Five Times The Avengers Didn't Hunt Down Dean Winchester (And The One Time Thor Threw Him A Party)

| One |

It takes all of three seconds for the mission to go completely off-the-rails. Which, granted, isn't unusual in Clint's line of work, but fuck, three seconds? This has to be a new record, even for him.

What's even more concerning though, is the way things have gone wrong. Or maybe batshit crazy would be a better description. Clint mentally notes that down. Coulson always appreciates it when his reports are more detailed than strictly necessary. He might appreciate it even more if Clint leaves out the part where he may have kidnapped a drugged teenager and then proceeded to not bring him to a hospital like common sense would suggest.

Yeah.

This is gonna be one of those missions.

Coulson will be an unbearable pain in the ass when this is all over. Clint just knows it.

It happens something like this:

Not only does Clint's contact turn out to be a turncoat, who takes him down in a couple of seconds flat — which is just insulting, seriously, Clint is better than that, except apparently he isn't. He blames Coulson for restoring some tiny shard of faith in humanity in him. 'Unreasonable paranoia' his ass — but Clint wakes up in what he at first assumes to be the delightful care of the drug-dealing ring responsible for the newest nightmare on the streets. Sadly, Clint's initial assessment proves overly optimistic.

Instead of a wanna-be drug cartel trying out new chemical formulas, he's found himself hanging from the ceiling of an old, abandoned warehouse, among at least six other people, with the growing suspicion that his captors' true passion lies less in reliving old chemistry classes and more in squishy human experimentation.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

There's a creepy-as-fuck dude with greying hair, thick glasses, and the stubbled remains of a beard, who's clearly doing his level best to ace every single crazy doctor stereotype there is. He's pretty good at it too, Clint has to admit. He's definitely getting chills just from having the guy standing there right in front of him, close enough to feel the man's puff of breath on his face —

"Dude, personal space!" Clint wants to say, but his tongue refuses to cooperate, and what comes out is more of a slurred, "Uhd esual schaze?" Which sounds funny actually, and Clint spends the next minute or two sounding the odd vowels out in his head.

He's been drugged before, concussed before, but this right now is an odd mixture of clear thoughts and sluggish muscles that simultaneously sets loose a twinge of panic in Clint's gut, and makes him crack a couple of jokes. Sadly, he's too out-of-it to share them with the class.

Then again, are creepy scientists even allowed to have a sense of humour? Clint votes no.

— peering at him like he's some bug under a microscope or something. Clint would be disconcerted — ha, dis-con-cer-ted, he does know big words, suck on that Coulson — by those huge, blue eyes taking him apart, except Clint is confident this guy isn't gonna like what he finds underneath the mouthy shell that never misses a shot.

People never do.

Used to be, Clint would angst about that like a thirteen year old with his first crush, but it turns out angsting doesn't actually stop others from leaving you, betraying you, shooting you in the fucking chest — thanks a lot, Barney — and so maybe Clint hasn't fixed himself so much as pierced the worst pieces of him back together without bothering with the best, cause those were shattered beyond repair, but hey, he's still standing — metaphorically speaking, considering he's currently hanging on a rope, and damn, his shoulders are killing him — so Clint doesn't think anyone can fault him for his methods.

Yeah, Clint is past that crappy teenage angst. It's high time, too, considering he's well into his late twenties. But better late than never, right?

Right.

The crazy-ass doctor slaps him. Could be, he doesn't like being ignored. His type never does. Could be, Clint just has one of those faces.

It's a hard slap. At least, Clint assumes it is from the way it echoes in the room. A sharp sound that hurts his ears more than his cheek because he still feels vaguely disconnected from his body. What registers the most is the way his head is moved sideways too quickly to be comfortable, his left cheek suddenly smudged uncomfortably against his aching arm.

Clint thinks the doc is talking. Probably asking him some questions.

Newsflash, if you want to interrogate your prisoners, make sure they're in a state to be interrogated, Clint thinks spitefully. It doesn't seem like the psycho gets the message though. God, he's been kidnapped by amateurs. Coulson will never let him live this down.

With his head tilted sideways at a probably uncomfortable angle, Clint gets a good eye-full of his fellow captives. Their bodies have been strung up like Clint, though unlike him they're also naked. It could be a nice view, if not for the multiple IV lines in their veins, filled with something that doesn't look look like any medication Clint recognises, the sickly sheen of their skin. Their tattoos are awesome though. For a brief moment, Clint wonders if it would be worth it to stick around, just to get some of that ink himself.

Of course, Coulson would actually kill him. But it might be worth it. The ink even glows in a sickly, blue-ish light. Although that could just be Clint. He's pretty sure he's seeing double, too.

Clint blinks. Slowly turns his head back around.

In his moment of distraction, the good, old doc has tripled himself — or not. Clint blinks a second, and third time, before he realises that what he's seeing are actually the doc and two of his minions. The identical lab coats, totally out of place in a dirty warehouse like this, threw him off for a moment.

Clint doesn't feel a sting, can't tell if he's getting injected with something or his body is simply inevitably shutting down, not yet ready to handle reality. All he knows is that he's staring into the doctor's blue eyes, wishing they were hazel or green or brown, even if he isn't entirely sure why, and feeling the twinge in his uncomfortably stretched muscles that tells him his shoulders are gonna hurt like a motherfucker when he gets out of these bindings, and then the world sort of tilts on its axis, and Clint stumbles, slides, loses his foothold and —

Pain. That's the first thing Clint registers. For one, breathless moment, everything hurts and it's all he can do not to trash, not to let his breath hitch, not to tense. Then the first wave passes, and Clint welcomes the sensation instead, lets it flow through him, let's it burn away the last remains of unconsciousness and haziness. Pain, he knows from experience, is better, clearer, sharper, than the cottony numbness he's been stuck in before.

Pain is motivation. Pain is being alive.

Clint prefers staying that way.

With his eyes still closed and his face relaxed in apparent unconsciousness, Clint focuses on what his body is telling him first. His upper body is just about killing him, having been strung up for far too-long, especially with the way he's sagged into himself, forcing his bound arms to carry all of his weight. His toes just about touch the floor, and it's tempting, so damn tempting, to shift, to stand and let his legs carry some of the weight. But being unconscious is the only advantage Clint has right now, so he grits his teeth and breathes through it instead.

Clint focuses on doing what he does best, second only to taking impossible shots and making them work — and boy is he gonna enjoy shooting these bastards when it's all over — he listens.

He listens to the soft tap-tap-tap of people moving around him. The advantage of a huge, but mostly empty warehouse: the acoustics are fantastic, Clint thinks with only 60 percent of sarcasm. Five people moving around freely. Probably the doc's minions, and maybe the doc himself. Clint has no idea how big this operation is. But if it's limited to one warehouse then it can't be that huge.

He hopes.

There's the distinct noise of class vials clicking against each other, the sound of fluids getting mixed, the rustle of machinery Clint associates with hospitals instinctively — he remembers the IV lines now, and wonders what it is they're pumping into these men, wonders how much time he has before — soft murmurs that he hears but doesn't truly understand, about mixtures and dosages. He's got a pretty good idea of what's going on though. Apparently, all those dead addicts weren't planned. After all, what's a druggie worth when they don't come back for more?

They're experimenting. Perfecting the composition. Clint doesn't swallow, but his determination to get out of here surges. He has a very good idea what's going to happen to him once these people realise he won't give them whatever answers they're looking for. And Clint doesn't fear death, never has, but there's something about drugs, about losing control, about possibly ending up in one of those hospital beds, unable to do more than drool and stare at the ceiling, that twists Clint's insides around with unease.

He'd take a headshot over that any day of the week, that's for damn sure.

Clint is still trying to come up with a plan — he's got five already, but he needs a damn distraction to free himself first, and besides it's not like he has anything better to do than think over all his options a seventh time — when he hears it.

There's a commotion outside, the sound of three approaching footsteps, one of them stumbling. Also cursing.

In the previous quiet of the warehouse, the annoyed, "You're one hell of a handsy sonofabitch, you know that?" stands out quite drastically.

Clint risks a quick glance, just to confirm that the creepy experimentation club is otherwise occupied. Which they are.

By the loud-mouthed guy, who's dragged inside by two of the docs minions — at least, Clint assumes that's what they are— and making his displeasure known. Clint feels something suspiciously like a sliver of uncomfortable foreboding slithering through the cracks between his ribs, where he stuffs all the emotional shit he doesn't want to deal with right now. Or ever.

Because despite his crass words — which Clint very much approves of — and reckless bravado whilst staring down the crazy doctor, this guy is too fucking young to be in a place like this.

It's a stupid thought. Clint knows that. He's seen enough shitty missions that involved people too young to understand the choices they made. Choices that can't be taken back. Choices that, more often than not, end with their bloody death. Clint carefully doesn't think about the times he was one to deal out said death. The times he knows he'll have to do it again.

There's no true innocent in their world, that much Clint learned long before his descend into the depth of human depravity. But sometimes there's no true guilty either, and that — it's enough to turn a man inside out. Enough to break your spirit, enough to fall over the edge of a very, very thin line.

It's a good thing that Clint has perfected balancing on slim ropes long before he killed his first man. Hard to disillusion a guy when there are no illusions left, and all that.

That doesn't make it easy to see this — this kid, because that's what he is, can't be a day over twenty, and that's only when Clint squints with both eyes, vision still blurry from a heavy blow to the head. He shouldn't be here, in this place, anymore than any of the other victims. But it's easier to see grown men here, and a part of Clint is pleased that he's still got some of that humanity left. He buries it under the ruthlessness needed to get through this mission. A mission that may not include saving this kid's life, if it comes down to it.

But Clint isn't just Clint, hasn't been since he was sixteen and Barney put a gun in his hand and said 'Aim for the head.' He's Hawkeye and this kid's fate is out of his hands.

Although his snark — "Personally, abandoned warehouses are more of a third date location, but whatever floats your boat, I guess," thrown out with a careless smirk that dares the doc to hit him, and shit, this kid's got worse self-preservation instincts than Clint — is amusing. And helpful.

It's exactly the kind of distraction Clint needs to finally work himself out of his bindings. Really, who uses rope to tie people of up these days?

Across the room, the kid's eyes flicker to Clint for a brief moment. Clint immediately stills, but the kid must realise more about his situation than he had first assumed because he immediately focuses his gaze back onto the freaky doctor, features set into the kind of defiance that promises to be amusing and dangerous at once.

Clint isn't in the least surprised, when the kid's next words are a whole lot more confrontational than the last. He'd feel a little bad for the poor bastard, knowing that upsetting their kidnappers won't lead to anything good, but he hasn't asked for help. And with any luck the psychos will be dead before they can retaliate.

In that precise moment, one of the doc's minions rams his fist hard into the kid's gut, causing him to double over — or try to, anyways — with a breathless groan. Clint almost winces in sympathy. Or maybe not, he acknowledges drily.

Focusing once more on twisting his hands free, ignoring the added strain to his shoulders, the burn where the rope digs too deep into his skin, Clint redoubles his efforts.

Across the room, the kid chuckles raspily, which thankfully shuts the mad doctor's rambling about perfecting heaven for humanity up. Seriously, how did Clint's ordinary-as-you-please drug case turn into yet another megalomaniac determined to rebuild humanity? That's what Clint would like to know.

"You talk a great game and all, but this isn't my first rodeo and you're just like every other Dr. Markoff rerun I've come across," the kid sneers with an impressive amount of venom. "You talk big about science and advancement and improving human life, but that's not what this is about, is it. This is about what you can get out of your bullshit improvements, and fuck how many people are gonna die in the process. You may be human, but that doesn't make you any less of a sick bastard!" The last words are almost a shout, spat out with all the force of a flying fist that lands its intended target. They neatly cover the squeaky sound of Clint's robe sliding through the metal ring on the ceiling, dropping at his feet.

The kid is good, Clint thinks appreciatively. He's glaring down the doc hard, with furious hatred burned into his face, struggling against the two minions holding him back. All eyes in the room are on him, this kid that can't be older than twenty, is bloodied and beaten and not at all afraid — or not showing it, in any case —, standing here in this warehouse, doing whatever he can do keep anyone from noticing Clint's movements.

Clint isn't the biggest advocate on teamwork, but when it works, it works. And with this kid, it definitely works. Better than the last time Hill tried to paw off some useless newbie recruits on him, and isn't that a sad statement for the state of their organisation overall.

Grabbing the biggest knife he finds on one of the nearby tables, which isn't as big as he'd like it to be, Clint slinks into the shadows.

Taking out the first two guards is easy. They're both distracted by the kid, and not expecting an attack at all. They never see him coming.

He takes their guns. They're not an adequate replacement for his bow, but they'll do in a pinch. That said, the rest of the doc's people are all standing close by the kid, in a loosely formed circle, watching the show. That's the downside of the distraction: Clint will probably be able to shoot them all before they reach him — but he won't be able to do it before they reach the kid.

Clint hesitates. He shouldn't — his priorities are very, very clear, alright, and the kid doesn't even make it into the top five — but getting him killed now seems like a waste of genuine talent. And Coulson is always on the look-out for new recruits, so really, Clint would be doing him a favour if he brought home a stray.

Problem being that there isn't a better, easier way to take his targets out. And damn if Clint isn't glad that Coulson doesn't need these guys alive. Usually he isn't the type to take assassinations personally, but being drugged is a big no-go in Clint's book. That the doctor makes his skin crawl doesn't help.

What it comes down to is this: Clint doesn't have a lot of choices, and no real interest in getting drawn into close combat with anyone else if he can avoid it. His arms feel numb enough as it is — though it's only a matter of time until he'll feel the fizzling and burning, like flames greedily licking along his muscles, disintegrating them completely. Shooting will suck. Punching a third person might actually kill him. Or feel like it, at least.

It's a gamble — the kind Clint doesn't like at all, involving a life that isn't his own — but it's one he's going to have to take if he wants to make it out of here. If he wants the both of them to make it out of here.

Which he apparently does.

Clint takes in his surroundings more carefully, lines up the first shot. If he's quick about it — with his protesting muscles he can't count on it — he can take out two of them before they realise what's happening. Not the doctor, the kid's in the way, but that might not be such a bad thing. If Coulson wants to have a chat with any of these guys, it'd be with the brains of the operation.

Clint pulls the trigger.

One of the remaining guards falls to the ground, dead. The recoil almost makes Clint scream. His whole arm is shaking, but Clint pushes through it. Lines up a second shot.

There's yells and screams. One minion reaches for his gun. Another dives towards cover. Ironically, the chaos serves as the distraction needed to free the kid. Who is moving as soon as he's got his hands free. Slams an elbow into one guard's side. Ducks out under the grip of the mad doctor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint notices movement. He throws himself to the left just in time, a bullet whizzing past his ear. He really doesn't like melees like this. Within half a second the warehouse has become a glorified killbox. There's only so much skill can do in the utter chaos of such a dangerously contained battle.

Then there's all the tables with odd, chemical mixtures around them. Clint wonders if they'll blow up.

At least the kid's holding his own.

Clint finally gets close enough to tackle the asshole who keeps trying to shoot him. He's not in top form — pretty damn far from it, actually — but punching the bastard's face a couple of times makes him feel a little better. SHIELD's psychologists have no idea what they're missing.

"Lawrence, watch out!" someone — the kid — shouts suddenly.

Clint responds instinctively, reacts more to the underlying panic than the words themselves as he rolls over the ground. And yup, there's asshole number four, determined to drive a spear through Clint's gut.

Clint shoots again. Misses. (Again, not in top form here.) The bullet hits one of the huge glass cylinders on those improvised lab tables instead. It shatters. Glass flies everywhere. Some of the see-through substance hits asshole four, who screams in pain.

Don't touch weird experimental shit. Good to know.

Another shot hits the writhing man in the forehead. Clint likes to be sure that his enemies don't get up again in inconvenient moments. Then he's on his feet again, gun pointed straight at the head-asshole of creepy medicine, who is — predictably — using the kid as a shield.

There's blood dripping down the kid's nose and Clint is sure he's got a whole lot more bruises to show for than half an hour ago, but he's still breathing. So there's that. And now they're here, in the exact standoff Clint was hoping to avoid.

Because he knows how this is going to end. He's Hawkeye, first and foremost, and he isn't here to play hero. From the kid's pinched lips, he knows it too. But he meets Clint's eyes without fear, only determination and a sort of grim satisfaction Clint recognises all too well.

It's a damn shame, seeing that sort of knowledge splayed out on a face that young. Good thing that this isn't a typical hostage situation.

Trust yourself, Clint remembers one of his first tutors, back at the circus, half a lifetime ago. Trust the shot.

It had been his mantra for a long time. Trust in the shot. You can't trust people. Can't trust anyone else in the world. But this, this he could trust in. Even back then, when his world had been a whole lot bleaker than it is now.

Trust the shot.

Clint doesn't wait for the mad docs ridiculous stipulations. He pulls the trigger. The bullet goes straight through the left eye.

"Nice shot." The kid whistles, looking genuinely impressed as he shrugs off the sudden deadweight.

Clint grins. Or tries to, anyways. "Probably not the best time to tell you I'm seeing double, eh?"

The kid's eyes widen, but after a moment he catches himself and snorts. "Better apologising than asking for permission, huh?"

"Something like that." Clint nods. Wonders if he's supposed to feel this easy camaradie — if this kid is gonna turn around any moment now to shoot him. Paranoia sucks. But not being paranoid enough sucks worse.

"We should probably—"

That's when the screaming starts.

There's no upbuilt to it, no gasping draw for breath before the sound. One moment, there is silence. The next, the high-pitched wail of pain is deafening.

Clint is on his knees, hands pressed protectively over his ears, instinctively curled into himself. He doesn't know how long it lasts, has no recollection of even crouching down the way he clearly is. But finally, after an eternity and a half, the only thing ringing in his ears is blessed quiet.

"What the fuck?" Clint blurts out, though he isn't sure who he is addressing.

"They're dead."

Oh, right. The kid.

Wait, what?

"They're dead," the kid repeats, voice caught somewhere between incredulous and impatient. He's gesturing wildly at something behind Clint, so Clint decides to take a fucking clue and turn around.

To come face to face with the other men — victims — the doctor had strung up on the ceiling next to him. Right. He'd forgotten about them. But now that he's half-way steady again, Clint takes the time to take them in. Properly. All five are male, have a strong build, and are covered from head to toe in tattoos. A vivid memory of those same tattoos, glowing in a bright, blue light, briefly flashes through Clint's mind, but he's probably got the concussion he most certainly has to thank for that.

The kid pokes the closest one, clearly checking what they both already know. Those five men are dead.

"Must've been bound to Dr. Markoff over there," the kid mutters.

Clint wants to ask him a couple of questions, What the hell are you talking about?, What are you even doing here? and Who are you? among the top five, but he's kinda hoping the interrogation can wait until he stops swaying. Maybe even until his head stops feeling like it's wrapped in cotton. That would be nice.

But even as out of it as he is right now, Clint is damn good at his job. Damn good at surviving. And even before the kid's head suddenly snaps around, eyes wide with horror, even before he yells, "Lawrence! Watch out!" Clint feels the tell-tale prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and he knows the danger hasn't passed yet.

He turns, ducking as he does so — though 'legs giving out under him' might be a more accurate description, not that Clint will ever admit that, fuck mission report accuracy — and has just enough time to catch sight of a slim woman wearing a lab coat and a furious snarl and wielding a syringe like a katana before the kid barrels into them.

If the kid's a double agent, he really goes all-out to convince Clint otherwise. Including several vicious punches before he manages to slam the woman's head against the unforgiving floor a couple of times.

Only when he rolls of the now motionless woman — and Clint really couldn't give less fucks whether she survives or not — does Clint notice the syringe in his arm.

"Fuck!" he says emphatically as he stumbles forward, keeps the kid upright with a tight grip on his shoulders.

"Son of a bitch," the kid hisses, grabs the syringe and pulls it out with one harsh tug. They both know it won't do a thing, but Clint kicks the damn thing further away all the same.

The kid reaches towards him suddenly. His hands are far too clammy for Clint's peace of mind. "The bodies," the kid forces the words out like they hurt. They might. Clint has seen the autopsies of some of the drug addicts they've found over the past weeks. Whatever this shit is, if it's even the same stuff, it's not a nice way to go.

"You gotta burn them." The kid's face is chalk white and his eyes are losing their focus. Clint is kinda impressed how authoritative he still manages to sound. "Find sodium chloride and—" The kid chokes on a groan that does nothing to drown out the fire still burning in his eyes. "B-burn them all."

Having said his piece, the kid's grip is slackening. Clint tries, but he's feeling like he's been run over a couple of times and there's no supporting the kids' full weight once consciousness fades. Although the kid manages to pull Clint down with him, even lands half on top of him, so he figures they're about even.

Maybe.

It takes an eternity — almost seven minutes — for Clint to get his shit together. And his body out from under the crushing weight of the kid, who might be young but definitely isn't light. Or small.

Then, in a stroke of madness Coulson will never learn of, Clint walks — stumbles — through the warehouse on his search for sodium chloride.

He's not sure why exactly he's obeying the kid's strange demand, but hey, the kid may have just died for him. Clint figures he should be glad the last request wasn't anything weirder.

Clint finds a few vials of what he thinks is the correct, chemical abbreviation, but those are broken beyond repair and probably already mixed with a dozen other fluids Clint doesn't care to identify. This homebuilt lab really is creepily well-equipped.

He does find an old canister of road salt, and decides it will have to do. Cuts down the bodies from where they're dangling in the air like puppets, whose strings have been cut, and throws some salt over them. Then he dozes the whole artwork in gasoline.

It's not his best handiwork — and Coulson won't be happy, what with the destroyed evidence — but the mission was to take care of this new drug, not to fucking recreate it. Frankly, Clint thinks the world is probably better off without it. And if SHIELD doesn't see it that way, tough luck.

They should know by now that explosions follow Hawkeye wherever he goes.

He has the foresight to drag the kid out of the warehouse before he lights the match. He doesn't give the still unconscious-possibly-dead woman the same courtesy. Clint really doesn't like people who attack children. And nobody has ever made the mistake of calling him forgiving.

Anyways, for a warehouse filled with all sorts of chemicals, there's surprisingly few explosions. There is however a smoke so thick and poisonous, Clint decides it's high-time to get himself a car and hightail it out of here.

After a moment of contemplation — as well as checking the kid's still-beating pulse — Clint puts the kid in the passenger seat.

They're gone before the local authorities arrive — but it's a closer thing than Clint would've liked, considering he's kidnapping a possible minor and all. Perhaps he'll leave that part out of the mission report too.

There's a couple of reasons why Clint doesn't drag the kid into the nearest hospital, and most of them aren't even selfish. A significant one may or may not be the fact that, as things stand now, this kid has the only evidence left in his blood. And Clint isn't naive enough to let SHIELD or anyone else catch wind of that fact. Maybe that'll get the kid killed. But there are things worse than death — and most of them Clint has seen in one lab or another.

So he gets them a room in a beat-down, sleazy motel that probably won't even notice anything out of place if they leave blood-stains behind on the bedding, and gets the kid onto a bed.

His skin is waxy, nothing healthy about it at all, and his eyes are flickering restlessly under closed lids, but other than that he seems fine. No convulsions, no stomach suddenly tearing itself open from the inside out — yeah, maybe the kid'll live through this after all.

Clint finds himself kind of hoping he will. Maybe he'll get around to asking why the kid kept calling him Lawrence. It's a nice thought to fall asleep on.

Clint wakes up to rain pelting against the window, sweaty, bloodied clothes sticking uncomfortable to his skin, and the sight of an empty bed across his own. It takes him a moment to realise why that last part disturbs him, but then Clint is on his feet, tearing open the bathroom door before he's fully processed the movement.

The bathroom is empty. The kid's gone.

It's only when the injuries of the last few hours catch up with him that Clint is forced to sit down — falls — back onto the cheap bed, that he notices the note on the bedside table - one that looks like it's been used as an ashtray for most of its life.

Thanks for the help. You're a mean shot. Sorry I couldn't stick around.

If you're ever in trouble: +1 XXX-XXX-XXXX

Dean

Phil Coulson has worked at SHIELD for a long time. Long enough to know how to handle obstinate agents, ruthless killers, and psychotic megalomaniacs. One would think this has adequately prepared him to deal with the likes of Clint Barton.

One would, of course, be wrong.

There is nobody in the office except for him, so Phil pinches the bridge of his nose in an outward expression of exhausted disbelief he wouldn't usually allow himself. But allowances have to be made where Barton is concerned. In more ways than one.

"Agent Barton, could you please repeat that last part?" Phil keeps his voice bland and without inflection through sheer force of will.

On the other line, Barton sighs impatiently. "My contact was a mole," he repeats with exaggerated slowness. "He knocked me out. I woke up in a warehouse. Got the standard super villain speech. One of the other victims and I got out. We fought. The stupid henchmen kept shooting, blew the lab right up around us. We got out. They didn't. The end."

Phil doesn't sigh. Barely. "You have been busy," he says instead. "I assume the investigation of the local law enforcement will correspond with the more detailed report you'll hand in upon your return?"

He already knows it won't. From the short pause on the phone, so does Barton. But he'll have to cross that bridge once they reach it. For now, there are other things that require Phil's attention. For example:

"What about the other victim?"

Barton hums distractedly. "What? Oh, he's fine." Another pause. "Well, I think so. Wasn't here when I woke up at le— son of a bitch!"

Phil raises an eyebrow. That's a new one.

"Agent Barton?" he asks, thumb hovering over the emergency button.

"That bastard stole my car!"

Clint considers hunting Dean down for about thirty minutes. He liked that car, damn it. Who cares that he technically stole it himself?

The point is, Clint doesn't appreciate other people taking his things.

Still.

The post-mission report he hands in two weeks too late — much to the exasperation of one Agent Coulson — doesn't mention a green-eyed kid with too much courage and too much experience in hand-to-hand combat. Doesn't mention glowing tattoos and burning down crime scenes. Doesn't mention the note or sodium chloride.

It does however mention the car Clint stole in great detail. Complete with current market price and a ten point list on why agents in general and Agent Barton in particular should be outfitted with one for their next mission.

After all, there's more than one way to get his hands on the right car, and Clint figures hunting Dean down is hardly the most practical one. It's got nothing to do with the unsettled debt between them.

Nothing at all.

Thoughts? Impressions? I hope I did both Clint and Dean justice, but feel free to let me know if you feel differently.

Next up: Steve