Author: Snarkcasm
Rating: Teen for later canon violence
Summary: Avengers casefic with Black Widow and Hawkeye being BAMFs. Nothing more, nothing less
Chapter Summary: Hawkeye calls in the Calvary.
Warning(s): Don't ask questions, just read.
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the Avengers, Marvel or any of the characters mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.
Author's Note: I got my idea from this amazing tumblr site. This person is amazing: arrows-and-duct-tape(dot)tumblr(dot)com
One Night in Bahraich and the World's Your Oyster
He ducks under the burnt-out shell of a taxi, clutching his useless left arm, his bow shattered in two at his feet. Gunshots continue to ring out in the still of the humid desert night air, and he flinches as one bullet whizzed past his ear. Nothing stirs in the wake of the bullets; he doesn't expect it to. Gritting his teeth, he shuffles from his compromised spot. One bullet catches on his calf. Another too close to his dick for his comfort.
He loses them in a narrow alleyway, clearing the half-rusted chain link fence just as easily with one arm as he would with two. He limps into a shop, the occupants talking fast, birdlike in alarm. Foreign words wash over him as he slams his bloodied fist into the counter. "Phone?" He mimes a telephone as best he can. This is the last time, he swore, the last time he takes an assignment in a place where he doesn't know the language.
The shopkeeper looks at him with wide, brown eyes and points to an old, corded phone tucked into the corner. Clint digs into his pocket and slaps down a rupee. "Thank you."
He stares at the phone before closing his eyes, shoving the last of his coins in the slot, and dialing.
"Toronto Sperm Bank—you spank it, we bank it! How may we serve you today?" Clint flinches at the manic voice on the end of the line. He's the last person he should have called, which makes him the best person to call.
"I've been blown."
"Congrats on becoming a real boy, Hawkeye," the voice muses.
The cheap phone squeaks under his grip. "I need your help."
A long, low whistle meets that statement. "Where are you." Not a question. Serious for once. Clint rattles off coordinates in cipher, vision blurring but relief spreading just under his skin. "Be there in ten, Hotpants. Try not to bleed to death before the real fun begins." The call cuts off but not after a loud kissy noise. Clint snorts and slumps into a chair. He has time to kill and waves over one of the huddled wait staff.
"Ye-yes?" The unfortunate waiter stumbles over both his feet and his English as he approaches the corner. Clint tries to smooth things over with a smile, but he fears that that scares the poor man even more.
He takes out a billfold of crumpled banknotes and painstakingly counts out ten 1000 rupee bills, sliding them over. "Give me whatever clean fabric you have, a bowl of water, and a first aid kit." The waiter clutches the bills to his chest, nodding frantically. Clint closes his eyes and tries not to die.
He jolts out of his light doze to screams. It's hilarious how damnations sound alike in all languages. He cracks open one eye to blue skin.
"Nightcrawler."
The blue-skinned mutant inclines his head. "Hawkeye, I believe this is yours." He gestures to a grinning Wade Wilson before teleporting, leaving behind a dark, inky residue.
"Demon, demon!"
Wade's grin grows wider. "Just like old times, eh, Bahawkadonk?"
Clint sacrifices one smile as they are ceremoniously thrown out on their asses. Wade laughs, long and loud, throwing his arms up. "So, who's after your well-shaped, nicely-toned ass today, Sweet Cheeks?"
"Drug ring in Nepal, allegedly funded by Prey. Thought I shook them over the mountains, but they followed." He lifts up his left shoulder as if to say 'and that's how it goes'. "Tenacious bastards."
"Sounds like my kinda party, Barton. Why does S.H.I.E.L.D. always give you the fun assignments while I'm sitting pretty playing Galaga? Granted, I am very, very pretty, but still, a guy can only take so much nerdy UST from Banner and Stark before he explodes or bursts into manly, oh-so-American tears like Cap."
Clint swipes at a sluggishly bleeding cut on his forehead. Fun, yeah. And he's not touching the merc's last statement with a ten-foot pole. "Next time, you'll get to trail drug smugglers across the desert for days and get shot in multiple places, I promise."
"I knew I was your favorite!" Wade coos, disturbingly. Within the space of a breath, he brandishes a large, sharp knife from somewhere and chucks it to his right down an abandoned alley. "We've got company," he says over the dying howl of whoever's wearing Patrice as a head ornament. As one, the group that had been tailing them since the restaurant bleeds out of the woodwork, guns pointed directly at their hearts.
The merc hands over one of his bandoliers and a semi-automatic.
"You big softie." Clint's scoffing, but he's quick to holster the ammunition and check the solid heft of the gun in his non-dominant hand.
"What can I say? It's a curse to be this warm-hearted." And with that, he takes out his two swords, sets down a signed picture of parallel-universe Bea Arthur, unravels a roll of duct tape, and wreaks unholy hell.
Clint's at his six, squeezing out bullets judiciously. All his shots are bull's-eyes, but that is nothing new. Mid-fight, Wade gives his swords for just the duct tape, bashing people in the skulls with the heavy roll and taping hands to foreheads. Soon they are down to one man, hogtied at Wade's feet.
"Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself—"
"Deadpool, hurry up!"
"Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself—"
With a grunt of frustration, the sniper puts a bullet between the eyes of the last of their would-be assassins. Wade pouts and drops the corpse, picking up his swords and tucking Bea Arthur back down his pants. He glances around at the gleeful carnage, hands on his hips. "Sooo…everybody dead?"
"Seems like."
"Awesome. Hey, y'know what I could go for? A chimichanga. Let's go get a chimichanga. Chimichanga, chimichanga, chimichanga, enchilada."
Clint follows the congo-ing mercenary with a faint, fond grin on his face.
