One
Clint has been on high ground for this mission, as per usual, on command of the Captain – he has a better eye on the secured perimeters than Tony could possibly have, even with the aid of FRIDAY and Vision.
“Wanda,”—he breathes, releasing a shot, “three parallel to your right, them’s breaking away.”
Vision doesn’t ask when Wanda turns to tug him along and manipulates the Power Stone to her needs teleporting them three streets farther from their current scene; she resurfaces with a protective bubble around them and before the Doombots can properly react to their appearance, they have disengaged two of them.
Clint concentrates on the backs of his team-mates; Thor has a habit of leaving his back open and Steve sometimes gets so caught up in ‘breaking through the lines’ that he is too far from his teammates and into the fray that he has no back-up other than the Archer on top of the next best Skyscraper.
“They’re like multiplying.”—Clint growls, eliminating another bot-cluster with one of his explosive arrows. Tony hasn’t yet found their Nest and the bots keep crawling out from under rocks and newspapers, congregating, for some reason, around three blocks.
They’ve considered the possibility that this was a decoy-battle for something bigger going on and the Fantastic Four are on Call in case something else happens – Reed has been an ass about it, but Ben has affirmed that they’d be there in case something happens – but currently nothing else has happened. Clint is convinced that there has to be a higher purpose to this, a larger picture – the bots do not have a goal from what he can determine, aside from engaging the Avengers, and while Victor Van Doom can be a pompous idiot hell-bent on aggravating the whole world, he never plans assaults like this simply for shits and giggles.
“I’m on it Legolas, please, keep your pants on.”—Tony replies archly; it’s the tone of his voice that lets Clint know that, as much as he wants to appear ‘on top’ of this, he is anything but – and it annoys him.
Two arrows loosen from his string, separate mid-air and hit two targets behind Thor’s back; the Warrior hasn’t even noticed.
“Yeah, well, the shorter we cut this-“
“I KNOW!”—Tony barks and Clint has to hastily step back from the edge of his roof as the Iron Man Suit flies past him, leaving a trail of hot air; it singes his draw-hand that gets out of range too late and he groans, bites back a retort that would start an argument they really couldn’t need right now.
He gnashes his teeth as he puts another Bot out of commission; he can hear the rest of the team brainstorm about the whereabouts of the Nest and agrees that doing so is a lot more productive than what he has been doing – to his defence, though, Tony yelled at all of them to concentrate on their task and let him do his part.
There’s a clicking-sound behind him and before he can properly compute, he’s turned around, but too late, because he is already losing balance, his knees buckling with the unexpected shift of ground under his feet and his brain doesn’t catch up on the change of gravity until he’s over the edge of the roof. His body works on autopilot, twists as he falls and releases a grappling-hook-arrow with smooth accuracy. It lodges around the neck of a gargoyle, it’s not optimal, but it will have to do for now, Clint swings into the building’s window, rolls thrice across the carpeted office floor and curses at the sharp pinpricks of glass that cut into his flesh. Thank God for Tac-Pants because at least his legs are save from the agonizing bite of the shards. He stands; takes in the empty cubicles with a swimming vision – not a good sign.
“Barton! Report!”—The Captain yells into his ear, it’s a lot louder than it should be, pierces his eardrums sharper than he knows to be normal.
“’m a’right. Change o’ posit’n ‘s good fo’ me.”—he slurs a little as he lets them know before he kneels down at the window through which he has just entered and quickly loosens a few arrows to clear the backs of his comrades, before he looks for a new vantage point.
“Stark-a need-a-lift.”—he calls, eyes already on his next position as he tries his best to brush off the shards that have lodged themselves in his skin. He’ll have to find Natasha later and convince to take those out; no way he’s going to medical. He finds a new spot higher than before; might give him an edge, so long as the bots don’t suddenly start to fly and they haven’t yet revealed an ability to do so.
“Fuck you, Barton, and the cow you ride on. I’m a little bit busy here.”
He doesn’t deign it with a reply – emotions run high when in battle, it’s not directed at him; he’s been in the field long enough to know this. It doesn’t change the fact that it compromises him, just ever so slightly.
“Okay.”—he breathes quietly, looking for a way up.
Grappling is his only choice now but his quiver only holds one more arrow of the likes that he’ll need so it’s imperative that he find a way to get there in one swoop. It doesn’t look too good from here.
“Need’a relocate,”—he lets the Team know, “-gimme five minutes max.”
“You have two.”—Steve’s voice is calm as he says this but Clint knows that without the look-out watching their backs the Avengers need to recalibrate their moves, re-assemble and make certain that they got their Is dotted – it is a hitch in the Dynamic that might cost them, so Clint has to move quickly.
Thankfully though, Big Green has developed somewhat of a soft-spot for him and when Stark doesn’t pass him a second time, he’s warned of the new arrival by a mighty roar ere a green cannonball shoots directly towards him. Clint sidesteps.
“Archer higher?”—the big green form asks him as he’s lifted onto surreally thick shoulders; Clint knows from experience that he’ll literally have his hands full trying to hold on for his life so he pulls the bow around his upper body and nods.
“Three buildings across and to our right.”—he indicates, though it sounds a lot less coherent even to his ringing ears, as he settles around the shoulders of his battle-companion. Hulk hesitates for the merest moment and Clint is about to tell him to shove it because even if he’s physically not on top, he can shoot arrows like a Pro; Olympic Level, not his usual, but still good enough.
A grunt warns him before the powerful feet vault them from their current standpoint and Clint barely notices the time they spend in the air, not compared to the harsh landing on the opposite building and the consequent jump again. He feels like he’s riding a very unhappy Bronco.
“Here.”
He hasn’t noticed that they stopped again. Or that they stopped indefinitely, but he slides down the broad, green back with a wince on the landing and gives the swimming face a wavering smile in thanks. Hulk doesn’t hesitate this time and sets off. Clint pinches his eyes.
“’n posit’n.”—he confirms as he settles on his left knee instinctually and draws an arrow before he’s even re-opened his eyes.
“Give ‘em hell, Barton, we’re almost there.”
Cap’s assurance, like his words, isn’t all there, but when Clint squints his eyes open – and that is going to be one hell of a headache later – he can see that, indeed, most of the bots are down and out for the count, and getting fewer by the minute. All he has to do now is bite the bullet and keep going – so he does what he does best: he prevails despite the odds.
The very moment he has cleared the backs of his team-mates, he thinks he hears the ominous clicking-noise from before, it’s sounds like static to him but he cannot trust his ears on a good day, lest of all when he’s banged up. Out of trained caution, he turns nevertheless, does a quick visual sweep of the rooftop he’s sequestered on. There’s nothing to see.
“Barton. Status Report.”—Cap’s voice is suspiciously muffled in his right ear despite it being the better side – Clint forces himself to think of something else; kills a bot at Tash’s back.
“Co’ner lef’; roofto’.”—he starts, zaps a bot that comes too close to his position for his liking; at least they’re still not flying. “’ow’s it look’?”
His body is numb, comfortably warm and running on adrenaline as if it is the fuel to a well-oiled machine; he’s lucky he doesn’t need to see perfectly in order to flawlessly hit his targets – but his ears are futzing in and out and with only three senses at his disposal, he cannot vouch for his accuracy. Better men would bow out – hah!
“I hoped you could tell me…”—The Captain sounds a lot more worried than Clint can need right now; he forces his eyes into focus, ignores the knife-like-stab to his frontal lobe.
“Seein’ you stan’ ‘n pile o’ bots.”—he tries to sound nonchalant, as if his question had been a sassy quip rather than an earnest inquiry. “Nothin’ com’n in.”—when his speech slurs too heavily, he bites his tongue, waits for the taste of copper and sets his jaw when it comes but he hasn’t felt a single prick of pain.
The clicking-sound has returned, Clint thinks it might just be the static of the comms that his busted ears interpreted as clicking – it would not be the first time – or maybe it’s feedback, or maybe the comms are working so well he hears the clicking from the bots surrounding the grounded fighters. He loosens another arrow when he perceives movement in his field of vision, just at the very corner of his eyes.
“Shit.”
He’s too late, of course, because when his head has finally turned to identify the blurry shape, his gravitational centre is, once again, upset, one more time than necessary that day, and he realizes that the clicking are the communicating bots surrounding him, but by then he is already suspended in the air.
“Cap.”
He’s not suspended though.
He’s falling.
“Cap I’m falling.”
He hopes that the man can hear him, because he certainly can’t.
His body lost all sense of self; he cannot feel himself, he can barely see the outline of his body swimmingly in the reflection of the windows he passes on his way down, his ears clog up in that ugly fashion erasing his already impaired hearing.
The few moments he’s in shock cost him.
When his body finally reacts, he manages to loosen his second and last Grappling-Hook-Arrow from his bow and it hooks into the relief of the house opposite. His fingers are bloody and his arms scream when he grabs on to the rope, hooks it to his bow.
Oh God.
The Ground is too close, the rope is still unfurling.
Oh holy Thor.
He closes his eyes, feels the drop in the pit of his stomach, prays, prays, prays under his breath – he hopes it’s under his breath – that the fucking rope will just freaking end already.
When it does, the yank comes unexpectedly and he nearly loses his grip on the compound-bow, if it weren’t for his absolute hate of death by falling of a building.
His body swings, helplessly, towards the concrete make-up of the building he’s hooked on, and he prepares his feet, opens his eyes and sees nothing but wall. Good enough for him, just no falling, no falling, no falling.
For fuck’s sake.
The relief gives.
The hook falters.
He falls.
Shit.
--
When he reopens his eyes, he is greeted with the white, blinding over-heads that are typical for the Stark Medical Wing. He groans and makes to flinch, but cannot move his head even the slightest; so he just pulls a dissatisfied face and screws his eyes shut.
He falls out of time again.
The next time he wakes up, the tubes in his throat have been removed and he can see Tash’s red-brilliant hair reflecting in the glare of the overheads. Before he loses his bearings again, he moves his hand to cover hers where it rests under her face as she sleeps.
Darkness comes.
His coming days pass much in the same fashion; he regains consciousness at random times and manages to stay awake longer and longer, though his record is yet half an hour. It’s been long enough to realize that he’s deaf. That he’s been deafened. Again.
He remembers, some time in between waking and floating in molasses, the last time the news has reached him he lost his childhood for good; he hadn’t had anything else to lose and even that small remnant of normalcy hadn’t meant a lot to him anymore. Not in comparison to the desire to survive.
But he has changed; his life has changed and he has collected, over the years, things that might as well amount to a small treasure – a lot of it is fleeting moments that he has burned into his retinas and that, therefore, will remain with him no matter what life throws him – he’s learned to value those the most, because they could not be taken from him.
There are, however, also fragiles amongst his treasure and he’s afraid they’re going to break. And he doesn’t know what to do.
###
Darcy knows that this has been but a question of time. She has, however, hoped that it would happen… differently. Respectfully, for one.
“Pardon my question but what exactly do you mean when you say I am not permitted into the Tower?”—she tries politely, holding her Badge aloft – the very same Key-Card that has admitted her for the last year now.
The secretary behind the desk hands her a form and makes to grab the badge; Darcy pulls it back wordlessly. The woman’s eyes narrow, enhance the lines in her grey face and she wonders, for a split moment, if her morning has been bad, before she remembers that she cannot have compassion for those that will throw it back in her face like this woman looks to be about to.
Brown-lacquered nails pin the form onto the surface between them. “Your allowance for a year has expired and has not been renewed.”—the woman pins her down with eyes that are both efficient and cold; her mouth doesn’t twist up, when she says the next words: “Essentially, Ms Lewis, your contract has ended and you are but a guest. Please do behave accordingly or I will have to have you escorted off the premises with legislative consequences to follow.”
She draws her brown-nails from the form and turns her hand palm-upwards, waiting for the badge.
The hold-up costs Darcy fifteen minutes in which she asks herself if she has perhaps overseen the form to extend her internship and allowance, given the fact that she handles the paperwork for three scientists – it could happen, of course, but then it would have come a second time, because the tower’s staff has long since gotten used to Tony’s ignorance towards paper-work and usually do not stop sending missives until they have found them signed and returned to their post-boxes or their tables.
There must have been a mix-up along the way.
“Your coffee.”—she says quietly, still sunken in thought, as she hands Jane her perfunctory juice of life just the way she likes it and watches out of the corner of her eyes as the scientist gulps it down without any thought of hesitation.
“You wouldn’t happen to know why my internship-contract hasn’t been renewed?”—she throws into the following silence, but, as predicted, Jane™ doesn’t react outside of a grunt; it’s hour thirty and Darcy would allow for a few more hours but, as it stands, she is personally not allowed to remain for longer than a time-span of sixty minutes.
Darcy packs and is done within half an hour.
Jane™ has moved into Dr Banner’s science-den, a room that is heavily off limits for Darcy – has been even when she still had The Badge and The Contract – and she doesn’t dare to even get close to it lest they will escort her from the premises and follow up with a lawsuit.
She watches Jane™ excitedly talk about a set of formulas she has just managed to unlock and Bruce gives her an indulgent smile that Darcy has come to love about the man from afar. They never exchanged words, but she values the man for allowing her Jane entrance into his laboratory whenever she needed it – and be it only for human nearness. Darcy feels ridiculously small in the bright, white lab, all of her possessions in a small carton-box whose handles slowly crumple under her contracting hands.
“FRIDAY, I leave the care of my favourite scientist to you.”—Darcy says softly. “Swear to me that you will watch her as if she were a circuit of yours.”
“It will be my utmost pleasure, Ms Lewis.”
Darcy leaves Jane’s side unexpectedly and unprepared on a sunny Wednesday morning sometime during autumn. She has no place to go and nothing to do; she has nothing to her name except for her Van and its’ insides and the cardboard-box in her hands.
She’s going to have to grow up real quick.
---
Her van is a beauty that has gone through all times with her ever since she has gotten it for her 18th birthday from her gram. It is still a sight to behold, given that Darcy has cared for it more than she has for herself at times and if it were her pet then she would have been the type of person to buy cat-food but not sustenance for herself – this way around she has regularly had to admit to her tendency to bring her baby to the shop while she herself barely has had anything to eat.
Baby on her part has always paid her thanks by working no matter the circumstance, by giving her – them – shelter when no one and nothing else has; this van has been part of the Thor Welcoming Committee and the first to bring the Asgardian to his knees.
Darcy is proud of her Baby.
Right now, though, she needs it to be her home – and that is going to need every single adaption skill she has ever acquired during her time with Jane.
She starts by cleaning off the singular cot from all the wrappers and left-overs and clothing that doesn’t belong to her. Jane will probably not miss it but it’d be a shame to get rid of it indefinitely; and who knows maybe she’ll be in need of smaller shirts one day.
There may be hard times ahead of her yet; she has no idea.
---
The first week she spends looking for a job and finds a no-brainer in a small, if slightly off-putting, diner run by a man that has a higher voice than she does and while it’s not ideal, it’s a job and it’s a first step towards a flat. No matter how small it might be.
Of course they hit a small bump when she cannot give him an address.
“What do you mean, no address?”—the diminutive man asks her and Darcy is sincerely hard-pressed to not to smirk because he is adorable – that is something the old Darcy would have done, but she likes to think she’s matured – in his endeavour to appear serious.
“I’ve been travellin’.”—she tells him, lets some of her Southern Slang pour onto her tongue and into her speech. “Finished my degree, came ‘ere.” She shrugs. It’s not a lie and it’s about as much as she’s allowed to say what with the NDAs she’s had to sign; now that she’s in the situation itself she’s a little miffed at SHIELD and/or SI for not providing a cover-story.
He nods a little hectically – like a Duracell-Rabbit, old Darcy snickers behind her hand – trying to come across as understanding. But even before he speaks up again, she knows she’s taken. He needs the help, she can see it, and she has acquired a sense of able-bodied-ness that she can feel working as of this moment.
A decisive nod ends the silence between them and he looks up at her with a small squint to his eyes.
“Proper hygiene.”—he starts and lifts his right pointer finger. “Timeliness.”—his middle finger joins the pointer finger. “And you need a proper address within the first three months.”
Apparently he is convinced she’ll stay that long; but she somewhat is so she nods, answering nonverbally to his conditions. “One week trial and you get a contract afterwards.”
---
She does what she does best: she throws herself into work – it’s an age-old coping mechanism and she is not surprised that it works. Old regulars of the Williamsburg Diner that have grown accustomed to swallowing down their grub without tasting it are at first a little perplexed at her stubborn refusal to let herself be dragged down by the surrounding bleakness and it takes them a few starts to get used to the bubbly smile and persona she puts forth during her working hours.
Her boss is not a genius and there’s a lot to the life around town that he hasn’t yet fully grasped, but he is uniquely enthusiastic about his business and everything else that he starts.
They click in a non-clicking way because outside of work, Darcy does not have a single second of contact with the older man. As it is, she doesn’t have any kind of contact and this, she quickly, realizes bites her in the ass quicker than she can say Bilgesnipe. Because even if she hadn’t had contacts in the Big Apple itself, maybe her contacts would have.
As it turns out though, a cell-phone company, too, needs an address – not, necessarily, to send invoices, but because they need an account-number for the payments and with her discharge from SI, so did her student-account fly from her. No matter that she’d never really had a dime on it, because whatever went on it was almost immediately siphoned off to pay her loans. So yes: account, she needs one and cannot get one, because banks… well… they do need a modicum of personal details. Amongst others: an address.
Her phone-number, therefor, doesn’t live long and Darcy has to go about flat-hunting the traditional paper-craig’s-list-and-calling-mailing-way. It’s exhausting as fuck and she doesn’t know how grown-ups do it.
---
“She probably thinks I’m a serial killer or something.”—she mumbles to her quiet conversation partner as she bites into her slice of pizza, handing them the second slice she bought; never before has she seen a Hawaiian being devoured so quickly – granted it’s luke-warm at best, but it’s still impressive.
“Like hell did her six foot two son happen to be around after his boxing classes.”—she viciously takes another bite, chomps on it as if it could resolve her anger. “Seriously though. What do I look like, huh?”
Her partner gives her a deep look but remains quiet – Darcy is still chewing on her slice and she is better than involuntarily spitting at them because she’s yelling out her indignation at the world into their direction. She’s learned better.
Instead, she takes a page out of her buddy’s book and finishes her pizza-slice in silence and her steam is miraculously gone afterward. She folds her paper-plate and lobs it successfully at the waste-bin. Her pal knows the sign; he leans close.
“Love you too, buddy.”—she says softly, daring to offer her hand.
They’ve had a few rough patches and from what she can tell he’s practically a wild animal, but he’s warmed up to her ever since she’s started feeding him with pizza-slices on the sly. She doesn’t know his name, but he’s a good cuddle when he feels up to it though, seriously, he has yet to have a bath that will rid him of the stink in his fur.
The cold snout presses to the back of her hand, snuffles familiarly and Darcy smiles. “See you around, pretty boy.”
As she stands, so does the dog and even before she’s turned around to leave, the animal has taken to the right and is already weaving into back-alleys that are too outlandish for Darcy to even think about.
She has to get to work.
---
“Hands in the air nobody move!”
The kid waving the gun in her face is seventeen, maybe. She can count pimples. But when she doesn’t immediately comply, he smoothly unlocks the safety-hatch from his gun and shit she knows that sound way too intimately and before she can say something stupid, she kneels down.
Her customers follow her example. Woven Hand warbles through the five dollar boxes at the end of her booth and she thinks it’s seriously ironic that her brain has suddenly nothing better to fixate on but the refrain of the song. She takes a deep breath through the nose, exhales just as profoundly.
She’s been in worse situations.
The boy turns on her in an impressive Snape-like-swoop and only now does it register with her that she’s the only one in the diner who’s not putting her nose to the floor. Innocently, she looks up at the boy through her lashes – it’s a look she has perfected and would, usually, never waste on a specimen of his age.
“I work here.”—she says evenly. “What do you want?”
Compliance is generally advised by the police in such situations and Darcy is well aware that they are insured against robberies – unfortunately they happen much too often around here to risk not being insured against it.
“Lock the door.”—he cocks his head towards the glass of the door and Darcy stands, slowly, her movements precise and careful as she pulls out the key first and goes to lock the door. When the lock clicks, so do the facts and she comes to a startling realization: this is not a robbery. This is taking hostages.
Darcy takes another deep breath and steps back from the door.
She lowers her eyes even though she stands straight; looking at him directly might challenge and-or antagonize him and not doing that means she and her fellow hostages might just live longer.
“Anything-“
“DON’T ASK ME IF I WANT ANYTHING ELSE LIKE I’M A DAMN CUSTOMER!”—he explodes right in her face. She doesn’t even flinch despite the vehemence – the boy has nothing on Phillip Coulson when he hasn’t had his coffee – and instead puts the key down on the table and sinks back to her knees. The gesture seems to placate him and he puts a shaky hand over his mouth to wipe at the sweat as he points the gun back at her.
“Where’s your boss?”—he asks a lot more composed; the quick change is startling but gives Darcy a clearer picture.
“He’s not here today.”—she answers swiftly. “Spa-day.”
She loves her boss for taking spa-days, she really does because it means that once a month she reigns supreme over the music and can get away from the 90s bubble-gum pop he likes to force onto her and the customers. Maybe though today was a bad day.
“YOU’RE LYING!”—the man explodes again, but gives a simultaneously defeated air with the way he throws his hands into the air. As he turns around to make a few steps somewhere to collect himself, Darcy hears only one thing in her head.
Now
She catapults herself forward and with her shoulder into his liver.