Title: In the Service:  Three Times Hawkeye Questions His Orders (And One Time He Doesn't)
Author name: alphaflyer
Characters/Pairing: Clint/Natasha (albeit Clint-centric); Nick Fury; Phil Coulson; Maria Hill
Fandom/Universe: Avengers Movieverse
Rating: T (M if you're squicked by a bit of violence)
Word count:  23,500 
Warnings: language, some violence; general snarkiness.

 
Summary: 
Based on the intriguing line Loki utters during the interrogation scene:  “You lie and you kill in the service of liars and killers.  You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors.  But they are a part of you, and they will never go away …”  Character piece that follows Clint through three missions (plus one) and explores what makes him tick in his profession (and what doesn't) when it comes to carrying out his chosen profession.

THANKS -- to theladymorgan for the icon and to workerbee73 for the link on how to do cuts -- you're the awesomest!!!  Guess I won't see whether this works till I push send, so here are the links to the complete story on FFN and AO3 as well:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8631793/1/In-the-Service

IV

New York II

Clint rappels down from the catwalk – his ‘nest,’ as Selvig calls it -- and lands soft-footed in front of Fury. 

The Director is not in a good mood.  There are sirens blaring and people running every which way, Hill’s in a snit over his priorities, and nobody has any fucking answers for him.  Shit is going down all around him, big shit, and it’s not even the right colour. 

The hangar is bathed in a blue, pulsing light. 

“I gave you this detail so you could keep an eye on things,” Fury snarls at Clint by way of greeting.  He’s pissed, and someone’s got to know it.

The archer doesn’t skip a beat as he falls into step with his boss.

“I see better from a distance,” he informs Fury, equally curtly. 

Some things Clint is prepared to take crap over and some he’s not, and just how he does a job that’s been delegated to him is not on the list.  Whether it’s done properly, yeah, fair enough.  How he gets it done – hell, no.  There are no Standard Operating Procedures for what they’ve got here, and Clint feels perfectly entitled to make some up.

Fury put him in charge of security for what he claimed was the most sensitive project in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history – almost a thousand people and fifteen acres of highly-classified real estate -- and Clint’s done it all, assessed, planned, executed, detailed, delegated.  Hell, he’s thisclose to becoming management, for fuck’s sake, something he’s so far always managed to avoid.  And there’s one thing he knows for sure: when it comes to a crisis, you need the big picture, and with the tesseract acting up and that evac chaos all around, there’s no better line of sight than from sixty feet up.  But the boss insists he come done, and so he does. 

Clint, frankly, isn’t in a much better mood than Fury.  He doesn’t tolerate the unexplained very well, and New Mexico has been one endless fucking series of unexplained, starting with that over-decorated hammer and its very peculiar owner.

He’s still chewing over why he felt kind of relieved that he didn’t have to take that guy … Thor? … out.  He would’ve, of course – the guy was a menace, chopping through agents like a field of daisies, and Clint had a nice, clean shot – but there was something about him …  Fellow lost soul, warrior in need of a cause?  Someone to have a beer with some night, find out what makes him tick.  Yeah, right.  As if.

At the top of Clint’s current list of grievances, though, is the fact that he hasn’t seen his partner for weeks, and he lays the blame for that squarely at Fury’s feet.  First Natasha’s been made to baby-sit Tony Fucking Stark, watching Iron Man’s personal meltdown up close and personal, and right after that Fury sent her off on some solo recon mission to hobnob with the Russian Mafia. 

So much for the most successful partnership in the agency, not to mention that whole Avengers Initiative thing.  Somebody (Hill?) will end up deep-throating one of Clint’s arrows, if splitting up Delta Team becomes a permanent feature of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s SOPs.

All this to say, while the Hawk’s brain might acknowledge that he should be flattered by the high profile of his current assignment, at this very moment his gut wants nothing so much as his bow, and he sure as hell doesn’t need Fury to bring him to ground.

Besides, Clint has the unsettling feeling that all those highly trained scientists and all their bespectacled assistants don’t have a clue what they’re doing.  Ph-fucking-Ds, without a clear line of sight between them, except maybe Selvig.  They measure stuff and graph things and go apeshit over a sudden pulse of energy, but they have no idea what they’re looking at, or what it might mean. 

And none of them, not one, sees the obvious threat that’s inherent in their so-called door into space, and why you need to hold the high ground.

“Doors open from both sides.”

…..

The ghostly figure is bathed in the blue light of the tesseract and the tendrils of light still snaking around the room.  Funky coat, long, unwashed hair, mocking eyes and a smile that practically screams ‘unhinged’.  The guy’s bizarre fashion sense means that the glowing spear is the only weapon he’s got easy access to, and so Clint’s focus narrows to a single point of light.

He assumes that the spear thing is a side arm and not an elaborate flashlight -- the colour’s the same as the tesseract that spat the guy out in the first place, and that can’t be good.  Clint’s instincts scream at him to take the guy out, now, but Fury seems intent on talking to him first.  Always the spy first, never the soldier.

“I am Loki, of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose.” 

Even his prose sounds abnormal.  Clint flexes his fingers, loosens his stance, ready to let fly at the slightest twitch.

And then.

The scepter comes to light and unleashes balls of unknown and deadly energy, its target -- Nick Fury. 

It takes all of Clint’s hard-wired reaction speed and coiled strength to hurl himself at Fury, straight as an arrow, and to knock him aside, out of the line of fire.  More blue ball lightning follows and agents, scientists and security personnel are hurled to the ground indiscriminately; none rise. 

Rolling and picking himself up off the floor, Clint shakes off the concussive effect of the force unleashed by that … that thing and pulls out his gun in one smooth, practiced motion. 

And freezes.

“You have heart.” 

That smile …  That voice …  Sweet and sensuous, dripping into his mind like the juice of an overripe, decaying piece of fruit … wine-rich and so … heady …

It fills his mind and he (who?) can’t think … can’t breathe … can’t move … can’t …  All he can feel is the light draining from his eyes and his world and then there is nothing, a space between worlds … and … he … ceases.

The light returns, ice-blue, true and clear, rimed with purpose, shining the path to devotion and service … and yes.

He is the forge and the sword, the arrow and the quiver – for truth and for glory.

His truth, His glory.

And yes.

Yes.

…..

Barton stands like a statue, his gun re-holstered.  Observing.  It’s what he knows best -- until he sees, until he does.

He sees now, so clearly.

“Sir, Director Fury is stalling.  He means to bury us.”

“So stop him.”  The command in his head is sharp and clear and leaves no room for questions.  The gun is in his hand, he twists, he fires. 

Fury is down, not out.  No matter.  The box is Barton’s.  March. 

“We need that vehicle.”

Hill, Maria, S.H.I.E.L.D.  Obstacle -- eliminate.  Twist, turn, fire. 

Somehow, she dodges. 

Must do better.  Can do better.  Will do better.

The world narrows to a wheel and a road and a goal and the only way out and to glory is through cars and guns and falling rocks.  A chopper, a ball of fire, and they’re gone, hidden by the darkness of a desert night and the groans of the wounded earth.

…..

Three, four days later – who measures time in the service of truth? – and the battle plans are clear.  The song in Barton’s head is strong.  He wants to please, needs to erase the small failures of New Mexico.  All his mind holds now is purity of purpose and the joy of service. 

Barton’s voice is a flat monotone, as grey as his face and as shadowed as those sleepless, frost-rimed eyes, when he warns of Fury’s Avengers, that team – so far a danger more to themselves than to others, but if brought on track … a threat.

“I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his.”

Ironman, a law unto himself.  Unpredictable, yes.  Uncontrollable, yes.  But so, so smart and so, so dangerous.

Captain America, the super soldier.  Determined enough to die; successful enough to cheat time and death to fight again.

Thor …  No need to explain.  Spitting, venomous hatred sparks into the minion’s mind at the name; the word brother is a curse. 

Banner.  The brilliant scientist, the live wire, the force of nature, the wild card, the monster. 

“Ah, yes.  The monster.”

Hawkeye, the archer.  Vanquished already, not a threat anymore, an ally now.  More than an ally.  The strategist, the general of Loki’s army.

That leaves …

Black Widow.  (Natasha…)  A flash, a flicker in his mind, an echo, of … what? 

No, not … that.  Not there.  Don’t …

The god is intrigued. 

“Oh yes, Agent Barton.  Oh yes.  Yes ...  Her, too.  Tell me.”

Loki watches his pale minion’s eyes flicker; the god’s tongue comes out and he licks his lips -- hungrily, lasciviously, in anticipation of a treat.  This will be good … an unsought delicacy in the nourishing feast that is Barton’s mind.  An amuse gueule, to be cherished -- later.

“Tell me everything, Agent Barton.” 

A quick turn of the screw, and the blue is steady again in Barton’s eyes, resistance gone, replaced with purpose.

Once the words flow they’re a torrent, cutting through jagged thoughts:

First they took her body, then they took her soul … piece by piece they unmade her, through fire and blood and pain to stone ... from Red to Black … but now she is whole, mostly whole, and she fears the touch of my hands for reasons far different …

“More.  Tell me more.” 

The God’s eyes sparkle as he starts to pluck on the strands of darkness and light, the tendrils of trust (and nets of fear) that weave around the Black Widow and Agent Barton; all the things that they are and fear to become -- he feeds off it all, relishes the unexpected delights, so textured and sweet in one so austere.

Something else stirs in the God’s own mind, though, at the touch of those thoughts, seeing those things that are fragile and tentative and nothing that he has ever known, nothing that has ever been his.  Loki blinks back a sudden rage. 

Yes, Agent Barton has heart.  And the God of Thieves, the God of Lies, will know just what to do with that heart when the time comes.  And oh, it will be fun.

“Enough.”

Pleasure’s over.  Time for business, time to plan.  Two plans:  the gate and the team.  Parallel tracks, converging on glory.  

Barton rattles off the helicarrier’s vulnerabilities like a shopping list:  Four engines, three essential.  Operating systems both sophisticated and fragile.  Fury’s hubris, bringing in the monster.  What goes up must come down.

And this, an old truth drawn from ancient battles: 

The easiest way to defeat an enemy is to give him something he wants.

Yes, Agent Barton is a man of clear objectives, a gifted strategist, a leader; Loki has chosen well. 

But more than that, the snap of the bow in the killer’s hand heralds resolve and action, released from the cowardice of conscience.  Agent Barton -- free to be what he was meant to be, should be grateful.  

He is:

“I need a distraction.  And an eyeball.” 

The opening gambit is easy.  Barton is an arrow nocked, ready to fly.  Guards drop silently into the Stuttgart night, sprouting feathered projectiles like the fingers of the god himself, mocking their insignificance as they fall. 

Heinrich Schäfer is an opera fan, and the key to a door Barton needs to open.  The good German surrenders his eyeball with minimum fuss, twitching on the altar of the Glory To Come.  Loki doesn’t mind at all doing his minion’s bidding in this; he relishes the feeling of that little life ebbing away under the sceptre. 

Later, as the god walks the halls of the helicarrier in chains, he does so with a smile of triumph, thinking of the plan wrought by that talented merchant of death, who will help bring his brother to heel.

Beware of the Greeks, bearing gifts. 

Beware of the God, being one.

…..

The cell is bright, made of crystal; a putative tomb, now a showcase for greatness.

Through the eyes of his master, Barton sees the Black Widow; his lust briefly stirs.  She is a prize worth taking, worthy of a god.  Or of his general.  Loki makes certain he sees, and hears.  And feels.

Yes.

“I won't touch Barton.  Not until I make him kill you -- slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear…”

Yes.

“And when he wakes, he'll have just enough time to see the work he's done, and when he screams, I'll break his skull.”

Soon.

…..

It is the shot of a lifetime, from the open hold of one aircraft in flight, across the buffeting winds of the thinnest of atmospheres, into the distant wing of another.  As always, the archer looks to the target, not to the arrow’s flight, the sudden curve, the turn it must take.  All he needs is a clear line of sight. 

He lets go.

Mathematics is truth and trajectories don’t lie; the killer’s skill lies in understanding, in making the laws and forces of physics perform to his will.  The rest is acceptance.  His crystal blue eyes do not follow the arrow to its goal once he has set it on its path, though.  He knows where it will end.

In his fortress of glass the God knows, too.  The first shot of the war has been fired.

Loki smiles.

…..

The fighting still rages throughout the carrier, although the stuttering of the wounded engine is no longer the sound of victory, but the threat of resurgence.  The archer’s feet pound the metal grate of the catwalk with precision and speed, narrowing the distance to the One he serves.  His head is bent in silent focus. 

Must reach Loki.  Must not fail.

He is not meant to hear the footfall behind him, but he does, he always does.  Barton turns, knowing who and what he will find, and sudden joy swells his heart. 

She.  The one Loki wants him to take, for His pleasure.

It starts as a dance.  Back and forth, evenly matched.  The firepower of her Widow’s bite against the hiss of his arrows:  agile bodies swaying in lethal winds. 

Watching the spectacle from his blue-lit box, Loki cackles his delight.

The bow becomes a snare – the archer caresses that white throat with it, drawing the Widow in for that final kiss.  A sharp twist to snap her neck but no … too soon.  The God shrieks in  protest  -- “too soon!” -- and Barton lets go, the weapon useless now. 

“Quiet her,” the voice in his head urges, its tones thick with desire – desire that floods his senses. 

“Then take your pleasure.  Our pleasure.  I will be with you, in you …”

Close.  They’re too close. 

No – just close enough.  Time to slow the dance, embrace … 

Knives. 

Yes.

A blade to carve Our name into creamy skin. 

Yes.

Red trails, painting Our triumph.

Yes.

Each blow he lands on her body is a kiss, each kick a primal thrust.  Arousal courses through Barton’s veins as he fights, spurred on by those whispers in his mind.  The world grows dim as his pupils dilate, his blood soars. 

He wants … 

He needs … 

The crescendo of desire dims his vision, slows his hand.  Pain shoots up a twisted arm.  His shoulder makes a sickening noise and Loki snarls his contempt at his minion’s weakness. 

The archer flips the knife to the other hand, his dominant left, and the dance begins again. 

Yes.

She traps his arm once more, this time follows through with her teeth.  Part of him relishes the intimacy of this attack, wants to return it – to bite, to mark, to devour.

Failure is not an option.

A shrieking hatred suddenly fills his head, although the scream is not for him:  “Brother!”

A distraction, then -- nothing.  The connection is broken, the voice gone.

Barton reels and staggers with the sudden silence and the Widow seizes the advantage.  He twists, is spun around.  His skull cracks against the iron railing and his neck snaps back.

On his knees now, he looks up, seeing as through a stranger’s eyes.  Certainty shatters into shards of ice, falling, and a near-forgotten question escapes cracked grey lips.

“Tasha?”

Another blow.  The blue light fades, and darkness falls.

…..

“Now you sound like yourself again.”

Clint would challenge Natasha’s statement, except there is something in her voice, a quavering doubt that worries him more than his own condition.  (He seems stuck in self-pity mode anyway, not particularly useful.)

“But you don’t.”

He gives her a lingering look.  Why would she want to wade into a war?

Through the lifting fog in his head he remembers the spitting distaste she had for that mission in Abidjan.  Clint himself has spent enough time on real battlefields to be, if not at home, then able to see the ebb and flow of war and to find his path through the chaos.  He can tune out the noise, ride out the storm.  But Natasha prefers subtlety and shadows to the ack-ack-ack of blazing guns; she draws on the silences between words.

He knows, he just knows, that she’s hiding something much deeper, a war of her own.  But now is not the time to press.  Who knows what they would find, and whether they can afford the answer, now that their world is hurling towards its end.

He goes to splash cold water in his face and to get ready for … what?   When he comes back out, Natasha is no longer alone.

“Can you fly one of those jets?”

Rogers is a man with a purpose, come for what help he can find.

“I can.”  (Will you want me to?  Would anyone want me to?)

Rogers holds the archer’s eyes for a moment, sees what he needs to see, what he hoped to see.  In turn, the Captain gives Clint what he hoped to hear, what he needs to hear.

“You got a suit?  Suit up.”

Trust.  A thing that works both ways.

Clint pulls on his gloves, his leathers, his quiver … it feels good, that touch, the familiar smells, the weight on his back.  His quiver and glove alight and hum, the connections alive.  He should have a headache, but his head is clear – adrenaline is a wonderful thing.  The Hawk has never been as ready and as keen for a battle as he is now. 

Still, he feels the stares – real or imagined, still as sharp as a hundred blades -- scoring his back as he walks with his companions, through the chaos of the hangar and out onto the runway. 

There goes Barton, the traitor, the pawn ...

Through the doubts and the questions and the anger he is sure must be there, he walks loose and straight, eyes forward, slightly behind Captain America.  (That vibranium shield deflects more than missiles.)  But there’s no time for wallowing; for now, he’ll take the patented Romanoff approach to ugly things: mark the ledger, then shut the drawer until the account falls due. 

He can do this.  He has to do this.  Because … Phil.

Coulson and those goddamn dreams of his.  Time to make them real.

There’s a job to be done and a city to be saved and by all the furies on his tail, Clint Barton will do his bit.  (And maybe he’ll even get in that one lucky shot, the one he told Natasha he wanted, the one that might put a bandaid on his soul.)  The other crap can wait tomorrow – it’s not like it’ll go away anytime soon. 

If there is a tomorrow.  News from New York is grim.  No one knows where Thor and Banner are; Iron Man is out there pretty much on his own, battling aliens spawned by a hole in the sky, a grey, hungry army.

Clint doesn’t wait for the tower to clear the Quinjet for takeoff; there’s no one in the sky here.  Minutes later, he ekes an unorthodox landing out of a broken bird while the Captain hangs onto the cargo rail.  Another S.H.I.E.L.D. plane down; Fury will be pissed.  At least this one went in a good cause.

Rogers takes command easily and naturally, and the team that should never have been starts to click.  Clint’s hands and thoughts are his own -- whether he fights back to back with his partner, pulls civilians from a bus, drills arrows into alien throats or calls the shots from up high.  (“Legolas?  Watch your mouth, Tin Man …”). 

Whatever the hell this is, however they managed to get to this place -- it works.

And when Natasha brings him That Shot, Clint’s smile reaches his eyes for the first time since New Mexico and he touches his bow string with his lips before he lets go.  Watching that sonofabitch get blown onto Stark’s balcony, to become a rag doll for an enthusiastic Hulk – well, it’s as good as if that arrow had lodged directly in the little shit’s eye.

The battle continues.  The Council makes its call and Fury and the Avengers make their response – through fire and smoke and until the gates of hell are forced shut while the city yet stands.

And then it’s over, and in the dusty ruins of what was once Tony Stark’s living room, Clint’s arrow points once more at the man who would be God.

…..

It’s nighttime and Clint’s mouth tastes of garlic (next time, he’ll suggest Chinese).  Exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how he feels, and his head rings with things physical and … not.  A toothbrush would be nice.

Unsurprisingly, S.H.I.E.L.D. has called in its assets for the night.  Not for a debrief, thank god; there’ll be time for that later, even Fury gets that.  Besides, most of the shit that went down has been caught on camera or on people’s cell phones.  The internet is alive with footage of creepy aliens and a flying Thor and Bruce Banner in full Hulk mode, so what the hell could they possibly add to that?

No, ostensibly the recall of Agents Barton and Romanoff to home base is for strictly humanitarian reasons.  Medical check-ups, to be precise, although there’s probably a certain amount of enlightened self-interest involved, with Fury making sure that his prime assets don’t die from alien hairballs before they can be redeployed. 

They catch a transport together from Stark’s helipad -- Clint, Natasha, Rogers and Banner.  (Thor just wants to read Loki the riot act in private someplace, and Stark and his girlfriend seem to have … plans for the night.)  Unlike their merely human teammates, the two super hero types don’t need medical attention -- but they do need a bed, and even in its messed up state, the helicarrier beats having to find an intact hotel in downtown Manhattan.  (Clint’s place on Lex doesn’t have any windows right now.)

There’s debris all over the place on the helipad, but the chopper manages to find a landing spot somehow.  Clint nods goodbye to Stark, who winks at Natasha and says something about “Natalie” that makes Pepper roll her eyes.  She seems sharp and nice, like Tasha says -- probably what Stark needs to deflate his ego on occasion, and good luck to her with that. 

As soon as the chopper is in the air Natasha informs everyone who will listen that she just wants to crash, not to see any medics, and how saving the world ought to get you a bye from this S.H.I.E.L.D. post-mission protocol crap.  But fact is, she has a swollen ankle from when the Hulk dropped bits of the ship on her, not to mention major contusions where he threw her into a wall; it’s amazing she was able to fight the way she did.  So Clint just glares at her, and luckily she’s just too tired to argue seriously and eventually heaves a resigned sigh. 

Clint himself is only too aware that he needs to have his head examined, among other things.  He doesn’t think there’s any physical evidence of Loki left – there probably wouldn’t have been anything to see even while his eyes were still glass -- but he’s not stupid, and he knows that he’ll likely be scrutinized for weeks to come.  Might as well get on the record with an early brain scan, for the inevitable psych evals and hearings.

Besides, his skull does hurt like stink from Tasha’s wallops, as does his back where he landed on his quiver after that twelve-story drop.  Not to mention he’s got two or three chandeliers’ worth of glass embedded in his arms, legs and back.  So yeah, medical attention sounds pretty good.

Most importantly, getting prodded by medics means he won’t have to go to sleep.  And won’t have to hear that voice – the voice that continues to echo whenever silence falls …

The helicarrier is still smoking in places and the mess is … well, let’s just say Fury must be seriously pissed.  He likes things neat, does the Director.  Bruce and Steve peel off to their quarters right away, with a tired wave.  Natasha wants to go ahead to medical; getting her ankle strapped should only take a few minutes and then she, too, can go to sleep.  They both know that leveling out will be a doozy this time, so there’s no point trying to talk now.  (Tomorrow.  They’ll try and get away for a bit tomorrow -- if S.H.I.E.L.D. will let him go, after all he’s done.)

Clint knows that he’ll be a heck of a lot longer, and since he has no interest in sleep anyway, he makes a detour via the coffee room.  It’s a bit of a mess, although not too bad, all things considered.  But there’s something Clint notices right away: his “Archers Do It With A Recurve” mug is on the floor, in four or five pieces. 

Maybe it fell out of a cupboard during the Hulk’s rampage, or when his own explosive arrow shook the carrier.  Or maybe someone smashed in disgust, to make a point about all the people who died on this bloody barge today, and who was to blame for that. 

He’s not sure whether he hopes it’s the former, or is content for it to be the latter.  After all, Coulson …

However he feels about it, Clint’s back hurts too much now to pick up the pieces – that’s what he tells himself, anyway -- so he just kicks them aside and takes a paper cup.  There’s a pot of something sludgy and vile-smelling on the go (probably been on the burner for hours, Juan Valdez now turned Exxon Valdez) but all he wants is the caffeine hit, so he takes it anyway.

As he makes his way onward to the medical bay, Clint is struck by two things.  First is the number of people who are still awake, a lot more than would normally be around during night shift.  After the shit day it’s been, you’d think Fury would tell people to go and grab some shuteye? 

But the second thing is, most of them are clustered around monitors, watching what looks like looped re-runs of coverage of the battle for Manhattan. Like they can’t get enough of it – talking and pointing, almost like it’s something they want to feel part of, something they don’t really want to end. 

Clint shakes his head.  Here they are, they’ve had a battle right where they stand – there’s still glass and metal bits and blood everywhere (he tries not to think about the blood, but fails), and they’re watching that?  Christ.  He shrugs it off and keeps walking, hoping that no one will notice him.  Hell, he has absolutely no idea how people will react to his return, so for now he rather they didn’t.  The mug thing sure gave him pause. 

And then it happens, he hears someone stage-whisper:  “Hey look, there’s Hawkeye!”  Another voice says something about “… Avengers …” and then a dozen heads turn in his direction.  Clint pretends he doesn’t hear, doesn’t want to figure out whether it’s awe or anger he hears, it’s all the same. 

He buries his face in the disgusting smell of stale coffee and heads down the corridor to medical. 

…..

Two hours, one major debriding ordeal and a side trip to his room for a shower later (being Loki’s hand puppet didn’t leave much time for things like sleep, food or personal hygiene), Clint sits on a narrow bench in radiology in clean sweats, waiting for a CT-Scan and an MRI.  His back and head are resting against the wall, one leg is pulled up and the other -- the one they took the most glass out of, the one he’d had to put on Tasha’s chair at that diner -- dangles loosely down over the side.  His eyes are half-closed but that’s because he hates the neon light, not because he’s trying to sleep.  

He’s got his iPod buds in, listening to Springsteen in an attempt to stay awake and drown out certain … echoes.  Ironically, The Boss has just gotten to the bit about “no retreat, baby, no surrender,” when Clint feels vibrations on the metal floor.  Not one of the doctors.  Natasha?  No.  Heels.  Boot heels.  Clicking on the floor, a stride designed to convince.

Hill. 

Shit.  Just what he needs.  Perfect end to a perfect day.

Clint opens his eyes without moving his head, knowing by her trajectory that she will stop right in front of him.  Maria Hill is nothing if not direct, a quality he’s come to appreciate over the years even if her brand of directness usually pisses him off.  At least you’re never in any doubt where you stand with the good Deputy. 

Now, the last time he and Hill shared space, he emptied the magazine of his gun in her direction, rammed the car she was driving into a tunnel wall and left her behind in the wreck, to be buried alive in an implosion that he himself had helped S.H.I.E.L.D. design and rig up.  And that was before he did his best to blow the ship they’re now all on out of the sky.  So, for once he couldn’t really blame her if she was pissed off at him. 

He pulls out his ear buds and steels himself for a lecture of epic proportions, but her first words make him blink back his surprise.

“How are you feeling, Agent Barton?”

Agent Barton.  Making a point, she is.  Which one though?

“Deputy Director,” he replies without answering her question, because that would either take way too long, or be a lie.  But then, because he kind of owes her … something … he adds, “Sorry.”

“For what?” 

Of course, she’d have to ask.  Wouldn’t be Hill, if she didn’t want chapter and verse.

Everything?

“New Mexico.  You know, trying to kill you and stuff.”

“You missed,” she states matter-of-factly, a curious look in her eyes.  And then, “You never miss.”

That’s true, and he remembers a rather pointed discussion he’d had with Loki about that.  If you can call it a discussion, the guy being inside his head at the time even if actual words were exchanged.

“Yeah, well.  The novelty of possession hadn’t worn off yet.  He got better later, I guess.” 

He looks at her, trying to gauge her reaction, wondering what she’s after, whether she even knows herself.  Maybe she doesn’t; she’s uncharacteristically silent, looking him over pretty thoroughly.  She even wrinkles her nose at the smell of that disgusting coffee he’s been carrying around, but not been able to bring himself to finish. 

Finally, she speaks again, her voice a question even if her words aren’t.

“According to the reports, you made the calls on rescuing all those civilians, Barton.  The ones in the bus, the ones in the library.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, guess I did.  Usually do.”  Of course.  What would you have done?

“It must have been hard for you.”

What – saving civilians?

Hill must have noticed the puzzled look on his face, because she elaborates.

“Having to do what you’re told.  Not being able to say ‘no’ when Loki made you do things you … normally wouldn’t.  Wouldn’t want to do.”

Clint almost snorts.  Hill always was good at stating the obvious (eventually).

“Didn’t even occur to me to say no.  Comes with the territory of being possessed, or whatever he did.  I embraced my orders with … the utmost enthusiasm.  Didn’t have to think about it.”

That last bit he snarls out with a mixture of bitterness and self-loathing that he doesn’t bother – can’t – hide, even from Hill.  Her eyebrows twitch slightly in response.

“But was it hard?  Can’t say it was.  Too fucking easy it was, following orders.  Way too easy.”

And there’s the truth, he knows – what he hasn’t figured out, is whether he made it easy, or was made to want it to be so easy.  But he doesn’t need to tell her that, and she has no right to hear it.  That’s for psych evals to drag out, and for him to chew on for the next decade or so.

Hill spends a few seconds staring at him like he’s something from a zoo, but then she surprises him again.

“And you’re not easy.  You’re many things, Barton, but you’re never easy.  It’s what makes you such a pain to deal with.” 

He’s not sure how to take that one, but it doesn’t sound like a reprimand – at least no less than it could be considered a compliment.  She hesitates a split second, almost as if she wants to add something else.  But what comes out is, “I’m sorry too.”

Clint’s head flies up.  The last thing he expects, or needs, at this point is pity, but before he can spit that out she raises her hand to stop him.  She knows him that well, at least.

“I told the Council that you had been compromised, Agent Barton.  It’s protocol, I had … no choice.  Director Fury was angry about it, and now … I think he was right.  What you did with ... for Loki, that wasn’t you.  It wasn’t you at all.  It couldn’t have been, and I understand that now.”

She turns to leave; they’ve never been the greatest at conversing, and he supposes that her last comment is as much of an admission that she fucked something up as he’s ever likely to get. 

“Thanks,” he says, because it seems kind of appropriate.  Obviously so does Hill, because she gives one of her pinched little smiles.  But then she stops in her tracks and turns back.

“You heard about Agent Coulson, I assume?” she says, and every little bit of gratitude he might have felt threatens to evaporate on the spot, until she tells him the thing that he didn’t know.  The thing Phil did for them, for the Avengers, before he died – telling Fury to use him as the push they needed to come together as a team.  And what Fury did with that, in his own inimitable fashion.  Phil might actually have approved. 

Why she tells him all this Clint has no idea, except maybe to wipe out some of the red, as Tasha would call it.  His red, with Phil.  It won’t work, of course, it’ll never work, but he appreciates the thought.  He nods – there really isn’t much to say – and winces, because that makes his head hurt.  One of the doctors bustles in at this point and Hill finally leaves.

When Clint comes out of the MRI cylinder -- forty-five minutes of hammering, clanking sound effects that do absolutely nothing for his headache, even if the procedure conclusively confirms that there’s no Asgardian parasite lurking in his frontal lobes – there’s someone else in the room. 

Fury. 

And he’s holding a mug.  Clint’s mug, which appears to have fresh coffee in it, steaming hot.  Already the room is filled with one of Clint’s Top Three All-Time Favorite Smells (number two is a forest after rain; the third involves his partner, so that’s not one he ever examines too closely). 

Having brought the coffee this far, Fury is obviously not into taking it any further and sets it down on the bench, with that look of distaste he does so well.

“Hill asked me to bring this, says it’s a Dark Roasted Colombian.  Apparently it’s your favourite.  And she say to tell you that whoever fixed this … this thing used non-toxic super glue, in case you were wondering.”

With an extra lacing of acid, Fury adds, “And it’s supposedly dishwasher proof.” 

He glares at Clint with his one eye as the archer steps forward to claim his mug, and moves on as if the whole scene never happened.

“I suppose you and Romanoff are taking off tomorrow, to do that … that thing you do?  That Coulson told me about?”

Clint winces a little at the name, and at the thought; spending time with Natasha to level out will be something of a mixed blessing this time around, but …

“Yeah.  Guess so.  We’ll both need some time.  If I’m allowed to leave base?”

Fury knows what he’s asking, of course, and just nods.

“You have an appointment in Central Park first, though.” he says.  “What I came to tell you, before Hill turned me into your butler.  Thor’s taking Loki back to Asgard.  Thought you’d like to be there.”

“Hell, yeah.  You know it.”

And then the Director is gone too, and Clint is left alone to wait for the next round of tests.

He traces the seams where his ‘Archers Do It With A Recurve’ cup has been meticulously glued back together.  Whoever did it made an effort to wipe off the excess glue, but there are slight ridges there; no doubt they’ll eventually get scoured off in the dishwasher.

Clint closes his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee.  It’s black and strong, the way he likes it.  For a moment he considers whether he should add some milk, what with the shawarma churning in his gut, but ultimately decides against it. 

It’s good to have the choice, though.