Lights

"It was a bad call," Phil says, later, when they're back in their hotel suite and he's got his leg in a brace and a bandage on his head, where it turns out he's taken a good thunk from a piece of flying brick or something. "I wasn't thinking."

"You'd been blown up." Tony sounds dismissive. Much more so than when he's talking about his own screw-ups.

"They get on. I just thought--Oh god."

"You were afraid about Bruce. I get it. But damn, Phil, what a way for a guy to find out, huh?"

Phil laughs. Humorless. "You told him it was student loans. That they got Bruce for."

"Well, the loans didn't help," Tony says and offers a brief grin. The irreverent joker coming back a little, now that he's had a good adrenaline rush to remind him what's important and flush away the moody self-recrimination of the last several weeks.

That, and because Tony's always liked the Hulk. Likes the reckless science hiding inside Bruce's wary shell, and the proof that really, Bruce is as ready to take risky jumps as Tony, in spite of all his cautions and disciplined note-taking insistence on process. Tony's always thrilled to have a run-in with Bruce's destructive alter ego, always relieved when they manage to keep him a secret and between those two things, he's as high on success as Clint is shaken.

"This was supposed to fix him," Phil says. He's got his foot up on a cushion in the sitting area, and he can see Clint outside in the garden, arms hanging over the far wall, just leaning there quietly like he's been all morning, watching the road and keeping his distance. It's getting to Bruce. Phil can tell Clint's new layer of wariness is hurting him, because he's also keeping to himself, in the single room he'd probably taken to have privacy to read and unsupervised opportunities to sneak out. When Phil's checked on him, he hasn't been up to either, just lying there watching the ceiling, stewing. Not that Phil expects him to be in a sneaking mood after the attack.

"It's a step," Tony says, taking a seat on the edge of the couch that Phil's reclining on. Shifting his weight onto it carefully, like he's afraid to jostle Phil. "Now he's one itty bit closer, right? To us. And our--I don't know. Inner sanctum."

"What was the other step? Telling him you're Iron Man? He knew you were Iron Man."

Tony mm-s, then allows, "Well. Sort of knew."

"Are we avoiding the news?" Phil asks, changing the subject, nodding his head at the television. It's been off all day and he hasn't seen Tony pick up his tablet yet either. Instead he'd spent the morning having a drawn out breakfast with Pepper and Steve and Happy, then killed more time doodling on napkins and maybe taking a few calls. It's quiet, for Tony.

"No," Tony says, "I think we know what the news is saying."

"All the things it's said before?"

Tony shrugs Scratches his beard. He's got scrapes on his face from flying debris. Scratches and bruises on his arms. Nothing serious, and Pepper's in similar shape, plus one ruined dress and a broken shoe heel. Phil's knee and goose egg is the worst injury they'd taken, and if it's unfair that innocent, uninvolved civilians had taken most of the damage, Phil's also relieved. Tony doesn't look as pleased.

"Phil."

"Oh, no."

Tony smiles at his tone, a brief expression before he turns serious again. It makes Phil's heart rate climb a little. "What?" he demands, when Tony doesn't go on.

Tony takes a breath. Repeats, "Phil," in an apologetic tone.

"What, Tony? Just tell me." Someone's hurt worse than they'd thought. Internal injury, maybe. Someone had been killed that they hadn't considered. Some guest who was a friend. Somehow, Tony's being held responsible and the military is going to take the armor. Or--"Did something happen to Rhodey?"

"What?" Tony asks, startled, then shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "No. No, he checked in this morning. He saw the news." That brief smile again. "He said he saw it come on the scroll and knew it was us before they even got to the story."

Phil pushes himself up. "Did Fury--?"

"No." Tony doesn't laugh. He usually laughs about SHIELD, just to be a shit. Usually makes cracks about their technology or their rent-a-staff or about Nick himself.

"I can't think where else this could be going," Phil says. "So why don't you just tell me?"

Tony shifts. Takes another breath. Starts from, "Phil," again. If Phil had a better angle, he'd punch him, just to knock the story out of him. "They've got Clint. On tape."

"Who's got Clint?"

"They. The city of Vegas. The whole street's security cammed to hell and back. Casino central. You know how it is. The explosion took out most of the cameras on the building, but--" Tony shrugs. "It wasn't exactly a dark zone."

Clint hadn't done anything. Clint had been with Phil or Pepper, and had gone to find Bruce in a crisis and under orders. It's bending rules, since technically he'd been out on his own, but under the circumstances....

"The gun," Phil concludes. "They have him with the gun."

"They have him looking like he's about to pop you, then running."

"I told him to go find Bruce."

"He's got a record of running."

"He's got a tracker."

"I know. Turns out that was a good call, because if he'd meant to run with that thing in him, you wouldn't be here. It's a point in his favor." Tony smiles again, humorless this time. Not trying to reassure Phil anymore. "Let's not pretend this isn't a shot at me, Coulson. Some ass wants me to look dangerous, and if I'm dumb enough to buy Clint and not keep him under control, then I'm too dumb to keep the suits."

"Good thing they don't have Bruce on camera," Phil remarks, and Tony snorts.

"Yeah."

"You think the WSC is pushing this?"

"Who else? Not that I want to point fingers. I'm not a finger-pointer. It's just a guess. Wild and out there, like lots of my guesses." He's turned away from Phil now, looking at his hands as he picks at the edge of a nail. The way his back is hunched looks tense and angry and defensive. "They served us a warrant."

"The WSC?"

"Vegas police. Officially. They want an interview, and they're entitled to it. With what's happened, and with his record and with us transporting him across statelines and then letting him get his hands on a gun and take off."

"He didn't do anything."

"And someone had just tried to kill us. Someone was shooting." Tony shrugs. "They're assholes, Phil, but Pepper's managed to keep it quiet. The Clint thing, I mean. We just have to give them the interview."

"You mean the interrogation? You promised him. We promised him."

"We're not letting him go," Tony says, sounding offended that Phil would even think it. "But Pepper thinks it's smarter to cooperate and see how things play."

"He didn't run," Phil says. "He didn't try to run. He came back on his own."

"To be fair, he'd had a bit of a shock," Tony says. "But yeah, that's another point in his favor."

-----

"I already heard," Clint says, not moving as Phil limps up behind him. Still with his arms draped over the stone wall of the garden. Phil's talking to a lot of people's backs today.

"Where's the gun?"

Clint lifts his head and turns it, just enough to get Phil in his sightline. Phil takes a small, shuffling step to the side, obliging. Rests an elbow on the wall so it can take some of his weight and repeats, "Did you bring it back?"

"Steve took it. I--Bruce was--"

"The Hulk," Phil finishes for him. "We call him the Hulk."

Clint doesn't respond for a while, scanning Phil for something, not really suspiciously. More tired than anything. He's got a good scrape on his face as well, up on one temple. That could have been bad, if whatever it was had hit him more solidly. "Did Tony?" He asks, eventually, "do that? To Bruce?"

"Bruce did that to Bruce."

Phil doesn't elaborate, but Clint seems satisfied with that, nodding before turning back to the view. It's less impressive in the day, without all the lights. Phil's not sure what Clint's been looking at out here all morning. Maybe he's just enjoying the sun, after all the time cooped up in Stark Tower.

"It's a secret," Phil tells him, eventually. "If you care about Bruce--" He lets it hang. Clint doesn't respond.

Then he says, "Tony's going to be in trouble."

"If word gets out? We're all going to be in trouble."

That gets him an irritated sound. It's fair. Phil knew what he meant, that he wasn't talking about the Hulk or Bruce anymore. "Tony's always in trouble. This wasn't your fault."

"The gun--"

"There was shooting, Clint."

"I was going to get Bruce safe, and go," Clint admits. "And fuck the tracker. I was going to--That's why I needed the gun, and then--"

"And then the Hulk," Phil finishes for him. "You know, bullets can't hurt him."

Clint twitches. He'd tried shooting, then. He's lucky to be alive. Bruce must be pretty fond of him, for him to get away with threatening the Hulk and under already tense circumstances.

"Well, you got me," Clint says suddenly, straightening up and turning to face Phil. His face is tense, his jaw set. "I froze, and now you've got me. Again."

"The Hulk tends to have that effect, the first time you see him."

"What are you gonna do?" Clint asks. "Now?"

"Have coffee."

"No, I mean--" Clint starts, then cuts it off. Rethinks his tactics, and asks, more politely, "Where are they going to send me?"

Phil knew that's where he was heading, ever since he'd mentioned the gun. "We made you a promise. You're not going anywhere. Come inside."

"Thought I'd get some fresh air while I have the chance, sir."

"You'll have the chance. Come inside."

Clint gives the street a last, reluctant look.

"I can't stand on this knee all day, Clint." Then, when Clint doesn't move, "You pulled me out."

"Only because you were babysitting me." He offers a half smile with that. Quirked, like Tony. Like he means it half-sarcastically, but not really, but maybe yes, depending on how Phil reacts.

"It's my job."

Clint ducks his head. Scratches an arm. Some healing abrasion that he's opening back up, probably. None of them are unscathed, and Clint hadn't been any further in the clear than Phil. It's just luck that he's not hurt worse. "Sure, but you wouldn't have been in that hall to start with, otherwise." Clint shrugs. "Fair's fair, right?"

If only fair was how things worked. Clint's probably thinking the same thing, because he gives Phil another one of those Tony-smiles. Dark and ironic and flatly humorless. "There's going to be an interview," Phil tells him. "I don't know how much Tony explained, but I'll be with you. Just tell the truth, everything that happened."

"Except for Bruce."

"Except for the Hulk," Phil corrects. "It'll be fine. Now come inside so we can go over answers. If we can prep Tony for talk shows, we can prep you for this. God knows you're more likely to stay on script. It'll be fine."

Clint hesitates again, looking over to the doors of the penthouse, then back to the street, turning away from Phil again to look at something below. Watching a fountain go through its cycle of patterns. He's quiet for what feels like a long time, long enough for the fountain to repeat itself, and then he says, "They start with drugs," and pauses again, before adding, "I don't even remember the first couple weeks. I mean--" A shrug. "It's hazy. I couldn't tell you what I did."

Or said. Or didn't say. Phil knows he's talking about the retraining center. He's heard about the kind of techniques that could be employed and it's not like Clint had come in as a runner with an otherwise shiny record.

"It's not going to be like that."

"If they take me back--"

"They're not taking you anywhere," Phil says, again. Then adds, lighter, trying to make it a joke, even though nothing about the situation is funny. "You know too much now."

Unexpectedly, Clint laughs at that. Like the underlying promise is a relief, whichever way Phil means it. His shoulders relax, even though he's still watching the fountain and not making eye contact. Not looking at Phil at all, really. He needs a haircut. It's starting to look a little scruffy, and the way his face is scratched and bruised isn't helping. Just enough of a trim to make him look charmingly ruffled and sympathetic instead of like some lawless rogue.

"They make sure you know you're not a person," Clint says. "At--those places. I ran because I wasn't going to be some asshole's toy. The first time. I wasn't going to be a thing." He gives Phil a quick sideways glance, then looks away again. "They made sure I knew I'd made a mistake, thinking that." His expression sets again, into a stubborn look that reminds Phil an awful lot of Steve at his trial. Set jaw. Hard eyes. "I'm not going to let them have Bruce," he says.

-----

Clint's a lot more coachable than Tony. A lot more motivated to be coachable, to start with, but he also settles himself on the carpet next to the couch, like they're in the training room back home in New York and preparing to work on something. Phil doesn't comment on the choice, and busies himself with his leg instead, getting it comfortably propped up again, shoving pillows under his knee and adjusting them until he can find an angle that eases the nails-in-the-joint feeling a bit.

"Just tell them everything, up to finding Bruce. Then say Happy and Steve caught up to you, the end. Just gloss over the other guy."

"What if they ask?"

There'd no reason anyone would ask. It's not a guess Phil thinks is on anyone's radar, to ask if Hulk had made an appearance. If it comes up, it means their secrecy's been blown and they're screwed anyway. Before he can say so, Clint adds, "How Bruce survived, I mean. He's not even scratched. What if they want to talk to him?"

Bruce is great at the non-answer. Also at the who-knows fatalism that makes people not examine him too closely.

"We don't know. Bruce got lucky. The blast was more in the lobby and exits than the stage area. That's our best guess."

Clint considers that, resting his arm on the edge of the couch and his chin on his arm. It's the most relaxed he's been around Phil, in a while, and it's only because he's distracted by other concerns now. Busy filing away all the right answers and making sure their stories will line up.

Phil's sure everything will go fine, right up until they show up downtown for the interview and find a video camera in the room.

Clint comes to a dead stop in the doorway, like he's hit a wall and glances quick about the room, even though it's empty and spartan and like any other interrogation room. Long mirror along one wall to hide observers, metal table, sad folding chairs, and an ugly avocado paint job, with equally ugly beige linoleum flooring. The air-conditioning is humming too loud for how cool it isn't, like it needs a good clean or even replacing.

"It's for the records," Phil tells him, giving him a little nudge. "In case they need transcripts. It's standard."

"Yeah, I bet," Clint mutters, but he lets Phil guide him through the doorway and towards the table.

"Have a seat," Phil tells him. Then clarifies, "In the chair," when Clint doesn't move, obviously uncertain. "This isn't anything but a talk, remember?"

Clint's eyes flick to the camera. It's not the flashing that gets him, then. Or at least, not just the flashing, but he hadn't reacted to any of the security cameras all over the convention hall or in the hotel lobby. Phil can hear him breathing, too measured to be natural.

"It's okay. Someone's watching." He nods at the window. Smiles at whoever's behind it. "They'll let us sit. Then someone will come and offer us coffee. You want coffee?"

"No." A pause to swallow. "No, sir."

Phil fights the urge to reassure him again, and puts his energy to settling himself down and looking casual. His knee is throbbing. He really misses that couch back at the hotel. If he keeps hobbling around like this, he's going to end up on crutches.

"Jesus," he says, when someone finally comes in. "Took you guys long enough. How about a coffee?" He tilts his head at Clint a little, "Water for him."

There's two of them. They both pause at Phil's impatient tone, then Cop One shrugs and turns to his partner. Gestures for her to do as Phil's asked. They're buying his affronted elite act, which means they have the upper hand already. It should be smooth sailing, except that Clint had put both hands on top of the table the second the door had opened, laying his palms flat, an obviously conditioned response, and not one he'd picked up in his training house days.

"Afternoon," Phil offers, a little more friendly, as the cop takes a seat opposite them. "Is this going to take long? I spent yesterday getting blown up, so I'd like to get back to my aspirin and ice packs, if you don't mind."

"We'll keep it brief." He's got a file with him. Great. "Just figuring out if we need to kick this up to Regulation."

Regulation. Phil huffs in annoyance at the suggestion, but Clint stays very still, pressing his hands against the table the way he had the roof of the car, that day that Phil had caught him and Steve heading south. "Is this really a bigger deal than someone attacking a science lecture?"

"We've got people working on that. But I think you're aware the security risks of--" He pauses, like he doesn't know how to refer to Clint, with him sitting right there, then just doesn't finish. "He's got quite the record. If Stark wasn't Stark, I don't think he'd have been allowed the purchase, considering his own record."

"His record of saving New York?" Phil suggests, but before he can say anything else, Cop Two comes back with a paper cup and a plastic bottle, setting them both by Phil, before walking around the table to turn on the camera and take her own seat.

"House special," she says, nodding at the cup. "You should have gone for the water yourself, probably."

The good cop, Phil thinks, but sets the water closer to Clint and picks up the cup. "Thanks for the warning."

"I understand you've seen the footage? Or do we need to review it?"

They've seen it. Reviewed it. Know how to answer questions about it. Phil gestures the go-ahead, and takes a sip of his coffee. Cop Two was right. It's terrible.

There's a brief round of introductions, followed by a quick recap of the security tape contents--for the camera's benefit, Phil thinks, not really listening to the formalities. Paying more attention to the way Clint's very studiously not looking at the camera. Phil's glanced at it a few times. It's hard not to, with it sitting there on a tripod, big and outdated, with a blinking red light and everything, but Clint hasn't looked at it once, eyes on his hands, listening with more attention than he's ever paid to Phil, head tilted just a little in concentration.

"We'll start with the gun," Good Cop says.

"Right to it, then," Phil comments, but smiles. "It fell. When we got caught in a terrorist attack. It was on the news."

He can feel Clint tensing. Clint wants him to shut up and play nice, which is weird for Clint. Clint had smarted off at Tony even before he'd had any idea what Tony might or might not do to him. The wanting to play nice and keep his head down means he's not reading Phil and Phil's intentions. Not recognizing that impatient, affronted innocence is more likely to get them moved along quickly than playing well behaved and quiet.

It's something about the room and the camera together, Phil decides. Maybe the furniture. The cold functionality of the table, and the soldered on hoop to fix prisoners' cuffs to. He'd balked from similar attachments on furniture at the tower. His hands are still flat on the table, keeping them in plain sight. He hasn't touched the water.

Phil waits for a comment about how well he's got Clint trained, but it doesn't come. They're professionals, and not even very invested professionals. Probably, they don't want to be on this duty either, and would prefer to be doing actual investigating. Tony's right. Someone higher up is pushing for the questioning, hoping for a misstep that will let them kick an accident and misjudgment into an actual investigation.

"There was shooting," Clint's saying, voice low and polite. An unspoken sir or ma'am at the end of it. Phil had told him model behavior, but this is so textbook it's unsettling. "I didn't think. I--" A quick look at Phil. Just his eyes flicking to the side and back. It's the first he's looked up from the little bit of table between his hands. "Coulson didn't say no. So I just went."

"Went?"

"Inside. To get Bruce. He--" A stumble. Phil knows that he's sticking on memories of finding the Hulk in Bruce's place, but it's convincing as concern. As having been nearly blown up himself. "We didn't know if he was okay."

"Was the gun fired?"

"Yes." Phil says. "Not by Clint." Their only real lie, to pin the spent bullets on Happy. In case anyone finds them during clean up and thinks to ask questions. He should have warned Clint about the Hulk. Somehow. He'd known something like this could happen.

They take notes. Clint's head tilts just a bit more. Like he's listening intently, or trying to watch the room while keeping position. Angling his face further away from the camera.

"He shouldn't have picked up the gun. I should have stopped him, but none of us were thinking clearly. He didn't run. He was following orders." Phil waves a hand to indicate Clint's form-perfect behavior. Takes another sip of his terrible coffee. It's somehow watery and too bitter at the same time.

There's that moment on the tape. The one that had stretched out and out, when Phil had thought Clint might put a bullet in his head. When Clint was thinking it. On the tape, it's just a tense few seconds where they're looking at each other before Clint breaks and heads off screen. Suspicious, if viewed with suspicion. With Clint being so subdued and compliant, it's nothing. Phil can tell the cops think their time is being wasted. Thank god for inter-departmental resentment and jurisdiction pissing matches.

The interview goes on, anticlimactic after all their preparation and worry, but Clint's tension never uncoils. He's doesn't look happier leaving than he had arriving, following Phil back out into the hall and out to the car in silence, dropping into the passenger seat without ever saying a word. He'd never even touched his water.

"I think that went well," Phil says, buckling up and pretending to adjust the rearview, but really taking the opportunity to look Clint over. He looks like hell. Pale under the scrapes and bruises. Kind of pathetic. No wonder the cops had been annoyed with having to spend time on them. Even with Clint's record, he doesn't look much like a fighter. The last entry in his file had been about retraining and sale. They must have decided it had taken. If Clint hadn't tried to run that first time, hadn't admitted to almost taking that shot after the explosion and trying again, Phil might believe it himself. "They'll let us know by the end of the day. I hope." He starts the car. Pulls out into the road. "After this weekend, I'd like to get home."

Clint snorts. "Me too," he says, wry, sounding just a little bit more like himself. He's still looking down at his hands, palms up now, and resting on his thighs.

Phil doesn't tell him, you're going home, the way he wants to, because he's not sure Clint feels that way about the tower yet. Instead he says, "It'll be fine, Clint."

-----

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, when they get back. Flat, and with only a small frown on his face. Just the slightest downturn at the corners of his mouth. "I didn't--"

"Die?" Phil ask. "I'm grateful."

The frown turns into a humorless smile. They're all wearing that look a lot, recently. "Close calls, huh?"

Phil raises his glass of water. "Here's to close calls." He's in the kitchen area, leaning against the counter. He'd love a stiff drink, but it probably wouldn't mix well with the pain meds for his knee, and he'd really love to take those too.

Clint's back outside, not over at the wall the way he'd spent the morning, but standing by the small table just outside the doors, peering over Tony's shoulder as he scans a tablet. Trying to rubberneck the news, Phil thinks. It occurs to him that maybe someone's looking for Clint. Someone other than the Regulation department. With the things he's been up to, it's not that unlikely.

He finishes his water and puts his glass in the sink, then goes and flips open Tony's laptop--a surprisingly mundane looking thing, in dull aluminum, built to take rough handling and powerful enough to keep them in touch with New York. "JARVIS," Phil says, "tell me we ran a security check on Clint. Tell me I remember doing that."

"You did, Agent Coulson."

Phil scowls. "Mr. Coulson." It's hopeless. Tony thinks he's hilarious, and if Tony approves, JARVIS won't quit.

"As you wish, Agent Coulson."

They'll never be on first name basis. "Remind me what we found."

JARVIS recites a list of crimes, but nothing new. Nothing Phil wasn't already aware of. "Who's after him?" he asks. He doesn't expect an answer, and JARVIS doesn't give him one. Instead the laptop pings impatiently, like he's typed an incorrect command. "Find me something off record."

He doesn't get anything but some old pictures of a much younger Clint frowning at a camera and sulkily chewing the inside of a cheek. Intake from the training house and also nothing Phil hasn't already seen. There's some training records he's also already found, notes on what skills Clint's picking up fast or not picking up at all. Phil keeps going, so absorbed that he barely feels his knee and doesn't hear Tony come back inside at all, until he sets his tablet down with a thunk, and leans onto his elbows, a little too close to Phil.

"Hi there," he says. "Want to see a music video I like?"

Phil doesn't jump. "Tony."

"It's me exploding, remixed into one sick dance beat." Tony picks up the tablet, then drops it to the table again. Smiles too wide.

"Am I in there?"

"A little bit. Mostly by accident and in the background. You're very handsome, though. They got your good angle."

"Anyone else?"

"Happy. Why? What's up?"

Phil looks up, checks where everyone is. Clint's gone, but Bruce is still in the kitchen area, watching them over the dividing island, waiting for more information, aware that something is going on but not sure what. Phil's got that same feeling, really.

"Why did you get Clint?"

Tony jaw tenses for just a second, before he shrugs and opens his mouth to spout bullshit. "Why really, Tony?"

Tony sighs. Lifts a hand and drops it again. Uses one finger to knock his tablet into a slow spin on the table, then scratches the back of his head and shrugs again. "Because?" He tries.

Phil doesn't respond. Just keeps looking at him until Tony looks away and back and admits, "He was black tagged, and---I don't know. He just didn't seem that bad."

The way Steve had looked like a good guy, and Bruce was brilliant and misunderstood. Really, Phil loves Tony for all the reasons he also wants to smack Tony, a lot of the time.

"He can do handstand," Tony goes on. "You can't do handstands. I can fly, so I'm not part of this--"

"Okay."

For once, Tony shuts up. He doesn't move or give Phil more space, though. Instead, he leans closer to the laptop screen, like they're on video chat. "Hey, J."

"Hello, sir."

"What you lookin' for?"

"Off-record documentation for property code three-seven-four-nine-nine--"

"Clint," Tony interrupts, impatient, and give Phil a questioning look. "Are we in trouble? Are you trying to scrub a database?"

"Why would anyone sell you a black tagged slave?" Phil asks, ignoring the question. Tony gives him a look.

"I'm very rich," he says, like Phil might have missed that. "I'm also very charming. They changed their mind about how unrecoverable they thought he was."

Phil takes a breath. Lets it out. "If he was black tagged, Regulations wasn't paying attention to him."

"Like hell they weren't."

"No, I mean--What was he going to? Hard labor somewhere?"

"Didn't ask." Of course he hadn't. Phil turns his attention back to the computer screen.

"JARVIS. Run facial recognition. Search for unlabeled images. The unofficial stuff."

Phil half expects Tony to make some kind of crack, but he doesn't. Glancing from Phil to the screen and waiting while the search runs. Tony has a stupid little cat icon pacing the bottom of the screen to indicate JARVIS busy processing a task. It's made of large pixels and so dated looking that it's ridiculous. "You have Tetris on here too?"

"I like Tetris."

It takes a minute, but then JARVIS starts spitting up images. Not a lot. Not with the short run time they've given the search, but enough. They're grainy and badly lit in a way that Phil associates with a particular mix of amateur and clandestine. Photos taken surreptitiously, and illegally. The single video JARVIS finds is wobbly and shot from bad angles that somehow makes the whole thing feel even sleazier. He stops it playing as soon as he knows what it is, without waiting for the camera to settle its auto-focus.

"Shit," Tony offers.

"JARVIS, stop search," Phil says, and goes back to the kitchen to see if he can find what Happy's done with the scotch, deciding he'd rather the stiff drink than the pain meds. He doesn't pour one for Tony, just comes back with a mini bottle he finds stuffed in a cabinet. "Well," he says. "Now we know why he doesn't like cameras."

"How much of this do you think there is?" Tony asks, using his finger to slide images around.

"Who knows. Don't look at it."

"Jesus. I thought R-and-R was supposed to be, you know. Regulating and Rehabilitating."

"Yeah." Tony should know that there's a dark underbelly to everything, and it's not like a human trade should be any more honest than the weapons trade. No reason the oversight wouldn't be just as full of holes.

Phil comes back and considers the images Tony's shifting through. The one on top is of Clint looking directly at the camera, jaw clenched in stubborn outrage. It looks like his hair's been clippered off at some point. The regrowth is still too short to grip, but someone's got a hand holding him by the jaw, fingers digging in, something with straps hanging mostly out of frame. There's marks from similar previous treatment on Clint's face. Smudges of bruising. Scrapes on his face that aren't too different than the ones he's got now, from flying debris, except that these look like his face has been shoved into a rough flat surface. A wall or a floor. His lip is split.

The next picture is more awkward. Part of what could be a hip, and a hand moving through the frame, blurred in the low light. It might not even be Clint, but just some random file caught up in the shuffle. JARVIS is sparing them. Phil's sure things get more graphic, and if he resumes the search, JARVIS will come up with the images.

"He's an escapee with a criminal record as long as my arm. Nobody was going to ask about him." Nobody was going to care, so long as Clint was broken enough to work and not make trouble. Phil knocks back the rest of his drink. "Except he already had training."

"Cleaned up prettier than they thought?" Tony's poking at the screen, closing the files, but the one on top is a longer shot of Clint in his tidy kneel. As sweet and agreeable looking as when he'd practiced with Steve, before Tony's party.

"And he charmed the pants off you," Phil concludes. "You sucker."

Tony closes the last file, and then the video without playing it. "Yeah, I'm a big softie," he says. "Ask Pepper."

"I'll ask Bruce," Phil tells him.

"You're going to look at this stuff, aren't you?" Tony asks, closing the laptop and nodding down at it. "When we get back to New York."

"He's unpredictable around cameras, Tony. And he said something about drugs. It's my job."

"It's not your job if you get hurt."

Phil huffs. Points out, "It's my job if you get hurt."

"Happy," Tony says. "That's Happy's job. And Steve's. Your job is to put that leg up. I'll get you another drink."

"Fine. And maybe see if Steve will check on Clint? And after that let's talk about who wants you dead this time."

"And then gambling," Tony says. "Last night in Vegas and all."