A/N: I love this story. A lot.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or Marvel or any of the related rights.
Clint crept around the huge tower. Place was a fortress, but Clint was good at not being seen.
He smelled food and headed for the kitchen, because it was always good to grab a bite while he could, but he heard voices and climbed into the nearest vent.
It was dusty, and he resisted the urge to cough.
A guy with dark hair and a weird-looking goatee walked underneath Clint alongside a curly-haired guy who looked kind of like he was trying to seem smaller than he actually was.
" . . . looking into Asgardian fixes," the goatee guy was saying.
"And the dust from their clothes?" the curly-haired guy asked.
"Weirdest thing," the goatee guy said. "We hosed them both down, and the dust came right off their skin, but when we pulled their clothes out of the laundry, stuff was still clinging to it." He waved his hand like he was annoyed, then sneezed.
"Gesundheit," the curly-haired guy said, but he looked concerned.
"Got on my armor, too," the goatee guy said. "I sprayed myself off as much as I could, but . . . ." He coughed into his hand, and Clint saw a gleam of red before the goatee guy hid it.
"Little less gray behind the ears," the curly-haired guy pointed out.
"Hey," the goatee guy said, pointing his finger right in his friend's face, "I was never gray. Let's get that straight."
"Sure."
The goatee guy sighed and opened the fridge, pulling out a slice of cold pizza. "Thing I don't get is why anyone would want to de-age them," he said through his first bite. "Far as I can tell, Barton's just as annoying when he's a teenager as he is grown up."
Clint's eyebrows were practically scraping his hairline.
"At least Natasha's nicer," said Steve Rogers' voice as he came into the room. He had the little redheaded toddler balanced in one hand and placed his shield on the counter—and out of reach of the maniacal little girl—with the other. It looked like she was playing with half of an arrow—the non-pointy end—and she kept hitting Steve Rogers in the head with it.
"Where's Barton?" the goatee guy asked.
Steve Rogers looked actually sheepish. "He, uh, sort of threw Natasha at me and bailed."
"Great. Last thing we need is a teenage assassin running loose in our place," the goatee guy said. "JARVIS?"
"Yes, sir?"
Clint very nearly gave his position away with the start of surprise at hearing a British voice echoing through the tower.
"Think you could find Clint for us?"
"My sensors indicate that he is in the kitchen with you," the disembodied voice, apparently JARVIS, said.
Clint swore under his breath and pushed himself slowly backwards, away from the vent opening, using mostly his elbows. It was a slow way to move, but very quiet, and it sounded like they were checking cabinets first.
That was the one advantage of being skinny. Clint could fit places other people couldn't.
He'd pushed himself around a corner before someone opened the vent grate and shouted into it, "Clint? Are you in there?"
Yeah, right. Like he'd really answer to that.
"Barton, you moron!" That was the goatee guy. "Get out of there right now."
"I don't see him," said Steve Rogers.
"JARVIS, you're sure he's in here?"
"Yes, sir."
The goatee guy swore a lot, but then, it was quiet again.
Clint waited. Steve Rogers probably couldn't fit his massive frame in the vents, but the goatee guy and the curly-haired guy probably could. He pulled himself along until he found a new vent cover, this one over the kitchen table, so that he could drop down out of it at the first sign of trouble and sprint for the doors.
He heard something clattering and figured it was probably the vent cover he'd gone through coming unscrewed, so he set to work loosening the cover underneath him, ready to drop down.
And he would've dropped, too, if he hadn't been so surprised by what he saw next.
It was a red hand. Robotic thing just crawling along like a freakish spider. It stopped like it was looking at him, then dove for Clint's ankle.
Lucky thing Clint had always had fast reflexes. He pulled his foot out of the way and dove through the vent, crashing down into the table. He rolled with the fall so that he was on his feet before the others had recovered from the surprise, then sprinted for the door.
And then, very suddenly, he felt something slam into the back of his head, and everything went cold and black.
When he woke up again, he was back in the purple archer room, but this time, all the bows and arrows and even darts were gone. Place looked actually clean. Not even a pizza box to throw at anyone!
Clint sighed and pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the throbbing in his head.
"Sorry about that." It was Steve Rogers, waiting patiently at the foot of Clint's bed. He was looking down at his lap, where a new pair of jeans and a purple tee shirt were neatly folded across his legs. "But we're not sure what's happened to you . . . or whether or not it's contagious." At that last bit, Steve Rogers coughed quietly into his elbow.
Clint sat up straighter and folded his arms across his chest. "So, what did happen to me, then?" he asked.
Steve Rogers gave him something that was probably meant to be an innocently curious look but failed horribly.
"Like you don't know I was listening to you guys the whole time. Something about being de-aged?"
Steve Rogers sighed. He threw the jeans and tee shirt at Clint. "Got you some new clothes. I thought those might fit you better."
"You get some for what's-her-name-Natasha too?" Clint asked.
"Tony's trying to wrestle her into them now," Steve Rogers said with a soft smile.
"Which one's Tony? Goatee guy?"
Steve Rogers laughed. "Yeah. That's Tony."
Clint nodded. "And the other one?"
"Bruce Banner."
"Got it." Clint crossed his arms over his chest. He logged the information away and tried to compartmentalize it, tried to keep asking questions so he had cover to look for a weapon. He wasn't some helpless kid anymore. "So, how much time am I missing?"
Something passed over Steve Rogers' face, something like pain or guilt or, well, Clint really couldn't call it empathy, since Steve Rogers couldn't possibly know what it was like to wake up in a world that had skipped to the future without him. But softly, quietly, Steve Rogers said, "Around thirty years."
"Not sure I believe you," Clint said, to cover up for his surprise.
"You don't have to," Steve Rogers said. "But it would be nice if you'd stop fighting us and stay put for a while so we can figure out how to get you back to normal. Stark and Banner are working on analyzing the dust you and Natasha breathed in. Thor's looking into some possible magic remedies. We'll have you back to normal and fighting with the rest of us in no time."
Clint raised his eyebrows. "Huh," he said quietly.
"What?"
"Nothing," Clint said. But then, since Steve Rogers seemed trustworthy enough, he said, "Just didn't figure I'd end up with a group of guys who cared much what happened to me is all."
Steve Rogers looked sad for just a moment before, very suddenly, he started violently coughing.