Prologue
Clint is not going to say that he understands all of what Thor is saying. To be pretty damn honest most of it is going over his head; be it because the All-Speak failed to translate properly and there was no earthly equivalent to what the Warrior wanted to convey or because even if it existed in words, Clint could not really motivate his Grey Cells to figure out just what the hell he meant. Instead he has gotten used to simply shrug and go with it; which is not to say that he’s not curious, because frankly he’s a nosy bastard.
So when Thor decides to stay, Clint decides that a background-check is in order – he’s not living under the same roof as a person that he knows nothing about, no matter how charming they might be – and realizes two documents in that this recon-mission might just turn out to be the most time-consuming and unconventional he’s had in a while.
Needless to say he dives in head-first.
Natasha finds him one evening bent over at least five different books regaling him with the same tale. One of the hurdles, he’s quickly found out, is that the last visit of Thor’s people has been so long ago that most of the written accounts have been lost or irreversibly damaged. Therefore his one chance to come as close to the truth as possible is to read as many texts as he can get his grubby hands on and deduct the common denominator – which is why he’s been somewhat AWOL for at least a week now.
“You could ask him.”—The Russian proposes when she sets down a pot of coffee, watching him with keen eyes as he guzzles it down.
When he sets the pot down, he gives her a meaningful look, holding down the air that bubbles up in his mouth. “When have you ever asked a target about their backstory, Tash?” he replies instead, intent on bending back over his reading material.
Her hand appears on the page. “Since when is a team-member a target?”
He looks up, tries to decipher what her eyes are trying to convey, but even with coffee his brain is too far gone – a puppy could probably kick him over right now – to find words to fit the description and so he just rubs his own eyes, cursing the reading glasses he knocks over.
“You know what I mean.”—he grumbles. “’m not sleeping in the same house as an unchecked team-member…”-not after SHIELD – he doesn’t say it, but the implication is there all the same and Tash, благослови́ вас Госпо́дь, understands.
Later that day he gets a missive that lets him know he has two more weeks of ‘vacation’ because he’s amassed enough out-time due to his Spec-Ops-SHIELD-days either way – Clint leaves a paper-crane on Hill’s desk on his way out (she’s a sucker for Origami) and dives right back into his research.
Tash is his best buddy and friend, because she continues to streamline him coffee and solid sustenance even though she never does so personally – she won’t ever degrade herself to be a coffee-girl in private, not even for a friend – and when his first week comes to an end she makes an appearance to drag him off to his bed. Granted she has to knock him out – he gets single-minded, okay? – but he makes certain she has a tray of fresh bliný waiting for her when she wakes up because he seriously needed to remember what it was like to sleep in a real bed.
By the middle of his second week he is done with his research and is rather certain, that he has all his facts straight – he sleeps through a whole day before going in search of Thor and finding the Warrior trying to learn the microwave.
“Need a hand with that?”—he asks a little gruffly, preparing his pot of coffee.
Thor looks relieved. “For as much as Asgard has evolved its devices, I must look a fool failing to handle your daily appliances.”—the crown-prince admits and Clint, even in his sleepy state smells an opening.
He shrugs. “Guessing you’ve had the equivalent of a microwave back when we had stone-hearths and animal-skin-shoes, if even, I don’t hold it against you.” He shows Thor how to heat up his Pop-Tart. “Like, if I weren’t an Archer and Spy, I guarantee you, I wouldn’t survive a day living the way we lived ages ago.”
The blonde smiles grandly. “This is why it pays brilliantly to have such dutiful friends as you.”—he agrees. “I do not doubt that without the help of My Lade Jane and afl-hirða Darcy, I would have perished within the hour.”
Thor speaks a little too loud for the early hour, but Clint wills himself to tolerate the decibel. “Would you mind telling me what it was like?”—he asks after he takes his first gulp of Coffee.
Oh Sweet Nectar of the Morning Gods.
The Alien-Prince makes to grab for his Pop-Tart but Clint motions for him to wait a little – it’s still hot beyond touching right now, and while he doesn’t know how durable Thor’s skin is, he doesn’t think he wants to try. At least not now.
Clint drinks his coffee while waiting for his teammate to answer and it takes him curiously long to do so.
“The Widow has told me that you have spent your last days bent over books…”—the man starts then, and his tone is something that Clint has not heard before. It is carefully void of emotion and when the Archer looks up, he finds that guarded eyes take him in over the Pop-Tart he nibbles on.
Seeing no use in denying it, Clint shrugs. “I like knowing who my teammates are and you are hard to read up on in a file, given that you’re not even really from here. So, yes, I read about a hundred books to see what I could find out about you.”
His comrade nods. “It is a wise action to take.”—he concedes, before adding with a glint in his blue eyes: “When faced with an unknown foe.” Clint does not back down, even though the stare turns into a glare. “Tell me, Archer, do you consider me a foe?”
He should be intimidated, probably, because Thor has at least two heads, magical powers and three times his shoulder width on him; but then Clint is not just an Avenger because of his looks – he’s been told, repeatedly, how handsome he is, just FYI – but because his mission-score is kind of a record and right up there with Tasha’s. He doesn’t back down from Thor’s withering glare and, instead, calmly continues to drink his coffee, his unoccupied hand finding the door of the fridge. He sets the pot down on top of it and lowers his head into the bowels of the fridge to scavenge for something edible.
“I consider you an unknown.”—he lets the man know, resurfacing with left-over Chilli. “But also a teammate.” He gives the blonde an intense look over the bowl. “We all have our dislikes, Thor, and mine is not-knowing. It’s something I’ve been bad at before the military and SHIELD, but it’s become near to impossible to handle ever since. I don’t mean it as a slight towards you.”
Quite the contrary, to be honest, because in letting the man know Clint is forfeiting an ace up his sleeve – he could have revealed his ‘secret’ knowledge any moment he’d have pleased and shock the prince, but he’s decided against this venue, because Thor is a teammate. And cloak and dagger is not a way to approach a teammate. He doesn’t know if the blonde gets it, but he doesn’t need to – not yet anyway.
Thor mulls this over, chewing the last remnants of his Pop-Tart, a second and third already warming in the micro-wave and Clint takes the opportunity to stir through the cold Chilli and grab his coffee-pot to sit down.
“You feel the need to know?”—he finally asks and Clint, bent over his bowl, raises his head to give a nod, mouth full of deliciously spicy breakfast.
Something changes in the face of the man opposite of him and when his two Pop-Tarts are done, he sits down opposite of Clint, tearing into the first tart. “Will you let me know what you have found out?”
He cannot resist the smirk as he swallows. “I am dying to know if I got this right: but you had to wear a dress to get Mjolnir back once?”
The blonde groans. “Of all the glorious battle-stories and valiant heroics this one made it to Midgard because it is not enough that Asgard knows and still laughs about it.”
Clint smiles largely. “Pays to have leverage.”
---
The ‘education’ goes past the rest of the week, although they make good time all in all. Clint, for his part, learns a lot more than he bargained for.
Because Thor is not content simply letting him know about his own exploits – the books have been scarily accurate on that part as it is – but introduces him to the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, he tells him the grand stories of his lesser known brother Baldr and his wife Nanna, he takes his time about weaving Loki into the stories, aware of the personal grievances between the two of them, tells him the stories of the Nine Realms, of how Odin hung from Yggdrasil for mankind to give the gift of letters to them and about the customs of Asgard.
It occurs to Clint only a month later, when he is walked through the Flora and Fauna of Asgard that Thor must have been dying to share his stories – the Archer doesn’t mind that he’s the one to profit of this. As said before: he’s always been a nosy bastard.
---
“I do not agree with your strategy, Man of Iron.”—Thor grouses, freeing himself from the green, slimy goo that, apparently, Dr Doom’s newest creations are made of and will disintegrate to if you microwave them. Tony has come to the conclusion that doing so is the best option.
Clint agrees silently, wiping futilely at his brow to stop The Blorb from impairing his vision – it is honestly becoming harder and harder to do because for some reason the Goo-Monsters have realized that he is somewhat stationary and therefore a prime example of a victim. He hasn’t meant to be, but because Tony went with it, he is now knee-deep in Goo and even if he wanted to, moving is somewhat hard to do.
“We’re almost done, Point-Break.”—Tony’s voice echoes flatly through their comms. “Only a few more, you stay where you are.”
He growls, sinks another microwave-arrow into a Blorb close to him; Thor wields his hammer in a grand arch and Clint guesses that it is the magic of the weapon that lets it connect with the otherwise gelatinous shapes of green. They’ve discovered early on that, whatever the Goo is, it conducts like metal and frying it would only result in frying themselves, which is why Thor refrains. Thankfully.
“Forgetting the squishy down here, Stark?”—he snaps sharply; he’s fed up with Tony’s selective forgetfulness, especially when it concerns him. It happens a lot more often than it should.
“Barton!”—Tony does sound surprised and a hell of a lot more cheerful than Clint would have liked for him to be. “Hang in there, buddy.”
Shooting his last arrow, he puts his hands up in surrender and gives Thor a look. “If I put frogs between his sheets, will you rat me out?”
Thor moves to throw off another Blorb and the Goo around his knees is slowly crawling up his thighs – he does not like this. “I shall aid you in the procurement of said creatures.”—Thor glares hard at the closest Blorb, as if it would combust by the sheer ferocity of his look. “Though I would suggest we surprise him with Myr-Gargan instead.”
His compound bow seconds as a Jo-Staff, which is why he’s busy knocking a Blorb into Goo when Thor proposes this – Clint whips around with a large smile. “They do leave snail-like trails if I remember correctly.”—he says gleefully.
The prince of Asgard gives a shiny smile that is not dampened by the bright-green Goo clinging to him. “That they do, my friend.”
“Let’s do that.”—Clint agrees, whipping at another Blorb. “Or let’s do both.”
“Both is good.”
---
Thor has not known a man such as the Archer Clinton before.
Those Midgardians around him, calling themselves The Avengers, are slightly more than just Midgardian – the commanding Captain, Friend Hulk and Banner as well as the fierce shield-maiden Black Widow are all similarly enhanced, though he will not ever mention the Widow’s part in that particular Triad, and Friend Tony deviates physically from the rest of the Midgardians. They have, during their glorious conquests, come across many other enhanced Midgardians, such as the twins Maximoff who are, despite their young age, most accomplished warriors and have found a stable supporter in Clinton and even Friend Tony has found a very young protégé going by the name of Peter who has been a great asset in several of their battles – and while Young Peter has yet a lot to learn, he has the advantage of a particular set of enhancements just as well.
And in the midst of it all, Thor has had the genuine pleasure of getting closer acquainted with Clinton who, despite the people he surrounds himself with and his impressive accuracy with a bow is what his father and brothers would call ‘a mere Midgardian’.
There is not a single thread in the man that discerns him from a peaceful dweller, except for his particularly strong will and thick head that, combined, allowed him to rise in the ranks of Archers all over Midgard until he reached his current proficiency. He has to admire the fact that there is no sorcery behind his capability, that there is no ‘science’ behind his accomplishments and Thor has come to honour the Midgardian greatly for his achievements.
When last he has been to Midgard alongside his family, there have been many capable warriors, men and women of strong hearts and minds, and some of them have risen in the esteem of their comrades due to their exploits – but even then none of them had been equal to the Archer.
While there may have been misgivings between the Midgardian and the Asgardian in regards to Loki before, Clinton has made it very clear that he would not trust Thor’s Brother – a wise decision – and he might not be able to forgive him, but, he conceded to not letting it get the better of him and Thor can respect the gesture. Many a royal or inhabitant from another world has not managed the same.
Add to that the Archer has seen him at his very lowest point in history, when his power had been stripped from him and he has known neither in nor out and despite confessing this to Thor – admitting to witnessing the most crushing moment of his entire lifespan – he has not uttered a single word to his fellow Warriors.
So when Thor sits him down one merry evening – ale and cider are included, as well as a roasted pig – to disclose the finer points of his ‘responsibilities’ in regards to well-faring of Midgardians, he is certain that Clinton will understand, why he has felt the need to keep this part of him in the shadows; he is certain that Clinton will understand what it means that he is willing to share this piece of information with him.
###
Darcy has a major in Political Science.
It’s taken her tears, sweat, blood, sleepless nights and a Taser to finally arrive at finishing her degree and being able to attach two damn letters to her name: Darcy Lewis BA.
If she’s honest she’s not done yet and she knows precisely just what kind of major she wants to choose in order to attach the letters MA to her name once she’s done, but as of right now, she has Jane™ to worry of. An astrophysicist and student loans that she still has not managed to pay off.
Because while her NDAs became invalid with the fall of SHIELD, so did the compromise of her few dollars of hush-money that have, recently, at the very least made some kind of dent into the sum on the credit side of her balance.
And ere she hasn’t paid that off, there is literally no use in trying to get another loan to support her educational goals. So Darcy does what Darcy does best: she focusses on the here and now and currently, that means packing.
It’s about the fourteenth time that she has to pluck apart the assembled devices that make up most of Jane’s machines and she has a system by now, which: A+ for Darcy May, but it is still a small battle of wills every time.
“I still need that.”—Jane™ complains with a soft whine.
“No you don’t.”—Darcy corrects her, continues disassembling it. “You’ve played around with it yesterday and I made certain that all your charts have been put through and calculated. The stacks are on your table.”
Her boss is quiet for a few beats before she wanders over to the table and inspects the charts that Darcy has put there early this morning. “I don’t think I tell you often enough, but you are magnificent, Darcy.”
From underneath the machine, she smiles. “Thank you, boss-woman. Remember that next time I have to pull you away from work to get you eating.”
She doesn’t receive an answer, but she hasn’t expected one either. It has taken her time to come to terms with Jane’s ability to forget everything around her and become completely immersed in her work – it is a trait she admires, don’t get her wrong, but it can become… burdensome in those moments when imbibing sustenance is no longer an option.
For all that she is a Political Science BA, Darcy has learned a whole lot of Hard Science during her time with Jane™: she can tell the difference between the various equations that she cleans up for the documentation of the scientific process – she calls it The Jane Chronicles – and she has learned that Duct-Tape is not a fix-all and sometimes screws have their place – so long as it’s the right place – and she knows how to calculate electrical currencies because she’s needed to more often than she’d have liked.
To be honest, she has learned so much simply being with Jane that she is reluctant to ever part from her side; so the decision to remain a little longer while she figures out how to decimate her loans comes easily.
---
When Thor landed, Darcy, Jane and Erik had been the very first Earthlings to come into contact with the big lug. Back then, as a mere stranger, Darcy had been marginally afraid of him – okay, very – and had dealt with him the only way she knew how to. She had not expected to find out that she’d slain the very Crown-Prince of an Alien Race.
Even less had she expected to rise in his esteem for that feat alone, but Thor came to call her his lightning sister in Puente Antigua and then afl-hirða in London.
“Explain.”—she’d demanded. “Because I haven’t brushed up enough on my Old Norse yet to fluently translate what you’ve just said.”
He smiled at her, easy and open and gestured towards a chair. “It would be my utmost pleasure, afl-hirða Darcy.”
---
Darcy is, since then, not only Jane’s Gopher; although she is still the only one capable of handling the genius scientist. She, too, bears the title of Hearth Keeper and Sister to The God of Thunder.
She is his first and only sister.
He, in turn, is her first and only brother.
“We’re done for today.”—Darcy says softly as she pries the device out of Jane’s cramped fingers. “We need you up early tomorrow.”
Jane™ grunts, but allows herself be guided to her room, where Darcy makes certain that she has a fresh glass of water should she get thirsty in the night – she always does, considering she barely manages to drink a minimum amount of liquids during her waking hours – and pulls off her friend’s shoes before she wraps her in the comforter and leaves to pack the rest of the machines.
Thor has had to explain the duties of a Hearth Keeper to her before she could honestly say that it was a title that she, indeed, deserved – it took him a lot longer to concede to disclose the implications of being his sister to her and even longer until she accepted the title. But she has, because family is something sacred to her, something she has wished for her entire life and she was not about to throw it away simply because it came in the, very pleasing – don’t get her wrong here, shape of one Thor Odinson.
Behind her Jane™ turns over in her bed, pulls the blanket tighter around herself and Darcy smiles softly, reaching the device she has been working on. It’s the penultimate that she has to pack away – any luck and she might actually be finished just in time to catch about seven hours of sleep.
And by Frigga that would be fan-fucking-tastic.
She gets to work.
---
Thor is not only the God of Thunder. He is, too, the God of Fertility and Protector of Women – it is less known, granted, because what most people hear and read, and want to hear and read, are the accounts of his ‘glorious battles’.
Stripped of his powers he has first encountered Darcy May Lewis by way of her mighty weapon that slayed him when she perceived him to be a danger to those around her – and with his own element no less. Asgard has heard many a tale of the fearless woman that was Darcy Lewis; Lady Sif herself holds her in high regard due to this alone.
Being in charge of the Lady Jane’s well-being as well as that of the Dr Selvig, Thor quickly came to the conclusion that she was the equivalent of a Minder, although his essence had been dissatisfied with this title. He could not explain it until later, when Malekith reared his ugly face, and Darcy Lewis stopped at nothing to ascertain the survival of her friend and the mental-health of the older seiðr -man.
She did not hesitate when he decreed that Jane needed to be brought to Asgard to be properly diagnosed and not even in the presence of Odin did she shy back from her self-proclaimed duty. In her fury it was her hand that collided with the cheeks of his brother and her glare he withered under when he dared make a comment on Lady Jane. The Lady Darcy braved the dungeons alongside Lady Sif and The Warrior Three when it came to breaking through royal custody.
And when Midgard was in peril of being annihilated, Heimdall smuggled her out of the dungeons to send to their aid – and Heimdall saw all. At the end of the ordeal Thor understood much better what Darcy Lewis was.
“Hold this.”—he said absentmindedly as he reached for a piece of debris. The destroyed city of London had laid claim to many a Midgardian life and if he could help in preventing more souls being lost then he would gladly lift as many stones as he possibly could.
Lady Darcy did not even hesitate, for she was then busy with organizing the brothers of SHIELD to come to their aid in cleaning the remnants of the battle, and reached out her hand to hold whatever he deemed to put into her care.
It took her several minutes to realize that she was holding Mjolnir aloft.
Thor likes to think of her stunned face whenever he needs cheering up.
No single Asgardian contested his request to name Lady Darcy to be his sister, when Heimdall substantiated his claim that the woman was worthy of The Hammer, for The Watcher was incapable by oath to lie to his liege and Odin conceded to Thor’s request.
And while the title of systir, was well-earned by the young woman, his essence knew that there was another name that she carried – one that could not be earned, but would assign itself by judgement of actions taken. For the Lady Darcy was the mountain that stood when the earth shook and she was the pillar that supported his Lady Jane and the stability that grounded Erik. Thor knew of the rarity of such people on Midgard and it surprised him not when Frigga came to him in a dream and told him of the exact value of the young woman – he had known by then.
---
It has taken a lot of haggling to get Jane into accepting her position with Stark Industries and Darcy considers it something of a coup d’état to have managed to convince Jane, it has taken a lot of politicising – she feels like she should be given a medal for her mediation of the negotiation – and with all the effort she has put into turning Jane’s opinions around, she might as well have toppled a state. She’s had strategy plans laid out on her table.
As it is, her thanks is going to be expressed by being allowed to follow Jane – which is as good as anything, because, as mentioned, she has no qualms putting her study-plans on the backburner for now and move her nation as Jane goes.
And so she packs the machines and Jane into her VW-Bus and hops onto the front bench. Jane’s gangly legs fit perfectly beneath the console and as Darcy punches in the gear and she notices, in the corners of her eyes, that Jane reaches out for the cassette player – because, yes, her Baby was that old.
“If you’re putting in any of that Rachmaninoff-BS we’re going to have a talk, Janey-poo.”—she warns, moving into traffic.
Jane’s fingers hover. “But you like Rachmaninoff…”—she tapers off. Darcy can almost see the confused pout on her friend-boss-woman’s face.
“Yes, but not in the car. Not on a road-trip of five hours; like hell am I going to listen to Sergei getting it off to his Bumblebees. You’re going to put in some sensible Eighties-Rock, or Folk or even Pop – but none of that Classical Shmunz.”
Her friend dives into the small box of Mix-Tapes and Darcy focusses more intently on the traffic – her bus can be a bit hard on her until it has rolled itself warm, but she knows its ins and outs by now and she’s seriously not going to kill it off, again.
They’re hitting the Highway when finally the player clicks and The Smiths start blaring about a charming man. “That’s what I’m talking about.”—she sighs and relaxes into the drive.