Chapter Text
The street looked like a massacre of Dr Doolittle proportions.
The carcasses of enlarged, mutated creatures lay strewn over the hoods of abandoned cars, hooves and paws and wings and claws poking out at odd angles, glass and rubble scattered around the bodies like confetti. A horde of sewer rats (each the size of a fully-grown golden retriever) lay in a smoking pile near the entrance to the subway, fried mid-stampede by a hundred terawatts of electricity courtesy of a certain Asgardian prince.
Said Asgardian prince now appeared to be battling a man-sized squirrel in Starbucks. Which, Clint had to admit, wasn’t something you saw every day.
The stench of burning meat was thick in the air, worsened by the mid-July humidity that had Clint sweating like a man on Death Row beneath his reinforced Hawkeye jacket. What he really, really wanted right now was a nice, long shower and a cold beer. Unfortunately, Merlin here didn’t seem to be running short on wizarding mojo, and unless Clint succeeded in separating the psychopath from his glowing stone of magic-ness sometime soon, they wouldn’t be going anywhere fast. There were a helluva lot of critters nearby.
“Look, Dumbldore,” Clint called from his perch on the side of an overturned bus, quickly notching an arrow on his bowstring as the sorcerer weaved his Voodoo magic and transfigured another pigeon into a mutated, man-eating monstrosity and sent it flapping his way, “that stunt you pulled at the zoo was one thing, but this is getting fucking ridiculous. What exactly are you hoping to achieve here?”
His arrow passed straight through the pigeon’s baseball-sized eye and he ducked to allow the carcass to sail cleanly over his head and join its winged friends on the feather-strewn asphalt below.
“Barton, don’t antagonise the target,” came a firm voice through his earpiece.
“He started it.”
Clint notched another arrow, releasing it a microsecond later to take down the killer cockroach that had been sneaking up on Steve while the super-soldier battled with a house spider the size of an SUV. Ugh. He really hated insects.
“Hey, fellas! I heard there was a party?”
Well, with one exception.
Clint’s gaze flickered away from the sorcerer long enough to take in the familiar blur of red and blue as Spiderman swung past him, shooting a string of web at a dog-sized grasshopper before it could pounce on Black Widow. Natasha seemed momentarily disappointed to have been denied a chance to wrestle with the insect, but her attention was quickly required elsewhere as the Hulk came careening around the end of the street, roaring in fury at the hoard of plate-sized Carrion beetles that were swarming over every inch of his green skin.
“Glad you could join us, Spiderman,” Steve spoke over the comms, his relief evident. “Think you could string up some of these bugs for us?”
“Thought you’d never ask, Cap.”
The teenager executed a neat flip in mid-air, landing in the middle of the street directly behind Iron Man, where the larger bugs were congregating. In a matter of minutes the ground was a mass of hairy exoskeletons writhing and twitching against the glue-like ribbons of Spiderman’s webbing, several of them sporting large, smoking holes courtesy of Stark’s repulsors.
“No!” the sorcerer yelled, the asphalt beneath his feet cracking as the stone in his hand pulsed. “You will yield! The very heart of this wretched planet beats at my command; I will not-”
Clint’s arrow lodged itself in the man’s throat and he choked mid-tirade. The sallow-skinned fellow crashed to his knees, eyes wide in horror and fear, blood bubbling at his lips as he scrabbled to press the glowing stone against his breastbone. Clearly whatever Voodoo mojo he was playing with was keeping him alive, because a pointy shaft buried that deep in a man’s jugular would usually render them dead in a matter of seconds.
Notching another arrow, Clint took aim, poised to release.
“Call it, Coulson.”
“Take the shot, Hawkeye,” Phil replied without missing a beat, his voice grim but unwavering. “This has gone on long enough.”
“Copy that.”
He released the bowstring, and several things happened at once. Merlin-Gandalf-Dumbledore guy raised his glowing amber stone in front of him, palm-outwards, like a magical mockery of Tony’s repulsor designs, orange-yellow light growing from it in a rapidly expanding orb that encompassed the sorcerer’s crumpled form in the blink of an eye.
Clint’s arrow struck the heart of the orb where the light of the stone pulsed brightest, shattering on impact.
And then the world exploded right along with it.
o~O~o
“Sir? I need you to open your eyes for me.”
Clint groaned, curling into a tighter ball and trying to smother his pounding head in his arms. God, he felt awful. And cold. Fucking hell, he was freezing.
“It really ain’t safe to be out here in fancy dress at this hour, son.” A meaty hand shook him by the shoulder roughly. “Especially if you’ve had a little too much to drink. Good party, huh?”
“Hey fellas! I heard there was a party?”
Jolting awake with a sharp inhale, Clint lurched upright, limbs weak and uncoordinated as he scrambled back from the broad-shouldered figure looming over him. The middle-aged NYPD officer held one hand up in a calming gesture, the other moving down to rest on his belt near his sidearm.
“Easy there, pal. Take a minute to get your bearings.” He reached for the flashlight that was resting on the grass a couple of feet away from them. “Can you tell me your name?”
“What?” Clint replied, intelligently. His head was still throbbing something awful, and there was a bone-deep ache in his limbs that wasn’t entirely dissimilar to that one time he’d come down with a bad case of the flu during an undercover op in Milan.
“I’m Nick Bailey,” the officer prompted. “I’m with the New York Police Department. I’d like to help you get home out of the cold, alright, buddy?”
“Cold,” he echoed groggily, because that was the only part of his current situation that he could level with. “It’s cold. Why’s it cold?”
The older man laughed, clipping the flashlight onto his belt and shifting in his crouch to settle his weight more evenly, his ready stance slipping to something more casual (as a fellow fighter, Clint could recognise the signs of a man standing down after realising that his opposition wasn’t a threat – inaccurate, of course, but appreciated nonetheless).
“You must’ve been on the hard stuff tonight, son,” Nick commiserated. “A good night’s sleep and some Gatorade’ll fix you right up, although the hangover’s going to suck somethin’ awful in the morning. Look, is there somebody you could call to come pick you up?”
Clint nodded, then regretted it immediately when his brain threatened to explode inside his skull. He pressed a shaking hand against his forehead, fingers tugging at his fringe. “My…my team.”
“Your team, huh?” Nick’s gaze slid over to the right a little. “Your archery team?”
Turning his head sharply, Clint bore the consequential dagger-like twinge between his eyes without complaint, reaching for his bow and gripping the upper limb tightly, finding a modicum of comfort in the familiarity of its weight and texture.
“Yeah,” he agreed vaguely. “They don’t live far from here.”
After a beat, he realised he was being an idiot and fumbled in his pocket for his Starkphone. The press of a button and he’d have somebody here to pick him up in one of Tony’s ridiculously flashy sports cars. Hell, he’d even lower himself to ride shotgun with Peter (even though the kid drove like an overly cautious grandma) if it meant getting the hell out of this frigid weather.
Luck, however, didn’t seem to be on his side today. Despite the fact that he’d left the Tower with his phone fully charged (and despite this particular model having a six-day battery life), the touchscreen remained dark and lifeless. Fucking technology.
“Phone’s dead too, huh?” Nick sympathised, patting his shoulder. “Never you mind, son. There’s plenty of payphones out on the main road. Think you can remember your friend’s number?”
At Clint’s slow nod, he smiled, dusting off his pants as he stood, the beam from his flashlight blinding Clint momentarily. The archer realised with an ache of regret in his chest that he’d managed to misplace his Hawkeye shades at some point. That was probably the least of his problems, but still, he’d grown attached to them.
“Tell you what,” Nick offered, reaching down to give him a hand up. “I’m stationed just off 52nd street, if you want to sit someplace warm until your buddy shows up? Looks like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks,” Clint mumbled, because even with a migraine from hell he appreciated not getting tossed in the drunk tank. To be fair, he wasn’t drunk, so that probably helped. He accepted the man’s helping hand, although it took two (horrible, painful) attempts before he actually managed to stand up. “Don’t suppose you could tell me where I am?”
“Catching hypothermia in the middle of Central Park,” Nick told him blithely, keeping a steadying hand on his elbow as they began to make their way down the gently sloping embankment towards the nearby path. Clint recognised the shadowy statue opposite them – he and Steve frequented this route when they went running together – but that didn’t explain how the hell he’d ended up here when he’d been fighting a demented wizard on the opposite side of the park only five minutes ago.
“You’re lucky I found you,” the officer continued. “It’s supposed to drop another ten degrees by midnight. My partner and I don’t usually patrol this route at all, but someone radioed in a 911 call to say that there’d been an explosion somewhere near here. Probably just a prank caller, Lord knows we get plenty of those.” He lifted his arm in a wave, and Clint had to suppress the automatic urge to notch an arrow on his bowstring at the sudden movement. “Mike! Didn’t find any fireworks, but I picked up a stray.”
A younger, olive-skinned officer jogged over to them, arching an eyebrow with an amused grin as he took in Clint’s appearance at a glance. “Little late for Halloween, isn’t it, sir? Although gold star for accuracy. You look just like him.”
If Clint had been feeling his usual, confident self without the confusion of being thrown from one place to another in the blink of an eye, he would’ve flashed his Avengers ID at them and offered to sign their notepads. As it was, all he wanted to do was get his tired, aching ass back to the Avengers Tower and figure out what the hell was going on.
“Yeah, well,” he gave a casual shrug, trying not to appear as though the whole world was still spinning, or that there was a 95% chance he was about to upchuck all over their shoes. “Aspiring archer, y’know how it is. Who else was I supposed to go as?”
“You seem to have sobered up pretty quick,” Nick remarked, patting him on the shoulder. “Good metabolism, huh?”
“Mm,” Clint agreed, reaching up to tap at his earpiece and wondering if the comm-line would still be linked up to Jarvis’ mainframe. It remained disappointingly silent, however.
The walk back to the officers’ patrol vehicle seemed to take forever, and Clint felt shaky and sick to his stomach by the time they reached the road. He’d intended to take Nick up on his offer and hitch a lift to Park Avenue on the way to 52nd so that he could walk the rest of the way back to the Tower. But he was seriously beginning to doubt his ability to maintain control of his limbs in his present condition. He had two hundred dollars and one of Stark’s Gold cards sitting snugly on the inside pocket of his jacket (for emergencies, because one never knew when one might end up stranded in the middle of nowhere without transport). Fuck it. He was getting a cab.
“Y’know what, I think I’ve wasted enough of your time already,” he spoke, leaning back against the base of the streetlamp for support. “I’m sure you gentlemen are kept pretty busy this time of night.” Whatever time of night it currently was – Clint honestly had no idea, his watch still said it was one o’clock in the afternoon. “I’ll just order a cab.”
It took a great deal of persuading before he managed to convince the officers that he’d be just fine on his own, thank you, and no, he really didn’t need to wait for his friend at the station. In the end Nick phoned the cab company for him and waited with Clint on the sidewalk until the vehicle pulled up, helping him to tumble inside (completely without grace – his limbs were being particularly uncooperative) and murmuring a few low words to the cab driver before raising his hand in a parting wave and climbing back into his patrol car as the cab pulled away from the curb.
“Where to, buddy?” the driver asked after a beat. “The officer said you mentioned Park Avenue? I’m gonna need somethin’ a little more specific than that.”
Clint rubbed at his forehead, willing himself not to throw up as the car turned a sharp corner. It felt like a losing battle. He groaned, slumping against the passenger door, clutching onto the handle for dear life.
“He also said I might need to take you to the hospital,” the driver tacked on cautiously.
Right. So that’s why the officer had been so attentive. Maybe Clint looked as sick as he felt.
Pushing himself a little more upright, he took a deep, steadying breath and shook his head. “No, m’okay. Just had a rough night. An’ it’s 200 Park Avenue. Big tower, can’t miss it.”
The driver snorted, then paused, and when Clint failed to provide an alternative address, he glanced back at the archer in the rear-view mirror. “The Avengers Tower? Buddy, if you’re looking for a hotel to sleep off that hangover, Iron Man’s pad ain’t the place to go.”
Jesus Christ. He’d figured even an idiot would put two and two together; he was wearing a frickin’ uniform, after all. Sure, Hawkeye and Widow tended to be the lesser-known members of the team, preferring to keep out of the public eye so that it wouldn’t impede their work as field agents if (or when, rather) Nick requested Strike Team Delta for a specific intelligence op. But even so, they’d still brought out a Hawkeye action figure last month. And he’d officially put plastic bows and arrows back on the toy shelves, decked out in purple and black and sporting the snazzy Avengers ‘A’ on the side. He was almost-sort-of famous. But clearly this guy lived in a cave.
“Look, could you just take me there and stop asking questions?” he ground out, unzipping the top of his jacket and feeling for the hidden inner pocket where he stash of twenty dollar bills was stored safely away. Grabbing a few, he waved them in the cabbie’s general direction. “I’ll pay you triple if you put a sock in it.”
The man’s eyes flickered to the paper bills briefly, before refocusing on the road. “Done.”
The rest of the short journey passed in blissful silence, and soon enough the vehicle was pulling up at the foot of the courtyard in front of Avenger’s Tower. Clint pushed the money towards the driver with a mumbled ‘keep the change’, fumbling with the handle on the door until it relented and swung open, almost sending him headfirst to kiss the concrete. Righting himself carefully, he gritted his teeth against the ache of worn muscles and made his way up to the fancy-pants entrance, taking his Avengers ID card from his side-pocket and swiping it against the access port.
“Facial recognition required. Please remain stationary while the scan is in progress.”
“Huh.” Well, that was new. Then again, Clint had never stumbled home at gone-midnight before without someone else on the team to let him in. And in hindsight, he hadn’t actually used the door on the ground floor in weeks. The Quinjet launched from the roof and the underground carpark had an elevator that bypassed the main foyer.
“Jarvis, c’mon man,” he complained, bracing a hand against the door when the world tilted on its axis again. “It’s me, you know it’s me.”
“Indeed,” the AI agreed after a beat, and there was a strange note to the computer’s voice that Clint couldn’t quite place. “Welcome home, Agent Barton. Are you well?”
“I’ve been better,” Clint admitted, staggering inside gratefully when the doors slid open.
The two security guards behind the reception desk both stood to their feet as he stumbled past, both looking a little stunned, and the archer shot them a sloppy salute as he made a beeline for the private elevator, swiping his card in the access port beside the control pad. The glare of the overhead elevator lights was painfully harsh, and he covered his eyes with a grunt.
“Jarvis, you mind dimming those down a little?”
“Of course, sir.” Another pause, then, “The Avengers have been informed of your return.”
“Thanks, J.” Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall of the elevator car as it ascended rapidly. “Take me to whichever floor they’re on, yeah?”
“Regretfully, Agent Barton, the majority of the team are currently elsewhere dealing with a critical situation.”
“Damn.” The archer tipped his head back and closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath. “Okay. Is anyone home?”
“Peter is in the workshop, sir.”
“Awesome. Take me there, would you?”
Even if the kid wouldn’t be able to shed as much light on the mystery of his situation as perhaps Bruce or Tony could, any information would be welcome right now. The pain in his head was slowly easing, his mind clearing, and what he wanted more than anything was to know what exactly had happened after his arrow had struck Merlin’s magical stone and everything had exploded into light. He really hoped they’d killed the bastard. He so wasn’t up for fighting mutated animals right now.
The elevator slowed to a halt and the doors slid open again, revealing Tony’s expansive workshop in all its (surprisingly uncluttered) glory. The lights were dimmed, but a few holograms still floated around above various workstations, mechanical designs or unfamiliar atomic structures suspended in mid-air and glowing the same aqua-blue as Tony’s arc reactor. And there, on the far side of the ‘shop, slumped sideways on one of the plush couches with a cushion tucked under his head and a throw blanket tugged up to his shoulders in a way that suggested somebody else had put it there, was Peter.
Clint felt bad for waking the kid, but he needed answers. And probably a couple of Aspirin. Perching carefully on the edge of the coffee table, he leaned forwards to nudge the teenager’s shoulder.
“Peter? C’mon, kid, rise and shine.”
The younger man’s reaction was entirely predictable at first. A low, grumbling protest, a smooth brow creasing as the teenager stirred from sleep, eyes opening to narrow slits to peer sleepily at Clint in the semi-darkness of the room.
And that’s where ‘normality’ ended.
Peter’s eyes snapped open comically wide and he shot upright, scrambling backwards to the opposite end of the couch, his blanket tangled around him.
“What?” he demanded in a tremulous voice, breathing heavily. “Jarvis, what?”
“Readings indicate that he is indeed Agent Barton,” Jarvis spoke gently, and Clint hadn’t known the AI to be capable of such tenderness in the past. “The Avengers have been informed, Peter. Please remain calm.”
Clint, feeling about two miles behind the conversation, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, hey, whoa. Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”
Peter looked about ten seconds from passing out, and the archer moved closer to perch on the couch, concern creasing his own brow when the teenager flinched away from him.
“Buddy, c’mon,” he soothed, raising his hands again, palm-outwards. “It’s me. I don’t know what the hell’s happening or why I just woke up in the middle of Central Park, but I promise you, I’m still the same guy who kicked your ass at Mario Kart last night.”
“Oh my god,” Peter breathed, and the archer was alarmed at the sheen of tears he saw brimming in the teenager’s eyes.
“Peter, what-?”
His question was cut off when the younger man all but threw himself at Clint, one wiry arm wrapping tightly around his shoulders as the teenager crushed him in a painfully tight hug. Clint’s own arms came up automatically, one wrapping securely around the slighter man’s lower back while he rubbed slow circles between Peter’s shoulder blades with his other hand. He was confused as fuck, but that wasn’t going to stop him from giving the kid a goddamn hug if that’s what he needed. Truth be told, if the situation was bad enough to warrant genuine tears in the teenager’s eyes, he deserved all the hugs Clint could give him.
“I don’t understand,” Peter spoke into his shoulder, and there was a wet, tremulous quality to his voice that meant he was crying. A painful lump lodged itself in Clint’s throat, a sympathetic echo of the teenager’s grief, even though he still had no idea what the fuck was going on.
“That makes two of us,” Clint quipped, hoping that humour would bolster the kid’s spirits a little. But Peter only clutched at him tighter. The archer’s concern was quickly growing to match his confusion. “Peter. Kid, listen to me - I need to know what happened after the fight. My arrow hit Gandalf’s super-stone, then what?”
“You both vanished,” Peter spoke, still clinging to him like an octopus. “There was this…this huge flash of light which drained all the power from a ten-block radius, and almost shut down Tony’s arc reactor. And you were just gone. We looked everywhere, man, for months. But we never-”
“Wait, wait,” Clint pushed Peter back to hold him by the shoulders at arm’s length, his heart constricting painfully in his chest, hoping (praying) that he’d heard the kid wrong. “What do you mean ‘months’?”
Peter’s gaze scanned his expression, bloodshot eyes widening momentarily before softening into something that made him look far older than he had any right to be.
“The fight on Maddison Avenue, the whole battle with Tarius,” the teenager reached out to touch Clint’s vest again, as though to certify that he was still there, “that was five months ago, Clint. Back in July. It’s…it’ll be Christmas soon.”
No. Nope. Not happening. Wrong.
“Clint?” Peter’s hand moved to grip onto his wrist instead, still his right hand, not his left – and it wasn’t until Clint looked at him, properly looked at him, that he saw the sling. Saw the plaster cast covered in marker pen doodles. It hadn’t been there that morning.
Fuck. Fucking hell.
“Jarvis,” he gritted out, turning away from the teenager to brace his elbows on his knees and hold his head in his hands, because he was half convinced that it would fall off without the additional support. “Jarvis, what’s the date?”
“It’s December 8th, 2013, sir.”
Well, shit.