Special thanks to the folks over at The Beta Branch for going over the story with a fine tooth comb, and all the readers who have stayed with the story for so long. You guys are awesome!
Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended.
Stark Tower Infirmary…
Arrow was the first to notice. He began to whine, his tail wagging wildly as he tried to sit up. After nearly falling off of the bed in his excitement, the large dog finally settled in one spot, yipping.
"Agent Romanoff, I am detecting that Agent Barton is regaining consciousness," Jarvis reported. "All vital signs are returning to normal parameters."
Natasha looked up from her book, tilting her head to one side. Her eyes widened as she watched her partner shift. Focusing on the archer, she stood to take a closer look, hoping to see his eyes open at last.
Clint blinked rapidly, trying to clear the grit from his eyes. With a groan, he reached up and rubbed at his eyelids, wiping at the corners. As his eyes focused, they seemed to settle on the large, ridiculous stuffed hamster that Tony had plopped on the table next to Clint.
To be fair, she had warned Tony that it was a bad idea.
His eyes widened. Scrambling backwards, he tried to scoot himself as far into the bed and away from the doll as possible as he gasped in alarm. She sighed inwardly; Clint and most of the other agents were still a bit squeamish about rodents after the Coffee Pot Incident. At least it wasn't a zombie plushie, she thought.
"Clint?" Natasha asked, throwing her book back onto the chair and moving quickly to his side. She swept the doll off of the table before holding her arms out in a placating gesture. "Take it easy – it's just a toy."
He settled slightly as she spoke, still watching the hamster warily until he was satisfied that it wasn't going to move. She shooed Arrow off of the bed before taking his place next to the archer, who began glancing around nervously, obviously not recognizing where he was. From what Natasha knew, he had never been past the front exam rooms in the Tower Infirmary, much less woken up in it.
"Calm down, Clint," she ordered gently, taking his hand and holding it firmly. "You're safe. We're in Stark's infirmary, back in Manhattan. Jarvis, please don't send out the alert until he's calmed down?"
"As you wish, Agent Romanoff," Jarvis replied dutifully.
"Safe?" Clint replied, breathing heavily as he sank back into the pillows behind him. He held a hand up, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. "You're okay? Jasper? Everyone –"
"They're fine," Natasha replied, smiling slightly. "Jasper's arm is laid up, and there were a couple members of the strike teams who've been in the ICU, but they're coming out of it fine. They're using the VitaStim on them, and the agents are responding well."
Arrow rose onto his hind legs, placing his paws on the bed again and nosing at the archer. He began licking Clint's face excitedly, dodging the archer's attempt to fend him off gently. "Ugh - get off me, you big lug! Aw – keep the drool to yourself…"
Natasha's eyes widened again as she heard a sound that she hadn't heard from Clint since his family had died: pure, unfettered laughter. It came out as a harsh, scratchy chuckle, almost as if he had forgotten how, and grew until it was a full, roaring laugh. As he managed to fend off the German Shepherd, he seemed to realize he was holding something.
Looking at his hand, Natasha noticed it was clutched tightly in a fist.
Opening his hand slowly, he revealed a tiny, violet arrowhead, formed from a translucent crystal approximately the size of a dime. He gave her a surprised look. The small item nearly glowed in the light, most likely from some sort of refraction. "What the hell? That was supposed to be a dream."
"It's beautiful," Natasha commented with a smile. "Where did you get it?"
"My dream," he replied unsteadily. "At least, I think it was a dream. Selvig was there, Phil was there, Mama Gia…I shit you not, I am never watching the Wizard of Oz again."
"Dr. Selvig mentioned having an odd dream the other day – maybe we need to talk to him about it."
"Maybe," Clint replied. He curled his fingers under the edge of the quilted blanket draped over him, looking at it curiously. "This is new."
"Kathleen brought it with her after they started visiting. She thought you could use something comfortable to keep you warm."
He nodded numbly.
"Let me call the doctor," she said, reaching for her phone. "He needs to know you're awake."
Clint gave her a slightly panicked look. "Who –"
"Just Dr. Osterhouse and the head of the Infirmary here. Dr. Osterhouse is primary, so he won't let anything happen," the redhead soothed, patting his hand.
The archer relaxed at the mention of his physician's name. Clint had had severe iatrophobia and dentophobia as long as she had known him; she had to admit she admired the way Dr. Osterhouse had gently worked his way into Clint's trust. Osterhouse was probably the only physician that could risk getting near her partner when he was disoriented or spooked. The man had the patience of a saint.
As they waited, Clint continued to hold on to her hand; it was as if he was afraid she would disappear, or perhaps that he would if he released his grip. Arrow yipped on occasion, nosing under the bed until he had retrieved his quarry. The dog laid it down on the bed next to Clint's arm, his tail wagging wildly.
"What the…" Clint looked down at the bottle in confusion. It appeared to be a bottle of fancy soda, its label chewed until it was barely recognizable. He looked back up at Natasha, his brow furrowed. "Tasha?"
She couldn't help but chuckle. "He stole it from one of the security team. I think it's a get well present, or something. Maybe he thought you'd wake up if he brought you a beer."
"Uh, thanks buddy." He picked the bottle up between his thumb and forefinger, giving the dog a weak smile. Setting it gently on the table, he grimaced and wiped his hands with a napkin. "So, uh, how long was I out?"
"Counting the time you were infected? Just shy of three weeks."
His eyes grew wide. "T-three weeks? But…what…ah…"
"Relax, Clint – we don't want you to relapse." She brushed a hair off of her shirt as she continued. "After you were infected, Bruce brought you to a remote location and started decontamination. Afterwards, Tony, Thor and Colonel Rhodes brought you to a military hospital. They had you quarantined until Thor could get back with a healer."
"The elves," he murmured.
Natasha blinked in surprise. "Actually, yes – elves. How did you know?"
"Dr. Selvig told me," the archer replied with a shrug. His gaze intensified. "I told you, he was there. In the dream. He…he saved me when I was about to give up. Jesus, Nat – I don't think I would have made it out if he hadn't been there to catch me."
Her expression grew carefully blank.
Clint surprised her by sitting up and pulling her into a hug. "Oh, God, Tasha – I would've given up if I hadn't heard the voices. Cap, Tony, Fury, everyone. You. Have you really been here the entire time?"
"Of course I was, you idiot. I'll always be there," Natasha told him, holding him tightly. She broke off the hug and slapped him upside the head. Her voice broke slightly. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," a gravelly voice said from the doorway. Dr. Osterhouse entered the room, clipboard in hand and with his ever-present smile. "I'm glad to see you upright, Agent Barton."
With a quick wave, the physician shooed the excited dog further away from the bed and helped Clint sit up further. Pressing a control on the bed, he reached out with another hand to begin taking vital measurements as the bed slid into position. In a practiced move, he gently swatted Clint's right hand as it reached out to fiddle with the IV as a nurse wearing scrubs with an "SI" logo joined them. She handed the doctor the thick chart hanging from the wall.
"Must you do that every time?" Dr. Osterhouse scolded. He pulled up Clint's chart and began to flip through the pages. "Like a damn child, I swear. Nurse, would you please page Mr. Curtis?"
As the physician began examining Clint, Tony and Pepper appeared in the hallway. They were talking excitedly amongst themselves as they strode quickly towards the room. The inventor's shirt was still stained with grease from his current project while Pepper's immaculate suit and small briefcase suggested she had probably just left a board meeting.
"He's awake?" Tony asked, giving Natasha a grin. "It had to be the Teletubbies. I knew it!"
"Stark, If I start singing 'tra la la' or some other goofy shit because you played that mind-bending excuse for a kid's show while I was asleep, you're gonna regret it," Clint warned. He pointed at the fallen plushie. "It's bad enough the first thing I saw was that."
"What's wrong with the hamster?" Tony asked innocently.
"I don't even know what it's supposed to symbolize, Tony!"
"Oh, come on. " The billionaire pantomimed a slashing motion in the air. "You know? 'Go for the eyes, Boo!' You know – Baldur's Gate?"
Clint gave him a blank look.
Tony wilted. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. I mean, I know you live under a rock when it comes to entertainment, but that is just sad."
"Stark?" Natasha asked sweetly.
"Yes, my dear?"
"Drop it."
The inventor threw up his hands in frustration. "Philistines. You all have no sense of humor. Bruce would've gotten the joke!"
"Bruce is also up in his apartment," Pepper admonished. "Getting some badly needed rest. As should you, Tony."
"But there's no time for rest now!" Tony whined. "We've got things to do…government officials to oust…you know how it is!"
A short time later, Coulson approached at a brisk pace, a tablet in his hands and a relieved expression on his face. He moved past Natasha and Tony, typing quickly. Nodding at Dr. Osterhouse in greeting, he looked over at Clint, who winced as the nurse finished taping a cotton ball over his inner elbow.
Natasha was still surprised her partner had enough blood left, considering how many samples had been taken throughout the last couple of weeks.
"Glad to see you're awake, Agent Barton," Coulson greeted with a smile. "We've asked your family if they could hold off visiting until morning so that we can have time to debrief and let the doctor run what tests he needs. I know you'd rather have your visit uninterrupted. May I borrow your comm channel, Mr. Stark? Also, we need to keep this to SHIELD personnel only, but it shouldn't take too long."
Tony shrugged as he and Pepper stepped out of the room. "Knock yourself out."
"We'll need to shut the door," the agent replied with a nod. "Jarvis, I'm requesting a teleconference channel, set to parameter five-four-niner. Entering biometric security code now."
"Authorization granted, Agent Coulson. Preset communication parameters established. Setting observation mode to passive," Jarvis reported as a split screen appeared on the large television mounted on the wall. "Please report when your call is completed so that normal security parameters can be re-established."
Natasha closed the door, locking it afterwards. She turned back to Coulson. "We're good."
Coulson pressed a control on the tablet. Seconds later, the faces of Deputy Director Hill, Sitwell and Princese appeared, Maria's on the left, and the others on the right. The young man's window wobbled unsteadily as he chewed a lip nervously. Natasha was heartened to see Sitwell up and around, albeit wearing a sling.
"Oh, give me that." Sitwell sounded distinctly grumpy, holding what was presumably another tablet in front of him. The picture settled as the agent propped it up on a more stable platform. "Good to go, Coulson."
Natasha watched Clint focus on the screen. His eyes widened as he finally realized what they were probably setting up the meeting for.
"Deputy Director Hill, this meeting has been called together to rescind the Code Tango Seven Protocol enabled by Agent Clint Francis Barton, code-named Hawkeye, SHIELD Identification Number Sierra-Foxtrot-Oscar-One-Two-Alpha," Coulson announced formally. "Personnel present are as follows…"
As the older agent continued to read off the names of the other agents present, Natasha watched the young man on the other screen fidget anxiously whenever he met her gaze. She knew he was afraid; most of the younger agents had an irrational fear of harming either her or Clint in the event the other would come looking for retribution. It wasn't that much of a stretch, especially when one took into account Clint's history.
"At this time, do all parties acknowledge that they are currently under no duress at the time of this meeting?" Coulson continued, citing the rest of the formal introduction. All of the agents acknowledged quickly. "Let the record show that all parties are present and accounted for, and under no duress in the manner of response. Agent Barton, your cancellation code please?"
"Agent Clint Barton, authorization seven-twelve-alpha," Clint reported tiredly, "hereby ordering cancellation of the Code Tango Seven protocol on grounds that I am no longer compromised and deem myself no further threat to SHIELD or its affiliated protectorates. Cancellation code is 'Ni.'"
Natasha smirked as she witnessed the rest of the group nearly choke. She could hear Sitwell's poor attempt to hide a snicker. Coulson gave Clint a scathing look as the archer shrugged sheepishly.
"'Ni,' Barton?" Coulson replied with an air of annoyance. "Really?"
"What? I had just watched The Holy Grail again," Clint replied with a shrug. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Would you prefer that I asked for the air-speed velocity of an African Swallow?" The archer paused for a moment as he considered something. "Damn – I could've gone for the damn Parrot routine if I'd thought about it."
The older agent sighed, turning to the screen. "Agent Princese, your countersign please?"
"Countersign is 'I bring thee a shrubbery,'" Princese replied, his face completely serious. The younger man seemed to be confused; Natasha suspected he hadn't been exposed to Monty Python yet.
"Cancellation code and countersign are both confirmed," Director Hill reported dutifully, her face neutral. "Code Tango Seven Protocol is hereby rescinded."
That explains why Hill was in the teleconference instead of Fury, Natasha thought. Procedure for cancelling the Code Tango Seven protocol required not only the presence of the initiator and the designated proxy (if one had been pre-determined), but also witnesses for each party who could verify that the command was being voluntarily retracted, as well as a high-level neutral party who could confirm and authenticate both codes before lifting the protocol against the initiator.
While Hill and Barton rarely saw eye to eye with each other outside of certain missions, the Deputy Director was known for sticking to protocol, and was a stubborn enough woman to not let anyone railroad her into deviating from something this important. Maria had been a good choice.
Later that night…
Nick Fury watched as the Chaplain exited the infirmary room, closing the door behind him. He sighed quietly, shifting the stack of folders held in his grip. The psychologist nodded in greeting as the spymaster approached.
"How is he looking, Chaplain?" Fury asked.
The other man grimaced, closing his notebook. "As well as he could be, considering the circumstances. He's just had a major shock, Director. I won't discuss the details, but whatever happened in his head, it wasn't pretty. I'd like to re-visit bi-weekly sessions for a while, until I'm certain he's stable. I can't sign off on Agent Barton returning to the field, sir – not when we've just experienced what was essentially a pre-planned suicide attempt. He had his own execution completely planned, Director – the only variable was the time and place."
The Chaplain had been one of the primary objectors to the Code Tango Seven Protocol ever since he had been read in on the Level Seven procedures, back when his clearance had been raised to keep in line with Barton's. As long as the therapist proved trustworthy, it wasn't uncommon to raise a therapist's clearance level to match their patients or for them to treat select-level individuals in order to allow the patient freedom to talk about whatever they needed to. Curtis was one of three who were authorized Level Seven counselors.
"Understood," Fury replied with a nod. "I've already put in the paperwork for Agent Barton to be put on medical stand down until further notice. At the very least, we need to know exactly what's happened here. Dr. Osterhouse is still going over his body scans, so we'll have an analysis ready within a couple of days. How is his mental state? Any signs of his PTSD kicking in or any other changes we should be worried about?"
"Oh, he's quite lucid," the Chaplain replied. "Even more so than I expected. I don't pretend to understand what that potion did to him, but it's affected him greatly. I think that most people who've been through what he has would be a blubbering mess, Director. Agent Barton just…seems a little lost."
"How lost?" the spymaster queried, frowning. "We're not talking flashbacks again, are we?"
Curtis shook his head in disbelief. "He started asking some questions that I'd never expect. Theological questions, sir. I believe we've finally hit Stage Five at last... acceptance. He…he actually cried, Nick. It was like he just had to vent a little."
Fury nodded. They had suspected that Barton had been bouncing around the other "stages of grief" since he had lost his family, unable to truly cope with the loss. Barton had dealt with it the only way he knew how: he had buried and compartmentalized the pain until he could function again. It was a hazard of their line of work, one that Fury himself knew well.
"Whatever happened," Curtis continued, "I believe he's at least come to terms with the loss of his wife and children. Somehow, he's gotten closure. It's an incredible step forward."
"So, what you're saying is that this elf voodoo actually helped?"
"If you wish to refer to it so crudely, yes."
Fury snorted lightly in amusement before shifting uncomfortably. "Get it written up. I'd like a full report, as well as a complete psych workup. I've got to have a talk with him and break some more bad news, so keep your phone handy. I need to know if this alien Prozac'll have any lasting effects, good or bad."
Curtis gave him an exasperated look. "Director, we've just gotten out of a four hour session. If you're going to traumatize the man further, can't you give him more time to recuperate?"
"I would love to, but I'd rather we do this now. He won't appreciate me putting it off any longer just so he can take another nap."
"Damn it, sir – you can't just go in there and undo the progress we've made," the therapist snapped, glaring at the spymaster. "If he is stressed out even more than he already is, there could be irreparable damage."
"We both know he's stronger than that," Fury countered, arching an eyebrow. "If I hold off on this talk, and give him time to recover, do you think it's fair to hit him with another gut punch, or do you think it's better to get it all over with and pick up the pieces afterwards? You know the man as well as I do – you tell me."
"This goes against every instinct I have as a psychologist, Director."
Fury's expression shifted, softening his hard stare. "I made him a promise, Mitch. Right before we began all this crap on Rockhurst. I swore that he and I would talk about everything, and after all he's done, I at least owe him some answers."
"Your damn promise won't mean squat if it breaks him," Curtis argued. "You know he'll fight any medication we try to give him to deal with anxiety, and we still don't know what this elf medicine did physically. He's worked out most of his anxiety – if you go in there and bring up things that he's gotten past, you could undo some, if not all of the progress we've made ever since you brought me on as his therapist. Do you really want to see that happen?"
"If that elf medicine has given him this much progress," Fury countered, "then he should be fine with this as well. I think you're underestimating him, and you know how well that tends to work out."
Curtis snorted. "The last thing I would ever do is underestimate that man, Director, and you know it."
"Good. Now, I was going to suggest that you stay on call for the night to be on the safe side. Your objections are noted, but like it or not, this is information he needs to know."
"I suppose you'll just wait until I leave to talk to him anyway," the psychologist replied with an annoyed tone. He seemed to ponder another thought before fixing Fury with a glare. "I'll stick around while you 'chat.' Unless there's something I'm not cleared for in that folder, I'd rather be present in the event he has another meltdown."
"Thank you."
"Oh, don't thank me yet," the therapist snapped. "Let me make this clear. This is not going to be a one-way discussion like your usual briefings and bitch sessions. If you're going to insist on having a disastrous personal discussion, this may be the perfect time for Agent Barton to air some grievances that he's been holding in. He really does need to vent more."
The spymaster nodded. "Fair enough."
"If you go in there, you will let him talk. There'll be none of this 'I'm your boss so hold your tongue' bullshit, sir. Say your piece if you want, but if you do anything to cause a meltdown or to warrant intervention, you are out of there. I will throw you out myself. Are we clear, Director?"
"Like crystal."
"Good. Let's get this over with."
Fury sighed, but motioned him back into the room. The Chaplain gave Clint a wan smile, and took a seat in one of the chairs in the corner of the room. The large German Shepherd sat up, having reclaimed his place on the bed, his ears facing forward in interest. Steeling himself, Fury entered and shut the door behind him.
As Clint watched the one-eyed man pull up a chair next to the bed, he frowned. Torn between anger and relief, he wasn't quite sure how to respond and kept his expression carefully neutral. "Nick."
"Clint." The spymaster set a small pile of folders on the table next to Clint. "We need to have a long over-due talk."
"You don't say," the archer replied dryly. "Is this the part where you admit you've been lying to me since the day we met?"
Fury arched an eyebrow. "Feel free to elaborate."
"The kids. Flynn." Clint fixed his superior with a cold glare. "They've been alive the whole time, haven't they? They're the Twins from Sitwell's team, right?"
The spymaster let out a long breath, starting and stopping his words as he searched for the best way to explain. Clint knew the question had most likely derailed any pre-planned speeches the other man may have had. He watched the Director closely, searching for any signs that the man was lying.
"We had to put them into Witness Relocation," Fury replied finally, leaning back tiredly in his chair. "You know what that entails. Complete erasure of any previous identities – they had to disappear. Ross' contact on the Council was already watching you like a hawk, whether or not you realized it at the time. You've always been on their watch list - ever since you cleaned up the Project Red crew."
Clint snorted in derision, knowing the statement was true enough.
Fury's voice softened as he continued. "Director Owens and I felt it would be better if both parties thought the other was dead – that way, you wouldn't reveal each other and paint a target on any of your heads if you decided to go public. The Council would never have let that happen, Clint. You know that."
"Didn't you think that we'd be smarter than that?" Clint countered angrily. "What the fuck, Nick? Are we five, all of a sudden? I spent a God-damned year hunting those bastards down, and did I ever once go to the press? I had enough intel to blow that shit wide open, and what the fuck do you think I did with it? I gave it to you, Nick. Because I trusted you to do the right thing. I guess that was misplaced, right?"
"Don't go making assumptions like that –"
"How long have you known?"
"Pardon?"
"How long. Have. You. Known," Clint enunciated frostily. "How long have you known it was them?"
Fury gave him a pinched look as he shifted in his chair again. "Your merry little band of misfits. I get what motivated them to follow your lead and assault a mother-fucking Helicarrier. Chavez felt he owed you a debt. Oyuki and Reagan, they were in it for the money, each for their own reasons. The Twins, however, I didn't get. They had no special connection, no outstanding bills, and no ties to you whatsoever."
His shoulders sagged slightly. "Until this mission, they were just ghosts in the system. I had Intel do what digging they could, and they came up with bupkis. Your friend took those boys and he just vanished, even from our watch. I didn't realize who they were until one of 'em got bit and they finally admitted they had been on Gallicus. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. They came out of hiding to find you, Clint."
"Why didn't they say anything sooner?"
Fury shrugged. "Hell if I know. That's between you and them."
The archer lowered his eyes, his hand burying itself in Arrow's neck scruff. The dog whined, pawing at the sheet. Trying to keep his breathing even, Clint focused on his control exercises that he had been taught by the Chaplain, who was currently watching him with concern.
"Was it a punishment?" Clint asked quietly, giving Fury a stricken look. "Damn it, Nick. I lost my squad and a shitload of fellow operators from different service branches. Hell, I had to put down half of them. I killed my own men, sir. I watched, unable to do anything, while the last three people who meant anything in the world to me were apparently blown out of the sky."
"Clint –" the Director began, until a gesture from the Chaplain cut his words off.
"You put me in therapy when I joined SHIELD because you thought it would help me deal with what happened on that island," Clint continued icily. "Don't you think it would have helped me deal with it better, knowing that I hadn't gotten my best friend and two little kids killed? Do you know how long I've thought that it was all my fault? That if I had been just a little faster, or a little stronger, I might have saved them?"
Fury watched him, stunned. He had never been privy to Clint and the Chaplain's conversations, as the psychologist guarded patient confidentiality with the same ruthlessness that he guarded the sanctity of Confession. He kicked himself internally for being so blind; he had tried to get to the root of the man's inferiority issues for the last eighteen years, with little success.
"Clint," the spymaster said firmly. "I've always told you that you weren't responsible for what happened."
"Bullshit. Just because you claim it's one way doesn't mean that I won't take it another," Clint replied with a defeated laugh. "You know me – I'm hardwired to take the blame. Call it a product of my stellar upbringing. So, if I wasn't being punished, what was it, then? So you could control me – your asset? Bind the tool even tighter to SHIELD?"
"You know that's not true," Fury snapped, irritation showing on his face. "I was trying to save your stubborn ass, damn it. You were headed straight for a damned firing squad, and that would've been a fucking waste of a human being. I have never seen you as a tool, Barton. You're a human being, no matter how often you act like a damn jackass."
Clint's eyes narrowed. "How the fuck am I supposed to believe that? I let you into my home…into my life. I call you my friend – hell, I named you the godfather to my kids! How the hell am I supposed to keep trusting you, when you lied to me from the start? Were you ever sincere about anything?"
The archer watched as Fury froze, stunned by his words. The one-eyed man's expression grew still as he pulled a picture out of his coat. He held it limply, finally turning it around to face Clint.
It was a photo of the kids. His kids.
"Laura gave it to me," Fury explained. "Right after Callum's birthday, about a month before they were killed. She thought I needed more 'personal reminders' or some shit like that. I've kept it with me ever since. Get mad at me all you want, Clint, but don't you ever question the fact that I do care about you, and damn it – I loved those rugrats too."
Clint watched him warily; so far, the man seemed to be sincere. He could almost detect a hint of a tear as Fury's voice choked up slightly. But only slightly.
"You weren't the only one that lost a family that day," the spymaster continued. "There are very few people that I can even consider myself close to – Coulson, you…Laura and the kids. You're all the family that I've got, so don't you dare try to say that anything I did or said was insincere."
Clint lowered his eyes, still seething.
"I know I messed up, Clint," Fury admitted finally. "Director Owens may have made the initial call to tell you that Flynn and the boys were gone, but I made the call to let you go on believing it after I took over. That's on me. I'm sorry, Hawkeye. I never imagined it would affect you this much."
"So…why tell me now?" the archer asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on.
"When we talked on the balcony, when I told you about the Rockhurst mission, I told you we would talk." The Director gestured around him. "Well, this is me talkin.' Besides, have you ever been read the riot act by Captain fucking America? He just pushed up the timetable on the nice little calm chat I had initially planned."
Clint couldn't help but chuckle. While he hadn't yet been on the receiving end of one of Steve's lectures, he knew the man could be intimidating when he needed to be. Beneath the apple pie demeanor was a soldier, after all. "I'll have to ask him about that later."
"There's more to it than just the part about Flynn and the boys," Fury told him guiltily. "We've kept other things from you. Not much, but…enough that we were afraid it would set you off again."
He handed Clint the top set of folders. As the archer opened the first one, he found his own face staring back at him from a profile sheet. Scanning the pages quickly, he paled.
"One of the reasons we've kept this shit from you was that you're a damn witness yourself," Fury explained, his voice resigned. "You asked once why I came to recruit you. Owens and I were trying to protect you. You're one of the only survivors of the Super-soldier Project – the only one aside from Cap that wasn't turned into a monster or a nut-job."
Clint arched an eyebrow, turning his head and indicated his therapist. Arrow took that moment to yip, reminding them of his existence. The archer gave him a quick pat as he turned back to Fury; people tended to forget that Arrow had been a last ditch effort utilizing "animal-assisted therapy."
The spymaster rolled his eye. "How many times have I told you – it's technically anger management. You've got the worst passive-aggressive tendencies I've seen besides Dr. Banner."
"I was an angry kid. I grew up to be an angry adult." Clint wound his hand into Arrow's fur, taking comfort in the animal's presence. "So why did you recruit me? According to this file, they failed. They didn't even get to the fun part with lots of needles, shiny blue liquid, and the tanning booth from hell. All I had left was my training after they took my vision. Well, part of it."
Clint held his head as memories flashed through his head as he read each document. Men and women in white coats, the light reflecting off of scalpels…there had been needles. Lots and lots of needles. The sensation of being unable to stand or walk, with every nerve on fire.
He began to remember it all. It was as if a dam had burst; memories poured in, triggered by each word and picture as he read. When they had recovered him from Gallicus, he had been helpless, thanks to the nerve gas. Even the scavenged Atropine he had injected himself with hadn't been enough to counter its effects, and all he had been able to do was sit on the ground, convulsing and puking his guts out.
The time he had spent in the Program's "tender care" had been full of pain. Every cut, every bruise from the cruel guards, every excruciating moment of physical therapy as they flushed the nerve toxin from his system and forced him to re-learn how to move properly again. They couldn't get the results they had wanted if he was paralyzed, after all.
The archer had thought at the time that he was being punished for failing to save his friends and fellow operators, but now…it just pissed him off.
"Clint." He looked up to find Fury watching him with concern. "You okay?"
Curtis stood, preparing to walk over to the bed. "I think we need to call it –"
"I'm fine," Clint replied, waving the counselor off.
"You had Army training and a string of dead bodies that took a year for us to figure out what we were dealing with," Fury continued, giving him a pained look. "It's like I said- the Council was watching you carefully, so we had to sell them on the idea that your…skill-set…would come in handy. You've proven us correct in so many ways that they can't argue that we were right. They're right to be afraid."
"I don't understand," Clint nearly whispered. "If they think I'm so dangerous, why didn't they neutralize me? Take me out before I could do any more harm?"
"You've heard the term 'checks and balances,' right?"
"Yeah. It was part of my GED material."
Fury nodded. "You always ask how they get Ross to do their dirty work. How he gets away with half the shit he does. Well, being the Council's toady for their more discrete projects comes with some advantages, but it also comes with a price. He knows enough about certain black projects to keep the Council on their toes and to have some bargaining room."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"Think about it," the spymaster scoffed. "You're the only one aside from the Hulk that's dared to go after him. If Fulco hadn't stopped you, you would've taken Ross out. You, Hawkeye, are their leverage. One phone call from the Council and he's history…and Ross knows it. You're their bogeyman."
Clint quieted for a time, closing the folder and taking a deep breath. "Ross."
"What about him?"
"He ordered it. I…I should have finished it. I should have taken that bastard out," Clint snarled. "Damn it, I should have ignored the Colonel. I should have finished it. If I had, maybe…"
"Maybe what?" Fury asked curtly. "The man's connected, Hawk. Killing him wouldn't have done anything but paint a bigger target on your head."
"How many?" Clint asked, his brow furrowing as he ran the numbers. He had followed the General's "career" ever since he had joined SHIELD, though he didn't have all of the details. Take Bruce for example; that incident had happened near the time Clint had just lost his family, and Ross had been the furthest thing from his mind. Maybe he should have been wondering why it was so easy to get the information in the first place.
"Now, Clint –" the spymaster warned.
Clint turned back to Fury with a stricken expression. "Oh God – if I had only taken him out, maybe Bruce wouldn't have gone through with his experiment…he wouldn't have had the…the accident. How many others has Ross fucked over?"
"We went over this the first time, when you got assigned to Banner's surveillance detail," Fury sighed. "We both know that Dr. Banner is an adult who can make his own decisions, and his own mistakes. If it wasn't Ross pulling his strings on the project, well…it may have been someone else. For all we know, the accident was just bad luck and part of the grand scheme of things."
They sat in silence while Clint finished looking through the other files. Finally, the archer leaned back into his pillows, an exhausted and drained look on his face as he let out a slow breath. There were things mentioned in them that he had thought had been a dream, or a hallucination. To finally know the entire truth both settled and disturbed him.
"I…I need some time to think about this," he finally said, unable to look at the man he had counted as his oldest friend until today. "I need some time."
Fury gave a nod in acknowledgement, his lips forming the small frown that Clint had come to learn was sadness coming from the other man. He stood, taking the folders that the archer held out before turning towards the door. "We'll talk more if you want. You've got my number."
"Yeah. Mitch, can you, uh, stay? Please?" Clint asked quietly as the therapist stood to leave. The older man nodded, giving him a sad smile as he moved to the chair that Fury had vacated. "Oh, and Nick?"
Fury turned around. "Hm?"
"I can forgive lying when it's needed. When there's absolutely no choice. We all lie in order to do this job, whether we like it or not. But…don't ever try to help me like that again." Clint looked back at him with an expression normally reserved for his targets; he watched as the spymaster shifted his stance uncomfortably under the calculating gaze. "If I find out that you've lied to me again about anything else this big…you'll find out just how bad my anger management issues can get."
The spymaster flinched, but gave him a nod of agreement. "You've got my word."
Clint watched the other man retreat from the room, and turned back to the Chaplain. The older man gave him a sympathetic look, as if giving him permission. Tears began to escape as his face fell into his hands. "Mitch…I…"
"Don't worry, your reputation is safe with me," the Chaplain replied with a hint of cheerfulness. His voice softened. "You've just had a major emotional blow, Clint. It's enough to make any man cry. You need to let it out before it eats you alive. It's how we let off steam and cope with things we can't just ignore. You've held back so much over the last twenty years. Let it out – Arrow and I are here to watch your back."
Clint nodded, letting the tears fall again as he held on to Arrow tightly. The therapist patted his shoulder gently, reassuring the archer with his presence. The dog whined, licking Clint's face in an effort to comfort him.
"Mr. Jarvis," the therapist asked quietly, looking up at the ceiling awkwardly. "This isn't a good time for interruptions. Can you please see to it that we're not disturbed for the rest of the evening? If the doctor needs to enter, please have him page me first."
"Very well, sir."
Stark Tower Infirmary, the next morning…
"Look who's awake!" Kathleen announced from the hallway, opening the door. She stood to the side, allowing four grinning children to enter the room. "Now, kids – take it easy on your uncle. He's still recovering."
"Uncle Clint!" the children cried, jogging over to the bed. "You're okay!"
"Hey, you guys – not so rough," Clint replied with an equally wide smile. They began chattering at him at once, asking how he was and if he was going to be alright.
Natasha watched with a smile from her seat near the window. Phil and Kathleen entered, showing amusement as they watched the reunion. Maggie crawled up into the bed, hugging Clint tightly; she had been only a year old when he had vanished from their lives, but she had taken to him the most when he had reunited with them a year ago. The seven year old had tears in her eyes.
"Hey," Phil greeted, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. "How ya feelin'?"
"God, I'm starving," Clint replied. "I could use a cheeseburger. Or a chili dog. Ugh, maybe a pizza…"
They laughed as they watched his faraway look. Natasha, however, looked at her partner in surprise. Pulling out her phone, she typed a quick message to the doctor. "Jarvis?"
"The order has been placed," the AI replied.
"Thank you." Standing up, she looked over to Clint. "I'll give you some time."
As she left, the archer looked over at his in-laws. Kathleen was holding a trio of silver balloons, which she tied to the bed railing. Phil leaned against the nearby wall, waiting for the kids to finish recounting their recent stories from school.
"I'm so glad you're finally up and around," Kathleen said, her hands fumbling with a hem on her shirt nervously. "Natalie, she um, said it was a pretty close one."
Clint grimaced. "Slightly, uh, worse than usual. I guess."
"Well, we're glad that you're home safe now." She gave him a pleading look, lowering her voice. "Now, Clint, I know that your work is important, but…the kids, Phil, and I – we're worried for you. This isn't like Phil going to work and possibly having a bad run-in with a perp. I can't imagine the kind of things that you run into, but if it's anything like last year's battle…"
"Kathleen," Phil warned. "Ease up on the guy."
"But Phil, you know it's true –"
"It's okay, Phil," Clint said. He looked at Kathleen. "I appreciate your concern, Kathleen. I'm…really touched. You all are my family – I know it's natural for you to think the worse can happen. But you gotta realize that I've got a team watching my back – a damn good team. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them, or you for that matter."
She blinked back tears and gave him a wan smile. "O-okay. Just, be more careful, you know?"
"You got it," Clint replied. He lifted up part of the quilt. "So, uh, Nat said you brought this for me?"
"That we did." Kathleen beckoned for her daughter, who ran over to her side. She put an arm around the girl, pulling her close. "We made it for you, didn't we, Maggie?"
"Yep! I got to help!" Maggie chirped, bouncing in excitement.
"We figured that with your current, um, occupation," the woman replied, "you might need something nice if you get laid up. Or, for those nights when you want to curl up on the couch with a book or something. I know you've still got that enormous collection!"
"I brought some of them from the house, but yeah – I'm still collecting, I guess. Thank you for the blanket, you two. I love it," he replied with a grin, enjoying the joyous look on his niece's face at the praise.
After a short time, Kathleen shooed the kids out, giving Phil and Clint time to talk alone. Phil moved to a chair, letting out a nervous breath as he sat down. Clint moved to a sitting position, turning his neck slightly to try to get rid of the kinks.
Standing up carefully, he moved the bed tray out of his path and staggered towards the sink, swaying slightly as he found himself slightly off balance. Thankfully, he had been able to change into a set of lounge clothes – meeting his relatives while dressed in a drafty hospital gown would have been embarrassing. He flicked the handle, scrubbing his face slightly and frowning as he noticed the hollowness in his cheeks. "Damn."
"Three weeks on some IV vitamin crap'll do that to you," Phil commented as Clint sank back down onto the bed. "No big deal – all you need is some good home cookin' to get you back in order."
"Yeah, no doubt."
Phil gave him a speculative glance. "So, what's been eatin' ya? You've got that look on your face again. It says 'hug me.'"
"Asshole." Clint tossed the hamster doll at his brother-in-law, pegging him in the face. "Hug me and die."
"Seriously. What gives?"
The archer let out a groan. "Just…had a bad night. Talked with my therapist about, well, everything."
"And what did he say?"
Clint shrugged. "Same thing he always does, I suppose. Breathe. Talk. Take my anger out on a punching bag or something. Try knitting – you know, the usual."
"Sounds…helpful."
"Better than the previous shrinks they tried to saddle me with," the archer countered. "I…don't really mind talking to Mitch. He doesn't judge."
"That's good." Phil tossed the doll up in the air a couple of times before setting it back on the nearby table. "You're avoiding the issue again, though – you're spooked about something."
Clint took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I found out that one of my oldest friends lied to me a long time ago, and because of that, I'm really not sure where we stand anymore. It's got me questioning everything I've ever done for him, you know?"
"Ouch," the detective hissed, wincing in sympathy. "I take it you let him know how you feel about that?"
Clint nodded. "The thing of it is, I know he meant well, but it's just…"
Phil had a thoughtful look on his face. Settling back in the chair, he tapped the armrest lightly in a nervous gesture. "You know, we had somethin' like that happen in the precinct, a while ago."
"No shit?"
"Yeah. It was a little bit before you met Laura," the detective commented. "You know Kathleen and I broke up first, and then got back together, right?"
Clint nodded again. Phil and Kathleen had had an on again, off again relationship for almost three years before settling down. "Yeah."
"Well, one of the things that kind of put us in a rough patch the first time around was this incident at the precinct. One of the sergeants, who had been a trusted shift leader comes out when we're in roll call one day an' confesses he's been working as an informant for IAB for pretty much his entire career."
"Damn," the archer replied with his own wince. "That had to suck."
"You have no idea," Phil replied with an air of disgust. "They treated the guy like a leper. I mean, the works – wouldn't sit with him, talk to him…the other cops'd get up and leave if he came into the pub. That shit's so unnecessary. So, one night, I went up, said hello and bought him a beer. Kathleen didn't approve of course, but you know me – that whole peer pressure thing is kinda pointless. The thing is, as much as it hurt to think that the guy had betrayed us or spied on us, he was still a good guy tryin' to do the right thing."
"Even Kathleen shunned the guy?" Clint asked, blinking in surprise. "That's not like her."
"Eh, that was when she was still in her 'Jimmy's way is the only way' phase. He didn't approve of the Sergeant being a rat, so naturally she didn't either, and she thought I should feel the same way. She got over it eventually, as you well know."
"Yeah." Kathleen was one of the most compassionate people he knew, but he could see how she would have relied on her brother, as the man had practically raised her. Jimmy was a decent guy and a good cop, but he could be judgmental. "Nobody's perfect."
"True that," Phil returned, chuckling.
Clint hung his head, taking in the other man's words. Walking up to an outcast and offering to buy them a drink out of sympathy was something his brother-in-law would definitely do if he felt it was right, no matter how strongly his fellow officers or girlfriend would have tried to discourage him. Phil had a point; Clint didn't have to be happy about Nick's betrayal, but in the end, the Director had done the right thing and come clean.
He looked up at his brother's encouraging expression. "So you're saying I should forgive him?"
"That's for you to decide, Clint," the other man said with a shrug. "All I'm sayin' is don't write him off so soon. If your friendship means that much to you, you can work it out. Now, that doesn't mean you should necessarily show the same level of trust as before, but…"
"Yeah – I get you." Clint smiled. "Thanks. I mean it."
"Anytime." Phil turned around, watching as the rest of the family returned, holding bags. "Wow – that Jarvis guy works fast!"
Kathleen followed the kids, who were carrying stacks of pizza boxes, chili dogs and what smelled like cheeseburgers. She looked at them with wide eyes. "Um, these were at the front desk for you, Clint."
"Awesome," he replied with a grin. "Toss me the burgers, will you?"
Meanwhile, at an undisclosed location…
"Why do I get the feeling this was a bad idea?" Steve commented sourly as they pulled up to the old, worn-down cabin. Spotting a small amount of movement from the window, he focused further on looking for any additional signs of life.
"There is a certain horror-movie feel to the place, isn't there?" Tony replied from the front passenger seat. He shrugged and pulled out his phone, checking the screen again. "Well, Jarvis says this is the right spot, and Jarvis is never wrong, are you Jarvis?"
"Are you asking in a purely rhetorical sense, sir?"
"Let's just get this over with," Steve replied. "We don't want to spook him."
Happy tightened his grip on the steering wheel, looking at the house in concern. "Mr. Stark, you should stay in the car – let Captain Rogers and I handle this guy."
"Wouldn't dream of it," the billionaire scoffed, opening the door and exiting the vehicle. "You boys coming or what?"
Steve shook his head, smiling in amusement as Happy scrambled out of the Audi. Stepping out, he shut the door gently and followed the others towards the front porch. Scanning the area, he tried to spot the owner of the house.
Tony adjusted his sunglasses and knocked loudly on the front door.
"Maybe we should have called ahead, sir?" Happy suggested, glancing around nervously. "This guy's former military, just like Agent –"
"Lighten up, Happy. We've got our very own super-soldier escort here to keep us from getting ambushed! Besides, it wouldn't be a surprise if we called ahead now, would it?"
They paused as they heard a rustling from inside, followed by a crash. A loud screech sounded from within, followed by more scrabbling. Happy frowned, looking at Tony.
The inventor shrugged. "I heard a noise. Could be trouble."
"Tony! You can't just barge into a man's house!" Steve cried out, his eyes widening. "Hold up –"
Happy nodded and charged at the door with his shoulder. The door swung open, unable to hold up to the large man's strength. The former boxer entered, looking around frantically.
"Hello?" the inventor called, moving in to follow his bodyguard. "We heard a crash – is everyone alright?"
"Gah!" Happy suddenly shouted, raising his hands to bat at his head as a large, furry object landed on top of it. "Get it off! Get it off!"
"What the hell –"
"Ouch! Damn it –" The bodyguard continued to swear as he finally dislodged the squalling creature, which hit the floor at a run. It paused at the edge of the porch, hissed, and darted into the nearby bushes.
"It's just a cat, Happy." Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you guys hadn't barged in there, it might not have attacked you."
"But..." Happy trailed off, finding it easier to quit the argument. He touched one of the scratches on his face gingerly, wincing. "I'm just gonna get the first-aid kit out of the trunk. Hold tight, Mr. Stark."
The inventor shrugged, looking around the house with interest. He made his way to the stove, which held a simmering pot of what he assumed was food. Picking up the lid, he leaned over to smell the contents, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Well, whatever this stuff is on the stove is hot. The burner is still on, too."
"I'm gonna take a look around, then," Steve called. "He's gotta be around here somewhere."
"Knock yourself out." Tony put the lid back on the pot, waving a hand under his nose. "No clue what that is."
"It's gumbo."
Tony froze at the new voice. He put his hands in the air slowly as he spotted a reflection holding a rifle, standing behind him. "You sure it's supposed to smell like that?"
"Hell if I know. Never made it before."
The billionaire turned around slowly, his hands still raised. "John Sanders, I presume?"
"Depends on who's asking," the voice growled. "Speaking of which, who the hell are you?"
Tony took a good look at the man standing in front of him. A dark-skinned man in his mid-forties, he was dressed a worn set of work clothes, along with an aged camouflage jacket. He held a rifle at the ready position, his finger resting on the trigger. The entire rifle, including the barrel and scope, was painted in a grey camouflage pattern that seemed familiar somehow.
He tilted his head slightly, taking a closer look. "Springfield M21 model, right? Looks custom, if my eyes aren't lying to me. Nice paint job, by the way – it's got that urban combat motif going on there."
"Very good," the man replied, his eyes narrowing. "Still doesn't explain why you busted into my house."
Tony sniffed, looking around the room. "Well, if you could call it that."
Sanders responded by flicking off the safety.
Dropping to the floor suddenly, the billionaire sprawled out as a disc-like object burst through the window, catching the rifle barrel and knocking it to the side. Grunting in pain and dismay, Sanders looked at the object that had disarmed him: Captain America's shield. He gaped at it, pausing as Happy rushed him from behind.
As Happy charged, he was intercepted by Sanders. The former soldier bent over, seized the larger man by the waist, and with a loud bellow of effort, bent backwards with a familiar twist that had Happy slamming down hard on his back. Tony winced as the bodyguard lay there, stunned.
Sanders straightened, and moved forward. As he narrowed his eyes, Steve's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Stand down, soldier!"
Steve approached, his hands held out in a placating gesture. "Cool it, everyone. We didn't come here to fight – just talk."
"Tell that to your boys, here," the man snarled, lowering his hand. He reached down and picked up the rifle, examining it. "You're trespassing."
"Look, we don't want anyone to get hurt. We just came to talk, like I said." Steve watched as Tony picked himself up, dusted himself off, and moved to check on Happy. "Can we just act like adults here?"
He saw Sanders stare down at the now dented rifle. The soldier set it down almost reverently on the battered kitchen table, setting his hands down on the surface and bowing his head. "Get out."
"Now, don't go kicking us out until you've heard what we have to say," Stark scolded. "We're here because of your two rugrats."
The man looked up at them, his eyes defeated. "That would've made a much better opening statement."
"Tony? Why don't you take Happy back to the car," Steve suggested quietly. "Let me handle this."
"Fine," the inventor replied with a sigh as he reached down to help Happy climb to his feet. "Really, Happy – you have got to learn how to dodge that one. They get you with it every time…"
Steve turned back to Sanders, who had sat down heavily into a chair and unloaded the rifle. He was running shaking hands over the damaged weapon, shaking his head. There was a slight sign of tears gathering in his eyes.
"Twenty damn years," the man muttered. "Twenty damn years keepin' this thing in top shape, and you go bustin' it with a hunk o' metal." He slammed a fist on the table, rattling a nearby plate. "Damn it. I promised I'd take care of her for him."
"I'm sorry about that," Steve replied, watching the man pull out a small tool kit. "I couldn't let you hurt Tony. If it helps, I know a guy who could probably fix it."
The older man threw a small tool down in frustration. "Good luck with that. Damn barrel's dented. Now, you said you were here about my boys?"
Steve nodded. "Jed and Ted, I believe? Well, we came because we found out you were all involved in a certain…incident, twenty years ago. On Gallicus Island."
"Wasn't on any island twenty years ago," the other man said sharply, reaching for another tool. He cursed as the tool slipped.
"That's not true. You were on Gallicus, and came out of it as one of four survivors from Project Red when they blew the island."
Sanders paused. "I haven't heard that name in a long time."
"I know," Steve continued. "I also know that Sanders isn't your real name, now, is it…Warrant Officer Hector Flynn?"
"How the hell did you get that name?" the other man – Flynn – answered, his eyes narrowed. "Did Ross send you?"
"No, not at all. He doesn't know where you are," the super-soldier replied softly. "We're here to find out what you remember from the Gallicus incident."
Flynn sighed and indicated towards another chair. "Remember? I've spent twenty years trying to forget that hell-hole. Why do you wanna bring it up now?"
"We've got reason to believe that the Army is preparing a full investigation of what happened," Steve replied, sitting down in the offered seat. "One of the things that came up was whether or not you're prepared to testify about what happened."
"One witness account won't do you much good," Flynn scoffed. "Ross was well-connected back then, and he's probably worse now. I got out while the goin' was good and took my boys, vanished into the woodworks while SHIELD was still cleanin' up. I've kept quiet for their sakes. Last thing we needed was to come out in the open where one of Ross's goons could find and silence us."
Steve nodded slowly in sympathy. He took another look at the damaged rifle. "Sniper rifle, isn't it? That's not exactly standard issue for a pilot."
Flynn shook his head. "It's not. A friend of mine gave it to me – died on that damn rock. I…promised to take care of 'er for him. To take care of all of them."
"May I?"
The pilot hesitated, but passed it over to the super-soldier. "How can I say no to Captain America? Frankie would've been tickled pink to see you holding his baby."
"Frankie? You mean, Sergeant Barton?" Steve clarified smoothly as he took hold of the barrel. He gripped it firmly, bending it until it almost straightened. He frowned as he noticed a crease still present. "Damn."
"How the hell do you know about Frankie?" the pilot asked, his face turning pale. "I haven't told anyone…"
Steve set the rifle down gently. "It seems we have a mutual acquaintance with a horrible tendency to fib about people dying. I'm afraid it's a bit of a habit, from what I've seen so far."
Flynn stared back at him, his eyes wide. "You don't mean…"
"Barton never died, Flynn," Steve continued gently. "He lived, and eventually wound up working for SHIELD."
"SHIELD…but that means…that one-eyed bastard." Flynn ran a shaking hand over his face, his voice growing less steady. "Frankie's…not dead? B-but why wouldn't he have found us…he promised he'd be right behind us…"
"He was told you were dead – that all three of you died in the escape," the super-soldier explained. "He blamed himself, thinking he had failed you all this time. From what I know, he would've kept his word, hell or high water."
"That's just like Frankie," Flynn admitted, falling back against the chair's backrest. "He had a pretty shitty childhood. Drunk father…the old man blamed him whenever something went wrong, so he grew up thinking anything bad that happened was his fault."
"That explains a lot," Steve muttered.
Flynn snorted in amusement before giving the super-soldier a hopeful look. "Do you think I could see him? To make sure he's alright?"
"What makes you think something's wrong?"
"You wouldn't be here if the shit hadn't hit the fan somewhere."
"Good point." Steve watched the other man's face carefully. "We'd like to bring you back to New York with us. To be honest, there was an incident that SHIELD had to intervene in – some idiots tried to bring the original project back, and then tried to tinker with more stuff they shouldn't have. We'd like your input on it and the original project, or at least, what you remember. "
"Let me guess," Flynn replied dryly. "It backfired on them spectacularly."
Steve nodded. "The situation was controllable thanks to some pre-written protocols, though, but they wound up sterilizing the island. The civilians were evacuated though, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been."
"Pre-written protocols? What government group runs around with a set of pre-written zombie control instructions?"
"A group that has access to a survivor of an aborted zombie-apocalypse who had more than one brain cell," Tony's voice sounded from the doorway. "Or, apparently, more than one. While they may be a pain in the ass to work with on a regular basis, SHIELD does like to do their homework."
"Where's your goon?" Flynn asked sourly. "Not hurt too bad, is he?"
"Nothing he won't get over. I'll get him a chiropractor and a hot masseuse when we get home," Tony replied with an air of non-chalance. "Couple of days of vacation, he'll be right as rain. Nice move, by the way. You must work out."
The pilot turned to Steve, arching his eyebrow. "Is he always like this?"
"You have no idea. Now, back to the trip...aside from the debrief I mentioned before, well, we think bringing you in to see Barton'll do him some good. Both of you, for that matter."
"I'll need to pack some things," Flynn replied. "So, you boys gonna give me a lift, or what?"
The billionaire grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."
After they had boarded the jet, Tony chose the opportunity to grill their guest. "So, just what is it with those two kids? They seem a bit…"
"Off?" Flynn answered with a chuckle. "They were only four, for cryin' out loud. After surviving zombies, the military trying to blow us out of the sky and God knows what else they did to 'em in the labs, I'd be more concerned if they weren't a little weird."
"Weird about sums it up," the inventor said with a nod. "Resourceful, though."
"You've got no idea. Those two little squirts have pulled some crazy stunts." Flynn sighed, smiling in affection. "We weren't sure if they were born on the island or if they were brought there at some point. Both of 'em wore these little miniature scrubs and ID bracelets from Project Red, so they were involved somehow. They were only four years old, but they managed to escape the building, dodge I don't know how many infected, and still manage to make it to a seafood restaurant until Frankie found 'em. He said the restaurant mascot was trying to eat 'em, but they'd crawled into the netting in the ceiling rafters."
A gleam formed in Tony's eyes. "And by mascot, you mean pirate?"
"Yeah – peg leg, eye-patch, the works," the other man replied sheepishly. "It kind of stuck with 'em. I bought some random DVD's one time to keep them busy while I was working a few years later, and, well…it wasn't pretty. And which one did I just happen to grab off the top of the stack? Pirates of the Caribbean. I mean, what twisted bastard puts zombified skeleton pirates in a damn kid's movie?"
"Disney," the other men replied.
"Yeah, Barton's pretty bad about it too," Tony replied mournfully. "I really liked that TV."
"That was your fault for baiting him," Steve scolded.
The inventor shrugged and rubbed his hands together. "So, what juicy gossip can you tell us about good ol' Agent Barton?"
"I've only known him for about a year, but he's never really said anything about his childhood." Steve looked at the pilot apologetically. "He's recovering from the recent incident, and well, I guess some input on what makes him tick would be helpful."
"Unique is all I can say," Flynn replied with a light huff. He shook his head. "By the time I got to know more about him after Ranger school, I found out he could speak and write Cantonese, juggle knives and shoot the wings off of a fly, but there were some normal things he didn't know about. Can you believe he didn't know what pizza was until he got into the Army?"
Tony looked at him in disbelief. "You're joking. I live with the guy – I swear, he lives off of the stuff."
"Sounds like him. Damn addict, once I took him to a proper pizza parlor." Flynn gave them a sigh of resignation. "It was kinda sad – almost like he just didn't know how to live for himself. He didn't know how to just…have fun."
Steve gave him a sad smile as another thought popped into his head. "Why Sanders? Flynn's a common enough name. Do they assign one randomly or something? Barton's didn't change when he joined SHIELD."
Flynn snorted in amusement. "I let the kids pick it. We stopped at a KFC on our way out of town, and the kids thought the Colonel was 'the most awesome thing ever.'"
He fell silent, likely falling back on some old memories. Steve and Tony sat back and mulled over the new information; while they still had his reservations, Flynn seemed like a decent enough fellow. Hopefully, by the time they returned to New York there would be more news.