1. fingerfood
They didn’t usually have any midnight snacks, but Natasha had been craving waffles during the entirety of the mission, so Clint took it upon himself to whip up some waffles as soon as they returned to the Avengers Tower.
Having a floor designated to one person each was a good system, Clint admitted, but he’d never outright compliment Stark like that — that man’s ego was already through the roof, anyway.
He usually slept in the vents or in Natasha’s room, but between his and her floor, the kitchen happened to be on her floor, which was why Clint was making waffles at five in the morning, still grimy and feeling like shit from their return from the mission that’d ended approximately 20 minutes ago, all because Natasha wanted some.
But there was one thing Clint’s tired brain had overlooked: the Avengers consisted of a few light-sleepers and early birds who happened to wake up at around 5:00 AM — Steve, for example.
If there was anything Steve loved more than microwaves and the internet in the modern world, it was a waffle iron. After all, a hearty breakfast was key to any all-American’s lifestyle. And that very Steven Grant Rogers — Clint, along with Natasha, had looked in Steve’s file to learn more about the man, the myth, the legend; he couldn’t help himself, and Phil’s borderline obsessive fanboying was always a sight to behold — was currently entering Natasha’s floor for his daily cup of orange juice, which meant Clint was basically screwed.
“Wow, something smells amazing here — Clint?”
As if in a cartoon, Clint turned around slowly, both of his hands in the air. Steve’s stunned and very confused eyes met his, and Clint held back a snort of laughter as Steve’s face went through a series of emotions.
“Hey, Cap,” Clint waved sheepishly. So maybe he should’ve made the waffles at a later time, but it was too late; he could hear Natasha shuffling her feet towards the door, about to leave her room. “Want a waffle?”
“Sure, but if you don’t mind me asking,” Clint closed his eyes, internally rolling his eyes in the most dramatic sense. “Why are you making waffles at five in the morning? And why are you so dirty, in all your gear?”
“Yeah, so about that—”
Clint clenched one hand into a fist as he heard Natasha open her bedroom door, her footsteps getting closer and louder towards the kitchen, until—
“The waffles better be ready—”
“Good morning, Natasha,” Steve smiled awkwardly, and Clint began to internally slap himself.
“Rogers,” Clint could hear the thinly veiled embarrassment and surprise in Natasha’s voice; this really wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
“Nat, you’re going to have to give up a waffle for Cap.”
“These waffles are amazing, Clint, thank you,” Steve laughed. “And sorry about all the questions, can’t help myself, you know?”
“All good, Cap.”
“So, do you like to cook?”
Clint coughed as he swore he felt a piece of his waffle get stuck in his throat. Natasha hurried to pat his back, to which he nodded once in both thanks and confirmation.
“Clint’s an amazing cook,” Natasha jumped in. “He makes one of the meanest spaghetti and meatballs I’ve ever eaten.”
Steve seemed pleasantly surprised, nodding in understanding as he bit into another waffle.
“Well, you should cook for the team sometime,” Steve offered.
Clint swallowed a grimace; it was true, he enjoyed cooking. But cooking wasn’t something he liked to flaunt, nor were any of his other skills.
Cooking was something he’d picked up during a mission in Lisbon, when he was undercover as a line cook, chasing a target whose victims all wound up dead after ingesting poison.
Cooking was also an act of intimacy, something he’d hoped to keep between him, Natasha, and Phil. The cat was out of the bag, now, though, and there was nothing he could do.
“I don’t know, I’m not that good at cooking,” He shrugged. He knew Steve was being innocently genuine, but it still didn’t change the fact that cooking for the whole team seemed as if he was letting them in on something they weren’t supposed to know.
“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Steve shook his head. Clint shared a look with Natasha as their leader breezed past the fact that the all-American, goody-two-shoes man himself used such language. “As a self-certified breakfast connoisseur, these waffles are probably the best waffles I’ve ever had, and you know how old I am.”
“Watch it, Cap, swearings for the cool kids,” Clint chuckled, hoping to divert the attention. He stifled a frustrated groan as Steve’s excitement only grew, now about to start listing a plethora of desired dishes.
“Well, Rogers, if we’re feeling up to joining the next team movie night, we’ll try to arrange something,” Natasha gently cut Steve off before he could dive into his personalized menu, placing a hand on Clint’s knee under the table. “But no promises, Hawk here’s a guy who likes to keep to himself.”
Steve nodded, his enthusiasm on Clint’s ability to cook seemingly endless. “Noted. But thank you so much for these delicious waffles, Clint!” Then the man was off, no doubt on his way to run throughout the entire city of New York.
Clint blew out a stressed breath. He really didn’t like showing parts of himself that others didn’t have to know, and his love for cooking, especially for Natasha and Phil, was something he hadn’t expected to give up to someone else so easily.
“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Natasha murmured quietly, stroking Clint’s knee. “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. At least, not here, not with these people.”
“I know.”
“But I’d love to show off my favorite spaghetti and meatballs in the whole entire universe,” Natasha nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck. Clint smiled as he felt her smile against his skin.
“Well, if you say so…” Clint whisked Natasha up into his arms and marched towards the bedroom, Natasha shrieking in delight.
Clint was going to warm up to the others. Someday. But for now, his own three course meal named Natasha Romanoff was in his arms and, oh, fuck it, he would cook for the team as long as he had her.
2. little einstein
“Mr. Barton, Mr. Stark and Banner are requesting your presence at the lab.”
Clint frowned as JARVIS’s message interrupted the silent streak he’d been maintaining with his headstand, Natasha remaining unbothered right beside him.
For a second, he debated on ignoring the message, but the thought of Bruce asking for him as well was enough to convince him. Clint may have found the billionaire philanthropist annoying, but the gentle giant was always a delight to be around.
Righting himself to the correct vertical form, Clint brushed his hand past Natasha’s elbow in farewell, hurrying his steps out of the gym.
As the lab came into view, Clint halted in his path, the frown from earlier returning in full force. The obnoxiously large and transparent walls portrayed what he thought was a clear representation of modern day mad scientists; spare parts and rogue beakers scattered all over the place, Tony and Bruce were engaged in a heated discussion, a bulletin board littered with notes and notes. On second thought, he really didn’t want to step into the seemingly horrendous state of the lab. But of course, Tony “I’m literally Iron Man” Stark caught him just as he was about to turn around.
“Hey Legolas, got a second?”
“I’m here for Bruce, not you, идиот,” Idiot, Clint scowled, though he had to restrain a crude smirk as Tony’s eyes narrowed at the last minute Russian comment, indecipherable to him. “So, why was I summoned here for ya mad guys?”
“‘Ya mad guys’? Didn’t think you’d be a southern lingo type guy,” Tony mused.
“It’s midwestern.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s midwestern, playboy,” Clint rolled his eyes. A flash of a memory, in a backyard playground somewhere in Iowa, a faceless deep rumble calling out Time to eat, ya guys! briefly filled his head, before disappearing all together.
“Whatever,” Tony bit back. For one of the smartest people in the world, Tony was so easy to rile up. “We’ve been working on a new dynamic target practice system to add to the gym, and we want you to be our guinea pig!”
Despite his dismay, Clint felt his face morph into a smile at the sound of “target practice”; by the looks of Tony’s smugness, Clint was sure he was showing more emotion than he’d liked.
“It better be damn hard to get through if you want me to play guinea pig,” Clint snorted.
The target practice model, as expected, was pretty easy, considering Clint already had experience training with moving targets back on the Helicarrier. He’d been momentarily stunned when projectile objects were launched at him, though he easily got the hang of maneuvering around them while nailing every target in the bull’s eye. By the end, Tony was furiously writing down notes with an irritated and murderous look on his face, while Bruce simply said, “Interesting.”
“Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?” Tony asked, still aggressively writing.
“Maybe some environmental factors, like wind or fog, would be nice? Out in the field, we’re usually expecting the worst conditions possible,” Clint shrugged, retrieving his arrows.
“I have a question for you, Clint,” Bruce spoke after a moment of silence, only Tony’s scribbling filling the room.
“Go for it.”
“Have you ever learned or studied physics and math before?”
Clint paused, before resuming his arrow retrieval. The truth was, not that he really planned on letting anyone other than Phil and Natasha know, was that after getting discharged from his special forces unit the military, Clint had taken some time off to lay low and catch up on everything that he’d been avoiding — he liked to say that he was just saving his responsibilities for a better time, but knew it was avoidance, at the end of the day — which included the seemingly useless question of pursuing higher education.
The short answer? Abso-fucking-lutely not; he was almost certain he had a case of undiagnosed ADHD, and his annoyingly vivid memory of the short-lived experience of primary school in his childhood was enough to make him shiver in disgust.
The long answer, though, was more of a reflection of his life than a concrete answer. Since his time in the circus, he’d been trained to perform stunts and acrobatics, wield weapons for a show, and always remain two steps ahead of others, considering how young he was compared to the other circus members. Some even went as far to call him calculated and cunning, a prick disguised under a mask of innocence. And when he’d been left to die outside the armoire tent, half planted into the mud, an all-too-familiar knife sticking out of his rib cage, he’d known that the calculated, cunning brain of his had pushed him down into a well of pain and turmoil.
But it was also that very same brain of his that’d kept him alive as a contract killer, until Phil Coulson got to him in a dumpster alleyway of Copenhagen. And once Clint had joined SHIELD, well, it was quickly established that he wasn’t necessarily to be described as calculating and cunning, but simply smart. Phil’s skepticism — rightfully so; Clint hadn’t attended school since he was a literal child — had led him to sign Clint up for tactical and critical thinking lectures that SHIELD offered, but Clint always skipped or slept through them, arguing that he’d figure things out when the time came, and that, he most definitely did.
His real genius, literally, was discovered by chance. It was standard evaluation procedure, having agents take IQ tests and practice anti-waterboarding skills on the same day, or at least, that was what another senior handling agent who wasn’t Phil Coulson had said. And when he’d passed with flying colors — albeit, he was practically drowning at the end of the mock waterboarding session; he’d set a new record though, with 8 minutes and 17 seconds — Phil, after quite viscerally reprimanding the other handling agent, quietly told Clint that he’d never seen any SHIELD agent’s IQ hit up to 164. That’d been the last time Clint ever participated in any lectures or “standard evals”, and the last time Phil left Clint with another handler.
He’d known that using an antiquated weapon like a bow and arrow required much more precision than a mere pistol or a knife, but that’d been one of the many reasons why he’d chosen it in the first place. At the circus, he’d learned almost everything he knew today by looking over other people’s shoulders, from learning sign language and how to read lips, the difference between a blade-heavy, handle-heavy, and a balanced knife, to arguably the most important skill of all: knowing how to take the right chances to survive. When Phil pointed out that Clint had to be doing some intense calculations in his head to never miss a shot, Clint merely shrugged. Physics? Math? He never once enjoyed doing boring stuff like that, but when he had a weapon in his hand, the story quickly became different. Calculating the distance between himself and the target based on wind speed, angle, his current position, and how much he could pull back the bow string? Now that was the physics and math he was talking about.
But instead of answering Bruce’s question — and potentially opening up a window for Tony to look into his childhood yet again — Clint chose to simply say, “Some say I have a decent IQ.”
“And what might your IQ be?” At Clint’s wary expression, Bruce smiled in reassurance. “Just so we know how to adjust this new target practice model.”
Just as Clint was about to answer, Tony jumped in. “No, hold that thought, I want to guess!” Tony finally put down his pen, the side of his hand smeared with ink.
“Okay, Robin Hood, you’re giving… what, 140? 145?”
“164,” Clint said quietly. “Nice try, though.”
“Wow,” Bruce gasped, while Tony stared at him, his jaw practically kissing the floor.
“164? When did you even get an IQ test done? Your black-lined files said you joined SHIELD when you were in your teens,” Tony rambled in disbelief.
“First of all, fuck you for trying to look into my and Nat’s files, and second of all, it’s “standard SHIELD procedure”,” Clint air quoted, remembering how terrible he’d felt, coughing up all that water. “We — well, maybe it was just me — had to take an IQ test as new recruits. First time I ever learned my brain wasn’t trying to fuck me over.”
“That makes sense,” Bruce nodded, sharing a look with Tony. “You’re an archer and a sniper, you require a lot of preliminary calculations done to make sure you hit your target. It’s almost as if your brain is an automatic calculator, it’s fascinating.”
“Um, is that a compliment?” Clint sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. At Bruce’s affirmative nodding, he finally smiled. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Legolas, Robin Hood, and now, Little Einstein! What a trio you got there, huh?” Tony grinned as if he was genuinely impressed. Clint just flipped him off, the new nickname not going unnoticed by all three of them.
With his arrows all gathered, he waved a goodbye towards the two scientists who were already deeply absorbed into their new data, silently leaving the lab.
164? Damn, you’re a little Einstein, aren’t you, kid?
Phil Coulson had once called him little Einstein, patting Clint’s back to help him expel all the water he’d ingested.
Some nicknames were meant to stay, Clint supposed.
3. massage and more
It became a tradition for the team, having elimination sparring matches for fun. Every time, either Steve or Thor went to the finals. And every time, it was Clint they were facing.
This week, Thor had made it to the finals, Steve tapping out after a particularly brutal sideswipe to his ribs from Thor that left him on the ground, wheezing and panting to regain his breath for over 10 seconds. The other contenders, like Tony and Natasha, were defeated by Clint, though Tony was more like a warm up partner and Natasha preferred to watch Clint kick ass in the finals, making their match rather playful than the other rounds. Bruce never participated, worried the Hulk would overreact, but there was no doubt that he enjoyed cheering on the matches with Pepper more than participating in the matches himself.
Clint rolled his neck, shaking out his arms and legs. Going against Thor was something he always looked forward to; it wasn’t any day a guy like him got to spar against a literal Norse god, nonetheless the god of thunder himself.
“Go ham, Point Break!” Tony whooped from the side, earning him a glare from Clint. He quickly added, “And stay nimble as ever, Legolas!”
“Просто сосредоточься, мой ястреб,” Just focus, my hawk, Natasha murmured, handing Clint a mouthpiece, before stepping off to the side.
“Всегда, мой паук,” Always, my spider, Clint smiled. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Clint kept his arms loose to his sides, meeting Thor’s thrilled eyes. Thor seemed even burlier than usual, with his casual training sweats on and his hair put up into a small half bun. He had his fists ready and up, one hand positioned to guard, the other ready to attack. The stark difference in their stances gave Clint a brief flashback to when he was a newly recruited training agent, forced to participate in sparring matches with other recruits for evaluation. His arms, loose to his sides, had made everyone doubt him, until Clint wiped the floor, sending over half of the recruits to medical and rest of them cowering at eye contact. Good times, he supposed.
“Shall we?” Thor grinned. Then, even before Clint could respond, he was moving, a surprising blur of speed, considering his size. Luckily, Clint was trained by Phil Coulson, that mother hen of a handler, who’d taught him that Clint’s greatest strength came from his patience. So when the first of Thor’s many blows rained down on him, Clint was prepared.
Clint ducked under the sweeping arc of a fist, using the momentum to propel himself into a backflip that landed him just out of reach. His movements were fluid, a testament to his acrobatic roots from years in the circus.
“Impressive!” Thor bellowed, turning to face him. Thor charged again, this time feinting a punch before aiming a kick toward Clint’s midsection. Clint twisted, narrowly avoiding the blow, and used the angle to roll over Thor’s extended leg, landing gracefully on his feet behind the god.
But despite his patience, Clint could get oh-so-bored — that meant it was time for him to switch over to his “offensive defense tactic,” as Phil called it. He launched into a series of flips and rolls, keeping his movements unpredictable. Thor’s arms lashed out like hammers, each strike powerful enough to probably pummel him into the ground and possibly even deeper, but Clint’s agility kept him just out of harm’s way. Thor’s sheer strength was balanced by Clint’s uncanny ability to read his opponent and use the environment to his advantage, and that was only further verified as Clint practically mapped out the whole floor and walls with his moves, never once letting Thor land a hit.
At one point, Thor managed to catch Clint’s arm mid-dodge. With a swift tug, Thor spun him around, but Clint’s instincts kicked in. He kicked off Thor’s chest, flipping backward, and landed in a crouch, his landing silent and graceful, trained from his time in the circus and always being on the run as a merc. Thor stumbled a few steps back, stunned by the force of Clint launching off of him, causing him to grin in approval while the crowd watching murmured their approval, even Steve, who usually maintained a poker face during these matches, cracked a small smile.
“Tired yet, big guy?” Clint smiled wolfishly, the warmth of adrenaline spreading through his body keeping him sharp. Thor simply barked a thunderous laugh in response. The latter didn’t seem the least tired, nonetheless winded, but then again, neither was Clint.
Thor swung his arm, his fist directly aimed at Clint’s ribs. Anticipating the impact, Clint twisted his body out of Thor’s fist’s path, just enough for Thor to graze his ribs — or so he thought. Instead of weaving past Thor’s attack as he planned, Clint’s eyes widened as Thor’s other arm snatched his shirt, the original fist being a bait.
For half a heartbeat, Clint was suspended in the air, only held up by Thor’s grip on his shirt. Then he was practically flying through the air, until the clear sound of fabric ripping filled the tense room and his back hit the solid ground once again, and rolled to a stop against the wall. Yep, that was going to leave a mark.
Clint pushed himself back up, shaking out his limbs to check for any injuries he wasn’t aware of. Luckily, all ten fingers and toes were intact in their right positions, as were his limbs. His back though, his back had been the first part of him to make contact with the ground. He was going to have to ask Natasha to check it out later.
Frowning, his eyes snapped to where he knew Natasha was, the gym too quiet for a playful sparring match. He was met with her grim green eyes, and barely registered the others’ horrified looks. Belatedly, he realized his shirt felt a bit too loose on his frame — damn it all, Thor had ripped off a good chunk of his favorite training shirt.
“Clint, I didn’t mean–” Thor started, but Clint easily waved the apology away, a genuine smile of understanding on his face.
“Don’t worry about it, buddy, I got more of these.”
“Jesus, you’ve been through a blender or something?” Tony blurted out, just as Clint expected.
“Tony!" Pepper hissed, slapping him on the arm.
“What, I’m just asking a question–”
Subconsciously, Clint moved his hand to cover the one scar on his left rib cage. Natasha narrowed her eyes, cocking her head as if to ask, All good?
Clint just winced lightly, reassuring her that he was fine for the most part, but with the way his back was aching, he was probably going to need a massage.
“Well, obviously Thor takes the crown so, uh, happy team bonding day?” Clint mustered a joke to play things off, but the wince he’d sent to Natasha only intensified as he read the thinly veiled sympathy in Steve and Bruce’s eyes. On second thought, maybe he should’ve read Thor’s moves better. “Look, I ain’t the only one with scars here, alright? No need to go all screaming bloody murder shocked on me.”
“But Clint–” Steve stepped forward, concern and sympathy painted across his face. Clint thought he’d rather have Thor throw him across the room again than face anyone’s unnecessary concern.
“Relax, Cap, it’s just scars. You’ve got yourself a few, too. And Thor, I bet yours look fucking majestic, man.”
Thor beamed, oblivious to the rest of the people’s shock, tossing over the piece of fabric he’d ripped off of Clint’s shirt.
“What’s that one you’re hiding — ow, Pepper!” Tony shrieked as Pepper now swung her arm in full force, smacking the back of Tony’s head. Pepper glared at Tony, daring him to continue. Tony shrunk back, fleetingly glancing over at Clint.
“It’s just another scar,” Clint swallowed thickly. It was, in fact, not just a scar, but the scar; it was the scar that pushed him into enlisting in the military when he wasn’t even legal, becoming a merc and collecting checks left and right by killing, and ultimately accepting his so-called fate to join SHIELD and defend the world. He barely held back a flinch as the scar seemed to burn behind his hand that was covering it. “It’s just a scar,” He murmured again, his eyes rapidly searching for Natasha’s.
Suddenly, he felt mortified. He felt out of place, alienated and sick to his stomach. And it took a lot to make Clint feel mortified. But this was the same state he’d been in when he’d been compromised by Loki– no, no. He wasn’t going to go back too far in his own head. Phil forgave him, Clint reminded himself, and so did Natasha.
But it didn’t change the fact that he sure felt as fucking self conscious as a child who wet themselves; he hastily excused himself, patting Thor on the shoulder, and practically bolted out of the gym, his team’s hushed voices inevitably and immediately following his quick departure. Natasha was right behind him, as he’d expected — as she always would be, by his side.
“Клинт.” Clint.
He stopped in his tracks, surprised by how heavy and fast he was breathing. One word. All he had to say was one word, and he knew she’d follow him anywhere, even if it was to the depths of hell.
“That was embarrassing, huh?” Instead, he bit out a sad attempt at lightening the mood, slowly turning around to face Natasha. “Thought I really had the win in the bag this time.”
Though her face held a small frown, rage flashed in her eyes; not towards him, but towards the history of his scars.
“You took a pretty hard tumble there,” She said quietly, reaching out to take the piece of fabric from his hand. The fabric was easily replaced with her own hand, her fingers lightly tracing the veins and scars on his hand.
“Ah, unfortunately my favorite training shirt became the sacrificial lamb, but I’m sure you like it when I have no shirt on at all,” He smirked.
“Каждая часть тебя прекрасна.” Every part of you is beautiful.
Clint blinked slowly. Sometimes, Natasha said some of the most grounding, sincerest words that rang his heart, and she probably didn’t even know how much he fell in love with her again and again, every single day.
“You trying to make me blush, Tash? ‘Cause it’s working,” He winked, a gesture of gratitude and subtle denial all in one. “I’m fine, I swear. Tony’s incessant nagging just threw me off guard, that’s all.”
“Promise?”
“With all my heart.”
Finally, Natasha cracked a smile. It took everything in Clint to stay upright, her small smile basically knocking the wind straight out of his lungs. If he could, he would just run away, in this instant, with just her and Phil. And he knew she’d be fine with that.
“Massage me?” He grinned, mischief written all over his face. “And maybe some other things, too?”
The snort of laughter Natasha released was the best thing Clint had heard all day.
4. stuck in memory lane
Growing up, things had always been… especially vivid for Clint. His parents, back when they were actually relevant in his life, commented that he had a memory like a camera; he’d learned that it meant he had eidetic memory when he’d been left at the circus, cared for by fellow performers and a soon-to-go-rogue Barney.
It was why he hadn’t been too fazed when he was abruptly thrust into the world of brutal survival, being able to lie through his teeth faster than he could blink and blow his own cover. One look at a map or a case file, the entire thing was carved into his brain, no matter how minuscule a detail was, and those details were what’d kept him in the game for so long.
It was also one of the more advantageous skills he possessed, though sometimes it provided him with too much information than he’d liked to remember, such as accidentally walking in on Phil and Melinda May getting dangerously close to “becoming unprofessional at the workplace,” as he mocked Phil’s own words back at him. And of course, being the mother hen that he was, Phil had kept Clint’s photographic memory, along with other skill sets, confidential, hence the lack of people who were aware of Clint’s enhanced memory, other than Phil, Natasha, Fury, and Hill.
The first few times he’d utilized his eidetic memory around the newly formed Avengers had been his mistakes; some instances included remembering baseball stats from way before he was born when talking with Steve, or asking Thor about the most obscure creatures from Norse worlds. And when any of them asked, he just said, “Phil mentioned it,” or “I’m an avid reader,” which worked every single time.
But as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was clearly working with some of the smartest, strongest beings in world, one of them being a literal nuclear biophysicist personally recruited by SHIELD not only for his intellect, but his intuition, sharp enough to read through Natasha Romanoff’s bluffing.
Clint liked Bruce, he really did. Bruce, despite being a scientist like Tony, was much more reserved, humble, and respectable. But the way the man’s brain was able to connect all the dots and paint a literal mural in his head with such limited information, if he didn’t turn into the jolly green giant, Clint was sure Bruce would’ve made a good intel agent.
So when Clint opened his bedroom door — shocker, considering he basically never stayed in his own room — to reveal an awkwardly standing Bruce, he felt both wary and curious to want to know what the scientist had to say.
To his surprise, Bruce just waved and asked, “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure Doc, here, take a set,” Clint grinned unsurely, dragging over a chair. Bruce quietly thanked him, sitting down. “What’s up?”
“I need information.”
Clint blinked in genuine surprise; so the jolly green himself was a man of many surprises himself, wasn’t he?
“About…?” Clint spoke slowly. Getting information was a finicky matter, and considering the sheer number of missions he’d been sent on just to retrieve intel, Clint needed to tread his grounds very carefully.
For a moment, Bruce hesitated, looking down at his hands. Was that… was that a blush he was seeing on Bruce’s cheeks? Clint couldn’t help but clear his throat, his curiosity getting the best of him. Bruce snapped his head back up, a new determination set so intensely in his eyes that Clint was stunned.
“I… I want to get some information on a woman named Betty Ross.”
Betty Ross, where had Clint heard that name before? His head scanned through hundreds and thousands of pieces of information, until he remembered a page in Bruce’s files.
“You mean Doctor Elizabeth “Betty” Ross, born May 11th, 1973, daughter of former Lieutenant General of the United States Army, Thaddeus Ross? Harvard graduate with a professor position at Culver University for cellular biology? The woman you were in love — I mean, you are in love with? That Betty Ross?”
Bruce gaped at Clint, who was obliviously smirking to himself, satisfied with his own ability to recall so much information in such a short time.
“Okay yes… but how do you know all that? I mean, I didn’t even know the year she was born and I was, y’know, “involved” with her,” Bruce arched an eyebrow, his face an expression of both impressiveness and confusion.
The smirk on Clint’s face immediately fell flat as his brain registered the waterfall of information he’d just blurted out. Right, he hadn’t told the other people he’d recently begun to live with about his memory situation.
“Um, lucky guess?”
Bruce leveled a stare, making Clint sober up real fast. Yep, he’d spoken too much, too quickly.
“Fine, I saw it in your file,” Clint admitted, looking away.
“When? And I have a file at SHIELD?” Bruce gasped. Really, the scientist could be a tad bit too naïve sometimes.
“Before we began to observe the Tesseract, after Nat came back from Malibu, playing Stark’s secretary.” He remembered the shock he’d been in as Phil and Fury broke the news of him and Natasha being at the forefront to kickstart the Avengers Initiative. He still wasn’t convinced why he deserved to be a part of this team, but he sure had met a hell of an interesting group to work with. “And yes, of course there’s a file on you, we’re SHIELD, Doc.”
“Touché. But if my calculations are correct, you mean you saw my file almost a year ago, did you ever access it again recently?”
“Nope, I was busy, if you couldn’t tell, killing my own coworkers and infiltrating my own home base,” Clint chuckled darkly, bitterness seeping into his words. It was going to take him a long time before he could even accept that it was technically all Loki’s doing.
“But Clint, that means you’d have–”
“Eidetic memory?” At Bruce’s surprise, Clint rolled his eyes. “Obviously I know, I just didn’t want to flaunt it around like our resident Tin Man would.”
“Jesus Clint, that’s impressive as fuck.”
A burst of laughter ripped from Clint’s throat as he was taken aback by Bruce’s vulgar language. And here he was thinking, jolly green could never say a single bad word.
“And annoying as fuck, too,” He added, shrugging. “I already see too much, but I remember too much too? That’s like, as bad as paying double the price for a small and sad slice of pizza!”
Bruce huffed a breath of laughter, and Clint knew his ridiculous analogy had hit the mark. Bruce was a man he could trust, at least, as long as Clint could get him the intel he’d requested in this case, he supposed.
“Look, getting the intel won’t be too hard. But for my sake, maybe keep my curse of a photographic memory on the down low for a while?” Clint stuck out his hand. Bruce firmly shook his hand, the hesitation from earlier completely gone.
“Thanks, Clint. Your little secret is safe with me,” Bruce winked.
That was all the confirmation Clint needed before taking out his phone to shoot Maria Hill a text.
5. talk [insert language] to me
It was expected of every covert SHIELD operative to know how to speak at least one other language than English. In fact, any SHIELD operative handbook mentioned this expectation, thus, a good majority of SHIELD’s personnel were well accustomed to a variety of languages.
Oftentimes, operatives only chose to learn another majorly spoken language, like Spanish, a Chinese dialect, French, and so on. It was actually very rare nowadays to find a covert operative who knew more than two languages, of course, unless that agent was Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff.
A little over a decade, they’d been partnered, and aside from their skyrocketing combat skills and historically unheard success rate as a strike team, they’d both learned over dozens of languages, being able to speak them as fluently as a native, save for the occasional slang they didn’t understand.
And old habits die hard, they said. Even as they transitioned from life on the Helicarrier to the Avengers Tower, it didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the residents that Clint and Natasha spoke in an incomprehensible language, sometimes using sign language, other times not even verbalizing their conversation.
For the most part, the fellow Avengers and Pepper understood that the use of any language that wasn’t English meant the two assassins wanted to keep the conversation to themselves, unless it was a phrase or a few words dropped out of habit.
Except for Tony.
While in deep cover as Natalie Rushman, Natasha had taken the pleasure to play around with JARVIS. And lo and behold, the Avengers had made themselves home to what was once Stark Tower, meaning they were to acquaint themselves with JARVIS. In the time that they were adjusting to their new, unified life, Natasha had easily convinced Pepper to command JARVIS not to translate any foreign languages, both verbal and visual, considering she and Clint already had a grasp of a plethora of languages.
Clint remembered being skeptical at first, though, it was safe to say that he was skeptical of practically everything his new abode offered, including his own teammates who weren’t Natasha. But when he’d accidentally cursed in Russian, JARVIS didn’t immediately translate the profanity, which had satisfied Clint for the most part. Nowadays, Clint felt comfortable enough to speak in Russian or any other language even when the others were around, knowing that JARVIS wouldn’t do anything about it.
Honestly, there were countless instances where Tony tried and failed to understand what Clint and Natasha were saying. If he changed tactics, or quit trying entirely, Clint wouldn’t have blamed him.
But Tony Stark was one hell of a persistent man, Clint had to give it to him.
Whenever Clint and Natasha exchanged a few words in a language that wasn’t English near Tony, he would immediately pipe up and ask what they’d just said. And every time, they managed to ignore him without strangling him.
But on the days that Tony got really annoying, Clint simply replied back with, “Maybe you should be asking the right questions.”
Tony would just scoff at the prospect of his own inaccuracy, moving on to nag Natasha to teach him a few words in Russian.
One could ask, what prompted Clint to reflect back on a matter as such? Well, considering he was trying — trying, and trying very hard — to enjoy his worn out copy of the French transcript of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace with Tony blatantly snooping over his shoulder to steal looks at what Clint was trying to read, it could be said, rather, that it was inevitable for Clint to remember the numerous instances when Tony want to butt in and join in on his and Natasha’s conversations.
“Psst, hey Legolas,” Tony whistled. Clint scowled into the page he’d been failing to get through for the past ten minutes, but ignored Tony. “Whatcha readin’?”
Clint steeled himself, willing himself to not respond. He’d lasted the past thirty minutes, he could last at least fifteen more minutes.
“Come on, scared I won’t know? I’m a genius, believe it or not. I have my fair share of knowledge.”
“Putain d’enfer,” Fucking hell, Clint whispered under his breath. Of course, Tony narrowed his eyes as he caught the profanity.
“You just said something in French… JARVIS, can you — right, he doesn’t translate shit for me, thanks to Little Lenin,” Tony frowned. “La Guerre Et La Paix, and what could that possibly mean?” Clint visibly winced at Tony’s harsh American pronunciation; Tolstoy was probably threatening to dig out of his grave at such a horrendous pronunciation.
Sighing, Clint closed the book, rapidly counting to ten in Korean in his head. He simply couldn’t figure out what he’d ever done to deserve such a painful punishment that was being left alone with no one else but Tony Stark.
“First of all, it’s War and Peace, you идиот. You should read it sometime, it might teach you a lesson or two.” A muscle twitched in Clint’s jaw. It was too late for him to turn back and return to his book; Tony’s eyes were sparkling in glee at Clint’s recognition.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, what’s up with you and Red? Any trouble in paradise, or are you just extra prickly today because she isn’t here to speak with you in parseltongue?”
Breezing past Tony’s jab about him and Natasha’s relationship, Clint gave the former a leveled look, daring him to try and test his patience any further. If it wasn’t for Pepper, Clint would’ve gladly slapped some duct tape over the man’s mouth for at least a good three days.
“What do you want, Tin Man?”
“You know, I’ve always had this question, and you’re always telling me to ask the right questions, but how many languages can you and Stalin speak? I mean, it’s gotta be at least three per person, right?”
Clint blinked. So yes, he had told Tony to start asking the right questions, but he hadn’t expected this one in particular. Maybe he’d just overestimated Tony’s true grasp on espionage, or the proclaimed genius wasn’t a genius in every field after all.
“Enough to survive on every continent.” He vaguely avoided answering the question in detail; from sign language to Occitan, Clint had mastered the languages he could speak by experiencing some form of a major life event or mission going south in the countless countries he’d visited, and that was something he didn’t plan on sharing to anyone, nevertheless Tony, any time soon.
“Okay that’s obvious, though. You speak English, Russian, and clearly French, by your book! And I thought Red was impressive because her English is flawless,” Tony rolled his eyes. “Man, isn’t this the type of “right questions” you were talking about?”
“You just need to know that we speak a lot of languages, Stark.”
“If you can’t tell, I’m a man of science and data, Big Bird. Just give me an estimate so maybe I can kickstart my own super spy career?”
“A super spy career? You? Playboy, you gotta lose all that tech first,” Clint frowned, eyeing Tony up and down. “Anyway, at least anywhere from 15 to 20 languages between us, do what you will with that information, except for babbling it around like you normally do.”
Tony feigned being hurt, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “I wouldn’t dare!” He exclaimed. Then, oddly enough, he returned his attention to his phone, seemingly smug with the answers he’d gotten out of Clint.
But who was Clint to care if Tony Stark stopped talking to him? Satisfied, he opened his book again, now easily able to get past the page he’d been stuck on.
“Here, switch your Avengers comms out for these,” Tony held out his hand, two comms placed on his palm. Clint furrowed his brows together in confusion; he hadn’t noticed anything weird about his current comms. “And give Red one, too.”
“What are these?” Clint hesitantly took the new comms, pocketing them.
“I call them the “channel comms,” designed especially for you and Rushman.”
At Clint’s continued look of confusion, Tony sighed an exasperated breath, rolling his eyes.
“They’re for you two to switch over to another “channel” if you have to talk in a different language or whatever when you’re out in the field with us,” Tony explained. His eyes were bright with excitement, that ego of his no doubt skyrocketing. “We all know by now that you guys have your “It’s classified,” spiel going on,” Tony dramatically air quoted.
“Oh. Um, wow. Thanks, Stark.” Clint felt his eyes grow in genuine surprise. Now he understood the reason behind his teammate’s unpredictable question a few days ago.
“Haven’t tested it out yet ‘cause, y’know, I only know one language, but let me know if there’s anything to tweak,” Tony flashed a grin.
Clint nodded, dumbfounded. As he was about to express his gratitudes once again, JARVIS interrupted. “Mister Stark sir, Miss Potts is requesting your immediate presence, or she’s saying she’ll throw out all of your current projects.”
“Shit! Alright thanks J, tell her I’m on my way now — see ya, Legolas.”
“Hey Stark?” Tony halted in his steps, his hand still opening the door. “It’s 18.”
Understanding dawned in Tony’s eyes. Winking, the former bid a sloppy wave before he was out and running towards the elevators.
Clint huffed a breath of laughter. Thanks to Stark, he knew just how he was going to annoy Phil on the next strike team mission.
+1. “kid”
Clint wiped the blood that was trickling into his line of vision. He winced as his hand brushed a cut near his eyebrow that was no doubt too small for him to have felt when he’d first gotten it.
Fucking Philip James and his fucked up intel — not only had Clint nearly left the job incomplete, but James had decided to stab him the back and plant other mercs in the field to come after Clint’s neck. And despite killing the target James had promised to pay in extra for, now Clint was James’s new target, forced to stick to his rusty Danish as he crept through Copenhagen’s night.
So far, he’d successfully taken out the three other mercs he’d seen, though the last one had put up a dirty fight until Clint jammed an arrow into the man’s eye, his blood spraying Clint all over, hence the disgusting amount of blood coating Clint as he paused to catch his breath behind a dumpster.
The scar on his ribcage throbbed; Clint hung his head low as he tried to breathe through the sudden twinge of pain.
Jesus, Barney, his bro — that bastard had stabbed Clint already four years ago. All because of that one scar, Clint had taken on both the greatest honor of his life and the worst disgrace of his life in the span of just four years. Joining the military, albeit, under a false age, was one of Clint’s greatest prides. Escaping military prison after getting discovered was well, the start of the shitshow of a life he was currently living. The only thing good about the past four years — if it could even be considered “good” — was the money; he’d made a shit ton of money in just a little over a year, enough to buy off his old Iowa home and get information on the whereabouts of the people in his past who he planned on visiting… one day.
If he had a choice, he’d leave this life in a heartbeat. And yet, every rope of hope he’d hung onto in his life had been a series of rotten ropes, false hope littered around him. Honestly, if just a random stranger offered him out of the game, he was willing to take it, as long as the pay—
“Clint Barton.”
—As long as the pay was good, he was saying, right?
In a flash, Clint had his gun pointed at the voice, meeting the unreadable gaze of a pair of brown eyes.
“Hvem er du?” Who are you? Clint internally cursed himself for his sickeningly Americanized accent; he hadn’t gotten the chance to learn the language completely before taking James’s job in Copenhagen.
The man raised both of his hands in a motion of surrender, a thinly veiled smile lacing his lips.
“Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD. I want to ask you to come with me, Clint Barton.” This Phil Coulson, he was annoyingly unreadable, and Clint tended to read people very well, sometimes too well.
“Jeg ved ikke hvem du taler om,” I don’t know who you’re talking about, Clint smoothed out his facial expressions into an innocent façade.
“Er du sikker?” Are you sure? The sudden and similarly Americanized Danish came fast and hard, making Clint narrow his eyes. “Come on, Barton, we both know you’re an all-American, born in America and raised in America type of guy. Idaho, is it?”
“It’s Iowa–” Clint scowled as he immediately defended his home state, slipping back into English. Fuck, this Coulson guy was good. He’d made Clint switch into English with a single comment.
“Now we’re talking,” Coulson smiled fully now, his eyes still unreadable. “I’m not here to hurt you, Barton, even though it should be me hearing that from you.”
“What do you want? How do you know my name?” For the past year, Clint had gone by Hawkeye, and only Hawkeye. For Phil Coulson to know his name meant Phil Coulson had access to a lot of information — SHIELD, he’d said.
“Like I said, I want you to come with me. Join SHIELD.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Listen kid, I think it’s obvious that this merc life isn’t the right one for you. And escaping from military prison? I bet that was a piece of cake for you wasn’t it? I mean, you did get into the military with a fake age after all,” Coulson practically listed all of Clint’s past four years with a backhanded comment, his expression so nonchalant that Clink had to blink through his astonishment. “But damn, you were a real good soldier, and an even better sniper, weren’t you, kid? It’s a shame someone snitched you out, you would’ve definitely gotten a job offer from us in a much more domestic and civil manner if you know, you hadn’t gone to military prison and all.”
“First of all, don’t call me kid, unless you’re fine with me calling you old man. How do you know that, anyway? What if what you’re offering is just another rotten rope?”
Phil Coulson’s lips twitched in barely concealed amusement at Clint’s visceral reaction to being called “kid.” Again, Clint internally kicked himself at the rare display of emotions he was showing, in front of a stranger, nonetheless.
“Hey, you good, kid? Seems like you took a nasty hit there,” Coulson’s eyes sharpened with concern, a frown forming.
“I said don’t call me kid—” Clint clamped down a hand to his side, biting the inside of his mouth as he found the injury located too close to the scar Barney gave him. Right, that same last merc he’d taken out had also gotten in a nice shot on him, though not as accurate as Clint’s aim. “I’m fine,” He stubbornly jutted out his chin.
“No, I have an ace bandage on me, let me see it,” Coulson stepped forward towards Clint, but Clint’s gun followed the former’s steps, making Coulson back up again.
“I’m fine,” Clint repeated. “Now, you said you were SHIELD?”
Phil Coulson warily eyed the hand Clint had on his bullet wound, but nodded to continue his rather appealing offer.
“SHIELD, short for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, is a worldwide military organization established to protect Earth. Our objective for agents like me is to recruit assets who have potential in becoming skilled operatives to defend the world from any threats of any scale.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got that already when you explained the stupid acronym,” Clint waved his hand that was holding the gun. “Why me, though? What do I get out of this?”
“For starters, you don’t need to kill people for other people to survive. We also guarantee you protection and resources, so long as you are loyal to us. It’s a second chance, Barton, something I think you’d like,” Coulson clasped his hands together in front of him. “Or I guess, you need it more than you want it, don’t you?”
Clint remained silent, his aim on the gun never faltering. Phil Coulson seemed to be aware that, too, considering how still he remained.
The offer was a convincing deal, Clint admitted. And it was also true that he needed to leave this life; the more he killed, the more he felt like he was going to meet the wretched, tainted end that he’d always feared, even before he got to seeking justice for himself. Really, he didn’t see any immediate harm in taking up this enigmatic man’s offer, but then again, maybe it was his young and dumb eighteen year old brain doing the talking.
“Look, old man, I see what you’re offering, alright? But I’m just so deep into the game that I’m gonna need some time to make a decision. Give me until tomorrow, you can do that, right?”
Phil Coulson barked a dry laugh at the not-so-subtle dig before nodding, though hesitant. “I’m leaving at 0600 tomorrow, if you make up your mind, find me. I know you’ll know how.”
Clint slowly lowered the gun, satisfied with the answer. He already had a sense of what he was going to decide, but taking the extra time to go over his final choice didn’t hurt anyone, right?
As Clint placed the gun back where it was hidden in his “suit,” Phil Coulson tipped his head with a tight, small smile, then walked away from the dumpster alley, leaving Clint to wonder if their interaction had been a mere fever dream.
But other things required his immediate attention; hurrying his steps, Clint slipped away into the darkness and back to his safehouse, the bullet wound below Barney’s scar pulsing crimson red blood.
The silver and shining fighter jet was painfully sticking out from the surrounding greenery, Clint thought, as he adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder.
“Coulson!” He shouted, hoping his voice was heard through the roar of the jet’s engine. Immediately, a weary and tired, but familiar face popped out from the jet’s base door platform.
“Kid, you came,” Coulson walked up to greet Clint with a knowing smile, his eyes still unreadable.
Clint scowled at the friendly term, but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he went straight to the point. “The pay better be damn good, way better than my contract kills, old man.” And to make sure his seriousness was emphasized, Clint pointed at the briefcase of money he’d received from the fucked up Philip James job.
“I think we can negotiate that,” Coulson smirked confidently. “Welcome to SHIELD, kid.”