A/n: FINALLY! Guys, I've been having massive trouble with uploading to FF, so aside from Life forcing me away from writing lately, I've also had to fight this site to upload this finally finished chapter. Major apologies for such a delay! Anyways, here's Clint... Enjoy!
[ CLINT ]
"I've got a friend who specializes in trouble. He dives in and usually finds a way." –Ian Chesterton (about the Doctor), Doctor Who
Clint's mind spun as he stumbled down the sidewalk.
After the storm had subsided, Clint had ventured out of the little shack on the beach. By that time, it seemed to be about late afternoon. He'd discovered a couple of pristine vintage cars—Clint was pretty sure they were 1940-somethings—parked by the docks. Their owners were nowhere in sight; no doubt they'd sought shelter from the storm as well. He'd wondered if there'd been a car show going on nearby and shook his head at the carelessness of the owners who'd leave their antiques out in a storm.
From the shed, it'd been a long walk from the beach to more crowded streets, where Clint promptly had to fight throwing up, collapsing or both. He hadn't understood what that bomb had done to him and his team when he'd first woken up on the dock, but looking at New York—Brooklyn, to be exact—circa 1940 or 50-something gave him a pretty solid idea. Clint narrowed down the decade because he loved old photos and especially old photos of New York—it was something he and Steve had in common, even if the reasons behind loving the photos were far more personal for Steve.
Clint ran his shaking fingers through his hair and worked to calm his breathing. He felt exactly like Marty McFly (for God's sake, Clint was even wearing a vest ), staggering up streets that were simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, as Frank Sinatra crooned from a café down on the corner. The archer pinched his forearm harder and harder, willing himself to wake up, but to no avail.
Signage scattered here and there in shop windows told him it was September, and a glance at a newspaper on a bench moments later informed him it was September 3, 1946.
He mentally scrolled through what he could remember of history at that time. Truman's the president. It's after World War II. Before the Korean War, color TV, and Disneyland. Should be damn close to S.H.I.E.L.D. forming though—that might be helpful.
The clouds from the storm had long since parted and the sun hung low in the sky, casting deep orange and yellow hues across the city. Since it was late in the summer, Clint figured it was evening.
He slumped against a brick wall to catch his breath, because this was crazy— beyond crazy. This was catastrophically, terribly, mind-blowingly insane. In his line of work, especially lately, absolutely impossible shit happened all the damn time, so he really shouldn't have been that surprised that a mad scientist had managed to trap him and his team and zap them all to the past. But here he was, all the same.
Well, he was assuming the team part. Maybe it was just him. If they were here in 1946, he had no way to contact them, even if he still had his phone on him, which he did not. And it wasn't like he could just ask around after them ("Excuse me, have you seen a guy in a cape, a guy in shiny red armour, and a really big green guy smashing buildings?" That'd probably go over super well).
Plus, he supposed there was no guarantee Lazarus had sent them all back together, at the same time, because: volatile evil genius.
Clint scrubbed his hand over his face. He had to figure out his next move. He didn't know where to go, but there was always one next move. In every situation, no matter how dire, he didn't give up, and this was no different—or so he told himself. He also had never been trapped sixty years in the past before.
I need a drink, he thought, and decided for now, that was the next best move.
Gritting his teeth, Clint dug his hands into his still damp pockets and started down the street. He tried to avoid eye contact with everyone who stared at his odd attire—the black and purple vest was super subtle among their suits, sweaters, and coats, though at least he'd left the useless quiver behind in the shack—and kept an eye out for an open and inviting pub. Thankfully, he only had to go a few blocks farther.
He elbowed in the swinging door and headed straight for the bar, keeping his head down. It wasn't until Clint reached the bar and settled on the stool with slight squelch that he'd realized his colossal error: no money. At least, not any that nineteen-fucking-forty-six would recognize.
Unless they take MasterCard, I am officially screwed, he thought. He swore under his breath as he slammed his fist on the counter. The action and curse garnered a startled sideways look from a man a few stools down, and Clint shot him a glare he didn't deserve. The man raised his eyebrows and glanced away with a shake of his head. Clint returned his brooding gaze to the sticky wooden bar under his elbows.
"Rough day?" asked the bartender, sidling over. He was a tall slender man with a heavy, dark mustache.
"You have no idea, pal," Clint grunted.
"What'll it be?"
Clint heaved a sigh. "Well, considering I just realized I have no money, it'll be nothing. Thanks, anyways."
The bartender looked him over critically. "You want a water or somethin' then?"
"Sure, fine, gimme a water."
The worst part, Clint decided, was that since this was sixty or so years ago, the alcohol was probably dirt cheap in comparison to what he was used to paying. It irked him all the more that he was literally penniless at the moment. The bartender returned and handed Clint his water. The archer thanked him grimly and sipped. Hydration was good, at least.
Above the bar was a skinny, tarnished mirror, running horizontal behind rows of glasses. Clint raised his eyes to focus on the glasses, just to give his mind something to do—clear out everything that had happened, that was happening, and relax. It was a lot easier to think when he was calm than when he was pissed off.
As he stared at the glasses, some movement in the mirror caught his eye as some patron walked past a colorful poster. The mirror was too narrow to properly make it out, so Clint swivelled on his stool to inspect the signage clearly. He was both startled and pleased when Steve's face looked back at him from a large, framed poster near the bar's entrance. Clint would've called it a vintage Captain America poster, but "vintage" didn't really apply in this situation, seeing as how the poster was barely a few years old, if that.
As the archer mused on the way his friend saluted on the paper, a group of people entered the pub and momentarily blocked his view. Clint's heart walloped into his ribs when he recognized the women at the front of the group. Her eyes took a detour to the poster and her red lips turned up in a sad little smile before she followed her friends to a nearby table.
He'd seen her file a dozen times. He'd seen her picture—Steve had shown him her picture and told him stories. She was a legend.
Holy God, it was Peggy Carter.
Clint couldn't believe his luck. Of all the pubs in all the world, she came walking into mine… He set his water down with an unsteady clatter and hopped off his stool before he realized he had no idea what the hell he should be saying to her.
Then, maybe because he'd been thrown sixty-something years into the past and his brain was a little fried, Clint decided it didn't matter because it was Peggy and she knew Steve, and hey so did he.
"Hey, sorry to interrupt," Clint said the second he'd reached her table. The laughter of the men around her ceased and they all regarded him with curious and suspicious looks. "Peggy, right?"
Peggy's brow creased slightly. "Sorry, do I know you?"
"Do you mind—can I talk to you for a sec?" asked Clint. His heart thudded fast in his chest. She worked with S.H.I.E.L.D., she helped found S.H.I.E.L.D., she knew Steve—hell, she knew Tony's dad, and if anyone would be able to fix this mess and get him home…
Peggy stood and smoothed down her dark skirt, but didn't step away from the table. She raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
Clint swallowed and dove in. At the time he failed to realize how utterly idiotic this course of action was, but, he blamed it on the whole time-travel-scrambling-his-brain thing.
"Look, this is going to sound…beyond insane. Trust me, I know exactly how ridiculous this is going to sound. But," Clint cleared his throat and lowered his voice a couple notches so Peggy's buddies wouldn't be able to hear him over the pub's atmospheric din. "I work for the same agency as you, only sixty or so years in the future. My team and I are tasked with saving the world from…impossible threats, and today we lost, and I was sent back in time, to here and now. I need your help—your agency's help to get back to where I belong."
Peggy's pretty features gave nothing away as she listened, aside from the slightest purse of her lips. Damn, she's good, thought Clint. He wanted to see her and Natasha in a room together, trying to get a read on each other.
"The uh, the other thing is…that Steve Rogers is part of my team," Clint continued, still keeping his voice low. At this, Peggy straightened a little, peering at him closely. Encouraged, Clint hurried on, "After he crashed, he was frozen, and you guys never found him, but we did. Something about his serum must've kept him alive in the snow, because he's fine now, and he…well, I'm sure he wishes he was the one thrown here instead of me."
The archer finished with a hopeful smile and was relieved that he'd gained an ally.
The relief was very short-lived.
"I see," said Peggy. "For a moment there, I thought you were just a crazy drunk. But if you know Steve…"
"Thank God," Clint exhaled, glancing away from her as he ran his hand through his hair. "You know, for a minute there, I thought—"
Her fist came flying out of nowhere and smashed into his jaw. He was so surprised she'd hit him, he stumbled and pin-wheeled backwards. The men with Peggy jumped to their feet in an instant, shoving chairs out of their way, glaring and cracking their knuckles.
The noise level in the pub dipped as Clint straightened up, gently holding the spot where she'd smacked him.
"Everything okay here?" asked the bartender, appearing between Clint and Peggy.
"Peachy," Peggy replied crisply. "He was just leaving."
The bartender turned questioning eyes to Clint.
"Yeah, uh," said the archer. "I was." He made his way out of the pub, shooting glances over his shoulder to ensure Peggy's friends weren't about to follow him.
Clint sucked in a breath of chilly fresh air outside. Nice one, Barton, he thought angrily. Real smooth.
Clint skulked in the shadows across from the pub for almost two full hours before Peggy and her friends finally emerged. She bid most of them goodnight and they headed on their merry way down the block. The biggest guy in the group stayed behind ( Of course, Clint thought with irritation) and told Peggy he'd go get the car. Clint figured this was as good an opportunity as he was probably going to get, so he crossed the street.
"You again," said Peggy flatly when he approached.
"Me again," Clint confirmed with a wince. Now that the damage was done with his head-on approach from earlier, he was just going to have to run with it while figuring out his next move.
"You should know I have a loaded pistol and I know exactly how to use it." Peggy made no move to retrieve it, though he watched her stance shift almost imperceptibly. She was alert and ready to grab it, even if her demeanour suggested little more than casual interest.
"Oh, I believe you," Clint chuckled. "I've heard stories."
Peggy's expression changed slightly, and he could tell she was caught off guard by his comment, even if she did an excellent job of hiding it.
"Please, hear me out," he pleaded. "I know how weird this all is—no one knows more than me."
"And why should I?"
"Because I know—"
"Do not say Steve."
Clint sighed and bit back his reply. But I do, he wanted to say. We're friends—we're actually really good friends, and he's told me all about you. Instead, he tried, "Put me in touch with Howard, then. I know his so—of him."
"You still haven't given me a good reason to do anything for you," said Peggy.
She was right, and he was completely floundering. What could he say to convince her? He'd totally blown it earlier, and there was no way to backtrack from that without continuing to sound like an absolute crazy person. He supposed he could try describing some of the stories Steve had told him, but she might just punch him again if she thought he was still screwing with her…
The big guy from before appeared at Peggy's shoulder, his blue eyes staring Clint down like he was something very unpleasant. Clint wasn't a big fan of that look, though truth be told it was hardly the first time he'd received it.
Dum Dum Dugan, recalled Clint, thinking of the facts and photos he'd skimmed in old S.H.I.E.L.D. files and Steve's small personal collection. He hadn't read the old stuff extensively, but he'd done a fair bit of research on a variety of topics when he was holed up watching Selvig and his pet Tesseract.
"Need some help?" Dugan inquired and crossed his beefy arms over his chest.
"It's under control at the moment," replied Peggy, tossing her friend a small smile.
"I thought she made it pretty clear she didn't want to talk to you," Dugan growled.
"Yeah, well, I'm kind of stubborn," Clint shrugged. He turned pleading eyes to Peggy and held his palms up and out. "Peggy, please."
When he took a cautious step forward, however, Dugan bristled.
"Relax, big guy, I'm not here to hurt anyone, I just want your help."
"Clint?" The voice wasn't Dugan or Peggy and Clint glanced sideways for the source, but no one else was nearby. He ignored it, needing to focus on Peggy.
"To get back to the future." Peggy stared him down and Clint could tell many weaker men had withered and died under that stare. It was no wonder at all that she'd risen in through the military ranks despite this time's attitude towards women, that she'd been an anomaly, and a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. That Steve had liked her so much from the start.
Clint nodded. "Back to my time, and my team." He stepped forward again, slow and small.
"Look, are you trying to get yourself arrested?" Peggy questioned.
Clint blinked. She had just presented him with his next move—even if it was far less than ideal. "Well, yeah, actually."
Peggy raised her eyebrow and her lip twitched like she'd very nearly smiled.
"Come a couple steps closer and that can be arranged, Mr.…" she said. If he was not mistaken, that sounded like a dare—and Clint had always had trouble refusing dares.
"Agent. Agent Clint Barton." He flashed her a wide grin. "But if you insist, m'lady."
"Clint?" There was that extra voice again, but Clint didn't have a moment to figure out where the hell it was coming from.
This time it was Dugan's fist that came flying out of nowhere. Clint let him land it, even though it made his vision go white at the edges and sent him sprawling very gracefully down to the sidewalk. He heard Peggy murmuring instructions to her mountain of a man-friend, and then Clint let himself be roughly cuffed and tossed in the back of Peggy and Dugan's car. He would've been more worried about hearing his name on the wind, but after the day he was having? Hell, it was nothing in comparison.
And yeah, getting arrested was absolutely less than ideal—he knew, as he blinked stars from his eyes. He'd have a black eye to go with the big purple bruise Peggy had given him—but he was pretty sure they were taking him to S.H.I.E.L.D.
Which happened to be exactly where he needed to go.
