of red and gold glinting in a dark corner between a beat-up looking sedan and the concrete divider. Jagged cracks run through the grey rock of the divider and Clint wonders if Stark bounced off of it and that's where the damage is from. Bow out, arrow nocked, the archer approaches the area cautiously, using parked cars for cover as he makes his way to his downed teammate.

He doesn't encounter anyone as he reaches Stark's side and kneels beside the inventor. Clint moves a little too quickly changing altitude and the world slews sideways but he ignores the wash of cold dizziness that leaves him chilled and gently reaches around to pry Tony's helmet off.

"Jarvis, report," Clint orders but gets nothing back. Stark's skin is waxy and pulled grey over his strong cheekbones, but he looks relatively intact: no major dings or dents in his suit that would signify more worrisome injuries beneath the protective metal surface. Jarvis' earlier concerned words, however, are still rattling around Clint's aching brain, though the archer isn't sure if the AI was more worried about Stark or the garage's wobbling foundation.

Clint decides to be concerned about both.

"Stark, wake up." The archer slaps Stark's cheeks lightly; there's no response and Clint sighs. Awesome. A few more unsuccessful tries before Clint mutters, "Screw it," and carefully slings Stark's armored gauntlet over his shoulders. Clint has the passing idea to activate the repulsors of Stark's suit and pull Tony along like a balloon in the Macy's Day parade, but even though the idea rouses a tired chortle from the archer's lips he ultimately decides against it: he doesn't know enough about the suit to possibly keep from shooting Stark headfirst into the nearest SUV, and he's pretty sure the inventor wouldn't be inclined to thank him for that. He's not thrilled with the idea of moving Stark at all, but he's not getting anything from anyone else on the team, and with the way the place is rumbling and heaving painfully Clint doesn't think it's a good idea to leave Stark here either.

Clint stands slowly, wobbling a little as he heaves and struggles with his grip on his unconscious teammate. The Iron Man suit looks sleek and lightweight but in truth it's bulky as hell and really, really damn heavy.

About halfway to the stairs, Stark's metal boots scraping along due to Clint's shorter height, the inventor starts to stir. His head tips sideways, his nose burying itself in Clint's short hair.

"Clint?" he asks groggily.

It occurs to Clint that his first name sounds strange coming from Stark's mouth. Barton, rarely, Feathers, mostly, Katniss or Legolas or Cupid if Tony's drunk or punchy, but Clint? It's Hallmark-moment kind of odd, or maybe it just seems that way to the rattled and anxious archer.

"Stark?" Clint prods; he doesn't stop walking, keeps making for the exit because he can feel the increased tremors beneath his feet. They're not gonna make it. Shit, shit, shit. "How do you feel? Can you move on your own?"

"I'm pretty sure I've been better," Stark responds dryly. "In fact, there was this one time - don't remember her name but I do remember her - "

"Right," Clint interrupts, not at all interested in where this story's going right now, "but can you walk? We gotta move, pal."

"Maybe," Stark says thoughtfully. As he's about to try, the floor gives one more cracking lurch and a jagged path starts to open up along the center of the floor, branching outward. The archer and the inventor share a look and bolt for the stairwell; they barely make it in before the ceiling starts to rain down upon them. Clint instinctively throws himself over his wounded teammate, but iron-clad arms circle him in a bruising grip and he finds himself flipped under the protective casing of Iron Man's armor.

"Duh, I'm the one with the metal suit, Featherhead," Stark mutters, and that's the last thing he says before the ceiling crumbles completely.

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