Chapter title: This Is Beyond You, Metal Man
Author's Note: So, I might have taken the "two of the sharpest men I know (…)" line a bit too far in this one… Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of anything or anyone you might recognize. Everything goes to Kevin Feige, the MCU, Marvel or whatever else.
Leave a light on - Tom Walker (Acoustic)
Avengers Tower, New York – 2 months post the Battle of New York
The night was dark and deep inside of the Tower as Tony exited the elevator. The brightness of the artificial white light from the outside city world barely illuminated the quiet common area and bathed a large part of the vast, open room in black shadow.
Recurrent nightmares left him wired, on edge and disturbingly anxious, which was why Tony jumped about twenty feet into the air when a low voice muttered from the darkness.
"Can't sleep?"
"Motherf- !" Tony exclaimed. With his heart racing a million miles a minute, he squinted into the dark at the far corner, past the large couches and caught the huddled figure by the paneled windows that overlooked the sleepless city below.
Barton was sitting with his arms resting on his drawn-up knees, eyeing at him with a slightly guarded and weary look. There was something haunted and familiar in his features.
"We gotta get you guys some bells. You and Romanoff. I swear to God," Tony muttered loud enough for the archer to overhear. He looked around at the quiet, dark room. "I know your rooms are still works in progress, but they do have beds, and I'm not judging here, but I personally believe they're more comfortable than a windowsill. You perching before bedtime?"
"Call it a bad night," Barton nonchalantly answered.
"Well, that's not at all cryptic and ominous. Drink?" Tony casually said, as he mentally noted that the disturbing familiarity in Barton's eyes came from the same broken look that sometimes stared back in him in the mirror. He moved towards the bar desk and found two glasses and one of his favorite bottles of scotch.
"I prefer not drinking in the middle of the night. Only makes it worse."
Tony froze mid-pour at Barton's answer, his eyes quickly shooting down to the already half-full glass. He put the bottle onto the desk. "You just said, you won't go to sleep. And you look like you could use a drink. I could use the company. It's no fun drinking alone. I can make you some hot milk, if you prefer."
He received no answer except for an unimpressed glare. He just shrugged and transferred the liquid into his own glass. Grabbing a bottle of vitamin water from the fridge, he sauntered over Barton's corner and settled onto the floor. He considered the SHIELD agent in front of him, who was making a show out of staring out the window. Tony barely knew the man, and perhaps that was why the archer unnerved him slightly. It wasn't exactly like they had talked much since New York, any of them. He was clearly struggling to adjust – as were they all. Loki had managed to mess them up in each their own way. Barton in particular seemed to have taken a big and personal hit. And Tony resolved himself to try and get to know the man.
Going with his usual charm of indifference, he leaned his back against the cool window pane that acted as the only barrier to the steep drop and the bustling street below. "So, what does usually help? How does master assassins deal with insomnia?"
Clint shrugged, maintaining his determined stare at the illuminated Manhattan skyline. "Talk. A good work-out. Usually, Nat and I use each other. It's easier when you're both equally mangled."
"Well, until the Russian ninja returns, feel free to take advantage of me. My safe-word is 'honey lemon'."
"No offense, Stark," Barton said and whipped his head around to look at Tony again. "But I'm not in the mood for spilling my secrets, not to you."
"You wound me, Legolas. I happen to be an excellent listener." Barton sent him a look. "Alright, you read Romanoff's report. Fine. I am an expert in ignoring emotions and sidestepping important conversations then. So, traditional pleasant exchanges of the less touchy-feely kind."
"Like what then?"
"Like the virus-embedded arrow that shut down the Helicarrier engine? I can't imagine that being Fury-sanctioned, so I'm curious as to how you got it – for purely scientific purposes, obviously."
"Made it myself."
"Really?"
"Well, R&D made the base, I improved on it, and the, um," Clint looked suddenly uncomfortable at the notion, his eyes dropping to his lap while his hands fidgeted. "… the tesseract gave the final push for that particular one."
"Well, it does take some doing, fiddling with engine functions. Trust me. How did you bypass the internal security?"
As Tony had hoped, the question refocused the conversation to more tangible and relaxed subjects. Barton proved surprisingly easy, and even enlightening, to talk to. He offered a lot of knowledge and inputs regarding his prized weapon's arsenal, and they ended up discussing mechanics, physics and aerodynamics of arrow designs, which quickly moved into general weaponry and the Iron Man technology and further ideas for improvements.
The night disappeared hour by hour and dawn wasn't far off when they finally stopped and went separate ways.
Tony trailed Clint's route to the elevator, saw him enter and then hesitate for a second before resolutely pressing one of the buttons. The doors slid closed and hid him from view.
Some hours later, Tony was in his lab and staring off into space, unable to truly focus on the thoughts swirling in his head, his hands fidgeting absentmindedly with some gadget he hadn't even noticed picking up. It bounced about between his fingers, faster and faster, until finally he decided. He asked JARVIS for an update on Barton's whereabouts and doings. He had no idea why or what he hoped to find. That wasn't until he heard the report and a small, victorious smile spread over his lips and he was able to fully focus on the blueprint of a quiver in front of him.
Clint had been and was still currently on his own floor, in bed, sound asleep.
Present
The temperature dropped further as the day steadily grew into evening, the meager light disappearing as Clint took another lumbering step.
The bruises littering his body, old and new, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The burn on his thigh pulsated and stung painfully and it hindered his strides and forced him to limp through the snow. He was breathing heavily as he still maintained a high pace. He moved as quickly as he could. His sharp gaze was peeled for any sign of danger, constantly flickering between the tree trunks while his ears listened intently for pursuers following his tracks.
"You need to find shelter," Coulson piped up beside him and Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Yeah? And here I thought I would just take a nap underneath a tree."
"Sarcasm doesn't really provide warmth and cover, Barton."
"No, but it makes me feel better, sir."
Clint flexed his freezing fingers to restart some of the circulation. The fingerless gloves made it easier to handle bows, arrows and other weaponry but even though the material was thick and insulating, his fingertips were still left exposed to the elements. At least, his toes still remained warm and functional. But he had to find somewhere sheltered to spend the night, or he would be a popsicle by morning. Unless he kept moving. He wasn't sure he could do that. Already, his leg threatened to buckle under his weight and he hadn't slept for three days.
"How much forest surround the facility, do you remember?" Coulson asked then.
Phil's question made Clint recall the layout of the landscape he had memorized before touching down in Finland. It made him remember the large industrial area that was located somewhere to the east of the compound. It shouldn't be too far. Clint corrected his own train of thought. Coulson didn't jog his memory. His own brain did.
Coulson was dead.
"I'm right here," Coulson said as an answer. Clint felt his heart contract painfully at the reminder.
"Don't remind me," he muttered and then altered his course, glancing at his compass to make sure he was headed in the right direction. He picked up the pace.
Half an hour later, the hills evened out and the pines became sparser and far between, until eventually the forest opened up completely and then disappeared. In front of him was a flat, open landscape with large industrial warehouses that stood evenly apart from each other. Here and there, cylindrical chimneys rose up next to some of the grey structures and vast parking lots stretched out and connected to wide roads, which were lined with snow and frost.
Only the chilling breeze moved.
Clint scanned all of the nearby buildings until he spotted one, where the roof looked decrepit and halfway caved in and a few windows were cracked or smashed. It seemed abandoned and it was a perfect hiding place. Less chance of alarms or security to disturb his illegal entering.
With an arrow resting on the bowstring, Clint crouched and sprinted across the open area until he reached his target. Behind him, he vaguely heard Coulson's crunching steps follow. He stopped by a doorway, resting his back against the cool concrete wall, where he listened for movement inside. Nothing came. No footsteps he could pick up, no hum of electricity or large machinery. Clint kicked the door by the lock.
It slammed open, its screech echoing loudly in the empty warehouse. Clint sneaked inside, keeping the arrow nocked as he pulled the string taut. It looked like it had been used as a storage facility, the large, square space deserted and only a couple of pallets and lifters still remaining. His breath was loud in the quiet room.
"I think it's clear."
"Your powers of observation are unparalleled as always, sir," Clint remarked as he loosened the bowstring and returned the unused arrow to the quiver. He was spent and exhausted and the lure of sleep grew stronger with every passing minute. His thigh shook with the strain of keeping him upright for so long.
Clint retreated to the darkest corner he could find. He slid his quiver up and away from his back where he deposited it along with his bow on the ground. He kept it within reach. Then, he settled onto the cold floor and curled into a tight ball, squishing his cold hands into his warmer armpits, to retain as much heat as possible.
Instantly, he felt his eyelids turn heavy and they started to droop on their own account. He was exhausted. Hurt, cold and alone, Clint suddenly felt isolated, abandoned and uneasy. He didn't know why he was uncomfortable. He had been alone before. This just felt different.
"You're not alone," Coulson reassured. He smiled with a gentle confidence. "Sleep, Clint. I'll keep watch."
Clint quickly drifted off into a restful slumber.
TBC
