Chapter Text
Clint Barton was a man who really appreciated his sleep. In his line of work, it was a rare and treasured thing. Can’t sleep when you’re too busy trying to avoid getting shot or blown up all the time. It got a bit easier sleeping when Natasha came--at least after the first dozen times she had tried to kill the archer in his sleep.
Sometimes Clint missed the nights where he could sleep soundly, like when he was a kid and Barney’s back against his was a calming reminder that he wasn’t alone. He’d spent enough nights holed up in the middle of some shambled building, waiting for a target to pass by. But, beggars can’t be choosers. So Barton revelled in whatever time he could get in that allowed him to sleep for as long as possible.
It was only a few hours after his return from the other side of the world that Clint was woken up by the shrill ringtone his house phone played. While his face remained buried in his pillow, Clint’s hand maneuvered around the nightstand by his bed and clumsily grabbed the phone. His tired eyes squinted at the Caller ID that flashed on the small screen, and with a huff his thumb accepted the call.
“This is Barton,” Clint answered groggily, glancing over at the digital clock on the wooden nightstand, frowning once he read 2:35. He hadn’t even really hit jet-lag yet from his return flight. “You guys know it’s my day off, right?”
“Sorry agent, but we can’t have you on the bench for this one. We have an emergency here in D.C.”
“What’s going on?” Clint shot up from his bed, glancing out at the view of the city from his apartment. He was expecting to see great columns of smoke and fire, but all he found was a more than cheery midday that greeted him from the outside. A tossed glance was made once more before heading towards the kitchen.
“Captain Rogers has gone off-grid,” the voice said. “He’s a fugitive of S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Clint’s brain froze for a moment as it jumped from the lingering desire to curl back into bed with the sudden news. A frown set in the more Clint thought over the words.
“I’m sorry,” Clint finally managed, “did you just say that Captain America is a fugitive from S.H.I.E.L.D?”
“Yes.”
“Is this a joke?” Clint asked. God, please let it be some poor joke on Rogers’ part to mess with him since he got back in DC.
“Agent Barton, I repeat that Rogers is a fugitive. You are being called in for assignment. Do you accept, or should I send word to Pierce that you’re refusing?”
Pulling the phone away from his ear, Clint hit his head softly against the wall. The wheels in his head were spinning, a whispered “shit” coming out every time he bumped his forehead. This was not how he wanted to start his day.
“Uh,” the voice at the end of the phone lost its familiar government tone for a moment, “are you, uh, okay, Agent Barton?”
Blowing out a hot breath, Clint leaned against the wall as he returned the phone to his ear.
“I’m fantastic,” Clint said. His knuckles were white as he made his way over to the kitchen. “Do you have a location on Rogers?”
“Information will be provided at the Triskelion in thirty. Rumlow’s team’ll be expecting you.”
The frown on Clint’s face grew heavier. “Triskelion in thirty, got it.”
Once the call ended, Clint was left staring at his coffee pot in growing frustration.
“Stupid Rogers,” he muttered as he turned the machine on.
“Damn job,” Clint grumbled as he filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine from the top, and shoved the now empty, stained coffee pot back on top of the hot plate.
“That dumbass ruining my day off,” he finished as he poured the coffee grounds into the filter and slammed the top of the machine down, watching as it began to do its job. Brooding, Clint watched the coffee pot in silent irritation. His elbows pressed against the cool surface of the counter while he waited, one hand holding up his face. Occasionally glancing at the clock that glowed on his stove, Clint tapped his fingers until the timer finally shouted that the coffee was finished.
Quickly, Clint pulled out the coffee pot with his standby oven mitt. He multitasked, going back between bites of a protein bar while changing out of his plaid pajama pants, taking sips of coffee while tying up his boots. As Clint brushed his teeth he considered calling Natasha, but the clock in his house chimed at the strike of three, pushing him to speed up. Instead, he finished getting ready and snatched up his cell phone off of the counter before racing out of the apartment. The archer hurried through the hallway, going down the stairs and pausing only as he was hit by the brightness of the afternoon sky. But Clint was soon off, making his way to the impressive building that held many of S.H.I.E.L.D’s finest.
After what seemed like a blur of weaving between crowds on the sidewalk and nearly running across the bridge, Clint rushed into the building at 3:04, passing through security before he spotted Brock Rumlow heading over to meet him. He walked with more weight on his right foot, though it was barely noticeable. His eye was bruised, the skin already tinted darker, uglier. Despite this, Rumlow still walked with a near swaggering confidence that his injuries were unable to remove.
“Rumlow,” Clint greeted, his hand twitching ever-so-slightly by his side before he offered it.
“Barton,” Brock returned, accepting the handshake firmly. Neither let go for a moment, keeping their matched grasps tight. Maybe Clint thought Rumlow was a bit of an asshole, but he was sure Rumlow thought the same about him. They both said as much to each other over team drinks after their first mission together. Also wasn’t hard to remember the first time they had met during a test flight with a prototype-Quinjet. They’d both been younger, dumber, and neither would be able to fly for weeks after their conjoined mayhem.
“Right this way,” Rumlow said with a sharp grin after the two dropped the competition, secrecy tight in the pull of his lips.
A curt nod from Clint sent Rumlow to lead the way, Clint trailing slightly behind while glancing around the building. Clint chose to stay aloof, his hands resting in his pockets and a looseness in his steps as he glanced around the building. What immediately caught his attention was the part of the glass ceiling that was shattered, the area blocked off while an old custodian swept up the debris.
“What happened there?” He asked, nodding towards the crash site.
“Rogers happened,” Rumlow replied, and Clint frowned slightly as he took in the whole of the scene. The two were heading towards the elevator before Rumlow changed direction and went for the stairs. Clint glanced at the elevator doors, seeing a “Out of Order” sign taped to it. Glancing up the elevator shoot, he had to squint before he spotted the elevator. Following the trail, Clint put the pieces together as his eyes dropped from the suspended elevator to the hole in the ceiling.
Clint let out a whistle. “Rogers, huh?”
Rumlow looked over his shoulder at Clint, offering only the smallest grimace in response before he began up the stairs. The two were quiet as they ascended the lengthy climb, and twenty-eight floors later Clint was nearly out of breath but wouldn’t ever admit it to Rumlow. He could hear Rumlow breathing in through his nose to try and mask his own exhaustion from the climb. Then Rumlow took a left, and by the time they’d reached the meeting room both of them had at least caught their breath. He opened the door and barely held it open for Clint to enter before the archer heard the swift click of it closing.
The room was dark, save for the glow of monitors laiden with information and screenshots of Rogers. The rest of the Strike team rose from their chairs as their leader and Agent Barton entered, a familiar tenseness in their bodies as they stood at the ready. One that was set apart was the man who sat at the end of the table, his face framed by large glasses and dressed in a decent suit.
“Jasper,” Clint acknowledged, his eyes only looking at the other agent a moment before they were back to going through all of the monitors. There was a low quality shot from what Clint figured was a security cam, a hooded figure headed down the hall. There was someone in scrubs headed in the opposite direction, was Rogers at a hospital?
“Barton.” Agent Sitwell returned, and as Clint looked back over at him he saw that Sitwell was waiting for him to ask.
“Wanna fill me in on what’s going on?”
Sitwell nodded, his head bobbing for a moment before he returned his focus to the monitors. He pointed to the closest one in front of him, the images of Rogers’ apartment changing as he clicked through with the remote in his hand. “Last night around 0100 Fury was with Rogers in the Captain’s apartment, we don’t know the details or the reason for the visit. It was at Rogers’ apartment where the director was attacked by an unknown assailant,” Sitwell’s attention turned back to Clint. “Fury took hits. A nearby agent arrived on scene while Rogers gave chase after the shooter. Director Fury was taken to the hospital,” Sitwell paused.
Rumlow’s hand reached out behind him, squeezing his shoulder as Clint turned to face him.
“Director Fury didn’t make it,” Rumlow said, the words sounding clinical off of his tongue.
Silence snaked its way around the room and circled around Clint Barton, coiling tighter around the archer as the air was forced out of his lungs.
Clearing his throat, Clint brought his head down and found interest in the table edge that became the drum to his fingers. The urge for anything to get rid of the burning in his heart was desperate, but all his mind could do was chant softly to him, “He didn’t make it.” But Clint couldn’t distinguish whose voice it was, merging between Brock’s and Natasha’s. It almost felt like he was back on that damn helicarrier, damaged to hell thanks to no one but himself. A friend, teacher, leader, gone, thanks to him. The past--.
“Did they catch the shooter?” He asked softly, trying to pull himself back to the room. Clint needed to focus, locking back onto Jasper as Rumlow’s hand receded.
“No, they managed to get away.” For a second Jasper glanced over Clint’s shoulder at Rumlow, something passing between the two before Jasper looked back at Clint.
With a release of a hot breath and the smallest tapping of his foot, Clint returned his focus back to Jasper and settled himself. No more emotion needed to be shown in front of everyone. Mourning could be done thoroughly later on.
“What about Rogers then? Why are we going after him?”
“Rogers was at the hospital when Director Fury was in surgery.” The picture from earlier reappeared, Clint finally making out Rogers’ face under the hood despite the poor resolution. “Pierce asked for him to come in so Rogers could shed some light on the situation. Yet, Rogers withheld information. Pierce gave the order to put him under custody. This led to an attempt to detain Rogers with the Strike team,” a video feed from the elevator that was now out of order appeared on screen.
It was pretty intense as the fight progressed, but Rogers held his own. Clint had to glance back and look at Rumlow after watching Rogers throw him into the ceiling. His lip tugged up ever so slightly as he saw and identified all of Rumlow’s new injuries, and the same for the rest of his gathered crew.
He smothered the sprouting smile, hearing Natasha’s voice jabbing him to maintain at least a modicum of professionalism. Clint turned his attention back to the video. It was always something to see Cap in action. The power in his movements, the lack of hesitation before he launched himself out of the elevator. It was about as terrifying to watch as seeing the guy jump out of a plane without a parachute.
“As you can see,” Sitwell spoke up as the video feed stopped, “Rogers managed to evade capture. Currently we’re trying to find a location on them. They were sighted at a mall earlier, but they managed to duck our field agents.”
Some snappy remark was about to fly from Clint’s tongue but he held back as he listened to Sitwell. “Them?”
Jasper paused, looking to Rumlow for any form of support.
“It’s come to our attention that Agent Romanoff is aiding Captain Rogers,” Rumlow spoke up. “She was with him at the mall.”
“It’s come to your attention?” Barton repeated, flames poking at his insides. His voice rose slightly as his attention went from Rumlow to Jasper, the mask of professionalism slipping slightly. “Fury’s dead, Captain America’s a fugitive, and Agent Romanoff is aiding him? Worst part is you guys think you can capture the two of them, while they’re working together,” the archer shook his head, “they’re survivors, Jasper, it’s no surprise that you all have already taken a beating from trying.” Clint finished with a wave at Rumlow and the rest of his team.
In the silence of the aftermath, Clint felt everyone’s eyes on him; the attention made since after his little outburst. But the longer their stares lingered the more Clint started to notice the way they were all holding themselves. He had been foolish to dismiss the tenseness that they all held as just the familiar stance of military men. A couple of them standing on the left side of the table kept their hands rested beside their legs, where mindful taser rods sat warily in their holding. Their gazes more pointed, more focused than one should be in a simple meeting.
All of them ready to attack in a moment’s notice, the realization smacked Clint, but his face remained impassive as he continued to match Jasper”s watchful gaze. Rumlow’s eyes were burning holes against Clint’s back. He wondered what the signal would be if he misstepped here. Who would give it?
He could feel a slight tremble setting into his fingers, the hyper-awareness triggering a fight or flight that Clint had to suppress. Pulling his hands off the table he shoved them back into his pockets with curled fists. There were too many of them for just him, maybe even more in the next room over. Watching and waiting to see who he was.
“These ‘guys’ you speak of, Agent Barton, are on your side. And we’re asking for you to help us apprehend two very dangerous fugitives.” Jasper replied, his voice stronger than before. Maybe he wanted Clint to screw up here.
“You know them Barton. You’ll give us the edge we need.” Rumlow added.
“I will?” Clint replied, a slight challenge in his voice. He needed to test the waters, keeping track of the others as he turned to face Brock.
“Yeah, you will,” Rumlow answered, stepping closer to Barton as his crossed arms dropped, “because it’s your job, and you can’t say no to the right side. Everybody has their orders, Barton. Now listen to yours.”
For a moment Clint stared back at Rumlow, the two quiet before the archer spun back around to look at Sitwell. “This is a direct order from Pierce?”
“Highest authority,” Sitwell replied.
Quiet once more, Barton shuffled his eyes between the table and the rest of the Strike team. He could feel the way his silence made them anxious. It was a moment of control, but it felt more like Barton was back at the circus, watching the performers pause on the tightrope. His control was about as strong as the performers ability to fight gravity while they fell.
At least they have a net, Clint thought before clearing his throat. All of the eyes reminded him of why Stark handled the press conferences. He looked back over Jasper’s head at the monitors, studying Rogers’ blurry face. Clint swore he could make out that headstrong look in his eyes even with the pixelation.
With a sour look on his face and frustration clearly evident in his eyes, Barton met Sitwell’s wary gaze and nodded in submission. “What’s the plan, then?”
Rumlow spoke up from behind Clint, “Finding a location on them is gonna be the key part, but once we find them it’ll only be a small matter of getting a team together and going in.”
“And we’re just trying to detain them?” Barton looked at Rumlow, hands still shoved into his pockets.
“Eliminating the targets isn’t in the plan,” Rumlow said. “But we’ll do what we have to if it comes to it, Barton.”
“What were they doing at the mall?” Clint asked after a breath of silence.
“We’re not quite sure,” Sitwell answered, looking at Rumlow.
“Well, how’d you find out they were at the mall, Sitwell?” Clint nearly snapped, looking at the agent with a raised eyebrow.
“We managed to find them through the traffic cameras we had our people monitoring,” he responded with a slightly raised voice. The bowman turned silent, and Jasper continued. “I’d keep yourself in check, Barton,” he warned, “I recognize the personal connections you have to this operation but you need to focus on the mission.”
“I apologize, Jasper, honestly,” Clint replied evenly, throwing his hand out as if to offer the apology like a tossed bone. “But, my personal connections to this op are why I’m here, and I’m just trying to figure out why they would go to the mall. We all know that’s not exactly someplace you’d stop by while trying to stay off-grid,” he finished after gesturing to the rest of the Strike team.
“I’m sure we can ask them once you find them, Agent Barton,” Rumlow said before looking to his watch. His eyebrows were brought together for a moment before he dropped his wrist and looked to Sitwell. “My team’s needed right now. Keep me updated,” Brock signaled for the rest of Strike to head out, the men and women heading out the door. Before he stepped out, Rumlow turned to look at Clint and pointed at the archer.
“We’re counting on you, Barton. No room for mistakes.”
“Agreed,” Clint replied.
With Rumlow gone Barton turned to Sitwell, who stood across the room in observing fashion. He spoke up after a moment of studied silence between them.
“You’re very willing to turn around and betray your friends.”
“I had S.H.I.E.L.D before I had the Avengers,” Clint said. “And even then I owe S.H.I.E.L.D more than I owe them.”
“Just make sure you know what you’re doing, Barton,” Sitwell finished, and without another word he turned around and looked over the monitors. A poor dismissal, but Clint was happy enough to oblige.
“I always do,” Clint answered to Sitwell’s back, and he shoved his hands into his pockets before heading out of the meeting room.