Chapter 5
He hasn't frittered away more than an hour or two in the future, but that's still time he's lost in the two-weeks-ago past. Which means Clint's that much closer to getting in over his head, and Tony's got two hours less to get to him in time. Will be cutting it closer and closer each go-round, even if he sprints back to his lab immediately, and manages to whittle his turn-around time down to minutes.
If he suits up and leaves now--right now--he can hit Europe by morning, giving him less than a day before Clint calls in his mayday. The window between then and Clint being taken is maybe hours, but if Tony can be in Europe by then, he might have a chance to get to Clint first.
His keep things steady by following the script option has officially expired, and even if Tony's not a gambling man, he is a don't-overthink-it man, and it's time to make some--hopefully--tactical moves.
And, also hopefully, this Steve--past, unmad Steve, temporarily current Steve--is going to be clear headed enough to be on his game and make solid decisions, because Tony sure as hell isn't. His decisions have been a wreck from the start. From the first moment where he'd let himself get overwhelmed by Clint breathing and talking and being a shit, and alive.
Maybe if they hadn't gotten into the very ordinary back and forth about the burn marks on Clint's sweater, and maybe if Clint hadn't been acting so much himself, Tony wouldn't have let himself believe, for those hours that he'd thought were safely his, that things were normal and Clint had never died in what he's now pretty sure had been a shipping container.
-----
"They probably picked him up in France," Tony says, talking like he won't stop. Can't stop. Steve hasn't said anything, but he also hasn't stopped flipping away from the photos and then back to them, mouth a tight, flat line and brows lowered. It's hard to look at that expression on him and not reflexively see the angry, hurt, confused Steve of the last incarnation of the future, so mostly Tony watches his hands, fingers fussing restlessly at the cuffs of Clint's hoodie, where one of the burnt patches is starting to fray. "His last known location is a SHIELD safehouse there."
Steve looks at him over the top of the folder. He's clearly not following. Tony can see the question starting to form in his face, but before Steve can say anything, clarifies, "Is going to be. He's going to be picked up in France. Probably."
"How do you know this, Tony?"
"Steel flecks. Rust. Wood splinters, probably from a cargo pallet. We're going to find him--well. I'm going to find him--in a Belgian underpass. Whatever's going on, they're getting more pressed for time. The first time, they bothered to dump him in a basement. Now I think they're just throwing him from trains."
It's not quite true. The body had been pushed out of sight. Hurriedly, and kind of half-assedly, but he hadn't just been tossed and left to lay where he fell.
"Now?" Steve asks.
"I need you to be there," Tony says, ignoring it. "I need you to trust me and I need you to be there, because I'm going to keep winding up here, and in about a day, that won't be enough time."
"You're not making any sense, Tony."
"Not yet," Tony says, because in two weeks everything will fall into place, and in ways that Steve definitely won't like. "Just take Natasha, and go to France. Stake out the safehouse. And if you see Clint, grab him, get out, and answer questions later."
"Where did you get this?" Steve asks, again. Definitely not on the same page. "This--What the hell is going on, Tony"
Tony tries not his throw his arms up in frustration. He smacks his hands open-palmed onto the table instead.
"Why do you have--Is Clint--?"
"Are you listening to me? Clint is fine. He's still fine. Sometime tomorrow, somebody is going to grab him, and then he's going to be very unfine, before he dies in a shipping container." It will probably be dark. Tony hadn't thought about that before, but now that he's trying to explain the situation to Steve, get him to see how fucking dire it is, he's coming up with mental images. Not just remembered flashes of what he's seen himself--the cracked lips that meant dehydration, the dark contusions indicating bone fractures--but images he's coming up with all on his own. Picturing Clint panicky and claustrophobic is making him panicky and claustrophobic.
Steve rubs his eyes. "Okay. Hang on. Slow down." He drops the file onto the table. Taps it, then stills with his fingertips pressing its now rumpled pages flat to the table.
"If I didn't have evidence, you'd think I was nuts huh?"
Maybe Steve still isn't sure that he's not nuts, but Steve's also a man who's spent seventy years in suspended animation and helped turn back an alien invasion. He's probably juggling the likelihood of this being another one of those incidents--bizarre and likely to go unexplained in very basic ways--against other, more reasonable possibilities, and finding himself stuck.
Tony feels a little sorry for that. "I built a time machine," he says, and Steve starts to smile in expectation of a joke, then freezes with the look half formed on his face when there's no punchline. "I got to him too late, so I--" He'd thought he was getting over the shock of it. That this was all evening out into calm purpose. Maybe into something that's a bit like Clint's mission mode, but he still has to stop to take a couple of breaths before he can push out, "So I came back."
"You what?"
"The tesseract wormhole machine thing. I made a portal. The details aren't important."
Steve looks dubious. Tony says, "They're going to take their time with him, Steve. It's going to take days."
"If you're from the future," Steve asks, "Where's our Tony?"
"I'm not really sure. I'm also missing an entire week. But the universe doesn't seem to be ending, so I wouldn't worry about it. And since I'm alive, I assume current me is also fine."
-----
"You're looking for a shipping container isn't the most specific information I've ever had to go on," Natasha says, sounding dry and only a little sarcastic in his ear. "At least there aren't going to be that many of them in the whole of Europe."
That's more sarcastic. Tony corrects, "In France."
"That narrows it down."
"It's most likely rusted."
"Keep helping."
"It might be blue? But don't focus too much on that and get sloppy about checking things out. I said might be."
There's silence from the quinjet while Natasha takes too long to organize a comeback, then sighs instead and says, "I'll do my best," in a vaguely offended tone.
Tony grins. It feels good to have her and Steve and the team in on things, and have their competence on his side. Even if their chances of getting to Clint in time are only marginally better than his, and mostly those odds are only being improved by there being two of them.
"Find the safehouse," Tony tells them. "He might still be there." Should, hopefully, be there until sometime on Monday, giving Steve and Nat a good day and a half where their SHIELD insider information might be worth something. "And if he is, you get him out and then you sit on him."
"And get reported for unauthorized mission interference?" she says, "Don't worry, I'm on it."
"I'd say you'll get your proof," Tony says, "but I don't think you want that. In fact, I'm kind of hoping to be proven wrong."
-----
He isn't. But when Clint's mayday comes in, Steve's the one in Europe and he's the one who intercepts the call.
He knows it's Clint, knows it's the call for help, even before the alert and JARVIS's report. He picks up with an urgent, "Where are you?"
"Tony?"
He needs to get through this. He has Nat and Steve nearly in place. He could pull this off, repair the whole mess, if he can get past the punch to the gut that is Clint's voice. "Yeah," he whispers.
Clint, the idiot, takes the time to say, "Hey, Tony." Tony can hear the grin in it. The hint of flirt.
"Where are you? Cap and the Widow are on standby."
That gets him a moment of silence as Clint regroups. If Tony had been thinking clearly--if he hadn't been finding Clint dead repeatedly, for weeks now--it might have occurred to him that his seeming precognition might be kind of unexpected. At least Steve and Natasha had had some evidence to go on, and had been kind of primed for an off the wall explanation.
Clint goes with, "Tony, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything." Yet. Not technically. Other than talk a little and share some reading material that Clint doesn't need to hear about.
"Where are you?" Tony demands. Again. His stomach's going into knots. "Clint, please."
"Oh man," Clint says, and Tony remembers the last time they'd seen each other. Remembers Clint fucking over his entire plan either because Tony had freaked him out, or because he wanted to prevent freaking Tony out further when he left. "Look, calm down," Clint goes on, "Okay? I'm--uh. In a bit of trouble."
A bit of trouble. Tony would roll his eyes if his throat wasn't closing. "Okay."
"So my cover got blown. I gotta--"
"Are you in France?"
"Germany."
Fuck. Tracing his comm relay had thrown up France as Clint's general position, but of course that was being bounced. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be misleading. It's a fucking amateur mistake. Natasha at least should have caught it. Maybe even new covert Steve.
Tony should definitely have caught it.
"We can get to France," Clint offers.
We. Because of course Clint's working with a team.
"Coordinates, Barton. I'll relay them to team America. You find them and you keep your stupid head down." He wants to add, and come back and I've been trying to save you and hold on, hold on, hold on, but before he can figure out how to phrase it in a way that won't scare the shit out of Clint or come off too crazy, Clint reports,
"Transferring data," and a second later says, in a rush, "Gotta go, Tony. Try to fly straight, okay?" And then he's gone, leaving nothing on the line but silence.
-----
This time, Tony joins Steve and Natasha in Belgium instead of the other way around, setting down on the gravel by this time's underpass with the dual thump of armored feet and a clatter of stones, then stands watching Steve and Natasha's backs for what feels like a long time, until Natasha turns and walks to him. She takes his arm to steer him away, like she's trying to protect him from the sight of what's happened to Clint. Like he hasn't seen it before and hadn't brought them the official forensics report, complete with multiple pages of up-close color photography.
"I'm sorry," Tony says, blurting it at the same time that Natasha's mouth opens. Probably, she was about to say the same thing, but it's been his line. It seems right for him to be the one to say it. Seems like a part of the ritual now.
"You did what you could." Her voice is even, and too calm.
"I just--I talked to him."
"I know." Her smile is brief. Small, and trying for comforting, and then gone again, leaving nothing but cool, unflappable detachment. "We got your message."
He's seen Clint dead before. He's lived this almost-exact moment before. There's no reason it should be punching him in the gut the way that it is. He'd known they wouldn't get there. Hadn't promised Clint they would. He'd been ready, and experience-tested and fucking prepared, but for all his practice it's Steve talking to the agents who've arrived, back military straight and jaw set. Formal, and flawlessly polite.
Honoring the loss. Respecting Clint, and what he'd sacrificed and Tony feels petty and childish for wanting to strangle him for it. For wanting his phone call do-over so he can properly cuss Clint out for taking off out-of-schedule and getting himself killed again, and for resenting how noble they're both making this seem. Clint, with his brave grating under-statement bit of a problem and Steve with his ma'ams and sirs and perfect solemn dignity.
He doesn't want to see Clint be moved. This time, he doesn't want so much as a glimpse of his torn shirt or bare feet. He feels close to a meltdown or maybe a tantrum, and balls his fists as tight as he can inside his gauntlets before stalking off, footfalls satisfyingly loud on the gravel. Heavy enough to echo against the bottom of the overpass until he steps out from under it, Natasha trailing.
"I'm fine," he growls, "If anyone needs help it's Steve." There's a hum of assent from somewhere behind him, but it's not followed by the sound of departure.
"Don't use me as your hiding excuse." It's mean. He's tired. He's not even sure he cares if Natasha takes it personally, considering that soon this won't even have happened this way. Next time he'll be nicer and it won't have mattered what he's said here and now and this time around.
Gravel crunches and rolls. He hears Natasha let out a long breath and from closer by. "He saved my life," she says, after what feels like a long time. A long silence, broken only by Steve's voice drifting over from where he's conferring about Clint. Maybe talking to Bruce over the comms. "More than my life."
"Please don't share." He deserves to get belted in the head for that one, but instead Natasha laughs. Low and really more of a sad snort. More gravel rolls as she kicks at it.
"Fuck you, Stark," she says, but it's friendly. Very Clint like. It's hard to tell, sometimes, which one of them had rubbed off on which.
To Natasha, this must be like losing a limb.
"I'm sorry," he says, again. For being an asshole. He doesn't say that part, and Natasha doesn't infer it.
"It was going to be one of us, one day," she says, but she's starting to sound a little watery. A little less sure, now that the adrenaline is going out of her. Tony swallows. Reminds her,
"I'm fixing this. This is just a problem. I can solve it."
Natasha doesn't make a fun remark about time machines, and after a second Tony senses her attention shifting away, and turns to look. "Bruce and Thor are here," she says.
They are. Thor striding out from a Shield transport with Mjolnir swinging by his side, and Bruce following, smaller and shoulders hunched forward in a way that would be aggressive in anyone else. His coat looks more oversize than usual. In a second, at least one of them will come after him and Nat. The sounds of them talking with Steve carry despite their low volume. Thor's voice reaching them clearer than Bruce, and Natasha smiles--for reasons Tony can't figure--and starts to turn to go join them.
"Tasha,"
"Stark." It's not a rebuff.
"Make sure you get a full report."
She stops. Looks back at him, face solemn again. Catching on fast. "I got you the file," she says.
"Yeah." He's not sure it matters. He and what things he's brought through the portal seem to be existing outside proper logic. A walking, talking, paper pushing, coffee drinking contradiction. Still, why risk it.
"You can't--?"
There has to be a way to concisely explain the specific problems involved in his set-timeframe re-do device, but Natasha glances towards the others, then back to him. He goes with, "There's certain limitations."
Natasha considers that. Says, "Tell me what I need to do."
-----
The next time Clint dies, Tony doesn't even bother walking over to him. Just makes his calls and stands away, not looking at the small huddle of pale and dark that had been Clint. That he'd talked to--again--just a handful of days ago.
He's still standing there when Steve and Natasha arrive, and Natasha walks over to pretend to check on him, but mostly to get away from the technicalities of body removal. He goes through the whole rigmarole with her again before they notice Thor patiently but pointedly waiting and head back.
Which is when Tony notices the embankments. Just slopes of eroded earth, creating shelter around where Clint's been dumped.
He's done it again. Got lost and missed the obvious.
"Son of a bitch. It reset. It's the same fucking underpass again."
Natasha stops. Thor's close enough to cant a questioning look at him. "The--" Tony waves at the dirt. There's grass growing out of it where it's not too rocky, but the whole effect is of tidy neglect. Euro-spiffy, even though the place reeks of abandonment.
"Steve didn't find the file," he says.
"You showed it to us."
Causing Steve to not snoop, and to go to Europe ahead of him. Causing Tony to pick up Clint's call, again, and causing Steve to not warn him, and even if Tony can't find the end of the tangle, that whole temperamental point of contact is making a mess, and there's no point being angry at Steve, much less this Steve, but Tony's suddenly spoiling for a fight. Yells, "What did you tell him? What did you tell Clint?" even though that Steve, that possibility of Steve and Steve-actions, is gone. May as well never have happened, except that he's aware that Clint, one Clint, a somewhen Clint, had maybe thought he'd been sold out. That Tony had sold him out, and it was bad enough for Steve to have thought it, to have jumped to that conclusion, but--
"You son of a bitch!"
Bruce steps between them. Looking small and so ashen he's almost green. Or maybe so angry at the scene Tony's making that he's almost green. It's hard to read him, sometimes.
"I didn't say anything to him, Tony," Steve says. "I didn't talk to him." He looks confused and hurt, but understanding. Sympathetic. It reminds Tony of drinking with him, a whole bunch of possible outcomes ago, and suddenly he's deflating until the armor--and Bruce, a little bit--is the only thing holding him up.
"He--" he's not explaining, probably. Probably, he makes no sense, even though Steve and Natasha are mostly kind of filled in. "He still took four days to die. Even when he thought--" he snorts and disgusting moisture slides down the back of his throat. "Probably he was hoping to get a chance to punch me in the face, that time."
They don't ask him what he's talking about, and Tony's not sure if that's because they've figured out enough on their own, or because they think he's losing his mind, or because there's SHIELD agents around who don't need any more of an earful about his withholding and unauthorized using of what should have been confiscated tech.
That last seems the most important, so Tony swallows the rest of the accusations threatening to spill out and thinks fly straight, Stark. Fly fucking straight, until Bruce nudges him into motion.
"Come on, Tony. Let's take Clint home, okay?"
"I talked to him."
"I know. It's okay."
"It's not okay. He said we. We can get to France." A whole rerun ago. This time Tony had already known about Germany, and directed accordingly. "You think I got him killed? Steve?"
"I didn't--"
"Then tell me; where the hell is the rest of his team?"