Title: Wiping Off the Dust

Rating: pg16

Characters: Clint Barton and Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner/Hulk, Thor, Sitwell, Pepper Pots, Happy, Rhodey, etc.

WARNINGS/tags: physical abuse of a minor, physical abuse of adult, implied child abuse, abduction, coarse language, violence, character de-ageing (belly flopped all over this bandwagon, finally), trust issues, Friendship, humour, Team, hurt/comfort, all the Angst, BAMF!all around (but mostly Clint…and Tony, FEELS, hugging.

Summary: Regressed-Clint, it turns out, is a little shit.

Naturally this makes him Tony's new favourite person.

A/N: An enormous THANK YOU to mrasaki and allochthon for their excellent advice and editing savvy! Their help made this story much smoother than it was! Also thanks to FEELS! You guys know who you are ;)

A/N: I have been plugging away at this on and off for over a year now, and am quite pleased that I'm finally posting! As promised ;)

Enjoy.

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After an obscene number of tests, and fending off anxious teammates, the SHIELD doctors grudgingly judged Clint to be around twelve years old. They made it very clear, however, that seeing as Clint appeared to have been reverted to his actual physical state of that time, there was a margin for error.

Dr. Amsterdam had taken to looking at Clint with a forlorn frown when he believed nobody was watching, and consulted his medical notes on Clint's history with a deep sigh. It didn't take a genius to figure out that what was in the notes didn't match up to the wiry, far too thin kid lying hunkered under pale sheets before them.

They'd hooked him up to an IV filled with nutrients, though they insisted that he wasn't in any danger physically. It was just a precaution. His vitals were strong enough that they didn't need to hook him to a monitor; there were no signs of immediate injuries that needed to be dealt with, and nothing foreign in his blood or brain scans.

After spying the doctor's frown, and watching the sleeping boy for a long moment, Steve had left the room quietly. He understood the implications of not enough food while growing up; of struggling to make ends meet and make meals stretch. He returned ten minutes later with what appeared to be half the staff room's vending machine, and deposited it all on Clint's bedside table. The colourful wrappers crackled loudly as Steve made sure the junk food didn't fall off the limited surface. Nobody commented and Steve resumed his quiet watch by the door.

They waited a long while for Clint to wake up. Then they waited some more, listening to the Doctor's quiet assurances that the transformation, while apparently flawless, just took a lot of energy and Clint needed the rest. Eventually they had to leave for food and other duties and decided on standing watch in shifts, because nobody wanted Clint to wake up alone. Pairing up with natural alacrity, Bruce and Tony stayed behind for first watch and continued to discuss potential causes and solutions to this 'situation.'

Not five minutes after the rest of the team filed out of the room, Clint awoke.

The timing was suspicious.

It was even more so when he went fromsleeping to swiftly rolling off the bed. He landed near-silently on the floor, but neither man could miss the movement from less than five feet away and they jumped to their feet in reaction. That was as far as they got before being beaned ruthlessly in the face. With chocolate bars. Clint went for the eyes, and he didn't miss. They missed him though, as he swiftly fled the room while Tony tried to blink his vision back and Bruce struggled to move around Tony and the chairs while straightening his glasses.

The startled yells of medical personnel and the security agents on duty reached their ears. After scrambling out of the private room they didn't expect to discover that Clint had already managed to disappear.

"That little shit," Tony muttered, impressed as he wiped at reactive tears still crowding his eyes, but he didn't add anything more and moved steadily from SHIELD's medical wing as Bruce relayed Clint's escape to the team.

The building's fire alarm screeched through the air thirty seconds later. It was swiftly replaced with a general alarm and the code for an 'escaped patient, potential hostile.'

They caught him in the lobby of the building, thirty feet from the front door that he been about to casually stroll through. Though 'caught' could be argued down to 'cornered' as he was backed into the tall information desk and surrounded. Tony and Bruce, with Steve and Thor not far behind, barged into the large space to see five agents circled loosely around Clint, their weapons drawn and trained on him.

Clint didn't seem impressed by the guns but he wasn't moving, frozen to his spot as he tried to stare the agents down. Considering he was all of twelve years old, he was too damn good at it.

"Get your hands up where we can see them and lie down on the ground, Barton," a tall, copper haired Agent ordered.

Clint blinked, his attention rapidly shifting about the room before settling back on the armed men before him. Then he smiled, charming, wide and innocent. The thing was, Clint didn't seem to realize that the people here knew him, beyond just his name. Agents were trained in recognizing certain characteristics of SHIELD's more prominent agents, the ones that were the most dangerous, so they could spot discrepancies. So they could assess potential threats.

They knew that there was nothing that could be trusted in that smile. The last time Tony had seen Clint pull it out he had chased it with the death of seven AIM mercenaries. While handcuffed.

Tony hadn't realized Clint had learned that smile so young.

"I will shoot you, kid." The copper headed agent warned when Clint didn't follow his direction. There was no mistaking his honesty despite the fact that he obviously didn't want to.

"You'd shoot an innocent kid?" Clint lost his smile, eyes going wide and worried and he looked around the room, pleading. "All of you would let him do that? I didn't do anything to you, I just want to go home." More than a few of the people flooding the room seemed to soften at his pleading, one of the five agents with their weapons drawn even lowered his gun. It was not Tony's imagination when Clint's attention very briefly cut to that agent. Sensing weakness.

"I don't want to, but until you stand down I will not hesitate to pull the trigger," the lead agent stated, just as firm, and Tony made a note to not mess with the guy in the future. Apparently he could read bullshit in its most innocent of forms.

Mini-Clint seemed to get that his innocent act wasn't going to fly, because a moment later the smile was back, a little sharper this time. Tony could read the desperation in it now, the way Clint was trying so hard not to show his fear. Having five guns pointed at any sane individual would have them trembling in panic, but Clint was trying to act like this happened to him all the time.

Maybe it did.

Tony frowned.

"You could pull the trigger," Clint agreed softly, "but then you'll also be dead, and that will really screw up your day. Am I right?"

"My gun is pointed right at you," the agent pointed out, unwavering.

"Then I guess that almost gives you a fighting chance," the kid smirked, goading, careless. His gaze was steady though, unnaturally focused for a kid his age, and it was clear that he at least believed that he was telling the truth.

"Lower your weapons," Natasha ordered as she appeared out of nowhere, and as one the guards collectively calmed. Hell, even Tony found himself relaxing slightly now that she was here, because if anyone could handle Clint Barton when he was…not himself, it was his partner. Clint's gaze tracked her immediately, instinctively understanding that she was the dominant threat in the room now, but otherwise he didn't move. "Clear out," she ordered, and like magic the only people left in the lobby were their team and the head security guard.

"Wow," Clint drawled with his too young voice, "I bet you're the life of the party," with a cocky grin that wasn't as confident as the Clint Tony knew, but definitely had his familiar cheekiness.

"Want to tell us why you're in such a hurry to leave?" Natasha inquired, arms open by her sides and as non-threatening as she ever got.

"Felt like getting some fresh air. That wasn't a crime last I checked," Clint explained easily.

"Try again, this time with the truth," she narrowed her eyes but Clint seemed unaffected as he quickly glanced over to where Tony stood with Bruce, Thor, and Steve crowded around him. His eyes lingered on Tony a moment longer than the others, but ultimately he didn't appear impressed as he refocused on Natasha.

"Wasn't sure if you had my insurance info," he shrugged like it was no big deal, "figured I'd head home and grab it for you."

His delivery was smooth, and if it hadn't been built on such blatant bullshit it might have even been believable. Clint was smirking again. Natasha gave him a hard look.

"Your parents were killed when you were four." Tony started at her cold words.

"Hey now-" Bruce took a half step forward in protest but it died a quick death when Natasha held up a hand, demanding compliance. Clint didn't so much as twitch in response.

"You resided in a state home until you and your older brother Barney ran away to Carson's circus and fell off the grid. You were ten years old. Duquesne took you on as an apprentice not long after that and you've been with them since."

There was a very pointed moment of silence. Clint dropped what was left of his 'nice kid' act all together and glared.

"You gonna tell me my favourite colour next?" he snarled as much as a puppy could. A vicious, sharp-toothed, rabid little puppy.

"Purple," she answered without hesitation, "but you basically like anything that's bright and bold."

"You know, now that I think about it, this doesn't look like any hospital I've ever seen." Ignoring her answer, Clint cut a sharp look back to Tony, eyeing him slowly before taking the rest of them in once more. It was creepy as hell coming from a ten year old. "And you don't look like doctors."

"Well, he's a doctor," Tony couldn't resist clarifying, hooking a thumb at Bruce. "What?" he asked defensively when Natasha gave him a warning look. "Are we not allowed to be proud of our resident labcoat?"

"Now's not the time, Tony," Steve ordered softly and normally Tony might have more to say, but Clint was eyeing them with a decidedly shifty countenance, so he settled for an eye roll and crossed his arms expectantly.

"How do you know so much about me?" The kid focused again on Natasha. How, not who are you. His gaze drifted briefly over her shoulder to the front doors and then seemed to do a quick circuit of the walls and lobby furniture before settling expectantly on her once more.

"We have a file with your history. You told me about the colour."

"Yeah, you and everyone who's ever seen one of my shows could know about the colour thing, and I've never seen you before waking up here. I'd remember."

"You hate popcorn," she countered.

"Now that is a lie," Tony blurted, because he'd seen Clint eat it on movie nights whenever someone shoved the bowl in his hands. Natasha and Clint ignored the outburst, intent on their stare down.

"When you were eight you rescued a robin that had fallen from its nest," she pressed her lips together briefly, but Tony didn't know what that meant. "You named it Sky."

"Who are you?" Clint asked finally, and now his voice was shaking. He was beginning to look more like the scared kid he should be considering what was happening to him. "Is this a test?"

Tony buried the rising unease he felt at the question down deep. Steve was right: now was not the time.

"My name is Natasha Romanov. This is not a test. I have been assigned to you." She didn't bother with platitudes like 'protect' or 'keep you safe' because it was pretty clear that Barton wouldn't believe her.

"And your tag-a-longs?" Clint nodded at the rest of them, clustered off to the side of the room.

"The same. I will introduce you shortly," she informed him, and there must have been something Tony missed in the conversation, because Clint was nodding in agreement now, and something about him became less tense. Less hostile.

"Cool. Just so you know, I'm not paying any of your bogus medical bills. 'Cause I'm pretty sure you need consent to treat me, which I can guarantee you didn't and don't have."

"Then I suggest you give us back that scalpel you borrowed," Natasha said. Clint smiled innocently and flipped his hand over to present the surgical blade he had somehow (seriously?!) hidden between his fingers this entire time.

"And the scissors," Natasha continued after Clint placed the scalpel with delicate drama on the countertop at his back. He paused, considered, and then unearthed a pair of office scissors from the waistband of his scrubs. They joined the scalpel.

"And the gun."

Clint froze, indecision warring more blatant on his face than any emotion he'd shown yet, before he slowly pulled up the hem of his pants, telegraphing every move, and tugged a gun out of his sock.

A gun. From his sock.

To be fair it was a small gun, one that Tony recognized would normally rest in an agent's ankle holster. The fact that practically-pre-pubescent-Clint was keeping it stuffed down his hospital issued tube socks was hilarious, and also scary. Jesus. He'd been out of his hospital room for what, five minutes? Behind him Steve took a deep breath.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Clint carefully lay the weapon next to the other two and took a deliberate step away, to make it appear like they were out of reach.

"And the pen."

Tony couldn't help looking at Natasha incredulously, but was distracted by the momentary sour face Clint pulled before producing said pen from his other sock and slapping it on the table.

"Happy?" he snapped, but Natasha didn't respond with anything but an expectant eyebrow. Clint pulled a bitch face to be proud of and plucked a paperclip from his mouth, flicking it away to land in the fake potted plant behind him.

Natasha gave a tight nod.

"Well," Tony couldn't keep quiet as he looked at the pile on the black counter top, "Did anyone else know Barton was a serial klepto? Anyone?" he looked back to Clint thoughtfully, "I think we should rename you Magpie instead of Hawkeye. All in favour raise your hand." Tony already had his hand in the air, but the only person who seemed moderately interested was Thor.

"What is this magpie you speak of? Is it as mighty as a hawk?"

"I think it's time we moved this back upstairs," Steve suggested, ever practical and the ruiner of everything fun. "I'm sure Clint has some questions."

If he did he wasn't asking them now, just watching them all keenly and moving where Natasha subtly directed. At the elevator, as they waited in a decidedly awkward silence for the car to arrive, Clint watched them in the door's reflection and then announced casually, like he was speaking of the weather: "Just to make it clear, if you touch me without permission I'll fuck you up."

"Understood," Steve answered instantly and firmly. It pretty much went without saying that he was answering for all of them but Tony found himself nodding along as well. Clint seemed to need the reassurance, if his untrusting stare could be judged truthfully.

When the elevator arrived Bruce, Thor, and Steve opted to wait for the next one, not bothering with giving an excuse as to why. Tony had no intention of letting Clint out of his sight until he had to, because this was just too interesting. Of course he began to think that maybe he'd made the wrong decision when the doors slid shut and Clint became decidedly more agitated in the enclosed space. Tony and Natasha parked it in one corner to give him space, and stayed there.

"You're not going to try and impale me with a chocolate bar again are you?" Tony wanted to know. "Death by Snickers is not the dramatic exit I was planning from this life." Tony rubbed at his possibly swelling eye from the earlier attack, and contemplated finding an icepack. Clint smiled, and there was nothing friendly about it.

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