#bmhworks

[asamandra]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[asamandra]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[marvelvlogproject-blog]

Clint shares the shorthand signs he has for his teammates. 

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Based off of this headcanon.

[weesta]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[theonekierce]

Steve and Bucky showing up to Nat's Halloween party  in matching costumes because someone submitted this headcanon and wow yes

[celtic7irish]

A Bow Named Lucy

All of Clint’s bows and other weapons had female names. His favorite bow was named Lucy. He had named one of his knives after Natasha.  His gun – the one he rarely used – was named after Assistant Director Maria Hill.

The thing about it, though, was that it wasn’t intended as an insult.  The weapons that Clint used are a part of him. They kept him safe, and they helped him to protect those he cared about.  Naming his weapons after females was a compliment, a silent acknowledgment that men weren’t necessarily the toughest gender out there.

  Natasha knew the names of all of his weapons, even the perfectly balanced throwing knife that had been named after her.  On occasion, he’d find it missing from its sheath on his thigh, having been “borrowed” by clever fingers.  But it would always return to his side, as clean and sharp as it had been before going missing.

  Still, other than Natasha – and Phil Coulson, who knew pretty much everything, whether they told him or not – nobody else that Clint hung around with knew about his weapons’ names.  He supposed that some of them might understand.  Thor, perhaps, since he, too, carried a named weapon, but its name was very distinctly male, suitable for the brute force of the weapon.  Clint’s weapons were more refined and elegant, slender and silent, but just as deadly.  Or perhaps more so; a shot through the eye or heart with an arrow was a sure kill, while it was possible for Mjolnir to smash without killing.  Clint was an assassin; killing was what he was good at.  And his weapons aided him faithfully.

  Currently, he was sitting in one of his “nests” throughout the Helicarrier, polishing Lucy.  She had endured a bit of rough handling during the last battle against Loki and his hoard of flesh-eating mutant spiders.  Clint shuddered just thinking about it, the horrible chittering, screeching noise they’d made as they swarmed the city.  Now he knew how Harry and his friends must have felt when the Acromantula nest chased them through the Haunted Woods.

  There was a light patter of feet below him, and Clint twisted to stare down at Natasha through the vent, blinking.  “Hey, Tasha,” he greeted.  His partner nodded up at him, and he moved aside the covering.  A moment later, Natasha swung up next to him, settling on his pile of blankets and looking around, perfectly at ease among the tubes and pipes.  Absently, she reached for one of the apples that Clint had brought up here with him, just for a change from ration bars and other non-perishables that he typically kept stashed around any place he spent a considerable amount of time in.

  “Coulson says you’ve got an hour,” she said easily around a bite of apple.

  “Yeah?” Clint replied absently, raising his bow to check her for scratches.  “He say anything else?”

  Natasha shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.  “If you’re late for the debriefing, you find yourself assigned to Hulk-sitting duty the next time the big guy comes out to play.”  Clint responded with a horrified expression and an exaggerated shudder, and was rewarded with a quiet chuckled.  Clint felt gratified.

  “Hulk-sitting, huh?” he grunted, amused.  “Think Stark would let me?”  The billionaire genius was incredibly protective of the doctor, and rarely let any of the others near the Hulk unless he was out of commission.

  Natasha shrugged insouciantly.  Satisfied that Lucy was still in prime condition, Clint folded her closed and set her next to him on the floor of the vent.  With a flick of his wrist, Tash was in his hands.  He had almost named the blade The Widower, but the beating Natasha had given him in the name of sparring when he’d mentioned it to her had persuaded him otherwise.

  Before he could do more than hold her, Tash was gone. He raised an eyebrow at his partner, giving her his best wounded look.  “Really?” he demanded.  “Is this a thing that we’re doing now?  Are you planning to steal Lucy next?” he pouted, hugging his bow tightly to his chest.

  There was a discreet cough from below them, and Clint froze.  That wasn’t Phil.

  “Uh…Clint? Natasha?” Steve called up, and the archer closed his eyes, his whole face heating up.  Of course it would be Captain Goddamn America who just happened to walk past him while he was talking about this weapons like they were people.  Dammit.

  Resigned, Clint leaned forward so he could peer down through the vent cover.  Sure enough, there stood Steve Rogers, still in his uniform, his shield strapped to his back.  Clint knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself to grow complacent around the other Avengers. It made him lower his guard, even when he shouldn’t.

  “Hey, Cap!” he greeted with false cheer.  Next to him, Natasha just rolled her eyes, removed the cover, and executed a simple flip, landing easily in front of their leader.

  “Captain Rogers,” she spoke softly.  Clint cringed.  Tasha flipped from one slender hand to another, and Steve’s eyes tracked it warily.  He wasn’t scared, but he was respectful, which Clint could appreciate.  One did not mess with the Black Widow, especially when she was armed.  Not that anybody should mess with her when she unarmed, really.

  “Ma’am,” Steve acknowledged with a tip of his head, recognizing the implied threat and reassuring them both that he had no intentions of saying anything about what he’d overheard.

  Natasha smiled affectionately at Steve, the knife disappearing as she reached up and patted him gently on the cheek.  Clint dropped down next to them, his hands fingering his bow, the grip comforting in its familiarity as he met Steve’s gaze.

  Steve gave him a friendly smile, then leapt up and caught the edge of the vent, pulling the cover back over it.  Clint tried not to look impressed.

  Steve turned back to them, looking unsure for a moment.  Taking a deep breath and visibly stealing his resolve, the Captain gestured at the shield on his back.  “Her name is Sarah,” he admitted with a wry twist of his lips, his cheeks pinking with embarrassment as he ducked his head.  “After my mother.”

  Clint and Natasha just stared at him with open mouths.  “What?” he asked, confused.

  Slowly, Clint turned to look at his partner.  “Captain America’s shield has a name,” he said carefully.  Natasha nodded, equally surprised.  She hadn’t known, either.

  “Aw, c’mon, guys,” Steve pleaded.  “It’s not that weird, is it?”  He was starting to look worried, probably wondering if he’d misunderstood the entire conversation.

  Clint shook his head and offered Steve an easy grin.  “Naw,” he reassured the other man.  “I mean, I guess it just never occurred to me that you would name your shield,” he admitted.

  Steve shrugged, turning and heading back down the hallway, towards the debriefing with Coulson.  Clint and Natasha fell in on either side of him.  Steve still looked uncertain.  “Tony names things, too, right?” he asked.

  Natasha gave him an evaluating stare.  “He calls all of his suits by their model numbers,” she pointed out, shaking her head.  “Absolutely no creativity in that man.”

  Clint joined in with, “Exactly.  I mean, come on, he named his bots DUM-E, Butterfingers, and You.”

  “What about JARVIS?” Steve asked, and his voice still held a hint of wonder at the sorts of things that Tony could create, beyond even anything that was normal for this time.  He wasn’t just bragging when he called himself a futurist.

  “Just A Really Very Intelligent System!” the assassins chorused, sharing a grin with each other.

  Steve chuckled.  “Okay, so you might have point,” he admitted, as they came to a stop outside the conference room where Coulson waited for them.  It was unlikely that Bruce would attend, as Hulk-outs left him drained and exhausted, and Tony would probably take his time tucking the scientist in and threatening various SHIELD agents who might get funny ideas regarding the passed out Bruce before he deigned to show up.  Thor was a bit of a toss-up.  He didn’t really see the point in debriefings – or mission reports, for that matter – but he did love story-telling, so he might show up to regal them all with a tale of their battle against the mighty eight-legged foes they’d fought today, and the valor of himself and his teammates.

  Clint wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but he rather enjoyed Thor’s colorful tales.  He was pretty sure Coulson did, too, or he wouldn’t keep insisting that the god show up at the post-mission debriefs.

  They were quite surprised, then, to find a sulking billionaire genius already inside the room.  Bruce was there as well, slumped back in his comfortable chair – Tony had insisted on it – with his eyes closed and his shoulders drooping.  Coulson was sitting across from them, files sitting in front of him as he waited patiently, expertly ignoring Tony’s grumbles about how he had better things to do – like repairing his Iron Man suit before the next villain stepped out of the woodwork – than to rehash a battle that had already ended.

  When the three of them walked in, Tony looked up, raising an eyebrow at them.  “What’s wrong, Cap?  Did you catch the two lovebirds in flagrante dilecto?” he asked, leering at them.

  Clint nearly pulled an arrow on him, but before he could do more than twitch his hands towards his bow, Natasha had leapt over the table and taken the man down to the ground by the throat.  Tony just sprawled there, and the utter shock on his face was hilarious enough to warrant a grin from Clint instead of an arrow through the foot.  If only because if he shot Tony through the hand, the genius couldn’t make him pretty new toys.

  Bruce had opened his eyes, but he hadn’t startled, which interested Clint.  Either the man was really good at pretending, or he was really good at not freaking out when he was snapped out of his sleep by a red-headed assassin attacking his best friend.  “Natasha,” Bruce sighed.  “Please let Tony up before he passes out from asphyxiation.”  Now that he’d mentioned it, Stark was looking a bit blue around the lips.

  Natasha released him with one final word murmured in his ear, and Stark paled.  Clint smirked; he knew how very scary Black Widow could be when she wanted to.  And Stark was smart enough to take the threat seriously.  Maybe there was hope for him yet.

  “Are we done, children?” Coulson drawled drily, and Clint offered him a cheeky smile, dropping himself into the seat next to Bruce and crossing his legs on the conference table.   Coulson just looked at him, obviously not fooled in the least by Clint’s apparent obedience.

  Steve sat where he normally did, his back ramrod straight.  Clint wondered if he’d feel more comfortable standing at parade rest.  Maybe he should mention it to Coulson, just to see what happened.

  Natasha settled in next to Clint, giving Coulson her blank face as she stared him down.  After a moment, Coulson’s lips twitched upwards in an approximation of a smile, and he started the debriefing.  Apparently, Thor wasn’t going to be here for this one.

  Clint mostly tuned everybody out – Natasha would fill him in on the important stuff later – mentally cataloguing his weapons.  He didn’t really carry that many, preferring his bow and arrows over the standard SHIELD-issued weapons.  He carried a gun only at Coulson’s assistance, and while he was an excellent shot, he didn’t like the way guns felt in his hand.  And Maria was an ornery pain in the ass anyhow.

  Clint absent-mindedly pulled an arrow from the quiver he had set on the floor next to his chair, running his fingers idly along the shaft and ignoring Stark’s muttered jibe.  Instead, he offered the genius a vaguely threatening smile; he’d seen the way Tony treated his armor.  Fondling didn’t even begin to describe it.

  He was brought back to the conversation as Coulson mentioned the decisive finish to the giant swarm of spiders.  “House Party Protocol,” Stark admitted.  “Sort of an emergency backup plan.  And hey, look, that was an emergency!  Pretty sure it qualified, anyway,” he smirked.

  Coulson held up a stack of papers.  “Mr. Stark, according to surveillance, you had at least forty Iron Man suits of armor flying around out there, most of them remote controlled.  Only two active suits are currently registered with SHIELD.”

  Clint felt his lips curve up into a grin.  Stark was in so much trouble!

  Tony shook his head.  “And they’re staying that way.  I am not registering every suit of armor I make with you guys.  It’s not happening.  Can you imagine the paperwork?  Nevermind, that argument doesn’t work on you,” he backtracked a moment later.  “But no, I’ve given you the information on the suits that I fly in.  Those others are more like a…hobby,” he tried.

  Nobody believed him.

  “Mr. Stark,” Coulson said, and even Clint sat up and paid attention, his feet dropping silently to the floor and the arrow he’d been toying with stilling in his hand.  Coulson was talking in his no-nonsense tone, the one that meant that he was seconds away from tazing you just because he could, and because he’d enjoy it.  “Since a majority of the suits were destroyed in the battle today, I will not require that you report them all.  But several of them survived.  I expect data on all of them on my desk by the end of the week.”

  Tony narrowed his eyes.  “No,” he said succinctly.  “They’re mine.  I’m just a consultant, remember?  You don’t pay me as a SHIELD employee, or as an Avenger.  You pay me for consulting.  Which means that my Iron Man armor is really none of your damn business.  And if you even think about trying to take them from me, you’re in for a world of hurt.  I don’t like people taking my stuff.  Is that clear enough for you?”

  The two men stared hard at each other, neither one budging.  Clint’s gaze bounced between them, entertained and wondering who would win.  His money was on Coulson, but Stark could be a stubborn son of a bitch when he chose.  Bruce just watched Tony carefully, and Clint realized that if this went south, they’d have more to worry about than just a pissed off engineer.

  Before he could open his mouth to try and break the tension, there was a loud thump outside the door, followed by heavy knocking.  The door busted off its hinges at the third knock, and a bulky set of blue and silver armor stepped into the doorway.  It looked like it could do some serious damage, kind of like the hulk, but made of metal.  Behind that suit was another one that looked a bit more normal, a bit bulkier than the Mark VII that Tony had worn in the fight against Loki.

  Tony laughed.  “Igor!  And I see you’ve brought Heartbreaker with you.”  The whole room fell silent as the two armors clomped into the room to flank Tony on either side as he smirked smugly over at Coulson.  “I can call them all to me,” he stated, the smile falling from his face.  “Put that in your report.”

  “Uh…Tony?”  Bruce was the first to break the silence, and Tony turned to him questioningly.  “Igor?” Bruce asked, and Tony grinned brightly.

  “Yep!” he said proudly, pointing at the large bohemuth.  “And he’s not even the biggest one! There’s gamma, too….he shields against gamma radiation, in case that wasn’t obvious.  And you should totally see Romeo and Casanova.  They’re all kinds of awesome!”

  Next to Clint, Natasha gave a quiet snort, raising an amused eyebrow at him.  Clint found himself grinning, too, his hand patting Lucy gently.  With friends like this, Clint was pretty sure that nobody had any room to say anything.  Not that he was going to go around introducing his weapons to the other Avengers, but it was good to know that he wasn’t alone in this.

  And perhaps, Clint thought as he looked over at Steve, who was brushing his fingers carefully across Sarah’s surface as he watched the two scientists with a dazed look on his face, he wasn’t so odd, after all.  

[weesta]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works