The city looked beautiful with the millions of lights casting squares of colors over the darkened streets. The night air was warm and heavy with humidity. It felt oppressive against the thick coat of Clint's feathers. He beat his wings faster, pushing himself up over the maze of buildings and into the open air. He spun in a tight spiral, relishing in the feel of the wind.

The city felt a million times larger yet so very tiny as he flew above it. Clint rode the changing air currents, letting them take him further out along the island. The familiar skyscrapers lit the sky like Christmas trees; glowing with colors that Clint knew he'd never be able to describe.

Clint knew he should be heading back to the Tower. It'd been over 24 hours and by now someone would have realized he was missing. But his wings were still aching from being cooped inside and the freedom felt so wonderful that he couldn't bring himself to turn around. He hadn't even stopped flying long enough to sleep. His muscles felt like they were coursing with lightning, the energy burning through him and constantly pushing him to fly further and higher and faster.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Clint knew how idiotic he was being. That his wings could disappear at any moment and he'd go plummeting hundreds of feet to the pavement below. But Clint couldn't find room for any fear through the joy of the air rippling his feathers.

Soon Clint found himself flying out over open water. He spiraled downwards in large, lazy circles until he could let his wings skim along the surface. His bird eyes caught each shift of the water's surface, each bug skating over the surface, each fish darting just below the waves. He felt an overwhelming urge to dive down and snatch one of the fish. So he did, first flying up to get a better angle on his prey and wishing for a perch to work from, before folding in his wings and diving into the water. He caught the fish easily, his eyes staying open as he moved through the waves.

As Clint rose up again into the air, he downed the fish, finding it so much more satisfying than the canned crap that he'd been eating at the Tower. He wasn't sure if it was because the fish was fresh, or if it was simply the thrill of diving for it himself. Maybe he'd have Tony install some sort of aquarium or something in the Tower.

Clint lost track of time as he flew out over the waves, drawing strange and intricate patterns through the air. It was so easy to get lost in the sensations. The feel of the salt spray whenever he circled near to the shore where the water was crashing against the rocks. The smell, the sting of salt water mixed with the tang of fish and the deep, whole scent of the storm that was moving in.

Clint wove towards the warehouses lining an empty set of docks, staying just ahead of the downpour. He navigated the maze of metal walls, looking for an open window or door. There was a difference between diving into the ocean of his own volition and trying to fly in the rain. And the latter was not very fun, as he'd discovered one day on the balcony of the Tower.

The rain had just started to fall when he finally found a window that was cracked open. He flew inside as lightning lit up the sky. Okay, so maybe a giant metal building wasn't the smartest idea, but at least it was dry. The warehouse was one single massive room, filled with thousands of wooden crates. They were stacked in uneven piles, like whoever had placed them there hadn't really cared about keeping them organized. The paths between them wove and twisted and Clint was extremely grateful for the ability to fly above them.

He wound his way through the rafters, searching for someplace to wait out the storm. But all of them were made of steel and another flash of lightning made him decide that maybe the boxes would be a safer perch. He settled onto the highest pile, near the very center of the warehouse. The moment he curled in his wings the exhaustion hit him. It suddenly felt like he'd been flying for days without stopping, which was almost true.

It had just been so ridiculous to even think about landing when he knew this was the only chance he was going to get to fly however high he wanted. Coulson would put his ass on lockdown as soon as Clint went back. He wouldn't be surprised if Coulson actually followed through with Natasha's threat of a cage. And maybe that was why he still hadn't gone back. Because he knew how they all would react, and he wasn't ready to face that quite yet.

Not that they all weren't being ridiculously supportive with the whole bird thing, cause they were. But things were different, especially now that Steve had switched back to human. Whenever Clint was out on the balcony for more than five minutes, someone would come out and join him. Whenever the group was eating a meal together, they'd make sure to set Clint a place at the table. Tony had built him a perch in the living room so he had his own place during movie nights.

They all went so far out of their ways to make Clint feel included still. But it didn't change the fact that he was a bird. He was still stuck with wings and feathers and had to talk through that damn translator that made him sound like a robot version of himself. All of the things that he'd loved, he now hated. Not being able to eat a burger, or spar with Nat, or hold his bow… God he missed his bow… He wouldn't have minded it half as much if he hadn't been forced to follow Coulson's stupid fucking ten foot rule.

Clint felt his feathers puffing up in his anger, and he couldn't figure out if it made him want to laugh or scream. He was a grown fucking man. He should be able to decide for himself if he wanted to go outside. Who was Coulson to say that he couldn't?! What gave him any right to keep Clint as a virtual prisoner? Clint shifted and stretched out his wings. This storm needed to be done so that he could go outside and fly again. He needed to exercise to burn off this frustration, but he was stuck inside. Again. And that only frustrated him even more.

He lifted into the air and flew in circles, from corner to corner, then zigzags and grids and lines and any other pattern he could think of. He kept flying until he'd burned off most of his anger. Clint collapsed down onto one of the stacks of crates near one end of the warehouse, his muscles feeling rung out. He wanted a hot shower and to crawl into his bed. He wanted to eat cold pizza and have a beer and put his feet up on the coffee table. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before.

That's when he heard the voices.

;;;

Phil made the drive back to the Tower in less than ten minutes. He wove in and out of the late-night traffic and taxi cabs with the ease that came from too many ops where he ended up the getaway driver. He screeched around corners and may or may not have done a power slide into his designated parking spot. The car had barely come to a stop before he was flinging open the door and running for the elevator. A part of him remembered the security cameras and the fact that he was letting his emotions through his normal calm mask, but he couldn't bring himself to care about it.

When the elevator doors dinged open, Phil could hear the commotion that was the Avengers coming from the living room. The noise died away the second Phil stepped into the room. All of their eyes turned towards him, reactions a mix of guilt and worry. Or, in Natasha's case, barely contained rage.

"Explain." Phil crossed his arms and took a wide, defensive stance. He noted Stark's eyes darting to the jacket pocket where Phil kept his taser.

"It's like I said on the phone." Stark played with something small and silver, twisting it in his hands. "Barton's gone."

"We looked back through the security tapes." Steve added "One second he was sitting in his room, the next, he was gone.

Phil nodded. "Stark, I'm assuming you put a tracker in the translation device?"

"Of course." Stark looked affronted.

"And?..."

Stark dropped his head, holding out his hand to show what he had been playing with. A small silver band. The translator. "Damn it, Barton." Phil muttered. He sighed and rolled his shoulders to help alleviate the knot forming in his muscles. "How'd he get that off?"

"No idea." Bruce said softly. "For all intents and purposes, he shouldn't have been able to."

"The band itself is virtually indestructible and the closure mechanism would require opposable thumbs to operate." Tony explained, looking down at the translator like it had betrayed him somehow.

"So, what's plan B?" Bruce asked. "It's not like we can put out an APB on a bird."

Phil knew Bruce was right. He'd been clinging to the knowledge that Stark loved knowing where all his tech was at all times. Losing that, he felt lost. Damn it all, Barton. Phil should have known he would try and pull some sort of stunt like this. Should have been more vigilant. And now it was too late, Barton was gone and Phil had no idea how to even start looking for him.

"Phil?" He opened his eyes, not realizing he'd closed them, to find the group all staring at him. It was Natasha who had spoken. She had crossed the room and was standing just a few feet away from him, a rare soft smile on her face. "Barton can take care of himself. He'll be fine." She took a step forward and they wrapped their arms around each other. Phil felt himself collapse into it, trusting her to help keep him standing. "We'll find him."

;;;

Clint edged towards the side of the crate, peering down towards where the voices were emanating from. There were three men in dark coats, slick from the rain, gathered around a single crate. Instantly Clint was on alert. Everything about these men screamed trouble, from their dark greasy hair to the guns he could see holstered to their hips.

"But I still don't get why he needs it right now." One of them said, lifting up a crowbar Clint hadn't noticed. "Couldn't he have at least waited until the storm passed?"

"Scared you're gonna melt?" another one of them drawled in a New Jersey accent. He punched the shoulder of the first man, slightly too hard to be entirely playful. It knocked him enough that he had to take a step to keep from falling over. The crowbar went skittering to the floor, making a loud clang against the concrete.

"Behave yourselves." The third man, clearly the leader, stepped forward and grabbed the crowbar, flinging it at the second man. "We all knows why we's all scared of thunder now. So let's get this over with and goes home before any Avengers show up, capisce?"

The other two nodded and set about prying open the crate. Clint watched in fascination, holding his breath, eager to know what was so important that these guys were willing to risk the wrath of Thor. The moment the wood lid was pried up and thrown aside, Clint's jaw dropped. If he had still been in human form he probably would have actually fallen from his perch in shock.

It was Loki's scepter.

"Still don't get why this stick's so important." The first guy said, stepping back so that the leader could get a clear view.

"You aren't paid to know things. You're paid to do whatever he tells ya to do." The man reached down and hefted the scepter up. His rough handling of it made it clear to Clint that he had no idea what it was he held in his hands.

"But why do we need this stupid thing to take out the Avengers? The plan would work without it." Clint's heart was pounding against his ribs and he leaned closer. "It's not like they're going to expect it."

"I know." Guy number two chuckled. "Who expects that a Doombot attack is actually just a distraction?"

"Yeah, but that's not my favorite part." Man number one said. "My favorite part is the fire." Both guy one and guy two started howling with laughter until the leader finally got annoyed with them and just walked away. The two others followed, still chuckling occasionally.

Clint didn't move, even after he heard a door in the distance open and slam closed and he found himself in silence. He was counting his lucky stars that he'd been here. That he'd overheard the three men. It was a coincidence that almost made him want to thank God. Now he needed to get home, to the Tower. He needed to warn the others about the Doombot attack and that it was a distraction. He needed their help to figure out what it would be a distraction from, and where the hell fire fit into the equation.

He waited five minutes, counting out the seconds anxiously. Once he was certain the men would be gone (not that they'd recognize him as a bird anyway, but he couldn't be too careful) he took off. Flying out through the open window he'd entered through and out into the rain. Each drop felt like a twenty pound weight hitting his wings and they pulled him off course. But he kept flying, ignoring the discomfort. All that mattered was getting back to the Tower in time. He didn't know when the attack the men had talked about was going to happen, but he was pretty sure he at least had until the storm passed. So Clint kept flying, pumping his wings until his muscles were burning, and fighting his way through the rain. Hoping each second that the storm would last and he could make it back in time.