Summary: In which Clint meets Darcy's Uncle Rocco. It could have gone better...
Pairings: Darcy Lewis/ Clint Barton
Disclaimer: some spoilers from Fraction's Hawkeye comic
A/N:A short little fic I wrote in a tangent post about the Pomplamoose song Bust Your Knee Caps.
A/N2:I am thinking about a follow up but don't have a date of when it will be written so will keep this as 'complete' for now.

A stupid argument stemming from Clint's obvious incompetence in relationships inconveniently takes place before a holiday where Darcy visits her family. Clint doesn't know much about Darcy's family. She doesn't like to talk about them and he respects that, given his own origins. He just hopes she gives him a chance to make up for being an idiot because she's seriously the best thing that's happened to him in a long time. Hell, he hadn't realized at what level of hot mess he was until Darcy forced him to use his dishwasher as a dishwasher instead of bow storage and eat three square meals. With green things. Seriously, he's already running his apology speech by Lucky and Kate.

What he doesn't expect is about three days later when his head is roughly stuffed into a hood. He's bludgeoned until he passes out. When he wakes up, it's to a punch in the stomach and he's tied up to a chair.

Okay…this looks bad but it's probably just the Tracksuit Draculas that won't seem to disappear no matter how hard he tries. Or maybe those drug dealers he busted last week near the apartment. All things he can handle, even if he doesn't have his bow ready.

Except when the hood is removed, he is definitely not faced with the European mobsters or a couple of thugs. In his bones, he knows these guys are bad news. Something just radiates off of them. An air only earned through decades of crime, bred into the family like an heirloom passed down the generations. These are the guys that bust your kneecaps for having the audacity to think you can take them down. The kind that cut off your finger as a gentle reminder to pay your dues on time. Sure, Clint's dealt with guys like these but never unarmed and he often ends up with a cast or two after.

So, Clint smiles sheepishly and asks how their day's going in a jovial tone. Not even a crack from the younger ones. Never a good sign. It's too dark (in what he assumes is a warehouse) for him to discern any exits. What's even worse is a middle-aged man carrying a bloodstained crowbar and looking like it would make his day to have a go at Clint.

Clint ends up rambling about how he's just a simple landlord who wants to make his apartment safe for the families just trying to get by. How he didn't take kindly to the drug dealers trying to recruit the kids as runners and if that impeded on family business, then so be it. Except, all the men suddenly look confused, if a little amused.

The man with the crowbar raises an eyebrow before grinning. It's an ugly grin and sends a shiver down Clint's spine, even if he fights it.

"This ain't about drugs, kid. This is about what you did to my favorite niece," the man says. Although Clint's confused and on the verge of denying such outlandish claims, his stomach drops nonetheless.

"She's your only niece, Uncle Rocco," one of the younger men point out in good humor. 'Uncle Rocco' shrugs.

"Is this about Penny? Is she back?" Clint ventures. Penny was involved with the Tracksuits. Maybe she was family to some other mob before that. Though it's made obvious rather quickly at Rocco's angry sneer that's not the answer they want.

"No. It's about Darcy. But you messin' round with tramps would explain why she was almost in tears, this Thanksgiving."

Okay. This really is bad. At least, now, Clint knows why Darcy never mentioned her family. Though, he doubts that will sooth him when he's fitted with cement shoes and dropped into the East River.