THEN – Jakarta, Indonesia
Fuck SHIELD, fuck the rain, fuck his whole misbegotten life. This clusterfuck was going downhill fast. Damn bad intel and stupid asshole handlers who'd never been out of their own little bubbles and didn't know shit about the things people were willing to do get out of soul-grinding poverty. Feet on the ground beat satellite images any day, but Morrison thought damn Google street view was enough to plan a getaway route. Where did they get these chuckleheads anyway? Straight from West Point or the VMI or some military school were proper soldiers went, the kind of places that wouldn't let Clint darken their doors.
Just a few days surveillance, they said. Sitting in the tropics, watching a building to see who showed up, they said. Low level flunkies and a few minor paper pushers, they said. What Clint had seen through his scope within the first fifteen minutes had been fodder for future nightmares: bone-thin girls in dirty muslin shifts, terrified wide eyes staring at fixed points on the wall while creatures that didn't deserve the title of men used them. Three of them, all in their early teens.
When he'd radioed in and told Morrison, she'd warned him to stick to the mission; they weren't there to save some kids, she'd said curtly, and she'd have none of Clint's heroics or she'd write his ass up and get him busted back down to level two. So he settled back to watch, seething, until he saw a flash of red hair and a familiar figure.
Natasha, looking exactly like she did last time he saw her, red curls and a gun in her hand. She dropped into a room from the ceiling, accessing the computer in seconds. From his perch, Clint could see the men in the next room, drinking cheap liquor and laughing to each other as the ringleader 'amused' himself with a fifteen-year-old with the longest black hair and terrified blue eyes. This couldn't end well; there was no way in hell Natasha was going to leave those girls to their fate. They'd worked together long enough for him to know what pushed the Russian's buttons.
One thing Clint had come to realize in the last few years as he worked at becoming more than a thug himself, taking advantage of everything SHIELD could offer – training, an education, a roof over his head, and more food than he could eat – was that Natasha had done him a favor with that bullet. He might not like being told what to do and, yeah, there were some real pieces of work in the SHIELD organization, but limping out of that alley with Phil that day was the best decision Clint had made in maybe his whole life. And he wouldn't have done it without Nat's push, even if he did still have the scar.
Wiping the stray raindrops that had snuck in under his hood, Clint activated his earpiece. "Got a situation here, Morrison. There's a friendly on site; we should help her out."
"What?" Morrison's voice was tense and he could hear her muttered cursing as she turned to Jamison, the techie for the mission, demanding he get her a thermal sweep of the building. Kid had offered earlier to set it up; Morrison had nixed it as unnecessary. Now she was blaming him. "Who the hell is that? Did you know about this, Barton?"
"Negative. Friendly is a known freelancer." He didn't bother telling her Natasha would kill every one of their marks; that, he thought, should be a given.
In the building, Natasha was reaching for the doorknob. Clint could do nothing but watch as two of the men left the room and headed out for a building sweep; in seconds, Nat would walk right into their path.
"Your mission has not changed, Barton. Watch the mark. Nothing else," Morrison ordered in her clipped voice.
"Shit, Morrison. She's about to get captured." To hell with protocol, Clint thought. The woman was an ass.
"Do not intervene. We can't afford to give away our position."
"Damn it, there are innocent girls in there," Clint asked, his finger loose on the trigger.
"We will, later, when we can interrogate them and find out more information," Morrison agreed.
"Is that official orders, Morrison, or your own determination? 'Cause last time I looked SHIELD had regs about the treatment of children." Clint's anger was boiling up and he knew the feeling. He was about to do something stupid. Again.
Clint didn't listen to Morrison's reply because Natasha slammed the door into the men's faces, taking them out in seconds. The sounds alerted the others who poured out of the other room; rather than retreating, Natasha met them head on, that stubborn look on her face Clint had seen before. She took three more down quickly and would have easily subdued the rest, but the boss shoved the fifteen-year-old in front of him, his gun trained on her head. Clint didn't need to hear the conversation to know what was happening; life for a life, the age-old escape plan. Save the girl by giving yourself up. But Natasha was fast and smart and she … was laying her gun down and dropping to her knees in the corridor, hands linking behind her head, turning ever so slightly and glancing out the window right at Clint.
Shit. She knew he was here, was counting on it. It was a good as putting a gun to her own thigh and pulling the trigger; she was ready to come in from the cold. With Morrison's voice screeching in his ear, he focused in on the leader's trigger finger. When he began to turn the gun towards Natasha, Clint put a bullet between the man's eyes then fired off three more in quick succession, one per guard that Natasha didn't take out on her own. Yanking out his earpiece and stuffing it in his pocket, he jumped for the access ladder, sliding down with his feet on either side and dropping into a run, boots splashing through the muddy puddles as he rounded the side of the building. Natasha came out of back door, girls in tow; their bare feet skidded on the loose gravel and their little limbs were shaking, but they ran as fast as they could.
"T-minus 20 seconds," was all Natasha had to say. Clint scooped up the smallest girl and they sprinted down the alleyway before taking shelter behind a construction dumpster, tucking all of them in the slot between brick wall and metal side. Clint ducked down, breathing hard, holding tight to his bow as the explosion triggered, rocking the heavy metal container and raining a debris cloud across several blocks.
"You couldn't just call?" He asked Natasha. Her green eyes flashed with humor. "A get well card would have been nice."
"You're doing fine." She brushed the dust off her black leather jacket. "How long?"
He knew what she was asking. "10 minutes max. I can't keep them. They know things."
"Da. I have a place for them. The fire burns hot; there will be no way to identify bodies," she said then she spoke to the girls in Betawi.
"Tasha."
She paused.
"Phil Coulson. 16464678924."
She nodded and then they were gone.
NOW
No pain, just a floating sensation that was quite pleasant and soothing. A soft ambient light, warmth blanketed across his body, easy breaths – he glided awake, so leisurely that he wasn't sure if he was still dreaming or not. His head felt wide open … like that beach villa they'd stayed in on Tony's private island, no windows or doors just spaces with white sheers that fluttered in the ocean breeze. Thoughts and feelings drifted, nothing locked away. Aware of others, he brushed against the Big Guy who was sleepy and sated, resting from his exertion. The Hulk shifted into his caress before coasting away. A completely new voice, close by, hungry, confused, overwhelmed, but safe and warm. Another, pain, grief, self-loathing; she moved further away, retreating. And Bruce, so vibrant and alive, such a wellspring of love and wonder that made Clint want to reach out and touch it.
Clint turned his head and saw him under the one lamp, light spilling over his brown curls, casting shadows on his face as he rocked gently back and forth in the chair. Eyes soft, he stared at the small bundle of cloth held in the crook of one arm, a swaddle of blue and white. Red splotchy face, so tiny and wrinkled, peeked from the folds as a mouth latched onto the nipple of the small bottle Bruce held in his other hand. As if his ears only now started working, Clint realized Bruce was singing, low and quiet.
"And if that mockingbird don't sing, Daddy's gonna buy you a diamond ring …"
If asked, Clint would say he didn't believe in any kind of afterlife, but he'd be lying. He wanted Hell to be real so he could rest easier with the knowledge all those he'd hunted down in his life were condemned to eternal torment. And if hell was there, then he knew he was destined to head that direction for being the one to pull back the string. He'd killed people, hurt so many more that there was no balancing his ledger, despite what Natasha always said. But this, this was the opposite of Hell. By all rights, Clint should be dead and roasting on a spit over a brimstone cook stove, not seeing the raw adoration on Bruce's face as he fed Clint's granddaughter.
"Hey there," Bruce whispered. "Greedy thing. You finished it all." He tossed a white towel over his shoulder and shifted her up to pat her back. "Nice clean diaper and full tummy. You should sleep for a while."
Need, it turns out, can be painful; sharp and sudden, emotion twisted in Clint's chest. He never wanted anything as much as he did the scene before him. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he squeezed them shut before he cried and had to blame the medication for the feeling swamping him.
"Heaven," Clint tried to say. It came out mangled and far too soft, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Must be dead 'cause this is heaven."
Bruce looked up and smiled. "That would be the drugs talking. They're giving you the good stuff to counter the anti-venom. It's pretty nasty and takes time to work out of the system." He stood and stepped up to the side of the bed.
"Nope. You're here. Heaven." Clint couldn't start to sit up because he had absolutely no motor control at all. "Wanna see."
Cradling her neck with one hand and her body with the other, Bruce tucked her back in the crook of her arm. "She's gorgeous. Five pounds and eight ounces, excellent for being early. We've got her in an incubator just to be on the safe side, but I doubt she'll need it much longer."
"Ten fingers 'n toes?" Clint watched in wonder as she yawned, tiny mouth opening wide, little pink tongue lolling out.
"She's perfect," Bruce assured him, jiggling the baby slightly as she wiggled her nose and started to drift off.
"Margarita?"
A shadow crossed Bruce's face and Clint felt the Big Guy stir in his sleep. His tension made the baby react and give a tiny squawk. He shushed her and bounced more, a slow swing as he stepped back and forth.
"Let me put her down."
He tucked her into a small plastic bassinette, pulling her knit hat more securely onto her head. Patting her on the back for another minute, he finally turned back to Clint when she was settled.
"I'm sorry, Clint. The labor was difficult and Margarita was already so weak." Bruce brushed Clint's hair back from his forehead and took his hand, but Clint could barely feel it. "Natasha did what she could; she's the only reason the baby survived."
"Tasha?" Confused, Clint felt like he was missing something important. "Natasha got them out."
"There wasn't time. Margarita was already at ten centimeters when Natasha got to her. Julio had upped the Pitocin beyond safe limits; her contractions were steady and the baby was crowning," Bruce explained. "Natasha delivered the baby; she could only get one of them out before the explosion."
"Explosion." Clint's mouth might be slow, but his brain was a hundred steps ahead. "Nat left my daughter in the house before it blew up."
"She was already gone," Bruce sounded as if he'd made this argument already. "Natasha tried to get back to her body but … the fire burned too hot. There's nothing left but ashes."
Too hot. Clint closed his eyes and let the grief that was building ebb away. No body to identify. Nat would never have left his daughter behind. Never.
"Julio?" he asked. A machine beeped and Clint felt a rush of cool up his arm as medicine was injected through the I.V. He tracked as it rose to body temperature and knew he'd be falling asleep soon.
"The Other Guy caught him trying to escape." That was all Bruce had to say and Clint didn't feel even a pang of remorse.
"Thor 'ere?" Clint could feel his eyes already growing heavy from exhaustion and the drugs. "Need him. Protect her. Loki's spell, something, kept them out."
"Loki? Kept who?" Bruce leaned down as Clint's voice faded.
"Winter Knight." Clint's eyes slid closed. "Mab wants … keep her safe …" He sank into a medicated sleep.
The room was brighter next time he awoke; sunlight filtered through the window blinds. Natasha sat in the rocker watching the baby sleep in her bassinet, a leg folded up underneath her and her hand on the hilt of her pistol. She didn't take her eyes of the little girl as she spoke.
"She's beautiful. Must come from her mother."
God, he loved that woman, his oldest true friend. Making jokes in the midst of all this was exactly what he needed. No need to talk or hash over feelings. He trusted her and that was enough.
"Yeah, but the baldness is a masculine trait." He could move a little more, a welcome change even if his arm was throbbing and stitches itching. Heavy with bandages, his leg felt like a dead weight, but he could wiggle his toes, so that was good. "Guess I'm not dead. So much for my big sacrifice. Can't even do that right."
"Idiot." She shook her red curls. "I'd shoot you again if it would make any difference."
They lapsed into silence; she rose with the elegance of dancer and offered him a cup with a straw to sip from. The water was cold and felt good going down his dry throat.
"They're going to come for her." That's what he feared; Mab in that tiny body, growing in power. "Too much invested already. I need to talk to Thor; something Loki did protected me."
"They have to get through us first." She leaned on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms. "Thor's gone to Asgard to see if his mother can help, and I forced Bruce to go get some sleep finally."
"Where are we?" He flexed his left hand and tried to get more comfortable, an impossible task with the I.V. needle still in.
"Sister Francis' clinic; Tony flew you here after we found you." She held the cup out for him to take another drink. "Ochoa hasn't said a peep and the cartel is strangely silent. I don't think anyone liked Julio very much and even fewer knew exactly what he was up to in the basement." They spoke in their own private language, message sent and received very different than the one uttered out loud. Ochoa didn't care. No one was going to come looking for Margarita. She was as safe as Natasha could make her. Don't ask stupid questions or rock the boat.
"What's the media reporting?" That was why he didn't want everyone to know; this wasn't the sort of thing Avengers should be involved in. Fury was going to be supremely pissed.
"That the Bogota Killer has been apprehended, thanks to the work of a local detective, and the killer died in the ensuing firefight. Much easier to manipulate the story when people are afraid of the cartel's reprisal. Plus, they're glad to be free of Julio; he terrorized them."
"A family trait, it seems." He closed his eyes for a second and Angela's face flashed before him, young and beautiful, eyes filled with tears for her sister.
"There he is! About time you woke up. I want to have a word with you." Tony entered the room with his usual swagger, sunglasses tucked in the collar of his black t-shirt. "I'm crushed … crushed! … that you didn't want to share with me. After all, I have certainly had my own youthful indiscretions."
"Tony. Mouth. Foot. Not the time," Steve admonished, coming in right behind him. "Clint, how are you?" He crossed over to the bed and put a hand on Clint's arm.
"You told Tony." Clint changed the subject before Steve could say anymore; Natasha caught his eye, but her face gave nothing away. So everyone believed Margarita was dead.
"Of course he told me. My damn systems; who else is going to get your ass inside and keep an eye on you?" Tony might have sounded like he was joking, but Clint could sense the hurt underneath. Yet another mistake to chalk up to Clint's stupidity.
"Yeah, well, as Tasha just reminded me, I'm an idiot. Have to make my quota of bad decisions for the month. I should have told you. I guess I was operating on old instinct; my first thought was not to tell anyone." He tried to shift and a sharp pain ran up to his hip, making him grimace.
"Guess I'm not one to talk about making knee-jerk decisions," Tony shrugged it off, but Clint could see the relief in the man's eyes. One thing Tony Stark understood was bad choices.
"Good thing there are people willing to put up with our shit, eh?" Clint winced as the I.V. pinched.
"Thought they had you on the good stuff?" The pump beeped while Tony was talking and the next dose was administered automatically. "Oh, good. Once you're all drugged up, I can ask anything I want."
The baby mewled and began to fidget, waving her little arm that had gotten free from her blanket. Steve's eyes lit up. "I'll get her." Steve was a big guy, but his hands were gentle and careful as he picked the baby up and snuggled her against his chest. "Hungry again? Let's get you something to eat."
The small bottles were sitting in a warmer. Deftly juggling the baby, he popped the top off of one and rubbed the nipple over her lips, squeezing drops into her mouth until she turned her head and latched on. Once she latched on, she settled into a rhythm, her sole focus getting the liquid into her stomach.
"You're good at that, Cap." Clint admired the way Steve was at ease.
"I used to babysit for the neighbors. I was home at lot, so I was around. " His wide smile and shining eyes were fixed solely on the baby. "Kids like me, what can I say?"
"Now isn't that sweet?" Clint asked Tony; Tony's face was almost worth the price of admission. Like a deer in the headlights, he stood frozen with nothing to say for a few seconds. His head starting to float, Clint saw Natasha surreptitiously videoing the scene.
"God, don't you start too. Pepper's been all adoption gung ho the last year since she started dating that singer." Tony shuddered. "Center of attention here, that's me – I don't need the competition."
"You'd be a good dad," Steve said calmly, jiggling the bottle a little when the baby slowed down. "Can imagine her bringing home a boy? You'd put the fear of God in him."
"No, that would be my job," Natasha said. "Tony would spoil a kid rotten."
"The Halloween costumes alone," Clint said, just the start of a slur in his speech as the medicine took effect. "She'd have her own suit by the time she could walk."
"Okay, enough. You're defenses should be down enough, so, Legolas, when's the wedding?" Tony went on the attack, turning the tables on Clint.
"How the hell do you know that?" Damn drugs; Clint couldn't stop his response from spilling out. "JARVIS wouldn't have told you. We never talked about it in the tower."
"I have my ways, Katniss, I have my ways. I know a good jeweler if you need a recommendation. The Big Guy will need a special size." Well, at least Tony didn't know everything, Clint thought as his vision started going fuzzy.
"Here, Tony," Steve said, interrupting. "Come hold her."
Good drugs. Yep. That's what they were. Clint couldn't think of any reason else for why his eyelids suddenly weighed a ton and wouldn't stay open.
"Oh, no, no, no." Tony held up his hands and backed away. "Help me out here, Clint."
"Mmph," Clint tried to say.
"Come on, Tony, you have a delicate touch," Steve was saying as Clint closed his eyes for just a second.
"… she's crying, Steve! What do I do …" Clint surfaced and saw Tony, holding her like she was spun glass, wincing at the sound of her crying then he went back under
"… there's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby. Somewhere, over the rainbow …" Who knew Steve had a nice voice? Clint let the timbre of the song about bluebirds lull him in unconsciousness.
"… noches, senor. Sacaste algo de descanso?" A woman's voice, slightly familiar, that Clint's confused brain couldn't place.
"Yes, thank you, Sister Michael." That voice got Clint to open his eyes. Figures came into focus: Bruce, standing by the bed, glasses perched on his nose, looking over the top of them and a woman in black … a nun … closer to the door, her face hidden by her wimple.
"It is time for la niña's bath and shots. I will bring her right back as always." She bobbed her head and stepped over to the bassinet. "Tu hombre is better. His chart shows he is healing."
"He's going to be fine." Bruce dropped a hand onto Clint's leg, rubbing lightly.
Sister Nina picked up the sleeping child gently, cradling her to her chest. Clint tried to bring her face into focus, but Bruce was in the way. The hairs on the back of his head began to stand up, warning bells going off.
"He was lucky you found him in time. The poison was almost to his heart," she asked. Bruce shifted to the left, tilting his head to look down at the baby, and Clint got his first clear look at Sister Michael. The face of a forty year old woman with kind eyes was flickering in and out, replaced with a long thin nose, sallow cheeks, an elongated chin and eyes that burned silver.
"Bruce." Clint coughed, his throat dry and scratchy. "She's not a nun."
Bruce turned and looked at Clint. "What's that?"
Sister Michael made a dash for the door, baby tucked in her arms. Head shooting up, Bruce growled, green flooding his skin as he ran after her; the Big Guy appeared in two steps, his bellow of rage alerting everyone in the building. Clint gathered his strength and jerked his left arm, IV yanked out as he sat up. Wearing nothing but a hospital gown, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, his left leg dragging across the sheets, calf still swollen and numb. Pushing off, he tried to stand and almost went down, only saving himself from face planting on the floor by grabbing onto the railing.
Shouts came from the hallway and the familiar thud of the Hulk's weight hitting concrete. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried to find his balance. He ran his hand under the two pillows – nice hospital issue – and he felt the comforting cold weight of the butt of a Walther PPK, Natasha's sense of humor. The cold tile chilled his bare feet; he had nowhere to tuck the gun, just the open back of the thin cotton, tied only at his neck. He made a few halting steps, his left knee popping backwards and shooting pain up to his hip then he heard gunshots; he gritted his teeth, hauled himself to the door and out in the hall.
Sister Michael, or the body that used to be her, was trapped between Tony and Natasha on one end of the hall and the Hulk. The baby was crying, woken from her nap and jostled around. No one was moving, the moment at a standoff; Clint staggered a couple more steps, stopping by the window that opened onto the courtyard.
"You can't take her," Clint managed to keep his voice steady. "The agreement is null and void now that Julio is dead."
"I'm afraid a deal, once done, cannot be undone." She smiled, and Clint could see a row of sharp, shiny teeth. "Gone or not, she was given to us and will be ours."
"See, here's the interesting part. Your knight said that he didn't need permission to take a host – although, as you can see, I took offense and kicked his ass back to wherever you're from – so you shouldn't need Julio at all. Unless, of course, children are different." Clint's legs were shaking but he was going to stay standing. "Here's what I think. She's not old enough to consent … which technically you're supposed to have from what I hear … and the party you made the contract with is unavailable."
"Do you know what you're doing?" Steve asked from behind him.
"Faeries make deals," Clint answered. "But they have to follow their rules."
"And she's ours, free and clear," Sister Michael said. "Signed and sealed."
"Faeries? Like Tinkerbell, clap your hands, and shit?" Tony asked, his voice filtered through his faceplate.
"More like the Irish stories, the summer and winter courts. Where Tolkien got the idea of his elves." Clint was nearing the end of his strength. "Give her back and we might let you live, if just for information."
The laughter didn't fit with the nun package. "You won't hurt me, just this body and the child."
"Can you break off some of those bars?" Clint spoke to Steve, nodding to the wrought iron decorative scrollwork covering the window. "Strange, but even though Tony's called Iron Man, his suit is really not made out of iron. Pass those around, will you, Steve?"
"This only buys you a little time. We'll be coming for her," Sister Michael warned.
"And we'll be right here, waiting for you," Clint promised. Steve had an iron rod and he gave one to Phil. "Hand her over, nice and easy."
"You're wide open, Little Hawk. I might not be able to take you, but I can hurt you."
She threw the baby in the air and sent a bolt of light slamming into Clint; skidding on his ass, he tumbled backwards, pain exploding in his head. The Hulk roared and lunged at her, but she dodged to the side. Curling his body up tight, protecting his cast against his stomach, Clint struggled to follow the action through the waves of agony that cascaded through him. He squinted his eyes, tears pouring from the corners, and watched as both Steve and Phil hefted their iron bars and tried to surround her. Screams from the baby assaulted his ears and pierced into the fire that engulfed his brain. He could barely make out the dark form that slipped out of the nun's body, leaving it to collapse on the floor; Steve caught the shape with one swing and it disintegrated, blown into a million parts that floated up and out of the building. The pain stopped the second Steve's iron broke the creature apart; nausea rolled in his stomach but Clint pushed it back down.
The Big Guy sat in the middle of the hallway, hands cupped, rocking back and forth and humming a song from The Little Mermaid. Cradled in his palms, the baby blinked and started to drift off, soothed by the music and the vibration.
"Good catch, Jolly Green," Tony said, slapping the Hulk on the bicep.
"Shhhhh!" The Hulk hissed back. "Baby sleeping." Tony's visor flipped open and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Let me help you," Steve said, slipping his hands under Clint's arms. "Can you get up?"
"I'm fine here, thanks." His arm was throbbing and his head spinning, the cold of the tile floor a good feeling.
"Much as I enjoy your naked ass," Tony said in a stage whisper. "You should probably cover the family jewels; you're scaring the nuns."
