Little Bird's Vengeance Chapter 8 Making Deals
Clint stared at the teenager. Despite being, apparently, fast asleep, he'd swung into instant alertness and just knocked out Tasha with some kind of unknown gas, and was now glaring at him.
"What is it about you lot not letting a guy sleep?" Red Robin asked, propping himself up in bed. He seemed very put out to be woken up less than three hours after going to bed.
"Uh…" Clint stuttered. "Fury wants you back in SHIELD custody."
"It couldn't wait until I'm awake?" His glare stepped up, coldly furious. Clint restrained himself from stepping back.
"He wanted it sooner rather than later. And we thought, well, if you were asleep…"
"I'd be easier to catch hold of." Red Robin massaged his brow. "Look, how about I promise to stay where you can watch over me, you let me sleep, and Fury can come here if he wants to talk to me?"
Clint looked hard at the kid. He was slumped slightly, worn out. His eyes were a little bloodshot and puffy, his voice somewhat nasal, as though…he was suffering from a head cold. He was sick. Clint suddenly realised why Red had defied his expectations and come to them rather than remaining solo. The kid was going to be fairly out of it for a few days, and if he was willing to co-operate during that time...He'd have to check with the Director. He could use Red's idea as an interim solution. "Jarvis," he said at last. "Tell me when the kid leaves the room."
"Yes, sir," Jarvis said. Red nodded agreeably.
"Fine by me," he said. "Romanov should wake in about two, maybe three hours."
Clint went further into the room and picked up Tasha. He could see just how tense Red was, how wary he looked. Poor kid seemed exhausted.
Considering what he'd been through, it wasn't that surprising.
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When Red Robin next awoke, it was nearing noon. He still felt pretty woozy, and his nose felt blocked. He staggered to the bathroom, grapping his mask and one of his arm-belts as he went. He looked in the mirror and, sure enough, his eyes were red and puffy. He sighed. He'd been catching colds more frequently since losing his spleen, and after the past few days had been half-expecting it, but it was still frustrating to have to go through it all again.
"Oh, great," he muttered, frowning at his reflection.
"Red Robin, sir," said the voice of the computer, Jarvis. "Shall I alert Mr Barton that you are awake?"
"Tell him I'll be out in ten minutes," he replied, hearing his voice crack slightly. He splashed water on his face, and drank from a tumbler set out, swallowing his antibiotics. Pulling a decongestant from the arm-belt, he thought of something that'd bothered him last night. "Jarvis, you have cameras in the bedrooms, don't you?"
"Yes sir. The visuals are customarily inactive, unless otherwise specified. I would alert you if they were active."
"But audio is active, so you can hear if someone calls you?"
"Yes, sir. Unless specified, when it is replaced with voice-activated interface."
"Right. Thanks." He'd have to remember to do that in the evening. He sighed, gluing his mask over his face and hiding his puffy eyes. He grimaced, glad for the cold and flu remedies he kept in the belt.
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Clint had gone straight to Red's room when Jarvis called him. When he'd called Fury, he'd been instructed to keep the kid under observation at all times, try and get more information about where he came from, and postpone proper interrogation until the helicarrier was repaired and refitted, and Red was well again. Tasha had gone down to her private training room to work off her irritation at the teen.
Almost exactly ten minutes later, the door opened. Tony had lent Red some normal clothes, and the shirt and pants hung a little loose on his wiry frame. He was wearing his own boots and belt, and his gloves and arm-straps were tucked into his belt. He was carrying his wings rather than wearing them, slung over his shoulder, and was once again masked. "Morning," he said, his voice slightly husky.
"Breakfast?" Clint asked, getting a nod in response. He led the kid down to the kitchen in silence; he didn't know what to say, and Red didn't seem interested in idle conversation. Clint got the impression that they were analysing each other in equal measure.
Red moved gracefully, like Tasha, but seemed more guarded, as though he was aware of how vulnerable he could be, and every move was to counter it (Tasha acted almost invulnerable sometimes). He also behaved like constant surveillance was nothing unusual, the way he'd treated his imprisonment as expected. Clint couldn't help comparing him to Tasha again; where she had always given the slight impression of working for redemption, he acted like he had nothing to prove. Where she seemed perfectly at ease wherever, he behaved as if he already had a place in the world, and was merely biding his time before reaching it.
The only imperfection in his stance was a certain lethargy in his movement. Clint caught him popping a lozenge and smiled; Red caught it, and smiled back, quick and warm.
They were pouring second cups of coffee when Tony tracked them down. "Hey, kid! Where's the wings?"
Red raised an eyebrow, just poking from beneath the mask, and pulled the harness further from Tony's reach. "If you have a workshop, they need a tune-up," he suggested.
"Excellent. I'm sure we can make them much better," Tony said.
"No. We will do nothing. I will fix the damage, and you can watch."
"But I'm really good at the flying stuff. I have video."
"I don't want a jet pack. I want a specialized glider rig. It's more useful if you've been thrown off a roof in an urban area."
"Does that happen a lot?"
"Not a lot, no, but I still find them more useful than I would a jet pack."
"Tony, not everyone likes your style of tech," Clint interjected. "Just let him fix his equipment."
"Where's the fun in that?" Tony pouted.
"It's in not getting killed by having the wrong gear," Red replied, picking up his coffee and slinging the harness over his shoulder again.
Tony led them down to one of his labs, chattering all the while about his research department and the machines he'd filled them with. Red hmm-ed along, but Clint just tuned it out, wishing he didn't have to spend what remained of the morning listening to Tony show off, but Tony was not a suitable babysitter.
As it turned out, he was treated to seeing Red repair his wings, with his own specialized equipment, swatting away Tony's hands whenever he tried to intervene, and still managing to hold an apparently intelligent discussion on flight mechanics, wind impact and such.
After some time, Bruce wandered in. "How did you get the kid in a lab already, Tony?" he asked.
"My gear was damaged," Red answered him. "How do you get Tony to leave you alone without breaking him?"
"I'm not sure you do." Bruce came over to the workbench. "What are you doing?"
"Had to re-sink three left pin-feathers in their moorings. SHIELD managed to yank them out." He snapped the hub closed, and carefully screwed it shut. The trio of Avengers watched as he pulled the harness on, snapped the wings rigid, and then slackened them again. He tweaked a control on the chest piece, and the feather-strips were drawn up into the hub. "Good," Red muttered, satisfied, and started putting away his tool kit.
"I think I can guess how you survived falling out of the helicarrier," Bruce said, slightly impressed.
"Now can we do fun stuff?" Tony practically begged. "I mean, you, kid, you could probably do wonders with some of my tech."
"I have paperwork," Red said flatly. Clint stared at him, Bruce frowned, and Tony looked like someone smacked him in the face with a dead fish. When did he get any paperwork? Picking up on their confusion, Red rolled his eyes. "Case file I meant to write a week ago. No reason why I can't have it ready for filing when I get home."
"But that's boring," Tony said, as though it was obvious. "Why do you want to do something boring?"
The look Red gave Tony said it all. It had to be done, and the sooner the better. Clint always had debriefs and reports after missions, and he knew they were best done within twenty-four hours. Trying to keep the details in mind for a week must be a nightmare.
Red turned to Clint. "Can we find somewhere quieter, and leave Tony to his little toys?"
Clint smirked at the wording. "Sure," he said, and led his charge out.
AN: Hey! First, thanks to a few of you lovely readers who've given me a bit of help with Red's medical problems. Cheers, guys. 'Course, thanks to the rest of you reviewers, everyone loves feedback. So...who feels like putting a poor authoress out of her misery and reviewing this chapter too, huh? Sound fun?
I'm thinking next week I'll be updating Black and Red again, so it'll probably be two weeks before I get back to this. Hope you don't mind. Or just head on over to some of my other stuff. Have fun.
Katara Harkness