Author's Note- Special thanks Hawksicle and the other folks over at The Beta Branch for going over the story with a fine tooth comb!
Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's.
SHIELD Headquarters, Day 13…
"I thought we had a strict 'No Pets Allowed' policy here, Barton," the security officer scolded, frowning as Clint led the canine into the main building. The dog gazed around the entryway as he signed in, straining at the leash while trying to smell everything in sight.
"It's not a pet- it's therapy. You got a problem with it, take it up with Director Fury," he countered with a sly smile. "The director signed off on it, and since I can't trust this guy when I'm out all day, he's coming with me."
Clint hated having to sign in- it left a paper trail. Unfortunately, due to his current standing, he was forced to sign in like the regular agents did each time they entered and left the building. Pulling lightly on the leash, he led the dog past the flustered security agent.
The agent ignored the wary looks cast his way as he headed for Medical. There were several calls and waves in greeting from the Ops team members as he passed by, which calmed some of his nervousness. Looking at the sign above the door as he checked in for yet another appointment, he grinned.
If the security guys were pissed about Clint bringing the infernal mutt in, just imagine how the docs were going to react.
Hawkeye's apartment, Day 14…
"Open the door, bro!" an annoying voice shouted.
The heavy Russian accent revealed that Clint's landlord had finally decided to pay a visit to his tenants. Groaning, he slipped into jeans and a shirt. Stalking to the door, he opened it as far as the stout chain would allow.
Ivan's thick mustache almost wiggled as he glared at Clint, a small set of papers wrinkling in his iron grip. "You get notice of change in rent, bro."
"Change in rent?" Clint asked, blinking his bleary eyes in confusion. "Rent's not due 'til the first, Ivan."
The large man laughed, crumbs from a pastry of some sort dropping off of the mustache. There was a chuckle from one of Ivan's "tracksuit mafia" goons that accompanied him wherever he went. "These are just change in terms- rent has tripled now."
"You gotta be kidding me." Clint unlatched the door chain and opened the door to face the landlord, taking the piece of paper the man was waving at him. Simone approached, holding a similar document as one of the other neighbors stood complaining.
"He can't do this, Clint! We can't afford to pay that much for this rathole," she cried, waving her oldest child back into the apartment.
He examined the fine print on the bottom document- a photocopy of the original lease agreement that he hadn't read in five years. "I don't know, Simone. Based on the original paperwork, I think he can. He's got it in the fine print. Really fine print."
Looking at the extra number on the bottom of the new lease agreement, Clint's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is this bit here?"
"Pet deposit," the landlord declared proudly. "I am so glad Mr. Stark gave me idea- you want to keep dog, you pay deposit again. I decide, however, you pay each month."
Looking up at the man, Clint gaped. "Each month? Are you nuts?"
"Is as I say, bro," Ivan replied. "You want dog, you pay for dog. You got sixty days to decide, stay or go."
A low growl rose from beside the archer as Arrow poked his head out the door. The Russian's eyes narrowed as they glared at each other. "Maybe I should increase deposit, bro. You have big dog for simple pet, bro."
"He's not a pet, asshole," Clint corrected angrily. This was why he had hated moving into an apartment. The last few weeks had him convinced that the powers that be were trying to force him to move back into his house at Mill Basin.
Ivan's laughter at his tenants' misfortune faded as he and the other tenants compared their new lease agreements. Not one of them would be able to afford the overpriced rates.
Old Sam Pritchard spoke up first. "They're trying to force us outta here. Used to see it all the time at my old place. Landlord raises the rent, everyone moves out, and he bulldozes it or something to make way for brand new condos."
"Where are we gonna go?" Simone asked, folding up her papers. "This was one of the only places close enough to work and Lavar's school that we could manage."
"We'll have to figure something out," Clint sighed, returning to his apartment. His alarm rang again, announcing it was time for breakfast.
As he headed for the kitchen again, the archer picked up his phone to call Natasha with the newest bit of apartment drama. He paused, his thumb on the send button. Muttering to himself, he cleared the number and set the phone down. She had already done so much for him already- the last thing she needed was his whining about Ivan's newest shenanigans.
Bed-Stuy, New York City, Across the street from Hawkeye's apartment, Day 15…
"Holy shit, man- get over here. The dog took out the coffee maker!" Agent Morris beckoned to the other agent, cackling with glee. "Dude, Barton's gonna be pissed!"
"Lemme see," Agent Baraques demanded, motioning for the binoculars. "Oh, man. I think the odds just went up on Hawkeye and the window option."
"No kidding." It was a well-known fact that you did not mess with the coffee maker. Ever. Poor, unsuspecting but well-meaning agents had been chased out of various break rooms in tears by veteran Ops members, who relied on the contents within to keep them going after pulling some of the odd shifts they tended to run.
They passed the binoculars back and forth, giggling at the drama unfolding. This was better than television.
Hawkeye's apartment, Day 20…
"You didn't have to do that," Clint complained, staring at the copy of the rather lengthy email that Natasha had handed him.
She snorted. "Yes, I did. You have barely any furniture left, your surveillance team is eating popcorn instead of doing their job, and you two can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. This has to stop, Clint."
"Why did you email Maxwell, of all people? He probably knows less about dogs than I do- he's allergic," the archer asked, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.
"Because, doofus- look at the first paragraph. Maxwell may not be an expert on dogs, especially EOD trained dogs, but who else do you know that may know at least something about them?" she led, arching an eyebrow.
Realization dawned on him. "Oh. Oyuki, right?"
"Yes, Oyuki. Otherwise known as former EOD from the Army until he got medically discharged Oyuki."
Clint re-read the printed email memo, taking in the lengthy response that Agent Maxwell had forwarded. "He's at the Training Center?"
"All of them are," Natasha replied with a smirk. "Your little band of 'Merry Men' is quite the talk of the current batch of recruits. Maxwell is in charge of their training group. He's apparently rather impressed with their progress."
He blinked in surprise. John Maxwell was very hard to impress; the former Marine Corps drill instructor had always had high standards whether they were mainstream or "special" recruits. The archer wasn't sure what category the five survivors of the infiltration squad would fall under.
Clint turned back to Natasha. "They really recruited those guys? Even after the carrier?"
"They did. I may have put in a good word for at least one of them," the redhead answered with a smirk. "It started with Chavez and Reagan, and the rest just sort of fell in with the package. Fury called you a scary judge of talent."
"That explains his little personnel file project they had me working on that first week."
"Clint," she said, putting a hand gently on his arm to get his attention, "everyone deserves another chance. You taught me that. These guys are no different."
"Farnov must love them," he muttered.
She grinned. "Why do you think Maxwell praises them so much? They're making Farnov's life a living hell."
He laughed at that. Agent Farnov was a pain in the ass- never willing to break protocol, no matter what. Farnov was so rigidly bound by the rules that it made him useless as a field agent, but perfect for teaching new recruits. The flexibility with the rules required for a good agent usually wound up developing after they ran missions with a more experienced team.
"Oyuki had some good ideas," Natasha pointed out. She poked him in the ribs quickly. "Your dog is probably bored and needs to get out more. Just like you, I might add. Taking him with you the other day was a good start. He actually looked happy."
Clint nodded. "He didn't chew anything up either. We had pizza for dinner to celebrate."
"You and your pizza. You're quite capable of making your own, you know."
"Not when they've still got my accounts frozen."
She scoffed. "We both know that's not your only account. That's just an excuse to not leave the house, I think."
The agent looked up at her. "Think Fury'll be pissed if I bring him with me to HQ? As in, regularly?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of you getting back into shape by finding a park to run in, but that works too, I guess. You know the Director. He'll probably flip his lid. Though you could always use the therapy excuse again."
Clint's mischievous smile warmed her little assassin heart.
"There we go," Clint announced, setting the new television in place and cursing whoever designed them to be so difficult to move without an extra pair of arms. He pulled out the instruction manual for the DVD player that he had purchased to go with the new setup, preparing to connect the small nest of cables that came with it.
Arrow observed quietly, his ears perked up. He tilted his head to the side, whining softly. The unusually relaxed German Shepherd had claimed Clint's spot on the couch to watch the activity. Clint suspected he was observing the new device for potential weaknesses and chew points.
"What are you looking at?" he challenged, watching the dog's every move as he flipped to the next page. "It's your fault, you know. If you chew this one up, you really will go out the window. Shit- they just had to use yellow, didn't they? "
He stumbled through the setup of the flat panel television, hooking up the battered digital signal box with relative ease and wondering why he had let Tasha remind him of his "spare" bank accounts. The DVD player remained in its packaging container, the tangled mess of colorful cables tucked haphazardly within after he had given up trying to tell the colors apart.
The alarm clock sounded from the direction of his countertop, warning him that it was dinnertime. With a groan, he headed for the kitchen to see what Natasha had left him. Thankfully, they all appeared to be his favorite selections, not that he was picky of course. Food was food these days.
Selecting one of the more appealing boxes, he set it in the microwave and set the timer. Turning around, he poured some dog food into Arrow's dish, then topped off the water dish. The microwave finally beeped, allowing him to retrieve his meal.
After plucking a beer from the refrigerator, he sat down to begin an evening of food, beer, and whichever ballgame he could find out of the channels available. Settling for some good old fashioned football, Clint propped his feet up on the poorly repaired coffee table.
The table creaked under the weight, causing him to frown and tentatively put his feet back on the floor.
There was a grumble next to him. Turning his head, Clint sighed. He poured a small amount of beer into the plastic tray and lowered it down to the floor.
"Lush," he accused, watching the dog lap up the froth while the ballgame played on. "Don't you dare tell Nat- she'll kill me for falling into redneck territory, and I don't have the patience for an intervention."
Arrow merely yipped in contentment.
