The gods use children as their tools, disposing of the broken ones as soon as their usefulness has run its course; as soon as they don't have any skin in the game.
But that's all it is to them, isn't it? Just a game.
New York City isn't where Clint Barton thought he would find his footing. Following a few missions with the Avengers, he still feels himself walking on unsteady ground, the space between worlds. But he has a table that needs food on it and a mostly-empty apartment to finance. SHIELD is the one paying those bills more often than not.
Percy Jackson comes back to the city; Saturn's return, so to speak. He crashes on the uneven couch cushions of Rachel Elizabeth Dare, he sends stray calls to voicemail, he fields inquiries for him to return to camp. He tries not to think of the hole that was left behind. After being asked to look into a rash of killings that could be the work of a serial killer, Clint contacts an old friend for help and gets more than he bargained for.
—
Or, Percy Jackson comes back to New York City. Clint Barton is there to break his fall.
This fic is based on a mix of things in both Marvel comics and the MCU. Clint Barton in this is inspired by the Fraction and Aja run (hot Clint, not Jeremy Renner Clint), and Kate Bishop will filter in and out. Set when Percy is squarely an adult. Some elements of Heroes of Olympus remain, but a majority of the characters will not feature beyond mentions of Jason Grace. This fic will focus instead on Percy's complicated relationship with Camp Half Blood, the gods, and the work he had to do for them in the past. Percy is 27 and Clint is 33.
Set in an ambiguous time after Avengers (2012) with some comic plotlines mentioned. Avengers Tower is still owned by Tony and frequented by both the Avengers and SHIELD agents.
This fic is cross-posted on Archive of Our Own under the same title and username.
Content Warning: mentions of suicide, murder, alcohol usage, and graphic violence.
—
Clint Barton blows a piece of sodden hair out of his eyes unsuccessfully, watching as it sticks to his mask no matter what he does. The classic New York City mist coats every inch of his body; god forbid it actually rains here. He'd prefer a downpour at this point.
A crackle comes through his earpiece and the acerbic wit of Natasha Romanoff filters through.
"Guess what?"
Clint sighs, his fingers going to massage the bridge of his nose. "What?"
There's a pause. "… chicken butt."
He knew it. He knew that was coming. He shouldn't encourage her.
"It's not funny when my brother does it, it's not funny when you adopt his habits, Nat."
He's lying, but only partially. He likes his brother well enough; they made their way through a troubled childhood as best they could back when slipping through the shadows of a circus tent was the main method of going about things unnoticed. Barney taught him to take a punch, to pick pockets, to dazzle a crowd with nothing but whatever you have on hand.
His brother was still a fucking idiot. He'd concede that much.
"Where is Barney these days?" She asks.
Clint scoffs. "Fuck if I know. Probably on an island somewhere, or sleeping in a ditch. It's a toss of a coin."
"Invite him over for game night."
"We'd have to have a game night first for that to happen."
"Then make a game night. Your place. Sundays."
That earns a light chuckle out of him. "Alright. I'll break out Catan. You know half of my pieces are missing, but I think we can figure it out."
Natasha chuckles in kind. Then, a beat later, "I don't think this guy is coming."
They'd both been tasked with watching a meet-up down by an abandoned warehouse known for AIM activity, but it'd been hours since the supposed time the two parties agreed on. Natasha was on the ground, while Clint was where he thrived: up in the goddamn mist.
"Thank fuck. I need a shower."
Clint swings down from his perch and lands next to Natasha with a thud. He shakes his head out like a wet dog and splatters a waiting Natasha with the aerosol sludge of the New York City skyline.
She blinks. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
"I won't."
Clint grins at her, his mask scrunching up around his eyes in the way he hates. If he didn't need to keep this on to protect his identity, he'd have burned it along with the rest of the PR campaign that Tony had his people draw up. Hawkeye wasn't exactly winning in the eyes of the public these days, but it wasn't like he was losing either.
In all honesty, Clint didn't mind being the forgotten one. It gave him more time to focus on the day to day crime that interested him. He felt like the fucking friendly neighbourhood Spider-man admitting it, but his concern was with his own people for the most part. He'd done a fair number of years gallivanting across the world for SHIELD, taking out all the big threats, but the little threats were where he thrived.
Littler , at least. He could hardly describe the Kingpin as little.
"Let's go get some food. I'm starved." Clint stretches his arms above his head, nearly hitting a pole with his bow. "There's a pierogi place down a few blocks. Think they'll take our order while we're in costume."
Natasha rolls her eyes. Her phone buzzes from deep within one of her many secret pockets and she checks her messages. "Sorry, Hawkguy. I have somewhere I need to be."
Clint furrows his brow. "Somewhere other than in the presence of your favourite master archer?"
She begins to back away, giving him a wave and calls over her shoulder, "Don't go terrorizing the fine people of New York any more than you already do."
He clutches his heart in pain. "You wound me, Natasha!"
"Yeah, yeah…"
She disappears into the mist and he is all on his lonesome again.
A pebble clatters when he kicks it, whistling out an aimless tune. "Time for those pierogi, Hawkeye."
He switches his tone, high and fluttering. He feels like such an idiot talking to himself.
"Oh, thank you, Hawkeye! I love pierogi."
"Really? What's your favourite kind?"
"Spinach. Yours?"
"Potato and onion."
"Gee whiz, you're such a classic, aren't you? I think you might be my favourite Avenger!"
He laughs bashfully to his imaginary self. "Oh ho, now no need to thank me, ma'am. I am just doing my part to—"
Whoosh.
A car flies past, soaking him in a tidal wave of brown-tinged water. A man leans out from the passenger seat to yell through cupped hands.
"FUCK YOU, IRON FIST!"
Water drips onto the sidewalk. A sodden Clint sighs, shaking himself off once again. He removes his mask, the velcro pulling out a few wet hairs as it goes. He looks down at the now dirty piece of purple fabric.
He clenches the mask in his fist as he stalks down the sidewalk. "I don't even fucking know Iron Fist."
—
Clint Barton's apartment is not anything special. At least, he doesn't like to think so. Despite moving in a few years ago, the place was still littered with boxes that he had never bothered to unpack. At this point, he might as well throw them out; it's not like he even uses the things he had in them. With the amount of time he's out of the house, out of the country, even, he shouldn't even have a steady apartment. But he likes a soft place to fall when he needs to.
Sometimes he's sentimental in that way.
His rain-drenched supersuit gets left in the hallway. It'll probably ruin the hardwood floors, but he owned the whole fucking building. He could afford to ruin a few square footage however he liked. The bag of potato and onion pierogi goes on the rickety side table he'd built out of beer cans one time he got drunk with Tony Stark at the Christmas party. It threatens to break apart, but he figures as long as he doesn't give it any attention, it won't collapse unless it gets the attention it wants.
The water to the shower goes on, and all else goes quiet.
Clint washes the grime from his skin, rubbing whatever bar soap he managed to snag from the farmer's market into his skin. He's surprised he doesn't look older than he is with how he treats his own skin— Kate had been getting on his back about the new Korean skincare she keeps ordering off the internet. She has enough half-empty bottles and jars that she could lend him a full skincare regimen or five. Lord knows she would delight in getting him to care about himself for more than just a few minutes out of the day.
He isn't terrible at taking care of himself; that award goes to someone else in the grand pantheon of people he's come in contact with. Wolverine, probably. Or that Deadpool guy he's run into a few times. Although, he does know Deadpool owns one of those face wash headbands with cat ears on it. That qualifies as some kind of self-care, doesn't it?
Besides, he's no Bruce. The Hulk would have gotten the office award for chill aura if there even were such a thing at SHIELD. He'd walked in on Bruce meditating the last time they were on their way to a job, and it perturbed him enough that he didn't bother asking if Bruce wanted to play a little poker with him en route to any job in the future.
The water shuts off, sputters a bit, then goes dark. Clint has some shampoo in one eye. It's just that kind of day.
There's been a lot of those kind of days lately. He tries to brush it off again. Just one thing in a long line of things, a really fucking long line of things. Maybe he had shit luck, maybe he crossed a witch a long time ago— it wasn't the strangest thing that had happened to him.
So Clint just sighs. He cleans the shampoo from his eye and he gets on with his life.
Most of which included sitting on his couch watching old cowboy movies he hasn't seen before with the stupidest names he could ever come up with, drinking just enough beer not to care about the New York gutter spit soaking his suit or the shampoo that was still in his fucking eye, and falling asleep with his stomach fit to bursting with pierogi.
Man, he loved pierogi.
A text buzzes from his phone and he stretches, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Are you drunk yet?
A small smile tugs at his lips. Natasha.
not yet. i can be if you want me to, baby
Gross. Come out with us.
He frowns.
what does 'us' entail exactly
Me, you, Cap. Probably Bucky. Maybe the girl Bucky is trying to set Cap up with.
talk about gross.
He sighs, contemplating what a night out would look like. They used to drink back in what Clint called the good old days; back when they were all here in New York. And when they weren't, he and Natasha had a different person who rotated in and out of their sphere. Someone he'd claim he hadn't thought of in years, but he would be lying.
Clint's heart dips and he rubs a hand over his face. The shampoo in his eye reactivates and he winces.
fine. give me fifteen
He can feel Natasha's smug look through the phone and he hates it, but he can also feel his tether to her, thin but sure. She tugs from the other end and he obeys. He's good at obeying, he's good at a lot of things. But not himself, never himself.
The TV turns off. Where the fuck did he put his fucking wallet?
—
It takes him longer than fifteen minutes to get to the bar. Luckily, Natasha always picks one close to his apartment and just shitty enough that they don't recognize him but also have never been caught by him when he's patrolling as Hawkeye. The lighting is dim, the din of the bar just enough for him to dial his hearing aids back a bit, and there's no disguising the hulking figure of the Winter Soldier in the far corner, playing pool with Natasha.
"You're late." Natasha sinks a ball without looking his way.
"It's hard to peel my ID from the spandex, Nat. Not all of us feel comfortable with using the ol' prison wallet." He presses a chaste kiss to her temple as if he hadn't seen her just a few hours earlier. "Who's winning?"
Bucky snorts. "She is. Always."
Clint steals Natasha's drink and takes one bitter sip before realizing it's probably too strong for him anyway. "Trust you to find the places that serve swill that is essentially gasoline."
"Bucky picked the place this time," Natasha says, sinking another ball. "A good one to add to the rotation, don't you think?"
Clint wrinkles his nose at Bucky, who gives an infuriatingly shit-eating grin in return.
Russians.
"Where's Cap?" He asks, looking around him.
"Bar," Bucky says, gesturing with his thumb. "Got him a hot date for tonight. I have no idea if she's going to stick or not, but he's been shutting himself up in that shoebox of an apartment again."
Clint looks at the bar to see the somewhat hunched form of Captain America with his trademark charming (if nervous) smile. The one that says he's all apple pie and American values; that he'll treat you as good as he can. The girl opposite him is pretty, if a bit young for him; not many can match Cap's actual age and not many want to. She laughs at something he says and puts a hand on his arm. Clint's happy for them, truly. He knows how much Steve needs this. His heart dips again.
His gaze lingers on the couple before turning back to Natasha and Bucky. He claps his hands together. "Alright, who is getting me drunk tonight?"
Natasha's smile is like a wolf's.
—
New York City is loud. Not as loud as other places, but loud enough. Loud enough to bother, to buzz, to get under one's skin. To make hair stand on end. To put one on edge.
Percy Jackson is used to being on edge, but he was no longer used to being in New York City.
He hikes the strap of his well-worn backpack over one shoulder, emerging from the swirling eddies of Grand Central to the near-solid humidity of the streets above. This isn't where he needs to go, but he couldn't stand to be underground for a second longer; he could feel his nerves fraying to their very ends.
Long hair droops down into his vision and he takes his hat off, pushing it back under the cap as he sets off down the street. Worn earbuds hang from his ears, blaring something at a high enough volume that he could enjoy it, low enough that he could still sense if someone came for him. New York was like that— he hadn't forgotten that at the very least.
It takes him near an hour before he reaches the building he's looking for and presses the shiny buzzer button labeled "Dare."
"Leave all packages at the door," comes a familiar voice.
Percy smiles. "The kind of package I have, I don't think you'll want to receive."
There's only static at the end of the line. Then, "You're shitting me."
Now he laughs, more full-throated than he'd done in years. "Let me up, Dare. I have presents."
The buzz goes through and he pushes lightly on the front door to enter the building. It was just as plain as he remembered on the inside: pre-war lends it an elegance, but nondescript was key for Miss Rachel Elizabeth Dare. The apartment may be bigger than most people live in, but she valued anonymity more than anything.
The elevator has an out of order sign on the front. Percy would have chosen to walk either way.
It wasn't much of a walk-up for him, but he knows she must be dragging her groceries by the time she reaches her floor on the best of days. Despite wanting to strike out on her own, she'd picked the penthouse of all places. Once a Dare, always a Dare.
It's pretty, though. He'll concede that much. Percy was never one for very bright colours and the subdued colour palette soothes his eyes, the nice wainscotting bringing interest to the otherwise empty walls. He can't believe he's noticing the fucking wainscotting, as if he hadn't been to Rachel Elizabeth Dare's apartment before.
But it feels different this time. Really different.
As he reaches the sixth floor, he is nearly pushed to the ground by a leaping red-headed figure that zooms out of one of the apartment doors. He catches her, pulling her close, tucking his chin into the corner of her neck and her shoulder. She smells like he remembered; he bets he smells horrible and can almost feel her nose wrinkle through their embrace. Percy squeezes Rachel as if he needs to hold on for dear life.
"Percy."
She speaks as if she thought she'd never see him again. He can feel her tears in the air. She hugs him even tighter, almost strangling him, but he doesn't care. He never could.
Percy Jackson was home.
Or, what was left of it.
"Rachel."
There's some amusement to his voice, enough to temper the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes. He wills them to go back, go down until he can bear to deal with them. It was already too much to be back here, let's save the waterworks for a time when it won't break his heart too much to let someone else see him that way. Rachel had, she had too many times, but he didn't want to ruin her moment with him any more than he usually did.
She pulls back to look at him, giving his bicep a mighty slap. It barely rattles him. "I thought you were dead, you motherfucker."
He smiles. "I missed you too, Rach."
She doesn't look any older, but he bets he does. There's a smudge of paint on the bridge of her nose and his fingers gravitate towards it, brushing at the wrinkles of acrylic. The smile doesn't leave Percy's face.
"I have so many questions," she whispers.
"I know," he says. He indicates the door. "Can I come in?"
She blinks, her mind and body catching up to each other. "Yes— yes! Sorry. Come in. You must be crazy hungry. Do you want something to eat? A shower? Bring your stuff in. I kept your room just as—"
"Rachel." He interrupts her with amusement. He missed this. "Take a breath. I'm not going anywhere."
She pauses, looking up at him. Gods— he must have been two heads taller than her now. Time had passed. It made both of their hearts ache.
A smile tries to fight its way onto her face, melancholy and sentimental in equal parts. She looks over his clothing, splattered with dirt and grime from his travels, his long hair, the worn cap on his head, the backpack that looked to be on its last legs. The tag hanging from the top loop had a worn name scribbled on the paper.
Jason Grace.
Her smile turns sad, understanding. As it tended to do when she saw that name these days.
"Come on." She puts her hand in his and gives him a squeeze. "Clean yourself up. Then we can talk. I'll even make your favourite; I think I have cold, day-old pizza around here somewhere."
Percy laughs. "I'd like that."
The door to her apartment still looked as it always had, as it likely always would. The front hall still smelled of iris and sunshine, the floorboards just a bit too creaky for his ears. It was the same; he could finally relax. It was all the same.
He was home.
—
Another drink is set down in front of Clint and he runs a hand down his face, looking at Bucky with an incredulous expression on his face.
"Seriously?" he gestures drunkenly to the large mug of beer. His words are slurred, even his vision feels slurred. He's not entirely sure he knows which way is up at the moment, which feels like it could be a problem soon enough.
"Hare of the dog, Hawkguy." Bucky claps Clint on the shoulder. "It'll help you come down from whatever Natasha has shoved down your throat. Come."
He scowls. "I hate when you pick up Natasha's bad habits. My name is not Hawkguy."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say."
Bucky hauls Clint so he's sitting upright at the bar in an attempt to organize him a little. They'll have to get him home after this, and he'd rather not be forced to carry Clint the few blocks back to his apartment building. They were friendly, but not that level of friendly.
Still, the change in Clint's demeanor over the night was evident. The more alcohol he consumed, the lower his shoulders drooped, the darker the space around him became. There were times when Clint was the life of the party, encouraging everyone around him to eat, drink, and be merry no matter how shitfaced he himself managed to become. And then there was Sad Clint.
"What's up, Clint?" Bucky takes a sip of his own drink and eyes him warily.
"What makes you think something is up?" Clint answers with a pull of the beer that was far too deep.
"Because you've been housing drinks like a damn fish all night." He indicates the now half-empty beer. "Something is up."
Clint raises an eyebrow and shrugs. He wasn't wrong, but he wasn't going to admit it to the Winter Soldier of all people. He was Nat's friend, not Clint's, despite the fact they worked together more often than not. Bucky was a colleague. That was a good way to describe it.
"Life," Clint says finally. His eyebrows hang low as he glares at his beer. Maybe if he gave it a hard enough stare, it would simultaneously find a way down his throat and also stop making his head spin. "That's it. Life and other bullshit. Nothing you need to worry about."
The foam on the beer entrances his eyes. He doesn't want to look up and see Natasha chatting up an easy mark, or Cap with his blind date that he's too polite to say no to. He doesn't want to see himself, drinking in a corner with a ghost; to see himself the way he feels himself to be.
There is something separating him from the other Avengers in the bar, but he can't put his finger on it. Maybe it was how achingly human he was, how he couldn't heal quickly or punch with the strength of a tank or had a fucking bionic arm attached to his body. But that pity party, that he wasn't as special as the others, was one he'd gotten over years ago. This was something different.
That no matter how hard he tried, they were more open to reaching out, but he always kept to himself.
It's a hazard of the job, he supposes. Always up in the rafters, watching the living happening while it passes him by.
A coin flicks down from his sleeve where he tends to keep it and he shuffles it through his fingers, watching the dim bar lighting flicker off the worn edges.
Bucky looks at him, simmering questions behind his pursed lips, and manages to hold back enough to not ask the hard ones. "Collector? My dad liked stamps."
Clint blinks, looking at the coin, then back to Bucky, and pockets it. "Nah. It's a gift I got a while ago from my—" he clears his throat. "From a friend."
He grows sullen again and Bucky sits back in his seat to drink from his glass, signaling as best as he can across the bar to Natasha that he tried and now he was done.
Natasha recognizes the sadness in Clint's shoulders, in the way he curls his fingers around the handle of the beer, and makes her way towards them. The mark she's chatting up stares after her, the spell now broken. She rubs her hands up and down Clint's arms.
"Alright?" she asks as she takes a seat next to them.
Clint shrugs. Bucky shoots her a look.
Natasha leans on the bar and gives Clint a reassuring smile. "You should call Jess."
Clint sputters, beer half in and half out of his mouth. "I should not. I should stop calling Jess, if we're being honest here."
Girlfriend, Natasha mouths to Bucky over Clint's hunched form. Clint shoots her a sour look.
"Listen, if I'd known you'd be Sad Clint when we got you drunk, I would have left you to your own devices in your apartment with those cowboy movies you're so fond of." Natasha was nothing if not a perpetrator of tough love.
Clint sighs, reaching into his pocket for the coin again. "I am not calling Jessica. Our last fight was… I don't want to talk about it." He plays absentmindedly with the coin. "I'll probably just head home."
She tilts her head to the side, eyes following the coin. "Are you going to call him?"
Now he laughs, looking at the coin as it shifts between his fingers, in and out of sight. "I don't think he'd pick up."
"He might surprise you."
His lips tug into a frown of concentration. "Not sure if this is even good anymore. Last I heard, he stopped taking messages like that. Doesn't have a phone anymore either. If he did, he'd probably have left the number with you." He looks at her with a bittersweet smile. "Always liked you better anyways."
She rubs at a scabbed over cut on his cheek. "Not true. I'm just more likeable."
He rolls his eyes at her. "Two years is a long time, Nat. He's not picking up when I call, and I'm not wasting a drachma on a pity party; this shit is hard to find."
An eyebrow shoots up. "Oh? How many do you have now?"
He stops flipping the coin between his knuckles and lets it settle on the bar, observing the worn face carved onto the side. "Three. He gave me five back when— back in the day. I used two right after he left. I'm keeping the rest for… emergencies."
"What kind of emergency do you think you'd even use them in?" Natasha exchanges a few looks with Bucky, who had gleaned enough information to follow parts of the conversation.
"I dunno," Clint drinks from his beer. "The water got shut off in my building, maybe I can call him to fix it. Or if we ever need to interview a fish-based witness. I've always wondered what happened to Free Willy and the Bermuda Triangle. The Malaysia flight is something I'd like answers to. He can be my phone-a-friend."
Natasha pushes away from the bar with a sigh, slapping down some cash to cover their drinks.
"Come on, Mr Phone-a-Friend. Let's get you home."
Bucky takes it as a signal to finish his drink and wrestle Clint's away from him, herding him out of the bar. Clint stumbles out into the surprisingly chilly night with Natasha and Bucky behind him. Steve had headed home half an hour earlier, claiming it needed to be an early night due to the SHIELD meetings he has all the next day.
"Fuck, it's cold." Clint pulls his jacket around him. "It shouldn't be allowed to be this cold."
Natasha slings an arm around his shoulders and another around Bucky's, leaving her slightly askance as they walk down the street to hail a cab. Clint nuzzles up into her, wrapping an arm around her waist. He missed being this close to her sometimes, even though they still did things together. It would never be the same as it was before; it couldn't be.
He thinks of Jess somewhere in the city, either in her apartment or out on patrol. She was probably fine, she was always fine. He hadn't called her in weeks and likely wouldn't ever again. Despite being steadfast in the idea they would never work out, he feels a pang through his chest. He misses closeness, he misses familiarity. He wants to love someone the way she loves him; he just wishes he could love her back.
"Easy there, tiger," Natasha says as he shields his cold nose in the crook of her neck. "You'll be home before you know it."
Bucky tries to hail them a cab, but there's no luck. All of them are taken and they're only a few blocks away from Clint's apartment anyway. When they get there, they can either crash on his couch or call an Uber if they find his lack of furniture uncomfortable enough to want to return to their respective apartments.
Or Natasha's apartment, together. Clint could never get a proper read on them.
"I can walk," Clint says, unraveling himself from Natasha. He shakes his head to wake himself up enough. "It's not too bad, just a few blocks."
Bucky shrugs. "Doesn't bother me. Lead the way, Hawkguy."
Clint pulls a face and starts them off in the direction of his apartment. It's a sobering walk with the temperature being what it is, and he's grateful for the shock to his system despite all of his complaints. A few minutes in, they see someone breaking into a car.
"Hey, pal! Beat it!" Bucky shouts from the other side of the street. The wannabe car thief scatters.
"Beat it?" Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
Bucky looks at her. "What? I can't say words now?"
She snorts. "Alright, grandpa."
Clint rubs a hand over the back of his head. "Think we'll have to call that one in?"
Natasha looks over at the crime scene, seeing nothing too terribly out of the ordinary for a New York City street. Calling it in would mean paperwork, would mean explaining why they let the guy go instead of catching him; a headache that none of them could really afford when they already had some building from the drinks. At least Clint, the most human one of the bunch, did.
"Leave it," Natasha said. "Let that be the NYPD's problem in the morning."
The lights from the street twinkle in Clint's tired gaze. God, he was tired. He didn't think there was a single minute of the day that went by where he didn't think that. He should probably get that looked at by someone; not a SHIELD doctor, someone more normal. He'd liked to be treated normally at some point.
As they amble up the street, he flips the drachma in his hand, the gold reflecting off the lights emanating from the sight made him want for something, but he couldn't put his finger on it. A want for the man who gave him the coin, a want for how he felt when he had him in his arms. A want for wanting. He wanted for very little these days between steady Avengers work and the money he had… procured from his brother.
It was hard to describe, that craving; that need to need something. He had a purpose, sort of. Fighting crime, saving the world. That was his purpose. People dreamed for a purpose as noble as he had; saving the fucking world was incredible. What do you even do after that?
For Clint Barton, you buy a slightly run down apartment building, make all the rent a grand total of zero dollars, and struggle to unpack the boxes you stashed in dark corners years ago that will probably never see the light of day ever again.
It's not much, but it's honest work.
"You're going the wrong way."
Natasha's voice brings him back to earth. He is, in fact, going the wrong way, but he doesn't want them to know that.
"I'm getting a hotdog, Nat," he says as if it's obvious that it's worth a three-block detour.
"The hotdogs taste rank now," Bucky scrunches up his nose. "Why eat that shit?"
Clint shrugs. "Sometimes you need to eat a few pig anuses to feel alive, Buck. Don't judge another man's strange proclivities. Besides, the scary hotdogs can't hurt you and your superhuman digestive tract. You'll be just fine."
Bucky tugs away at a smile he almost had on his face. Clint considers that one a win.
"I'll even pay for yours," Clint pulls out some cash. "Least I can do when you aid and abet this one in giving me alcohol poisoning."
"You won't die," Natasha says to Clint. "I know exactly how many drinks it takes to get you to that level and I would never ."
He shoots her a look. "That's fucking reassuring."
They're hit by a wave of something, the eponymous fast food smell as they round the corner to a sparkling haven of late-night food joints catering to the drunk students and drunker adults that walked this route home from the bars. Clint trips as they're halfway to the curb and swears.
"Fuck littering." He kicks the bottle back into the alleyway and it hits against something else. Something that gives his hawk ears pause.
"Clint?" Natasha notices how he's standing: stock still and unwavering.
"Something—" He shakes his head, trying to sober himself up again. Going into an unknown alleyway after hearing a strange noise was not the right way to live in New York City. In fact, it was an incredible way to die; probably the best way he can think of besides drinking straight from the Hudson. "Wait here."
They were most definitely not going to wait there. If anything, they were going to pull him back from the inevitable doom to be found in New York alleyways when they saw it. Suddenly, Clint didn't seem so stupid for thinking there was something amiss. Maybe he had Spidey-Sense, but worse— dark alley sense, terrible crime sense.
Murder sense.
He had fucking murder sense now.
One could say that finding a body in an alleyway was a right of passage to those who grew up in the city, but Clint had always found himself to be blessed in the aspect that he didn't find bodies, bodies found him. He could have done without this one finding him.
The body didn't seem to have been killed there; the scene was placed with such attention to detail, Clint can't imagine the murderer putting knife to flesh in such a way that it wouldn't have attracted attention. It— no, he — was dressed plainly, a tunic and trousers that seemed handmade, a mop of shiny, cherubic curls atop his head. His hair was decorated with a laurel without a single drop of blood on it, his eyes closed as if he were sleeping. He was bloodless and pale, and would have seemed innocent were it not for the cut down his tunic.
He had been flayed open, his skin moved to reveal the white of his ribs, the flesh of his heart still in his chest. Even the skin itself, where it lay attached to the paleness of his arms, was sewn tightly and neatly. This was the work of someone who considered themselves to be an artist. This was deliberate, meant to send the most horrifying of messages.
The victim couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, if that.
The body itself was attached to a fence, but was made to look like it was sitting atop mounds and mounds of coins. They spilled everywhere into the alleyway, golden and shining like new, and not a spot of blood on them either. The coin began in his stomach, emanating from the cut open hull the killer had created for their gruesome scene. The boy was laid to rest with these coins, as if they were an offering. There's writing on the pavement, on the sides of the buildings. It could be in blood, or just red paint, but he doesn't recognize the language in the darkness.
Natasha swears in Russian, but Clint can't hear it. His ears are ringing; she sounds far away. Bucky reaches for Clint's arm as he starts for the body, but can't catch him in time.
As he approaches, Clint notices the bottle he kicked knocked some coins loose. He kneels down to touch them and his breath catches in his throat.
Drachmas.
He looks up at the body, one of the coins in his hand. It wasn't him, it couldn't be him. The body was too young, the curls too light. Clint takes care not to disturb anything else at the scene as he leans closer, trying to see the boy's face. Light shines in from a neighboring building and he sees it. His blood runs cold.
The body is wearing a necklace, one with small charms attached to a smooth leather band. He sees a necklace just like it in his dreams.
Clint stumbles back.
"We're going to have to call this one in," he says as he attempts to comprehend what's in front of them.
Bucky steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, his face set into a deep grimace.
Natasha looks at Clint and for a moment she looks different to him, almost… scared. Something he hadn't seen in years. She looks down at the drachma in his hand and fishes his other drachma out of his pocket.
"You might want to use this." She presses the coin into his palm.
For once, Clint doesn't argue. "Do you think he'll answer?"
She swallows, looking back at the body. "For his sake, he has to."
Clint follows her gaze as she reads the writing left behind. "Why?"
"Because—" she guides his gaze to two words. "Whoever did this mentions him by name."
In the darkness, the letters make sense. Greek written haphazardly in a dark, deep red.
"Perseus."