Well I got it out on Monday. Just the wrong Monday. That still counts...right? *flings out chapter and flees* Also my cat decided to help me edit so blame that loveable asshole for mistakes but please point them out. .

Banner was the first to verbally acknowledge Rogers' announcement, with a mildly amused,

"How did you win the trip?"

Rogers was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Well, Sam and I have been doing some training together and stopped by a McDonald's before heading here a few days ago - " Clint had to admit Cap's amazement with fast food franchises was actually hilarious " - I filled out a sweepstakes and managed to win! I've never been to Las Vegas. What's it like?"

Hot and sweaty and loud, Clint thought to himself. Nothing good ever happened in Vegas, and in a lot of ways it reminded him of the circus. Idiots duped into giving their money by the wonder of the attractions.

"I've never been there myself," from Banner.

"If you like, I can bring up pictures and a list of the must-see attractions," Jarvis chimed in.

The You are now leaving Las Vegas sign popped into his head.

"Thank you, Jarvis, I'd really appreciate that."

The lights dimmed and several translucent 3D images flashed through the room, Jarvis explaining each and Clint trying to forget the last time he had been in Vegas, it had been Natasha, him, and Phil enjoying a treat after a bloody but inevitably successful mission.

It didn't help that he remembered a beat later that Jasper - the lying bastard - had been there as well.

At least Las Vegas didn't look a whole lot like Toronto, so small mercies at its finest.

Steve was ooing and ahing in that bashful way he did - the way he tried to act uninterested but couldn't help himself. Nat looked amused, though when she caught his eye, he knew they were sharing similar memories. Banner was surprisingly also a tad starstruck, though he definitely was far more subtle about it than Cap.

"Who said you guys could do anything without me?" A voice commented a moment later, sounding very much insulted at having been left out, and Clint hunched in a little further because now that Tony was here there was no hope for escaping this vacation nightmare.

He wasn't nearly as depressed as they tried to make him believe. (And, shut up, he was not in denial either.)

No one replied to Stark's drama, so, in a much more indignant manner, he asked, "What the hell is going on?"

"I won a trip for four to Las Vegas!" Cap answered excitedly.

Stark scratched his stupid fucking goatee and then pointed at each one of them, keeping tally with his other hand. "And Thor makes six. You only have four. And of course Pepper will have to come, Jane too."

"And Sam," Rogers added. "He could have won it just as easily as I did."

"And Birdbrain 2.0, of course. Hmm, I wonder if we know anyone who might have enough money to pay for the extra tickets?"

Clint just glared at him, holding in his desire to point out he wouldn't need to go. And then a saving grace popped into his head and he blurted out,

"My dog."

Wow, real fucking clear there, Barton.

All five heads turned to stare at him in confusion or annoyance (or both), and he found himself feeling his cheeks heat up. Clint Barton: human disaster.

"Your...dog has enough money to pay for the trip?" Cap questioned slowly, looking and sounding like he was talking to someone mentally not-there. (Which, okay, valid point.)

"No, I mean. Someone has to take care of my dog. So," he drew the syllable out and sighed theatrically. "I guess I'll have to stay here then. Miss out on all the ... Fun." At least he managed to not actually choke on that word.

Nat swatted him across the back of the head, and the confused expressions went a little closer to shocked.

"You are so stupid. That's not going to work, asshat."

He shrugged, gently massaging that back of his head. "Well it was worth a shot."

"You should be shot." She grumbled back.

"Wait...Did you actually have a conversation in English? You do know the language?"

Tony got a waved finger for his trouble.

From Nat, for the record, but only because she beat him to it.

"You need to stop being such a recluse all the time. Socialization isn't a form of torture, you know," She pointed out with a sharp glare.

"I'd rather endure torture, and we both know I've been in some pretty shitty situations," he grumbled back half-joking. He'd definitely rather be physically tortured than mentally tortured by alien-gods. God, shut up, Barton.

They had a silent conversation, consisting of blinks and lip twitches and ending with a sigh on his part that was equal parts frustration and acceptance.

"Yeah, okay, fine."

"You mean you're actually willingly coming?" Stark put a hand over his heart before leaning forward and squinting at Clint like he could find something wrong if he looked close enough. (Which was funny, because it didn't take a deep study to find something wrong with him.) "And here I thought we'd have to set up a fake Avengers thing to get you to go or some something."

Clint rolled his eyes, glancing at Nat for help because he wasn't entirely sure where else to look. She just shrugged in response, but the gentle hand she placed on his shoulder grounded him in a way nothing else could.

"So, goodie. We're all going. Vegas will never know what hit them," Stark grinned, a manic gleam in his eye.

Clint breathed in deeply through his nose and had to remind himself to let it out.

. . .

Getting ready was a bit of a whirl-wind. Well, okay, not for Clint. He really didn't have much of anything except for his dog - who really wasn't his and who wouldn't be going anyway. Other than that, it was some clothes, the movie poster for 'Blade Runners' Phil (Phil) had gotten him on his first birthday at SHIELD - given to him three weeks late because Clint hadn't said a word about turning 22 (had felt stupidly upset no one remembered) and his file had some holes until Phil tracked it all down. (He had been pissed, though it was years before Clint realized it wasn't anger towards him, but towards his fucked up father and fucked up backwoods town who had never gotten him properly in the system for his birth date to be known without quite the amount of digging.)

He decided he really didn't need to think about any of that; didn't need to contemplate how the only knick-knacks he had aside from the pocket knife Barney had given him at the circus - had stolen from Buck, and sometimes Clint wondered how many angry beatings had been about the knife he didn't know Buck assumed he'd stolen - were from either Nat or Phil.

Anyway, he really needed to get his head out of his ass. Really needed to ignore the whispered words from Loki about being a blunt little instrument.

That was how Nat find him.

Staring blankly at a dufflebag empty except for his bow and a few tattered boxers.

Blinking away an ache that was clawing from the depths of his stomach, desperate to escape somehow - be it tears leaking out of his eyes or his heart jumping up through his throat.

"Need help packing, little brother?" The nickname was in Russian - would sound weird in English - but it was the softness that sounded foreign to him. The softness that sounded so different from the screaming in his head.

He didn't say anything back, just gazed helplessly into his empty dufflebag and tried not to think that the only two things in it were symbolic of the only two things he was any good at.

"You'll need more clothes than that," she murmured, peeking over his shoulder, carefully not touching him because they both could tell he was too fragile for that.

Fuck, how did he get like this? It wasn't right. This wasn't him.

He was supposed to be stronger.

He didn't realize he'd mumbled as such until Nat gently - so fucking gently - pushed her way in between himself and the bed so she could force eye contact.

"You are strong. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Especially yourself."

He just nodded, focusing on her eyelashes and avoiding the green below them.

"You are strong," she repeated, emphasizing each word with the force of a bullet. "Everything you know has been ripped out from under you."

"It's happened before," he admitted, his voice not cracking mid-sentence, his fingers definitely not trembling at his side.

Her face looked about as broken as he felt, and another wave of guilt crashed over him because he made her look like that.

"I know."

"I should be used to it by now."

She started shaking her head, but he continued before she could interrupt. "It happens every time I start to get comfortable. I should expect it. It shouldn't - It shouldn't feel like this."

He wanted it to come out as a yell. He wanted to shove passed her and swipe things across his bed, across his nightstand - whatever it took to cause chaos. He wanted to be loud and angry and instill the fear in her heart that he might actually hurt her (he would never; except for he did).

Instead he whispered it and probably would have collapsed had she not guided him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry it hurts. But I'm glad it does," she told him, her voice lowering to match his. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"You've always put your heart into everything, Clint." You have heart. "You try so hard to close yourself off and you try so hard not to care, and to most people you succeed. But you don't; not really. You care too much, Clint. In a way I wish I could, but never have. I wouldn't change that about you. I would do anything to stop it from hurting except for changing that."

He swallowed. He wasn't like that. He didn't 'care too much', because he was just some ex-carnie idiot with a third-grade education who broke everything he touched.

He didn't tell her that. He just nodded and got up, cleared his throat and asked what else he needed to take with him.

Nat looked dubious, didn't buy it for a single goddamn second.

But she played his game and they both pretended he was just fine.

. . .

Everyone else was a flurry of packing, making phone calls - because the sweepstakes were trying to argue that Rogers hadn't actually won an all-expense-paid trip to Vegas. If he read the fine print, he'd actually won plane tickets and a free reservation at some fancy-ass hotel. The room wasn't paid for, but he wouldn't have to worry about there being no vacancies.

Stark gave them an earful and apparently bought-out the whole company (rich people are so weird), and soon they were all boarding his private jet on their way to Las Vegas.

Banner maybe had less luggage than Clint, which made him feel far less self-conscious when Stark teased him for having such a small dufflebag.

Thor, surprisingly (or maybe not), had the most amount of things. Dr. Foster and Miss Lewis were tagging along, and between the god's lack of knowledge on what normal people brought and Lewis' impeccable trolling skills, he had a whopping eight suitcases all to himself. Foster's giggling informed him she wasn't nearly as innocent in all of it as she claimed to be when questioned politely by Rogers.

Loading up the jet definitely took way the hell longer than it should have. Everyone was laughing and yelling and trying to get their shit together (literally) and it was a tad overwhelming for a depressed recluse like Clint - not that he considered himself either, for the record.

It was quite the relief when Nat grabbed his elbow and guided him to the back of the jet - he steadfastly refused to acknowledge the last time he'd been in one and could only return a tight smile when Stark offered for him to pilot.

He didn't sit down. He melted into the seat, letting the his skin become part of the smooth leather and going all but boneless.

Maybe it would swallow him up and he wouldn't have to do this shit anymore.

. . .

The flight probably felt longer than it was. Nat told him several times to try to catch some shut-eye, but it wasn't about to happen. He had trouble sleeping lately as it was, and he'd never been able to sleep around people he didn't explicitly trust barring unforeseen circumstances. He'd tried sleeping though, or at least resting, but everyone else was so goddamn loud.

Stark and Lewis were basically the same person, except Stark was more arrogant and Lewis was just plain weirder - but they were both mischievous assholes who turned everything into a joke. (And if he only knew how heavy Nat's heart was, because he should fit into that category too.) Point being, those two were boisterous enough as it was, but they managed to rile everyone else up too - even fucking Banner who he thought he could count on to be quiet.

It was a long flight, and, as much as he'd seeped into the seat, every muscle was coiled tight and ready to pounce the moment shit hit the fan like he knew it had to.

(It turns out that shit didn't hit the fan until later, so he really should have relaxed while he had the chance.)

They finally landed - at fucking last - and, after much vocal debate, disembarked and were chilling in some bustling lot filled with yuppie-ass rich people who also had their own private airlines.

It was a lot more common than he'd realized.

Soon a limo was pulling up to them and the got into it; Clint couldn't distinctly remember the last time he'd been in one, but that was only because the mark had drugged him right before they got in.

Traffic was heavy, even for a Tuesday when nothing should have been going on. The windows were tinted, but the bright flashing lights still pierced his eyes as though they were really just thousands of tiny suns captured and plastered gratuitously onto the buildings.

He didn't say a great deal; however, whereas Nat had given him some amount of peace on the jet, she kept dragging him into conversation and expecting him to contribute, like, words.

Ugh.

How long had she hated him?

Considering, it wasn't nearly as painful as it could have been; he didn't stay in the spotlight all that long because half the people in the car - limo, whatever - relished in the attention and brought it back to them.

Clint let himself be absorbed by their words, focused on them to drown out the ones crooning about his loyalty in his head.

. . .

The limo finally pulled up in front of one of the fancier hotels - according to Stark anyway, he didn't know jackshit about expenses - and they all got out, the chauffeur assuring them that the rest of the luggage would be delivered by morning. He was really just talking to Thor, but they all nodded along anyway.

Clint thought it was loud and bright and just plain busy in the streets, but outside was nothing compared to the flood of people sweeping and swaying inside the revolving doors.

Laughter, coins rattling, bells ringing, screams of joy, screams of sorrow, women whispering about being good luck, men claiming they liked their women mature - all of it one rush, knocking him over like a fucking tidal wave. Swallowing him whole and promising to spit out something entirely different.

Everything he'd despised about the circus.

He hated Vegas so fucking much.

Nat was there, holding his arm in a steady grip and ensuring he didn't get too lost. Stark was shouting - he had to if he wanted to be heard - at the hostess trying to explain all they wanted to do was find the goddamn lobby of the hotel connected to the casino because it had been extremely renovated since the last time he'd been there - mind if he jotted down some notes? He just recently came into a company that was probably full of unstylish assholes, you know.

At least he wasn't the only out of his element; Banner and Rogers looked about as confused and deer-in-the-headlights as he felt, though at least Rogers had Sam who was trying to keep him focused on training or something and Pepper had taken pity on Banner. He couldn't hear over the din and was sorely tempted to take out his hearing aids if only for some peace.

Aw, Clint, no. Why didn't you do that on the damned jet? Idiot.

Stark must have gotten what he was looking for, because not two seconds later and the whole group began migrating to the left like they were one giant blob.

They got registered and he had a mini argument with one of the bellhops who was being very pushy about taking his bag for him even though he was perfectly capable, thank you very much.

He did not glare possessively when he finally won, especially when Nat hung back to apologize to the bellhop and give him an extra tip.

It was really fucking loud and then - suddenly, it just wasn't.

They climbed into an elevator that had absolutely no business being that fancy, and the second the gold-plated doors slid shut, the noise just stopped all at once.

It stopped so abruptly that Clint panicked and had to check his hearing aids to make sure it wasn't just him, but the gesture was aborted halfway when Rogers stated,

"So. This is the grand city of Vegas, eh?"

"Isn't it simply magnificent?" Lewis beamed with a sort of naughty innocence that Clint almost had to suppress a smile at; she was like a little boy - innocent and sweet but always looking for new ways to wreak havoc.

"It's...Well, it's loud," Banner commented and the look he and Clint shared was the metaphorical way to clink glasses together in shared bond.

"Well I should hope so!" Stark chimed in, his lips upturned in a sly smirk and his ridiculous sunglasses shining stupidly all over the stupid golden elevator.

Stupid.

So Clint was going from anxious to grumpy in about two-point-three seconds, who could blame him?

Nat sensed this and shot him a clear warning not to go on a murdering spree in the confines of a metal box. He knew she would help him if it came down to it, so he eased out a slow exhale and tried to focus on that.

At least they were on one of the top floors, not the the top, but close enough. He could easily sneak up to the roof and chill there for a while.

It was better than holing up in his room, at any rate.

. . .

When the doors opened, he half-expected to be bowled over by an assault of sound and things and people, but it was somehow even quieter than the elevator. It was almost disconcerting to have seemingly endless hallways with no sign of life.

He wondered if he was the only one who felt that way, or if he really was just that bona-fide insane.

Stark had rented out the whole floor - because, again, rich people are so weird - so that meant anyone could bunk with whomever the hell they wanted or with no one at all. Naturally, he and Nat claimed the room at the corner closest to the laundry shoot. It wasn't the best escape route, but it was quicker than trying to deal with the security on the stairwell doors. He wondered vaguely if all the floors had such well-protected stairwell entrances. He wondered vaguely why they'd be protected at all.

"Anyone who's interested, Pep and I are heading down to the casino in fifteen flat. Well maybe twenty if we want to have a bit of fun - "

Pepper thwacked Stark solidly on the back of the head before he could finish that sentiment, and he had to smirk softly when he saw her and Nat share an approving nod.

Women.

Nat led him down the hallway and opened up the door - somehow she had gotten the card key. It was definitely the nicest fucking hotel room he'd ever seen. Like ever.

And, while he generally only saw the shittier side of hotel rooms, there had been enough missions that meant he'd have to be in some fancy-schmancy places. This one was classy as hell, straight out of the hotels' version of Better Homes and Gardens.

Heh, Better Hotels and Gard-Inns.

"You're gawking," Nat informed him. And he was. Shamelessly so.

The room itself was huge, painted a neutral cream and lined in a matching carpet so thick he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to see his toes. The kind-sized bed in the middle of the room was draped in plush pillows that took up like, half of the thing, and the comforter had to be made of silk or Egyptian cotton or whatever was the best. Couches too expensive to look at much less use took up the other side of the room, and a TV probably the size of his bed back in Bed-Stuy took up the one side of the wall.

A little kitchenette was in the corner and he thought he was looking at a mostly empty to bathroom until he registered it was a closet. What really caught his eye was the window - or, rather, French doors.

There were three steps leading to a platform that had yet another couch that looked out across what he opened and found was a spacious balcony, complete with patio furniture.

He could literally live on that stupid balcony and be content.

He'd dropped hid dufflebag somewhere behind him and was cautiously approaching the balcony, and then stepping out onto it. Peering over the edge and breathing in the scent of Vegas - a haze of cigarettes, booze, sex if you really sniffed it out. But even that wasn't fair because the only true description was heavy. There were too many aromas to really label it, too many people's colognes and perfumes fusing to differentiate anything other than thick and suffocating.

The noise, in contrast to New York, didn't muffle the same way. Didn't lose its sharp sting and become a soothing buzz. The lights looked less like tiny Christmas decorations and more like imposing aliens and -

He stopped. The only good thing was Vegas didn't remind him of Toronto.

. . .

Nat managed to talk him into going down with the others. They'd bypass the casino and go straight for the bar - which is the only reason he'd agreed to tag along in the first place, obviously.

He was just really relieved no one :cough:Stark:cough: made a big deal of his coming, though his hackles definitely perked up when he caught several of the idiots smiling discreetly at him.

He'd almost managed to forget how loud the lobby had been, and seriously regretted bringing his hearing aids along at all to begin with. He, Nat, and somehow Lewis - who insisted on being called Darcy because 'Lewis' sounded like an old man - all wandered over to the bar.

He got a shot of whiskey, Nat a vodka, and Darcy a Fuzzy Navel - which she started defending before anyone could tease her for it.

He happily agreed it was a worthy drink. It had way the hell more alcohol content than 'manly' drinks like beer, and part of him wished he hadn't said anything because she beamed and seemed to think that meant he liked her.

He just shouldn't be allowed in public.

Phil and Nat used to tease him for that.

He sighed and downed his drink, ordering two more to replace before the soothing burning had the chance to settle much less fade.

Nat quirked an eyebrow at him, and he swiveled to match her when something caught his eye.

His breath hitched in his throat and the din instantly drowned out to make room for the blood rush to his ears. He would recognize that innocuous but deadly build anywhere. The expensive suit that was perfectly tailored but managed to hide a minimum of three guns at all times anyway. The wispy hair that was stubbornly receding even though it was actually pretty thick in the back.

"Clint? Clint?" Nat started to move to block his sightline, but then got the better idea of craning her neck around to see just what the fuck was causing him to gasp for air like a fucking fish out of water.

He thought he maybe heard her swear, but he wasn't sure of much of anything, because that figure had turned so that his profile was facing them and Clint was on his feet and gone because now he was seeing ghosts.