Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
By: Syntyche

Five: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Clint sets the last briefing note down atop the small pile of discarded papers as he exhales slowly, his measured sigh rustling his neatly sorted stacks of pertinent-I-guess and completely-useless information. The latter bunch is smaller and of course SHIELD analysts would be horrified to discover Clint thought any of their doubtlessly painstakingly assembled notes were useless, but he prefers to keep his mind unencumbered by other people's theories and focus on the hard facts and his own gut instinct and experience.

Which, in this case, are giving him bad enough vibes without adding in any SHIELD conspiracy conjecture.

This is so not good. So, so not good.

The picture SHIELD is painting here is not a nice one, and Clint thinks there might be a little more gravity to Tony's dire warning about trusting the team than the inventor just being bitchy because he doesn't want to be on Clint's Friends list any more.

But Clint finds that, despite the immediate peril to himself and - more importantly - his teammates, a grim smile is stretching across his face even as he flexes his fingers in a deliberate motion, pushing his hands forward in a stretch that travels up his arms and across his sore shoulders. It's been some time since the archer's been assigned anything more intriguing than a babysitting job for insultingly inanimate objects, like an otherworldly space cube or a mythical hammer or as Maria Hill's aide for a day - the last a surprisingly creative punishment designed by Phil for some minor infraction the archer's certain isn't even worth remembering at this point. Clint's looking forward to the chance to use his brain again for the powers of good, he intones dramatically in his mind, not for some demented wannabe ruler that had been unerringly evil but had at least given him a sense of purpose beyond picking up lunch and waxing his bowstrings. He hopes he's not too rusty to find a good balance between Take Over New York and Pick Up Takeout from the SHIELD Cafeteria.

You're not funny, Clint thinks at himself sternly, stuffing the pertinent-I-guess papers into the back pocket of Phis borrowed cargo pants as he pushes to his feet.

Clint follows the vents until he reaches a point near a weapons locker. He has several of his own caches stored around the city, but he's already on base so he figures he may as well help himself; he's a taxpayer, too, after all, so it's as much his as anyone else's, he's pretty sure. Peering down dutifully until he's convinced there's no one around to see Hawkeye's sudden magical appearance, Clint drops to the floor in a light-footed crouch, forgoes the showy and ridiculous tuck-and-roll he'd throw in to make Tasha laugh if she were here, and straightens before the door's access panel, one fluid move that should rightfully make anyone watching jealous. Ta-da! The Amazing Hawkeye, ladies and gentlemen!

There isn't anyone watching, of course, but as Nat likes to remind him with a wicked smirk, you can take the carnie out of the circus …

Clint punches in an access code belonging to a mid-level SHIELD lackey that shouldn't raise suspicion for awhile; not as much, as least, as his own flagged and carefully monitored passwords would as soon as he entered them. He carefully pulls open the door and slips inside the small storage room, nodding appreciatively at what he sees. No heavy artillery in here, which is why he chose it - less security - but there's plenty of smaller stuff that'll do just fine to jack up some bad guys' and girls' day.

Anything that can go on his person, does. Couple of knives, a few pistols and some extra rounds, a grenade or two. He'd lost his bow when the garage collapsed and for some silly reason SHIELD doesn't keep extras in everyday stock, but Clint only takes a moment to mourn the loss of his beloved weapon of choice before deciding agreeably that it's smarter to utilize something a little less of a calling card than an archaic pointy stick flinger.

The archer can be discreet and unobtrusive and usually is. It's just more fun to be an obnoxious, arrogant asshole with a shiny weapon most people don't use for a reason. Just ask Tony Stark. He's got arrogant bastard down to a science bro.

Still not funny, he thinks at himself reproachfully.

Clint has more ways off-base than even Fury knows and he's gone before Sitwell even begins to tap his foot in impatience at Barton's lateness. Stark Tower is probably being watched, but there are shadowy ways in and out of that building too, all kinds of secrets that Tony has built in. Erikson, of course, doesn't know about them since SHIELD doesn't, but the aim of the sim is to let Barton move as freely as possible to accomplish his goals, so minimal restrictions and intrusions are in place to impede the archer at this point and previously unknown to outsiders entryways open readily under Barton's skilled hands. Real restrictions will come for Clint later, challenges issued and punishments earned.

In the wake of everything that's happened to his teammates, Stark's Tower is a ghost town, and Jarvis' disembodied voice only adds to the overall feeling of eerie emptiness permeating the abandoned rooms as the AI politely welcomes Clint when the archer crawls up through an access panel.

Clint offers an awkward hello, still a little unused to the near-omnipresence throughout the Tower of the voyeuristic AI. It kinda says a little too much about Tony, Clint thinks, that he has to have someone watching him at all times … creepy and egotistical, much?

He shoves aside that disturbing line of speculation, already moving into implementation of Operation: Avengers - he'll think of a better code name later, he swears - stalking through abandoned halls. There are really only two areas the Avengers typically frequent as a group: the common room and the kitchen, and it's here Clint goes after a fruitless check of Rogers' room for visual confirmation of Cap's absence from the space.

The kitchen is dark and empty though Jarvis helpfully scales up the lights when the archer enters, driving away the shadows lurking around Tony's beloved fancy espresso machine and the six-slot toaster commandeered for Thor's pop tarts when he visits, the small, unobtrusive everyday coffee maker Stark had firmly insisted on buying for Clint once he discovered the archer's penchant for drinking coffee straight from the pot, and a stereotypically tweed jacket of Bruce's tossed carelessly over the counter bar.

The memory of Tony's harsh condemnation from his hospital bed and Banner's cold body in the morgue weigh heavily on Clint as he tiredly hauls out his usual chair and drops down at the long, bare table. Just one minute to think, that's all he wants, but here he feels surrounded by the ghosts of his teammates: smirking Nat; boisterous Thor. Missing Cap. Tony, wheezing and dying; Bruce, half his face caved in.

Clint drops his head, wishes the lights were still off. The gleaming expanse of wood is cool and smooth under his rough fingertips, the pushed-in empty chairs and unnatural stillness of the room mocking him with phantom voices drifting through the noisy silence. The archer doesn't have much by way of happy memories, but he admits to himself that many of the few he does have are from sitting around this table. Shared breakfasts and occasional dinners. Late night poker games. Exhausted silences filled with the groans and mutters of whomever was being patched up at the moment, usually him while Nat hovers without looking like she's hovering, Bruce expertly stitching him up while quietly maintaining he's not this kind of doctor, Tony pretending not to care while muttering under his breath about designing Stark brand SuperArcher armor.

Clint's eyes are burning; it must be the … something. Whatever. He lowers his forehead to rest on his outstretched arms; his watch burrows into his forehead and spiky strands of his disheveled hair are soft against his skin. He doesn't have a hell of a lot of time so he draws in a deep breath and lifts his gaze, surveying blankly as he considers his teammates usual places.

The chair to Clint's immediate left, at one end of the table, is Tony's, though there's an absurd five feet of room between their two chairs since the time Clint finally lost his temper during a ridiculous argument with Tony about God-only-knows-what and knocked Tony onto his ass. The inventor had given him a shocked look from the floor, and, wearing a look of wounded pride, had regained his chair amidst the smothered laughter of their teammates. Even Rogers had allowed an amused smile when Tony had scooted his chair down to be out the archer's reach - though this puts him in dangerous range of Thor's boisterous mid-anecdote gestures and beer spittle when the Asgardian comes to visit.

To his right is Natasha's chair, and Clint doesn't have to look to know there are minute scratches on the side of the wooden seat where Natasha sometimes digs her knives in gently when she starts to feel uncomfortable by the all the team spirit. Clint knows how she feels, shares her discomfort and the irony that he spent his young life in the spotlight for a time while she'd trained to hide, and now they've switched roles as they constantly grow more into the useful SHIELD agents they're pushed and shoved and needed to be. Being on the team, though, being Avengers, has humanized the assassins in small ways Clint didn't even think was possible, and it's one of those things that makes people nod their head and intone wisely that it's both a blessing and a curse.

Bruce's chair sits silently at the other end of the table from Natasha. Empty now, empty forever of the scientist's presence and Clint feels a swell of grief growl at his throat as he briefly lowers his eyes, looks away from the chair and the wire-rimmed spectacles sitting on the table in front of it.

Perhaps surprisingly, Steve's chair is not at the head of the table but rather next to Natasha's. There have been times that Clint has suspected the soldier is nursing a crush on the redhead, and though he could have spent his time agonizing over the flawless Captain's interest in his lover, if there is one single thing that Clint Barton trusts in this life, it's Natasha's faithfulness to him. He can't explain why, but he knows it's there and he lets it rest quietly, fill the space in his chaotic soul that might otherwise harbor green flickers of liquid jealousy.

Also, Rogers is way too much of a gentleman to try anything while Clint is in the picture. Clint hopes.

In front of Rogers' chair is a closed, unmarked notebook with a pen resting on it. Jarvis confirms that it's Steve's and that no one else has touched it, so Clint slides it over and flips it open, interested grey eyes flicking over the neatly drawn images contained therein. He hadn't realized Cap is an artist - the sketches are actually really good - but there isn't anything extremely useful that Clint can tell, so he closes the notebook carefully, mindful of a few loose papers threatening to slide out, and settles it back in front of Steve's usual place.

Room searches are next, and Clint sighs.

Oh, joy.

OoOoOoOoOo

Fury has to admit that he's impressed, has always been impressed, with the precise ruthlessness of Agent Barton's focus. Whether that maniacal asshole Loki had seen it when he'd commented on Barton's heart, it had certainly become apparent in the tension-filled days that had followed that Thor's brother had no qualms at all about driving the archer into the ground. The only way they'd even gotten close enough to touch Barton was because Coulson and Romanoff knew the man so well, but even then they'd been a hairsbreadth behind; Fury had secretly wished at the time he'd also been able to peer into Barton's mind so he could track the archer's thought process in real time, watch as he planned and calculated and followed through with painstaking precision. It would have been fascinating.

It's fascinating now to watch, though it somehow feels even more of a betrayal, more voyeuristic to watch the keen-eyed sharpshooter well known throughout SHIELD as the silent loner type take a few minutes to study each chair at the gleaming table in Stark's massive kitchen.

It occurs to Fury to turn to Erikson, to study the lean, hawkish profile with the hungry eyes, and ask once more, trying to sound more skeptical than impressed, "This is all a projection?"

Erikson nods. "All in Barton's mind," he confirms easily, eyes never leaving the screen as he watches Barton scoop up the folder in front of Roger's chair. It's been a delicate process, keeping one step ahead of the archer, leading him on without making it too obvious. The Council has only given him seven days and he knows Fury will barely tolerate that, but even the Director has to bow to the gods that govern him. And at any rate, a concise ruling within two days of the completed sim is a far better and superior method than a hearing that could drag on indefinitely. It's a heady feeling and one Erikson relishes deep down: judge, jury … executioner. If it comes to that, of course. He's intrigued to say that, at this moment, he isn't sure what will happen; Barton isn't exactly the easiest person to predict.

Fury rustles anxiously, his desire to appear calm ruffled by the twitching of his trenchcoat, and although Fury's had years to practice his stonefaced indifference, Erikson sees through him in a heartbeat, knows he shares - albeit to a necessary, lesser degree - the same weakness as Agent Barton.

His man is on the line, and he's pissed.

"Where is Agent Barton?" Fury asks quietly, the severe undertone to his voice expected. Frankly, it's a surprise to both of them the question hasn't been asked sooner, but it had taken quite a bit of work for Fury to even make it as far as Erikson's department. Not a huge surprise he had, the man was head of a supersecret intelligence agency, but Erikson had really expected more of a guns blazing approach.

"Agent Barton is contained and comfortable," he answered the question calmly, but Fury heard the misdirection for what it was.

"Contained?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow and another trenchcoat rustle.

"Of course." The answer is as mild as Erikson's entire demeanor, smooth and bland as the rock face under a waterfall. "For his safety as well as ours."

"Of course," Fury echoes darkly, but the knowing look Erikson directs his way turns his stomach and he dreads the practiced response he knows is coming. He's not disappointed.

"We can't be certain of what Agent Barton will do while under influence not his own." A pause Fury hates, and then, oily and self-satisfied: "As you're aware, someone could get hurt."

OoOoOoOoOo

You know what's awesome? Knowing what you think of this old, almost abandoned story, because I wrote and rewrote this chapter, then almost threw the entire story out, so if you have a second, please let me know if you liked/didn't so much/would be interested in seeing more. thanks!