to ashes, development
Clint Barton x F!Reader
To Ashes, Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Summary: a development on a mission means it's time to move on.
Warnings: angst, fluff, canon-typical violence.
Word Count: 2,313
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Days Since the Decimation: Three Years, Eighty-Five Days
“Holy shit, you got any idea how fuckin’ hard I am right now?”
You wrinkled your nose. “Oh, gross.”
Clint frowned.
“What? It’s seedy as hell,” you waved a hand. “You take me to the worst places.”
You swore, you could actually see him roll his eyes from the other side of the building. “Not exactly poetic, are they?”
The two of you were on top of an old disused warehouse in Harringay, listening with distaste as the men inside discussed their, ugh, merchandise. What was it with men and guns?
The weapons ring you’d fought in Holland Park was still at large, and Clint had spent the last two weeks tracking them down again. Honestly it was a testament to them that it had taken him this long, even without his old SHIELD connections. Whoever they were, they weren’t street level thugs.
…It made you feel the tiniest bit better about them getting the better of you in the park.
Clint had scrubbed through the local police files for any clues as to where they were setting up house. Between that and his own reconnaissance, he’d managed to track one of their prominent dealers to right under your feet.
“You still clear on the plan?”
Nodding, you unhooked the safety hood of your holster. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
“Y/N…”
You looked up with a raised brow, fixing him with a pointed look. “Are you really about to lecture me about not taking revenge?”
Clint met your eye with an almost exasperated expression. “Point taken.”
“You ready for this?”
“That’s my line.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” you smirked, stretching out a kink in your neck. “Let’s go to work.”
***
You were really getting tired of these guys.
That’s the only thought that came to you as you rolled behind the crates to your left, gun still in your hand. You came to a kneel, your back meeting the wood with a dull thump. They were too prepared, to ready for the two of you.
This wasn’t supposed to end in a shootout. This was supposed to be a quick job, and yet… how did they know about the two of you? They’d mentioned a boss in the park, someone who had guessed you’d been Clint’s back up, but still… they knew you were coming. Not well enough to lay a proper trap, to ambush you before you got inside, but well enough to be ready.
You ducked lower with a curse as wood shattered above you, large splinters raining down on top of you. Thankful for the hood that kept them out of your hair, you exhaled and turned to fire two shots back around the corner. One shot went wide, but you smiled grimly as the second bullet buried itself in a man’s shoulder. He cursed in a heavy Eastern European accent as you ducked back behind the crate.
“Did you have a plan B for tonight, or are we winging this?” you said into your comms. You heard a cry go up among those shooting at you, followed by shouts of confusion and a few wild shots. You winced despite yourself for a second, waiting for a response in your ear to assure you that they’d missed.
“I’m working on one,” Clint replied gruffly, and you released a small, relieved breath despite your faith in him.
“So… winging it, it is then,” you sighed wearily, setting a new magazine into your handgun and adjusting your hold on the grip. “You know, I kinda hate being the one to draw their fire.”
“I’ll make note of it for next time,” he replied dryly, and another gurgling cry went up among the men between the two of you as Clint shot back out of the shadows long enough to take one of them down. He sliced up two – the one you’d wounded and the man closest to him. “Don’t do anything stupid, alright? We’ve got this under control.”
“Do we?”
“You doubt me?”
“I—”
“Fuck this!” shouted one of them – a burly brunette with a greying beard and tattoos scattered over his biceps. “Get one of the pushka out here and end this!”
“Clint—” you said warningly, stealing a glance over the crates.
“Don’t panic,” he warned, and you swore you caught the glimpse of silver in a brief shift of the light to let you know exactly where he was. “You’re not their biggest problem right now.”
“Clint—”
A deafening blast sounded and you fell forward, hands flying automatically to your ears. The crate to your left exploded – as did the wall in front of you, burst apart in a wave of electric blue energy.
“Holy—”
“Y/N!”
“I’m fine, just—”
“Forget the bitch! Get the Ronin!”
You scrambled away from where you’d hidden, throwing yourself behind an old forklift. Too late, you realized you’d left your gun behind, having dropped it when your hands had flown to your ears. Swearing to yourself, you winced as another blast fired. The building itself groaned as they blew another hole in a wall.
“What the hell is that thing?!”
“Just get outta here, Y/N! I’ll distract—”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Barton!”
“Just go!” he barked back. “Now!”
“Goddamn it!” you growled, standing as you heard the men shout that they’d spotted the Ronin above them. You saw the gun – a bazooka-like cannon – turn upward, point directly at the shadowy figure above. “Stubborn-ass-son-of-a—”
The blaster fired, and you swept your arm upward in the same moment. A shield appeared seconds before the energy wave could hit Clint, knocking him to the side. The energy wave just barely glanced off the shield before blowing a hole in the roof and sending debris collapsing down on the men below.
“What are you—?”
“Take the moment, Clint; you can yell at me later!” you spat back through gritted teeth, sprinting towards the group still shielding themselves from falling bricks and timber. “Get out! I’m right behind you!”
Pulling the knife from the back of your belt, you turned it in your grip and plunged it into the hand of the man closest to the crate they’d pulled the pushka from, ignoring the way he screamed. You released it, instead grabbing the first weapon you could from the crate – thankfully, a much smaller hand-gun style weapon – and kept running. A few men managed to get off a few shots before you were clear, and you winced as you felt a bullet tear through your sleeve to graze your forearm.
Feet pounding too loud on the pavement, you made it quickly to an alleyway across the street, tucking your prize under your injured arm as you grabbed hold of the rung of a fire escape ladder with your other arm and swung yourself upwards. You could hear the building behind you continue to collapse as you climbed the ladder, and you winced as a hand gripped yours as you reached the top.
“Are you insane?”
“Are you?” you shot back breathlessly as Clint pulled you up onto the roof beside him. “What the hell kind of plan was that? You were gonna let them shoot you with that thing?”
“I’m faster than I look, Y/N,” he pointed out sourly. “And now they know—”
“They don’t know shit,” you argued. “There’s no way they could see the difference between that shield and whatever the hell they were shooting at us with.”
“It was still really stupid, Y/N.”
“You’re welcome.”
Clint gave you a look that somehow managed to look grateful and exasperated all at once.
“Oh, and I totally get MVP this mission.”
“Is that a thing?” he replied dryly.
“It is now,” you said proudly, finally managing to catch your breath. Ignoring the pain throbbing in your arm, you held out the gun you’d stolen. “Ta-freakin’-da, Barton.”
***
“Lat—”
“What?”
Clint repeated himself louder, but his voice was still muffled by the wood of the door and the spray of the shower.
“What?”
You heard the shower door open and a few dull sounds before the bathroom door in front of you opened. Water dripped over Clint’s bare torso and soaked his hair, one hand clutching the towel slung around his waist. You watched him hesitate as he met your gaze, watched the adam’s apple in his throat bob. “Latveria.”
“Lat– Latveria?”
“This is starting to feel dangerously like a bit,” Clint said dryly, stepping back into the shower stall. You felt heat rise in your face as he closed the door and the towel was thrown up over the top of it. You stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before closing the lid of the toilet and perching on the edge of it. “That’s where the weapons are being made.”
“And they’ve made it all the way out here?” you replied, swallowing as you tried to pointedly avoid staring at the shower. The stall was made of textured, frosted glass, and while it granted Clint modesty, you could still just make out his silhouette against the screen. His hands rose to scrub through his hair, his profile turned just barely away from you.
“They’re global,” Clint told you, raising his voice over the spray. “I heard reports of them turning up in New York back before… Fury had someone else working on it.”
“And we just happened to stumble onto them in a park in London?”
Clint’s hands lingered at the back of his neck. “They’ve been making bigger waves lately. Guess she’s been getting a little cockier since the Decimation wiped out half the authorities that could work their case.”
“‘She’?”
Clint’s hands moved down his chest to his stomach, and you lowered your gaze to the floor, face burning. Your thighs pressed together despite yourself. You knew your voice had broken slightly as you’d spoken that one word.
“Lucia von Bardas.”
The water shut off, and you straightened slightly, your hands threaded together in your lap. The towel disappeared into the stall. “Should I recognize the name?”
“Only if you’re trying to be familiar with Eastern European politics,” Clint told you, the shower stall opening after a moment. “She’s a pretty big name in Latverian political parties. She’s got interests in most of the big exporters coming out of that place, including Von Doom Industries. There’s been rumors of her dealing in some… less than legal businesses for a while now. Guess now we’ve actually got some proof.”
Clint stepped out; the towel tucked securely around his waist once more. He seemed to be avoiding your eye, wiping down the foggy mirror with his palm.
“And?”
“And what?”
“We’re going to take her out, right?”
You stood up, and Clint met your eye in the mirror. He sighed.
“That expression tells me you’ve already decided on the answer for us.”
***
“I’m starting to miss Stark’s money.” Clint sighed, settling back into the seat beside you.
“You’re the one who books these oh-so-deluxe travel arrangements,” you pointed out, attempting to find a comfortable position against the firm back of the bus seat. “You’d think with your super-ninja-spy-magic you’d be able to get us a fancier ride.”
“I’m not a ninja,” he told you patiently. “Or magic.”
“You’re a little magic.”
Clint shook his head with a smile; you were sure there was faint color on his cheeks as he dropped his head back against the headrest.
“So, how long exactly is this ride?”
He answered with his eyes closed. “…About two days.”
“Two days?!” you repeated, when you saw his smile grow slightly, you scowled. “I kinda hate you, you know.”
“I thought I was magic.”
“Magic and despised.”
He chuckled; eyes still closed. The bus pulled away from the curb, surprisingly empty. The sky outside was already dark, and the glow of the streetlights passed over the archer’s face. “We’re less likely to be recognized on the bus.”
“Curse you and your logic.”
Clint didn’t reply, and the two of you sat in silence for twenty minutes before you spoke again.
“It’s a little annoying how easily you can fall asleep.”
He smirked; eyes still stubbornly closed. “I’m not asleep.”
“…How about now?”
“Were you always this annoying on road trips?” he teased.
You laughed, closing your eyes too. “Oh, please. You’d be so bored without me.”
***
You opened your eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep still lingering. You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep, but the wide expanse of road ahead of the bus told you you’d left the city a long time again, as did the faint pink glow tainting the deep purple of the night sky. You shifted, brow furrowing as you felt the warmth pressed up against your side and the rough fabric against your cheek. A comfortable weight rested against the crown of your head, and you frowned against the fuzziness still clinging to your tired mind.
Your eyes finally cleared to settle on the color of Clint’s jacket, and you felt his breath fan softly against your hair. You’d fallen asleep, your head falling against his shoulder, and he’d apparently done the same. His cheek was pressed against your hair, his breathing steady and even. A smile touched your lips as you let the sensation of his chest rising and falling lull you back into rest, and you ignored the sensible part of your brain that was trying to remind you that you were supposed to maintaining your distance from him.
Your eyes fell to your lap as your eyelids began to droop, and warmth flared in your cheeks. Your hand was on your thigh, and Clint’s rested beside it, his fingertips settled on the back of your hand. Your skin was warm and tingled under his touch.
Had he… had he been holding your hand?
.
.
.
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