A/N: 2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris.

Thanks,

~Sandy

Avengers

From Time to Time

Chapter 8

In the morning, Naomi awoke to the smell of coffee and breakfast cooking. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and looked around, uncertain at first where she was. Then she remembered falling asleep in Clint's arms. A moment of panic entered her mind until she realized that he must've moved her to the bed at some point. A quick check proved that she'd slept in his bed alone.

Getting out of bed, she went into the bathroom before going to the kitchen for coffee. Sipping the hot brew, she took the opportunity to watch him. As always, his movements were fluid, no wasted motion. Each step, each action precise and well thought out in advance. It was what made him good at his job, or part of it. His strict moral code was another. And that Loki had undermined that code, using it for his own purposes had greatly wounded the man she had loved. The man she still loved. "What're you making?"

"Omelets and toast. Almost done if you'll set the table."

While Naomi did as he asked, she grinned to herself at the cozy domestic scene they presented and found that it wasn't really something she'd ever expected to have again after her divorce. At the same time, it just seemed so right for them, right here, right now, in this moment.

Taking down a pair of small glasses, she poured orange juice then took Marion blackberry preserves from the 'fridge while Clint slid the omelets onto plates and carried them and the toast to the table.

This morning, he took the seat she'd had the night before, leaving the end of the table for her. He was trying to tell her something, but wasn't really sure if that something was what she thought it was. Instead of giving herself a headache trying to figure it out, she just enjoyed the time they were spending together without the distractions of work and the expectations of others.

They bowed their heads for their silent prayers, saying "amen" together.

~~O~~

With breakfast over and the dishes done, there wasn't much left to do but stand and stare out at the city as it awakened from its slumber. New York was called by some the city that never sleeps, but those who lived here knew that it did though parts of it stayed awake twenty-four seven. But then most cities were like that, and New York had been the prototype.

And all beside the point.

Clint had left his guitar in the sitting area the night before and when he came out of the bathroom, Naomi was holding it, plucking the strings one at a time. The rapturous expression on her beautiful face did something to him that he couldn't explain. It wasn't sexual, exactly. Music had been a part of his life for so long he'd forgotten when he'd first been introduced to it. Probably as a baby listening to his mother sing along with the radio or in church.

He watched Naomi trail her fingers over the wood grain and along the curves of the body and couldn't help wishing she were doing it to him. Taking a seat next to her, he smiled when she did. "Wanna learn a few chords?"

"Sure."

Turning her just a little, he reached around with his left hand, showing her which finger to use for each string. "Put your index finger here, middle finger here and ring finger…here. That's a G. Now strum."

The chord sounded a little flat with one "dead" string making a thunk. "Oops."

"That's okay. Takes practice." Clint repositioned her fingers. "That's C. And this," again he moved her fingers into a similar yet different configuration, "is D. And the good thing is you can play lots of songs just using those three chords."

Naomi nodded her understanding then glanced over her shoulder at him. The left part of his chest was pressed against her back in such a way that he could feel it when she spoke, vibrating against him.

"You play any other instruments?"

"Drums a little and piano." He wiggled the fingers of his right hand in the air. "Physical therapy. My right hand was badly injured. Apparently my captors didn't realize I was left-handed."

Thankfully she didn't continue with that topic of conversation, but what she did was at once so much better and at the same time worse. She set the guitar aside, rolling her shoulders and turning her head side to side. "My muscles are so sore. Think I'll go take a hot bath."

"Let's try this first." Clint prevented her from leaving by placing his hands on her shoulders and kneading the muscles. The moment he dug his thumbs into the knots she moaned in pleasure.

"Mmm. That feels good."

Moving down her spine, he continued to work the sore muscles until Naomi leaned back preventing him from continuing. Her head came back onto his shoulder and turned to the side bringing their mouths so close together that Clint could feel her warm breath on his cheek. Her lips parted in invitation, but before he could take her up on it, the door opened and Stark breezed in through the door as if he belonged there. "I do hope I'm interrupting something."

Naomi sat up so fast she kicked the coffee table and Clint scowled. "What do you want, Stark?"

"Looks like you've worked out your problems. So," he spread his arms wide, "fly and be free, Hawkeye."

A moment ago, Naomi had appeared drowsy, but at the billionaire's announcement, she vaulted off the sofa to snatch up the bag with her dirty clothes.

"We're outta here then." Clint retrieved his bow case and the one with the equipment he'd need for his mission, took Naomi's hand and pulled her behind him out into the hall, up the stairs and out onto the helipad. Once in the air, Clint banked around and headed south toward Quantico. "Dinner when I get back?"

He glanced over at Naomi when she didn't immediately respond. She was looking out the window, one hand to her chin in thought. Without turning her head, she said, "No."

"I thought we worked everything out last night."

"We did. Dinner was great, the song romantic, and it was nice us being there together without all the…complications."

Making a sound of frustration, Clint flicked his eyes to the side then back to the skies. "Then what's the problem?"

Now Naomi did face him. "Us dating would be a big complication. I'm still your doctor, Clint. Your therapist. It's unethical for us to have that sort of relationship."

Seeing everything slip through his fingers before he could even get a firm grasp on them again, Clint came up with the only possible solution. "I guess that settles it then. You're fired."

"Excuse me?"

"You're fired. Get someone else to take over."

The harness kept her from moving, but she still faced him in the small cockpit. "Clint, I can't. I'm the new kid on the block. What if Dr. McNeil regrets offering me this position just because you and I used to be a couple? The Counsel could make trouble for me if there were any question that you and I were having an intimate relationship. I would never be able to hold a position of authority in the community ever again."

"You've pulled that card before, and the answer is simple."

"But it's not simple. That's what I'm trying to tell you." She was upset and it came through loud and clear. "Can we just keep things…friendly?"

Clint was saved from answering by the ship's flight control. "Flight to Charlie one niner seven. You are clear to land."

"Roger, Flight." He concentrated on flying until the helijet was safely on the deck then climbed out. Without speaking, Clint handed Naomi her bags and they went inside together to find Fury waiting for them. "Something we can do for you, Director?"

Fury looked from one to the other and back. "An explanation would be nice, but I'll wait for a written report from each of you."

Naomi only nodded as she stepped around her father and disappeared down the hall leaving the two men alone.

"What time's the briefing, sir?"

"0900." The older man glanced over his shoulder to verify that the two men were alone. "Is there something you want to tell me, Agent Barton?"

Not one to squirm under close scrutiny, Clint kept his gaze locked on Fury's. "Nothing to tell, sir. Dr. Marks needed some time away so I took her to the community center I'm helping rebuild."

"That's not what I mean. Is there anything else I should know?"

Before Fury could complete his thought, Clint said, "No." By his actions, Fury indicated that his last inquiry was personal. Fury's hands went behind his back, his weight evenly distributed. "I am formally requesting that my treatment be reassigned to one of the other SHIELD therapists."

Even with the patch covering the eye, the eyebrow on that side still lifted in a small show of surprise. "Does this have anything to do with our previous talk?"

With a small start, Clint realized what Fury was asking, and he laughed, which didn't set well with the director.

"Did I say something funny, Agent Barton?"

"That was ironic laughter, Director. You're asking my intentions toward your daughter. But you gave up the right to ask that question a long time ago."

Taking another step closer, Fury lowered his voice. "I did what I had to. The why is none of your business."

Scoffing, Clint set the cases on the floor as if clearing the way for battle. It was an instinctive move, though he doubted he could take the older man. "Anything that happens with Naomi is my business."

"And why is that?"

"Because my intentions are to make sure she's happy. If reconciling with her father is what she wants, then I'm going to do everything in my power to see that it happens. Tell me this, why haven't you told her that you've been there for all her special days? Graduations and the like."

One shoulder twitched. Not a shrug, but as close as he ever got. "She's not ready to hear it."

"For a man who's called the most powerful and influential people on the planet idiots to their faces, you seem at a loss where Naomi's concerned." Softening his harsh tone, Clint gave one last piece of advice to his superior. "Talk to her anyway. She needs to know that her father isn't such a hardass after all."

And before Fury could say more, Clint picked up his cases and walked away.

The briefing was held as scheduled, and no one had seen anything awry between the colleagues, nor would they. When Clint left the meeting, his first thought was to go see Naomi. In their new roles as friends, and hopefully more, she should know the nature of this mission. However, he went against those instincts because he didn't want her to worry that he wouldn't come back again.

The archer left for his mission with lots to think about that would have to wait. Now he needed to be focused on the job at hand, a simple recon. In and out. No more than seventy-two hours then he'd be back on the ship. And this time he'd make sure it happened.

~~O~~

Naomi lay on her bed staring up at the ceiling, Clint's pendant in one hand, thumb and forefinger tracing the design on the stone. She'd looked it up. It was a Celtic five-fold, a flower-like pattern of four overlapping rings symbolizing the four elements: earth, fire, water and air. The fifth ring unites all the elements with a goal to reach balance between the four energies.

The lock-in at Stark Tower and the events that transpired there got Naomi thinking about the future, hers and Clint's. Now was not a good time to begin something that neither of them was ready for. Clint still had to come to terms with the events during the invasion, his brother's death and the possibility that his brother had been corrupt. And until that happened, all they could be was friends.

On the trip back from New York he'd indicated that he wanted more from their relationship than she could give him right now. And if the recent past had taught her anything, it was that he would do whatever it took to change her mind. All she had to do was stand firm and not give into her emotions. The ones that told her to take what he was offering and hold onto it with both hands so it wouldn't get away this time. When he came back, she would explain her reasoning more clearly. Surely he'd understand.

The clock told her he'd already left on his "simple recon" mission, ignoring the little voice in the back of her mind that kept telling her that history would repeat itself. The reasoning center of her brain reminded her that the odds of the same thing happening again were slim. To take her mind off of everything, she went to the desk and started her report on the work she'd done at the community center. That reminded her that she hadn't typed the notes for the last two annual evaluations for staff members so she called up those files and got to work on them, finally losing herself in her work.

Satisfaction, Montana

The formerly white four-door pick-up with a full gun rack rolled into Satisfaction, Montana. It pulled into the Exxon station and stopped at the first empty pump. The marquis advertised that they now had pay-at-the-pump services and the driver shook his head at the irony that in this day of cashless consumption, a small town in Montana would only now be getting up to speed.

Instead of taking the store up on their offer of convenience, he went inside, slapped three twenties and a ten on the counter. "Seventy on pump number four, please."

"You got it. Anything else?"

"Yeah. The name of a hotel or one o' them bed and breakfast places. As long as it has a bed and indoor plumbin'."

The cashier, an older man with a shiny bald head chuckled. "Not sayin' it's good or bad, but the Independence Hotel is just a couple blocks up on the right across from the custom log furniture store. Can't miss it."

"Thanks. Where can a guy get a cold beer, hot food and maybe a little female companionship?"

The cashier handed the stranger his receipt. "Keep goin' past the hotel for another half mile. Palladium Road Bar and Grill. Can't miss it. My son's band is playin' there tonight."

Returning the man's smile, the driver, with tongue in cheek, asked, "It's not across from the taxidermist, is it?"

"Nope. Ken's Used Cars and Carpet Installation." The bell rang announcing another customer. "Enjoy your visit, son."

"Do my best." The driver pumped the gas, wiped his hands on a paper towel taken from the roll he kept under the front seat, buckled his seatbelt and drove away. Ten minutes later, he let himself into room 404 of the Independence Hotel. The room was small, but nothing he couldn't handle. He'd been in places like this before and would again. It was the nature of his work. Some rinky-dink hotel in Backwater, Montana this month and a five-star hotel on the Champs-Élysées the next.

He'd only be here a few days, hopefully, but still he unpacked before taking out his cell phone and dialing a number activated just for this op. "Hi, honey…yeah, got here just fine…no, I won't forget to stop at your sister's on the way home…love to you and the kids…bye."

From the false bottom of his suitcase, he took a small electronic gadget three by three inches. Whistling tunelessly, he walked around the room scanning for hidden cameras and recording devices. Finding none, he returned it to its hiding place and took out the Desert Eagle 1911. It was cliché, but he preferred a Glock or Sig. However, the Eagle fit the persona he'd taken on for this job. Steve Smallwood. Sometimes the techs had a sense of humor…and sometimes they didn't. It all depended on which one you got.

He sat on the side of the bed, yanked off his boots, removed his cap and the down vest he wore over his flannel shirt and lay down with a groan. He'd been driving for hours and hours setting up his AKA's background. It had to be beyond reproach or this op would go south in a big way.

Before falling asleep, he set the alarm on his phone to wake him just at sunset so he could prepare for a night of drinking and getting to know the locals. Once they trusted him, then he could get the info he needed to take down one of the country's biggest crime syndicates.

For over a decade, his department had been trying to infiltrate the organization. Every operative who tried had been found dead within a week of being brought into the fold. Then when the compound was raided, it would be abandoned and destroyed by explosives leaving behind no clues as to their current whereabouts.

When he first joined the department, there'd been rumors circulating about an agent who had managed to survive after being left for dead by this same syndicate. But either no one knew the truth or they weren't saying. It wasn't like he hadn't tried to check it out. His leads just didn't go anywhere.

The reasons for looking this phantom up weren't difficult to understand. Anyone who could go up against a group as ruthless these guys and live to tell the story was someone he wanted to get to know, to learn from. Until then, he'd just do the best he could and not worry about things he couldn't change.

~~O~~

Clint made the guy as a fed the second he walked through the door. It was the way he carried himself as much as the seat he chose and the wariness in his eyes above the two days growth of beard and friendly smile. No one else noticed him except maybe a cluster of single women drinking longnecks at a table near the dance floor and the bored server who took his order. A group of rednecks leered at the girls, but were ignored.

The band, Revolver Junction, had a decent sound, though the secondary guitarist had at least one string out of tune. At the break he'd go have a word with the guy or it would drive him nuts all night.

Fury called this a recon, but all he was there to do was observe the locals and take photos of anyone who didn't seem to be who they said they were. The camera in his glasses filmed everyone in the room just in case he missed someone. Including the couple in the corner who were making out so enthusiastically that all he needed to do was add in some sound effect, some inappropriate music, a few cutaways that hinted rather than showed what was happening, and he'd have his own porn video shot on location. He could send it to Gina and made a tidy little profit. Not that he needed it, what with Barney's bequest sitting in that offshore account just waiting for someone to tell it what to do. It had started out as three million, but was down to less than one now. His brother had been as crooked as the highway into town and now that money was doing good for a needy community.

Taking a pretzel from the bowl, he munched while he scoped out the rest of the room. It was a Friday night and the place was nearly full. He'd give stay till midnight then pack it in until tomorrow. If he got the opportunity to question some likely suspects, he'd do so. Otherwise, he would be on his way out of town Sunday evening and back on the helicarrier by midnight local time where he planned on cornering Naomi for another talk.

The night Stark locked he and Naomi in his room had been great. They'd made a new start by agreeing to leave the past alone and just go forward. Yet when Clint had suggested a night out, she again brought up the fact that she was still his therapist. He didn't understand why she couldn't get Hoffman or McNeil to take over his treatment so they could explore their relationship a little deeper. Not for making love, but just getting to know each other again as friends.

Leaving his jacket over the chair, he took a stroll around the room to catch those he couldn't see from the corner. As he passed the rednecks, one of the guys purposely tripped him. Instead of making an issue of it, he shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. My fault."

The biggest of them laid a hand on Clint's shoulder. "Pretty cocky for a little guy, ain't ya?"

Clint carefully removed the hand as if the guy had something contagious. "Hands off the merchandise, buddy. I said I was sorry. Now let it go and no one'll get hurt."

They laughed loud enough and long enough that the band stopped playing and everyone's eyes turned to them. The smallest of the group outweighed Clint by no less than twenty-five pounds, but the archer had experience and agility on his side. He didn't want to have to call them out, but it looked like he might have to. At least until he heard a voice behind him.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size, buster?"

Clint glanced over his shoulder at the fed who'd joined him. The man was almost a head taller than Clint with dirty blond hair. He also seemed familiar. Lowering his voice, the archer whispered, "I can handle this."

The first redneck still heard him and laughed again. "They're four of us and only one o' you. Two if you're friend decides to open his yap again."

The fed cocked his head to side as if thinking. "That's two to one odds." He and Clint shared a look.

"We could wait for a couple more of their brain-dead buddies to show up to make it even more interesting," Clint offered, liking the way he and the other agent just fell into a rhythm. A give and take that usually only came with practice or a strong rapport like what he had with Natasha.

"Or we could just ignore them and play some eight ball."

Clint shrugged. "Winner buys the next round?"

The fed casually removed his hands from his pockets. "Deal."

When the two men turned to go, one of the rednecks spun Clint around by grabbing his shoulder and Clint acted instinctively. He reached across, peeled the hand from his shoulder and twisted, pulling the guy over and down onto his stomach to a wrist lock. The he sensed a punch coming before it hit, ducking and rolling to the side and knocking over a table, glasses and leftover hot wings falling on top of him. As he was helped to his feet by one of the table's occupants grabbing a fistful of his shirt front, he saw the other agent holding his own. He'd dropped into a boxer's stance and was pummeling one of the guys until he finally knocked him unconscious.

Clint's attention came back to his own plight as a guy who hadn't been at the table or a part of the redneck group joined in the fight. And before long there was an all-out bar fight in progress, though it wasn't only men fighting. Most of the women were getting in their share of licks too, and the rest were standing around the perimeter cheering on their favorites.

Two more guys who hadn't been a part of the original group picked the fed up and threw him across the room to land next to the Foosball table. Clint threw a punch and felt all the knuckles of his right hand pop, but the guy went down like a lead balloon. Standing over the guy shaking his hand to restore feeling, he didn't see the punch thrown by a bleached blond in a bright purple cowboy hat and matching boots. She got him on the jaw spinning him around. He tripped and rolled under a table. As luck would have it, his jacket was close by as was the fed. Clint got his attention, flashing him a quick series of hand signals. He nodded and Clint counted to three then made a crouching sprint for his jacket then the two of them raced out the side emergency door.

"I walked over. Got a ride?" Clint asked as they weaved their way between the parked cars.

"Yeah. This way."

The two men jumped into the white pick-up and roared out of the parking lot just fifteen seconds before the state police arrived on the scene, pulled into the bank and around to the back where they couldn't be seen. Three more police cars zipped past their hideout before they breathed easy.

Up close, the man seemed more familiar than ever. Clint stuck his hand out. "Dewey Gaynor."

"Steve Smallwood. That was some fight."

"Yeah. How long you reckon we should hide out before the cops stop looking for us?"

Steve shrugged and continued to stare at Clint, a smile that was barely short of a smirk slowly oozing over his face. "Dewey Gaynor? That's the best your guys could come up with?"

To say Clint was astonished at the remark would be putting it mildly. "Excuse me?"

Now Steve was snickering as he opened a hidden compartment in the driver's door. "FBI. Looks like we're both here for the same reason."

"And that would be…?"

"To get the goods on the Consortium." Steve held out a leather cover with a photo ID and a gold badge. That alone was a shock. But the biggest shock of all was "Steve's" real name.

Digging his phone from his back pocket, Clint scanned his RF transmitter and held the screen up for his companion to see the information displayed. Barton, Clint F. Senior Field Agent, SHIELD.

"Good to see you again, Clint, though in college you went by the name Coulson."

Chuckling, Clint turned sideways in the seat holding a mental picture up of a young and cocky football player next to the mature man across from him. "Sonofab****! Trevor Alston."

TBC