Chapter Six: Exactly What it Looks Like

They weren't gentle with him, but Clint figured he'd be more concerned if they were. The rough handling he expected, it was familiar and it helped keep him present. Behind closed eyelids, under the cover of darkness from the thick cloth bag cinched tight around his throat, Clint couldn't stop hearing the pings of muted gunshots. Three of them. Three shots and the gun had been pointed at Phil's chest. Clint had done nothing.

Fucking nothing.

Phil had looked at him like he was the world, and he'd done nothing but flop around like a beached fish, his strength gone, his coordination gone, his body failing him; and he'd failed Phil.

Three unobtrusive gunshots and the slamming of a van's door, that was what he'd had to occupy his thoughts for a relatively smooth transport. So, they weren't gentle with him, but that was something he was glad for; he'd always functioned better when he had something to focus on, and right now every bruise was a welcome distraction.

They hauled him out of the vehicle with hands digging into his armpits and let him drop to the ground. With his arms secured by a pair of cuffs and his body still not recovered from whatever they had hit him with on the street, he fell like a sack of potatoes. He didn't need them to remove the bag to know there were six people surrounding him, or to know where each one was. But he couldn't seem to control his balance enough to launch an attack; couldn't find the coordination that normally came so naturally or the strength he'd spent a lifetime building.

The hands dug under his arms again and dragged him to his knees. A person flanked him on both sides, pressed hands into his shoulders to keep him down as the bag was torn away. He blinked into the sudden brightness and fingers curled into his hair, forcing his head back.

Ethan loomed over him, hair shiny with styling gel, suit jacket unbuttoned, and no tie. He hadn't dressed up for the occasion. Clint tugged at the grip on his head, and it tightened enough that his eyes watered. There was an unfortunately long list of people Clint would have guessed would be standing over him, but Ethan was a bit of a surprise.

"I thought we weren't meeting until Tuesday. Did I get the date wrong?" Ethan backhanded him across the cheek, letting Clint's head snap sideways from the force of the blow before wrenching him back into position.

"Sadly, it seems that some previously baseless concerns about our business arrangements have proven true," Ethan said conversationally, and backhanded Clint again before he released his grip and stepped back. He pulled out a fucking handkerchief and wiped at the smudge of blood that had appeared on his knuckles, courtesy of Clint's lip. "Imagine my disappointment when I was informed that my trusted supplier, after all these months, was actually a SHIELD plant. You understand, Agent Barton, how this looks to my superiors."

"Yep," Clint agreed, mind whirling because this sounded like there was a leak in the operation, and the only people who knew about his involvement in it were very limited. "I guess we could say both of our companies are having some loyalty issues." Clint twisted at the bindings holding his arms together, not much more than thickened handcuffs. He could work with this, just as soon as he could do more than be held in place on his knees.

"Unfortunately, you are not going to be my problem to deal with," Ethan sneered, and with theatrical timing a large, armoured transport pulled in through the warehouse doors. The engine rumbled and Clint's hearing must have still been wonky because he should have noticed it coming long before.

The doors opened and men spilled out; heavily armed and numerous. They were wearing specialized masks that covered the upper half of their faces and their heads. Clint would put money down that each mask had built in scanners of some kind, because they looked like something Tony might make when he was suffering from an epic hangover. Clint recognized the uniforms immediately, because he never forgot the targets he killed, and he'd killed a few men dressed like this back when he'd first met Wade.

Ethan looked like he was getting ready to greet the newcomers when one of the masked men stepped forward and looked down at Clint.

"We told you to secure him," the guy snarled, lips dragged down in a severe frown that accentuated the scar over his lip, and he waved two of his crew forward. They shoved the men holding Clint away and one of them pressed the tip of his weapon to the base of Clint's skull. Clint took the hint and froze. He'd been about to dislocate his thumb and slip from the cuff, planning to use the new guys' appearance for a distraction and see how far he could get.

"What do you call that?" Ethan said and gestured at Clint with his usual flare of temper.

"I call that a near miss," scar-guy said with a sneer and any hope Clint had of slipping these bonds disappeared as he was forced into new ones. They were ice-cold and they wrapped around his forearms like a glove. Secured from wrists to elbows, his shoulders were mostly immobilized as well, stretched back to accommodate the pull.

"I call that excessive," Ethan snapped, but the new head-honcho didn't seem to give a shit what he thought. It just proved to Clint that, as soon as these new folks got what they wanted from Ethan, he'd be just as expendable as Ethan thought Clint was.

"Get Barton loaded and dose him. Level 5 containment."

"Yes, sir!" The heavily armed men in the jacked-up black-ops getups jumped to do his bidding and Clint was once again hauled to his feet. He smiled at Ethan as pleasantly as he could as he was dragged passed. He could see Ethan falter at the look, because it was one Clint hadn't shared with him yet. It was one Clint very rarely shared.

"See you later," he promised, and meant every word, because he and Ethan had some unfinished business. The sound of hushed gunshots would echo in Clint's memories for the rest of his life. His stomach rolled and he forced the nausea down with pure fury.

A few steps and he was heaved, with more care than Ethan's people had shown, into the back of the armoured truck. He was forced onto a bench seat, and he was dragged back as the restraints on his arms wrenched into the wall; a giant fucking magnet was apparently designed to hold them in place. Fantastic. One of the guards knelt down in front of Clint. Clint kicked him, using as much force as his slowly recovering strength allowed. The man's head snapped back and he went crashing into the far wall, the weapon strapped across his back and the hardware attached to various places on his uniform clattered violently on the metal interior. He remained slumped on the seat, and Clint looked out the back of the van at Ethan and winked. Ethan's hand went to his weapon.

The next man to come and finish securing Clint brought a friend, and the friend brought a tazer, and Clint settled in and let them pin his thighs down with a built in metal strap. It was uncomfortable as fuck. Clint relaxed into it, glad for the ache.

The leader climbed into the back a moment later, the door slammed shut, and just like that they were on the move.

"Idiot," Scar muttered at the guy Clint had taken down, and shoved him off the bench with his boot, only to take the spot right across from Clint. He shook his head. "Ethan was hand fed the fact that you're SHIELD, but lacks the forethought to figure out exactly how dangerous you are," he mused and Clint remained silent as he was looked over. "I don't lack that foresight." Great. Clint took steady breaths, every bump jarring his shoulders and elbows, and said nothing.

"I was informed that you had someone with you at the time of your acquisition; please accept my condolences."

Fuck you and you're fucking condolences. The second I'm free I'm going to become the nightmare you've never been capable of imagining.

Clint said none of this, but Scar apparently picked up on the violent thoughts and was thoroughly unmoved. With a nod of his head the lackey that had been sitting off to the side slid over, and jammed a needle into Clint's neck. Blissful darkness reigned.

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Phil woke up.

For a long minute he stared at the paneled ceiling. It was all a generic white, except for the one tile directly over his bed, which was an unskilled riot of colour depicting what he figured was a house with a rainbow coming out of it's chimney, and horses flying in the background. It had the unbridled charm of youth and innocence.

When the ache that encompassed his entire body stole his attention from the colourful painting, awareness of his location came to the forefront of his thoughts. He swallowed, his mouth dry and gummy, and looked around. He expected to see Clint.

He saw nobody; nobody but the monitors and bedside table and lack of windows. His memory came back like a slap: Dinner, Clint grinning, their shoulders bumping, pain, Clint's panicked eyes disappearing under a black bag, a gun aimed at Phil's chest.

The heart monitors kicked up a fuss as everything returned to him with fluid clarity.

Someone had taken Clint, and Phil had been shot. He looked to his chest, covered in hospital blue and a crisp white blanket that had been pulled over him, barely wrinkled he had lain so still. He moved to sit up and yes, his body hurt, but the stabbing, localized pain along his chest stole his breath. He collapsed back on the mattress, trying to minimize his breaths, tried to keep his lung from expanding too much. It didn't hurt enough that it stole his awareness, not like whatever he'd been hit with the night before, so he noticed the nurse and doctor as they hurried into the room. It was hard not to when they immediately set gentle hands on his shoulders to keep him from moving. He barely restrained himself from lashing out at the unexpected familiarity, but he recognized that they were only trying to help. Theoretically.

"Sir, you need to relax. You have a fractured sternum, fractured ribs and severe bruising. Moving could make things worse," the doctor said, no nonsense in his tone but a sympathetic light in his eyes.

"Where-" Phil started and coughed, throat practically sticking together and the nurse grabbed a cup from the side of his bed and stuck the straw in his mouth. He swallowed greedily, and then carefully pushed it aside. "What happened?" he tried again, this time successfully.

"You're in Kings County Hospital." The doctor explained with ill concealed curiosity. "You were brought here last night with serious electric shock injuries and three bullet shots to the chest."

Phil frowned and looked down at his chest, because it hurt like hell, but didn't feel like anything had torn him up. He knew what that felt like. The doctor seemed to understand his confusion as he continued quickly. "The bullets didn't penetrate. Your injuries reflect that you were wearing a bullet proof vest." Phil frowned, because he was pretty sure he'd remember putting that on. He'd just been wearing one of his regular white button-ups, one that Stark had provided as a gift months ago…ah. Right.

"Okay." Phil accepted the explanation with less fanfare than the doctor was apparently expecting.

"Can you tell me your name?" the man asked.

His name? Phil frowned, spying other medical staff moving outside his room, not paying them any attention. He noted the police officer that was watching him very closely from just beyond the door. They didn't know who he was, which meant that the asshole who shot him had taken his wallet for good measure. She clearly didn't know the meaning of 'nothing personal.' Still, there was safety in anonymity, both here and with the fake IDs he always carried.

"What time is it?" Phil asked.

"Nine-thirty in the morning. Sir, we need to know your name so we can learn more about your medical history. You can understand our concern based on the previous surgeries you've obviously-"

"I need to use the phone," Phil said, cutting him off, and the man frowned, sharing a look with the nurse. Phil didn't have the patience for this, but his basic understanding that they had no way of knowing how dire the situation was kept him polite. Barely. He levelled a look on the doctor. "I will answer your questions, but first I need to make a phone call," he ordered, and as he expected, the doctor capitulated. The nurse picked up the phone from the bedside table and gently deposited it on his lap. Phil snatched it up and- hesitated.

The ache in his chest was sharp and bitter, Clint's panicked struggle was bright in his mind, and Phil hesitated. Natasha would have been his first call, but she was under in Australia on a mission for Nick. SHIELD would be his second call, but…someone had very clearly targeted Clint. Clint who was known in SHIELD but not to the public. Of all the Avengers, Clint had actually managed to not be recorded close enough for facial recognition during the chitauri attack; he had been a blurred image up high and all but one person who had stuck around to record the battle had missed him entirely. He'd maintained his secret identity for now, and took care to wear a mask while on Avenger duties.

There was nothing indicating that he should be recognized as anything more than an acquaintance of the Avengers…unless someone in SHIELD leaked the information. Phil swallowed at the idea that they were compromised. He could call in the team, because he had no doubts they would get Clint back for him. He dialled.

Wade Wilson answered after a single ring, and Phil looked at the number displayed to realize that yes, he had called Wade.

"Yellow?" The relief Phil felt hearing his voice was new, and not entirely surprising. He swallowed thickly. "What's your favourite colour and how did you get this number?" Wade asked with a clearly distracted air.

"Wade," Phil said softly, and he could sense the man's entire attention shift to him, imagined him going still. "Are you busy?"

"Yes. Phil, what's wrong?" His unspoken 'you've never called me before' was heavy through the line.

"We got jumped last night on the way back from dinner. They took Clint." Phil explained it calmly, but he could see the alarmed looks from the people in his room.

"You're not mangled too badly?" Wade asked. Phil leaned back into his pillow and smiled politely at the doctor, who was beckoning the police officer into the room.

"I'm fine. I don't know who grabbed him, but I can give you a list-"

"Relax, Phil. I've got this. We'll be home for dinner." The last thing Phil heard before the line went dead was the slick metallic glide of a sword being jammed into its sheath. Phil very gently replaced the handset to its cradle and took a deep breath to settle the sheer relief that spread through him.

He was putting everything he was into trusting that Wade Wilson would bring Clint home.

It was one of the easiest decisions he'd ever made.

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"I got a call from a friend today," Wade announced to the room at large, which brought everything to a halt pretty quickly. It was a bit gratifying, especially how quickly all the big men with guns dropped the boxes they were scrambling to load into the escape truck, so that they could focus on little ol' him. He hopped off the warehouses rafters, now that he had all their attention, and made sure to add a couple of fancy twists and twirlies before landing on the unforgiving ground floor. It hurt for all of an unformed thought, which meant it hurt not at all, and he bowed with a flourish to show his audience appreciation. Nobody clapped. Tough crowd.

"Which is generally a pretty great thing," he continued. "Friends are awesome! But you see, the problem is that he called me on my burn phone, which I just bedazzled last week." Wade fished the phone out of his back pocket and displayed it for the closest angry dude, turning it so he could see the glittering decal of his mask on the back, surrounded by shiny, shiny red. "So you can imagine that I was pretty upset because now I have to come up with another bitchin' design for my next phone." He looked around and was wholly disheartened that nobody seemed to understand the enormity of his plight.

~It took you six hours to make~ his thought bubble read sympathetically, and he nodded at it despairingly. Seriously, gluing all the fragments onto the plastic had been such a pain! He'd learn from this; he'd bedazzle the phone case instead of the phone next time. He should have some rubies left over, and there was that handful of purple stones mixed in with the diamonds he'd picked up last month, they might be pretty-

"Who the fuck are you?" Someone rudely interrupted his planning, and he turned around and picked a guy out of the crowd that was dressed waaaay better than anyone else here; he wasn't even carrying a knife for protection. ~Enter Dummy In Charge~ the bubble said.

"Right?" Wade shared a laugh with his floating words and looked the guy over. "Obvious. Anyway, as I was saying: I got a call from a friend… actually he might be more of a brother-in-law? I'm not sure how that works when I'm technically not related to my bro. Found family: hits the spot every time." He tapped his chest over his heart with a clenched fist, feeling the moment.

"I'm going to ask one more time-" the uppity in the suit seemed pretty tense now. He was a bit of an impatient dick.

"Rude!" Wade interrupted, annoyed now. "I'm trying to explain how my bro got snatched last night, and that his significant other is pretty freaked out about the whole thing. Did I mention that he called me from a hospital bed? I do not like it when my family call me from the hospital."

"Somebody shoot this asshole already and get back to work!" the man ordered and, predictably, a whole lot of them opened fire. The bullets were like little ants that had crawled beneath his shirt, tickling and annoying, and Wade didn't know if he wanted to giggle or scratch them away.

"Woah! Unfriendly fire!" he cheered when one of the bullets missed him altogether and hit someone behind him. The guy fell with a scream of pain and another one stopped firing long enough to check that he was alive. "Well, that was a waste of bullets," Wade decided when the shooting finally stopped. He poked at a hole in his uniform. "And I didn't even think to bring the spare uniform; this is how upset I was when I got that phone call!" He raised his voice, and the leader dude turned slowly to stare at him. Wade struck a pose, because really: he cut a pretty impressive figure and he deserved to be appreciated.

"Did you all fucking miss!? KILL HIM!" the man screeched, and then he was running away and Wade was just done. He pulled out his sword and got to work, and he was finished with the tertiary characters before his real target even reached the far door. It was a little messy, but such was life.

He threw his sword, and clapped when it pierced through the man's thigh like…well, like a fucking sharp sword would. The guy fell to the ground, crawling to get away. Wade did him the favour of removing the sword so it wouldn't get in his way.

"Finally alone," he purred and the man squealed as he knelt down next to him and cupped his jaw gently. "Now, maybe you'd like to tell me where my Clinton is? Because we have a dinner engagement and I hate being late."

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Clint woke up without a headache, but it was more likely that his body ached enough to trump the pain in his skull. He was cold, and a glance down told him that that was because he'd been stripped of his clothes and dressed in a single pair of scrub pants; bastards had even taken his socks. That was a secondary concern, though, because he was absolutely certain the thing he should be most worried about were all the electrodes stuck across his chest, down his sides and arms. The IV running into his median cubital vein was definitely a problem; the amount of tape holding it in place almost hid his elbow.

He tightened his hands into fists and rotated them in the padded cuffs that secured him to the examination chair. His bare ankles suffered the same treatment, and every which way he looked, the wires stuck to his temples brushed through his hair.

Great. He was in a fucking lab. How was this his life?

"How do you feel?"

Clint's attention snapped to the pale man who moved out from behind him to fuss with the IV bag dangling from a thin metal pole beside him. He was dressed for an afternoon on a yacht: khakis and a pale blue button down, shades perched on the top of his thick red hair and face covered in freckles…Clint frowned.

"Ah, so you recognize me then?" the guy seemed pleased, and tutted at the goosebumps that pebbled over Clint's bared skin. Yeah, he recognized him.

"Alex Vigor." Clint didn't bother hiding his disgust.

"It's Doctor Vigor, thank you," he said, and stepped closer to Clint, probing the injection sight on his arm. Clint lunged at him, or tried to, satisfied as the man flinched even if Clint was well and truly stuck where he was. The sunglasses clattered to the ground and Clint leaned back in the chair. "That's about the maturity level I would expect from the infamous Hawkeye," Vigor said as he swept the glasses up from the floor and inspected them for damage. He cast a quick, smug, look at Clint. "What, you didn't think I would recognize an Avenger when they're delivered to my lab like a belated birthday gift wrapped in shiny metal ribbons? I'm more impressed you recognized me, but then I have heard you have a better memory than you let on. Spend a lot of time perusing SHIELD's most wanted files?"

"Not really, it's just that the ugly ones are easier to remember," Clint smiled.

"And here I thought we might get along," Vigor said, and glared. "Of course, seeing as you relieved me of a rather prized possession about a year back, I'm not very inclined to be hospitable to you. You set me back quite a ways as far as product testing goes." Clint looked to the doors of the lab, noted that the men standing guard were wearing the same uniforms that had been at Wade's lab. The same uniforms that had taken him from Ethan.

"I always figured you had a higher standard than developing a street drug, I guess I should have figured AIM wouldn't bring you in for anything bigger than that."

"You know full well that what I'm doing is far more complicated than a mere street steroid."

Yes. Clint was well aware that AIM, and apparently Vigor, were branching out to develop a drug that would temporarily turn a person into a raging Hulk. It was why Maria and Fury had been so adamant about carefully tracking down the source when they'd gotten wind of it. If it worked and even ten AIM mercenaries took a dose, it would be difficult to contain, let alone if a hundred, or a thousand, people took it simultaneously.

"Steroids are all the rage," Clint said, and Vigor's eyes narrowed with irritation.

"That certainly is a basic understanding of my work, yes," Vigor waved a hand and Clint was hard pressed to hear the quick footfalls of someone else approaching from beyond of his field of vision. "Of course, it is far more complicated and permanent than you were probably able to discern. No matter," he gingerly plucked a vial off of the tray a stern looking woman presented to him. Clint watched silently as he filled a syringe with the amber coloured liquid. "Seeing as you deprived me of my test subject ages ago I assume you'll have no problem stepping in? No?" He pressed the needle into the IV's injection port, watching Clint for the expected protest. Clint did nothing.

"If you're harbouring any thoughts that you'll gain ten times your strength and break out of here, don't bother," Vigor explained as he pulled the empty syringe from the port and placed it back on the tray. The assistant moved out of Clint's sight. "It's a two-step process, this is merely the binding solution that will prepare your body to accept the final serum. We've had a lot of… issues with people dying from the pain you see, so we've decided to divide and conquer. We had someone else lined up for the testing, but since you volunteered we've given them a reprieve."

Clint watched the yellowed liquid in the bag begin dripping through the tube, getting closer to his arm inch by inch.

"Oh, this is taking a long time," Vigor sighed dramatically and stepped closer to Clint. "Let me help with that." He opened the drip right up. It was a matter of seconds before the liquid flowed steadily into Clint. "You'll feel a slight burn," the man warned, and Clint looked up to glare into his whisky coloured eyes.

When the burn came it took his breath away. He didn't have enough air to scream.

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Alex watched the Avenger writhe and tremble in his chair for ten minutes before he grew bored and went to monitor the readouts from his office. Calculations predicted that the subject would survive and they would be able to proceed to the next level of testing. He had high hopes that it would work, because he had visions of pumping the pathetic arrow-slinger full of the steroid and setting him down in the middle of Manhattan. Watching him tear all those poor little innocents apart and then come back to himself to see what he had done? That would be precious.

Serves the bastard right for robbing him of the man that was impossible to kill. Alex had had plans for that body, designs to apply to it that would turn it into an unstoppable machine. He'd had plans on learning the secret to its immortality.

"Dr. Vigor?" his assistant interrupted sometime later and he looked up from his game of hearts to see her smiling with triumph. "Scans indicate that the first stage bonding process was ninety-eight percent successful. He survived." Alex stood from his seat in a rush, a cry of success on his lips, and he practically skipped into the main lab. This was great news! Finally there was a success to report, and on an enemy no less.

"Get the tank prepped," he ordered with elation as he stepped into the main lab, and then he froze. His world fell out from beneath him, a cloying dread igniting in his chest so fast it made it difficult to breathe. In the middle of the room, leaning over the body in the medical chair, was a man decked out head to toe in a skin tight red and black costume. He didn't need to see through the holes in the mottled material to know that the flesh was free of hair and scarred horrendously. He knew the eyes behind the mask were brown and that the sculpted muscles were every bit as strong as they looked.

Glancing to the exit of the lab, he noted the two guards on the ground, still. There were faint, bloody footprints leading from the door to where Deadpool now stood, crooning softly to the Avenger.

Alex swallowed thickly at the sight. He hadn't foreseen anyone being able to find them, his security measures had been top notch, only a handful of people knew and they wouldn't dare breathe a word on fear of their life…

He had not expected Deadpool.

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Her body trembled. It was a response she'd never experienced before, which had been a matter of personal pride. The other AIM scientists called her 'verbal nitrogen' behind her back because she froze people with her cutting words. She ran the labs with an iron fist, didn't care for people's problems, and cared even less for her subject's wellbeing beyond the success of an experiment. Deadpool had never been something to fear beyond the abstract concept of 'what-if.' His physical strength had never been a threat and his speed and reflexes weren't an issue because he'd always been contained. She'd never bothered to learn his name.

Now she trembled at the sight of him, like the countless people and animals she'd once had at her mercy.

"Leaving so soon?" his voice was rougher than she remembered from endless hours, days of talking, and he lifted his covered head to where Dr. Vigor had begun backing away. "I thought the party was just getting started." Vigor froze, Deadpool cocked his head to the side like an intrigued bird, and then he was herding everyone in the room to stand in a line by the feet of the Avenger. The Avenger's respirations were still ragged, but they were steady, and the sweat from his struggles still shone across his brow and chest. There was a fresh IV bag hooked up to him now, feeding him nutrients to replenish his system because she wanted him recovered for the next stage. He wasn't conscious.

"So, I got a phone call from a friend this morning," Deadpool started, walking slowly up and down their line like a drill sergeant assessing their troops. Her trembling grew when he paused to look at her, and the relief she felt when he moved on was a foreign and unwelcome emotion. "He was in the hospital- you know what?" he interrupted himself abruptly and threw his hands in the air, the sheathed swords on his back swaying with the movement. "It turns out that I'm actually tired of talking to the people in this room."

He raised his gun and shot Feelix in the head. His body crumbled and, she noted distantly, that left seven of them. Seven, in a building that had had at least thirty guards; she wasn't fool enough to think he'd missed any on his way to this room, otherwise they would have been here defending them. Maybe they'd garnered a modicum of survival instinct and run away.

"So," he continued with a jovial tone, "I'm going to ask a few very important questions, and if I don't like the answer-" he spun around in a twirl, raised his gun again, and shot Dr. Vigor between the eyes. She cried out as his tumbling body bumped into her, but held her place. Embarrassed by the sound she'd made, she straightened her shoulders. "I think you get the idea, right?" He asked Peppin, and Peppin nodded spastically, his glasses sliding down his nose. Deadpool stepped back and placed himself between them and the Avenger. He leaned his rear against the foot of the metal recliner, his lower back pressing against the unconscious mans toes.

"So," he clapped his hands together, and Peppin flinched as the gun barrel waved passed him. "I think it goes without saying that I don't like it when people that I consider mine up and disappear. He," he gestured at the unresponsive, restrained man, who had bruises on his wrists, ankles, and face. Nobody had wiped away the trail of blood from where he'd bitten his lip earlier. She swallowed nervously. "-is mine. Isn't it interesting that I would find him here? I feel like we've come in a full circle. Circles are boring." He paused, scratched at his jaw with the barrel of his weapon and gestured to the room at large. "Who is the most important scientist in this room?"

Everly instantly pointed to Vigor's lifeless corpse. Deadpool sighed and another ear crushing bark echoed through the room, followed the dull thud of Everly hitting the ground. They all flinched.

"This place is going to need soooo much bleach," the psychotic man bemoaned. "Was that question really that hard? Should we start with something easier? You," he gestured at Jojic, "what is your favourite colour?"

Jojic pointed at her without hesitation, and then his eyes widened in terror as Deadpool lifted his gun and he realized he'd answered the wrong question.

"Purple! I like purple!" Jojic cried, raising his arms to cover his head, and Deadpool paused. He considered him a long moment, and lowered his gun.

"Okay. You have good taste," he decided, and then slowly tilted his gaze to her. "I remember you," he said softly and she shivered. "Let's have a chat about my man Clint, shall we."

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Clint woke up confused and disoriented. He felt overwhelmingly warm, crushingly weak, and the lights were too bright, sending spikes of pain into his head. He was swaying. He made to move, and was jostled carefully back into position.

"Easy there, I've got you but you are exactly as heavy as all your muscles imply and I don't think either of us want to drop you just now."

Wade. Clint tried to curl up a bit and realized that he was being carried; the swaying was Wade walking. Clint tried opening his eyes again, but the pain still attacked his brain. It was okay though, because if Wade had him than he'd be fine-

"Phil." The memory cut into him worse than any of the pain he'd suffered yet. He knew his breathing was getting ragged and he tried to control it. He was safe now, and all he could think of was that final look on Phil's face, of everything he had tried to tell Clint and-

"Hey, now. He's fine, Clint. Just fine. Well, relatively fine. He's alive, at least, and talking, so that's fine enough, right?"

It took a moment for Clint to understand what Wade was saying, because to be honest, thinking was a bit difficult at the moment, but when the jumble of words made sense…they…

Clint turned into Wade's shoulder, pulled one of his hands from where they were folded over his stomach, and shielded his face from the world.

Phil was alive. Phil was alive…

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The next time Clint woke everything was clearer, a lot less painful, and comfortably warm as opposed to feverish. He blinked his eyes open and took in the unfamiliar room that was definitely in Stark tower, so long as the view from the floor to ceiling windows wasn't faked. He took a deep breath and looked to his left.

Phil.

The tightness in his chest (that he wasn't going to acknowledge had been terror) eased minutely. The memory of Wade's reassurances echoed in his mind, and Clint smiled at him. He felt the warmth enveloping his hand from where Phil held on, and he smiled back so softly it made Clint's chest ache in a more familiar way. The way it did first thing in the morning when Phil had only had one cup of coffee and refused to talk; the way it did when they occasionally had time to curl together on the couch, warm, safe, and content; the way it did when Clint got him to smile in the midst of a lecture to the new recruits about the importance of constant vigilance and survival rate correlations.

The gunshots were louder in his memory now; the silencer had disappeared, but Phil was here.

"Hey," Phil squeezed his hand more firmly, drawing his attention back to the moment, and Clint shook away the memory to deal with another time.

"Hey," Clint croaked out, voice more hoarse then he'd expected. The door on the other side of the room gently pushed open and Phil's hand clenched even tighter in reassurance as Clint tensed and looked over. Bruce quietly entered, his warm brown eyes quickly tracking to where they lay on the stupidly large bed, and a pleased smile curled his lips, making him look younger. Bruce always looked younger when he remembered to smile.

"Sorry to interrupt guys, but Jarvis said you were awake and I wanted to get in here before the rest of them showed up," he explained unnecessarily, moving right up to Clint's side of the bed and poking at the small computer on a specialized stand. "It's good to see you're awake, Clint."

"Thanks," Clint croaked again, and cleared his throat. Bruce passed him the cup of water from the bedside table and Clint pushed to lean up on one elbow to sip at it before handing it back. HE collapsed back to his pillow with a relieved sigh and looked to Phil with concern. It hadn't escaped his notice how still his partner was being.

"Hairline fracture in my sternum and three cracked ribs," Phil explained softly, and a smile that was all pleased curled his lips. "Apparently the wardrobe Tony gifted me with was infused with his updated version of Kevlar fibre. I was the test subject."

"I am going to kiss that man," Clint declared, and Bruce huffed with amusement as Phil made a disgruntled face.

"Please don't, we'd never hear the end of it." Phil sighed dramatically, for him at least, and Clint grinned before turning serious again. He'd take the time to look at Phil's bruises later, make sure to kiss every one better, make promises he couldn't keep to never let it happen again.

"What's the damage, Bruce?" Clint asked. He forced his attention back to his friend, who was moving to sit in the chair that had been pulled to their bedside. Clint's body still ached and he hadn't forgotten about Vigor and his fucking amber juice, or everything that had come after. He did his best to sound nonchalant about it; he didn't know what they knew yet, and there was no point singing about his trials and tribulations to the group if he could keep it under wraps.

"Wade found you in one of AIM's labs." Bruce gave Clint a knowing look and Phil squeezed his hand. "From what we've been able to discover from the…surviving scientists, they were designing a drug that could give a normal person temporary super-strength. They were trying to make an army of pop-and-go hulks."

"Yeah, I figured that bit out," Clint grunted, immediately feeling guilty for the miserable look Bruce tried to hide. "Not your fault they're a bunch of power-hungry amoral jackasses, Bruce," he tried to comfort, which didn't do much good but at least Bruce didn't look so much like a kicked bear cub.

"Well, they injected you with a proto-serum designed to shift the molecular basis of DNA to, theoretically, allow for a cohesive bond with their strength-serum," he took off his glasses and cleaned them on his t-shirt.

"Theoretically," Clint repeated and from where the left side of his body was pressed into Phil's warmth, he felt him tense.

"Theoretically." Bruce nodded. "The proto-serum did open up your body to be susceptible to transformative bonds, but they were still a ways off from perfecting the second part of their drug. Even trying to use Wade's blood as a stabilizing base for the bond, I have doubts that the second part of the serum wouldn't have burned you up from the inside out."

"Well, that's pleasant," Clint decided, and made a note to not tell Bruce how much the initial bonding-serum thing had hurt when he noted how upset he looked. "Relax, Bruce," he tried to reassure, "it never got to that point, and I'm still kicking so I consider this a win."

"That is the worst pep-talk ever," Tony declared as he entered the room like he hadn't been hovering just outside the door, waiting for the right moment to interrupt. Bruce and Phil didn't seem surprised to see any of them as Steve and Wade followed. Bruce had warned Clint that he'd wanted to get here before the rest of them realized Clint was awake.

It might have felt a little odd to be lounging in a big ass bed in what amounted to his pyjamas with Phil resting at his side while in the presence of his team. Maybe it was a bit awkward, but honestly he was just happy to be in a safe place with his people. Screw awkwardness, he owned this.

He'd earned this.

"I've never been accused of being a motivational speaker. That's Phil's department," Clint pointed out, and collectively they all looked to Phil, who had his eyes closed as he pretended to ignore them.

"The good news," Bruce went on, apparently not finished yet, "is that with the information we extracted from AIM's files, and the enthusiastic aid of their scientists," he cast an uncertain look to Wade at this. Wade was in the process of draping himself over the foot of their bed, one arm flopping out to rest over Clint and Phil's feet. "We were able to nullify the molecular bond effect of the proto-serum, which basically means you're back to normal with no complications. Just…try not to get injected with anything that might change your physiology, because your body's a little more adaptable now."

Clint swallowed at the news, nodding his thanks because the relief at knowing there was nothing long-term to be concerned with was pretty heavy.

"It's good to see you awake," Steve said with a warm smile, looking between Clint and Phil with that sincerity that just made a person feel, well, cared for.

"Thanks."

"Yep, real good," Tony agreed. "Now you can explain to the taxi driver, who's currently in my nicest conference room talking to some SHIELD agents, that you are in fact alive and that Wade was not the one who stripped you down, did evil sciency things to you, and then carried you to safety."

Clint blinked at that and looked to Wade, who was being notably quiet where he was sprawled by their feet. Clint remembered his voice, his reassurances, and being carried, but that was about it. He nudged Wade with a toe. Wade flopped his head to look at Clint, dressed in a pair of dark cargo pants and a sleeveless red shirt. He was wearing his holo-imager. Clint hated the holo-imager; it made it a shit-tonne more difficult to get a read on the guy.

"You rescued me with a taxi?" he asked.

"Like I would risk the van," Wade rolled his eyes.

"A taxi," Tony agreed, though Clint could see how hard he was trying to suppress his glee at the fact. "He had it wait outside for him while he played the Link to your Zelda. Wade forgot to mention that he'd be carrying you out of there. The drivers a bit traumatized."

"No he's not," Steve sighed, and it sounded like the reality of this actually pained him. "He thinks he played a crucial role in rescuing an Avenger and SHIELD's trying to convince him none of it ever happened."

"With some incentives of course," Tony chimed in and Clint smirked because it was expected.

"It's not like I brought him in with me," Wade groaned and looked imploringly at Clint. "He wasn't side-kick material." Wade was sitting up in the next moment, a hand skimming over their ankles as he pushed abruptly to his feet. "On that note," he announced, too jovial, "I have to go help a friend in the future deal with this thing that happened years ago. Stay out of trouble, my little timbits!" He called to the room at large, and then left. Just like that.

Clint's attention lingered on the door for a long moment, waiting for him to come back.

"Do you think this is something we should worry about?" Steve asked the room at large, a concerned furrow between his eyebrows.

"I'm sure it's fine," Phil said softly. "His friend is…a good person."

"I didn't even know he had friends outside you two," Tony muttered, but he pushed off to leave the room as well. "Food will be here in half an hour," he called over his shoulder and with a soft, reassuring smile, Bruce followed.

"We'll keep an eye out, in case he needs a hand," Steve reassured Clint with a severity that meant he considered Wade one of theirs now, whether he liked the guy or not. Then he looked at Phil. "Fury called. He said to tell you that the leak was a technician working under Agent Langer, and that Langer and Hill are taking care of it. Is this something I need to be concerned with?"

"No," Phil assured. "At this point, they've got it covered. The investigation won't end there, but it will need to be discreet. I'll keep you in the loop if I think there's something that might be of concern."

"Great," Steve nodded, and then kind of shuffled into awkward mode as he realized that he was the only one left in the room where Clint and Phil were practically snuggling before him. "Well I'll just…leave you to it then," Steve grimaced at himself and then just turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Clint couldn't help grinning even before he got a good look at Phil, because he knew what he'd find.

"Your face is red," he laughed at him.

"Shut up," Phil moaned, and Clint leaned over to press his lips to Phil's, unable to wait any longer. Phil reached his free hand up and rested it on the back of Clint's head, holding him there a moment longer, before they broke apart with tired sighs.

"This was the worst weekend ever," Clint said softly, and he could tell that Phil really wanted to roll onto his side and pull Clint into him. He wouldn't be able to do that for a while though, so Clint carefully curled into Phil, pressed his forehead against his shoulder and gently laid an arm over his stomach. The muscles bunched and relaxed. It wasn't the most comfortable position for Clint, but he wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

ccCcc

Three weeks later, Clint was sparring with Natasha. She made him come into SHIELD headquarters for the match, because she had no patience for his avoidance tactics and was a firm believer that it was one of the best ways to tell the few (very few, it turned out) agents who still had issues with Clint to go fuck themselves.

It was an effective strategy.

Pinned on his side with Natasha stuck to his back, one arm tight around his throat and the other effectively trapping his free hand, he finally relaxed enough to ask:

"What if he doesn't come back?"

"Don't be an idiot," she hissed in his ear, straining, because she was definitely better at this style of fighting than he was, but he was also her best match within SHIELD and he made her work for it.

He managed to slip her grasp and slammed an elbow back, only to hit the floor as she'd already pulled away. He rolled to his feet and was forced into a back handspring to avoid a sweeping kick aimed at his legs.

"I'm serious, though," he grunted as he dove towards her, aiming for her throat, then head, then kidneys. She blocked each attack with ease, grabbed the front of his shirt and snapped him forward over her head. He landed hard on the mat with her straddling him, his arms pinned once more and a forearm back against his throat. "What if he decided we're even now, and that's it? Acquaintance over."

She sighed from above him and released the press on his throat.

"You're being a moron."

"He's been at his place in San Diego for two days! He hasn't even called."

She shook her head at the ceiling, like she was looking to it for answers. He tried for a triple punch combo and was shut down before the first fist got a chance to land. Properly pinned again, she frowned at him.

"He bought an apartment one floor away from yours, he's invited himself into the Avengers because you're there-"

"-it's because Steve's there," he grumbled petulantly, and choked a little as she pressed on his windpipe. Nat thankfully continued like he hadn't spoken.

"He painted a giant purple dragon on his van for you," Clint had no idea what a purple dragon had to do with anything and knew his face said so. She gave him an almost hopeless look, which was completely unnecessary. "He had a shovel talk with Phil. That he sought out and instigated. On purpose," she stressed. "Of his own volition-"

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'm being an idiot," he agreed, and swallowed a bit thickly. "When was this?" he asked, because neither Phil nor Wade had mentioned ever having a heart to heart about where Wade stood in Clint's life. The idea that anyone would bother would never stop being surprising. The irritated look in her eyes softened a bit. She'd had her version of the shovel talk with Phil, too, years before they'd gotten together, years before Clint realized he could have more than friendship with him. As far as Clint knew, she was the only person who'd ever done that for him.

"About six months ago," she said. He blinked, because that was a long time ago. That was about the time he'd come home to find Phil and Wade reading comics together…

Okay, yeah, he was being a big idiot.

He bucked her off of him, or more accurately she let him knock her off, and they rolled back into fighting stance. He felt smoother then he had minutes before, more focused and graceful. You had to be graceful when fighting Nat, or you would never stand a chance.

"So," he asked, getting ready to attack or defend, "when did you have the shovel talk with Wade?"

She grinned and aimed her first kick at his head.

ccCcc

Three days later Clint came home to find Wade parked on their couch, his bare feet on the coffee table and five boxes of pizza stacked beside them. Clint hadn't been surprised when he stepped through the door, because the aroma had met him halfway down the hallway and only gotten stronger on approach. Phil wasn't due back for a few hours yet.

As soon as he stepped through the door Wade twisted on the couch, spine bending almost unnaturally to accommodate his need to look at Clint.

"Miss me?" He asked with a grin.

"No. Were you gone?" Clint tossed his jacket onto its hook and dropped his helmet on top of the shoes piled up by the door. It maybe rolled off the pile and into the middle of the hallway. He pretended not to notice and left it there.

"How did you ever become a spy when you're so bad at lying? I'm embarrassed for you," Wade snorted, but he didn't turn away from watching Clint as he went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge under the pretence of looking for some kind of vegetable to add to the pizza, spotted the big bag of carrot sticks and ignored it. He pulled out the milk instead. He didn't know why he did that because he didn't want milk, but he grabbed a mug from the dish rack and filled it halfway.

"You sure I'm lying?" He asked and took a drink, because he'd poured the damn thing now and he hated waste.

"Nope," Wade said, popping the 'p.' He looked a little tired around the eyes in a way that Clint rarely saw, but more settled than he'd been just after he'd saved Clint's ass and then run off. Clint stopped stalling, chugged the milk, and went to join Wade on the couch. Wade watched him the whole way over and practically bounced in his seat when Clint parked it beside him.

"How's Nate?" Clint asked, casual as you please because he wasn't at all bothered by the fact that Wade had run off to, presumably, help Cable without even telling Clint where he was going. Jackass.

"Dusty," Wade said with a grin, still staring at Clint. "We spent a lot of time in a desert. You should come with me next time, we can shoot some jackaroo's together."

Clint parsed that one out.

"Do you mean jackalope's?"

"Sure," Wade agreed in that way that meant he didn't but he wasn't shutting down the possibility. He handed Clint a beer, tapped his own to it. "Cheers, mate."

"Don't do that accent, I'm not in the mood to listen to you insult other countries."

"But you haven't heard my ancient Aztec yet," Wade pouted, which: no. "It took me forever to convince them to learn English so I could figure it out-" Clint relaxed and pretended not to listen as Wade gave him a rundown of the last few weeks under the guise of story time. Wade handed him pizza without prompting.

After a while, they both settled into their regular rhythm, and Wade stopped trying to not have conversations with what he'd once described as sentient word bubbles from omnipotent and occasionally assholish beings. Clint was half way through his second beer, picking at the label's corner and flattening it down, before he'd had enough of just sitting here and not saying shit that needed to be said.

He'd spent time thinking while Wade was gone, and more when Wade had come back on the grid but not back to New York. Well, he'd spent some time thinking about their situation in between the attack from the Electric Man, dismantling some tectonic-shifting machines for SHIELD, training with Nat and the team, and going to Phil's mothers birthday. The point was he'd realized that for all the time he and Wade hung out and fought together, and even fucking lived together for those few months, Clint hadn't really reciprocated. On the personal level. Sort of. Well, the sword skills had been pretty personal for him, but that had been Nat's doing and not…it wasn't the same.

Shit, Wade had sat on this couch with Clint and Phil and brought up his dead family and Clint had reciprocated by telling him later that week that he hated bananas because he'd eaten too many of them growing up. Clint wasn't good at sharing, not really sharing, but it was time and he didn't want to risk the guy thinking that he didn't appreciate him, or whatever. So he picked at the label, the bottle's glass still damp and cool under his fingertips, and took a steadying breath.

"So-" he had to clear his throat, which was fucking pathetic and he played it off like it was just because he hadn't spoken in a bit. Beside him Wade stilled, and Clint could feel the man's undivided attention turn his way. It was a familiar feeling now.

"So, I spent some time in the circus when I was growing up," he started, staring intently at the bottle. "My brother and I got in as roustabouts, doing jobs around the shows, helping out with the tents and animals and stuff. We were always stopping for the performances, setting up in all kinds of towns and cities, and there were these booths we always worked. You know, the popcorn stand, ring-toss, wack-a-mole," he trailed off, waiting for Wade to interrupt with something crudely amusing for the last stand, but Wade didn't say anything, he just kept sitting still. Kept watching. Kept quiet. Clint took a drink and went back to picking at the paper.

"There was this dunk tank, too. Me and a couple of the younger kids used to have to dress up as clowns and sit on the ledge, egging people on and teasing them when they couldn't hit the trigger with the baseball." It had been a good booth on the really hot days, even when the water warmed from hours in the sun. "There was a group of guys that were trying to impress their girlfriends, and they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. I might have gotten a little lippy with them." He hadn't thought much on it at the time.

His hand tightened around the bottle and he had to consciously relax it, because he'd shattered more than one in his grip when he wasn't paying attention and he didn't need the hassle of picking glass from his palm just then.

"They came back later that night, during the big performance and found me emptying the trash bins. Hauled my sorry ass back to the tank, and I was a stick thin ten year old, you know? Couldn't put up a fight worth shit back then-" but he'd tried. He got one guy in the balls, sent him crying to the ground, which was probably what really set off their tempers; he'd never been sure, it was all kind of hazy. "They held me under so long I stopped struggling, and then they hauled me up and laugh while I caught my breath, and then they did it again." And again, and again. He remembered that part, remembered the aching burn, the spasms in his chest, the desperation, the hands. He put his beer bottle on the table to be safe.

"My brother, Barney, found us. Fourteen years old and he kicked the living shit out of each one of them and hauled me out of that tank." He'd never seen his brother so angry at anyone before, not even at their dad, or that one foster family they had both decided to never acknowledge. Later the look of rage would become more familiar, more painful, but at that moment Clint had cried he'd been so relieved. And choked and coughed. He'd gotten pneumonia, but Carson had paid for the doctor and meds without blinking an eye, so it had worked out. It was the last time Clint remembered Barney truly being on his side about anything.

"I never did care much for water," he finished, his throat dry.

He'd only ever told this story to Phil, over a lot of vodka after he'd flat out refused to get into the pool at SHIELD for a swim test when he'd been recruited. Phil had helped him work some of that shit through, at least enough to get him swim certified and capable of surviving any water based missions. That had been when Clint first started to realize that Phil was more than just another agent, at least to him.

The only sound in the room for a long moment was the hockey game on the TV. Clint wasn't expecting Wade to suddenly lunge at him, but he supposed he'd been trained into expecting this sort of action around Wade. He didn't do a thing to defend himself beyond a startled grunt (it was not a squawk, Clint didn't squawk) as he was hit with a hug from the side, which effectively pinned both his arms. He knew he was stiff as a board under the friendly onslaught but he allowed the contact until Wade started tugging Clint towards his end of the couch. Startled, Clint made to move away. Wade tightened his grip and dragged Clint over bodily, like he was a giant fucking teddy bear or something. Clint ended up half sprawled in his lap, his arms pinned by Wade's own and his back to Wade's chest.

Naturally, Clint started struggling under the hold, but maybe not as much as he should have.

"Wade, what the fuck?" he demanded.

"We're having a moment." Wade explained, far to close to his ear. "A bonding moment. Don't fight it, just accept it."

"We can bond without cuddling," he pointed out, preparing to dig his elbow into the closest nerve cluster.

"Just let our fans have this," Wade crooned, and Clint stilled in his arms.

"Fans? If you put camera's in here somewhere-"

"Shhhhhhhhh shhhhhhhhh," Wade stroked his hair gently and Clint, like some kind of freaking child, actually felt himself settling. "Let them have this moment, it's the least we can do since we ignored the best part of a story arc like this."

"What?" Shit, Clint should really be trying to get out of this…whatever this was. He made to pull away again, but Wade's arms were almost as strong as his own, so it would be tough to break, and it had been a long day.

"You know," Wade explained, voice cheerful but soft and content. "The one where we forged the bonds of bro-ship through adventure and strife only to have a massive fallout that crushed our friendship into sharp, bitter shards of loneliness and despair. Then one of us gets abducted, which was you this time around, and I burn down the world trying to find you so that we can remember that ours is a love like no other and our bond is forever. That story arc: we skipped the traditional fight part."

"Wade, either let me up, or shut up and watch the game," Clint demanded, and tried once more to get out of his grip. No dice.

"Stop trying to ruin our moment," Wade chastised and Clint gave in, at least for a little while. What? Wade was warm and awkwardly comfortable. Clint had been forced to cuddle in worse conditions.

ccCcc

When Phil came home he let Dog trot into the apartment ahead of him, because the cat had met him by the building's front door and had been chasing his heels all the way up to their place. He wondered if he should try putting its food out on the fire-escape landing again and hope that it forgot how to find its way back inside. His thoughts were derailed, however, when his gaze drifted to the couch. He could see two heads and one set of shoulders that were far closer together than normal. Curious, he padded around to get a clearer visual, and found Clint being clutched to Wade's chest, one leg sprawled across the couch and the other braced on the floor. Both men's attention shifted from the game on the TV to him as soon as he came into view.

"This is exactly what it looks like," Wade announced with a wide grin. Phil looked to Clint, who was putting on a pretty good disgruntled look, one that Phil might have even believed in the early days of their acquaintance.

"Can you pass me my drink?" Clint asked, and managed to sound just as grumpy as he appeared. Phil looked to his pinned arms, to his face, and then to his bare feet pointedly.

"You're flexible, I think you can manage."

"I am not drinking beer with my feet, Phil," he growled.

"Then you shouldn't have left your helmet lying in the middle of the floor, Clint," Phil said, and went into his room to change. When he came out in sweats and a t-shirt, ready to do nothing but slump for the night, Wade still hadn't let Clint go. Phil wondered if there was something wrong with him that this scenario didn't bother him, but he shrugged away the thought as soon as it formed and grabbed his own beer. Sitting down he lifted Clint's leg, settled it over his thighs and wrapped a hand over his calf.

"You have to give him back when the game's over," he told Wade, grin curving his lips when Wade ignored him. Clint had once asked if Phil thought he was crazy for not being concerned about Wade in his life, ever, and Phil had told him he trusted his instincts. It was one of the best answers he'd ever given.

Feeling good about life at the moment, he lifted his beer to take a drink, only to startle when Dog leapt into his lap, clambered over Clint's leg and sprawled between it and Phil's stomach. Phil glared down at the cat, refusing to move his grip from Clint even though the monster was lying right on his forearm. He looked up to see Clint watching him from where Wade was clutching him like a giant stuffed animal, a amused glint in his blue eyes as he looked between Phil and Dog. Phil squeezed his calf, took a pointed drink of his beer, and turned his attention to the game.

He still didn't know where the hell to rest his hand with the cat in the way, but if that was the only problem he had to deal with then he would consider this night pretty close to perfect.

End.

So, that was apparently a fluffy end to this fic (this might just be as fluffy as I get!). I am not overly familiar with Deadpool as a character or in general, so I sincerely hope I didn't make him too sane, or out of character! If you made it to the end I hope you enjoyed my little story!

General interest: Jackaroo- a young man (feminine equivalent jillaroo) working on a sheep or cattle station to gain practical experience in Australia (and New Zeeland).