Clint hates magic users.
His arrows are almost always useless against them, either stopped by a shield, burnt to ashes or on one memorable occasion, turned into a dove. Barnes doesn’t seem to like them much better from the way he’s scowling next to him on the roof they’re on. Though, Clint doesn’t really know what expression he normally has when shooting, since before this they normally managed to get their own rooves, the scowl could just be his resting shooting face! Or his normal resting face Clint amends when Barnes sends him a dark look—probably for losing focus. Clint rolls his eyes, it’s not like his shooting is even doing anything, he thinks, as he starts to turn back to the weird witch man they’re fighting, why should he— oh, that’s why.
He feels a body slam into his side, obviously trying to push him out of the way of the giant blue laser beam heading straight for him, but it’s too late.
Clint has a millisecond to think, ‘Nats gonna kill me,’ before everything goes dark.
***
Someone shakes his shoulder roughly
“Fi’ m’re m‘n’tes,” Clint groans, trying to turn from the hand to snuggle into the… concrete?
Clint hears someone mumble—no, say something, where the hell are his hearing aids? He bolts upright, head jerking to the—kid? Whys there a kid in— he looks around—in some random alley? Scratch that, why is Clint in some random alley? Last thing he remembers is the laser. Did it teleport him somewhere? Or was he knocked out and taken somewhere?
The boy speaks again, voice going deeper in anger? Annoyance? He moves his eyes to his lips.
“Clint,” he knows his name? “Are to? you? Listening cow?” No, “now?”
Clint squints at the boy, dark hair framing his face, only one arm, eyes glaring, annoyed—
“Bucky?! You’re tiny!” he exclaims.
“So are you.”
Clint blinks, before looking down at himself and shit, he is tiny.
Bucky says something else, but Clint’s too late looking up to catch it.
“Dude, you need to make sure I’m looking,” at Buckys confused look (that actually looks more annoyed, but whatever), he continues, “I don’t have my aids,” he explains, tapping his ear, “I can’t hear ya.”
Buckys eyes light in understanding, before he scowls. Yup, definitely his resting face.
“Right! Well, Tony and Bruce can probably fix us—maybe—so, we need to get back to the tower and to get there we need to figure out where the hell we are, cause this ain’t New York. Actually, it looks kinda like Hells Kitchen,” Clint says, looking around for anything familiar.
A wave from Bucky has his eyes snapping back to his lips, but instead he’s handed a newspaper.
Gotham?
His eyes scan over the front page.
The fuck is Batman?
He flicks through the pages.
Red Hood, Metropolis, Superman, Bruce Wayne—they’re still in America!? He doubts he wouldn’t know any of this even if it wasn’t in America. He shuts the paper with a sigh, before looking up at Bucky with a forced grin.
“So, what do you know about dimension travel?”
***
Okay.
So, they’ve found shelter in an abandoned warehouse—which there seems to be a lot of here—get water from a tap round back that’ll probably kill him and maybe make Bucky sneeze or something? He doesn’t know what water that colour would do to a super soldier. And food? Well, a spy and an assassin have no trouble sneaking around—even without the conveniently tiny bodies—so snatching something off a plate here and there is easy, which is what they’re doing right now, Bucky running distraction on the staff while Clint snatches two rolls from a basket on a table.
He’s down an alley a few seconds later, no one the wiser, well, except the guy he almost runs into. He whirls around narrowly missing the man, spinning to keep going, but the alleys a dead end. He sighs, turning to go back the way he came, but the man stands in the way, grinning nastily at him, presumably having just said something.
Clint quirks a brow at him.
“Prat? Brat?”
Probably brat given his current size, he thinks before the man is lunging at him. Clint drops down, kicking at his shin, before there’s a bang and the man screams, falling to the floor. Clint blinks, before turning to scan the alley to find who had shot the gun. It’s another man, this one in a leather jacket with a weird red helmet over his head. He says something, his throat moving slightly as he talks and Clint scowls. The fuck does he do now?
“Fuck off,” he decides is the best course of action.
Red, as he’s now decided to call him, tucks his gun away, softening his shoulders and raising his hands in a calming gesture, saying something else. Clint rolls his eyes with a huff. Red moves to kneel in front of him to say something else like that helps anything, and Clint does the logical thing.
Red doesn’t even stumble when kicked in the nuts—Clint is almost impressed—but he does flinch back, arms dropping, and that’s all he sees before he takes the distraction to bolt—or well, tries to. A hand shoots out to grasp his arm before he can, and he screeches.
“Get offa’ me! Stranger danger! Stranger danger!”
Red drops his arm like he’s been burned just as Bucky sprints around the corner, teeth bared in a snarl.
Bucky says something, probably threatening, but it’s hard to make out through bared teeth. Red replies, and Clint’s left to watch as they have a bit of back and forth before Bucky sighs and says, “he’s deaf, idiot, he don’t hear ya.”
Red seems to freeze for a second, before he lifts his hands and signs sorry, didn’t know, you okay?
Clint raises his hands to tell him he’s an idiot, before his vision goes white, then—
“Tony?”
“fuck you Legolas, I spend ages getting you and Elsa back, and you call me an idiot? Ungrateful, the lot of you!”