OKAY! So here is chapter 9! Apologies for taking so long to submit it, but I've been sweating over this one for a while and it caused me a lot of trouble structure-wise. Hope it reads well enough to avoid confusion (ha, that's asking a lot when I'm constantly confusing myself writing this damn thing). Thanks again to the lovely npeg for her glorious editing skills - best beta ever! 3

Anyway, as per, here's some recommended tracks for your reading pleasure:

"Aerodynamic" - Daftpunk

"An Itch" - Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross (The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo OST)

^^Mostly for atmosphere really^^

I don't own anything etc other than OCs. Yep.

** BTW: a "flang-fest" is a term used by storm-chasers when referring to a very active lightning storm. A "flang" is a slang word for lightning that is very close, so close that the thunder accompanies it rather than follows it. /themoreyouknow

Enjoy. And comments/critique always welcome. :)

Suit Up

It was some time during the night, in the wreckage of some forgotten city, that a figure dressed in shining armour took refuge from the skies. The sound of gunfire and explosions surrounded the ruins and with it the gentle crackling of lone flames scattered here and there, steadily eroding all that remained of civilisation. But within the flash of red, blue and silver was Steve, making his way through the smouldering mountains of twisted metal and broken glass with the utmost care. He scanned his surroundings, barren and hazardous, but no life signal appeared on his HUD. Stopping momentarily, he caught the sound of something shifting behind him. He turned, raising his palms as the repulsors hummed in readiness, but there was nothing there. A loose shard of concrete perhaps? Or a rodent? Whatever it was, it wasn't the reason for Steve's uneasiness, because that was creeping up on him from someplace else.

A blip in the corner of his HUD caught Steve's attention, and he dived to his right, barely avoiding a large explosion that was meant for him.

"Almost had you there, Rogers," Rhodey's voice mocked through his comms. "I was born for this. You really think you're ready to handle the War Machine?"

Steve pushed himself up from the ground, a surging wave of determination building in the pit of his stomach. He smiled back.

"Son, I was ready before you were a twinkle in the milkman's eye."

Director Fury, Peter, and Agent Coulson joined a team of technicians in the observation deck, watching the two iron suits battle it out on the other side of the six inch glass. Steve and Rhodey had been fighting for at least an hour in the training simulator before Peter, nose practically pressed against the glass, finally managed to string together a coherent sentence.

"I think he's really starting to get the hang of it –"

A couple of sly moves from Rhodey and a blast or two later and Steve was face-planting the floor.

Again.

Coulson and Peter winced, but Fury didn't seem the least bit affected, or surprised.

"– Or not?"

In all honesty, it wasn't bad for his first try. But Steve was still a little slow when it came to manoeuvring the suit in flight, at least fast enough to dodge an aerial assault.

"Like riding a bike, my ass," Steve muttered to himself as he stood.

Rhodey was nowhere in sight, but as Steve began to pay close attention to the dancing lights on his HUD he noticed something, a tiny arrow flashing in his navigation window. As he turned to his right, sure enough, there was Rhodey, heading towards him at some speed. Rhodey pulled back his fist and put everything he had into the swing as he took a shot at Steve. But instead of meeting its target, his clenched metal hand hit a familiar ring of colour. It was the ghostly projection of Steve's faithful shield, humming quietly like a fluorescent light, and as sturdy as the real thing. It was quite a sight from the observation deck because there was Steve, stood in his defensive stance with his shield raised above his head, the very image of Captain America, but one with a startling 21st Century twist.

Fury smiled at that thought.

Then the simulator ceased, and the bleak battle-ground faded to sterile grey walls.

. . .

Not long after his first training session in his new armour, Steve was thrown abruptly into his next mission. The layers of plating had barely been stripped from his body when Fury appeared at his side, smiling with an air of satisfaction and an "I told you so" kind of glint in his eye.

Steve managed to freshen up and change into his new uniform before being harassed further – a dark navy skin-tight item with a bold white star and stripes motif on the breast. Most S.H.I.E.L.D personnel wore a similar design, only a little less clingy, but Steve often missed his old suit from the war. Seriously, what was the deal with the 21st Century and skin-tight everything?

An assistant handed Steve a towel and he took it, wiping his face as Fury walked with him to another room with a large table and several chairs surrounding it. Fury gave orders for everyone to leave, and only the two of them remained as the doors clicked shut. Steve sat.

"So, now you've got your pilot for your 'secret weapon'," Steve asked, idly throwing the towel on the table, "what's my first mission?"

Fury pressed a few buttons on the keypad in front of him and a holographic map of Europe lit up in the air.

"It concerns Dr Banner," he said coolly.

On the projection several red markers appeared, scattered almost randomly across much of Western Europe, but the majority appeared to be on the Franco-Swiss border. Steve leaned forward to inspect the map more carefully.

"These are spikes in the levels of gamma radiation we've detected over the past eight months. Most are likely weapons tech tapped with Tesseract-energy that Loki's supplied his troops. But that patch right there?" He pointed towards the red blotch on the projection.

"That's what caught my eye."

"What does it mean exactly?" asked Steve.

"Bad news for us. There have been several reported atmospheric disturbances in Europe – in that particular spot in fact, right around the time Banner went off the grid six months ago."

Fury leaned forward, palms flat on the tinted glass surface.

"We think Loki's had Selvig's machine re-built. That means he's capable of opening a portal into space again," Fury said. "And we think that he's had Banner deported. Far. Far. Away."

Steve's eyes flicked to Fury as the image zoomed into the patch of red, revealing the complex spider web roads and winding rivers of Geneva.

"Our data points to this location," Fury pointed to the map again. "I'm not sure how familiar you are with Hadron Colliders, but a lot of folks thought what was built beneath the Swiss border was gonna bring about the end of the world. It didn't, but the same can't be said for what may be hidden there now."

"So, Loki's hiding the Cube underground, within some sort of science experiment?"

Fury shrugged. "We can't be sure of that until we have more data. These readings suggest unusual levels of gamma radiation, but they're minute and sporadic at best. It could be weapons of some kind, or something else entirely. But if it is what I think it is, there's about 400 ft worth of dirt standing between it and any real means of detection."

Fury turned off the projection then.

"Commander. We need to find the Tesseract and get it as far away from Loki as possible, before he sends all of us across the intergalactic border…or worse…"

And it would be worse – a lot worse – if, God forbid, the true potential of that small, blue cube from hell was ever tapped. The thought of such a thing becoming reality deeply troubled Steve. He fell silent, withdrawn, his eyes studying the tinted glass of the table– looking through it at some terrible prophecy, deep within its murky surface. Steve's sudden distance was something Fury noticed.

"This won't be a one-man mission," he continued slowly, "But suit of armour or no suit of armour – I need my response team."

After a lengthy silence Steve replied.

"If we're talking about the same team here, you're lookin' at it," he said, grimly, his reflection bleeding into vision as he pulled away from his own thoughts.

"Pretty sure I'm the last one left standing," he added quietly.

"I wouldn't be too sure just yet," Fury replied.

Steve looked up then, and just from the expression on his face, he could see the director had something up his sleeve.

Of course he did. What was it Stark had once said?

'His secrets have secrets.'

Steve let out a long exhale.

. . .

"So…" Peter began, squirming uncomfortably in his seat as the turbulence worsened. "Remind me why we're flying to Italy through the mother of all lightning storms?" He managed to raise a hand to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead, the other crushing the stuffing from his seat under his grip.

"Seriously you guys – it's like a Van de Graaff generator out there."

"Didn't know you had a fear of flyin'," said Steve, genuine surprise on his face. "You seemed fine in New Mexico."

"It's not the flying I'm afraid of," Peter whimpered.

"Settle down, Parker," said Fury. "We're meeting an old friend of mine."

"That's great." Peter laughed, managing to pry his eyes open long enough to look at Fury. "It's just great that you keep in touch with your friends. But it's the 21st Century, and there's a thing called Facebook. So is there a reason we have to fly directly through one of Mother Nature's temper tantrums to get to them!?"

The plane dipped violently then, fighting another wave of turbulence. Peter pushed his head back into the headrest and closed his eyes again, muttering something foreign.

"Sir, we've got an incoming distress call from… from London," one of the pilots called to Fury. The director unbuckled his safety belt and wandered over.

Peter laughed hesitantly and turned to Steve, who was far more interested in this 'distress call'.

"Heh, he just… got up out of his seat…" Peter muttered; face pale and more than a little green.

Fury returned moments later, a heavy look in his eyes.

"Sir? –" Steve's heart was in his mouth.

"–We just got a pre-recorded message from London HQ," said Fury, gravely. "They've been wiped-out."

The captain barely breathed, "What!?"

Fury's expression was dark as he said, "Looks like Loki's men found their location."

"But, we are gonna answer that call though, right?" said Steve, searching Fury's face for an answer."Right?"

The answer he found there wasn't the answer he was looking for.

"It's too dangerous," said Fury, in a tone brooking no argument. "If they've managed to find and infiltrate that base –"

"–but, sir, there are men's lives at stake down there –"

"–we're no match for them!"

It was Fury's final decision. He'd put his foot down, rattled the already shaking walls of the aircraft with the sheer presence of his voice. But Steve would have none of it.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and practically flew towards the back of the plane, leaving a gawking Peter and a disgruntled Fury in his wake.

"Rogers. We are not answering that call –"

"–you're not," Steve bit out, "but I am".

Fury shook his head. "Not in this storm you ain't."

"I second that," shouted Peter from his seat.

"Stay out of this, Peter!" Steve ordered. He pressed a few buttons on a panel beside a metal ring that contained the IP 1 unit. The system booted instantly, and the gears moved in such a way that in a moment the armour was partitioned to accompany its pilot.

"Stand down. That's an order, soldier," commanded Fury.

Steve shook his head then.

"I'm not about to leave those men and women stranded when I can make a difference."

He stepped in, and the machine did its work to seal him inside the armour.

"Steve, the suit still needs work, and you're flying into that flang-fest after barely a day's training in a controlled environment? I don't need a God damn psychiatrist here to tell me you're a few clowns short of a circus if you think you can get through this and come out the other side in one piece! Much less successful!"

Fury stepped forward, almost begging the Commander.

"You need more training."

Ignoring the director, Steve opened the rear doors, allowing passage for an unwelcome gust of wind and rain to spray the plane's inhabitants. The faceplate slid into position over Steve's face with a resounding clang just as a bolt of lightning snaked through the volatile clouds behind.

"Seems like a perfect time to start, sir," he said, resolute.

"If you see any gremlins on the wing of the plane," Peter called over the roar, "send them packing willya?" He laughed nervously, hands still clasped to his seat like vices as Steve dived headfirst into hell.

With the suit's navigation system lit up on his HUD, Steve instructed JARVIS to guide him to the bleak and broken city of London, somewhere below in the howling darkness, streaked with bright and violent light.

. . .

"They're smoking us out!" an agent shouted.

A small group of S.H.I.E.L.D personnel – no more than twelve– made their way down the long, dark winding tunnels of the underground, lit only by torch light. They were the few that had managed to escape the ambush in HQ, but now a thick cloud of tear gas was quickly sweeping through the murky passageways of the Piccadilly Line.

"Location!?" Grace shouted to another agent who held a defective navigation panel that flickered every other second.

"We should be approaching Trafalgar Square any… minute… now," the agent replied, smacking the device impatiently.

But the fog soon caught up with them and the walls of the tunnel disappeared. Everyone felt the effects of the tear gas almost instantly.

"Agent Stevens – what do we do now?" an agent choked.

Grace narrowed her eyes in the burning smoke and saw a crease of light down the end of the tunnel.

That must be the station.

"Head for the stairwell! Quickly!"

"Street-level!? But we'll be exposed! –"

"-Do you wanna choke to death like a rat in a bloody hole or die with some dignity?" she yelled. "Get moving!"

The other agents didn't argue with her and pushed themselves up from the soot-ridden brick towards the exit. Grace's words may have sounded confident and commanding, but in truth she couldn't have been more terrified of what lay in store for them beyond those stairs.

That evening had already seen a massacre.

When they reached the last flight of steps at the mouth of the exit, Grace stopped, urging everyone to ready their weapons. There was the sound of gunfire and screams in the distance, but nothing close enough to be an immediate threat, and that troubled Grace.

It was quiet – too quiet.

An agent shuffled towards her, eyes ever watchful on their exit.

"Still no word from Paris or main headquarters," he muttered.

Grace didn't respond.

"Stevens? –"

"–Shhh!"

The agent held his tongue and his breath, watching the same eerie steps that met the unusual quiet of street-level. Grace could sense that it was most likely a trap. She knew it.

"Tell everyone to fall back – get back into the tunnel," she whispered.

"What!?" the agent hissed, realising that he'd raised his voice before returning to a whisper. "Are you crazy?! The coast is clear! If we go back into those tunnels we're sitting ducks."

"You've spent way too much time in HQ," Grace muttered, cocking her gun.

"When you're up here –" She reached into the inside of her coat and pulled out a small, black, round device, "–you're always a sitting duck."

She threw the device up and over the top of the stairs. It bounced along the uneven paving of the street, a red light pulsing gently to a steady beep as it rolled to a stop, taking out half of the surrounding terrain in a deafening explosion a scant second later.

It certainly livened the street up a bit after that, because the gunfire and screams were mere feet away.

"GET BACK INTO THE TUNNEL. NOW!" Grace yelled over the chaos that ensued above.

Most of the group immediately complied, running for the station platform again, but several opted to stay and secure their retreat with Grace, against her wishes. They threw their own grenades soon after, leaving the mouth of the exit to step into a cloud of smoke and gunfire.

But it was no ordinary gunfire.

An agent in front of Grace burst into dust before she could shout a warning. Another turned to a grey cloud right before her eyes, and then another, and another. She tried to retreat, stumbling backwards as her heel met a spent gun. And then she saw it, clear as day; a blue light, blazing a trail through a blanket of dust like a shooting star. There was no time – no time to escape the fiery end that approached her at great speed. No time to breathe. Not even the time to fully realise that a strange blue and red blur had valiantly shielded her from certain death, taking the blast like it was nothing more than a gust of wind.

The troops stopped shooting, recognising the dust-ridden frame of the figure that stood between them and their target. The metal plating was too dirty to make out much of the colour in the cloud of dirt, but the image was unmistakable, and it certainly warranted a call for back-up.

In the clearing dust Grace witnessed the tall frame of her armoured hero, unmoving and determined to stand his ground behind the humming of a holographic ring of red and white. And then, almost as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, had flown off somewhere within the dust towards her enemies. The gunfire returned, but grew less prominent as one by one the troops were beaten to the ground or were sent flying through the air in one fell sweep of the masked-hero's armoured hand.

When the last of the enemy soldiers was down, the figure turned and approached the winded young woman on the floor. The blackened faceplate slid up, but Grace barely caught a glimpse of his face before a nearby vehicle caught fire and exploded, sending a cloud of smoke and dirt towards them. Coughing into the fading smoke, Steve rubbed his face as best he could with his metal-clad hand, though Grace could only discern two of the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"Are you okay, Miss…?" asked Steve.

Grace blinked, rubbing the dirt from her eyes.

"Technically I don't have a name, and I was never here, so let's just nix the pleasantries, shall we?" she bit out, releasing the empty cartridge of her gun and reaching for another in her back pocket.

She shoved the fresh cartridge in roughly, and muttered, "Oh, and I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Steve stammered; quite put-off by the young woman's response.

"Err, you're welcome…? I think?"

Grace glared at the man questioningly, forcing the cartridge fully into the gun's chamber.

"So, you got a name underneath that tin fortress you're wearing?"

Steve cleared his throat and cracked a courteous smile, but it didn't soften the expression on Grace's face.

"Commander –"

He was suddenly and rudely interrupted by the annoying patter of bullets at his back where an injured troop had continued to fire from the ground some feet away. Steve raised his hands apologetically before turning to fire his repulsor, destroying most of the pavement but adequately silencing the men for good. It was over-kill, but Steve still hadn't quite got the hang of the suit. He winced.

He returned his attention to the young agent whose face was contorted in mild surprise.

"Commander Steve Rogers, ma'am."

Grace snorted, her cold glare creasing into a wry smile. "Pffttt. Ma'am? Do I look like royalty to you?" She stood, brushing away patches of dust from her mangled coat.

"Bloody tourists," she mumbled to herself.

But the name did sound familiar. She narrowed her eyes.

Surely, it couldn't be?

"I'm sorry, I…this…" Steve trailed off, looking around rather confused at the barely recognisable landscape. "…this is London, right?"

"Last I checked," she grumbled, sticking her gun back in its holster. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No…" Steve murmured, still confused and mildly frustrated. "I received a distress signal from this location –" He snapped his mouth shut before he could reveal any more information, remembering that he still didn't know who the woman was, or her allegiance for that matter, only that when he'd arrived she was being shot at by a much larger force of attackers.

And Grace was suddenly more than interested in the armoured giant of a man.

"– A distress signal?"

"–Stevens!?" a voice called suddenly from the underground's entrance.

Steve and Grace turned at the same time to see that the other agents had left the shelter of the tunnel after much of the gunfire had ceased. The group stood at the top of the steps, just a little shocked at the sea of bodies lying motionless on the ground. Steve recognised their S.H.I.E.L.D uniforms instantly.

"Iron Man?" an agent muttered, confused.

Steve ignored that label, his face deathly serious.

"A S.H.I.E.L.D aircraft headed for Italy received a distress signal about an hour ago," he said instead, "I got here as fast as I could…"

He paused, counting the seven agents that remained out of a body of one hundred, give or take. His heart sank.

"…Is this everyone?"

Grace bowed her head in defeat.

"What happened here?" asked Steve in a quiet voice.

Grace turned to the tired eyes of her group again, taking in a deep breath.

"We need to get to the harbour," she instructed in a calm and commanding voice, swiping the defective navigator from the hands of one of the agents and muttering to Steve:

"I'll tell you on the way."

. . .

The storm soon found its way to London, smothering it in a sheet of bitter cold rain. The evening grew darker, but the street lamps of Westminster offered very little light that would fend off the kind of darkness that had consumed it. A small group of armed men dragged a battered S.H.I.E.L.D agent by his arms. His legs dangled helplessly behind him, the material on his uniform worn down at the knees. They reached the centre of a war-torn street, a great deal quieter now that much of the fighting had ceased, and threw the man to the ground. He landed face down on the wet tarmac, choking as the sting of the cold surface poked and prodded at his wounds, filling them with dirt and gravel.

"This is the last of them, sir," said one of the soldiers.

"I thought I made myself clear when I specifically told you to bring me prisoners. This is a prisoner," said a clipped voice from within the shadows.

The soldier cleared his throat nervously. "Yes sir, I understand sir, but…"

"Excuse me? What was that?" the cold voice snapped back through the soft hiss of the falling rain.

"I, erm… this was the only one still breathing, sir. The rest are… are dead or have –"

There was total silence as the voice slowly ground out, "–Escaped?"

The soldier nodded.

"Sir."

The soldier swallowed hard at the tall figure that approached from the darkness and into the orange glow of the street lamps then, accompanied by several higher ranked military men. The man on the ground lifted his head, noticing a pair of long black boots and a dark green cape of sorts stop a few feet away.

"Soldier, you do realise that your express instructions were to infiltrate the base, capture their leaders and neutralise the rest?" By the sound of his voice the faceless man was growing more impatient as each word left his lips.

"Y-yes, sir," the soldier stammered back.

"Then please, indulge me as to how you have managed to fail me so completely!"

"Sir… we were… we were outmatched."

There was a short pause before the painful crack of a blunt weapon meeting the skull of the nervous soldier caused the agent on the floor to flinch. The soldier fell beside him, still conscious, but the side of his head was smeared with fresh blood. The tip of a shiny gold and silver sceptre pressed firmly against the back of the soldier's head, warning him to stay down as he choked shallowly in the pools of rain water beneath him.

"Barely a hundred slow-witted S.H.I.E.L.D agents against an army of heavily armed soldiers and you were outmatched!?" The tall man seethed.

"They had help!" the soldier spluttered pathetically.

"What do you mean 'they had help'?!"

The soldier coughed, trying to calm his nerves and find enough breath to speak as the sceptre at the back of his head relentlessly pushed him down against the cold, wet surface of the road. The agent beside him dared to glance at the tall figure that loomed above them, but he knew exactly who he was. He was dressed in faded gold armour against thick black leather and green, a cape of the same colour draped from his shoulders that barely caressed the floor. On his head was a horned helmet of the same tainted gold. The man's face was hidden within shadow, a silhouette against the sickly orange glow of the street lights, but his profile was unmistakable.

It was Loki, and he was not at all in the best of moods.

The injured gunman spoke again.

"Sir, it was… it was Iron Man. They had Iron Man, sir!"

Silence.

Then the spear was lifted, and the soldier relaxed, barely.

"Iron Man? Really, now?" Loki's voice trembled with a swelling rage.

The soldier tried to speak, but Loki's spear had already met the side of his skull again. He fell, the blood smear on his head oozing with thick blood that pooled beneath him, making its way towards the agent who shifted away in terror.

"Does anyone else wish to add further excuses?"

The other soldiers remained utterly silent, not daring to shift out of line or even meet their leader's eye.

Loki's attention drifted to the agent on the floor, and he lowered his sceptre, pointing it square between the man's fearful eyes.

"Seeing as you are the only one left," he said, sneering, "you will have to do."

He loomed over the shaken man, tilting his head upwards with the tip of his sceptre beneath his chin.

"I want to know the location of your remaining posts," Loki demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the agent choked.

"Come now, you really wish to play this game? Do you take me for a fool?"

The man said nothing, but swallowed a dry lump in his throat.

"You have seen what happens to those who fail to deliver what I want," the god said softly.

"I don't know anything, so you'll just have to kill me," spat the man in feigned confidence, fine specks of blood spraying on the already bloodied golden sheen of Loki's sceptre.

The corner of Loki's mouth switched and he leaned down to close the distance between them, lowering the sharp edge of the sceptre to the throat of the unruly agent.

"I consider myself a merciful King, " Loki breathed through a scowl, "but do not assume that I am a patient one. If you won't offer the information willingly, there are other ways of making you talk."

"You're not my king, you're a tyrant, and we don't cooperate with tyrants," the man dared to say with what little strength he had left.

Loki pursed his lips, carefully considering his next move; whether to bludgeon to death the intolerable piece of Resistance scum that dared to speak ill of him within his very presence, or to let that one comment slide. For now, it seemed, he would spare himself the effort until he had no more use of the man. He smiled coldly as he motioned the other soldiers to remove him from his sight.

"Take him."

They silently obeyed, hauling the fearful agent away and into the night, no doubt to be tortured until he cried the words Loki wished to hear, or he breathed his last breath.

Loki then directed his authority to his remaining troupe, a scowl upon his face as he recalled two words the foolish soldier had spoken; two words that irked him so.

…Iron Man.

"I want complete access to every recording device on every street corner within this city," Loki commanded, his grip tightening on his sceptre.

"And bring me Hammer. I have some questions that need answering."

. . .

Dusk came swiftly to the city of Venice, Italy. The sun painted its cracked, fading walls a burnt orange as it began to dip beneath the water. Only the great painters and poets of old could adequately describe such beauty, but between the cracks and the narrow pathways there was an ugliness there that Clint Barton was more than capable of putting into words.

Though he wasn't much of a poet, or a painter for that matter, he had an eye for detail, and he knew trouble when he saw it. On this night, trouble came in the form of a middle aged man. About 6 ft 2, medium build. Nothing out of the ordinary in the way he looked, just the way he kept turning up in every place Clint dragged his sorry ass to.

Him again.

Clint eyed his stalker through the bottom of the glass as he finished his second double bourbon. The man was sat across the bar, in the darkest corner with the broken light fixture. Clint shifted his gaze to the overhead TV behind the bar and lowered his glass. It was the same old news playing back on the screen – regimes that had fallen, countries under Loki's thumb, the rising death toll; add to that list the recent fall of London. Europe wasn't safe anymore. It was only a matter of time before Clint ran out of hiding places as well.

Another news headline appeared, describing the assassination of an ex-politician-turned-pro-Loki campaigner, followed by grainy photographs of someone that bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain archer that was sat in the quiet bar, casually having his routine drink, and minding his own damn business.

The barman gave him a knowing look, while several others eyed him dangerously.

Clint just cracked a wry smile.

He hated hiding anyway.

He dropped the glass on the bar before throwing down a few Euros and scooting off his stool to leave. And, sure enough, he had that extra shadow again.

Hands tucked into his black jacket pockets he walked through a generous crowd of people and pigeons. Now and then he'd turn a corner or look at his reflection in a shop window, just to keep his eye on the man tailing him. Then Clint tried something new. He managed to "disappear", leaving the man a few paces behind him rather unsettled. The guy kept on walking until he caught a glimpse of what he thought was his target, who turned suddenly down a narrow alleyway a few yards ahead of him. So, naturally, he followed.

But the alleyway appeared empty – that is to say, no one was at the other end. It was very narrow though, and dark. The man walked cautiously down, reaching a point where they alley met the steps of an adjoining walkway.

"Now I'm your shadow," came a sudden voice from the darkness.

The man stopped dead in his tracks, instinctively reaching for the gun on the inside of his jacket.

"Ah-ah-ah. Wouldn't do that if I were you," Clint taunted, waving his own gun as a warning. "If you wanna keep all your digits I'd stay perfectly still. Now, I'm gonna ask you some questions, and I want the god honest truth. Or," he let his finger rest lightly on the trigger, "my finger might… just… slip."

He smiled wryly. "We understand each other, amigo?"

The man hesitated, and then gave in, raising his hands.

"Amico," he said plainly, "It's amico – Italiano, for… for friend."

Clint released the safety with a click and the man's posture became rigid.

"That's what I said."

He leaned forward, just enough to reveal the glint in his eyes from the shadows, and asked,

"What's the price on my head now? How much they payin' you?"

"Two hundred thousand," the man spoke quietly.

Clint snorted.

"That it? Not only does that hurt my feelings but it makes you look desperate." He shook his head. "They're takin' advantage, payin' you that chicken feed. I'd have asked for at least twice that much."

He moved closer then, keeping his eyes fixed on the man who stared right back.

"Just you?"

The man nodded emphatically.

"Ci."

"You better not be lyin'. Remember our agreement?"

The man chuckled.

"You won't do it," he sneered. "You're one of them. An Avenger."

A small bead of sweat slid down his temple, and his eyes shifted for the briefest of moments to another space over Clint's shoulder.

The archer noticed.

"Only on the resume," Clint muttered softly, before lowering his gun and kneecapping the guy.

And then Clint was dodging a sweep of gunfire from somewhere higher up and further down the alleyway. He ran towards its source, firing back at the injured man behind him who had found his gun and started shooting too. Clint heard the man cry out, and stop firing. One of the bullets had found his hands as promised. Clint shook his head, slamming another cartridge into his gun.

"Shoulda asked for more money, pal."

The gunshots continued to chip away at the weathered walls and footpath behind him, and Clint could see the gunman now, leaning out of a window with an M16 rifle, blazing a trail of bullets just short of his feet. Clint kicked against the wall of the narrow alleyway and managed to almost parkour his way up to the window below, pulling himself up and into the building a little less gracefully. But the bullets continued to follow him through the ceiling as plaster and wood rained down from above. He ran straight, continuing through room after room past screaming residents until he made it to the stairwell of what appeared to be an old apartment building.

"Oh, great. This looks familiar –"

A couple of bullets ricocheted off the metal railings of the stairwell and Clint cast his eyes up to see the gunman making his way down two, three steps at a time. He swung himself over the railings and decided to meet the guy halfway, narrowly dodging the gunfire that clipped the walls as he climbed up the side of the stairs. When the gunman was close enough, Clint kicked up his feet over the railing and slugged the guy in the face. A short tussle later and he finally wrested the upper hand, knocking the guy out cold against the solid banister of the stairwell.

The tranquil evening silence outside was abruptly broken as the unconscious body of the gunman was sent flying through the 5th story window and onto a parked car below, obliterating the windshield and triggering the car's blaring alarm. Oddly, no one seemed to notice, or care.

Clint tucked his gun back in the band of his jeans and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

"I need a drink," he muttered to himself then.

But when he finally reached his apartment door – which, unfortunately, was in that very building – some moments later, Clint was immediately on edge. For starters, the door wasn't locked as he'd left it – or even shut for that matter. He pushed it open slowly; the only noises a creak of old hinges and the soft brush of steel against leather as he pulled his knife from its holster. The room looked empty, and there was no sign of forced entry or a burglary, despite its unkempt appearance. But with the hairs on the back of his neck on end, Clint knew he was not alone. Then, from the next room, came a familiar voice.

"Agent Barton."

Clint heard the sound of steady footsteps, the creak of the bedroom door, before Nick Fury appeared before him like a ghostly memory; and an entirely unwelcome one at that.

The director dipped his head in greeting.

"It's been a while."

"Been meaning to get that door fixed," said Clint, idly throwing his knife at the wall without so much as a sideways glance. It embedded itself in a blanket of photographs, right between the eyes of a mangled picture of Loki that had borne the brunt of many a projectile before.

Walking over to the messy coffee table Clint picked up a half-empty bottle of bourbon and pushed over empty cups and dirty plates before finding the cleanest glass at hand, and taking it.

"What brings you to this side of paradise?" he muttered, beginning to pour.

Fury shrugged.

"Noticed you've been busy these past months. Sight-seeing around Europe?"

"You always said I should take a vacation," said Clint, bourbon slopping steadily into the glass. "Sorry I didn't send you a postcard. Must've slipped my mind."

He motioned to Fury with the bottle, but the director politely declined.

"Don't know why I'm here," Clint continued, obliviously, "Don't even speak Italian. And the pizza?" He shook his head. "It was a shock, but y'know, I think I had better in…"

He fell silent for a moment, bottle abruptly still in his hand, before he murmured solemnly,

"In Manhattan."

He downed the glass of bronze liquid, savouring the burning sensation at the back of his throat. It was an easy way of staying numb, and cheaper still. He reached for the bottle again to fill his glass, and Fury watched him carefully.

"Well, if the food and talk's not really doing it for you, we're shipping out tonight," Fury said, the director holding his gaze when the archer finally met it.

"There's a seat in the jet with your name on it."

"Go, with you?" Clint scoffed, coughing back a drink-induced laugh. "Where? You gonna put me up in a nice condo like before? Maybe throw in some health insurance? A retirement plan? All that jazz?" he said, waving his hands à la cabaret.

But Fury didn't say a word, just continued to stare at him with the same unreadable expression.

"Didn't think so," Clint muttered, raising the glass to his lips again.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a mission than a mansion," said Fury, slowly. "Came to see if my best marksman was still up for a job."

"Well, I'm not entirely lacking in the jobs department at the moment, sir. So, unless you got that mansion…" Clint sipped his drink, an eye fixed on Fury who paced the room slowly, taking the time to actually look at the archer's digs, having broken in some time earlier.

"This what you call home these days?" Fury sniffed, eying the peeling wallpaper distastefully. "Looks a little drafty."

The archer said nothing then, taking a long swallow. When he did speak, his eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere outside the window, and his thoughts were far away.

"I don't have a home…"Clint muttered.

And the memories came crawling back to the surface then, digging away at the topsoil until they were playing back right in front of his eyes; cycling, repeating. His missions with Natasha, their moments shared in secret, a lingering kiss.

A gunshot.

"…not anymore," he said then, voice full of bitterness.

He tipped the drink between his lips and swallowed – tears and all – slamming the empty glass on the table.

"What's the deal with you showin' up like the ghost of Christmas fuckin' Past anyway?" he sneered. "I was doin' just fine before you rolled in."

Fury raised an eyebrow.

"If you say so," the director shrugged, with a calmness of presence that made Clint even angrier. "Chasin' down petty criminals? Tryin' to stay one step ahead of what passes for 'the law', these days?"

Fury fixed him with a look.

"How's that going for you? ..." he asked quietly. "You find the answer to your problems at the bottom of that bottle yet?"

Clint snatched up the bottle again in response, but left the glass.

"…Cos' from where I'm standing," Fury continued, "You don't look so good."

"Like I said, I was fine," Clint bit out, snapping, "I am fine."

He walked past Fury then, making his way into the kitchen. The director followed him.

"I think we both know that ain't true," said Fury. "You're anything but fine." He looked at the bottle, and asked pointedly, "How long has it been since you were sober?"

When the archer didn't answer, Fury folded his arms and said, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "Well, I bet it's worked wonders for your aim."

Clint's jaw tensed and he stopped by the kitchen table, the bottle crashing against the wood as he slammed it down with a loud crack.

"I've seen the news footage," Fury continued stubbornly. "You've gotten sloppy, Barton. Lounging in bars, picking fights in public places? That tends to attract a lot of unwanted attention."

"Clearly," Clint scoffed. "You showed up, didn't you? Just – what is it you want from me, Fury? Cos' y'sure s'hell don't give a crap about my condition. Y'let me rot for damn near eight months, so y'can't be missin' me all that much. Or is it cos I'm makin' the headlines, hm? Suddenly I'm the World's Most Wanted, and here y'are in my apartment!"

Fury narrowed his eye.

"I didn' ask for your help, and you ain't getting' mine," said Clint spitefully, words just a little slurred. "So go crawl back under that rock y'came from, huh?"

The director considered him in cold silence.

"I wonder what she'd have to say about you if she could see you now," said Fury then. "Bet she'd be real disappointed –"

"—You done?"

When Clint turned there were no tears, but his eyes were red and distant, still so angry; refusing to see the bitter reality that had been thrust upon him.

"Not even close," Fury said, putting his palms on the table. "Stop with the lone ranger act, Barton. Put down the bottle and pick up what's left of your dignity.

"You got a grudge to settle with a god?" he continued coldly, "Well so have I."

Then Fury shrugged.

"Way I see it? We're on the same side here. And I'm one marksman short of a full house."

"There are no sides," said Clint, sniffing. "Just dopes with hidden agendas."

He pushed himself up from the table and casually made for the bathroom. At the door, he turned, gesturing to the exit.

"I already gave you my answer, Fury, so if you don't mind...?"

The director nodded.

"Alright. I get it."

"And close the door on your way out," Clint muttered over his shoulder. "It's a rough neighbourhood."

The bathroom door slammed shut, rattling the window panes. So he was running, again. That was his choice. After eight months, he was still running.

Fury sighed.

"If you really want to avenge her…" he said to the closed door, "start by avenging the rest of the world."

He eyed the bathroom door pensively, and placed a small communicator on the kitchen table. Before leaving, Fury called over his shoulder,

"You call me if that bottle doesn't work out for you."

From the other side of the wall, Clint heard the front door click shut. Leaning against the bathroom door he let out a long sigh, catching a glimpse of his tired, stubble-ridden face in the fractured mirror on the wall before him. When he was sure Fury had gone, he slipped out of the bathroom and collapsed into a kitchen chair in the next room.

For a long while he just stared at the small device beside the bottle. When he did finally pick it up, he abruptly decided against actually using it, and it ended up buried in his jeans pocket as he slumped down onto the battered couch in the living room, a bourbon bottle back in hand.

Out of sight, out of mind.

That was something of his catch phrase since his old life and the future that would've come with it had faded out of sight, when he had banished so many of the memories from his mind thereafter. But Fury returning had disturbed everything, his careful plans to drown his past in a fog of brown liquor.

From his dip in the couch, Clint fumbled for his bow and an arrow from his quiver and stood, unsteadily. Taking a few steps back in his living space until his elbows touched the wall he aimed shakily at the empty bottle still stood on the kitchen table. The bow's frame creaked, and the string tightened, snapping back as he let the arrow fly.

It missed.

Clint shook his head and inhaled deeply, reaching for another arrow and taking aim. Again, the bow creaked, the string tightened between his fingers, and this time, he exhaled slowly, steady. In that long breath, the bottle dissolved and he could see the face of his enemy; long and thin, sneering with a set of jagged teeth, white below a pair of emerald eyes that reflected the light like those of a cat.

And this time, he didn't miss his target.