A/N: Through the Avengers movie, it goes completely unaddressed how Loki goes from a newcomer on Earth with a magic spear to the head of a high-tech covert organization with a real shot at world domination in a matter of days. The short answer is: Hawkeye is a tactical genius. Someone should tell that story, and since Joss Whedon hasn't (yet, fingers crossed), I'm going to try.

As usual, everything you recognize belongs to Marvel. Not being intimately familiar with the background universe, I have freely made stuff up. Don't expect canon, is what I'm saying. The T rating is for violence and language.

A special thank you to beta reader and friend Aminara, who patiently talked through ideas with me and encouraged me to post. :)

"If it's all the same to you," Loki grinned sheepishly up at them, "I'll have that drink now."

It wasn't all the same to Clint Barton. The red tide of battlefield adrenaline was surging in his ears, and although his body ached and trembled with the fatigue of the past few days, his aim was perfectly steady. He sighted down the arrow shaft, the bowstring pressing into his jaw, feeling the exhaustion and the rage in every joint and muscle and wishing, wanting, longing to let his fingers relax and let the arrow fly.

He could picture, with vicious joy, exactly what would happen to Loki at this range, if his experience with killing mortals could extend to Norse gods as well. The feathered shaft would leap from the string with a musical thrum and a low hiss and break the skin of Loki's throat in half a heartbeat. By the second half, the wickedly bladed arrowhead would explode out the back of his neck, bringing with it bits of ligament, cartilage, muscle, and bone that the spin and force of the arrow had dragged along. Eyes wide with shock and agony, the god would try to draw breath, but in vain; his throat would be ruined, and it would become delightfully irrelevant whether the suffocation or the catastrophic blood loss would kill him first. Clint would watch carefully, and enjoy every moment of the brief and futile struggle.

He blinked, and the red mist faded; there sat Loki before him, battered but regretfully still breathing. He flirted again with the temptation to shoot, but a heavy hand on his shoulder cut into his thoughts.

"Stand down, soldier," Captain Rogers' voice filtered into his mind, very distant and so very insignificant. Clint didn't so much as glance towards Rogers, but he did see Natasha in his peripheral vision. She wasn't watching him, but Rogers, like a panther ready to pounce. She didn't have to say anything or even look his way; he knew that if he loosed the arrow and killed Loki, she would back his play. Her clothes torn, her face smudged with grime and blood, her hair drenched in sweat, still on her feet only because of adrenaline and stubbornness, and she was willing to take on Captain America for his chance at revenge. To Clint, she looked like an angel.

Clint took a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing the bowstring gradually as he did so, and stood. He felt just as shattered as Natasha looked, and with that last acquiescence, his last source of strength deserted him, and he wavered on his feet. As he turned away, he heard the others begin to move again as well, and with an effort he tuned out the voices of Iron Man and Thor as they made sure Loki stayed subdued.

Slipping the unused arrow back into his quiver, Clint picked his way gingerly through the ruined penthouse onto Iron Man's landing pad and into the sunshine. The midday glare stung his eyes and he slipped on his sunglasses to shield his vision. Far below, the noise of the aftermath swirled like a fog: sirens, car and smoke alarms, horns, and human voices, raised in frantic shouts, bellowing through bullhorns, screaming over dead loved ones. The sickly acrid sweetness of mixed Chitauri and human blood was already almost overpowering.

"Are you okay?" Natasha was by his side, eyes narrowed as she examined his face.

"That fucking bastard," Clint spat out after a pause. He clenched his teeth in helpless fury, then collapsed his bow in resignation. "Thanks for having my back."

"You too." They stood together for a long moment in silence, lost in their own thoughts, wondering at the warm sunlight that reminded them they were still alive. "I should say you made the right choice," Natasha remarked into the silence, "but if it had been me, I would have shot him."

Clint laughed softly, and that was the end of it for the moment. Loki would suffer in other ways for what he'd done, but it would be a long time before Clint cleaned up the mess he'd been forced to make.

"Well, at this point I'll kill anyone who stands between me and a hot bath," Natasha commented.

Clint sighed. "As much as I agree with you, there's something I have to do first. After that…you and I need to talk about Abidjan." He looked her in the eye until she pursed her lips and shrugged a shoulder—the closest he could expect to consent.

Clint and Natasha returned inside just as the elevator doors slid open and the Director himself strode out to survey the damage, flanked by a SHIELD strike team. As usual, Fury looked severe, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth when he beheld a thoroughly restrained Loki betrayed his satisfaction. "Well done, team. The situation isn't exactly contained, but it's better than we could have hoped."

"You're welcome for saving the world, I'm here all week," Tony Stark hollered from where he was sprawled with a glass of scotch in hand on the couch, still clad in his armor. "This is my place, actually. Is SHIELD planning on paying for this mess?"

"We need to decide what to do with Loki now," Fury continued without acknowledging the comment. "SHIELD has a holding facility here in New York—"

"I think we've all had enough of SHIELD's holding facilities," Stark cut in, scrambling to his feet. "Unless you're planning on dropping him out of another aircraft, because that might be fun."

"I will return him to Asgard immediately," Thor rumbled, in a voice that left no room for disagreement. "Every moment we remain on this planet, he poses a further threat."

Fury sighed and nodded. "And I suppose you'll need the cube for that?"

Thor frowned, glancing at the armed agents behind Fury. "It belongs on my world, and I will not allow—"

"Don't worry, you can have the damn thing," Fury said. "It hardly seems too high a price to pay to get rid of him. Captain Rogers, a word."

The thunder god nodded and, with Iron Man to help and the Hulk following, escorted Loki to the workshop to be outfitted with some proper restraints. Clint, who had listened to the whole conversation with barely contained impatience, stepped forward to meet the director.

"Agent Barton," Fury acknowledged him. Clint saw the strike team tense and fidget at his approach. He decided to ignore it.

"Director Fury," Clint answered. He swallowed. He wasn't looking forward to saying what had to come next, but Natasha's silent presence beside him was reassuring. "There's an urgent matter that I wanted to discuss with you."

"I'm not going to let you go, Agent Barton," Fury responded immediately. "You're one of the best, and whatever magic shit Loki pulled, a full debrief will bring the truth to light. Well," the director emended thoughtfully, "however much truth there is in what little light SHIELD has to spare."

"All due respect, sir, I appreciate that, but—"

"As for Abidjan," Fury continued, "I'm still displeased with the both of you. But considering you just saved the world, I'm going to let it slide for a while."

"Sir," Clint persisted, "thank you, but I need a secure line to undercover ops immediately."

Fury gestured over his shoulder, and one of the strike team members pulled a cell from his vest, punched in the numbers, and handed it to the director. "What for, Agent Barton?" Fury asked, eye narrowed.

"When I was…" Clint trailed off, at a loss for words to describe what he'd been through. Possessed? Mind controlled? "When I was under Loki's influence—" God, that made it sound like a bad hangover— "I used intel on undercover operatives to bargain for resources. If there's any chance of saving the agents I compromised—"

Fury handed him the phone. On the line, a distant voice asked him for his clearance code, then for a description of the situation. Clint nearly laughed. "Contact Agents Kristov, Cavanaugh, Michaels, Graefe, and Thompson immediately. Their covers are blown and their lives are in danger."

"Sir, all those agents are in deep cover and are out of SHIELD contact."

"Do whatever you have to—pigeons, smoke signals, a fucking Blackhawk full of Marines, I don't care. If they're not already dead, they will be soon without help." Clint clenched his teeth, wishing he didn't have to speak the next sentence. "And note for the record that Agent Pollock has been killed in action."

"Yes sir," the phone replied, and Clint handed it back to Fury, who was watching him keenly.

"Get cleaned up and take the rest of the day off," Fury ordered in response to Clint's expectant look. "Then report for debrief at Base One at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning."

"Sir, I'd like to be present to see Loki off."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Agent Barton."

Clint allowed himself a small smile. "And if I promise to leave my bow at home?"

Fury looked at him closely, his face unreadable as always. Something sent a chill down Clint's spine—there was something he was missing. After a long moment, though, Fury nodded. "Fine, you've earned it. The park in three hours."

"Yes sir," Clint replied as Fury turned back to Rogers. He stared down at his scraped and bloodied hands to avoid seeing the look on Natasha's face. She walked over to Fury in response to an impatient gesture, and frowned at the instructions that he delivered in a voice too low for Clint to catch. Finally she acquiesced to the orders with a tight-lipped "Sir," and Fury swept away with the Captain at his side, already deep in conversation.

"Hawkman and Spiderwoman!" a far-too-cheerful voice called for their attention. The two assassins turned to see Tony Stark swagger out of the elevator, limping only slightly, in a fresh Led Zeppelin T-shirt with a small brigade of medical personnel fluttering around him anxiously. One was reaching forward to tend a bruise above his eye, but Stark swatted the hand away and ignored the rest. "Hey, welcome back to the side of the angels, Judolas. Guess the dark side needs better cookies. Will you knock it off?" He glowered at the med staff, who glared back and reluctantly retreated.

Clint frowned at the billionaire, not sure how to respond. Luckily, Stark was never at a loss for words. He extended a hand, which Clint shook automatically. "Tony Stark, pleasure. You knew that, though. Seriously, you look like hell. Nothing a hot shower—" his eye flickered to Natasha and a smirk pulled at his lips—"and a stiff drink can't fix."

"Loki?" Clint asked, his voice surprisingly thick.

"The Jolly Green Giant and He-Man are babysitting him downstairs." As if in answer, a crash from below their feet and an inhuman bellow made the floor vibrate.

"Sir," a dignified English voice came from nowhere, "your presence is required in the workshop."

"Better get back down there before one of them literally sits on him." He started to turn away, but held up a hand when the two assassins stepped forward to follow him. "Don't you two even think about it. You'd either be in the way or you'd 'accidentally' end up killing him. I don't really have a problem with the latter, but our mythological friend might object." He clapped Clint companionably on the left arm, and the archer swallowed the wince as the still-healing injury twinged violently. Stark, of course, didn't seem to notice. "Take it easy, we won't have the going-away party without you. Jarvis, show them to the guest rooms and make 'em at home, will you."

"Of course, sir. Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff, right this way, please." Stark grinned at them as the elevator doors closed, and Clint turned his aching steps toward the small lights in the walls that led him and Natasha to the guest suites.

He tottered into the room that Jarvis showed him and the door slid shut behind him. He paused for a moment, eyes scanning the luxurious accommodations from force of habit, but mostly he was listening to the silence ringing in his ears and reveling in the delicious, soothing emptiness of the room. He convinced himself not to collapse directly on the very inviting bed and instead made his way to the bathroom.

The bathroom felt too big, too bright, and too fancy, with too many mirrors everywhere showing him his own haggard face, battered body and lifeless eyes. Clint tried to ignore the images of himself from all sides and instead focused on peeling off his uniform slowly, hissing through his teeth as the fabric came away, reopening the scabs that had begun to form over new wounds. His back ached from the less-than-graceful landing from the rooftop; he made a mental note, forgotten a second later, to thank the weapons techs that had insisted on including a grappling hook arrowhead in his quiver over his protests at the time about how stupid and useless it would be. The deep maroon color had also been a good choice, he mused absently as he tossed his vest on the floor; it hid dried blood perfectly.

The blast of warm water stung the cuts and scrapes all over his body, but Clint had endured far worse, and the warmth was much more comfort than not. His body was whole and mostly undamaged—it was his mind that was shot all to hell. He tried not to think about it and focused instead on gently cleaning the grime and blood—both his own and Chitauri—from his skin and gingerly scrubbing out his wounds. The water at his feet ran murky brown. It was a while before he began to feel clean.

Finally he stepped from the shower, slipped into the soft T-shirt and sweats he found in a cabinet, and padded silently to the bed. He sat down slowly, very aware of his aching muscles and back, and used the first aid kit from the bathroom to bandage the larger cuts that were still seeping blood. He had to marvel at how lucky he had been to escape major injury. With a last halfhearted scrub at his damp hair with the towel, he tossed it on the floor and sank back into the pillows. He only had a few moments to enjoy the solitude before exhaustion pushed him down into sleep.

...

"Agent Barton," a polite but insistent voice was calling him. Clint floated slowly to the surface of consciousness, unwilling to awaken fully. He'd just finished a bitch of a mission—something spectacularly awful that he didn't want to think about yet. Can't have been much worse than Abidjan, he thought ruefully. Instead of answering the oddly British voice trying to wake him, he did preflight checks instead, tensing and relaxing muscles all over his body. Soreness and bruising, mostly; tensing his left arm sent a shot of pain from his fingertips into his neck and spine. That brought him to full wakefulness right away.

"Fuck me," Clint groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes as the memories of the last few days came crashing in. He didn't want to move or even think, but the adrenaline of remembered chaos had his heart going and he was already wide awake.

"As much as I appreciate the invitation, I'd rather not," Stark's cyber-butler replied primly. "Agent Barton, the team is preparing to remove the prisoner. You wanted to be present, I believe?"

"Yeah, sure," Clint grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His tongue felt swollen and his head full of cotton. "Thanks, uh…"

"Jarvis, sir."

"Right." It was too weird talking to an empty room, so he went to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. The mirrors were staring at him again. He stared back, then stuck out his tongue at his reflection.

"If you need a change of clothes, an agent left your bag outside your door while you were asleep," Jarvis informed him. Clint grunted in acknowledgement and retrieved the black duffel from the corridor. He always kept a spare go-bag in his locker with extra clothes and weapons, and someone on the SHIELD team must have brought it with them. How considerate. He dug out a red shirt and black jeans, then smiled as he found a spare pair of sunglasses in a case at the bottom of the bag and slid those on too.

He'd just finished changing when Jarvis piped up again. "Agent Romanoff is on her way, sir."

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair and nodded. "Let her in." He scowled to himself. "Uh, please."

"It's kind of you to ask nicely, but there's no need to stand on ceremony," Jarvis commented in a long-suffering tone. "There's a car waiting for you on the parking level."

Clint finished stuffing his scattered clothes, including his somewhat mangled uniform, into the duffel, then more reverently retrieved his quiver and bow from the shelf that he'd dumped them on earlier. Somewhat guiltily, he checked his weapons—the bowstring was intact, and the bow itself a little banged up but functional. The quiver was mostly empty, and both bow and quiver were splattered with dirt and blood and in need of a thorough cleaning. Clint stood there for a second, running his fingers along the graceful, swooping curve of the bow. In an instant the grip was in his hand and the string pulled back to the familiar spot on his jaw, a movement he'd done so many times that it was as unconscious and natural as breathing. His fingers stroked the buttons inlaid in the grip, miming the pattern for explosive arrows. He was standing on the roof of a skyscraper, searching for a target; the whine of alien engines and energy weapons filled the air.

"Nat, what are you doing?" he demanded. She was hurtling through the air, crouched on the back of a limp Chitauri, trying to pilot the alien vehicle with sheer determination.

"Little help!" He saw her lips move from far away, but her voice came through in his ear like she was standing beside him. Behind her, Loki was closing in, his grin triumphant and his eyes mad. Clint sighted down the arrow, forcing his breathing to slow. The moment had to be right. He couldn't miss.

"I got him," he murmured to himself. His instincts didn't fail him. The shot was perfect; his fingers began to relax—

"Ready to go?" Natasha's voice broke into the powerful memory. Clint tightened his grip on the string again and released the tension slowly. He turned to see her in the doorway, watching him with a raised eyebrow. "Don't think you should bring that. You might be tempted to use it."

"My aim's too good. I'd want him to suffer more than that," Clint answered with a rueful smile. He collapsed the bow and carefully packed it in the duffel. Slinging his quiver jauntily over one shoulder, he joined Natasha in the doorway. She didn't move to let him past, though, and instead inspected his face closely. Clint knew what she was going to ask, but he raised his eyebrows and made her spell it out for him.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked.

"Nat, I'm sure. If I can't kill the bastard, at least I can spit in his face before he leaves." He put on a mischievous grin. "Metaphorically, of course."

Natasha smirked halfheartedly, but there were shadows in her eyes. Clint felt the smile slide off his own face. "Nat, what aren't you telling me?"

"Honestly? You look like hell. What happened to your face?" She probed his forehead with ungentle fingers, ignoring his hiss of pain.

"You happened to my face," Clint retorted sullenly, knowing Natasha would hear the unspoken gratefulness underneath. She shook her head, still-drying red curls bouncing around her ears, and then tried the smile again. "Let's go."

Clint followed her retreating form in suspicious silence. Natasha was an expert liar, but even she couldn't hide that much guilt.

...

Clint and Natasha stepped out the tinted car into the sunlight again. The ride over had been accomplished in silence; Clint knew Natasha wasn't telling him something and resented it, and Natasha was in no hurry to discuss that or anything else. As Clint walked around the car, though, he caught Natasha's look and gave her a barely perceptible reassuring nod: he was going to be fine.

The other Avengers were gathered at the small plaza, exchanging looks of weary triumph, but the tension that ran through them was palpable despite their easygoing exteriors. In the center of their little gathering, Loki stood bound and gagged, his entire body oozing hatred. At the sight of him, Clint felt his muscles tense in unconscious revolt. He longed for his bow in his hand and glanced wistfully at the trunk of the car where it was stashed in his bag.

There was little ceremony or protocol to follow, and in any case, standing in the middle of Central Park with a war criminal from another dimension for too long was likely to invite some kind of attention. Instead Thor shook hands with each of them in turn. Clint accepted the gesture somewhat reluctantly and was glad when it was over, resenting both the obviously controlled power in the thunder god's grip and the look of pity and guilt on his face.

Finally the moment came. Thor looked around at the gathered faces one last time, but Clint's eyes were locked on Loki. The god was defeated, humiliated, and gagged, but still his eyes threatened and raged with barely controlled arrogance. Clint stared back, determined to show that he was unbeaten, but he was glad for the restraints, unsure if he could stomach the sound of Loki's voice and his cloying, poisonous smile.

At his side, Natasha shifted closer to him. "Gag suits him, don't you think?" she murmured in his ear, as if she could read his mind. Clint didn't answer, but with his eyes fixed on Loki's, he let his lips curl into a mocking smirk. Loki's face darkened murderously, which just made Clint's smile widen.

A moment later, Loki had begrudgingly taken hold of the device encasing the cube and, with a twist of his wrist, Thor and his brother vanished in a flash of azure energy. Clint felt his smile melt away and clenched his teeth against the sudden sickness at the sight of that light. He remembered all too well the waves of glowing blue tearing through his chest, sharpening his vision and crashing into his mind. Now, and perhaps forever, Loki was out of his reach.

He heard Natasha breathe in deeply, as if she had been holding her breath underwater and had finally surfaced again. He glanced down at her and found her staring at the spot where Loki had stood; her face was hard but her eyes were full of agony. The sight unsettled him.

The other Avengers were leaving, scattering to their lives, but as Clint made to return to the car, Natasha caught his arm. She turned that gaze on him, and Clint felt the shiver in his spine that meant something terrible was about to happen.

"When you're ready, we need to talk," Natasha suggested, in a voice that told him he didn't have a choice.