Archive of Our Own ^beta

One morning in October the Avengers assemble and find themselves short one expert marksman.

The first reaction is annoyance because Clint has been late once or twice, or ten times.

But then Tony tracks his phone and it's still in his room with Darcy, who informs them groggily that he'd gone out early to get something from the bodega that's literally across the street. When she wakes up enough to realize that she's talking to Tony on Clint's phone and that it's been three hours since Clint woke her up with a kiss to the back of the neck asking if she needed anything, she demands, “Where the fuck is he?”

“That's what we're trying to find out,” Tony snaps back.

There's an incident involving an Ice Ray Gun going down on Broadway though, so Clint's disappearance is shunted aside for the suits to deal with while the Avengers go off to Avenge. Darcy stays in the office and tries to do her job, tries not to think about how Clint is just gone and the only people who are going to be able to find him are busy saving the world, but letting hers slip away. She pulls up the security footage on her computer like Tony showed her and watches Clint leave the building in his oldest, shabbiest pair of jeans, a dark S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie pulled on over what she knows to be his bare chest. She watches him disappear into the glare of the morning sun and feels like she's suffocating, slowly.

When the thing on Broadway is finally wrapped up nearly eight hours later, Coulson emerges from his office and Darcy can immediately see the strain around his eyes. “Come on,” he says to her, his voice subdued. “Briefing.” Darcy follows him into one of the conference rooms where the Avengers are waiting, her heart stuttering in her chest, dread welling up beside it and Coulson looks at them each, tells them, grim, “Agent Barton is MIA.”

Thor pulls Darcy into his lap, holding her so tight she can barely breathe and Darcy does her best not to have a meltdown while the rest of them start firing off plans to find him. “Everything will be all right, Darcy,” Thor rumbles in her ear and she almost feels better.

Natasha disappears when the meeting is over.

They try everything. Cellphone cameras, laptop cameras, ATMs, intersections, cop cars, if it's got a camera, they check it. They send out an entire floor of agents just to canvass the street. They even issue a photo to the news crews and Clint's face spends a month tacked onto the end of every report with a request for information on his whereabouts and a phone number. Natasha reappears with flecks of blood in the creases of her hands and dark circles under her eyes.

Nothing surfaces.

It takes a little less than two weeks for them to finally hit the wall, all of them sitting around in the conference room again, staring in shock when Coulson tells them, “There's nothing else we can do.”

That night, Darcy cries and screams obscenities into Clint's empty quarters; she throws a lot of his stuff, breaks it. She's already made a pretty good wreck out of the place when Steve forces the door open and grabs her by the shoulders, his eyes blazing. “You can't give up this easily,” he tells her, his voice sharper than she's ever heard it. “You don't give up, you hear me? You don't .”

Darcy stares at him, dumbfounded, for a few seconds before finally sniffling and nodding and wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “I didn't,” she says. “I won't. I'm just—” She can't quite hold back the tears and Steve's face softens, he pulls her to him. He's warm and solid, steadying.

“We'll find him, Darcy. We will. Somehow.”

But they don't.

Two weeks becomes three and then four and those become two months, three, four, five months. Some days Darcy even forgets that Clint isn't just off on a mission, that he's vanished. Other days she starts to wonder when the Initiative will call it, when he'll be KIA instead of MIA. She's still living in his quarters though. She's not sure that's healthy, but she doesn't care. She told him when they started this that she would wait for him and just because this wait's turning out longer than most of them doesn't mean that she's going to break that promise.

It's six months to the day when an alarm goes off on Coulson's computer while Darcy's getting the daily low-down. Coulson breaks off mid-sentence and darts around the desk to look at the monitor. Darcy stares open-mouthed because she's never seen him do something so blatantly unprofessional before.

“Cancel all of that,” he says and there's a ferocious sort of hope in his face, his eyes racing back and forth as he scans the information on the screen. Then he looks up at her and after a split-second pause, says, “No. I take that back. E-mail Miss Porter, have her cancel them. You're coming with me.” He steps around the desk and hands over his phone. “Text Sitwell this: Initiate Quarantine Protocols A-53649.”

“With you where?” Darcy says, fumbling to grab her bag as Coulson leads her past her desk, shrugging on his jacket. She has to juggle everything to type the text. “Quarantine Protocols?”

“Columbus Circle. Yes. A-53649.”

“What's in Columbus Circle?” Darcy asks breathlessly, sending the text, and for a second she's convinced Coulson is taking her out to the site of an incident, which is crazy because she's not even trained in the basics like all the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. employees and Coulson knows that; he'd be breaking about a thousand protocols, besides which she'd be totally useless. She's barely got the clearance to hear about stuff after it's over.

Then Coulson says, punching the elevator button several times in rapid succession, “The cameras in that area activated an alert I set up.”

“An alert for what?”

“Clint,” Coulson says and Darcy's heart jumps into her throat.

~

Steve is in the kitchen with Natasha assisting in the making of breakfast when their phones trill simultaneously.

Natasha frowns and he puts down the knife he's using to dice onions for her. He reaches for his phone, which is on the island behind them. Natasha pulls hers out of her pocket.

Coulson 9:09AM
Barton's been found. Columbus Circle. Hurry.

Steve stares at the message, reading it again and again. When he looks up, heart twisting like it's being wrung out to dry, Natasha is texting furiously—fruitlessly, probably. Coulson calls if he's being forthcoming. She's white-faced, the lines around her eyes and mouth sharp and tight. “Nat,” he says, voice quiet.

Her eyes snap up, lips bloodless. “Don't,” she bites out.

Steve tilts his head. He understands, he does. Probably better than anyone. Clint is Natasha's Bucky.

“Let's go,” Natasha says, glaring at the phone one more time before shoving it into her pocket. Steve nods and switches off the burner.

Tony comes skidding through the doorway, eyes wild. “What the hell are you two doing standing around? Coulson texted you, too, didn't he?”

Bruce runs into his back a moment later, knocking his glasses askew. “Where's Thor?”

“Here, brother!” Thor calls appearing in the door on the opposite end of the room.

“Well?” Tony demands.

“Let's go,” Steve says and they make for the Quinjet.

~

Columbus Circle is in utter chaos when Darcy and Coulson arrive. The entire area has been surrounded by police cars and cordoned off and there are two taxis that had been coming off of Central Park South, now smoking and leaking fluids, their drivers yelling angrily from the other side of the cordoning line. Coulson cuts through the crowds and the police barrier effortlessly, Darcy practically running to keep up with his efficient strides. Then, abruptly, Coulson stops and Darcy runs straight into him. He reaches back to steady her, staring ahead.

Darcy's hands are shaking and she grabs hold of Coulson's arm, peering around him and praying.

She's never been the kind of girl to go weak-kneed, but there's a definite wobble when she sees Clint sitting on the sidewalk at the corner of the walkway off of Central Park looking like he collapsed there and hasn't been able to get back up. His hair is shaggier than she's ever seen it and she can't see his face, but Darcy knows his body, the way he moves and rests. Except.

“ Oh my god,” she murmurs. “ Oh my god .”

“Agent Barton,” Coulson calls, his voice clear, calm, and without inflection.

Clint's body is exactly as Darcy remembers, but for two things. They're twenty feet long—maybe more—glossy black, and ruffled-looking, draped against his bare back and sprawled out behind him like a cape.

Wings. Clint has wings .

“ Agent Barton?” Coulson calls again a little louder and Clint's head comes up slowly, like it's a huge effort. He blinks eyes ringed with dark circles once and then again, his brow furrowing slightly, and Darcy thinks, half-hysterically, He's been drugged.

“ Phil?” Clint slurs and then shifts like he's going to try to get to his feet. The wings follow the movement, dragged along behind him and what little color Clint's face has, it loses. He goes absolutely still, gritting his teeth and, no, those things are hurting him. Darcy can't help the noise she makes and she covers her mouth, trying to hold in all of the horror and outrage gushing up inside.

“Agent Coulson!” Captain America's voice rings out from the trees like a bell and a second later Steve's emerging from the police line with the rest of the Avengers at his heels, all looking tense. Darcy can just make out a shape in the trees that she knows is the Quinjet. “We got your message. Where—” Then his eyes land on Clint, huddled on the ground between them and his eyes to go wide.

“Is that him?” Tony demands, peering around Steve's shoulder. “It had better be, because I'm not in the mood to be getting yanked around by those Skrull dickheads. Besides, I'm not dressed for it.” He sounds bored and annoyed, but Darcy's been dealing with the team long enough now that she can recognize the restless shifting of his feet and the wide, wild eyes for what they are.

Coulson holds up a hand to quiet them, focusing on Clint, and he says calmly, “Agent Barton. I need you to answer some questions.”

Clint's brow furrows and his gaze is definitely hazy. “Questions?”

“Prince Charming?”

“Is...a dirty, filthy conman,” Clint replies, though he sounds confused.

“And the princess?”

“The princess?”

“Yes,” Coulson says patiently, “the princess.”

Clint rubs his face against his bare shoulder and then says haltingly, “She got...got herself into this mess.” Darcy slaps Coulson's shoulder, earning a slight flinch and a glare.

“ That means it's him, right? That's really Clint!” she says and then before Coulson can even open his mouth to answer her, she breaks into a run. Several voices shout her name, but she's not paying attention anymore, hitting her knees and throwing her arms around Clint's neck. “Oh my god,” she says, “Don't ever do that to me again you bastard.”

Clint starts, pulling back his head to stare at her in surprise, his blown pupils making him look even more startled.

“Darcy?” he says and then his hands are everywhere, curling around her arms, her neck, running down her back, pushing her back so that he can look at her, searching for something. “Are you okay?” he asks and he sounds frantic, his fingers pressing too hard into her arms, his voice gravelly and abused. “They didn't hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” Darcy echoes and blinks, glancing up and around at the loose circle of the civilian Avengers, still keeping a wary distance. No one jumps in to help her out, so she turns her gaze back to Clint and does her best. “No, I'm fine, I'm okay.”

Clint sags into her, relief washing across his face and he loosens his grip on her arms, hugs her. “Good,” he breathes. “Good.”

Darcy starts to curl her arm around him when he suddenly shudders, his forehead pressed into her throat and says hesitantly, “Are they...are they done? Did they finish all the tests and procedures and...and everything?” Clint swallows a few times, his breaths rough and damp against her collarbones and Darcy feels a needle point of rage drive itself into her chest. “I. I tried to do what they said, but it hurt and—” He cuts off, shuddering again, and then in a small voice that makes her eyes prick with tears, says, “Was I good enough?”

“Yes,” she grits out, “Yes, you were great. You were perfect, and it's all over now, okay? They're all done. That's it.” She holds onto him tighter, sick to her stomach with fury and catches movement out of the corner of her eye.

It's only Coulson, but she glares at him, curling her hand possessively around the nape of Clint's neck.

He holds up his hands to display his palms, placating.

“We should go back to Headquarters,” Bruce murmurs, his eyes watching the crowds with low, wary anxiety. “We're exposed here.”

“Dr. Banner is right,” Coulson says, glancing around at the police line circling them. “We need to get him out of the open.” He looks to Tony. “Will he fit in the jet?”

Tony considers the wings speculatively. “Depends. Can he fold those things up?”

The voices of the others haven't escaped Clint's notice and he draws his head back, peering under her chin. Darcy feels him tense when he sees Natasha and Thor, hissing as that pulls at his shoulders. She's pretty sure he can't see well enough to recognize them and that suspicion is confirmed when he shifts, despite the obvious pain it causes and spreads his arm to separate her from them. “No,” he says. “No, do what you want to me, I'll come, okay? I want you to. Just leave her alone.”

Darcy's view fills with Clint's shoulders, with the wings, plucked bare around the base where they sink into his skin, ringed by a starburst as big as her hand of tiny meticulous black stitches. There are hundreds of them and Clint's skin is a rainbow of bruising all the way from the base of his neck down to the middle of his back. His voice echoes in her head, Did they finish all the tests and procedures and...and everything? “ Oh, god,” she whispers and Clint turns sharply, reaching back for her so his fingers dig into her arm when he buckles forward, letting out a breathless cry of agony.

“Clint!” Darcy cries and shuffles forward on her knees.

He grabs hold of her and chokes out, “Are you—?”

“I'm okay, I'm okay,” she assures him and she's pretty sure she's crying now. She wants to shake him, tell him she's fine, that he's the one who came back looking like a Frankenstein experiment.

“Darcy,” Coulson says, “We need to move him, now. I don't think he's going to be able to help us, can you tell him what's happening?”

Darcy nods and blinks the tears away. “Clint,” she says and her voice cracks. She clears her throat and tries again. “Clint. We have to move you now, okay? We're gonna take you home.” The others have moved up around them and Clint tilts his face up, fear flickering across his features. Clint has never been anything but cool and calm; Darcy can't even begin to imagine what hell he must have been subjected to that would leave him raw and open like this.

“ Please, I'll go, I'll go,” Clint says, all but babbling now, trying to keep Darcy behind him. Coulson puts his hand around Darcy's elbow and helps her to her feet, his face pinched. “Please,” Clint begs and Darcy digs her fingernails into her palm to prevent herself going to him. “ Please.”

Natasha touches Clint's shoulder and says quietly, calmly, “We're going to take you home, Clint. Shh, now.”

Clint's hand gropes behind him, looking for Darcy and when he doesn't find her, he sags, all the fight going out of him. “Please, don't hurt her.”

“Darcy will not be hurt,” Thor promises him, but Clint says nothing, bowed over his knees, his breathing ragged.

Steve glances at the others, his face grim, and then kneels, facing Clint. “We're going to carry you to the jet, Clint. I'm going to touch you now and then Thor is going to get your feet, and Natasha will support your hips. Tony and Bruce are going to try and make sure we don't jar the wings too much, okay?”

Clint doesn't move, doesn't reply, and Steve's face pinches slightly as he lets out an inaudible sigh. He hooks his hands under Clint's arms, carefully ignoring the flinch he earns and then lifts him so that Clint's head slides over his shoulder, Steve's chin pointed down Clint's back. Steve shifts carefully to get his feet under him and waits until Natasha's hands are on Clint's waist and Thor's are around Clint's ankles. Then he murmurs, “All right, here we go,” and the three of them move smoothly, easing Clint out flat between them. Tony and Bruce move in, lifting his wings as they go and trying to keep them steady.

Clint's rigid as a board, breaths coming in short pants, his arms still curled tight against his chest. Natasha nudges his elbow, says, “Clint, put your arms around Steve. It will hurt less.”

Clint immediately complies, curling his left arm between Steve's, his hand coming up to grip at the back of Steve's shoulder and the other sliding around Steve's neck. Darcy doesn't think it really helps the pain at all, but Steve adjusts his hands so that Clint's weight is distributed across his shoulders instead of his throat and his breathing grows less jagged. “Okay, let's move,” Steve orders and they start moving across the circle. Clint makes a strangled whining noise that gets Darcy right in the gut and she wishes they would go more slowly, be more careful, even as she knows it wouldn't help. The sooner it's over the better.

The five of them cross the street with her and Coulson at their heels, their gazes focused straight ahead at their goal. At the curb where joggers and moms with strollers have gathered at the police line, Thor calls in a booming voice, “Make a path,” and the crowd practically falls over themselves to clear the way for them.

When they reach the Quinjet, Steve can put it off no longer and he says with very deliberate calm, “You're doing great, Clint. But we have to fold your wings up now, so you'll fit. It's probably going to hurt.”

Clint doesn't give any indication that he's understood, except to tense further and Steve nods the go-ahead at Bruce and Tony.

Bruce looks like he's checked out almost entirely, but he meets Tony's eyes under Clint's stomach and Tony nods back at him. They put their hands in the largest joint of each wing and then press down together. The wings change position smoothly and easily, but Clint jerks, muffling a yell in Steve's shoulder.

“Go go go,” Steve says, looking frazzled for the first time and they rush into the jet, Tony yanking down a panel in the wall to reveal a narrow bed as they get inside.

“Here, here,” he says and then ducks out of the way as the others ease Clint down onto it, but Clint's arms stay wrapped around Steve, his face contorting in clear pain until Natasha says, “Let go, Clint!”

He does, yanking back like he's been scalded, and he stays exactly how he's been set down. The frown on Natasha's face grows ever more severe, but she begins very gently manipulating his limbs until he almost looks comfortable. As soon as he's seen Clint safely settled, Tony mutters, “Everybody strap in,” and darts to the front.

There are only enough seats for the team when the bed isn't pulled down, but Natasha doesn't seem to have any intention of moving from Clint's side. Thor gets himself settled and then drags Darcy into his lap, folding his arms across her stomach like a seat belt and that solves that.

“Wheels up, Tony,” Steve calls and the jet rumbles to life.

~

Six minutes and ten-point-three seconds later the Quinjet lands on the roof of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters and there's a welcoming committee, Fury standing at the head looking extremely hacked off. Tony scowls and shoots a poisonous look in Coulson's direction. This is stupid. Clint should be coming home, not being sucked down into the bowels of HQ.

“ We have protocols ,” Fury snaps the moment the back hatch opens fully.

“Yes, sir,” Coulson says, dropping his eyes to the ground.

Then Fury's eye lights on Clint and the wings protruding from his back and Darcy easing her way out of Thor's lap and he looks even more outraged, if that's even possible. He jerks a hand indicating that the Quarantine team should move in and they hurry past him.

“Careful,” Steve says, his voice sharpening as they gather around Clint. “He's in a lot of pain.”

Tony's fingernails dig into his palms as he remembers Clint's yell as they folded the wings. He catches a glimpse of the lines of stitches as the agents take over and flinches. He flattens a hand over the arc reactor and blinks away the memory of his first glimpse of his own chest in a dark, dank cave.

Within moments Clint's being whisked away.

“ Where the hell are you taking him?” Tony demands, bristling, and Fury turns his one good eye on him, his expression saying very clearly, Excuse me?

But Tony doesn't back down. He steps forward and jabs a finger at Fury and repeats, “Where. The hell. Are you taking him?”

“He's being Quarantined, as per protocol,” Fury says, like he can't believe he's explaining himself to a shit like Tony. You'd think he'd be used to it by now. “It's for his own good.”

“Oh, oh, I see, because you're the foremost authority on what's good for people who have been held captive and surgically experimented on?” Tony shoots at him, scathing.

“Fine,” Fury grits, his jaw pulsing. “For everyone else's good.”

“So you can do tests on him?” Tony all but yells. “Treat him like a— Like a what? A guinea pig? Scan him seven ways from Sunday and figure out how they did it? Maybe see if it can be done again."

“ So we can be sure he's not a threat!” Fury says, raising his voice right back. “So we can be sure he's not under mind-control, so we can be sure it's even him .”

“It's him,” Darcy blurts and then flushes when they all turn to look at her.

“ You'll excuse me if I don't take the word of one of our civilian secretaries,” Fury says and the words drip with disdain. He glares around at the rest of them and says, “Agent Barton will be under lock-down for the next twenty-four hours while we ensure that he is who he says he is and that he's not harboring anything else dangerous. If he passes all of those tests, then and only then will you be permitted to see him.”

“But—”

“This is not up for discussion, Miss Lewis,” Fury says, pinning her with a look that silences her protests. Then he turns on his heel and leaves them there. Tony shouts some very not-G-rated things at his retreating back.

Then he whirls and rounds on Coulson. “You told him!”

Coulson holds up his hands. “I had to. Director Fury is right. He could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Tony sneers. “You saw him!”

“I saw what I hope very much is him,” Coulson agrees. “They won't put him through anything worse than what he's been through already.”

“ That's not exactly reassuring,” Steve mutters and his expression is both apologetic and reproving. Tony doesn't want him to be sorry, he wants him to do something, goddammit.

Coulson grimaces. “True. But it was necessary. They'll take care of him.”

“Sure they will,” Bruce mutters. “After they get what they want.” No one seems to have anything to say after that.

“ Wings,” Coulson says after they've stood there in silence for almost two minutes. “ Wings, ” he repeats, like that will make it make sense.

“ Not just wings,” Tony says, thinking about the tiny, careful stitches. “Somebody wanted those things to be operational .”

“ It doesn't make any sense,” Steve says, a furrow between his brows. “ Why ? Why do this to him and then just let him go like that?”

Bruce shrugs. “Because they wanted to know that they could.”

Tony raises his eyebrows, points a finger-gun at Bruce. “Exactly.”

“Disturbed people don't need a reason,” Natasha agrees and then adds, “If they knew who he was then it makes a poetic kind of sense. Give Hawkeye his wings.”

Steve frowns, shivers ever-so-slightly. “That's—”

“Fucked up,” Tony concludes for him.

“They might be able to remove them,” Bruce says, a note of hopefulness in his voice that even he doesn't seem to feel.

Tony shakes his head. “No. This took skill. A lot of skill. Unprecedented amounts of skill.”

“They didn't look operational,” Coulson says. “They looked like dead weight.” He looks deeply, deeply worried.

“Well those sutures are still fairly fresh,” Bruce says. “No more than three or four days old. So even if he can move them it's going to be painful enough to prohibit it. I don't know. Just making them capable of feeling is beyond what modern medicine is able to do.”

“There was most certainly some magic involved,” Thor agrees.

“We're in that gray area again, aren't we,” Tony says. “Magiscience.”

Thor rolls his eyes—a gesture he learned from Darcy—and says, “I have told you again and again, they are one and the same. Magic is merely another name for highly advanced science—”

“ Then why don't you just call it highly advanced science.”

“I will not have this discussion with you again,” Thor tells him, waving his hand dismissively. Tony sneers at him.

“ You're all also assuming that whoever did this did try to make them functional and didn't just stick them on there as a sick joke,” Darcy cuts in.

“They kept him for six months. It wouldn't take that long to slap on a pair of useless wings even if you were the most inept surgeon on the planet,” Tony says.

“It doesn't matter,” Natasha says. “Speculating won't do us any good. Darcy, you should go, be with him.”

“I can do that?” Darcy says in a hopeful voice.

“I'll take you,” Coulson says.

“We'll all go,” Steve says, and Coulson manages a tiny smile.

~

Coulson is the one who set up Quarantine Protocol A-53649, so he knows exactly where to take the others. “You bullied me,” he tells them as they all squeeze into the elevator. “I had no choice.”

“I'm very convincing,” Natasha agrees, flashing a knife strapped to the inside of her wrist so that it glints menacingly in the fluorescent lights of the car.

“Extremely,” Coulson agrees.

They're quiet as the elevator slides past the ground floor and proceeds into the sub-levels, even Tony, which worries Coulson a little, except he's pretty sure Tony is busy making plans to remove Clint from S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters as soon as the quarantine is up, which Coulson supports fully. Clint's recovery will happen much more quickly if he's somewhere he feels safe and Coulson knows for a fact that Clint feels safer at Stark Tower than he's ever felt in his entire life.

Out of the corner of his eye, Coulson sees the frown on Steve's face deepening. “What's wrong?” he asks.

Steve glances at him, then once around the car. “How did they fit him in here?”

“Service elevator,” Coulson says and points over his shoulder. “It's about four times the size of this one.”

“Oh,” Steve says and his features smooth out a little bit.

Finally they're coming up on sub-level twenty-three and he gestures Steve to the front. “You menaced me,” he reminds him and Steve nods, taking his place at the front of the group, folding his arms and setting his stance wide. When the doors open and the two guards stationed there turn to stop them, Coulson peeks from his cowed head bow and is pleased to see that both agents look properly worried.

“Captain, I'm sorry, you can't be here,” one of them says and Coulson is proud of how the young man's voice only squeaks ever-so-slightly. He's not sure he'd manage as much if he were on the receiving end of the look Steve is aiming down his nose at them right now. “This area is restricted.”

Steve uses the tip of his index finger to push the barrel of the machine gun pointed at his chest away. “If you'd like to try and stop me, you can go ahead and shoot me, son,” Steve says and a small, undignified part of Coulson squeals.

“Sir,” the other guard protests weakly.

Steve just looks at her and steps out of the elevator. He pauses just a fraction of a second, giving them the opportunity to try and stop him again, but they just watch, wide-eyed, and he moves past them, barking, “Coulson.”

“Yes, sir,” Coulson says sliding forward and falling into step behind him. The others follow and Coulson has to repress an eye roll when Tony flashes a jaunty wave at the guards as he passes.

“It's up here on the left,” Coulson tells Steve, pointing. “And I'd like to apologize now for the room. When I had it outfitted I had no idea that size would be a concern.” Steve doesn't look happy at that and Coulson can't help himself from continuing, “I'll amend that as soon as possible obviously—”

“Doesn't matter,” Steve says and Coulson knows he just means that it's already too late for Clint, that there's no way Coulson could have known, but he feels a wave of shame even so. “It's fine, Phil,” Steve says gently and Coulson only nods.

Then they're at the door, locked with a coded panel and Tony steps forward. It only takes him two minutes to disable the panel and the door unlocks with an airy clunk. They need to have another meeting with Tony and make sure that it's only because Tony has had his fingers in the design of the system that he can do that and not because their security is that pathetic.

Steve pushes the door open, keeping his feet planted, so the half-dozen guns pointed at him obviously aren't a surprise. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he says calmly.

“ God damn it.” Fury's voice floats out from behind the soldiers followed by his head, poking out around the shoulders of the one on the far right. “What part of quarantine do you people not understand?”

“No offense, sir, but I don't feel comfortable leaving him alone with you and your quarantine,” Steve says with an unapologetic shrug of his shoulders.

“ So you came to what, supervise? ” Fury says incredulously.

“Yes, sir,” Steve says in all seriousness.

“ Of course you did,” Fury mutters. He spots Coulson then and his eyes go round with outrage. “ Agent Coulson.”

“They threatened me, sir,” Coulson says immediately. Natasha flashes her knife again helpfully.

“We told him we had his signed collection of Captain America cards. He cried like a baby,” Tony adds, unhelpfully.

Fury narrows his eyes because he's not an idiot by any stretch of the imagination, so he knows what's going on here, but there's nothing much he can do about it. “Goddamnit,” he says again, glaring at Coulson.

“Sorry, sir,” Coulson says, dropping his eyes.

“Well?” Fury demands, waving his hands around peevishly. “In or out! We're trying to get shit done in here.”

“Oh,” Tony says and points a thumb over his shoulder. “In kind of is out. I disabled the lock on your door. Sorry.”

Fury makes a noise of vast and inexpressible irritation and turns his back on them.

“I can fix it!” Tony yells at him.

“You don't have to antagonize him constantly,” Coulson says, sighing.

“Yes, I do,” Tony says, but his eyes are on the glass wall separating them from the other half of the room. Coulson follows his gaze and sees Clint sitting on a gurney surrounded by a gaggle of nurses and doctors in scrubs and face masks in one of the corners just a foot or so away from the glass. They're helping him sit up. He's already been cut out of his jeans and had them replaced by a paper gown, which no one has bothered pulling shut around the back. Darcy is standing close to the barrier, her hand pressed against the glass nearest him and Coulson feels like he's watching her heart break.

“All right, Agent Barton,” one of the doctors murmurs, his voice distorted slightly by the intercom relaying it to them. “Everything's fine, just stay calm, okay?”

Clint goes sniper-still, his chest barely moving as he breathes.

“The local is in,” one of the nurses announces and moves away from Clint's back.

“Good,” the doctor murmurs and nods at his associates. “Go ahead.”

A blonde doctor takes the ridge of Clint's left wing in her gloved hands and begins drawing it away from his back. “Why do they not let him rest?” Thor asks, sounding agitated. “After an ordeal such as he has been through, he should be resting to allow his mind and body to recuperate, not being poked and prodded like stock for sale.”

It takes two people to extend each wing to its full length, the feathers at the tips bending down into the far corner. Even dusty and mussed as they are from being dragged around in the Circle, they're an impressive sight. Some of the feathers are longer and wider than Coulson's arm. Where had wings this size even come from?

“It's procedure,” Natasha explains, but she's as tense as a bowstring, her thumb pressed into the side of the blade she used to mock-threaten Coulson with.

“And this procedure cannot be postponed long enough for him to recover his strength?” Thor says incredulously.

“It's better that it's done before he regains enough coherency to tell it is his allies doing it and not his enemies,” Natasha mutters, shooting a dark look in Fury's direction.

“ Hey,” Tony says suddenly and his brows draw inward. “Hey! Hey! ” he yells and cracks his knuckles on the glass barrier. “What the fuck are you doing to him?”

“ Mister Stark ,” Fury starts, but Tony's not paying him any attention. He only has eyes for Clint, sitting stiff as a board, his fingers clenched so tightly around the edge of the gurney that they're bloodless. One of the doctors close at Clint's back moves his hands, making the left wing move in a small circle, presumably to check the joint's mobility, and Clint's eyes pinch shut, his lips pulling back over his teeth as he grits them, still otherwise unmoving.

“ That's attached you fuckers!” Tony snaps, moving past Darcy in an attempt to get into the faces of the medical staff. She makes a noise of distress, her bag dropping to the floor and Thor steps forward, pulling her against his side. “You're hurting him!”

Behind Coulson, Bruce croaks, “I have to go.” The sound of his rapid retreat follows. Dimly, Coulson wonders if Bruce will make it.

Those of the medical team not supporting the wings step back all at once, hands in the air. One of them bends to look into Clint's face. “Agent Barton? Why didn't you say something?”

“You have to tell him to do it,” Natasha snaps and her hand is clenched around the knife, ready to use the moment she finds a target. “He'll do anything you tell him, even if it's torment to do it.”

“ So you have to fucking pay attention and make sure it's not,” Tony adds.

“Can you tell me your level of pain, Agent Barton?” one of the doctors asks. Clint's brow furrows slightly and he flicks his eyes up to the doctor's face. “Tell me your level of pain,” the doctor rephrases.

Clint still looks confused when he says hesitantly, “Around...around a seven?” Coulson guesses the ones who did this to him never asked that question.

“Okay,” the doctor says, “From now on I want you to tell us where your pain is any time it changes. Do you understand?”

Clint nods, though he still looks like he has reservations. Probably wondering how this information will be used against him.

“Finally, someone with a brain,” Tony mutters. He shoots a poisonous look at Fury and adds, “For his own good my ass.”

Fury says nothing, watching as the doctors and nurses manipulate Barton like a puppet. One asks for his hand and it's there; another asks him to turn his arm over and he's done it before the question is finished forming. Clint is a good soldier, but he has a mouth on him and this silent compliance is obviously a result of conditioning inflicted upon him by the people responsible. It makes Coulson angry and he's been working with Fury long enough to see how little he enjoys it, too.

One of the doctors leans in, squinting, and presses his fingers against where the wing sinks through the skin. Clint jerks almost imperceptibly and spits out, “ Eight.”

This time it's Darcy putting her fists to the glass, yelling, “What is wrong with you motherfuckers?” her voice clotted with tears.

That gets the biggest reaction Coulson's seen since they left Columbus Circle. Clint's eyes go wide, his head snapping to the side and when his eyes find Darcy through the glare on the glass, the raw relief on his face forces Coulson to drop his eyes, feeling like he's seen too much. “Darcy?”

“Yeah, I'm here, Clint,” she says, sniffling and wiping her face with her sleeve in two quick swipes.

Clint leans forward like he's going to jump down from the gurney. “You're not—are you—”

“Agent Barton, stop!” one of the doctors barks and he freezes, his features going absolutely blank.

“I'm okay,” Darcy assures him, pressed up against the glass like she can phase herself through it if she tries hard enough. “It's okay, Clint.”

Clint's eyes find hers and he eases back, allowing the doctors to maneuver him more firmly back onto the gurney. Someone slides a needle into his arm and the only indication he's noticed is a twitch of his eyelids. “Show me,” he says and his voice is commanding despite the hoarseness of it.

“Um.” Darcy blinks and then shuffles in a tentative circle, letting him see all of her.

Clint scours her figure with his eyes, wincing and straining to say, “Nine,” as one of the doctors pokes the joint of the right wing with something sharp. The entire wing twitches, his back tensing convulsively, but his eyes stay fixed on Darcy in a slightly bleary version of his sniper's focus.

“Okay,” Tony says, “that's my limit. I can't take anymore of this bullshit. I'll be here in...twenty-two hours and fifty four minutes to pick him up.” He looks up from his watch to pin Fury with a pointed look.

Fury rolls his eyes. “He'll be ready.”

“ He had better be.” Tony waves his hand around at their surroundings and says, “I'm sure Bruce would love to have a go at this reinforcement you've got in here, if not.”

“Get out, Stark,” Fury says with weary exasperation.

Tony's eyes slide back toward Clint and for a second there's naked concern in them, his teeth worrying at the corner of his lip. The emotion is gone as quickly as it appeared and he turns his back, striding out with carefully affected nonchalance. Coulson thinks it's adorable that Stark thinks anyone believes he doesn't care—passionately—about his teammates.

“See,” Darcy says after making the turn twice. “I'm fine.”

One of the nurses steps between them, cutting off Clint's view of Darcy and he actually growls. The nurse starts and glances over her shoulder before ducking to the side when Clint growls again, louder. He goes still and quiet again as soon as his eyes land on Darcy. She seems to understand how important the eye contact is because she just gazes right back, though it might be as much for her benefit as it is for his.

“You probably shouldn't cut off that line of sight,” Coulson observes, his voice light, despite the strain he can feel building in his temples. “I think they were using this young lady's safety to control him. He might get violent. He's very good at violent.”

That makes the medical team look nervous, which gives Coulson an absurdly inappropriate sense of satisfaction.

They go back to work, but they're much more cautious and they give Clint's sight-line to Darcy a wide berth. It's not much, but it's all Coulson can do for him.

It's quiet—almost peaceful for a few minutes. Then one of the doctors steps away to handle an alert going off on his tablet. “All of the initial scans came back negative,” he says, flicking pages upward lazily. He grins and Coulson feels a moment of intense disgust. “Now we can get to all of the good stuff.” He sets the tablet down and gestures to the four still holding Clint's wings. “Fold those back up and prep him for the MRI.”

“Wait,” Darcy says, “you're taking him away? But—”

The doctor eyes her warily, his eyes darting briefly to Clint, obviously nervous that an upset Darcy will lead to an upset Clint. “There are still a lot of things we need to do, Miss. MRIs, CAT scans, x-rays—”

“ No,” Darcy very nearly yells. “You're just going to hurt him some more. You don't care if he's in pain, you just want to do your tests and—”

“ Miss Lewis, ” Fury cuts in, incredulous.

“What?” Darcy does yell this time, whipping around to face him and when she sees who it is she's yelling at, her face goes red and she falters. Then she curls her hand into a fist and her features go steely. Coulson marvels at her fortitude. “I'm not going to let you treat him like this.”

“These are medical tests, Miss Lewis,” Fury says with forced patience. “You want to make sure he's okay? You want to make sure whoever stitched those things on him didn't botch it up and leave him bleeding internally? Make sure they haven't sewn a bomb in there along with everything else? Then these tests have got to get done.”

Darcy swallows hard at all of these potentialities. “Not like this ,” she says, jabbing a finger at the glass and her voice only quavers slightly. Clint is watching her through narrowed eyes, looking ready to jump at the first sign of trouble. The air crackles with tension and for a second Coulson's worried things are going to get out of control when Natasha glides forward and touches Darcy's arm.

“I'll go with them,” she says.

“Oh, you will?” Fury says, pissed off and sarcastic.

“I will,” Natasha says, looking back over her shoulder, her eyes flashing. “I go with him, or he leaves now and we disappear and you never hear from us again.”

“Because it would be so easy to hide the man with giant bird wings,” Fury says scathingly.

Natasha stares back at him, and Coulson doesn't doubt that she already knows how it will be done.

“ Fine ,” Fury finally concedes. “Go with them. Stay out of the way. Why the fuck I even bother...”

Really, now he's just posturing. As though Natasha Romanova is ever really obtrusive.

She turns back to Darcy and pats her arm gently. “I'll make sure they're gentle as lambs.” Her tone sends a chill down Coulson's neck. He doesn't envy the medical team at all.

It seems to reassure Darcy, however, because she lunges at Natasha, giving her a quick hug. “Okay,” she says shakily. “Thank you.”

Steve moves forward then, stepping out of the corner where he's been watching everything silently and he says quietly, “C'mon, Darcy. Let's get out of here.”

“Just a second,” she says and finds Clint with her eyes, moving forward to touch the glass.

Clint immediately responds, reaching out and pressing his fingertips to the other side.

“I have to go now, Clint,” she says. “But I want you to do something for me, okay?”

He nods, gaze intent.

“ If it hurts too much, you hurt them back , got it?”

Fury makes a noise of pure disbelief and Coulson has to choke down a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand at the looks of fear that cross the faces of the medical team. With Natasha breathing down their necks and now this, they're most certainly going to be on their best behavior.

“I love you,” Darcy adds and Clint's gaze goes soft.

He doesn't say anything, but it's written all over his face. Darcy blows him a kiss and then steps back and grabs for Steve's hand, clutching it tight. “Okay,” she says. “Let's do this, while I can still walk away.”

“You are a formidable woman,” Thor says, sounding intensely fond and the three of them start toward the door, Darcy sheltered between them.

Darcy manages a small smile for him. “Thanks, Big Guy.”

“Clint is a lucky man,” Steve agrees quietly.

When they're gone, Fury looks at Coulson. “It's like you don't think my job is hard enough,” he says.

Coulson smiles, rueful. “It's like you think it's not supposed to be. Sir,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Remind me why I keep you around,” Fury grumbles, putting his hands to his hips and Coulson is pleased to see some of the tension bleeding out of him.

He allows himself a half-smile and shrug. “I have no idea, Boss.”

~

Thor accompanies Darcy back to the Tower.

She is silent, eyes and nose flushed red, her sleeves pulled up over her hands, arms held tight against her body as she watches the city slide by outside the car windows.

He cannot find words that will be a comfort to her. He remembers the pain of his separation from Jane, when their love was new and a mere spark compared to the blaze it has become, and he cannot fathom Darcy's torment.

It does not help that he cannot quiet intrusive thoughts of Loki and a sinister voice at the back of his mind whispering your brother came back changed by magic and now Clint has done the same.

What if Director Fury is right? What if the man who came back to them is not the shieldbrother who left them?

He wants to believe that it is not true, but Thor has learned since coming to Midgard that he is a poor judge of a man's character, though he is loathe to admit it.

Thor wishes there were something he could do . He is a man of action, and it is trying to be faced with a problem he cannot solve with his fists or his hammer. He comforts himself with a resolve to go to Heimdall and ask what he has seen of this treachery. It had done them no good when Clint first vanished, but perhaps something has caught his gaze this time.

“Hey.”

Thor is pulled from his thoughts by a small hand on his arm and he looks up, blinking in surprise. It is not often he loses himself in his own thoughts. Darcy tugs at his arm.

“Come on, Boo. I wanna pack some stuff for him. He's not gonna—he's not gonna fit in his room anymore.”

Darcy's mouth pinches, tears swelling at the corners of her eyes and Thor steps out of the car, pulling her tight to him. “We will speak with Tony. There is plenty of space in the Tower, we will create a space that feels like his own.”

“Uh huh,” Darcy says, voice wavering.

Thor feels his shirt grow damp and holds her tighter.

~

There is no sunlight down in the bowels of S.H.I.E.L.D., but Natasha knows it's just after dawn when the sedatives begin to finally wear off.

Clint is lying on his right side on a gurney, the wings stretched out across the surface of a table brought in specifically to hold them behind him. He barely fits. She's seen him wounded in many ways, knows the stories of his scars better than he does in some cases, seen him lying on gurneys in dozens of countries, bloodied and sewn back together. She's seen him dragged back from the doorstep of Death, restored him when he was unmade. Natasha has seen many terrible things, but nothing like this.

Clint's a man who knows his body—its weaknesses and its strengths and everything in between, and what's been done to him has changed all of that, rent it asunder. It's a violation, an unmaking that Natasha can't undo with a sharp blow to the head. She's worried for Clint in the past—perhaps the worst after his encounter with Loki, but she's never feared for him.

She does now.

After Loki, Clint had reclaimed his mind, but she doesn't think he'll be able to do the same for his body.

The earlier MRI had shown a tennis-ball-sized anomaly near his spleen and the doctors are now preparing to do a biopsy to determine what it is. From what she's heard, it's filled with a liquid that's gotten them all worked up. An organ, or perhaps a gland, they murmur to one another.

No, what's been done has been done completely; irrevocably.

She's standing against the wall, able to see Clint's face, so when he opens his eyes, gritting his teeth as the doctor slides a large needle in through the skin on his side under his ribs, she can see a clarity there that's been missing for too long.

She straightens, stares back at him, waits.

Clint eyes her for a few long moments and then finally rasps, "'S your favorite color?"

Both of the doctors jerk in surprise, including the one holding the needle and Clint curses, his hand clenching around the edge of the gurney.

"Watch it," Natasha barks and they cringe. When she's sure they're properly focused again, she looks at Clint and says casually, "I'm fond of purple."

Clint narrows his eyes at her. "Wrong. That's—" Her mouth twitches in amusement as she sees realization strike, followed by exasperation. "Cute."

"I am, aren't I?" she says and then: “My favorite color is green.”

“Wine?” He closes his eyes and one of the doctors tells him to hold his breath, an ultrasound wand pressed near the ridge of his spine.

Natasha snorts. “French horse piss. I may have defected, but some things you can't change.”

Clint can't respond as he's still holding his breath, but his mouth twitches. Then the doctor holding the needle withdraws it, makes another attempt a few centimeters over and anything resembling mirth is swept from Clint's features, his jaw clenching, the lines around his eyes pulling tight. She can see him struggle not to exhale.

Pure rage sweeps through Natasha without warning, so powerful her vision is tinged red for just a moment. What was done to her as a girl was unspeakable, terrible, but at least she—

No, she tells herself. These thoughts do him no good. There's no room for anger now.

One of the doctors puts a hand around Clint's wing and shifts it to allow the doctor with the needle more room to work and Clint chokes on a gasp. “Agent Barton, please,” one of the doctors says and he closes his mouth, fingers digging into the side of the gurney. A tear dangles from his lower lash line, wobbling for a second before it finally grows too heavy and falls, glancing off his cheek. Natasha moves forward and the doctors all look up, freezing like a flock of terrified deer. She ignores them, prying Clint's hand from the gurney and kneeling to look him in the eye. His face flushes and he blinks rapidly several times. She thinks it has the opposite of the intended effect, because three more tears coalesce in his lashes, pooling on his nose and slipping down his cheek.

“Fuck,” he mutters and one of the doctors makes a disapproving noise. Natasha glowers at him and then squeezes Clint's hand, carefully brushes the moisture from his cheek.

“Don't worry,” she says. “Between you and me.”

“Okay,” one of the doctors interrupts, “you can breathe again, Agent Barton.”

Clint gives her a look, takes a cautious, shuddering breath.

“You and me,” she repeats and the tone of her voice makes the doctors go very still again. Her eyes flick upward. “Are you finished?”

“Um. Not quite—”

“Then what are you stopping for?” she snaps. They scramble to get back to work and after a moment she lowers her gaze to Clint's face again. He's staring down at the gurney, still red in the face. Something happens at his back and he fights the expression, but his pain is stronger than he is right now and he spits out a string of curses and curls toward her, his grip painful. Natasha pays the sensation no mind. “Breathe,” she tells him, and he does, raggedly, wetly.

Then he is quiet, tension easing from him in tiny measures. Finally she says, “This changes nothing.”

Clint snorts, congested and bitter. “What? This changes everything, Nat. I have goddamned wings. ” She's not sure if it's the emotion or the word that does it, but the wings flare open suddenly, knocking one of the doctors in the face and sending him sprawling, the other two crying out in alarm and ducking out of the way.

Clint jerks so violently Natasha falls against him, feeling his scream like a hot fist to her abdomen. The sound that follows it is choked, a whimpering she knows he would stop if he could and she curls herself around him, shelters him until his breaths are not so jagged, until he's not shuddering beneath her any longer. Then she draws back so that she can look into his face again, his eyes bloodshot and wet, and she grips his jaw, not gently. “This changes nothing ,” she says to him, burns him with her gaze. “Nothing we can't turn to our advantage. We'll adapt and we will carry on because that's what we do. We survive. What's done is done and we leave it behind us. It made us who we are, maybe, but it doesn't determine who we will be . That's all us.”

He blinks at her and then lets out a sodden laugh, his fingers curling tight around hers. “That's quite a pep talk, Nat.”

She straightens, rolls a gentle shrug off one shoulder. “I stole it.”

Clint's eyes flick back up to hers, questioning. “From who? Cap?”

Natasha tilts her head, feels her brow furrow slightly and wonders if he really doesn't remember, if it only stood out to her. “From you,” she says.

It takes a moment, but realization blooms across his face.

“We were in Vladivostok,” she says, and he nods slowly.

“You saw an old comrade.” His eyes are slightly off focus now, remembering.

Natasha shrugs. “I saw who I had been. Before.”

“That's not really the same, Nat,” he mutters and she arches a brow at him.

“Not on the surface perhaps.”

Clint shakes his head and Natasha lets it go. There will be time when he is stronger.

“All right, we're done,” one of the doctor's says. “Would you like to sit up, Agent Barton?”

He nods sharply and they help him upright even though it's clearly unkind to his wounds. Natasha understands; he's done with feeling vulnerable and she sits next to him, pressing her shoulder to his. It warms her when he allows himself to lean into her.

“So this is really happening,” he says.

Natasha nods. “Da. Prastite.”

Clint sighs and winces, puts his face in his hands. “You and me both.”

~

Pepper knows something has happened because Tony hasn't texted or called her for the last several hours and she spent about half of that in a major shareholders' meeting—he has a sixth sense for them, based on the number of times he's interrupted in the past.

“Mister Stark is in the penthouse, Miss Potts,” JARVIS says, low and mellow when she steps on the elevator. It's been a long day and his voice immediately eases a little of the stress out of her. She smiles, slipping her shoes off as the doors close.

She sighs in relief and curls her toes, arching each foot to stretch out the ache of the day. “Thank you, JARVIS. How is he?”

JARVIS hesitates, which makes her open her eyes. “Distressed,” he finally settles on. “It will be better if you hear about it from him, Miss.”

Pepper nods, but she can't help the little flutter of anxiety that spurs behind her breastbone. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

“Not at all,” JARVIS murmurs and then the elevator is arriving at the penthouse, the doors sliding open for her.

She steps out, the tile cool and soothing on her bare feet and glances around. “Tony?”

Night has fallen and the lights of the city glitter outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows through the room, which is otherwise unlit. At least, until a stream of thin glowing blue lines arch up over the worktable on the right and form seamlessly into three-dimensional blueprints of the Tower. Tony is sitting on the far side of them, his eyes wide and gleaming in the light cast from the display. His hair is sticking up in a thousand different directions and a small smile curls her lips when he reaches up and buries one hand in it, squinting at the designs and using the other hand to flick things around, his mouth moving silently.

“Tony,” she says again when she's just a few paces away from him.

“Huh?” He starts, sitting up ramrod straight, his eyes darting around for a second before she catches his eye. “Oh. Pep, hi, hey there. I didn't hear you come in.”

She smiles at him and steps forward so that she can lean her hip against the side of the table. “I see that.” She deliberately moves her gaze to the blueprints, which are now displaying the floor she recognizes is Clint's. Pepper's heart skips a beat and she looks back at him. “Tony?” she says.

Tony blinks at her owlishly, his mouth turning down slightly at the corners. “Didn't I text you?”

“Text me what?” Pepper says, her voice sharpening slightly. “What happened today?”

“I could have sworn I texted you,” he says, frowning and starting to hunt around for his phone. “Are you sure?”

“Tony,” she says, hard.

His eyes flick up to hers again and he flutters his hand in a little circle. “I'm sure I would have texted you, but since you clearly don't know—you remember that facial recognition software Coulson had configured to alert him if it ever came up with Clint's face. Well, it did.”

“And?” Pepper demands.

Tony's head nods a few times, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle-distance. He shrugs. “He was in Columbus Circle.”

She doesn't think Clint has been found dead based on Tony's tone, but something isn't right. He obviously wasn't found well, either. But how bad can it be if Tony is here, now? “Is he okay?”

Tony's eyes go round and he tips his head to the side. “Well, he's alive. So there's that.”

Pepper stares at him. “But then there's what.”

His eyes dart to her face again and he coughs, mutters something she can't quite understand.

“ Tony .”

“He has wings,” Tony says, his voice raised. It echoes around the room and he rubs his fingers over his mouth. “He, um. He has wings,” he says again, voice quieter. “Ah. Surgically attached.”

That's about all Pepper can take and her knees go weak. She barely manages to fold herself onto a chair. “ What ?” A lot of crazy things have happened since Tony became Iron Man, but nothing ever so sick, so depraved as this.

“Yep,” Tony says, popping the p and drumming his fingers against the tabletop. “Huge fuckers, too. Twenty feet, at least. Black. Shiny.”

“Oh my god, Tony,” she murmurs, stunned. “Why would someone—”

Tony shrugs one shoulder. “General fucked-upness. I don't know. Why does anybody do anything?”

She sits up, pressing a palm to her forehead. “Is he here , Tony? Can I see him? He's not hurt, he's just...?”

“He's not here,” Tony says and his expression grows dark. “Bastards at S.H.I.E.L.D. are holding him for a twenty-four hour quarantine.”

“No,” Pepper breathes.

Tony nods, fiddles with the blueprints, making them shrink and grow.

“That means—wait. So he's recovering from a major surgery and God knows what other trauma—”

“He's still sedated, pretty out of it. Looked like whoever did it was threatening Darcy,” Tony adds, and pokes at the blueprint. “Knew how to hit him where it hurt, apparently.”

“— and they're putting him through more testing? ”

Tony smiles, but it's bitter and sharp. “Pretty great 'welcome home', isn't it?”

Pepper's mind is racing. Clint is home and he's been surgically experimented on for, for months and now he's trapped somewhere in S.H.I.E.L.D. drawing all of that hellishness out instead of being here, home with his family where they can take care of him and that is just... “We have to get him out of there.”

Tony's face contorts like he's swallowed something vile. “We can't.”

That pulls Pepper up short. “Why not?”

He sighs, a sound brimming with frustration, and swipes his hand across the blueprints, banishing them and leaving the pair of them in darkness. “If they don't do the testing, he can't... They won't let him come back and. You know, Avenge. Probably arrest him for war crimes or something equally idiotic,” he adds bitterly and spins in his chair, hurling his phone. It smashes a bottle behind the bar. “We'd never see him again, that's for damn sure.”

The anger in Pepper shrivels up into a thread of sharp aching. She reaches across and takes Tony's hand, clutching it tight. Tony stares down at them, smoothing callused fingers over hers.

“We'll bring him home first thing tomorrow,” Pepper says softly.

Tony taps his watch and the face lights up. It reads: 13:43:19 . The numbers slowly roll backwards.

“In thirteen hours, forty-three minutes, and twelve seconds,” Pepper amends and the corner of Tony's mouth twitches. He sniffs and props his elbow on the tabletop, half covering his mouth with his hand.

“'ve been going over the plans. We're gonna need to do some renovations. Seriously, Pep, you haven't seen them. The things are massive.”

“Then we'll renovate,” Pepper says, brushing her knuckles across Tony's chin.

He perks up slightly. “I should get him a nest, don't you think?”

Pepper rolls her eyes, sits back a little. “He's not even done with this torment and you want to move on to the next?”

“I'm being considerate!”

Pepper snorts. A small part of her is afraid, worried that this new trauma will be the thing that finally destroys Clint, but she silences that part of her ruthlessly, telling herself that Clint is strong and resilient and no matter how hard it is, no matter what they have to do to make it better, they will do it and he will be okay. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, maybe not for years, but they will be there, all of them, all the while, holding him up for as long as he needs.

“Come on,” she says to Tony, “we have a lot of work to do.”

~

The next morning Pepper smiles at Happy as she swings her legs out of the car and murmurs a thank you. She checks her watch, synchronized to match Tony's as of nine-fifteen the night previous; it reads 00:05:11, which is perfect. Behind Happy's town car a Hummer stretch limousine eases up to the curb and it takes up nearly the entire block—it's the longest that she could find with double doors. As soon as it's stopped a hand-picked medical team of four disembarks and she waits until they're all out, to start toward S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters' doors, waving for them to follow. They've all already been briefed so they fall into step with no fuss.

Tony, on the other hand, has to jog a few feet to catch up with her because he's been fiddling with his phone. “A lesser man than me might be jealous of all the resources you're focusing on this other guy,” he says, a little breathless.

Pepper tucks the smile that garners in the back of her mouth. “A lesser man would have cause to be jealous.”

He pulls down his sunglasses and looks at her over them. “I hope you're being cute. I'm pretty sure Darcy would have something to say about you making moves on Barton.”

“And I would have something to say in reply,” Pepper says. This time she lets the smile slide out.

Tony looks at her then, the way he sometimes does, like he's never seen anything quite like her. She loves that look. “You are nefarious, Miss Potts.”

“You have no idea,” she tells him and then pauses to let him get the door for her.

Natasha, as Pepper understands it, is still with Clint, but Thor and Steve are waiting inside with Darcy, leaving them short only Bruce, who had opted to stay at the Tower and finish overseeing a few last minute arrangements for their arrival. “ I'm not sure I could handle being there,” he'd said and Pepper had understood completely. She didn't much want to be here herself.

“Thank you, Pepper,” Darcy says fervently, rushing forward and wrapping her in a tight hug. She sounds a little nasally and Pepper makes a mental note to get her a decongestant. Crying this much is tough enough without being unable to breathe on top of it.

“As though I'd be anywhere else,” she says, squeezing back.

“ Hello, excuse me,” Tony says, waggling the fingers at the ends of his spread hands in a gimme-gimme gesture. “Where's my thank you hug? I paid for all of this.”

Even though he's the one who's said it, Tony is still startled when Darcy releases Pepper and throws her arms around his neck. He's so surprised that she's able to pull him down into a half bow, pressing a kiss to the sweep of his cheekbone. To Pepper's delight, Tony actually blushes, his hands trying Darcy's waist and then her hips before curling tentatively around her back and patting awkwardly. “Thank you, Tony,” Darcy says, holding him tight. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Well, you know,” Tony mutters. Pepper is going to treasure the look of discomfort on his face forever. “He's my friend, too. It's not a big deal.”

Darcy pulls back and pushes her glasses back into place with the back of her hand. “Are you crazy? It's a huge deal. The hugest.”

Tony's face goes that much redder.

“Oh,” Steve says, a sly kind of tease in his voice. “So that's not something you modern folks have evolved out of.”

That gets a dirty look shot at him and Tony clears his throat, patting his hands on Darcy's shoulders and gently, but firmly easing her back to an arm's length. He smooths down the front of his suit like that might somehow make the glow in his cheeks fade, or wipe his teammates' memories.

“'You're welcome' is an appropriate response,” Pepper stage-whispers at him from behind her hand. She fails to keep the amusement out of her voice.

For that she gets a dirty look, too, but Tony's eyes dart to Darcy and he mutters, “Uh. You're welcome, or whatever. I guess.”

Darcy smiles at him, her face pink and blotchy and clearly too much for Tony to handle because he claps his hands, opting to ignore her. “Let's get this show on the road, shall we?”

It is at that precise moment that the alarms set on his and Pepper's watches go off. The elevator chimes like an echo a moment later and they all look up, Pepper's heart beating a tattoo against the base of her throat, her stomach writhing. She had prepared herself for this moment, for seeing Clint again after so long, wounded and changed, but when Phil steps aside, carefully helping to draw out a gurney and she sees him at last, it all falls to pieces.

A lump forms in her throat, hard and heavy, and she presses a hand over her mouth, feeling the prick of tears in her eyes.

Clint is sitting upright at the edge of the gurney out of sheer stubbornness. He has his jaw clenched so tightly she can see the tendons in his cheeks and neck, taut like bowstrings. His eyes are sunken and ringed by dark, bruise-like circles and he looks so tired Pepper could cry. When he sees them, his mouth twists into something that she knows is meant to be a smile. “Hey, guys,” he rasps and the sound of his voice, shredded and giving in places, is worse even than the rest. “Long time no see.” What had happened to him that had done that?

Steve strains to smile back at him, his eyes tight. “Welcome back, Clint.”

Beside her, Tony is shifting restlessly from foot to foot. If Darcy's thank you had been too much, this is far beyond anything he knows how to deal with.

“We have missed you greatly,” Thor says and his voice is low, quieter than Pepper has ever heard it. The genuine emotions there make her heart clench. There's a second of silence and then Thor reaches over, nudges Darcy forward, drawing Clint's attention to her.

Her hands are pulled back into her sweatshirt, white knuckled around the hems. She's taking small, hitching breaths, gulping every so often. “Hey,” she says in a quavering voice.

The weariness and pain etched into Clint's features are driven back by a flood of expressions. “Darcy,” he croaks and that does it. Darcy bolts across the lobby and stretches up between his knees, using both hands to draw his face down to hers. Pepper knows the desperation of that kiss.

After just a moment, Clint makes a strangled noise into her mouth, his features contorting and Darcy jerks back.

“Clint?”

He shakes his head once, sharply. “Fine,” he grits. “Not you.” Something twitches just over his shoulder and he winces again.

It's then that Pepper finally notices the wings, partially folded and hiding the rest of the gurney from view. There are S.H.I.E.L.D. medical personnel on either side, supporting them at the base and Tony was right, they're huge, mind-bogglingly so.

Clint's face is still twisted in pain, but he's looking at Darcy, drinking in her face like he's never going to get a chance to look again. His hands smooth over her shoulders, curl around her neck and over the top of her head, his knuckles brushing across her jaw. “God,” he mutters, “I thought—”

“ No, I'm fine,” Darcy tells him and presses in to hug him. He leans into it and Pepper steps forward to tell him to stop, he's not strong enough when he slides his arm behind Darcy's knees and starts to lift, but Phil ducks forward and takes Darcy's weight, helping Clint gather her into his lap. He steps back when it's done and the two of them curl together, faces hidden. Pepper's chest aches, something inside her drawn painfully tight.

It's Tony who finally interrupts them, his voice uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. “You—you'd probably be more comfortable back at the Tower, ah. Clint.”

Darcy is the one who pulls back though and says, “God, yes, let's get the fuck out of here.”

The reminder that she has a job to do helps Pepper find her composure. She looks back over her shoulder and gestures her medical team forward. “Please take over,” she says. She gets four nods in response and they cross the lobby, stopping just in front of Clint.

Doctor Lawson, the man Pepper has chosen for Clint's primary physician, says, “Agent Barton, my name is Hank. I'm going to be taking care of you from now on. This is my team, Ben, Pakhi, and Mako I'm just going to step back here and take a look, if that's okay?”

Clint nods, looking wary.

Lawson moves around, careful, peering at Clint's back but not touching. His expression goes from astonishment to a muted kind of horror as he looks and Pepper's stomach clenches. What must it look like to get that reaction from a professional?

“Okay,” Lawson finally says. “These sutures shouldn't be exposed like this when they're still this fresh so we're going to bandage them on the way, but it looks like they're holding up well. I don't like how much the wings are pulling though, so my team and I are going to take over supporting them. Do you have any sensation in them?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, “I can...” But he doesn't seem to know how to describe what it is he feels. “I can feel them,” he settles on.

“And are they painful anywhere?” Lawson asks.

“Kinda achy,” Clint says. His eyes slide over to Fury's medical people for a split-second and Pepper's hand curls into a fist. Tony must see because he wraps his hand around it and Pepper takes a shaky breath, letting the anger bleed out on the exhale. “Only really hurts on my back,” Clint says.

“Okay, good,” Lawson says. “I want you to let us know immediately if we touch any tender spots, okay? And if anything hurts, you just say so.”

Clint nods, but shifts, clearly embarrassed. He's not very good at letting other people take care of him. Darcy squeezes him gently with the arms she has looped around his waist, her forehead pressed into the side of his throat and he relaxes a little, letting his head rest on the crown of hers.

Doctor Lawson starts giving orders, directing the others to take over holding Clint's wings and each of them is careful to tell him before touching, their grip ginger and their eyes watchful. It makes Pepper burn with a fierce pride. This is how Clint should be cared for.

When they're all in place, Doctor Lawson looks around and says, “I need someone to push the gurney.”

“I can do that,” Steve replies and uncrosses his arms, moving to the rear of the gurney. Pepper knows for certain that Doctor Lawson was the best choice when he doesn't so much as bat an eye for Captain America, all of his attention focused on Clint.

Steve's eyes fall on Clint's back as he gets into place and his mouth tightens. Pepper is really starting to dread what's out of sight there, but he composes himself quickly and puts his hands down amidst the feathers, looking to Lawson for his orders.

“All right, everybody,” Lawson says. “Nice and easy.”

Phil comes up beside Pepper as the gurney trundles across the lobby, his hands folded together in front of him, his eyes down. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

Pepper glances at him, frowns. “You didn't do this, Phil.”

He sighs and nods. “But I was still a part of it and for that I'm sorry. You'll let me know if you need anything?”

She takes his hand and squeezes it. “Of course.”

Phil graces her with a faint smile before his eyes drift back to Clint and the medical team, his expression clouding over. “You think we can get him through this?”

“Absolutely.” Pepper will make sure of it.

“Wait,” Clint says; they've nearly crossed to the length of the room and there's a faint note of panic beneath the hoarseness. He's looking out the dark tinted glass of the front wall where a crowd has gathered. Reporters, the vultures.

Pepper strides forward, placing herself between Clint and the doors. She smiles at him. “Don't worry, we're going this way,” she says, gesturing to a door off the side of the lobby. “It leads to the loading dock. We'll be unobserved.”

“Pepper,” Clint says and he relaxes. “You thought of everything, didn't you.”

“That is my job,” she says and steps forward, cupping his face with her hands and laying a gentle kiss on his cheek. “You've been a much better sport than Tony was.”

Clint snorts. “Can't've taken much.”

Pepper grins at the affronted noise Tony makes. “Too true.”

“I'm right here,” Tony says. “Right here.”

“Let's get you home,” Pepper says and this time when Clint smiles, it's weary, but real.

“Home sounds great.”

~

Pepper Potts 10:58 AM
We're on our way up.

Bruce rubs the pads of his fingers together and pushes the phone aside, taking a deep and shaky breath. You're okay , he tells himself. We're fine, right? He's home.

The part of his mind that he's come to recognize as the Other Guy growls, but it feels like he's been appeased for now. One day soon Bruce will let that part of him take over and he'll be glad for it, relish the destruction the Other Guy wreaks on the bastards that have done this as much as he does.

But for now he needs to be calm, centered. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, feels his lungs expand, feels the sensation of that ripple outward like a soft breeze over a still body of water, through every nerve, spreading out and out and out until he's not him anymore, he's below and in and around and nowhere. Eternity passes in a moment. Then a quiet voice murmurs, Doctor Banner and he exhales. The contraction of muscles draws him back, slots him back together, makes him whole again and he feels solid. Steadied.

When he opens his eyes, the doors of the elevator are sliding back. His heart, beating slow and deliberate, staggers slightly, but he takes another breath and it eases back into rhythm.

“Bruce?” Pepper calls and he places himself in plain sight, calls back, “I'm here.”

She steps out of the elevator then and strides over to take his hand. Bruce ducks his head, feeling a flush creep up his cheeks. Pepper touches him with the same ease Tony does and it never fails to make him feel foolish and grateful. She squeezes and he glances up, sees Clint again for the first time.

He looks...better isn't the right word at all, but when their eyes meet, he's sharp again, fractured, but all there.

Bruce realizes his breathing is a little jagged and he smooths it out before murmuring, “It's good to have you back.”

“Good to be back,” Clint replies and Bruce is careful not to grimace at the way he sounds. The team Pepper hired is there on either side of him, holding the wings folded against his back and Bruce very carefully does not think about Clint jerking under his hands, crying out into Steve's shoulder.

He has to struggle to steady his breathing again and the Other Guy surges forward briefly, howling his displeasure at the memory. The skin on the backs of his hands swells, turning faintly green and he tugs his hand sharply from Pepper's, turning away and sucking in deep breaths. It's gotten easier to control the change in the last few years, but this, this is too close to home.

“Sorry,” he chokes and then stuffs his hands between his elbows and his ribs. He lets his eyes find Clint again for a moment, long enough to see the dull flush in his cheeks, before he turns his eyes back to the tiled floor.

“'s fine,” Clint says. “I'm pretty pissed off, too.”

Bruce snorts and somehow that helps settle the Other Guy down. He lets his shoulders relax slightly, just so they don't ache. “Come on,” he says. “We got you set up over here.”

Bruce had emerged from the basement room built specially by Tony for the Other Guy late last night. He hadn't changed, but he'd wanted to be somewhere he knew the Other Guy felt safe, where he might be contained if he did lose control. He hadn't felt stable enough to come out until after midnight, but as soon as he had JARVIS had informed him that Tony and Pepper were on the twenty-eighth floor making preparations to remove Clint from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. That was something both he and the Other Guy could get behind, so he'd gone up to join them.

Thor, Jane, Darcy, and Steve had showed up not long after him and the seven of them had worked through the night clearing out the twenty-ninth floor. Tony had somehow gotten a California King delivered at three o'clock in the morning, not that there was very much he couldn't get done, whenever he wanted it done, but still. Who did you even call to get a bed in the middle of the night?

Regardless, Tony seemed to think Clint would like the new floor better because he'd be able to access the Tower balcony when he had recovered enough to go climbing everything like the monkey he was again (those had been Tony's words, not Bruce's). They had set up the bed close to the window. He'll want to see the sky , Tony reasoned. Steve had looked like he had his reservations, but he'd gone along with it anyway.

“Darcy,” Bruce says when they've reached the bed. She nuzzles Clint's jaw and his fingers convulse slightly around her, but she slides out of his lap and he lets her go.

~

Everything looks different.

Clint is hyper-aware of everything, of every detail, every sensation, thanks to being under constant sedation for the six months he was gone—Jesus, he lost six months. He'd known it had been awhile, but...fuck.

The others moved things around and rearranged for him and that it's supposed to be comforting, how his stuff is set up on the table next to this insane bed, they were trying to make him feel like he's home , but all it's doing is underscoring the fact that he's been gone six goddamn months and everything is different.

Darcy's hair is longer, her face a little fuller than he remembers. Natasha had spent an hour swearing to him that Darcy hadn't been taken with him, that she'd been here with them the whole time he was gone. Clint's not sure what to do with that. On the one hand he's sickeningly grateful that she'd never endured the punishments doled out by his—by—by them.

But it also means he's not sure who they were using to manipulate him or if Darcy's face really is different. He reaches for her as soon as the doctor's moved out of the way, not caring if it makes it more difficult for them to get him situated. He wants to wipe out the memory of the not-Darcy.

Her skin is smooth and unmarred, except for a little patch of dry, flaky skin on her wrist. He can feel every dip, every crease in her hand and the sharpness of all his senses is overwhelming. Even his bad ear seems like it's providing too much for him to process.

Everything feels so strange he can't help feeling like he's dreaming. Like he's going to wake up and everything will be murky again.

“ Oh, hey, by the way,” Tony says. Doctor Lawson—Hank—and the medical team have started helping Clint shift to the bed—god, it's so soft — and both Lawson and Clint spare a glance for Tony. “I set up a traction system,” Tony continues and gestures with both hands to the ceiling. “Pretty sure I set it up right. Doctor Lawson, you just have to tell JARVIS how you want it rigged and he'll do it.”

“The computer butler?” Hank says and Tony's eyes do the squint-twitch thing they always do when someone says something causes a short in his brain. It's the most familiar thing he's seen any of them do and Clint loves it. He wants to see it again and again. All this tentative fucking care is goddamn unnerving.

“That's—incredibly crude, and not terribly accurate, but yeah, sure, yes.”

“JARVIS is the real man of the house,” Pepper tells Hank conspiratorially. “Tony just thinks he is.”

“Hey,” Tony says. “Who did the creating here? That would be me.”

“I prefer manservant, sir,” JARVIS chimes in, “as I am neither.”

Surprised amusement tugs at Hank's mouth. “My apologies,” he says, his eyes briefly scanning the ceiling. Clint still does that sometimes, even though he knows better. Or he did, anyway.

Tony seems mollified by the sincere apology and JARVIS says magnanimously, “Not at all, sir. I understand that it is difficult to comprehend my purpose, especially as our acquaintance has been rather short, and it is a bit...complex.”

Hank nods slowly, thoughtful. “I imagine you're good at calculations, JARVIS,” he says after a moment.

“Very good, sir.”

“Then I'm going to leave the set up of the traction to you, is that okay?” he asks, looking earnestly up at the ceiling. “We just want to keep the weight of the wings off of Agent Barton's shoulders and keep them from pulling too much.”

“Certainly, sir. Shall I allow for movement?”

“If you can do that, that would be great,” Hank says.

“It would be my pleasure,” JARVIS says and long loops of cloth begin to glide down from a dozen bars overhead.

Clint watches their progress with raised eyebrows. “Would you prefer your side or stomach, Agent Barton?” Hank asks.

Clint's eyes drop to the window. “Side.”

“Okay, great.” The team helps him move toward the massive pile of pillows at the head of the bed and then help him lie down. He grimaces as they ease the wings out straight behind him. The stitches feel like lines of fire without the muting presence of the sedation. They spend a few minutes pulling the loops of cloth down, slipping them around the muscle of the wings, in between feathers—it's an unpleasant process. Every sensation he gets from the wings is like the raw sensation when the deep layers of skin are exposed. When they step back, the cloth lines ease back up toward the ceiling just enough to suspend the wings. “How's that feel?” Hank asks.

“Better,” Clint admits. The weight off of his shoulders—literally—is incredible.

“Excellent.” Hank waves one of his colleagues over and says, “Let's get the IV set up so we can let Agent Barton get some rest. He looks exhausted. Now, have you eaten anything solid recently?”

“Oh, got that covered,” Tony says and produces a paper bag, which he tosses onto the bed near Clint's hands. Clint raises an eyebrow at him and reaches into it, pulling out a massive cheeseburger. He grins.

Tony's his favorite, seriously.

Tony shrugs. “It's what I wanted when I got back. So I figured what the hell.”

Clint already has the burger out of the wrapper and stuffed into his mouth. He groans and Bruce's eyebrows drift up his forehead. “Do we need to leave you and the burger alone?”

“ Okay, you're not nearly well enough to be making noises like that in my presence,” Darcy says. “So knock it off.” Clint, being the contrary ass he is, makes another even more obscene noise and her face flushes a deep, dark pink. “ You're asking for it, Mister .”

He's not going to be able to eat much of the thing though. His stomach is already squirming in displeasure. The flavor of a stupid, goddamn cheeseburger is so powerful his eyes are watering. Everyone is looking at him and he's just so fucking glad to be back home—Cllnt's throat swells shut and he drops the burger.

He's missed this so much and now he's back, but he's got these wings and nothing's ever easy for him, is it. He's never been so proud to do something as he has been with the Avengers and he may never do it again, not the way he's gotten used to.

“Hey,” Steve says and it's the implacable tone of Captain America that makes Clint's spine straighten involuntarily. “We're going to get through this, Clint. You hear me? Whatever we have to do, whatever you need. You're an Avenger, and nothing's ever gonna change that.”

Clint stares at him and he wants to believe that so much, it hurts. “I can't even walk, Cap,” he says and humiliation leaves a sick squirming feeling in his gut when his voice breaks.

Steve's gaze never wavers. “You're still recovering. We don't know what will happen. You dealt with the deafness, you can deal with this. No matter what, you always have a home here, with us.”

“Look, I already started renovations, okay,” Tony says, cocking his hip. “You're gonna look like a real dick if you try and bow out now.”

Clint chokes on a strangled sort of laugh.

“I stayed up pretty late last night,” Bruce agrees. “And I hate working for nothing.”

The smirk Clint pulls on wobbles, but it's there. “You know I like you when you're angry.”

Bruce grins and ducks his head to hide it. “Yeah, well.”

Natasha doesn't say anything, just nods at him.

“These dark days will give way to light,” Thor says, “you must only persevere. Your friends will stand beside you.”

Sure, Clint thinks. He's pulled himself back together before. He can do it again. “Yeah,” he says and smiles at the people he never expected to love, at the family he never thought he'd have. “Okay.”