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“This is unfair,” Clint says into his comms. “How come I have to jump off buildings, and you get to drink vodka and schmooze people?”
“Because,” Nat murmurs, “I look better in a cocktail dress than you do.”
“Excuse you, I look fabulous in a cocktail dress.” Clint rifles through the safe, keeping an eye on the door. “Remember that blue one? You said it brought out my eyes very nicely.”
“It did. Still think you should’ve let me do your eyeliner. You always mess it up.”
Clint finally finds the file they need and takes a few pictures. “Whatever. Point being, I think it’s my turn next time.”
“I’ll keep it in—” Nat breaks off suddenly, then says, “You need to go. There’s an unhappy group of Italians headed towards the elevator.”
“That sounds fantastic,” Clint mutters, pulling out more files. “ETA?”
“About two minutes. You good to get to the roof?”
Clint tugs on his parachute. “Yes. You realize I’m gonna bitch about this all night, right?”
“I’m aware.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m sure you’ll bitch about it to Coulson all throughout the next meeting too.”
“Of course I will,” Clint says, putting things back in the safe. He mentally runs through the layout of the building, trying to remember where the stairs are. No point in risking a run-in with an unhappy group of Italians.
The office door suddenly opens, and three giant, burly guys spill into the room. They look around with furious expressions, eyes finally lighting on Clint.
“You,” one says. “What are you doing?”
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Clint says, putting his hands up.
“It looks like you’re stealing things.”
Clint glances at the still-open safe. “Okay, so this is exactly what it looks like.” He kicks it shut and turns to look at them.
“Who the hell are you?” one of them asks, scowling. “How did you get in here?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Clint says, “because I wanted to take this moment to explain my whole plan to you.” He studies the three of them, wondering if he can punch his way out of this one. Probably not, given that even the smallest one’s got about fifty pounds on him. Any fight is going to end up with him getting his ass kicked. Which is something that he generally tries to avoid on any given day—although Nat likes to joke otherwise.
The leader narrows his eyes, the dim light glinting off his truly impressive mustache. “We’re waiting.”
Clint blinks. “Oh, you thought I was serious?” He looks at the safe, then back at them. “No, dude. I’m not—why the hell would I tell you that?”
“Let’s kill him,” the smallest one says. “Lemme at him.” He bares his teeth in something that could loosely be called a smile and slams a meaty fist into his palm. “I’ll mess him up good, Sonny.”
“Fredo,” Sonny says, holding out a hand. “Wait a moment. Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”
Clint looks back and forth between all of them, a sense of amusement breaking through his tension. “Hang on,” he says, and points at the last guy. “Please tell me your name is Michael. Please.”
“Yeah,” the guy grunts, and Clint starts laughing.
“Oh god,” he says, pulling himself back together after a moment. “This is the—did your parents really like movies or something? Or were they just that oblivious?”
They all look confused, which just makes it even funnier. Then they look angry, which dims his enthusiasm a bit. “You’re gonna come with us,” Sonny tells him, stepping forward. “We’ve got questions for you.”
“I probably don’t have answers,” Clint says. “Unless you want to know about archery, telephones, or fast food places in the city. I know a great little taco shop that—”
Sonny steps closer and reaches for him. Clint ducks and steps backwards, trying to think through options. One exit. That’s blocked. No weapons, other than what’s on the desk, and he’s got doubts about how much damage a stapler will do against Fredo’s pit bull face.
Which means his only real course of action is—
“Goddamnit,” Clint sighs.
He grabs the office chair and swings it in one motion, hurling it into the giant glass windows behind the desk. The glass shatters with a spectacular crash.
“The hell are you doing?” Sonny yells.
“Something stupid,” Clint says back, and jumps out the window, praying that forty-five stories is gonna leave him enough room.
It does, and it doesn’t. He pulls his chute after a heart-stopping moment of dropping, and it deploys, yanking him upright with enough force to make him wince. He tries to maneuver himself over towards the park, aiming for the little copse of trees.
Then one of the straps breaks, the force of the fall and the opening of the chute too much for it.
It doesn’t break fully. Not all the way. But enough that Clint slips a little bit, and his leisurely drift towards the ground suddenly becomes a lot more perilous. He grabs at the chute, praying to anyone who’ll listen that it’ll hold together long enough for him to get down. He’s going to have a serious talk with Supply, he’s so fucking sick of getting shoddy equipment—
The strap breaks the rest of the way, and Clint slips out of the rig entirely.
Luckily, he lands in a tree.
Unluckily, the tree is tiny, and he tumbles through the branches, then slams into the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. “Fuck,” he manages to wheeze, and flops onto his back.
A familiar face appears over him. “That was dramatic,” Agent Dorian says, holding down a hand to help him. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Clint grunts, taking his hand. “Nat?”
“She’s on her way out. We got a van over here.” Dorian points at the side of the park. “Did you get what we needed?”
“How dare you doubt me,” Clint says, handing over the camera.
Dorian looks through it, then nods. “Excellent. Fury will be glad to have this.”
“I live to serve,” Clint says, and climbs into the van. Nat’s already in there, looking stunning as hell in a black cocktail dress. Her hair is blond tonight, swept up in an intricate braid, and she smiles at him as he gets in.
“You look like hell. What did you do, jump out a window?”
“Ha, ha,” Clint grunts, sitting heavily on the bench across from her. “Yes, I did, and yes, it hurt. Anything else you want to know?”
She pats his cheek. “I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow.”
“Mmmhmm.” He points at her. “But just so we’re clear?”
“Yes?”
“Next time, I get to seduce the rich guy.”
Nat laughs. “Of course,” she says. “I’ll talk to Coulson.”
“See that you do,” Clint says, and leans his head back against the wall, letting his eyes close.
Next time comes a lot sooner than he expected. Clint’s not sure if it’s because Coulson’s tired of hearing him complain about jumping out of a window, or if it’s because Nat actually did talk to him, or any other combination of things. The mind of Phil Coulson is something Clint’s given up trying to understand.
Still, he’s a little surprised to get a mission only two days after finishing this one. He’s still healing up from his scuffle with the tree, the scratches on his face slowly fading to faint lines. Not that it’s a side-lining injury or anything, but he’d expected a few more days between missions. Coulson’s usually good about enforcing downtime, and Clint’s been on a bunch of back-to-back missions. He’d expected to be benched for at least another day or so.
He opens the file and skims through it, picking out the important details. Fancy party at Stark Tower. Something about Tony Stark, and an...underground gambling ring?
“You gotta be shitting me,” Clint says, and immediately calls Nat. “Did you get this Stark mission?”
“I did,” she says.
“Why the hell are we busting a gambling ring? Isn’t that like...an FBI thing?”
“Did you read the whole file, Clint?”
“No,” he admits. “You know I hate reading.”
She sighs. “It’s not gambling for money, dear. They’re betting nuclear weapons.”
Oh.
Clint skims the file again, finding the relevant information. “Ah. Okay. Missed that.” He scrolls a little. “They think Tony Stark is part of it?” He doesn’t really seem like the kind of guy, honestly. Sure, he’s an arrogant asshole, but Clint half-suspects that’s a front for the cameras. He saw Stark once, working with some kids at an engineering camp. He’d been surprisingly sweet and attentive to them. Answered questions, gushed over little rubber band helicopters, and helped them team-build a slingshot made out of straws.
Clint was only supposed to be there long enough to drop off another agent’s kid, but he’d ended up staying longer, enthralled by the way Stark interacted with the kids. It was...well, it was cute, and kind of hot, and Clint had been unable to tear himself away.
Point being, anyone who’s that nice to kids probably isn’t evil.
“Clint,” Nat says. “Are you listening to me?”
“Not really.”
She sighs. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Sorry.” He looks at the file again. “So what, we think Tony Stark is selling nuclear weapons to bad guys?”
“It’s either him or Obadiah Stane,” she says. “We have to determine which one it is.”
“Okay.” Clint sighs. “So, am I jumping out of a window again?”
“Nope.” There’s a smile in her voice. “As per your request, you get to seduce the rich guy.”
Clint blinks. “What?”
“Tony Stark. He’s got a type. You’re it.”
“You’re shitting me.” Clint sits up. “I’m—are you serious?”
“Do you not want to?”
He snorts. “Of course I want to, Nat. Have you seen the guy? Who wouldn’t want to sleep with him?”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, but you—”
“I’m gonna stop you before you say something you regret,” she says, and Clint nods. “Meeting’s at four. Usual room. Show up on time, or else.”
“Yes ma’am.” Clint hangs up, then skims through the file again. Okay. Honeypot mission for Tony Stark. He’s down for that. Sure as hell beats stealing things out of safes and jumping out of windows to get away from the real-life cast of The Godfather.
He scrolls back up to the top, then makes a face at the dress code. Fancy party, black tie.
“Fuck,” he mutters tossing the tablet to the side, and texts Nat. You’re gonna help me dress for this, right?
Of course, comes the reply, along with a smiley face. Clint’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Well. If he’s going to be seducing Tony Stark tonight, he should probably go shower. And get the bandages off his face. And shave. And maybe get his hair cut or something.
“It’s not a date,” he tells himself as he’s getting up. “It’s a mission. Don’t read into it.”
Still. He might as well make himself look nice, right? Give himself the best chance possible? God knows he’s not smooth or charming. All he’s got going for him are his looks. Might as well take full advantage of that. Maybe he can sweep Stark off his feet from a distance before he has a chance to put his damn foot in his mouth.
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, and heads for his bathroom.
The party is ridiculously fancy. Clint had expected this to some extent, but also not this much at all, and he feels so goddamn out of place that it’s not even funny.
He pulls uncomfortably on his tie until Nat catches his gaze from across the room and shakes her head once, a subtle warning that makes him instantly drop his hand. He glares back, giving her his best I am not afraid of you eyes, which...doesn’t do much. She just smirks a little bit and turns her attention back to Stane.
Clint sighs and looks around. He’s supposed to be seducing Tony Stark, except the man isn’t at his own damn party, which is making his job harder.
“Guys,” he says, turning away from the crowd. “I can’t exactly fuck a guy if he’s not around. I thought you said he was showing up soon?”
“He’s in the Tower,” Dorian says. “But he’s a couple floors down from you. He’s in his lab. There’s not anything we can do to get him out.”
“Any way I can get down there?”
“Not without an access pass.”
Nat sighs. “I have to do everything,” she mutters.
Clint’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, so he shifts his position a little bit so that he can see her. As he watches, she steps up close to Stane, smiling sweetly at him as she coos something in his ear. He leans down, and she slides one hand into his pocket, then carefully pulls out something small and white, palming it easily.
Clint walks across the room, trying to toe the line between aimless drifting and being purposeful. When he gets close enough, he smiles at Nat and switches his champagne glass to his left hand. “Hello,” he says, extending a hand. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Sofia Ivanov,” she says in a light Russian accent, offering her own. He takes it, and feels something small and square press into the palm of his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“What brings you here?”
“I invited her,” Stane says, wrapping an arm around her waist. Clint’s probably the only person in the room who sees the brief way her eyes narrow at the touch. “And you are?”
“Call me Deckard,” Clint says. “This your party, then?”
“Not mine,” Stane says. “It’s Tony’s birthday.”
“Oh? I don’t see him around.”
“No.” Stane’s jaw clenches. “I told him to come up here. I suspect he’s wrapped up in yet another project.”
“Well,” Clint says, sipping his champagne. “Best not to interfere, right? Don’t want to drag him up to a party when he’s busy designing the next line of defenses for the country.”
“Hiding, more like it,” Stane mutters, then forces himself to smile. “In any case. The party goes on, right?”
“It’s wonderful,” Nat purrs in his ear, leaning against him. “Darling, would you be a dear and get me more champagne?”
“Certainly.” Stane kisses her hand, then nods at Clint and walks over to the bar.
Natasha sighs. “So...Deckard. Big movie fan, are you?”
“Shut up,” Clint mutters. “I was watching Blade Runner. Sue me.”
“Mmm.” She hands him her empty glass. “It was lovely to meet you, dear, but I’m afraid I should get going. More people to meet, you see.”
“Same,” Clint says. He lowers his voice and whispers, “Thank you.”
Nat smiles—a real smile, not the fake one she’s been putting on for Stane—and kisses his cheek, then strides over to the bar. Clint slips the access pass in his pocket.
He kills a couple more minutes at the party, fading into the background until he’s unnoticeable. Then he ducks around a corner, sneaking past a security guard, and flashes the access card at the elevator. It dings softly, and a moment later the doors open.
“What floor is the lab?” Clint asks, one finger to his ear. “Guys.”
“Mr. Stark’s labs are in the basement,” says a polite British voice. It echoes around him, and Clint jumps. “May I inquire as to who you are, and why you have Mr. Stane’s pass?”
“Rick Deckard,” Clint says, looking around. “And...he gave it to me?”
“I find that unlikely.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is JARVIS. I am an artificial intelligence created to assist Mr. Stark in his various endeavors.”
Clint nods. Alright. Robots. It’s odd, but he can roll with it. Robots are cool. “Nice to meet you, I guess. Um. Can you take me to him?”
“If you could answer my other question, Mr...Deckard.” For a polite robot, JARVIS manages to sound very skeptical at the name.
Clint sighs. “I lifted it off him,” he says, because he’s pretty sure he’s not going to get anywhere in this tower if there’s an all-seeing robot intent on preventing him from doing so. “I’m interested in meeting Stark.”
“Why?”
“Because...” Because I’m on a mission to find out if he’s secretly a nuclear arms dealer and not just an engineer? “I don’t know. He just seems like a nice guy, and I was hoping to get to know him?”
He winces, because that’s probably the dumbest thing he’s ever said in his entire life. He sounds like a nervous teenager asking someone on a date. “I’m just—I don’t know. No one should be alone on their birthday.”
There’s a long pause, and then the elevator starts to move. Clint lets out a sigh of relief and leans against the wall. He has no idea what to do now—no plan for anything to say, no idea if Stark is even going to want to talk to him—but at least he’s on his way.
He taps his earpiece, which is oddly silent. Dorian’s not exactly a big talker, but there’s no way he would’ve let that “get to know him” comment go by without at least saying something. Which means either he’s saving it for later, or he didn’t hear it at all.
The first is annoying. The second is...alarming.
The elevator comes to a stop, and the doors slide open to reveal a large, industrial looking space. Clint immediately notices the row of classic and luxury cars along the back wall, and a tunnel that presumably leads up to the street. They’re the only things neatly lined up in a shop that’s otherwise basically just controlled chaos, lab tables and machinery and equipment taking up every square inch of it.
At one of those tables, back to the elevator, is Tony Stark himself. He’s got his back to the elevator, head bobbing along to the obscenely loud AC/DC music blaring through the shop. He’s fixing something—a gauntlet, it looks like, aggressively gold colored, with a circle set in the palm.
The music pauses, and Tony glances at the ceiling. “JARVIS,” he says, sounding annoyed.
“Apologies, sir,” JARVIS says. “But you have a visitor.”
“Obie,” he sighs, and turns around. The annoyance on his face vanishes to confusion as soon as he sees Clint. “Not Obie. Who the hell are you? How did you get down here?”
“I’m—” Clint starts, but JARVIS interrupts.
“This is Clint Barton,” he says. “He’s an agent with SHIELD.”
Clint’s mouth drops open, because that’s not what he was expecting at all. “Uh,” he says, his only saving grace being that Tony looks just as shocked. “I’m—well—that’s not—” He stumbles over his words, not sure what to say. Not that he’s never been identified on a mission before, but it’s never happened so fast, and certainly never so...nonchalantly.
Tony pulls himself back together first, shock morphing back into annoyance. “No,” he says, and shakes his head. “I’m not interested. Tell Fury I’m sick of being recruited. I’ve told him a thousand times I’m not interested. I don’t want to be one of his merry little men. I do my own thing.”
“I’m not here for that,” Clint manages, finally getting over his shock. “I’m not—that’s not why I came down here.”
Tony scowls. “Then why are you here?”
“Uh.” Clint starts to give him a line, then decides to just go for it. “Honestly? I’m on a mission.”
Tony crosses his arms. “Are you allowed to tell me that?”
“No,” Clint says. “Well. I shouldn’t.”
“So why are you?”
Clint shrugs. “Your robot already knows me,” he says. “And honestly, I’m pretty sure you’re not the guy we’re looking for, anyway.”
Tony studies him, brown eyes eerily perceptive. Then he says, “This is about the nuclear weapons, isn’t it?”
Clint nods, somehow not surprised that he knew that.
“Yeah. That’s Obie. I already figured it out. And I’m gonna stop him.” Tony turns back to the gauntlet. “So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it. I have to repair this and upload the software. Tell Fury to fuck off. Feel free to use that exact phrase.”
“What is it?” Clint asks, moving closer instead. “Looks like armor.”
“It is armor,” Tony says, irritable. “I made it myself. I’m a genius.” He turns around. “Seriously, you’re not welcome down here.”
Clint shrugs. “I’m not really welcome anywhere,” he says. “I’m used to it. Is your A.I. blocking radio frequencies?”
Tony turns back to his armor. “Yes. Why?”
“I need to tell my team,” Clint says. “That Stane’s the one we want. What did you mean, that you were going to take care of it yourself?”
Tony gestures at the armor. “I mean I’m going to put all this together, fly to Saudi Arabia, destroy the bad guys, and come back all before SHIELD has their first cup of coffee in the morning.” He looks over at Clint. “I know you guys do good work, but I can do it faster. And I’ve got a personal stake in this one.” His jaw is tight, and his words are furious. “These are my weapons. My name is on them. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let something like this happen, not when I can fucking do something about it.”
He stops, setting the tools down, and turns around fully, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what now? You gonna call up SHIELD? Turn me in?” His voice is challenging and his body is tense, like he’s itching for a fight.
“No,” Clint says, and Tony blinks.
“Oh.” His shoulders relax a little bit, and he studies Clint, something changing in his expression. “Why?”
Clint waves a hand. “I know what it’s like,” he says. “When somebody makes it personal. I know that very well.”
Tony keeps looking at him, brown eyes piercing through Clint with an almost uncomfortable intensity. “Budapest,” he says after a moment. “Right?”
Clint stares at him. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“I know a lot about SHIELD,” Tony says. “And their various fuck-ups.”
Fuck-up is a polite way of putting it, really. Clint’s been through a lot of shit with SHIELD, but that’s the only mission that ever made him walk away, intent on being done. He’d only come back because Nat had asked him to, and it had taken a fair amount of convincing on her part. Clint loves being a spy, loves the danger and adrenaline of it all, but Budapest—that had been something different entirely.
He pushes away the memories. “Well. You’re right, in any case. So no, I’m not going to turn you in.”
“Good,” Tony says, the tension draining from him like water. “Okay. Thank you.”
“I do need to tell my team, though,” Clint says. “That Stane’s the one we want. So if you could maybe tell your computer guy to let me do that...?”
“JARVIS,” Tony calls.
The polite voice echoes through the room. “Consider it done, sir.”
Instantly, a dozen voices flood into his ear. Clint winces. “Guys,” he says. “Guys!”
The voices stop. Then Dorian says, “Barton? Where the hell have you been?”
“Doing my mission,” Clint says. “Stane’s the one we want.”
There’s a pause, and then he asks, “Are you sure?”
“Clint,” Natasha cuts in, voice dead serious, “if that’s the case, you need to be careful, because he’s going in the elevator right now, and there are people with him.”
“But I’ve got his access card—”
“He has overrides,” Tony says, pressing a button. “If you’re talking about the elevator. Is it Obie? Is he coming down?”
“Coming with people.” Clint looks around. “Okay. You need to get over there—” He starts to push Tony out of the way.
“No time,” Tony says as the doors open, and instead he yanks Clint forward, crashing their mouths together.
It’s a hell of a first kiss, really. Clint’s too shocked to do much more than take it, eyes flying wide in astonishment. “Ah,” he says, a short, mumbled sound of surprise, and Tony takes advantage of his open mouth, turning the kiss into something deeper.
“Tony!” Stane barks, and Tony grins against Clint before pulling off with an obscene sound, setting one hand on Clint’s ass to pull him closer.
“Yeah, what,” he says, suddenly sounding—unconcerned, almost, half-tipsy and lazy. He loops his other arm over Clint’s shoulder and looks over to Stane. “I’m busy, Obie.”
There are five men with him—big, burly guys with too many weapons and not enough brains. Clint notes the guns leveled in his direction, trying to calculate the odds of them getting out of this without injuries or death.
It’s not looking good, really. Fuck. Maybe he should leave the seducing to Natasha.
The comms in his ear are blocked again, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that. He shifts himself more in front of Tony, trying to make himself a shield, and eyes the guards. “Gentlemen,” he says. “What’s the problem?”
“You were at the party,” Stane says, glaring at Clint. “You—Deckard, was it?” His voice just drips disbelief and condescension. Like a ruder version of JARVIS.
“I was at the party,” Clint agrees, keeping his voice neutral.
“I invited him down here,” Tony says. “You’re interrupting.”
Stane rolls his eyes. “There’s been a change in plans. I need you to come with me. Right now.”
“I’m busy.”
“That wasn’t a request, Tony.” Stane points another gun at Clint, which frankly seems like overkill at this point. “You. Come here.”
“What’s the problem?” Clint asks again, keeping his hands up, trying to maintain friendliness. He shifts a little bit, moving a few steps more in front of Tony, blocking him from view as best he can. “We don’t need guns here—let’s just talk about this like civilized people—”
“I’m not interested in discussing anything with you,” Stane growls. “Mr. Deckard. Or do you prefer Agent Barton?”
Clint blinks, keeping his expression neutral. That’s twice now, twice in one night that he’s been outed. Maybe he needs to retire. Either that or have words with Fury about a possible leak in SHIELD, because there’s no way—
“You bugged my lab,” Tony says suddenly. “How did you—JARVIS—”
“It’s too low level for JARVIS to detect,” Stane says. “Don’t even bother.” He shakes his head. “I told you, Tony, you need to share your talents with the world. Keeping everything—even yourself—locked down here? It’s a waste, son.”
“I’m not your son.” Tony’s voice is cold and furious. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“I’m trying to help you, Tony.”
“You’re selling my weapons to nuclear arms dealers.”
Stane laughs coldly. “They’re going to end up there anyway. Why not cut out the middleman? There’s money to be made here—”
“I don’t care about money!” Tony slams his hand on the table. “I never have, you asshole, I’m trying to keep people safe—”
“If you think that, then you’re even more delusional than I’d imagined.” Stane motions with the gun. “Come here, Agent Barton. I won’t ask twice.”
“You just did,” Clint says, but he reluctantly moves to the indicated spot, not really wanting to be shot. One of the guards grabs him and takes his gun, then shoves him down to his knees. Stane presses his gun to the back of his head. “What is this, then? A kidnapping?”
“Hardly.” Stane rolls his eyes. “I already have him, what would be the point of that? No, I’m here to...acquire something, let’s say.” He aims his gun at Tony. “The Mark 1 armor specs. Now.”
“No fucking way,” Tony says.
Stane sighs. “Tony. Are you going to make me do the whole song and dance?”
Tony looks at Clint, an apology in his eyes. “I can’t give you those,” he says. “I won’t give you those. They’re dangerous, and if you sell them to who I think you’re selling them to, a whole bunch of innocent people are going to die.”
“That’s what people do!” Stane yells, the sudden shift in anger terrifying. “They die! And if you don’t give me what I ask for, you’re going to get an up close and personal demonstration involving Agent Barton here.” He smacks the gun against Clint’s head. “The specs, you little brat. Now. You might be willing to sacrifice him, but I doubt you’re willing to do the same to Miss Potts.”
The name rings a bell—Tony’s personal assistant, Clint thinks—but clearly she must mean more than that to Tony, judging by the way the blood drains from his face. “Don’t,” he says, swallowing hard. “You—don’t, Obie, you like Pepper—”
“I do,” Stane agrees. “But I like money more.” He points at the gauntlet that Tony was working on. “I’ll take that too, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s broken,” Tony says, almost desperate. “It’s—it’s not stable, if I take it off the table, it’s going to explode. I’m fixing it.” He holds his hands out. “I’ll give you the specs, okay? Just don’t hurt her. Or him. Either of them.” He turns to the table, opening a laptop up next to the gauntlet. “It’ll take a while, there’s a lot of files—”
“We’ve got time,” Stane says, putting a hand on Clint’s head. He pulls back painfully, smirking as Clint snarls and reaches up to grab his wrist, easing the pain. “I’ve got some questions for our new friend here.”
“I’m an open book,” Clint says, forcing his own smirk to the surface. “What do you wanna know about? Weather patterns? Planes? Archery? Competitive art? Pizza toppings?”
“What does SHIELD know?”
“Lots of things, buddy. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
“Why did they send you in?”
“Who says they did?”
“You didn’t come here of your own accord—”
“How do you know, Dr. Evil? Huh? Maybe I get invited to fancy parties all the time. Maybe dressing up in a monkey suit and looking pretty is my favorite way to spend days off.”
It’s not. He likes to hang out in sweatpants and eat pizza, maybe watch some Dog Cops. But it’s worth it to see the annoyed expression on Stane’s face.
“I doubt that’s the case,” he finally says, pressing the gun harder against Clint’s head. “Answer the question.”
“Get your damn gun outta my face.” Clint seriously considers kicking him in the knee. “You’re not gonna shoot me, we both know it.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows they’re a mistake. There’s a look in Stane’s eye, a cold, calculating kind of look that sends a chill down Clint’s spine. “No?” he asks, one evil grey eyebrow arching up. “What makes you think that?”
Clint grits his teeth. “I’m not worth much dead,” he says, suddenly aware that this is a negotiating game now.
“You’re not worth much alive, either,” Stane counters, confirming his suspicions. “Spies like you are a dime a dozen.”
“What makes you think I’m a dime a dozen?” Clint winces as his fingers tighten. “That hurts my feelings, asshole.”
“What makes you different from the other hundreds of trained monkeys at Fury’s command?”
“He’s Hawkeye,” Tony says quietly, and silence descends as they all look in his direction. “Clint Barton. Hawkeye. Strike Team Delta. Right?”
“That’s me,” Clint says, waving his free hand, a little surprised that he knows all that. Although JARVIS did give him Clint’s full name, and he knew about Budapest. So maybe not that surprising, in the end. “My reputation precedes me, apparently.”
Stane is looking at him again, except this time with a calculating interest that makes Clint’s skin crawl. “I see,” he says. “Well. Perhaps you are not so worthless after all.”
“I’m very valuable,” Clint agrees. “Fury will pay at least five dollars to get me back.”
Tony snorts, and Clint grins at him. Stane scowls and shoves Clint down to the floor. “Stop talking,” he orders. “Tony, how are those files coming along?”
Tony turns the computer towards them, which is displaying a progress bar at forty-eight percent. “Halfway. What are you going to do with him?”
Clint pushes up onto his knees, repositioning himself. “Something nefarious, probably,” he says. “Like James Bond levels of evil, but the really shitty ones, you know? Something involving lasers or something—”
Stane shoves the gun against the back of his head. “You talk too much,” he says.
“That’s my specialty.” Clint locks eyes with Tony, who is looking back at the laptop again. His finger is tapping, an odd combination of starts and stops—
No.
Morse code?
Clint chances a glance at Stane, who’s watching Tony with a tight expression. The tapping finger is curled under the table. Clint’s on his knees, he can see it, but Stane’s probably too tall. Risky, certainly, but at this point, risk is all they’ve got left.
Clint watches the finger. N-O-T-B-R-O-K-E.
Not broke. What’s not—
The gauntlet.
I have to repair this and upload the software.
Clint looks pointedly at the computer, then over at Tony. Software? he mouths.
Tony nods.
It’s at ninety-five percent now. And Tony’s other hand is inching towards the gauntlet, slow enough that Clint doesn’t think Stane’s noticed it.
Normally, the first rule of a gunfight is to remove civilians and innocents. Except Tony Stark isn’t really either one of those, and Clint’s running out of options and time anyway. He doesn’t have a clue what that gauntlet does, but he’s betting it’s something powerful.
Hopefully, powerful enough to knock out some guards.
“Three on the left,” he says, hoping Tony will get what he means.
“All yours,” Tony says with a flicker of a smile.
Stane makes an irritated sound. “The hell are you talking about?”
“You ever held someone at gunpoint before?” Clint asks, twisting a little to see him better. “Honest question.”
Stane scowls down at him. “Shut the hell up, Barton.”
“I’m serious.” Clint smirks. “Because you’re doing it wrong.”
“Done,” Tony says, and Clint moves. He throws himself backwards, into Stane’s legs, knocking him off balance and to the floor. At the same time he reaches up, grabs the gun, and rips it out of Stane’s hand. He rolls onto his feet, already firing. Doesn’t even look at them—he already knows the bullets will find their targets.
There’s a whine behind him, sudden and high-pitched, and then a blast of light bursts through the room, followed by another. The remaining two guards both collapse, and then it’s just Stane left. He’s staring at Clint, fury in his eyes, and slowly raises his hands as Clint aims the gun at him. “I think—”
“See here’s the thing,” Clint says. “When you’re holding someone at gunpoint? Stand out of arm’s reach, first of all. Gun to the back of the head feels intimidating, but it makes it easier to take. Keep your weight on the back foot. And don’t take your eye off your target.” He flashes a bright smile at Stane. “Pointers for next time.”
Stane’s face twists with fury, and he starts to get up. Before he can, though, Tony steps up next to Clint. The gauntlet is on his arm now, glowing and bright. “Don’t even think about it,” he says, voice deadly serious. “Just...don’t.”
“JARVIS,” Clint says. “Can you—”
“Your team is on their way,” the polite voice says. “Mr. Stane was blocking communications, but I have managed to override that. They will be here shortly.”
“Cool.” Clint keeps his eyes on Stane. “Stark, you want to cuff him or something?”
“You think I just keep handcuffs in my lab?” There’s a hint of laughter in his voice. “I know my reputation precedes me, but I don’t actually get up to any of that in my lab. I work down here.”
“You’re the one who kissed me,” Clint points out. “I’m just drawing conclusions.”
“True,” Tony admits. “Sorry. I thought it would be a good distraction.”
“It was,” Clint says. “I mean—surprising. And it didn’t really work. But it was good.”
Tony laughs and steps around him. “Good to know,” he says. “I’d be happy to do it again.” He holds out a tablet to Stane. “Sign this. Now.”
“I’m—” Stane starts, but then Tony raises the gauntlet, and Clint moves forward slightly, and Stane does as he’s told.
Tony takes the tablet back with a pleased expression. “You’re done with my company,” he says. “As of now.”
“The shareholders—”
“It’s my name on the outside of the building,” Tony says. “The shareholders can go fuck themselves. And after tonight, everyone’s gonna know what kind of person you really are. They’ll all be falling all over themselves in the morning to call in and get rid of you.” He tucks the tablet under his arm. “It’s over, Stane. You’re done for.”
There’s something nasty in Stane’s smile, something condescending in his posture. But all he says is, “We’ll see.”
Which is not an answer Clint really likes, but then there’s SHIELD agents pouring into the lab, commotion and people everywhere. Tony gets pulled away, and Stane disappears in a pair of handcuffs.
Apparently they’re doing the debriefing here, so Clint answers questions and describes what happened to multiple different people. He hands over the gun and the ID badge. Answers more questions. Yanks his tie off and shoves it in a pocket. Answers more questions. Signs three different forms. Answers more goddamn questions.
When he’s about ready to scream from frustration—seriously, how is the debrief longer than the actual fucking mission—Natasha appears by his side. “Hey,” she says, narrowing her eyes at the agent questioning Clint. The guy immediately pauses, then grabs his clipboard and hurries away.
Clint bites back a laugh. “Thank you,” he says. “I was about to punch him.”
“I could tell.” She brushes her hair behind her ear. “How was seducing the rich guy?”
“Uh...” Clint looks across the room to Tony, who looks just as irritated and tired as he does. “There wasn’t a lot of seducing. He made me pretty much right away, and then I told him who I was and what was going on.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “He kissed me for a distraction.”
“Yeah?” She rolls her shoulders. “Any good?”
“The kiss? Yeah.” He watches Tony argue with a tech trying to take the gauntlet from his hand. “It was. Once I got over the surprise factor.”
A slight smile crosses her face. “Looks like he could use a rescue,” she says, gesturing to the tech.
Clint glances at her, then back at him. “Yeah?”
A moment later, those brown eyes flick over to him, and there’s a very clear plea for help in them. Clint stifles a grin.
“Yeah,” Nat says, and kisses his cheek. “Go on. Go get him.”
Clint nods. His usual insecurities scream at him—not good enough, not smart enough, not worth the effort—but it’s surprisingly easy to ignore them. He feels pulled to Tony, like a magnet, like a compass pointing north.
“Go,” he says to the tech as he walks up. He does his best scary Natasha eyes, and it must work, because the tech instantly vanishes. Clint turns back to Tony, who is clutching his golden gauntlet to his chest. “The gold’s a little ostentatious,” he says, gesturing at it. “Don’t you think?”
“I’m not giving this up,” Tony says, white-knuckled gripping it. “Not to SHIELD.”
“I didn’t come over here to ask that,” Clint says, hoping his tone sounds reassuring.
Tony nods, shoulders relaxing a bit. “Good.” He looks over Clint’s shoulder. “That your girlfriend?”
“Natasha?” Clint snickers. “No. She’s my best friend.”
“Oh,” Tony says, and he relaxes even more, a hint of happiness crossing his face. “Good.”
“Good?” Clint asks.
Another nod. “I was going to ask you out for coffee. Which would be awkward, if she’s your girlfriend. But since she’s not...” He shrugs. “I mean. I’m down with threesomes, if she ever wants—”
“Fuck no,” Clint says, half-laughing, half-disgusted. “Absolutely not.”
“Alright then,” Tony says, and he’s grinning. He’s got a nice smile, Clint decides. Not fake, like the one he does for posed pictures. This one crinkles the corners of his eyes, draws lines around his mouth. Makes him seem more real, in a way. Clint wants to kiss it. “You do drink coffee, right?”
“I drink so much coffee,” Clint assures him. “No worries there.”
“Good,” Tony says again, and the smile gets brighter. “Shall we?”
“Don’t you have a party to get to?”
He shrugs. “They don’t care about me anyway. And it’s my birthday. I’d rather spend it with someone I actually like.”
“You don’t even know if you like me,” Clint says, amused. “We’ve spent all of ten minutes together, and most of that I was held at gunpoint.”
“Guess this is a good way to find out then, isn’t it?” Tony tilts his head towards the elevator. “We can sneak out after I put this thing away. I know a couple good places around here.”
Clint glances over his shoulder at Natasha. Her eyes meet his, a silent question in them, and Clint nods once.
Go, she mouths. I’ll handle this.
Thank you, he says, and turns to Tony. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”
“About time,” Tony says, and leads the way into the elevator.