arches | ➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

_{( In battle, he can forget. Eyes on a target, a mission to fulfill, and no room for error, there is no time to think about who he is or what’s been done to him. In battle, there is purpose, and the adrenaline of living each moment between life and death, and the thrilling feeling of victory.

And then, it is over, and he is left with the things he has done.

Eating shawarma does not give him purpose. It does not help him forget. It’s delicious, to be sure, but Natasha’s presence beside him is really the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing stopping him from bolting. He doesn’t belong at this table—the men around him are heroes, and Natasha as much as any of them. And he? He spent his week sniping innocent security guards and his own associates.

He puts his leg up on her chair, and she touches his knee, briefly. If one woman was capable of absolving him of everything, it would be her. But even she can’t do that for him, so he munches into his sandwich and smacks his lips and tells Banner that green is really his color. And Stark is going on about how he deserves a statue, and Thor is clapping him on the back, and the captain? The captain Clint can’t get a read on. He’s an American hero, a living legend. And Clint Barton is nothing but a man with blood on his hands.

They wrap up their food and get up, and Natasha is touching his shoulder and whispering something about keeping a promise (he finds out later that she’s conferring with Banner, finding him a way to vanish and a place to vanish to), and Thor and Stark are still wrapped up in their conversation, so despite Clint’s best efforts, he finds himself face-to-face with Steve Rogers, genuine American hero. )}

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm not pulling anything. [His eyes narrow with mixed confusion and the furious defensiveness he's built up over the past six months - each time someone laughed at the idea of patriotism, the insults his own countrymen threw at their home in passing, every one making him feel more disconnected from this place and its people. That, and Skull's voice echoes on the heels of Barton's words like a knife drawing new wounds through old scars.

Arrogance may not be a uniquely American trait, but I must say, you do it better than anyone.

He doesn't have the energy for a fight - not a verbal one, not on the scale that would probably break out if he and Barton try to lay into each other in front of Tony and Thor, so he takes a moment to gather himself and let go of the metaphorical trigger.] Never?

[Steve tilts his soda cup to get at the remains of the drink with his straw.]

Nope. Never.

_{( Not even when I want to. The images flash before his eyes, unbidden--the two security guards. The scientist. How many SHIELD agents? Natasha wouldn't tell him. Dead, now, because of his unerring aim.

Before he thinks about it he finds himself pushing the bow away, so that it skids to the empty end of the table. He is going to have to get over this, someday. He'll never be able to live, otherwise. But the thought just makes him feel like vomiting. Suddenly he is very glad that he is sitting here, among this band of misfits, instead of standing on the bridge of the helicarrier, trying to hold his head up in front of the other agents. )}

I wouldn't be very useful if I did, would I?

[Steve sets his cup down slowly, eyes on the bow instead of Barton. Useful. All right. He can work with that.

He braces one hand on the table to help himself stand, the other pressed against the gash that alien's weapon left gouged in his side. He picks the shield up from where it rests against his chair, jerks his head toward the door, starts walking and lets Barton decide if he'll follow or not. Steve counts himself lucky that he's not limping - rather, that he can hide it well enough to appear more or less all right. The difference between the inside of the shawarma shop and the moment he steps outside is unmistakable. Out of Steve Rogers, into the role of Captain America, battered but unbowed.

There are army personnel, cops, and firefighters everywhere, punctuated by emergency medical staff and civilians. It's a war zone. In New York City. And for a moment it's easy to forget when he is and focus on his city and its people. He stops the nearest soldier with a hand on the man's shoulder, smiles in the most benign way he can manage in the face of the stranger's shock, and gestures to the mess.] Where do you need us.

_{( A large part of Clint wants to stay seated simply because the captain wanted him to follow. After being controlled, every suggestion feels like an order, and every part of him revels in his ability to say "no." But he has to shake off that urge, and deal with this in the way a practical man would. Because he may have been compromised, but he's still an agent, still a man who knows how to get a job done. So he slings his bow over his shoulder and follows the captain out of the shawarma shop.

He lets Rogers deal with talking to the soldiers--that's his department, isn't it?--and instead surveys the scene around him. It's a mess, to be sure. Broken buildings, piles of rubble, the corpses of their alien assailants. His face scrunches as he turns in a circle, taking it all in. His hawk's eyes don't miss a thing.

So it's not long before he finds a spot that suits him, and picks up one of the alien bodies, throwing it with little care onto an army-issue truck. Something to do. This, he can deal with. )}

[There's some glad-handing to do. Brief words to exchange, requests for an explanation that he sidesteps with an ease he didn't know he had. It's always startling to remember how good he is at this. At people. It helps that he cares. He's never been able to not care, and the faces that surround him now are the same as the ones he saw in London, in France, the Balkans, looking for hope, looking for something that says they're going to come out of this with something left to live for. For the first time since being dragged from the ice, he feels like he might have something himself.

It takes about a half hour to get clear and find Barton, and Steve throws himself into helping, lit with the energy of a clear goal. He picks up one of the Chitauri weapons, pausing to turn it over in his hands.] I owe Fury another ten bucks.

_{( Between the clean up he's only mildly aware of how much his muscles are aching, and it's only when a dull buzzing starts coming down from his head that he remembers the shape he's actually in. The ache is from where Natasha bashed him into the side-rail, and his back and arms are aching not just from crashing through that window but also from the battle ans the days before. But he sinks into that ache, because usually when he feels like this, it's a sign of a job well done.

When Rogers joins him, he barely acknowledges the other man, but observes him carefully. And when the captain speaks, he has to turn and give him a baffled look. )}

You bet the Director? Bad move.

Accidentally. [He grins, handing the staff off to a soldier who already has a collection of them.] Came to see me, ask me if I'd help with...

[Well, all this.] Told him I doubted anything would surprise me any more, and he bet me I was wrong.

[A sound catches Steve's attention and he joins three men trying to shift a piece of debris off a vehicle with someone sobbing inside, straining with muscles that burn from overuse, his body one solid pain punctuated by smaller ones like some kind of all-you-can eat injury buffet.] You're all right.

[Metal squeals as the concrete chunk starts to move.] Hawkeye. Can you get through the window, see if he can climb out?

See, if you'd talked to me before that, I could have let you know what a stupid idea it was to take him up on that.

_{( The last time he'd seen Nick Fury, the man he'd given his life to serve had been shooting at him. And Nick Fury did not shoot to incapacitate or injure. It was the right call, of course--a compromised agent was a threat, and the havoc Clint had reeked was proof of that. But still, he couldn't help but be glad the director's aim had been off.

Steve's voice calls him out of the thought, and he nods once, curtly. He ends up using the bow as a crowbar, shattering the glass and creating a dangerous but open passage for the man to climb through.

The man's name is Randall, and once he's out he thanks both Clint and Steve profusely, much to Clint's embarrassment. )}

[Steve accepts the thanks with as much grace as exhaustion allows, and then it's back to work, with the occasional break to speak to an officer who remembers him from earlier or hear a story about a grandparent who Steve himself can't recall, but pretends to. It isn't until evening creeps in on the sensible shoes of field journalists and reporters that he decides it's probably time to pack it in - a quick conference with Tony and Thor, and then he's back on the street, tapping Clint's shoulder.]

I'm going to dodge out before the press can corner any of us. One of the army folks said he could give us a lift down to Fort Hamilton - I don't live too far from there. Romanoff can meet you once she's finished her business with Dr. Banner, unless you'd rather stay here.

_{( It feels good to help, just like it almost felt better to help that boy out of the bus than it did to watch Loki catch that arrow, set for detonation. But it can't last, and as soon as Steve mentions it Clint realizes the last thing he wants is to be in the newspaper. He doesn't deserve it.

Still, straying too far from Natasha's side feels like a bad idea. As though if she's not around, something dark might spring up within him again. The captain probably sees him waffling, and Clint's knowledge or supposition of this makes him reevaluate. The hell with this--he can't spend the rest of his life leashed, and afraid of himself. So he brushes himself off and inclines his head. )}

Sounds like fun. It's not every day I get invited to the home of a living legend.

_{( He says that with a touch of irony. )}

[Steve doesn't quite grimace at that, but his chagrin is easy enough to see.

The truck they're shown to is stacked with Chitauri weapons, doubtless destined for research facilities the soldiers themselves have never heard of and probably never will. Steve smiles and chats and dreams of his shower in between descriptions of the chaos of the fight, giving and receiving stories, weighing out accomplishments alongside his brothers-in-arms.

Everyone wants to know how it is that he's there, how it is that he's alive, who his teammates are, what's Tony Stark really like. Everyone has a story about a parent's toys or a grandparent's trip to one of the stateside USO productions. By the time they clear Fort Hamilton's walls Steve wants nothing more than to strip the uniform off and collapse, but there's still the walk through Bay Ridge to his place. The neighborhood is far enough from Manhattan to be undamaged, and it's like wandering through a different world. He sticks as much as possible to back alleys and side streets, grateful that the majority are inside glued to the news and the rest are too surprised by the stars and stripes to approach. The stairs up to his apartment almost undo him, and when he realizes his keys are on board the helicarrier - well, he just breaks open the door.] I don't know what you expect, but prepare for disappointment.

_{( Clint isn't quite jealous of the attention Steve gets from the soldiers. It only makes sense, right? And Hawkeye is an agent who has always been most comfortable away from others. So when they climb into the truck, Clint positions himself on top of the roof, brushing off a soldier's assertion that he might fall. He is the Hawk, and he has found his perch. It's from there that he watches the rest of the ride, observes Steve dealing with the soldiers and doing it so effortlessly. Stupid golden boy.

He takes the stairs two at a time just to prove he can, and then whistles low when Steve breaks into his own house. Does that win him any points? Maybe a few. At Steve's words, he lets out a hollow laugh. )}

Don't worry, Boy Scout. No one disappoints me but me.

[Steve pauses before opening the door, giving Clint a look that isn't admonishing so much as understanding, but he goes into the place without a word. It's sprawling, the building's entire top floor, and looks all the more barren for its size. Steve's never had this much space to himself in his life. He has no idea how to fill it.

The rooms bleed into each other through double-wide open doorways, and his bed is positioned in a far corner that gives him a view of every window and the front door. One of the rooms has nothing but weights and a punching bag. Another, a couch and half-filled book shelves. A closed door leads to the bathroom. The kitchen is probably the second most used space, after what would be an office if Steve did any kind of business. Instead, the room is a studio, and the handiwork from it provides one of the few things that give the apartment any kind of character beyond abandoned.

Paintings, portraits and landscapes done in pastels and ink. The city, its parks and people. There are some half-finished sketches of repeated faces - one of them being Howard Stark's, similar enough to Tony to stand out - and then Peggy. Over and over again, depictions done with the sharpness of a photograph or a blade. Peggy in a red dress, Peggy in her uniform. One doodle of Peggy throwing a glass of wine in Howard Stark's face, though the latter is grinning. Memories made into photos Steve himself doesn't have.

He walks past them without pausing, into the kitchen to turn on the sink and stick his head under the faucet. He scrubs a hand through his hair, enjoying the cold and sputtering water before he calls back to Hawkeye.] Make yourself at home. There's drinks in the fridge - no beer, but it doesn't do much for me.

Edited 2012-05-06 22:45 (UTC)

_{( He follows slowly, noticing everything. Certainly the woman. SHIELD had been built on the remains of the SSR, and Clint has been with the former long enough to have heard its entire history. How searching for Cap had always been a priority--Howard Stark had ensured as much. Before the council started interfering, at least. Clint had only been marginally aware when Cap had been found, already on the base with Dr. Selvig. And from there...

He shakes his head, takes another few steps. It's amazing how lived-in this place already feels, how personal. Clint's own apartments, one tucked away on each coast, are bare enough to be asylums. He doesn't have many personal affects, keeps very few records. The parents and brother he had so long ago no longer exist, not even in photographs. And secret agents are the last people who need paper trails.

Eventually he wanders into the kitchen behind Steve. )}

That's fine. The last thing I need right now is a buzz.

_{( Or to be out of his senses, in any way. He ducks his head into the fridge--do you have orange juice, Steve?--before pulling away to regard Steve thoughtfully. )}

You're pretty in-practice for having been out of the game for what, a century?

Edited 2012-05-06 23:38 (UTC)

[There's orange juice - several jugs, in fact, along with milk, other juices, protein shakes of various kinds. The first month or so he could hardly bring himself to buy anything, feeling almost traitorous for ignoring rationing. The next several he could hardly keep himself from emptying entire shelves out of curiosity. It's evened out since - he keeps what he needs and half the local grocers must think he hosts a small army on the weekends.]

Six months. [He twists the faucet handle with almost too much force, bending it slightly but catching himself before it breaks. The water trickles to a halt, but Steve leaves himself folded over into the sink.] Six months, three weeks, two days since I woke up. It hasn't been a century for me. It hasn't been a year. Haven't had time to get out of practice.

_{( He grabs a jug, setting it down on the table. But he doesn't move to drink it, just crosses his arms over his chest and leans against a wall. He's still dirty as anything, soot and grim all over him, but he doesn't take much notice of that. He's more interested in Steve at the moment. )}

Lucky for us, I guess.

_{( And then, quieter: )} Never thought I'd be missing time, like that.

[He glances at Clint, moving to the fridge to retrieve a pair of the protein shakes before he realizes he's dripping water all over the floor and fishes a towel from the rack next to the sink.]

Is that what it was like?

[Steve finishes off one of the shakes in the time it takes to chug a can of soda, his stomach reminding him almost painfully of the duty he's been neglecting, shawarma or no. He sets it aside, opens the second, and starts in on that a little more slowly.] I read the report. About the facility Loki hit.

_{( Clint turns away, as much as he can. Talking about it to Natasha was one thing, laying himself bear in front of this man he barely knows is entirely another. But it's out, now, and he's asked the question, so Clint has no choice but to respond. When he does, it's slow, and in a detached voice, as though he isn't connected to what he's saying. )}

He emptied me out. Put something else in. When Natasha saved me, it was like waking up.

[It sounds like torture. It's doubtless worse for Clint, knowing he wasn't physically trapped, that his body was being used like some kind of puppet to hurt his colleagues - Steve suppresses a shudder, the chill that settles over him making it hard to finish his drink. He does it anyway, knowing he'll regret it later if he doesn't take care of himself now.

There's no particular comfort he can offer, no advice or experience to share that couldn't be turned aside with the simple declaration that Steve doesn't understand. Because he doesn't. Losing time - that he understands. But that's not what happened to Barton.]

She's a good agent. [Steve frowns. The compliment doesn't come out feeling like enough.] She's remarkable, actually.

_{( He doesn't want Steve's sympathy, so he's grateful when he doesn't get it. It is going to take Clint a long time to get over what's been done to him. He knows his job--and, let's face it, when you work for SHIELD your job is your life--is broken beyond repair. He can never be one of Fury's most trusted agents, again. Hell, he can't even trust himself.

Only one person hadn't given up on him. )}

She's the best there is. There's a reason Nick chose her, out of everyone, to pull you all together.

[The best there is. Steve looks past Clint, into the living room, at the recreation of the newspaper photo he kept in his compass, a sepia-toned watercolor, the only image in the apartment that's actually framed. Nothing he sketches will ever be as pretty as the real thing, but at least he knows he won't forget her face. It's his own private terror, the idea that one day he'll wake up and won't remember what the people he loved most looked like. It's the drive behind every sketch of Bucky, the Commandos, Howard, Phillips.

Not quite so with Peggy, but the fear is still there. Steve ducks his head to rub his eyes.]

Nick. You know him pretty well, then.

_{( Nick Fury. The man who had pulled Clint out of a life of crime, and given him the opportunity to put his skills to use. The man who'd given him a license to kill and sent him after more targets than Clint cared to count. And the man who sometimes called him "son," and asked him for a second opinion.

Clint ground his teeth. )}

Yeah. He's my boss. And, between you and me, he's an asshole.

_{( But an asshole who did what he had to do. The last time he'd seen him, they were shooting at each other.

Why did he have to remember that? )}

[Steve's eyebrows go up a fraction. Not that he disagrees, exactly, but hearing it so abruptly from one of Fury's subordinates is a surprise. He retrieves another protein shake, happy to have something easy to consume. Minimum amounts of thought required.]

He knows the tools he needs for a job. He's a commander. [Steve's hand automatically goes to the spot where he tucked one of those cards Fury threw across the table, the blood-stained reminder that someone still believed Captain America meant something important.] He knows his work. Niceness isn't part of the package.

Edited 2012-05-07 04:22 (UTC)

Well, that's the thing. We're the tools.

_{( That had never been more apparent than it was today. Clint would have followed Nick's orders on just about anything--not without question, but he'd follow them--but then again, Clint was never supposed to be an Avenger. He wasn't a hero, or a remarkable person. He was just a guy with a good shot. )}

You don't have to tell me that. We're probably going to put "SHIELD: We Don't Do Nice," on our mugs, next year.

Edited 2012-05-07 04:45 (UTC)

Yes. We are. [There's a hardness to the statement that wouldn't have been there six months ago. A coldness that Steve isn't sure he likes, but knows he can't shed.] Captain America was a propaganda machine before the name ever meant anything real. Every soldier is a tool, a cog. The most we can do is decide who's pulling our levers, and whether or not we trust them to use us well.

[He softens, a little, remembering the faces of the people on the street.] Or we do what we did today. We decide for ourselves.

➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject