Alakhir

by AlisonSky

Summary:

The Joker has manipulated Dick Grayson's already fragile mind into believing that he is the Joker's son. The Batfamily isn't aware, yet, but Bea calls Clint in as a reinforcement to help rescue him. Doing so, however, will put Clint into an odd position with both Batman and with SHIELD, and after a mission to Budapest, Clint must revisit a piece of his past that shaped him into the assassin he is today.

Notes:

Welcome back! This story takes place a week after the end of "One Bird in Hand..." which is about how long Ric was gone in the comics to confront Dr. Haas. This story arc will coincide with the Joker War arc, but in particular, Nightwing issues 71-74.

The meaning of the title will become clear toward the end, but feel free to speculate in the comments. This is going to be a fast one (in which I hope I can post quicker this coming year) so hold on tight.

Chapter 1

Clint Barton was in a cage, and it bothered him. For the last week, he spent most of his day in the science lab, letting the science team poke and prod him. They tested his blood, tested his new healing factor, tested his senses and reflexes, and then compared all the notes to his previous medical file. There were a lot of new discoveries, a lot of excited discussion about super soldier possibilities, but a distinct lack of answers and nowhere close to a cure.

When he wasn’t a lab rat, he sat in his room at SHIELD. He didn’t feel like interacting with anyone at the facility if he didn’t need to, so he stayed behind a closed door and disappeared inside his own head. He sorted through each memory, dividing them into two piles: real and implanted. It only took him a few hours to discover the “feel” of the images in his head—the imprinted ones were too sharp and structured. They were complete little stories with nothing binding them to each other; no moments alone with Richard… no emotional response to the events.

His real memories were messy, disjointed, and he understood the feelings connected to them…which brought about another problem that he hadn’t felt like divulging to the scientists. He understood the emotions he should be feeling, but he couldn’t feel them. He’d be scared, if he could, at what this meant. How could they have scrambled his mind so much in hours that he was left feeling numb?

It was too quiet, and not wanting to face these questions, he left his room. It was the middle of the night on the helicarrier with only the skeleton crew keeping the ship in the air. Clint entered the empty range and set up in the lane furthest from the door. The locker behind him opened easily, revealing one of his compound bows and a stash of normal carbon-fiber arrows. He set them up in the lane meticulously, checking each arrow for any possible defects before adding it to the quiver built into the lane’s divider wall. When he was satisfied with the arrows, he then set up a target program and used the range’s technology to begin the exercise.

He lost track of time as he shot. The rhythm of pull, breathe, and release refocused his mind, removing the tension from his body as he relaxed into the familiar pattern. He was barely aware as agents started to file into the range, a few stopping to watch him in awe. The younger SHIELD recruits rarely saw the more established members, and Clint had a reputation of never missing a shot. They stared from their lanes, not daring to shoot and disturb the moment. With his back to them and his hood up, they couldn’t see his face, but they still knew who he was—no one else in SHIELD used a bow and arrow as their primary weapon.

It wasn’t until the confident stride of shoes moved beside him did Clint finally lower his bow. He knew without turning that Coulson was behind him. With his enhanced senses, he could smell the cologne that his handler preferred, along with the starch in his suit.

“You missed your morning appointment with the psychologist,” Coulson stated.

“Sorry, sir,” he replied immediately. “I’ll clean up.”

Coulson put his hand on Clint’s shoulder, then held out a black ski mask. “You have an audience.”

Clint took the mask and slipped it on. Outside of the medical team, Clint kept his face hidden. The sight of the black veins unnerved those who saw him in passing, so the fabric hid them when he was in the halls. He then rushed, cleaning up the arrows from the lane first so the other agents could start shooting practice, then methodically put all his equipment away in the storage locker.

As they left, whispers began behind them. There were still agents remarking on his skills, but others questioning why Coulson appeared and what the mask was for. For a moment, Clint wished to be deaf again so he couldn’t hear the gossip surrounding him. Instead, he just kept his eyes forward as Coulson led him to the science labs.

“You know, I never thought I would miss your rambling stories to fill the silence,” Coulson stated as he scanned his ID at the lab’s entrance. “You can talk whenever you want, you know.”

Clint just nodded, his eyes shifting to the ground. Coulson sighed, then walked through the lab doors with Clint on his heels. “Dr. Simmons, I’ve got your wayward patient.”

Doctor Jemma Simmons looked up from her microscope with a bright smile on her face. “Ah, yes. Hello Agent Coulson. Agent Barton. Good to see you both again.” She pulled off the pair of gloves and threw them in the trash. “Let’s go do some more bloodwork and go over the results from yesterday’s tests.”

It took two hours for the tests, followed by another analyzing the results from the day before. Nothing had changed, though Dr. Simmons was able to confirm the temperature in which the serum broke down. She found that the information from STAR labs was not accurate, adjusting the serum’s low temperature reading based on the insulation within a human body that wasn’t dead. It was important to know so that Clint wasn’t sent on missions in locations that hit those freezing points.

“There is one other thing I feel I should point out,” Dr. Simmons continued before the agents left. “Agent Barton, I’m sure the last week has made you feel a bit like a rat in a cage. I want to assure you, though, that I’ve checked your current DNA markers with samples we have on hand of yourself, as well as other enhanced beings we’ve dealt with…”

Clint looked up at her, unconsciously leaning in. This was something he didn’t realize he needed to know until now. All he heard back in Gotham was that his DNA had changed, which he took as him no longer being human—a monster with no trace of human emotions. He prayed that the doctor wasn’t about to confirm this.

“… and your new markers match best with the records we have on Captain Steven Rogers.”

 Coulson sat up straight, eyes wide. “Captain America.”

“Yes,” Dr. Simmons replied. “Which makes us believe that since this serum pre-dates the one we created in the forties, that this might be a predecessor that helped create the blueprint for the super-soldier serum. Of course, it was then adjusted to be more successful on a living person, I’m certain.”

“So, I’m a prototype super soldier?” Clint asked slowly, making sure he understood the information being thrown about.

Dr. Simmons nodded. “In a way, yes. An earlier generation, for sure, to what made Captain America.”

“But I’m still human?”

“Yes, of course, you are.” Dr. Simmons smiled, and the tightness in Clint’s chest eased a bit. “There’s nothing in your DNA to suggest otherwise. You are still one hundred percent human, Agent Barton. You just have certain enhancements that are advantageous to a military operation.”

Clint closed his eyes and relaxed into the chair. The Court hadn’t made him into a monster, at least in the physical sense. He would adjust to the enhancements, and maybe even in time come to appreciate them. If he could, that is. They just needed to help him reconnect to his emotions and rediscover his ability to not blindly follow orders. Once that happened, maybe he would feel more like himself.

As they left the medical labs, Coulson steered them to the cafeteria with the intention of getting Clint to eat something. “Just because you’re not hungry doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat on a regular schedule. Your body still needs calories to burn,” he pointed out.

They sat at a table close to an exit and Clint’s back facing the room while Coulson kept watch, sipping on his coffee while Clint picked at a plate of pancakes. He was halfway finished when his cell phone buzzed in his back pocket.

“You expecting a call?” Coulson asked.

“No.” Clint pulled out his phone and looked at the caller ID: Bea. It had been a week since anyone from Gotham tried to reach out to him—the revelation of his adoption and family connection to the group of Wayne’s wayward sons being the probable cause. He knew Richard had traveled to hunt down his neurosurgeon that was responsible for his amnesia, as well as the goggles that took control of them both. But it was Richard he was waiting on a text from, not his beautiful, kickass bartending girlfriend.

He accepted the call and put it up to his ear. “Bea?”

“Oh Clint, thank God,” Bea said. Her words were rushed, fear tinging each syllable.

“What’s wrong?” He looked up at Coulson to see his handler leaning in, trying to listen into the phone call.

 “It’s Ric.” Clint swallowed, his insides turning to ice. “There was this guy… I think he’s called the Joker. He had this crystal Ric found in Oslo and is controlling him. Clint, he thinks that the Joker is his father!”

Clint locked eyes with Coulson. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Until then, you need to summon someone in the Batfamily.”

“Can you call them for me?” she asked.

“They aren’t taking my calls,” he told her. “But I have an idea.”

He talked Bea through a way to get Batgirl’s attention—the one person he knew wouldn’t hesitate to help Richard—by doing a slight bit of arson. “I’ll call you when I get back into town. Whatever you do, do NOT go after him on your own. The Joker is dangerous and doesn’t care about collateral damage in whatever he’s planning.”

“Yeah, I get it. Just, please hurry.”

“I will.”

Clint stood up as he ended the call. “Sir, I need to…”

“No,” Coulson stated.

“What?”

Coulson stayed seated, his face settling into a neutral “I’m your handler and you do what I tell you” set of hard lines. “Clint, you’re a week out from having been tortured, biologically altered, and mind-controlled. You are not in any shape to run into battle, especially with the likes of the Joker.”

“I don’t get the choice on being in shape for this, sir. This is my brother being controlled by that psychopath.”

“And what happens if you disassociate while trying to help? What if the Joker does the same thing to you?”

“He won’t.”

“You can’t guarantee that.” Coulson stood up, taking his and Clint’s trays to the dishwashing bin. “I’m looking out for your best interests.”

As they left the cafeteria, Clint continued to argue, “So knowing my brother is in danger and not helping is my best interest?”

“What do you think would happen if you got hurt after he comes out of the trance?” They turned down a corridor that was primarily used by those gearing up to walk out on the flight deck. Coulson was tapping things on his tablet but shifted smoothly around people and objects in his way. Clint stopped, considering the question. Coulson finished tapping the tablet screen, then turned back to face him. “You know the answer already. Speaking of, when was the last time you talked to Jason?”

Clint swallowed, ignoring the metaphoric slap in the face. “Sir, I have an advantage right now. I can’t connect with my emotions, which means out of everyone in my family, I’m the only one who won’t be compromised dealing with him. I can do what needs to be done.”

Coulson stared at him a moment, then nodded and handed the tablet to Clint. “Hold this,” he said while his eyes checked the walls of the hallway. Confused, Clint held the tablet and followed his handler’s eyes. They were in a storeroom where parachutes were on one side of the hallway, and short-term oxygen masks and tanks in bins on the other side.

“Let me make this clear—not having emotions is not an advantage. In fact, it’s a handicap. You can’t acknowledge the repercussions of your actions.” Coulson took a deep breath. “Which is what I’ll explain to Fury after we bring you back from your unauthorized departure from the ship.”

Clint blinked with wide eyes. “Sir?”

“I won’t blame you for knocking me unconscious, then grabbing a parachute and mask before jumping off the edge of the helicarrier,” Coulson continued. “I should have known better than to take you through a back passage to your appointment.”

Coulson used his eyes to indicate the masks, chutes, and the exit door beside him. “And I only reauthorized the kill order on the Joker because I was planning on sending another team to assist the Gotham police.”

Clint slowly nodded, now understanding what his handler was saying.

“Now, if we’re done with this discussion, we’ve got about ten minutes to reach the psychiatrist for your appointment.” Coulson turned his back, starting to walk again.

Moving quickly, Clint reached and grabbed Coulson’s shoulder, tossing him back against the hallway wall. “Sorry, sir,” he said before punching his handler hard in the face, knocking Coulson out instantly. Clint carefully lowered him to the ground, then grabbed an oxygen mask to put over Coulson’s face before grabbing his own. He tucked the oxygen tank and the tablet into his jacket’s inner pockets before grabbing a parachute.

He stepped out onto the flight deck like he was supposed to be there. Using the wind and sun to position him, Clint walked to the back edge that was hidden from the cockpit. When he was sure no one was watching, he pulled the backpack-esque parachute bag onto his back, latched it on tightly, and then let himself fall backward off the runway and into the clouds.

I’m coming, Ric. Just hang on.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Clint returns to Gotham with two missions: save his brother and kill the Joker. To accomplish this, he taps into a past persona only a select few know him as.

Notes:

Hey folks! Thank you all for your comments and kudos!!!!!

In this chapter, I deviate from the ending of the Joker War in a major way, but I doubt anyone is going to complain about it. The result, however, will dictate Clint's place within the Bat Family for years to come.

By the time he arrived in Bludhaven to check on Bea, the action had moved to Gotham. Clint verified that she was unharmed, then made for the gym. He needed a costume to enter the fray, but he hadn’t had enough time to get fully geared up before his impromptu skydive.

Upon entering the living quarters of the space, Clint moved immediately to the kitchen to access the mini Batcave underneath the foundation. He moved past the capsules of Nightwing suits over the years, ignoring even the DiscoWing outfit, and moved to the boxes in the back. He flipped through Richard’s until he found the heavily taped box with his name on it.

“Thank you, Richard,” he whispered to himself as he tore it open.

He reached in and pulled out a locked ornate wooden box that bore a sigil of two connected black demon horns with a silver stripe from tip to mid-center of the box, rounding off to create a pair of eyes. Above the horns where the center of the “face” was sat a disk of melted gold with the Arabic text reading Alakhir etched on top.

“Clint?” Bea’s voice echoed from the kitchen. Clint placed the box on the metal table in the center of the room, then moved up the stairs.

“You shouldn’t be here, Beatrice.”

“First off, never call me that.” She stood by the kitchen island with a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm. “Second, if you think I’m not going with you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Clint watched her a moment, taking in her body language and the scowl on her face. He just nodded and went back downstairs. He heard Bea follow him down, but he ignored her to grab the spare quiver and bow he stashed there a few months prior—just in case.

Bea whistled as she spun in a circle. “I had no idea this was down here.”

“Ric didn’t know until Jason showed him.” He talked while focusing on the series of symbol locks along the seam of the box. When all the symbols were turned to their correct positions, the lid popped open.

“What’s this?” Bea asked, moving to look over Clint’s shoulder.

Clint opened the box and found a black uniform folded up in green silk. A katana sat latched to the lid. “My old life,” he replied, his voice emotionless. He pulled the pieces of the uniform out, comparing the size to his body. “I need armor if I’m going out there. This is the best set I own.”

“Were you a costumed hero too?”

“No.” He pulled on a long black hooded leather jacket with gold piping, zipping it up and then hiding the seal behind a velcroed flap. He shoved his head through a black neck gaiter, pulling it up so that only his eyes and hair were visible. Next was the hood, the gold piping along the edge matching his now golden eyes, his black veins hidden in shadows. He turned to face Bea, who took a step back.

“I was a villain.”

 

Clint knelt on the roof overlooking a cage match between Ric and Batgirl, analyzing their moves. If he was going to help them, he needed to know how Ric fought under the brainwashing. It had been a long time since he’d seen his brother really fight like this, and his moves had evolved. His brain cataloged each kick, each punch, how he leaned, where his balance was.

Barbara was holding her own, and Clint knew if he tried to interfere, he could ruin whatever plan was in her head and put them both in danger. He couldn’t count how many times he had tried to save Bobbi only to find she had it all handled.

He also kept his eye on the Joker and his new purple-clad girlfriend. With his enhanced sight, he could make out what the clown was saying just by reading his lips. His eyes narrowed when he made out the name “Alfred” on the psychopath’s lips, his entire focus now on the colorful villains.

Batgirl was taking a beating as the marionette of a woman dashed away from Joker. Clint could send a single arrow down to end their fight, but he could hear Barbara’s attempts for Ric to remember who he was. This was her fight, something she needed to do for the man she loved—her feelings being the worst hidden secret she held.

No, the Joker had a backup plan, and whatever he meant by Alfred’s name had a part in this. But why?

Kinda figured this would happen… Clint saw the clown speaking to himself. Ah, well. The butler’s place is still goin’ down.

Clint stood up, the answer clicking into place. Of course, he would choose that target. It was the one place he could destroy that would devastate the entire bat family. His henchmen had a headstart—they were probably already there executing their orders.

He grabbed his cellphone to text Bea. Head to the Pennyworth Children’s Hospital. That’s where the fight will move to. I’ll meet you there.

Clint remained still, blended perfectly into the shadows of the roof. He watched Barbara leave, but his focus was on the clown. The Joker. His target.

He reached back to pull the spare bow he had left in Ric’s bat cave into his hands. He had an opportunity, but he couldn’t take it yet. He needed to find where the Joker was hiding this crystal that Bea spoke of. If the Joker had it hidden, a swift death wasn’t the right choice. He needed to verify its location before he executed the kill order.

As Ric made his way to the rooftops, Clint stepped back further into the darkness. Wherever he was going, Barbara was already on her way there, as was Bea. They would intercept him. He kept his focus on the Joker.

Silently, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, tracking the Joker’s van from the cage arena all the way to the hospital. As the van entered the hospital’s parking structure, Clint made a quick assessment of the scene.

Ric stood between Drake and Red Hood, facing off against a group of Joker minions. All too soon, Ric turned on his brothers and the fight became more personal and deadly. Something in the back of Clint’s head nudged him, pointing out that Jason was hurt and he should feel something about that, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Clint needed to focus on the mission and could reflect on his feeling after.

The woman, Punchline, returned to the Joker’s side as they watched the fight from the top of the parking garage. Watching their lips, he saw the timestamp of how long until the bomb went off. Thinking fast, Clint grabbed a throwing dart and used a piece of chalk to write BOMB 10 MINS onto the black surface. Aiming quickly, he threw the dart at one of the clowns holding onto Drake. It embedded itself into the clown’s wrist, right in front of Drake’s face.

He saw his younger brother’s eyes widen, and then Drake shouted, “The bomb is going off soon!”

“This is getting messy,” Jason shouted back. “The bomb is yours to take care of!”

Clint threw two more darts, each hitting a more vital part of the two clowns. They screamed in pain and let Drake go. He looked up in Clint’s direction, but Clint was deep in the shadows, his focus already back on the Joker and trusting his brother to deal with the impending explosion.

There! A yellow glow formed at the Joker’s neck, and the crystal poked out from under the clown’s tie. His secondary goal located, Clint pulled an arrow from his quiver and lined it up on the white-faced psycho. He was about to fire when Batgirl swung into action, ramming the Joker’s face to the concrete floor. Barbara grabbed the crystal from Joker’s neck and quickly exited, jumping down to stop Ric from shooting Jason, engaging him once more.

From the alley beside the garage, Clint saw Bea step forward, then run to join Barbara in helping save Ric. Leaving that to the women, Clint jumped to another roof, trying to get the best vantage point for dealing with the retreating clown. When he had it, he fired the first arrow.

It struck the Joker in the chest, sending him against the van. Punchline screamed, putting herself between him and his target. She wasn’t part of the mission, but he could wait, his second arrow notched and ready.

Her screams drew the bat family up onto the parking garage. She turned on them, knife drawn and hatred in her eyes. “Which one of you shot him? I’ll gut you like a pig!”

Ric stepped forward, engaging her in combat, overtaking her quickly. Joker just watched, one hand on the arrow sticking in his chest, the other holding the van’s roof rack, laughing. “Oh look, the heroes have arrived to save me!”

Clint didn’t wait, knowing his window was closing as Batman approached the Joker. He fired three arrows, one after another. The first impaled the Joker’s throat, ending the clown's laughter. The second embedded into his chest, aimed directly at his heart. The final arrow burst through the Joker’s eye, tearing through the socket and then into his brain. It was the triple kiss, a signature pattern of his. It was a fast death, but there was no way the victim could survive.

Everyone on the roof turned, following the arrow’s trajectory back to him. No longer needing to hide, he stood tall at the edge of his perch, lowering his bow slowly. He could see their confusion with his enhanced vision, their hands tightening on their weapons.

Then Batman stepped forward, the anger showing in his tightened jaw, and then in his voice as he shouted a single word—

“RONIN!”

Chapter 3

Summary:

Time for Clint to face his adoptive father, again, for having killed someone in his presence. Then he'll need to deal with SHIELD. So just a typical fun family night all around.

“RONIN!”

Jason’s eyes snapped up, watching as the shadowed form shifted into the light. Their face was hidden within the hood’s shadow, but he recognized Clint’s stance immediately. Clint—his brother apparently—stared back at the group but made no show of moving.

“I’ve heard of the Ronin,” Damian spoke, his voice soft and a little... impressed? “He was a member of the league of shadows. Grandfather held him in high regard. I only ever watched him on the training field when I was a toddler. He never took his hood off outside of his personal quarters. His kill record was impeccable.”

“I know,” Dick said, his voice a brick of ice.

Tim cleared his throat. “There’s barely anything on him in the files.”

“I bet.” Jason moved to stand next to Bruce. “You knew, didn’t you?”

The man said nothing, staring up at the black silhouette.

Jason stepped in front of Bruce and glared at him, but the older man stepped aside, his gaze fixed. “Get down here. Now.” Batman, not Bruce, ordered.

Ronin grabbed another arrow and his younger brothers braced themselves, but the arrow flew only to embed itself into the electric pole next to them, a tension wire connected to the shaft. Using his bow, Ronin slid down the wire and landed easily on his feet. As he walked the final distance to them, the bow remained out—a show of distrust in dealing with the Batman.

“You know that we don’t kill in my city!” Batman growled with his hands balling into fists.

“You don’t.” Clint’s monotone voice spoke with a level of authority.

“I told you what would happen if you did this again.”

Clint reached up and pulled back his hood, then the ski mask that covered the black veins of his skin... and it also had the SHIELD logo on the side of the neck. “You have no authority over SHIELD operations.” Calmly, Clint pulled a tablet from the inside of his jacket and held it out.

Jason leaned over Bruce’s shoulder as the others gathered around. The tablet, also bearing the SHIELD logo, displayed an official agency active kill order on the Joker. He whistled at the sight. “I need to get me some of those.”

Batman shot Jason a glare, then returned his gaze to Clint. “That is not how we do things.”

“It’s how I do things.” Clint didn’t back down, even as the dark knight loomed over him. “This is my actual job—working as the law.”

“Working as an assassin, you mean.”

“Funny how you’re proud of me when my job involves saving your life, but not when it’s taking out your favorite enemy.”

“You didn’t kill the Widow,” Batman pointed out.

“And you didn’t kill the Joker after he killed your own son, paralyzed Batgirl, nearly killed Red Robin, psychologically tortured everyone you claim to care about, and now almost turned Nightwing into a killer as well!” There was no emotion in his voice, but Clint’s golden eyes were glowing brightly, the black veins becoming more pronounced. “So, you don’t get to act high and mighty over me over the failings of your own illegal vigilante crusade.”

Before Batman could respond, Damian put a hand on his father’s arms. “There is nothing that can be done about it now. The Joker is dead. We need to leave before the police arrive.”

Jason watched as Batman continued to stare Clint down, then relent, turning and leaving with Damian. Tim took a glance back at Jason and Dick, then trotted off toward the Batmobile.

“Well, that went well.” Jason moved to stand over the dead criminal, kicking the clown in the ribs. “You know, I should be mad at you for taking this away from me.” Instead, he just felt... nothing. Which he would self-analyze that reaction at the bar later tonight.

Clint shrugged. “You do you.”

Dick didn’t say anything at first, staring down at the broken crystal. “Clint, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“What’s done is done.” Clint worked on his laptop, taking a picture of the Joker acting as an archery target, then started completing the paperwork on his kill.

“But still...”

Clint looked up to lock eyes with Dick, and Jason watched the latter take a half-step back. “I know what memories are mine and what aren’t. That wouldn’t fix the effects from the serum.” Clint took a deep breath and the glow finally faded from his eyes. “And this is not your fault.”

“Feels like it is.”

Jason felt the need to distract them both before Dick broke down in tears. “So what now, brother?” He crossed his arms as Clint paused in his typing. “Planning on disappearing again to keep from explaining why the fuck you didn’t tell us sooner who you actually were?”

“I’m a government spy and assassin, Jason,” Clint stated with no emotion, which hurt more than him not caring. “My life is a pile of lies and deceptions layered on top of each other. Only my ex-wife, handler, Bruce, and Dick know my whole life story. If it got out that I was a Wayne, I’d never be able to work in the field. Anonymity is what keeps me alive.”

“Did you still feel that way when you kissed me?”

That got Dick’s attention. “Wait… you two…?”

Clint closed his eyes. Jason figured that he was scouring his brain for an excuse. Part of him was relieved that he didn’t have one ready, which meant—at least to him—that the Clint before he was talonized had cared. When he finally spoke, Clint didn’t look at Jason, his eyes firmly on the ground. “You were safer not knowing. I justified it that we aren’t blood relation, and therefore not doing anything wrong.”

Jason snorted. He had a point. “Still, you should have told me.”

“I know, and I apologize for not doing so.”

Dick cleared his throat. “So you both… are a thing?”

“I don’t know. Are we?” Jason watched Clint carefully, his arms crossed but desperate to know that somewhere inside, Clint still felt the same towards him.

“I think until I figure out how to fix what’s happened to me, it would be best to take a break.” Clint finally looked up, and for a split second, Jason could see a hint of regret on his face. “I’m not going to be let out of SHIELD’s sight for a while now, and even then, I don’t think they will give me a long leash.” He paused, then shook his head. “I don’t think, in this condition, I’m able to give you anything. You deserve more than that.”

Clint’s head snapped up as the sound of the helicarrier’s engines hit his ears. Jason and Dick followed, and a moment later, a spotlight swept across the parking lot and landed on them. “You need to go,” Clint stated.

“No. I’ll talk to your handler about this,” Dick said, pointing to the dead clown prince of crime.

“It’s not that I’ll be punished for,” Clint said as he took out his weapons and gently placed them on the ground. “I escaped from custody, attacked my supervising officer, stole equipment, and abandoned my team. I’ll be lucky if I’m not locked up for the unforeseen future.”

Jason blinked. “You did all that for us?”

“Of course.” Clint stood back up, unarmed. “I wasn’t going to let that madman kill any of you again.”

A swarm of SHIELD agents jumped from the helicarrier, firing up jetpacks to bring them down to the ground.  Dick grabbed Jason’s sleeve. “We need to go.”

Jason didn’t know what to do. The fact Clint disobeyed orders, went against Batman, all while knowing that he would end up being locked up… just to keep the Joker from maybe killing him again? He took a step forward, grasping the back of Clint’s head with his hand, and pulled the man into a final kiss. His lips were cool and moved almost mechanically, but Jason could feel the intention behind his lips as he kissed back.

A moment later, Clint took a step back, looking more resolute and even proud. “Go. There are warrants out for you too. I need to know you’re safe.”

“Understood,” Dick said, pulling Jason to his side. “Be safe.”

Clint gave a curt nod, then turned to face the incoming agents as Dick pulled Jason along to hide in the shadows and escape the coming storm.

 

When the first agents landed, Clint rose his hands in surrender. He made sure that his weapons were sheathed and the Starkpad with the kill warrant lay on top so that he wouldn’t be fired upon.

A sky cycle landed between him and the agents, and he stared into the face of his ex-wife. Bobbi was angry, a gun raised with the red laser pointed at his chest. He rose his hands higher, making sure she knew he wasn’t going to hurt her. Not that he could.

“Clint, what have you done?” She stared at him as she walked around, seeing the dead Joker, his weapons, and the warrant. “You know the Council isn’t going to be pleased.”

“I wasn’t going to let him kill my brothers,” Clint kept his eyes forward and the other agents approached, fanning out to encircle him.

“So instead, you’re willing to let the Council have their way with you?”

“As long as they get to live… yes.”

Bobbi sighed. She put her gun away and pulled out a set of specialty-made handcuffs. “You know they pulled me off duty to come retrieve you? They hoped I would be able to reach you, and not end up getting ambushed like Coulson.”

“I planned to surrender after this,” Clint said. “No one was supposed to get hurt.” He paused, then added, “except for the clown.”

“I wish I could trust you.” Bobbi stepped behind him, taking one of his hands and placing it in the cuff. It was a set he had designed, one meant to be used on criminals like Bullseye and Crossfire—enemies like him with deadly aim and the ability to turn anything into a flying projectile. The glove made the wearer form a fist, and once the clasp was locked, it sucked out the air to vacuum seal the appendage into place. Not only was he handcuffed behind his back, but he couldn’t move a single digit to try and pick the lock or use small objects as deadly devices.

“You can trust me,” Clint reassured her as she turned him around to face her. “I’m not crazy. My facilities are still in order.”

After patting him down and removing his lockpicks and the few coins and marbles he kept in his utility pockets, she looked him in the eyes. “Maybe, but you don’t sound at all like the man I married.”

He knew it should hurt, but he just processed her words with their intended meaning. “I’ve been altered. I’ll never be that man again.”

Bobbi reached her hand up to run along his cheek. He stayed still and didn’t miss the downward flick of her lips as she pulled her hand away. “They sure did a number on you, huh babe?”

“They did,” he confirmed. “But I am still me.”

“I know, but at the same time, you’re not.” She grabbed his arm and walked him to the sky cycle. “And right now, you’re under arrest. The charges include assault on a superior officer, disobeying a direct order, going AWOL, and assassinating an unauthorized target. You understand how much trouble you’re in?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The agents tightened their circle as Bobbi guided Clint onto the sky cycle, latching his cuffs to the back seat, then buckling his legs into place so he couldn’t fall off. “Shift around, make sure it’s secure,” Bobbi ordered, and Clint did as he was told.

“You could tighten the right leg strap.”

One of the agents laughed, and Bobbi shot him a glare. Clint knew that while Bobbi appreciated his humor, having agents under her command relaxing and joking when they are supposed to be on alert annoyed her. “I think someone just volunteered himself to deal with the local authorities to handle the remains,” she said, shutting the agent up. He nodded and looked at the ground, properly scolded.

“Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want to wait for a more secure vehicle?” another agent, a younger face Clint didn’t recognize, whose hand shook around the trigger of his gun.

“Agent, this is one of the top agents in SHIELD. If he wanted to escape, he wouldn’t have waited for us to capture him.” She straddled the sky cycle, taking a seat in front of Clint. “Also, he’s my ex-husband and knows better than to try anything with me.”

Clint nodded in agreement. Bobbi would drop him off the cycle if he tried anything.

The agent looked between them, and then holstered his gun. “Understood.”

Bobbi nodded, then revved the engine before taking off. The trip only took ten minutes to get up, but halfway there she leveled out and turned to look at him. “Catch me up—your side of all this,” she said, knowing they were out of range of any hearing devices.

Clint licked his lips, putting his thoughts in order. “Swordsman and Ringmaster were grooming me to be sold to the Court of Owls. When they abandoned me after the fall, they notified the court I was dead. Richard’s amnesia was all manufactured by the Court to make him susceptible. They realized who I was while monitoring him and injected me with something based on the super-soldier serum, and then brainwashed me to believe I was theirs.”

“But now?”

“I’ve been working with medical and psych to find a new normal.”

“And Coulson?”

Clint shrugged. “It was his plan. But don’t tell the Council that.”

Bobbi laughed. “Of course, it was.”

“He would have made Richard kill them all,” Clint said quietly. “I needed to keep that blood off his hands, and to make sure that clown could never hurt my brothers again.”

“Do they know that? About you being their brother?”

“Yeah,” Clint confirmed. “Bruce took advantage of my condition to make me reveal it to them.”

“Oh, that asshole!” Bobbi growled. “We should have let Natasha beat him up a bit before saving him.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Bobbi took a moment to stare into his golden eyes as a finger traced a black vein from his ear down his jaw. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the soft glide of her hands against his rough stubble. When he opened them again, Bobbi smiled back. “There you are,” she breathed, her finger lifting his chin to the side. “You may not see it, but I still see the man I fell in love with behind those eyes.” She leaned closer, brushing a kiss on the edge of his lips. “If you need a reminder of that, I’ll always be here to help.”

He didn’t react to the kiss at first, but his head turned to her lips before she could get away. There was something in him that reacted, an ache in his heart he knew intimately, but even as he tried to grab onto it, the feeling dissipated as fast as it appeared.

“You should probably get me back up there,” Clint said instead, squaring his shoulders. “I don’t want you to make the Council think you’re helping me with escaping.”

Nodding, Bobbi turned forward again. “I’m sure Fury has already talked them down off their high horses about this.”

“Still, this was my choice, and I’d make it again in a heartbeat.”

The sky cycle started to rise toward the helicarrier once more. “See, in nature, owls are ruthless killers. You, however, refuse to hurt those you love. And that, baby, is how I know you’re still in there.”

Chapter 4

Summary:

Six months after the Joker's death, SHIELD is ready to let Clint return to work - but only with a new partner who is also trying to build trust with the organization.

Six months later…

Natasha Romanov finished her training with flying colors. Not long after that, she was assigned to shadow Delta Force. As the only woman on the team, and has been a recent target of worldwide kill orders, she had endured countless moments of misogynistic posturing from the not-so-stealthy soldiers. Maria Hill had become a confidant when she returned back to base, one of the few who understood the desire to slap them around on the training floor.

But there was one other that she trusted… well, as much as she trusted anyone: Clint Barton. The blonde-haired spy who saved her life had been unreachable since she was cleared to start training. Rumors circulated the common areas that he had gone rogue, attempted to kill Coulson, and went on a murder spree in Gotham. Things like “human experimentation” and “disfigurement” accompanied these whispered stories.

She asked Coulson about this, and all she got in return was a simple “he’s fine” before he changed the subject. She tried sending a message to Clint’s ex-wife, Bobbi, but got no response. Finally, she cornered Rumlow to get his take since he apparently had no love for Barton.

“He’s become a monster,” Rumlow sneered while cleaning his gun post-mission. “One of those costumed freaks got ahold of him. He’s one of them now--a cold-hearted, murdering bastard. The Council should’ve let me put him down like the rabid dog he is.”

His description fits much of what she’d been hearing, so there was some truth to it… how much, though, was yet to be determined. Rumlow’s rant did give her one clue, however; Clint was alive somewhere on the helicarrier.

Waiting until the skeleton crew took over, Natasha swiped the security key of a dozing guard and made her way into the detention part of the ship. The last time she walked these halls was when she was still a resident. Empty cells with security lights marked the way, but when she reached the hallway’s end there was no evidence of the archer.

She was about to turn around when she heard the sound of a bouncing ball from behind an exit door. Curious, she pressed the key card against it, then smirked as the click of a lock opened. Pushing the door open carefully, she entered a large holding space. The room was dark except for the circular glass cell in the center.

The cell held only a few belongings: an inflatable mattress with a pillow and blanket tucked in around it; a Starkpad playing what Natasha knew to be American rock music, and a neat pile of SHIELD-issued black uniforms.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” The cell also held a single occupant, his face obscured by the sides of a black hoodie. He tossed the ball at the wall and caught it as it bounced back.

“Well, if I only did things that I should do, my life would be extremely dull.” Natasha moved in further, slipping underneath the observation platform while remaining in the shadows.

The man shrugged. Natasha knew it was Clint—his voice was deeper and monotone, but the inflections on his words matched the times they had spoken. “You don’t want to end up back here again because you wanted to chit-chat.”

“That does raise the question of why you’re here in the first place,” Nat asked. “No one mentions where you are, and there’s a lot of rumors flying around.”

“Most of them are probably true.” He didn’t turn his head to face her, the rhythm of the bouncing ball continuous.

“So you’re a disfigured, deranged, mass murderer now?”

“Close enough.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him. The fact that his monotone didn’t waver nor did he dispute the rumors pickled her skin. The wrongness of all this came to a head. “I want to see.”

“They’ll know you’re here.”

“Doesn’t matter. They probably saw me on the security feeds already.”

Clint caught the ball and tossed it onto his “bed”, then stood up. The hoodie cast a shadow over his face as he approached, but the rigidness of his posture already made her nervous. When he was within reach of the glass wall, he pulled down the hood with his hands in full leather gloves.

She gasped, overwhelmed at the changes. All the color was gone from Clint’s expressionless face, the blonde hair now a muted black that matched the veins covering his face. Even his eyes were black with just a faded ring of gold where the blue iris should be.

“Who did this to you?” she asked, tilting her head to see him from every angle.

Clint put his hood back up, and while his body language was still, she could feel the tension bubbling under the skin. “You ever hear of the Court of Owls?”

Natasha thought back to her training days in the Red Room. “Yes. Girls who washed out near the end of training—ones with good skills but injured themselves or were too bloodthirsty—they would buy these girls. No one heard from them again.”

“In America, they recruited from circuses,” Clint explained. “Orphans—kids no one would notice disappear.”

“Like you.” Clint had given her the basics of his time before SHIELD while he kept her company in her first days on the helicarrier. Clint nodded, and before he could say anything, she added, “and like your friend Richard.”

“Yes. Richard is supposed to be the foretold Talon. His grandfather, Cobb, is the current one. I was to be Richard’s lieutenant.” Clint closed his eyes, wincing as he took a step back. His hands went up to cup his ears through the hood, a painful growl escaping his throat.

The lights turned on immediately, and Coulson’s voice came over a hidden speaker. “Breathe, Clint. Just like you’ve practiced,” he spoke in a soft tone, his deep breathing following as a model for Clint to follow.

Natasha watched Clint struggle to breathe, falling to his knees as he shook his head. His hood fell back, revealing the black veins on his neck throbbing, thickening with each speeding heartbeat. He whined in the back of his throat, a tortured cry that Natasha couldn’t stand to listen to. “Open the door,” she told Coulson, moving into his line of sight.

“He’s not stable.”

“I don’t care. Open it.”

Coulson looked over his shoulder at someone and nodded. The glass separated along an invisible seam, and Natasha rushed in and knelt to his side. Clint pushed her away and she noted the change in his strength but didn’t let it deter her.  She grabbed his hands and pried them from his ears, ignoring the black blood around his nails.

“Look at me,” she ordered, glaring at him. Clint shook his head, and Natasha slapped him. “Now, Agent Barton. Look at me.”

Clint’s eyes flashed open, the glowing gold iris a shock that she couldn’t react to. Not now. She pulled one of his hands and pressed it against her chest. “Breathe.” She kept his gaze as she took a long, audible breath in. Clint followed her, his breathing shaky at first, but strengthening after each exhale.

She didn’t stop until the vein in his neck shrank back to normal size and the waver was absent from each inhale. His eyes faded in brightness, and he teetered a moment before leaning forward against her shoulder. She stiffened, unsure of what to do next.

No one had ever trusted her enough to relax into her like that—no one she wasn’t trying to kill, that is.

“Thanks,” Clint whispered, dropping his hand from her chest. Her hand free, she reached up to absently stroke his hair.

“You took care of me,” she replied. “Now I take care of you.”

“Glad to hear that, Agent Romanov.” Nick Fury strode into the glass enclosure, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked them over. Clint straightened, moving to stand at attention in one smooth motion. Natasha joined him, but her posture was relaxed. “You know, we’ve managed to go three weeks now without an incident,” Fury continued. “And then you break in here and trigger him within what, ten minutes?”

“Seven minutes, thirty-six seconds,” Coulson’s voice corrected from above.

Fury pointed up at the observation room. “Care to explain why I shouldn’t leave you both locked in here?”

“You’ve had him locked in here, in isolation, for how long, and he’s only managed to last three weeks without having a panic attack?” Natasha asked. “Maybe he’d handle conversations better if he wasn’t trapped in here?”

Fury watched her a moment, then shifted his gaze to Clint. “Explain to her what happened.”

“Yes, sir.” Clint kept his gaze forward, not turning to her. “Talking about what happened risks the implanted conditioning taking over, reverting me back into a talon.”

Natasha shook her head. “That’s not how conditioning works. It takes weeks, months before that kind of conditioning can take hold. And even then, it needs a trigger—something specific that sets it off.”

“Be that as it may, this is the longest stretch yet Clint has accomplished. He can’t return to active duty until he can prove he won’t be a danger to anyone in SHIELD.”

She turned to stare at Clint again, his stance still locked at attention, his eyes focused on a spot just above Fury’s head. “I trust him,” she stated.

“Do you?” Fury raised an eyebrow over his eyepatch. “Agent Barton, do you feel you’re ready to return to the field?”

Clint was silent a moment, and she could see him calculating the risks in his head. “I believe I can do so in small team missions outside of areas with known Court ties. Best would be long-range assassinations with set targets and minimal exposure to the local population.”

Fury nodded, then turned as Coulson joined them, handing a tablet to the Director. Fury scrolled through the text, then handed it back. “Looks like your analysis is spot on, Agent,” he said. “We would need to make you a new uniform that would cover your identifying markers, but you’re a waste to me in here.”

“I’ll work with him,” Natasha stated. Clint looked at her and she smirked. “Small group means more than two, and I’m better as a spy than a soldier.”

“Good, because I wasn’t going to give you a choice, Ms. Romanov.” Fury turned to face Coulson. “You sure you want to take on these two?”

Coulson nodded. “Sitwell and Romanov don’t work well together. Plus, I prefer more surgical projects over the brute force incursions Rumlow excels at.” He looked over at Clint. “Plus, Agent Barton is my asset. Better for him to stay under familiar chains of command to keep his connection to this reality.”

Fury nodded. “You’ll become a strike team attached to the Delta force.” He pulled a USB drive from his pocket and hands it to Coulson. “Here’s your first assignment…something to get your feet wet.”

“Thank you, sir,” Coulson said, taking the drive and tucking it away.

“Agent Barton. Agent Romanov.” Fury nodded to each in turn, then exited the detention center.

Coulson waited for a count of three before turning to his agents. “Let’s go grab something to eat then head to a conference room to look over the data.” He walked to the door, and Natasha fell in step behind him. Clint stayed still; his posture stiff as he stared at the open cell door. Coulson noticed this and motioned with his hand. “Come on, Barton. You don’t have to stay here anymore.”

Natasha saw the hesitation in his eyes and walked back to her partner, took his hand, and squeezed it gently. “Together,” she said while taking a step back, tugging him along with her. He looked at their hands, nodded, and stepped forward.

They exited the detention center side-by-side, amused at the irony of how the first time she entered the detention center as a prisoner, they walked in a similar position to each other. Each time, they were moving on from the “monster” someone else had made them. Now, they were partners, determined to prove to the world they are more than what they appeared to be.

Hopefully, they each had another second chance to achieve that.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Four months into their partnership, Nat gets spooked while on a simple assassination mission. Clint analyzes the situation and decides that they need to add another objective to their mission.

S ão Paulo

 

Clint spent the last three hours at his chosen position for the mission: the third story of a crumbling building on the outskirts of the marketplace. When standing in the glassless window, he could see half of the stalls and the people shopping at them. Across the street was another building—an apartment undergoing repairs—that would give him sightline to the second half of the market and the gutter alley that Nat estimated to be the backup escape route for their mark. In preparation, he installed a laundry line between the two windows that faced each other; it would be sufficient to hold his weight for a quick glide across.

The sun lit up the window of his hiding spot, so he sat on the floor reading a book while Nat kept watch from the coffee shop on the corner. Clint could remember the days where he didn’t like to read—they weren’t that far behind him—but while having nothing to do in the cell, he came to appreciate the escapism that came from fiction. Coulson mixed non-fiction in with science fiction, political thrillers, and westerns once Clint realized his upgraded memory could understand and retain information that was normally above his reading level.

Today’s book was a simplified explanation on nanotechnology in the military. Coulson mentioned that one of their newest consultants was Tony Stark, a former weapons dealer turned hero in an iron suit. Nat and Clint were both learning more about him in case they needed to interact with the man: Nat had the social side of the man, and Clint had the technical side. With the way his face appeared now, Nat was the better choice for the in-person spying while Clint fed her info over an earpiece or watched her back through the end of a scope.

The book was fascinating for the most part. As his knowledge about biotechnology expanded, he could understand the need for this tech. This is where his expertise on WayneTech came in handy; he remotely logged into the system under Richard’s passcodes and got the files he needed, then logged out before someone realized he was in there. Their research was way ahead of StarkTech in humanitarian uses.

“Learning anything fun today?” Nat asked in his earpiece.

“Doctors at medical schools are working to develop nanotech robots to help with basic scans and procedures that would normally need invasive methods.” Clint turned the page. “There’s a real promise on the testing of the ones needed to do gastrointestinal exams.”

“I’m sure the trials will be a real pain in the butt.”

“I can only imagine how hard it would be to clean them afterward.”

“Hmm.” Nat’s voice was amused, and he then heard the slurp as she drank her tea. “Though if one were to program them to eat human flesh from the inside out…”

Clint shook his head. “Why must you always look for the ways tech can be exploited?”

“Knowing how something could kill me is a habit that’s helped save my life multiple times. There are two sides to every coin.”

They dropped back to silence for another hour, then Nat called out his name. “Incoming, eight o’clock.”

Grabbing his scope, Clint shifted to where he could just see over the window ledge and scanned the position. It was almost lunchtime, and the locals were heading to the markets and food trucks while the tourists headed towards the cafés and restaurants.

It wasn’t hard to pick out the Slavic duo in black jeans and shirts. They walked with purpose, their pale skin standing out of the sea of brown bodies. They weren’t gentle walking through the crowded plaza, occasionally pushing aside a tourist that stepped into their path to take a selfie.

“Got them.”

He reached for his bow and quiver. Shooting a rifle with this kind of crowd would cause panic and bystanders would be hurt. The silence of an arrow through the air would go unnoticed by the crowd, only affecting the few around his target. “Prepared to engage,” he said when he had the larger one lined up in his sights.

Nat stood and made her way toward them. “Fire in three… two…” Her voice drifted off, which meant something was wrong. Clint looked to where she had been and saw Nat standing still in the open, spine stiff as her breathing sped up.

“What’s wrong?” Clint asked.

Nat looked up at the window he stood in, then turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction. “Abort.”

He lowered his bow a bit, making sure Nat got out of the area without a tail before looking back at their targets. The two men stood at a streetlight, talking animatedly to a third man, boxy in the shoulders and appearing very comfortable out in the open meeting. There was too much happening for Clint to try and read their lips, but he committed the face to memory so he could research it later.

“Rendezvous point?” he asked.

“Four,” Nat replied.

Clint knelt down and packed up his gear into the gym bag, wiped down the surfaces he had touched while there, and exited the building. He kept his hoodie down over his eyes as he walked in the direction of the clandestine meeting, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation.

He was surprised to hear them speaking Russian, but it clued him into why Nat would abort the mission—she must know who the third person was and she feared them. The men’s conversation involved moving human cargo from the favelas to Cuba for inspection. Something tightened in his gut, telling him that he needed to follow up on this. Sliding his phone out, he quickly took a photo over his shoulder in hopes of having faces for the intel analysts to work from.

After twenty minutes of walking, doubling back, and verifying that he wasn’t being followed, Clint slipped into an alleyway and came face-to-face with Natasha. He gave her a once over and then relaxed. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, but Clint saw how flustered and shaky she was.

“The man who joined the target—you know him.”

Natasha looked up from the thumb she was worrying on, her eyes fearful. Clint saw the lie starting to form in her head, then she sighed. “Remember what I told you the Red Room did to the girls they kidnapped… what we had to do to become a Widow?”

“Yes.”

“The man who joined them was the one who orchestrated it all.”

Clint mentally flipped through the report on the Red Room that Natasha filed when she first joined up. “Drekov.”

“Da,” she confirmed. “This has evolved to a new level.”

“Did he see you?” Clint asked, and she shook her head. “Did you see anyone paying attention to you?”

“I wasn’t looking for them.”

“You’re an assassin, Nat. You’re always looking for them. We do it everywhere we go.”

Natasha looked over his shoulder, then sighed. “I’m not ready to face him.”

“Did I say we’d face him?” Clint looked into her eyes, hoping she could understand him through the lack of emotions. “We finish our job, sooner rather than later, and then call it into Coulson.”

Slowly nodding, Natasha relaxed. “I can do that. But what if he…”

“If he interferes, or comes anywhere near you, he’s dead.”

Natasha laughed. “You know, for someone who isn’t able to touch his emotions, you’re very protective.”

“Protection is a strategic advantage,” Clint pointed out. “If you freeze or die, I’m at risk. I don’t plan on dying today.”

“Are they sure you can even die like that?” Nat smirked, and Clint finally let his guard down. “From the data Wayne gave us, it doesn’t seem so.”

“I can die. It’s just hard and I don’t want to.” Clint looked beyond her to the end of the alley. “There’s a crowd out there. Let’s spook out.”

“Yes, sir.” They moved down the alley, then separated into the crowd to find separate ways back to the safe house.

Chapter 6

The opportunity to take out their target came two days later in the form of a rainy night and an above-ground train station. Natasha stood next to him on the platform, the only two waiting. Her job was to simply shake his hand and let the poison ring do its work.

Clint should have known it would be too easy.

Natasha found a shadowed part of the platform under an overhang of trees and pushed the target inside. “Nat, what are you doing?” Clint asked over the comms, but she never replied.  Instead, he listened to her interrogate the man.

“Where’s Drekov?” she asked, the purr in her voice more like a panther comforting its food before biting the head off.

“I don’t know who –” the man’s reply was cut off by a sharp intake of air.

“The man you met with two days ago. You sold him mind-controlling drugs.” She was growling now, and Clint debated leaving his spot. He couldn’t watch her back if he couldn’t see either of them.

“What?”

A grunt, and then the snap of a bone breaking.  Now he didn’t have a choice, and he grabbed his quiver and bow before jumping onto the platform from his perch in a vacant building right next to the station. The sound of violence matched the pounding of his feet as he approached.

“Stop. He’s… he’s got an office. Budapest. Business district.” The man spoke in short gasps.

“And the girls?” Nat asked, barely breathing hard.

“No girls… except his daughter.”

A dozen motorcycles approached with their engines roaring. “Nat, we gotta go,” Clint said, pulling an arrow free and notching it.

She slid out of the trees a moment later, wiping blood from a small dagger. “Mission complete,” she told him, and five seconds later they were dodging bullets as the target’s associates arrived on the platform and opened fire.

“The motorcycles,” Clint shouted, firing arrow after arrow as they retreated. Understanding what he meant, Natasha slid into the shadows and looped back to the idling vehicles. She hopped on one that came with a companion seat and took off, stopping where Clint had wedged himself behind a pillar.

“Get on!”

Clint fired an explosion arrow between him and the gang, blinding them long enough for Clint to hop the platform rails and climb behind Natasha on the motorcycle. “Go!” he told her before turning his torso enough to be able to fire at anyone who tried to pursue them.

Which they did, all through the city, shooting at them while Natasha bobbed and weaved through the streets still filled with cars and people. Clint fired back, aiming at tires to end their chase. He took a few bullets in the kevlar, but one found the soft spot in his armpit and slammed into him, almost causing him to drop the bow.

“I’m hit,” Clint shouted through the wind rushing past them.

“Can you still shoot?” Nat asked.

“Not until I’m healed.” He felt the blood seeping into his uniform, and the absence of his body trying to push the bullet out on its own. “And get it out.”

“Shit.” Natasha turned down another road with a tight turn that sent one pursuer into the corner building’s side. “I’ve got an idea.”

Clint nodded, the bow hanging over his shoulder as he shoved one hand on top of the wound, a finger pressing into the hole to stop the bleeding. “Do it.”

Natasha skidded the bike to a stop at a subway entrance. “Bleed on the floor where I tell you,” she said.

“Won’t be a problem.” The blood, so dark it was almost black, dripped down his temporarily dead arm onto the ground. She pulled him into the subway, then pointed to a floor grate. “Go there, lift the grate, and drop it,” she ordered as she jumped onto an empty bench and took down a ceiling grate.

He didn’t question her orders, just did as he was told. She joined him, taking off her jacket and wrapping his bloody hand into it before shoving the rest into his armpit. “Can you climb?”

Clint nodded. He followed her to the ceiling grate, no longer leaving a bloody trail, and pulled himself up into the ceiling with one hand. Natasha followed and quickly put the grate back in place. “Quiet,” she whispered, a finger to her lips. He slowed his breathing until it was silent between them.

A minute later, six men with machine guns ran down into the subway station. They followed the blood trail, and one kicked the barely displaced floor grate. “They’re in the sewers,” he spoke in Russian. “Should we go after him?”

The answer must have been affirmative, as another man pulled the grate up while two grabbed flashlights from their cargo pants. “Stay here,” the obvious leader pointed at the smallest of the men. “Call us if they double back.”

Five men entered the sewers, leaving the sixth to replace the grate and find somewhere to watch from. Natasha relaxed, folding up into herself, her shoulders shaking.

Are you okay? Clint signed, trying not to move his hurt arm too much.

Natasha nodded, then shook her head. Too close, she signed back.

Need to get the bullet out to heal. Clint could tell she didn’t understand what he said, after all, she had only started learning sign language a few months prior, so he mimed a pinching movement and then pointed at the entry wound.

She nodded, minutely shifting to reach him. Clint took off his finger guard and bit down as she stuck her pinky finger in to locate the bullet. Forcing himself to remain quiet, he focused on his breathing while Natasha worked, not stopping until he felt the large chunk of metal slip out the entry wound, and her finger followed.

With the foreign object removed, they watched Clint’s skin slowly knit itself back together. Only then did Clint remove the leather guard from his mouth. Thanks.

Nat nodded. Took longer to heal this time.

Below them, a subway car rushed into the station. Clint used the noise to readjust himself to lay on the tiles and rest. I know.

What does that mean?

He thought about it a moment, and when his own memories couldn’t provide an answer, he sighed and let himself slide into the fake memories he had managed to separate after a lot of work from Maria Hill of all people. She liked things organized in tidy rows with color-coded labels, and her own thought process and memories were the same. They talked twice a week, and she wrote down detailed notes of each memory that Clint told her about. Then, she had two files and would put the real memories in one, organized in date order as best Clint could estimate. The fake memories were also organized in a folder, but that was by their usefulness to SHIELD.

His job was to reread the memories in his real life once a week and focus on who he had been before the Talon memories were forced into his head. Then, if he remembered something that didn’t fit into that world, he knew it was fake. He now wrote down the memories himself when he had time, the real and fake separated in the notebook with a single post-it standing as the divider of the two.

The Talon memories were fierce, and when he opened the door to that part of his mind, they rushed out and tried to overwhelm him. So he prepared himself for the onslaught as he focused on the images of the ritual to become a Talon.

He knew the serum was injected into him on the floor of Richard’s warehouse home, but his memories laid out a ceremony where he was tried in battle, fighting other Talons until the brink of death. Richard approached and gently laid him on the cold floor covered with his blood.

Donning his golden mask, Richard accepted a large syringe of black ichor. “Brother, you offer your blood and soul to the Court, to remain on my side as my brother in blood as in name, to act as my right hand for the rest of our days. I accept your sacrifice, and in return give you all the collective strength and power of us all,” he spoke, then drove the needle into Clint’s chest as his heart stopped beating.

Moving past that moment, he muddled through to find other memories of the serum. Eventually, he came upon a time when he had done an assassination for Richard, but it was a time when he was hurt and not healing. When they returned, he was taken to the surgical table many Talons use when their bodies need repairs. The doctor examined him, then unceremoniously stabbed a needle into Clint’s neck, pumping more serum into his system. He was then dragged into a sleeping capsule, the preserving liquid filling it so that he floated in the center. As he fell asleep, his body started stitching itself back together again.

Shaking his mind free of the fake memories, Clint looked up at Natasha. I need more serum.

Natasha looked horrified. No. You’re not going to them.

I may not have a choice.

Glowering in her part of the air vent, they didn’t talk for some time. Clint stared at the top of the vent, letting his mind design buildings in his head. At one time he had wanted to build a farmhouse for when he found the right person and wanted to start a family. That wasn’t happening at this point—too dangerous—but he kept playing with the blueprints in his mind, making upgrades to the previous designs. He drifted off sometime during his remodeling, waking when Natasha shook his shoulder. Clear, she signed.

The only sound in the station below was that of an approaching train. They slipped down from the grate and then jumped into the train to avoid anyone lurking around from seeing them. They collapsed on a plastic bench and just rode the train through multiple stops before getting off.

“So where are we going now?” Clint asked, breaking the silence.

Natasha shrugged. “Anywhere but to the Owls.”

Thinking, Clint thought about the different places they could lay low. They would need to do a lot of recon before going to Budapest, so that was out of the question. They needed a place that was safe, accepting, and preferably somewhere that he could get help figuring out the new issue coming from his condition.

He stopped walking as the answer came to him. Natasha turned, curious. “I know where we’re going,” Clint said, “and we’re going to need climbing gear.”

Notes:

Take a guess where they're going next... though the next chapter will be a flashback chapter back to teen times!

Chapter 7

Summary:

Natasha learns about a secret part of Clint's past, one that may be the only hope he has to deal with his fading serum problem.

Notes:

So hi! Sorry it's been so long since I did an update. I've been writing over in another fandom for awhile. However, after seeing a bunch of Clint & Jason Todd stories written for Whumptober, I was inspired to get back to work on this fic. So thank you all for getting me back into this fic.

It took Clint about three hours to climb the jagged cliffside, Natasha strapped to his back. The serum-given strength and stamina had been a boon to his job, even if he hated the method that they were acquired. The last time I took this trip, it took me two days, he reminded himself as they reached the ledge and climbed over.

Natasha unstrapped herself from him and stretched. “You know we’re being watched,” she said casually.

“We’ve been watched since we first hit shore,” Clint pointed out, curling up the grappling rope and putting it back in his big.

“Actually, since you entered our airspace.”

Four men dressed in armor like the one Clint wore melted out from the woods, swords drawn. Following a moment later was a man who wore the armor without the hood, and a dark green cloak over his shoulders. The quiver was strapped across his chest with black arrows sticking out over his shoulder, and a collapsible bow was attached to his hip.

Clint instantly went down to one knee and lowered his head. The man chuckled, then motioned for the other four to lower their weapons. “I never thought I would see you return here, Alakhir.”

“I know, but I need help and am out of options.” Clint kept his head down, staring at the tips of his boots. He knew Natasha was on guard, but he had warned her during the climb not to engage with the men unless they actively attacked her. “I’ve come to speak to the Head of the Dragon.”

“You have my attention.” The man, the Head of the Dragon, stepped forward and put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Let me see what they did to you.”

Clint nodded and pulled back his hood, then took off the face covering before tilting up to stare at the man. The Dragon’s Head didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed, and his lips grew thin. “Those owls are a menace,” he growled, letting go of Clint’s shoulder. “We feared they would one day use you against us.”

“They wanted Richard,” Clint said freely. “They got me instead.”

“And neither the detective nor your handlers at SHIELD could remove this?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “How do you know—”

“I know more than you think, Natalia Romanova.” The Dragon’s Head turned his attention to the red-headed assassin. “You do best to follow Alakhir’s words and stay invisible. You’re only allowed here because of your connection to this one.”

Clint lowered his head again. “I take responsibility for her,” he stated. “She will obey.”

Ready to protest, Natasha saw the glare Clint was giving her from the edge of his hood. His eyes were serious, more than she ever believed he could be. The words died on her lips and she just nodded.

The man stared at Natasha a moment longer, then refocused on Clint. “We will help you, but you need to first pay for your crimes to your oath, and then be cleansed. Only then will you be welcomed back with open arms.”

“I understand,” Clint said.

The Dragon’s Head nodded and snapped his fingers. Two of the men rushed forward and grabbed Clint by his arms, stripping him of his weapons and armor. Natasha stepped forward, but Clint snapped his head to glare at her as another guard stepped between them.

“Take the Widow to our guest suite. She will be able to observe safely from there. Take Alakhir’s possessions there as well. He will join her after.”

The guards nodded and the four guards left with Natasha, leaving Clint alone with the Dragon’s Head. Stripped down to just his pants, Clint was far from helpless, and the Dragon’s Head knew that. He motioned for Clint to follow, turned his back and walked back toward the compound.

“You must be curious as to how I am now the Dragon’s Head,” the leader spoke, not turning around but addressing Clint nonetheless.

“Oliver Queen was chosen as successor, defeated Ra’s al Ghul, and gave ring to you,” Clint stated. “Nyssa is planning to retaliate.”

The man laughed. “You still trade in secrets, even now. Did you learn this from your SHIELD, or the Detective?”

“My own.”

“A Goggle search for Malcolm Merlyn?”

Clint shook his head. “You taught me to rely on my own sources. I listened.”

The Dragon’s Head, also known as Malcolm Merlyn, gave a sharp laugh. “I always knew you would be good at this life, Clint. I was very disappointed when you abandoned us, but I knew you would not hold the same level of respect to Deathstroke as you did me.”

“I tried to get back.”

“I know. But then you were turned. Ra’s al Ghul believed you were going to turn into a double agent, since it is what you knew from how you originally came to us. I held no such faith, because I taught you better.”

“My instinct is survival overall, and to only trust myself.”

Merlyn turned and slapped Clint hard across the face. “Do not lie to me, boy! You trust many, and you have come to depend on them for survival. You’re but a shadow of what you could have become, and now the Court sullied you further.”

“I didn’t choose the court.”

“But you did choose us, back then… and now.”

“Because I know if anyone knows how to cure me of this, it’s you.” Clint looked at the Dragon’s Head, desperate. “If the serum wears off, the memories they implanted in me tell me I will die.”

“You could die in the gauntlet before I would even consider helping. You know that.”

“At least I will die with honor.”

Merlyn locked eyes with Clint, searching for his true motive. Clint, however, had no motive in this beyond survival, and if the gauntlet did kill him, there was a chance the pit could return him free of the serum. There was no downside to this gamble, unless the Dragon’s Head denied him.

Clint saw the moment his mentor realized his thought process. Merlyn smirked, then nodded. “You were listening to me after all. I hope this plan of yours succeeds, Clint, because all other roads are certain death.”

 

10 years ago

Malcolm Merlyn stood beside Ra’s al Ghul as they stared at the blonde teenager laying broken on the training room floor. Surrounding him were Shadow warriors; some were sprawled out on the ground, dead with arrows sticking out of vital organs; others lay unconscious, succumbing to the pain of broken limbs and stab wounds; a final lucky few lay on the ground groaning, holding onto bleeding limbs or struggling to regain their breath.

The teenager shifted, reaching for the simple bow at his side. He slowly pushing himself up to kneel, then stand. He leaned heavily on the weapon, blinking through blood trails running down his face, favoring his left side. He lifted his head just enough to look at Ra’s al Ghul, but his blue eyes focused on a spot of the Dragon’s Head’s chest.

“Do you think he’s had enough?” Ra’s asked Merlyn, his eyes never leaving the teenager.

“Probably,” Merlyn replied. “I think he could last another round, but you’ve forgiven worse misjudgments with less.”

Ra’s walked down from his balcony and stopped directly in front of the teenager. He snatched the boy’s chin and lifted it so that the blue eyes locked with his. “You may not be one of the Detective’s Robins, or the junior league of sidekicks, but you are just as dangerous to me as they are. Why should I not throw you off the cliffside while you are weak, young man?”

The teenager forced a smile to his face. “Because not only did I take on your best and survive, but I made it look easy.”

Merlyn struggled not to laugh at the boy’s ego and stood straighter when Ra’s looked back at him. There was a moment where Ra’s looked between the two, then easily picked the injured boy up and threw him across the training yard to land at Merlyn’s feet.

“Make sure this one is worthy of my time, Al Sa-her.”

Merlyn nodded, and when Ra’s al Ghul was gone, he looked down at the wheezing teenager. “Hope you’re ready for what comes next, boy.”

Chapter 8

Summary:

Having reached the League and faced Ra's al Ghul, Clint is made to prove his allegiance to the shadow organization that he first entered as a teen. A gauntlet stands between him and possible salvation, but his body is starting to break down and time is running short.

Natasha watched from the suite’s balcony as Clint stood in only a pair of black shorts, the ends taped down to his knees to keep them from billowing out. It gave the appearance that the black veins covering his body leaked from his core, spreading out to his extremities. His hands and wrists disappeared under tape as Clint prepared them for the fight ahead.

No, not Clint, Natasha reminded herself. Alakhir. In Arabic, it meant “the last”; She wondered how he earned that name, and why Batman had called him “Ronin” that night in Gotham when Clint killed the Joker. How were the names related, if they even were?

She’d ask him later, when he survived the gauntlet set before him. The courtyard was silent; fifty members of the League armed with swords encircled him, watching as Clint slid a quiver of wooden arrows over his shoulder. He snapped his bow into place, his fingers squeezing the grip. With a deep breath, he lifted his head to stare at the Dragon’s Head, then nodded.

“Begin.”

The deadly dance began, Clint notching an arrow and firing it into the neck of one assassin before blocking the sword of another with his bow. Their movements were fluid, and even the dead bodies fell with a grace all their own. The smell of blood and salt filled the air, but the silence remained.

The bodies started to form a ring around the blood-covered assassin. He ran out of arrows, then used his bow as a weapon, quickly removing the string before one end snapped up into the jaw of a League member.  Not long after, the bow snapped. Clint threw the pieces in two directions, impaling an assassin with each one. A backflip later, he brought up two swords from the fallen and became a whirlwind of blades.

Now she knew why Hawkeye had been sent to kill her. Natasha had spent her entire life learning how to destroy others, but she relied on a gun for her primary weapon. She knew how to become a weapon—but Clint? He was one, and she wasn’t sure now that she could have killed him before he took her out.

Could anyone? She wondered, and for a moment, she found herself afraid of her partner…for her partner. The Owls had taken him. He was giving himself to the League for help in reversing their claim. What would they take from him in return? What if someone else, someone like Hydra or AIM—no, she couldn’t let herself think of that right now. She didn’t dare think of Clint becoming something on par with the Winter Soldier. It would be inviting fate.

One problem at a time.

“Enough!” the Dragon’s Head stated, and all movement stopped. Among a mass of bodies stood a blood-drenched warrior, panting as the wounds on his body slowly healed themselves. His arms trembled and both swords slipped from his fingers, landing on the dead flesh at his feet. Slowly, Alakhir lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head.

Ra’s al Ghul strode through the carnage until he was in front of Clint. He pulled a short blade from under his cloak and lifted Clint’s chin with the tip. They stared at each other a moment, then the Dragon’s Head nodded.

“Let it be known that on this day, the one called Alakhir has returned to us,” Ra’s announced to the rest of the League. “His status as traitor is no more, and from this day forth his role will be known only to me. This is my word and let anyone who believes different speak now or hold their tongue.”

The mountainside was quiet, as if not even the rocks dared to shift and bring down the wrath of Ra’s al Ghul. Then the moment passed, and the Dragon’s Head turned from Clint and walked back to the temple. “Come, Alakhir. There is much to do, and you do not have the time to wait.”

Natasha wanted to help him, but there was a shake of Clint’s head as he noticed her edge over the balcony. He rose unsteadily, taking a moment to get his balance. The cuts on his body remained open, even if the blood had stemmed itself. He wavered, taking one step forward before stumbling on the ground and falling back to his knees.

Ra’s al Ghul stopped, turning back and watched Clint carefully as he tried to stand again. Clint wobbled, as if his bones were starting to dissolve under his skin. With a nod, the two warriors flanking him stepped away and went to Clint, lifting him up and putting one arm over each of their shoulders.

“What’s happening to him?” Natasha asked.

“He’s reached the end of his usefulness to the Owls.” The Dragon’s Head gave Natasha a steady look. “Their serum makes sure that a talon won’t live long without their intervention.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Help him, as I swore.” He turned to a shadow near the door. “Bring the Widow to the grand hall. She will witness the cleansing.”

With that, he, along with Clint and the soldiers, disappeared into the temple.

 

The pain was excruciating. No, that word didn’t do. It was worse than that. Not a single inch of his body wasn’t screaming in pain as Clint felt everything inside of his skin start to deteriorate at high speed. It started halfway during the fight when the sting of the swords cut deep, and the wounds did not heal. He didn’t bleed, and part of him wondered if there was no blood left inside of him. It explained the burning of his muscles with each strike, the numbness starting in his feet and hands. His form had become sloppy, muscles trembling as each second passed. Part of him begged for one of the warriors to run him through, but his survival instincts prevented it.

Being half-carried into the temple should be disgraceful, but he couldn’t feel his legs up to his knees anymore. Trying to put pressure on his feet felt like spikes were being driven into his foot and up his ankles and calves. Since he was already being helped, he gave in and let the league members drag him to the grand hall.

Sweat dripped down his face and into his eyes, salt and blood clouding his vision. He thought he saw Natasha enter the room and talk to Ra’s al Ghul, but the details were washed away in the red stain the world now held.

The soldiers waited for orders and Clint hung between them, struggling to capture each breath as his lungs started spasming. He wanted to cough but knew it would only hurt worse. The blood entered his mouth now, the taste of iron overwhelming his senses, flat and heavy on his tongue.

It tasted like death.

“Master,” one of the soldiers holding him up spoke. Clint turned his head in their direction and his breath hitched. He no longer felt his hands, but as he saw the one hanging over the soldier’s shoulder, he couldn’t process what he was seeing.

Clint’s fingers were elongated, almost twice the length that was normal. The skin was taunt, grey, with no wrinkles as the bones and ligaments dissolved within them. The nails were bulging out from the ballons that used to be his fingertips. He wanted to cry, knowing that he couldn’t use a bow like that. As if that was the worst outcome this death would bring.

“Bring him here,” he heard Ra’s say, but his hearing was starting to go. Not that he wasn’t used to hearing through a fog, but he had gotten used to not needing hearing aids for the last few months.

His face was smacked, and he felt his jaw stretch at the assault. “Do not succumb to this now, Alakhir,” Ra’s ordered. Clint could barely make him out even as he stood inches away. “You need to enter the waters on your own, or they will not honor you when they work.”

Clint nodded—or at least tried to. He wasn’t sure if he was successful. The group started moving again, faster now, and the world around them darkened until there was only a faint, green light illuminating the cavern they entered. The blood from his eyes had faded, and he could make out a green pool of water in the center of the room.

“Know this, Alakhir,” Ra’s al Ghul spoke as the soldiers helped him stand upright on his own again. “These waters will judge your soul and determine if your life shall be returned or be forfeit to their desires. You will be changed, and there is no guarantee you will return in your right mind, if you are brought back, from the challenges you shall face. With this, do you still wish to enter the Lazarus Pit?”

“I do,” Clint said, his voice rough as he struggled through the pain to speak.

“Then may the waters bless you.”

There were five steps to the edge of the water. Clint could barely stand, but he wasn’t a stranger to fighting through pain to accomplish a mission. He took one firm step, wavered, straightened, then continued. One leg in front of the other, feeling his foot and knee bones turning to mush with each step. He refused to collapse this close to possible salvation. Another step, and the cold water of the pit lapped at his bare feet. It soothed the flames, dulling the pain in his lower extremities as he moved forward still, walking until the water was up to his hips. The pain eased and a strange drowsiness took hold, trying to drag him down.

Then one final step and the ground fell out from under him, and he disappeared into the dark waters.

Notes:

Wait, that's the end? WHAT HAPPENS TO CLINT?!?! Glad you asked.

The next story in the series will take place deep inside of Clint's mind linking him to his teenage life in and out of Young Justice, choices he and others made, and just how much of himself he will give up to the Lazarus Pit. I wanted to separate it from this fic so that it can also be added to the teenage year series line as well.

See you soon!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of Lone Hawk of Gotham