The water’s not cold enough, somehow, but he deals with it. He’s ignoring all the scents so hard that “I have a feeling you were trying to throw that match,” makes him jump.
Clint rinses the shampoo out of his hair before saying anything. “Didn’t think anyone needed an arrow to the eye. Not even Hulk. We still have peanut butter and I know he’s been in the fridge.” Nevermind that he can’t eat it.
His eyes roll at Banner’s laugh, scant though those are. The retort comes from further away, near the benches. “Ah, well, he might not appreciate that after all.” There’s rustling while Clint dunks his head again, lathering up. “You’re not going to kill any of us, you know.”
The soap falls off the little shelf he puts it on. Clint glares but leaves it on the tiles. “I know. We’ve trained with Eric before.” He doesn’t refute the assumption that he’s wary of his strength and reflexes now, though.
Marc runs a hand through his hair again, eyes on the driveway. “It’s still bright outside,” he says, alone in the room. He swallows down apprehension. It’s not what he’d wanted to focus on, how low the sun is, how little time they’re going to have. He moves through the balcony doors, unable to handle the silence ringing through the mansion. “What if…”
Steven sighs abruptly. ‘Marc, I know you’re having trouble trusting my handle on the situation. But do not mistake gentleness for-’ His statement is cut off by Jake’s snort, the rushing undercurrent of derision in it. ‘What?’
Lockley shakes his head, slowly. ‘Bastard bird ain’t done,’ he drawls, standing up to shimmer into existence next to Marc at the railing. ‘You know, maybe we should just let him go.’
‘I told you we had it in hand.’ Steven’s ire is cool, directed at no one in the room with them.
Marc is watching the red beam of sun move across the floor from the curtain. He’s not sure what he feels. Grateful, if Thor is right. Terrified of them all being wrong. Pissed off at his headmate along with Jake, because: ‘Why the fuck haven’t you said anything before now?!’
‘Woulda been a lot less stressful, hombre,’ Lockley grumbles. ‘I’m tired of secrets.’
‘We’re all tired of them, Jacob.’ The retort is scathing, the river gurgling under Steven’s bubbling resentment. ‘But you know, I’m not the only one hiding things. How many times have you just moved me out of the way when I’ve been triggered? Where do I file the complaint about all the torn ligaments I don’t remember using in years? Who the bloody hell wants to own up to being the reason Clint was too frightened to come to us about being turned?!’
His head hurts, the pressure overloading his system, and he puts his forehead to the cool marble counter. The exchanged glance between the blonds on either side of him goes unnoticed.
‘I didn’t do a damn thing but keep you from getting us hauled off, and you know it! You wanna keep that job, you better not be sobbing in your office on the regular!’ Water laps angrily at a shoreline too barren to hold back the splash.
“Might wanna cue up the bat,” Clint mutters to Thor, who’s stood up and finished off his bottle of whiskey.
Huge shoulders straighten at the same time Clint’s hand closes around the collapsible bow in his hoodie pocket. But he doesn’t draw. Doesn’t have the ability to move at all, because Khonshu doesn’t possess Marc this time. No, what he does is far, far worse.
“Oh, my son,” rumbles through Grant Mansion as night truly falls. The looming figure of the moon god glues itself together with eddies of half-starved moonlight. He moves on Marc, making Clint tense further. He’s been in Khonshu’s presence before and felt small. This time, he’s as nothing, tiny and uninteresting in the wake of Marc’s distress. A skeletal hand falls on his avatar’s shoulder. “How far you allow these mortals to drag you from me. It is a pain I know well, yet only you of all my Fists have dredged up such jealousy in my heart for the loss.” The gall of the bastard soothing Marc make’s Clint’s frigid borrowed blood almost boil.
Clint ducks behind the railing, sparse protection that it is, as debris flies back at the building. He grins ferally at a screech of divine pain, then fires blind twice more. Each one lands, the second in tandem with Thor’s hammer coming down. Lightning flashes yet again; thunder nearly blows out eardrums.
He’s almost able to drown out Marc’s tortured wails downstairs.
Khonshu roars some obscene threat or another and Thor laughs in return. Clint can’t make out any words. Again, he comes up, steadies his stance, and fires. He’s nearly blown off his feet as the incendiary is reversed on him, but a tuck-and-roll ensures his limbs remain attached for the moment. He’s up again, moving back within range. “Fuck! THOR!” rips from his throat as he realizes it hadn’t been his arrow that had slammed into the building. The Asgardian is pinned to the building, a shining crescent embedded points-first on either side of his huge neck. Clint shoulders his bow, going for the handle of Khonshu’s staff.
(He forgot that bit about a believer’s religious symbols and vampires.)
Sifting Through the Ashes full fic
