Chapter 5
Ronald Slater's hatred of Clint Barton is so irrational that although he despises the guy, he's incensed that he's not invited to Barton's birthday party in the Caribbean.
"Save a guy's life twice, this is how you get repaid," he says to Lucy Freckles as they sit in a rented truck in Veere, waiting for some Eurotrash terrorists to show up and claim their stash of bioweapons. "You end up stuck in the middle of nowhere while he's off having fun."
He doesn't add, "and getting a whole island of people to kiss his ass" because he doesn't want anyone to think he's been stewing over this.
Donnie Robinson, who Slater hasn't seen since Antwerp, says, "You want an invite in gold ink, Ron?"
"I don't want an invite at all," he says.
Lucy Freckles hums in the passenger seat. "You protest too much."
Barton's birthday party has been the topic of gossip for weeks, and in the typical evolution of such things has somehow grown in the storytelling from a small party of friends and co-workers to a star-studded gala with celebrity musicians and a private fireworks show and probably a special flyover from the local air force. They say it's going to be on a private island. They say Tony Stark bought the fucking island for Barton.
Clearly some rumors are more outlandish than others. Not that Slater pays attention to them. Not that he wants to stab a fork through the eye of the next person who asks him if he's going.
No, he's not fucking going. He has no desire to go.
Still, you save a guy's life, you should get an invitation. Gold ink or not.
Down the lane, a milk truck pulls up to the house they've been watching. Slater's heartbeat picks up at the prospect of some action. The door opens, and the housewife they've got under surveillance pays for a jug of milk. Fucking Netherlands. Slater's going to die from boredom. There's nothing to shoot at, no bad guys to catch, nothing that will look good when he writes up a report of this mission. He'd bomb something himself if it meant a good evaluation.
He catches himself on that thought. It seems a bit extreme. A bit irrational.
Lucy says, "I hear he's still out on disability. Seems like it's been a long time."
Three months. Slater's back itches with remembered stitches as he recalls falling glass, sooty air, the world crashing down. He wonders if Barton is dragging out his recovery. Collecting disability while hanging out with his boyfriend. Playing with of those high tech toys at the Avengers tower while hard-working agents labor in the field. A guy like that deserves to have his throat close up in anaphylactic shock.
Again, a tiny wiggle in the back of his mind makes him wonder why his hatred of Barton is so extreme, or even when it started. He didn't always hate him. If he tries hard, he can remember liking Barton when he first got hired. Great shot, awesome athleticism. You couldn't watch him on the rock wall at the gym without admiring his dexterity and fearlessness. Sure, there was lots of envy, but Slater had long ago grown used to the idea that every agent at SHIELD brought something special to the job--
Lucy Freckles touches his arm. "I see movement in the upper window."
False alarm. The Eurotrash never show up and they call the op a wash. Slater stews about Barton's party all the way back to the U.S. and their debriefing at headquarters. At lunch in the cafeteria, he's waiting at the grill for a hamburger when he hears Steve Rogers behind him.
"Good to see you on your feet," Rogers says warmly. His lunch tray contains an enormous green salad and two apples. Figures he's a health nut. "Back in the field?"
Slater takes his burger from the grill cook. "European division, same old terrorists every day. How's Barton?"
Not that he fucking cares, of course, but the question is expected.
"Doing better." Rogers moves toward the cashier. "Still recovering. You know, he had a lot of things thrown at him."
And Slater would be happy to throw more. Ecstatically happy.
Bruce Banner, rumpled and unshaven, is waiting for Rogers just beyond the cash registers. He looks like he hasn't slept in a few days. He nods at Slater as if they know each other, but they don't aside from a brief introduction back at the military hospital. Slater thinks that of all the Avengers, the Hulk is the most awesome. A creature that can smash and rage without worry about social norms is exactly Slater's kind of hero.
"His birthday party's on Saturday," Rogers says after they pay and move into the dining room. Banner bypasses a table with two chairs and finds a larger one. Slater tries not to look too excited at being tacitly invited to join them. About fucking time. Rogers continues, "You should come. Clint wouldn't have much to celebrate if you hadn't saved his life."
"Twice," Slater can't help but say.
"Twice?" Banner asks, puzzled.
"Ronald found him when he was having allergic reaction," Rogers says. "Got the doctor in there right away."
Slater tries to sound modest. "The medical staff did all the work. I just happened to be in the right place to notice the problem."
Banner starts opening little cups of creamer and dumping them into his coffee cup. "I hear they're still trying to figure out how that happened. The latex being exposed to his bedsheets and all. Coulson's leading that investigation."
Of course it would be Coulson. Let him try to figure it out. Slater has the utmost confidence that there will be no camera footage, no witnesses, no forensic evidence. He's just that good.
Rogers says, "So you should come to the party."
Slater hesitates only a split-second over his answer. "I don't know where it is."
"Near St. Thomas." Banner gulps at his coffee and makes a face at its bitterness. "Supposed to be nice down there."
Rogers says, "We're taking a Stark jet down tomorrow night. I'll put you on the passenger list. Leaves from White Plains."
Slater pretends to have qualms. "What kind of gift would I bring?"
Rogers gives him a patient look. "You saved his life. That's enough of a gift."
Banner dumps sugar into his coffee. "If you want to contribute, we're collecting for the local schools. Barton's idea."
Of course the golden boy would come up with something fucking charitable. Slater doesn't believe the "aw shucks" humility of it all. He's always suspected Barton's story of growing up in a carnival is fabricated. Guy probably grew up in a tony suburb, played football or baseball, had every privilege possible.
Roger says, "So you'll come?" with such sincere eagerness that Slater can't help but want to please him.
"Sure," he says. "Count me in."
Packing for a tropical island getaway should be easy, but it's like packing for an interview. Which Slater suspects this is. Rogers hasn't said anything of the sort, but you don't get invited to fly with the Avengers on Tony Stark's jet without understanding there will be scrutiny along the way. Probably they've grown tired of waiting for Barton to recuperate and want to fill his slot. Slater will be happy to show them he's just as talented, capable, and heroic. He agonizes over his wardrobe choices for half the night, runs out the next morning to drop several hundred dollars on casual attire, and then spends the day laundering and packing until it's time to drive out to the airport. The Stark jet on the tarmac is sleek and golden in the late afternoon light and the flight attendant at the stairs gives him a brilliant smile.
"Welcome aboard," she says warmly, and Slater wonders if maybe she can provide special services in flight. He'd like to see her out of that crisp blue uniform as soon as possible.
Once aboard, however, he nearly forgets about her due to the sheer opulence of the jet--the wide leather seats, deep brown carpeting, cozy tables covered with white tablecloths and fine china, and several pieces of artwork that would fetch a pretty price at auction. A dinner buffet is set up on the sideboard, sizzling with the smells of lobster and steak. Tony Stark is sprawled in a corner chair, his tie undone and jacket strewn aside, typing furiously on a tablet and talking on a bluetooth while a pretty assistant guides him through a sheaf of papers to sign. Stark catches Slater's eye and gives him a thumbs up. Slater is pleased. Not that he's fond of so much wealth concentrated on one person, but when Tony Stark likes you, all sorts of doors open wide.
Steve Rogers waves him to the sofa where Natasha Romanov and Bruce Banner are eating finger foods. Banner raises a lazy hand and Romanov favors Slater with a neutral look, neither fond nor actively hostile. He thinks that's an encouraging sign.
"Glad you could make it," Rogers says. "We have a few more passengers we're waiting for, including the guest of honor. Hungry? Fix yourself a plate."
Slater is heaping some golden shrimp on a plate when he hears Lucy Freckles say, "I see you got your golden ticket. We both did."
Surprised, Slater looks over his shoulder to the group that's just arrived - Lucy, Donnie Robinson, Jasper Sitwell, Melinda May, and some other agents he doesn't know well but which he presumes are here on Barton's request. He's a little miffed that they're all along. He was counting on being part of an exclusive list, not a damn open invitation.
"I'm happy to help Barton celebrate any way he wants to," Slater says to Lucy, but his real audience is nearby Romanov and Banner.
Lucy's smile is all too knowing. "I bet you are."
He'd like to punch her, but that would probably make a bad impression. He settles in a chair with his food and lets a second flight attendant pour him a glass of champagne. The seat is the most comfortable one he's ever sat on. He deserves to fly like this all the time, he decides. Fuck the rich like Stark; he's all for socialism if it gets him a seat on a G2.
Through the round window he sees a Lincoln towncar roll across the tarmac to the jetway. The chauffeur opens the rear passenger door for Philip Asshole Coulson, who emerges in sunglasses and a dark suit as if going to a funeral and not a party. Coulson in turns helps Barton out. Despite the June sun Barton is dressed in a heavy hoodie and jeans, his sunglasses framing a pale face. When Coulson tries to press a walking cane into his hand, Barton pushes it away. He walks to the jetway steadily but slowly, Coulson hovering at his elbow.
The reports of Barton's long recovery obviously are accurate. Slater feels a gaze on him and turns to see Romanov watching him. But then the champagne-bearing attendant is back, blocking Slater's view, and when he can see clear again Romanov is at the door guiding Barton to a chair.
Coulson pauses in the doorway, counting and scanning the passengers, and then okays the pilot for takeoff. He either doesn't notice Slater--which is unlikely--or doesn't seem to mind him along on the trip. But Barton, easing himself down, catches sight of Slater and his expression flickers for just a moment.
Slater likes that. Feels a little thrill.
It's irrational, but he glad Barton's anxious at seeing him. It'll be Ronald Slater's pleasure to ruin this weekend any surreptitious way he can and take Barton's place on the Avengers.
end of chapter