AN: From this moment onwards, the timeline has been thrown out the window! It's gone, for many reasons. The characters can be as old or young as you see fit. :-) Also, I realise that I've deviated quite heavily from the comics now, partly by accident, but I was never a fan of Clint as Goliath... please don't kill me!

The Other Barton Boy

3. Good Guy

Sniper school was never something he had intended to take seriously – not until he discovered he was good at it. Nobody could quite place why, but the way Corporal Charles Barton hit ninety-nine per cent of his targets with fatal accuracy was… odd, if not a little frightening. The guy was just one huge ball of pent-up energy to some, only recently promoted and still new to the NCO role. He angered quickly, his mood flipping faster than a spinning coin on some occasions, a trait some considered risky in a marksman; yet there was no denying his skill. Again, like a coin changing between heads and tails, this tireless man would lie stock still, rifle in hand, barely breathing as he sighted whatever target he'd been told to shoot, and within seconds he'd be on his feet again, ready to move on to the next. An impatient sniper? Some didn't like it, but then they knew Corporal Barton didn't care. If he did, they'd be in a different unit.

If anybody knew even the slightest thing about Corporal Barton, it would be Sergeant Doyle. It wasn't like they had told each other their favourite colours or anything, but Barton actually talked to Doyle. Some said it was because they were both snipers, others said it was because he was kissing ass, but Doyle suspected he was the only one who knew the real reason – hell, even then he wasn't totally sure. "You remind me of my brother," the Corporal had said one day, and though Doyle had gently tried to get more out of him than that, he'd not had much luck. One year with this guy and he didn't know anything about his brother besides the fact that he'd been at the circus with Barton and was a few years younger. As far as Doyle could tell, it was a sore spot, and in his experience sore spots were best left alone (especially with Barton).

So he got a surprise one day when his Corporal, completely out of the blue, said, "My brother should be here, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Doyle wasn't sure what to say. Sat on the edge of a rooftop in middle-of-nowhere Afghanistan, watching other soldiers relax below them, it was fair to say he was caught off-guard.

Barton nodded, smirking bitterly. "It was always me and him, y'know? Right from the day our parents died, where I went he went. Idiot got too hung up over the circus though, probably thought he'd ruin them if he left."

"Why'd he think that?"

For a minute, Barton said nothing, and Doyle wondered if he'd pushed his luck too far; then: "He was one of their precious stars. Had a routine with this other guy, spangly outfit and all that shit. Loved the attention."

Doyle frowned. "So if he was happy, why should he be here?"

"Well apart from the fact that I'm here, he's a damn good shot." He turned to the Sergeant with a glint in his eye. "You think I'm a good sniper? My baby brother'd easily give me a run for my money."

"Seriously?" He nodded. "Jesus, you Bartons made by robots or something?"

"Hey, I ain't a mutant!"

Doyle held his hands up. "Didn't say you were." The Corporal just grunted, setting his gaze into the desert landscape before them and letting silence settle between the dust. After a short while, though, he spoke up again.

"Ever wonder what that'd be like? Fighting mutants?"

His companion gave him a dark chuckle. "Leave that shit to the FBI, that's what I say."

"What, you don't think it'd be a challenge?"

"That's exactly what I think it'd be, only ten times worse."

Barton snorted, shaking his head. He shifted where he sat so that he was facing the other NCO, a familiar look in his eyes. "So say a mutant jumps up now and grabs me from behind, starts dragging me away – you'd just do nothing?"

"Aw, come on, Barton, not this!" Doyle groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"No, seriously, what would you do?"

He shrugged. "Shoot it in the head."

"What if it used me as a body shield?"

He stared. "Are you on crack or something?"

"Come on, tell me!"

Sergeant Doyle rolled his eyes. "I'd negotiate, or at least try to until someone else could take him out. Then we'd all skip over to the Sergeant Major, get a pat on the back, maybe a medal or something, I dunno."

Barton stared at him for a long time, the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "You should've said negotiations first." Doyle threw his hands up as his Corporal laughed, only slightly tempted to push him off. Silence soon returned though, comfortable despite the heat. "FBI, huh?" Barton murmured. Doyle didn't think anything of it at the time, but when later asked why he thought Barton had quit he considered that conversation more carefully.

"Maybe he wanted something more exciting," became his generic answer. Doyle knew better than most that Corporal Charles Barton was a restless soul – he hoped that whatever the guy was looking for, he found it before he got himself killed.

Even as a member of the Army, Barney Barton had found very little occasion to wear a suit, but that was what the FBI had required, so that was what he acquired (asking a hotel maid how to tie a tie had probably been the most embarrassing moment of his life). Suits made him feel uncomfortable – there was a weight to them, an expectation that he didn't quite adhere to. What carnie, besides maybe someone like Carson, would ever have cause to wear a suit? It had been bloody expensive, too, not to mention the shoes. But despite his nerves, they deemed him acceptable, and Barney became Agent Charles Barton of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was soon handed his first assignment.

"A bodyguard?"

His superior, a guy called Arterton, nodded. "Something light, to get you settled," he explained. "Your charge goes by the name of Marko. He's a wealthy man, big setup and all that, but it's all funded by criminal activity."

Barney smirked. "So he's like some kind of mastermind or something?"

"Apparently he likes the term 'overlord'."

"Jesus."

"You're job is to learn what you can about his activities and report back to us until we have substantial evidence to go in ourselves." He ran through the mission brief, outlining places and people considered important before dismissing Barney with a week's preparation time. They stuck him in some posh hotel, the first time he really appreciated the suit get-up – he would never have looked right stood in the lobby in his ordinary clothes. The room itself, though… He smiled. He could get used to this.

The week long wait, however, was not something he could deal easily with. Life at the carnie had ingrained a short sleep cycle into him, so he couldn't help but wake up early and start feeling tired incredibly late, which lead to a few problems: the biggest was the fact that he had a lot of free time on his hands and very little to do with it. He read and re-read his mission brief until even the tiniest of details were ingrained into his memory, then sat on his bed, watched some shitty television, drank some beer, tried to get his head around the new mobile phone he'd been given, went out and explored the city as much as he could without getting lost, eaten as expensively as he dared, then finally ended up lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, at which point he gave in and let his thoughts run free…

What would the folks at Carson's say if he told them he was in the fricking FBI? Would they care? Did he care, for that matter? Well, maybe in regards to Clint he did, and possibly Alizeh. He had no idea where they were right now, or what they were doing, really. Clint may have his own act for all he knew, and oh, wouldn't his baby brother love that? His own trailer, the entire audience focused on him, his own training routines (and no more beatings) – it was what he'd wanted after all, and now he wouldn't have Barney dragging him down. Then again, maybe he was too battered to perform on his own. Alizeh had never had the same problems, but that was because of her skills; hitting a contortionist could potentially put them out of action, and putting them out of action reduced their efficiency, which in turn reduced their usefulness. It was a vicious chain, and looking back, Barney resented it. Getting out was the best decision he'd ever made.

But he was lonely. Sure, he hadn't been super popular in the Army, but at least he'd had people like Doyle – and as soon as he worked out how to use this fucking phone, that man was going into his contacts. He hated that Doyle had to remind him of Clint so much, but it was only a fraction of the reason Barney had stuck around the guy. He had genuinely considered Doyle a friend, and it was with a horrible realisation that he admitted the Sergeant may be his only true friend in the world, and even then it wasn't a very deep friendship. Had Alizeh been his friend? Debatable. Was Clint his friend? Probably not anymore.

On his last evening in the hotel, Barney went out for dinner, because hell, why not? He forgot about being lonely and enjoyed the food and drink, not even looking at how much he was paying, before strolling back and deciding to sleep until he had to leave his room – whereupon he was strongly reminded about being somewhat alone. Because, when he thought about it, he'd always shared a room with someone (more or less), whether it had been with his brother or the rest of his unit, and after a week of minimal human interaction Barney was beginning to crave company. He tried to settle himself with the thought that tomorrow he'd actually be able to talk to someone, but with the chances of that someone being a total asshole fairly high the thought was hardly reassuring. He resisted admitting to missing Clint, but thinking of his brother and the life he'd chosen to stick with inevitably led to thoughts about another figure from that time in his life.

By morning, all thoughts of Alizeh were gone (he never remembered falling asleep to the image of her dazzling smile), and Barney Barton was ready for action. He dressed; he checked out; he got the train; he took a bus; he walked up to the ridiculously dressed chauffeur he was supposed to meet; he gawped at the fucking huge mansion he was taken to; he was interviewed; he got the job. 'Action', as it turned out, was incredibly tedious.

"We don't actually get much action round here." Barney was being given a tour of the mansion by the head of security, an older guy named Churchill ("No relation to the British feller", whoever he was). It was easily the biggest house Barney had ever set foot in, and he was equal parts awed and overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. How did anyone guard something this big? "Honestly, most action you'll probably see happens at poker night. To say the lads get rowdy is a hell of an understatement, I tell you."

"Lads?"

"The rest of the team." Churchill snorted. "What, you didn't think you'd be guarding this place all by yourself now, did you?"

"Oh – uh, no, it's just that I hadn't seen anyone else, so I just thought…" There was a peculiar surge of relief at the knowledge that there were more guards, one he didn't recall having ever felt. He wondered if they'd give him a sniper rifle.

It wasn't until the end of the tour that Barney finally laid eyes upon his target-come-charge. Well, in an indirect way. Watching as his eyes widened at the portrait, Churchill laughed. "You didn't hear this from me, but Marko's a self-indulgent son of a bitch. Don't question him and you'll be fine."

"…sure." Barney was still staring, slack-jawed, at the twice-his-height gold-framed portrait hung on the gleaming white wall in front of him. It seemed at odds with the rest of the modern building, which was entirely white and smoother than Alizeh's – but then he knew nothing about buildings or paintings and shit, so who was he to say what was odd and what wasn't?

"Ah – speaking of," Churchill muttered, and jerked his head towards the large, central staircase.

A squashed-looking, balding man in a suit with a red bow tie was pottering down, followed by four bodyguards and a very nervous man with a clipboard – all twice his height. He was scowling at the clipboard man, obviously displeased with what was being said, then suddenly began raving about how he "didn't have to deal with this shit", and wasn't that what he paid "those good-for-nothing monkey-ass punks" to do, and it was all a waste of his time "unless it gets me money, shit-stick!"

As poor clipboard dude slunk away (leaving a trail of sweat behind, Barney would have bet) Churchill clapped him on the shoulder. "If I were you, son, I'd keep your mouth shut for a minute." Then he stepped out to intercept a torpedo-like Marko. "Mr Marko sir?"

Marko skidded to a halt, the bodyguards behind him almost toppling over him in surprise. "What?" he snapped.

Churchill gestured to Barney. "This is Bernard Carson, sir, the new protection detail."

"Great." Without even a glance in Barney's direction, Marko sped off again. The men on his tails managed to exchange a few nods in his direction before hurrying after him, but otherwise it was as if Barney hadn't been stood right there.

Next to him, Churchill was chuckling. "You'll get used to it."

"How many times bigger did he demand this picture to be?"

The old chief laughed. "Four. They made it two and a half."

The tour was rounded off with a visit to the staff wing, where Barney would stay with the other guard staff. Churchill handed him his key, told him when dinner would be out, and left him to it. After he'd unpacked he joined the rest of them in the staff dining area, meeting some of his co-workers as well as the cleaning, cooking and gardening staff, who all lived on-site. They all welcomed him, jokingly warned him what not to do, dropped some gossip on Marko, and even handed him several bottles of beer throughout the course of the evening. He remembered as much of what they told him as he could, sticking it in an email to send back to Arterton before he went to bed. It wasn't quite the mutant-busting extravaganza he'd originally thought it would be, but it was still exciting (and ten times better than lying behind some dust-covered mound staring at who-knows-what through a scope, ass being baked by the sun), and sleep came slower than he expected. When it did come, it was blessedly dream-free.

Churchill 'buddied' him up with a guy named Joseph Lestrange so he was comfortable with the shifts and locations of his new job. A southerner, Lestrange had strong views on pretty much anything, a deep sense of self-belief, and a penchant for spiced chicken that Barney couldn't quite fathom (despite what Lestrange said, there was such a thing as too much heat), but his sense of humour and love of alcohol convinced Barney that the two could be good friends. He followed him around for a week before being assigned his own shifts, and then his real work began. Marko was a busybody – he liked to go places to announce his wealth, remind people that they knew him, and sniff out a way to earn money, be that illegally or, once in a blue moon, legally; none of the staff questioned it, so neither did Barney. He paid attention to what he saw, making mental notes that he transferred into written ones at the end of the day: contacts, cards, locations, anything else that sounded like it could be useful. It helped that the 'overlord's' personal assistant followed them practically everywhere they went. The night when he asked about the trembling man, Lestrange and the others laughed.

"That's Quivering Quentin!" Joe told him. "He's been Marko's busy-body since any of us have been here, and the boss has reduced him to the wreck you see today."

"How come?"

"Marko don't take no for an answer," Giorgio explained. "Ol' Quentin, it's his job to get people to say yes – which they don't always do."

Lestrange shook his head. "Poor sod's a bag of nerves."

Barney saw a lot of Quivering Quentin, and quickly realised he would have access to some of Marko's more personal details – bank statements, credit cards, other such important documents that a criminal mastermind (sorry – overlord) wouldn't want anyone to see. Whenever he was part of Marko's protection, Barney spent half the time watching his employer and the other half watching the personal assistant. It proved useful.

All in all, his first job had quite a few unexpected turns in store for him; he hadn't, for one, considered the possibility that he might make friends on the escapade. It wasn't like they were ever going to be close friends, though. As far as Joe and the others knew, his name was Bernie Carson, and he was just some guy from Iowa who wanted money from a relatively easy job. They welcomed him into the fold, telling him stories of times when Marko had taken them to meetings or exchanges, of long-lost heroes who'd made the ultimate sacrifice, times when it had gone wrong, shown him war wounds, dished up gossip about the boss himself… and Barney recorded more than a few of those stories, later typing up transcripts to email back to Arterton. Did he feel remorse for betraying and lying to these new comrades of his? No – he was just doing his bloody job. When it was all over, he'd put it behind him and move on, because that was what Barney Barton did. So when part of his past suddenly and very unexpectedly hit him in the chest (literally), Barney didn't quite know what to do.

Barney had been working undercover for close to a month now, emailing as much as he could to Arterton in his spare time. The returning emails had seemed promising, and the latest one had informed him that he may be pulled out in the next week or two. Whilst patrolling the perimeter that night, he was in high spirits – finally he was doing something worthwhile, with people who appreciated his efforts. That had been more than he got in the circus, and maybe even in the Army too. On top of that, he was earning quite a bit for this. Add that to what he'd received from his time in service, and he –

Something long and thin buried itself squarely into his ribcage with a dull 'thunk' and a whisper of air. Barney staggered back from the force, seeing the arrow sticking out of his chest before the world tipped backwards and he was staring at the sky. When the pain spread out, the truth registered with it: there was an arrow in his chest. He'd been shot by a freaking Robin Hood! If he hadn't been sprawled out on the earth coughing like a plague-ridden hag, Barney would've been hell-bent on tracking down the bastard and sticking one of his precious arrows up his butt-hole. What kind of idiot robbed a guarded mansion using a bow and arrow?

"Barney?"

This asshole knew him? But Barney could only think of two people who wielded – oh Jesus fucking Christ. 'Robin Hood' popped into his vision. Barney was pissed.

"Shit," Clint breathed, fingers hovering over the quickly growing blood stain on Barney's shirt (and if that didn't come out, Clint was buying him two new ones). His brother grabbed his shoulders. "Barney? Barney it's me, Clint – can you hear me? Say something!"

It took a while to get past the blood in his throat, but eventually Barney managed to come up with something appropriate for the situation. "Fuck."

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" another voice growled. Clint looked away, and though Barney tried to get a look too, moving meant sending some pretty nasty sensations through each and every muscle in his chest, as well as temporarily preventing him from breathing. All he could do was listen to the conversation and work out who it was his brother was answering to.

"I was just getting my arrow back, but –"

"So get it and let's go."

"I can't."

"Then leave it and haul ass!"

"Buck, it's Barney! I just shot my brother!"

Buck? As in, Buck Chisholm? Sure enough, Barney soon found himself staring up at the man known as Trick Shot, and wondered which was worse: the agony he was in thanks to his halfwit brother's arrow, or knowing that Chisholm had made his brother shoot him in the first place. Okay, so they hadn't actually known it was him, but still. "Asshole," he grunted.

"Barney, I'm so sorry," Clint was saying, but Barney was more focused on the twist of Chisholm's lips at the insult. "Just hang in there – you'll be fine."

"Touching little reunion," Buck sneered, "but we got a mansion to steal from. Let's go." He disappeared from view.

It was at that moment that Barney's vision decided to take a break, so he didn't see when his baby brother turned round to stare at his mentor in shock. "No," he heard him say, and Barney struggled against unconsciousness to witness the drama unfolding before him. Clint had said no, his brain was telling him; he'd said no to someone!

"What did you say?"

Barney opened his eyes to see Clint shaking his head. "I'm not leaving him."

"You crazy, kid?" Chisholm snapped. "The longer we hang around here, the sooner they realise something ain't right! We're running out of time to –"

"Barney's running out of time!"

"You had no problem taking out the others!"

"He's my brother!" As darkness descended over Barney again, his brother's words made his breathing hitch, and the hole in his front stopped hurting for a second. It wasn't that those words made him feel proud, or happy, or whatever he used to feel when Clint said such a thing; what Barney wanted to know was why Clint felt the need to say it, why that was so important now and not a few years ago when loyalty had actually mattered to him?

"Fine."

"Buck wait – ah!" There was a familiar sounding 'thunk', followed by a heavy thud next to him. He recognised the sound of Clint groaning. "Buck!"

"Save it, kid. Jacques was right – you wouldn't know loyalty if it kicked you in the nuts."

"You're wrong," Barney whispered. Then the world fell silent. When he woke up, Clint was still next to him, but things were very different; for starters, Clint was standing, and he was not. They were in a hospital. His chest didn't hurt so much – maybe because there was no arrow sticking out of it. He was tired, groggy, and still a little pissed off at his reckless brother.

"Take it easy Barney," Clint said as he struggled to sit up. "You don't wanna pull your stitches. The doctors'll get mad."

Barney laughed weakly. "Don't give a shit," he croaked, and let himself sink back against the pillows. "What the hell, Clint?"

"I'm sorry." He was getting tired of hearing that. "Buck just told me to take out the perimeter guards. We had no idea you'd be there. How could we?" The last part was a low mutter that Barney almost missed entirely.

"Hey – you were the one who ditched me for your carnie chums," he spat. "Not like I could've written to you anyway."

"Do you have any idea who you were working for Barney?"

Of course he did. "Do you?" Clint frowned. "What, you seriously expect me to believe Chisholm was any better than fucking Duquesne? Why the hell ain't you at Carson's anyway?"

"You haven't heard?"

Barney scoffed. "Oh, sure. This is someone who is clearly in the know!"

Pulling up the visitors chair (and no matter how hard he tried to disguise it, Barney caught the eye-roll), Clint took a seat, leaning back tentatively to avoid aggravating his bandaged shoulder. He spoke quietly. "A few months after you left, Carson got sick. It happened real fast, and before we knew it he was gone. Everyone was upset, of course. He was a good man. But, one problem was that he hadn't told anyone what was to happen when he passed on; suddenly, we were left without a manager, and people started arguing. That's when Samuel stepped up – sort of. He pointed out that he was kind of the only one who knew even remotely how to run a circus, and that he was the one Carson's contacts were familiar with. He organised a funeral too, so everyone sort of accepted him as leader." He pulled a face. "Didn't last long. Nobody could stand him; a lot of us left pretty early on. Alizeh and her family were some of the first to go." Barney kept his face blank, so Clint shrugged his good shoulder and carried on. "Finally, Buck and I packed up and quit too. He said he knew how to make money, and that I could tag along. All I had to do was keep my head down and do what he said."

"So you stand up to Duquesne but cave in when it comes to Chisholm?"

His lips twitched into a brief, wry smile. "I remembered: stay loyal to your mentors."

"Remembered what happened when you said no, more like."

"I thought you were in the Army?"

Barney stiffened. Question Time had begun too soon. "I was."

"What happened?"

"Passed sniper training, made Corporal, did my service, got bored, quit."

"And ended up working for Marko as Bernard Carson?"

"Yeah." Any other brother would have probably told him the truth. The fact that Barney kept his lips sealed had nothing to do with the promise of silence he'd made to the FBI.

"Barney, do you have any idea what Marko does? How he's become so rich?"

He speared Clint with a glare as sharp as the arrow that he'd embedded in his chest earlier on. "You know what hypocrite means, right?"

His brother rubbed the back of his head. "I didn't have a choice."

He smirked, ignoring the pain. "Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit! What would you have done if you were me?"

"Joined the Army."

"I tried!" Barney stilled in bed, keeping his gaze steady and focused on the plain white wall in front of him. All the walls seemed to be white these days. "I never ditched you for the circus, Barney – I did change my mind. I just… I changed it too late; I got to the bus stop as the bus was pulling away. He didn't see me, I guess."

Was Clint lying to make him feel better? Barney wasn't so sure any more. There was a time he'd easily been able to call Clint out on his fibs, but after spending so much time apart and pushing his brother from his thoughts, he couldn't work it out. "Why you here?"

Clint looked baffled. "You're my brother, and I hurt you. I wanted to make sure you were okay." His tone said he thought Barney was being stupid. That was something he recognised at least.

"And Chisholm?"

"He shot me and left. Could be anywhere by now. If I see him… I see him."

Feeling the gentle pull of sleep at the corners of his eyes, Barney shook his head sluggishly, letting out a soft chuckle despite the discomfort. "Finally standing up for yourself," he muttered. "Took you long enough."

"Barney…"

"Get outta here, Clint." He yawned. "Go play Robin Hood for the good guys."

"Are you gonna stay working for Marko?"

"Dunno."

"Will we see each other again?"

"Hope not."

Maybe the words had been harsh, and he didn't need his eyes open to know they'd stung – but he was tired, of Clint and his naivety too, and couldn't risk his brother finding out about the FBI. Besides, said baby brother was just beginning to act his age (whatever that was now). Maybe the days of 'always' were over.

Released from hospital at last, Barney hadn't been too surprised to find Arterton waiting for him outside. They drove to a small diner not too far away, where his superior paid for his coffee and told him about the upcoming plans.

"We'll wait until you're fully fit before sending you back on duty. As far as Marko and his associates know, you were killed with the other guards on patrol –"

"Wait, wait – others?"

Arterton nodded. "Yes, others. You weren't patrolling alone, you know that."

Barney paled. He remembered Chisholm saying something about others now, and tried to remember who had been on that shift with him. "Who?"

"We're not sure." A small crease had taken up residence between Arterton's eyebrows as he studied Barney closely. "Why?"

"Because I'm a morbid son of a bitch who wants to laugh at their condition. Why do you think?"

His superior shrugged. "I'll see if we can get a list." He sipped his drink before continuing. "As I said, as far as Marko is concerned, Bernard Carson disappeared. They'll never find a body."

"Yeah, that's great. When can I get back out?" Barney leant back in his chair, feeling the metal frame against his shoulder blades. He'd gotten seriously bored in the hospital, and, especially now that he'd had a taste of being undercover, wanted nothing more than to be out and about again with a task to accomplish. He wasn't useful to anyone in this state, and he didn't like being useless.

Arterton twisted his hands. "Whenever you're physically ready."

"I'm ready."

"Barton, you just got out of hospital."

"And?"

"And so you need time to recuperate, let your body get back up to strength."

"How do you know I'm not back up to strength?"

He raised his hands. "This is not something I'm prepared to argue about. Now either you let me finish explaining this to you, or I keep you off duty longer than necessary." Barney had the sense to bite his tongue. "Thank you. Now, your hospital fees have been paid for, so you won't need to worry about them, as are your hotel payments. When you're ready to go back into field work, we'll start you off on a similar level to give you time to adjust, then we'll monitor your progress from there."

During the time he was off-duty "for recuperative purposes", Barney heard nothing from Clint – which was good, he convinced himself, for both of them. In the meantime, he was satisfied to see that Marko had been arrested for major criminal activity (and part of him hoped that the guys he'd met there were let off easier – they'd just been doing their jobs). There was also a lot of hype around a group of costumed people calling themselves the Avengers; Barney figured they were mutants who'd been commissioned to play nice by the government. A photo showed the lot of them in action, and Barney was shocked to see one of them dressed in purple and wielding nothing other than a bow and arrow. So his brother played with muties now? Well, it was better than being Chisholm's lackey, he decided; and, judging by what they got up to, damn better than the FBI, too. Typical.

When missions started coming in again, they were slow, as Arterton had predicted, until a few months later when Barney was given a particularly thick file. "No screwing up on this one," they told him, and that was that. The file contained information about a racket group that was becoming prominent in the underworld. Photographs showed pictures of men shaking hands, bags being passed over, people getting into cars – but there was nothing that could clearly state the evidence as racketeering. At best, it all looked like suspicious activity, and that was where Barney came in: they wanted him to find substantial evidence, and to do that he was going to become one of them.

It was a long job; after weeks of trying, Barney was finally brought into the criminal circle the racketeers were known in. It took a further month before they trusted him enough to let him into the fold, and another month of playing errand boy before someone decided he was good enough to replace a 'desk clerk' that had been killed in a freak exchange. Weekly 'meetings' with Arterton started to become more meaningful, with a few more words than "Nothing this week" passed between them on park benches. It all came to a head when, three months after initially accepting the case, Barney was handed the 'jackpot'.

"Excuse me?"

Lowering the newspaper he'd been reading (Clint and those Avengers were making something of a name for themselves) Barney raised an eyebrow at the nerdy-looking man stood at the counter. Actually, maybe 'nerdy' was an understatement – the guy wore a white lab coat over a blue waistcoat and purple tie, with thick black-rimmed glasses on a snub nose. To top it all off, he was bald, and his head was literally egg-shaped. The guy was clearly cuckoo. "Yeah?"

Wringing his podgy hands together a little gleefully, Egg-Nerd continued. "My name is Elihas Starr. I understand that you, uh, know people who might be able to help me?"

"Depends what you need help with."

"Yes, well, you see, I've built something, and, uh, require some financial aid to put it into place. I believe that is within your capabilities, is it not?"

Barney folded the newspaper away and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "I'll need a bit more information than that."

"Such as?"

"What have you built?"

"A laser." He flashed a grin. "I'm a scientist, you see."

"No shit," Barney muttered. "Alright. Where's it going?"

"Space."

He did a double take. "What?"

"It's going to be put into space."

"Listen doc," he said, lowering his voice and putting on a glare. "My friends and I don't like smart-asses who think they can get money by taking the piss. So I'll ask you one last time, and you're going to give me a sensible answer. Where's this bloody laser going?"

"In space."

"Get out."

"Oh but I'm being serious!" Crazy-Egg continued. "I need the money to make sure it gets there, and safely! You see, it's a very powerful laser, but because it was not built, uh, with approval, shall we say, then I cannot simply ask the government for such aid. Besides," he added, "I've always found your kind to be much more… reliant than men in suits."

Eyeing him from where he sat, Barney asked one final question. "What's this laser for?"

Eggy-Head giggled (dear lord). "It's powerful enough to destroy a city! With it, I can control –"

"Get the fuck out."

Interrupted, the mad scientist blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're a nutcase!" Barney told him. "You seriously think we'd give someone money to destroy a fucking city? We're criminals, not world bloody domineers! No deal." He opened up the newspaper again. "Go find yourself a psychiatric ward – and maybe a wig while you're at it."

Professor Nut-job protested, of course, but Barney was a master of tuning out, only glancing up from the paper when the door to his 'office' slammed shut. "Temper, temper," he smirked, believing that to be the last he saw of the loony. One week later, when a small mid-western town was mysteriously incinerated, he decided that maybe something should be done; but what, exactly? His head said he had to tell Arterton and the FBI what he knew, but what would they be able to do? Point a few guns at Eggo and tell him to lie on the ground? They'd be vaporised for sure. What they needed was someone to go up against this freak who wouldn't be in danger from the weapon, who'd be strong enough to take him out and save –

Cue stupidly brilliant idea number one: that mutant crew, the Avengers! They had some metal guy in their roster, right? And some dude with a tough-looking shield, not to mention his brother. With his mind made up, Barney left a message with the racketeers to explain his sudden absence ('family matters – urgent') and set off to find Clint and his Band of Merry Men. He made it two steps out the door when a bin bag exploded next to him.

"Shit!" Peeking out from between his arms, Barney was stunned to see a robot stood at the end of the alley, arm raised and pointed in his direction. "You've gotta be kidding me," he groaned, diving out of the way of a laser-like blast that hit a pile of rotten crates behind him. "Egg-man send you?" Instead of a reply, the machine fired at him again, this time singeing the hair on his head. "Cut that out!" Tugging his gun out of his waistband, Barney made a move. Leaping aside as the robot shot at him again, he zigzagged down the alley until he was close enough to see how the robot was pieced together; then, as another laser missed him by a few centimetres, he fired his own weapon at the machine's head, sticking more bullets into its torso and one into the laser gun for good measure. After a mechanic whine, the robot toppled backwards, smoke streaming from the bullet holes in its metalwork.

Sighing in relief, Barney put away the gun and stood over the 'assassin'. This was a clear message – Eggs-For-Brains was pissed, and from what Barney had seen in life, pissed and crazy were two characteristics that made a bad combination. This asshole needed to be stopped, and soon.

It was exactly the warm welcome he'd been expecting. The metal one – Iron Man, right? – was stood in front of him, little arm-rocket thing levelled with his head, and a couple of others hovered in the background. He'd be a fool to say he wasn't slightly awestruck by being in their presence (they were every bit as flashy and odd-looking as the papers depicted), but at the same time he was irritated by their narrow-mindedness. All he'd done was ask for Cli – Hawkeye. Was that really so bad as to warrant a weapon aimed at his head?

Finally, after what seemed like a really unnecessary amount of time and a few choice words passed between him and Iron Douche, Hawkeye was led into the foyer – and Barney, weapon aimed at him or no, doubled over with laughter. Sure, he'd seen the pictures of his brother in costume, but it was another thing to see it up close and realise that it was just a modified version of his circus outfit. He doubted Clint had told them, but if he did Barney couldn't imagine how that conversation had gone. As he struggled to catch his breath, he was aware of a heated discussion ahead of him between his brother and Iron Man, and only had sense to try and stop laughing altogether when he heard the words "He's my brother!"

Barney straightened up, smoothing out his shirt and hiding a final grin behind his hand. His eyes locked onto Clin – Hawkeye's, and a smirk slipped out before he could help it. "Still clinging on to the past are we baby bro?"

Hawkeye took a step forward, displeasure written all over his… mask. "Think I remember it better than you do. Or aren't those last parting words as fresh for you as they are for me?"

He rolled his eyes. "This is about business."

"What makes you think we're interested?"

"Hear me out."

Hawkeye snorted. "You were a lacky for Marko, Barney. Why the hell should we do any business with you?"

If only he knew, Barney thought as he scowled furiously at his vigilante-brother. "One, that's a bit hypocritical considering what you were doing at the time, don't you think? Two, I've made something of myself since then, and three, if I was still working for Marko, don't you think I'd be in fucking jail by now smartass? 'Cause that's what happened to him after your little heist –"

"Not here!" Clint hissed, grabbing Barney by his lapel. Barney shoved him off.

"Oh, haven't told your new buddies about your naughty adventures yet?" He chuckled. "Fine, fine, I won't tell them either; actually, how about this: I keep my mouth zipped, and you open wide those astoundingly purple ears of yours, huh?"

His brother's scowl was visible even through the mask, and he stepped back to join his costumed comrades. "Alright. Go ahead."

Barney paused, looking at each one of their masked (sometimes unmasked) faces to be sure he had all their attention. "You guys save people's lives, right? Well then I guess you're pretty beat up about that town that got incinerated recently. See, that's where I come in: I know how it was done, and whodunit, and I'm telling you guys because I know you're the only people who stand a friggin' chance against him. So – whaddya say?"

There was a beat where they all glanced at one another, before setting their gazes on one person. "Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye stared at him with an unreadable expression (damn that mask), and it was a long time before he spoke. "We shouldn't trust him."

The words hit Barney like a slap. "What?" he spat, voice echoing as he stepped forward. "Hang on a fucking –"

"But I think we should listen to him," Hawkeye finished, cutting Barney off pretty effectively. He stared at his brother, unsure what to think. His first words were still being processed.

"Are you sure, Hawkeye?" one of them asked. He was dressed in blue, red and white, with a red and blue shield decorated with one large star. Very patriotic – Captain America then?

Hawkeye nodded once, stiffly. "Yeah, Cap." His eyes never left Barney.

Captain America looked around. "Alright then." He raised a gloved fist into the air. "Avengers, assemble!"

Despite his current emotional turmoil, Barney had to laugh. "Really?" he asked Clint as the Avengers moved past them.

From behind the mask, his brother glared at him. "You're coming with us," he said. "This better not be a joke, Barney."

"Or what, Clint? Gonna shoot me again?" Clint didn't respond. "Thought so."

They lead him out to the jet (and why didn't the FBI have a fucking jet?) where he was sternly told to stay put and not touch anything. To spite them, he pushed the recliner button on his seat, ignoring the disparaging look Hawkeye threw him from across the aisle; but he listened when he was given a brief outline of everyone on the craft: Iron Man, Captain America, Ant-Man, Wasp, Ms Marvel, Scarlett Witch, Black Panther, and Vision. Apparently only one of them was born a mutant, which surprised Barney, and he was a little creeped out to learn that Vision was a robot after what had happened with the last robot he'd met, but other than that he took Hawkeye's word that they were all good people. Truth be told, he felt a little out of place amongst them, partly because he was dressed in just a white shirt and black trousers, but partly because these people were willing to do anything to help strangers without thanks. FBI or not, Barney wasn't quite sure he fit into that category yet.

It was an astonishingly quick flight ("And the army doesn't have some of these because?"), and even after they touched down it didn't take them long to find Egghead. It turned out that Ant-Man sort of knew the guy, and pleaded with the others to let him try and talk to him when they found him.

"Please, Starr – stop this before anyone gets hurt!"

Egghead, stood on top of his laser, pointed dramatically in their direction, a hatred-filled snarl on his lips. "Destroy them!" Well that had gone well.

Ten-minute negotiations down the drain, Barney suddenly noticed that the small group of costumed villains stood around the laser base were now sprinting towards them, and as he heeded his brother's cry of "Barney, get back!", he was treated to a first-hand display of the awesomeness of the Avengers.

Captain America readied his shield; Iron Man took off into the sky; Hawkeye slipped an arrow into his bow; Ms Marvel began to levitate; Wasp shrank down and grew wings; Black Panther crouched low to the ground; Scarlett Witch began to glow; Vision's eyes burned white; and Ant-Man grew until he was towering over everyone, inadvertently blocking out the sun.

As they surged forward to meet the villains, Barney found himself enraptured by their strange little war, and wondered how many like it they'd fought. And the fact that they all seemed to live? That was something special, too. He'd seen a lot of soldiers get badly hurt in Afghanistan, and normally once someone left a unit they weren't seen again, for whatever reason. These guys though, these Avengers, they'd been together for a long time now, and as he watched he understood why: they looked out for each other. Occasionally, Hawkeye would fire an arrow into a bad guy as they were about to land a blow on a team-mate, or Captain America would fling his shield and deflect a potentially fatal shot, and Ant-Man (Giant Man, surely? No ant was that fucking huge) had the lovely ability of squashing anyone if he wanted to. In the FBI, Barney realised, you were on your own.

And that suited him fine. Let Clint run around and play Happy Families with other misfits – at the end of the day, the only person you could really trust was yourself. Other people let you down.

As they slugged away at one another, bad guys and Avengers, Barney spotted something at the top of the laser: Egghead. The loony hadn't moved from his self-important perch, but was grinning manically at some sort of control board, fingers working away like he was in a hurry to do something… the fricking laser, maybe? Cursing himself for his stupidity, Barney jumped into action. "Hey!" he yelled. "The laser! You gotta move the laser!"

The laser itself had begun to whine, a bright red dot appearing in its centre, and Barney could feel his heart kicking his ribs as he desperately tried to get their attention. "The laser!" he yelled again. "The laser's gonna go off! You have to fucking move it!"

Finally, someone heard him – the Scarlett Witch turned in his direction, confusion on her beautiful features. Barney was about to shout at her again when from out of nowhere one of the bad guys smashed his fist into the back of her head. She cried out before falling to the ground, red cape flowing behind her, and Barney knew she wasn't getting up again. Even so, her fall seemed to have triggered something: Iron Man flew up out of the fray, as did Vision and Wasp, and his brother rolled out of the way too. Ant-Man knocked back a group of villains, allowing Black Panther, Captain America and Ms Marvel to start laying into them, and beneath the mechanical roar of the laser powering up, Barney made out the command "Now!"

A small torpedo flew from Iron Man's wrist at the same time as a laser beam from Vision, lots of small 'bolts' from Wasp, and an arrow from Hawkeye – and each one hit the laser. There was a very loud explosion, accompanied with an equally bright flash and large ball of fire, and Barney stood mesmerised as parts of the weapon flew into the air, spinning wildly as gravity reclaimed –

He came to with a violent jerk, and a searing stab of pain engulfed his whole body. It was a while before he realised someone was holding his head, shouting down at him, saying his name repeatedly in a worried tone (worried? When had anyone other than Clint been worried about him?), and then it all started to morph into something resembling sense. "…ine, Barney, you hear? We'll get help – we can get you to a hospital! Just stay with me, okay?"

Barney coughed, grinning despite his predicament. "Blast from the past again, huh?"

He vaguely made out a smile on Hawkeye's face, blurred as his vision was. "Yeah," his brother said. "You can kick me out of your room again."

He chuckled painfully. "Not this time." Because he knew that, whatever had happened to him, it was worse than being shot with an arrow. Much worse.

"Don't talk like that Barney," Clint scolded. "The Quinjet's fast, really fast! We can get you to city in no time!"

Coughing again, Barney grimaced. Dying fucking sucked. "Don't be stupid," he told him. "You know… what happens."

Clint shook his head. "Barney…"

He grinned. "Kept your secrets, right?" he slurred, feeling something wet at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, you did. Thanks Barney."

"Always gotta… look out for you."

"And you always will!"

Oh, Clint. Didn't he know that 'always' was a lie? Barney shuddered, eyes closed now. "No… someone… else's job now." He was cold – was his shirt open? When had that happened? Last time he'd let someone see him shirtless was Alizeh (doctors didn't count – they'd done it without his consent). Where was she now? What did she do after Carson died? This was the one time he could ask about her, what she'd made of herself – it was the only thing he felt like he needed closure on. Did Clint even know about her anymore? Where was Clint, to that matter? All he could see now was this darkness…