this looks bad

Gabby snorted. “I don’t suppose you’re not as squishy human as you look?” she asked. Most people were, unfortunately. And given that Gabby healed so quickly and didn’t feel pain… Well, sometimes it was easy to forget that bullets were super dangerous.

She nodded. “Familiar’s a word for it,” she agreed. “They’re a big tech company mostly. Make a bunch of stuff, I don’t know exactly on that side. That’s all above board, legal and public, blah blah. Their genetics department on the other hand is a bit more shady. Experimentation and weaponisation stuff.” There was a glint in her eyes, a hint of the anger that she felt whenever she thought about it. “They’ve hurt a lot of people too. I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” When he said he didn’t like the idea of her fighting them alone, Gabby snorted again. “I’m not as squishy as some people,” she retorted. Just because she was young, people thought she needed protecting. Well, the days of keeping Gabby protected and safe were over. “Sure. Team up. It’ll be fun.”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / –.. /

“’Fraid not. Pretty squishy,” he admitted. He did hold SHIELD’s record for most injuries sustained at once, and most time recovering, but he didn’t think that would be helpful to bring up right now. “But I’ve been doing this a long time. Experience can trump superpowers you know,” he teased, smirking lightly at her. She wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t have some kind of healing factor herself, or armor, or... Or whatever. 

“Genetics, huh?” he murmured, his eyes locked on hers. He didn’t know her whole story here, but this was personal. It was private. And it was powerful. “Excellent,” he said, holding out his hand. “Clint Barton. Sometimes called Hawkeye. What do I call you?” he asked. His right hand dug into a pocket, searching for something from his belt. “Comms,” he said, once he retrieved it. “My aids will sync up with it when you turn it on. We’ll be able to talk to each other. I expect it to come back in one piece,” he said, holding it out to her. 

“Dogs are generally better than people so, I feel like I’d still be on his side.” Most people would have done exactly what he was doing — Quake, for all purposes, wasn’t the worst name in the world. But there was something about it that sparked a visceral response in her, it wasn’t ever said with the same fondness as Tremors like when Mack spoke to her — but too many people had taken that name as a way to dehumanize her. To make her a thing rather than a person. And Daisy wasn’t sure how to reclaim that just yet. “Most people agree.” But she offered no reasons why she didn’t care for it. Daisy glanced down at the dog, fighting the urge to lean down and scratch him behind the ears — but she did let one hand drop so he could sniff her hand, almost threateningly too — as if to say she could steal his dog if he moved wrong. “A lot of people who were gone are just… showing up.” Sam Wilson. Clint Barton. Wanda Maximoff. Daisy wasn’t stupid but she also… just couldn’t figure out what the hell had been going on. “And for an Avenger, you have mastered the shifty look, so what were you doing?” 

/ ..-. / ..- / - / –.. /

Clint looked down at Lucky, who wagged his tail and then sauntered over to sniff Daisy’s hand. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he sighed after a moment. Both what she said about dogs, and what she didn’t say about her name. He lifted his fingers and signed the individuals letters in her name. “Daisy. I like it,” he said, offering a small smile. “Technically I could sign it like the flower too,” he mused aloud. 

His eyes flicked over to hers. “I imagine a lot of people are coming out of the shadows, now that registration is changed,” he said, voice low. “And honestly, all I was doing tonight was getting the lay of the land. Checking the neighborhood out. Last time I was in town, I had some trouble with a local gang, who’s biggest crime is their fashion-sense. Lucky used to be theirs,” he explained, motioning to the dog. “Bravest dog in the world right there.”

“Am I supposed to be surprised by that?” Robbie stayed rooted in place as the man took a step closer, but his body tensed in anticipation all the same. Robbie had learned soon after the Rider started taking up residence in his head that the Devil made him practically impossible to kill, but that didn’t mean he particularly enjoyed it when people made an attempt. He still felt pain, even if it was no longer a long-term problem. He wasn’t sure if the Rider wasn’t capable of taking that away or if he simply didn’t want to. “No one left to look,” he replied, letting the implication hang. All things considered, the Rider didn’t have many enemies, and that was because he took them out before they could form any sort of a grudge to hold on to. By the time he killed the last Fifth Street gang member, the group had been so afraid of him that not a single one of them would have tried to track him down. Studying the man for a moment, Robbie shrugged. “Then you owe me one,” he said, “because I’m doing you a favor. You don’t want your neighborhood to smell like shit? You let me take out the trash.”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / –.. /

“That’s a good comeback,” Clint noted with a nod. “A really good one, like — I might have to tell people that one, even though I’m the one with egg on my face.” Nat would get a hell of a kick out of it. Sharon too, probably. 

No one left to look. It was another good answer, but Clint didn’t say so. His lips pulled into a small frown. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Probably best that way.” No loose ends, nothing that could come back to strangle you later. It was a nice concept. It was a sad one too. 

He felt like he was being sized up and found wanting, and he didn’t let that bother him. That was usually what people thought. “I’m Clint,” he said finally, holding out his hand. “And I’m not real fond of playing games when I don’t have to. So you wanna take out the trash, that’s fine with me. But if it brings trouble, we’re gonna have words. I owe you one, but there’s kids in my building and I owe them a lot more.” 

He was trying to play it off, and it had probably worked a thousand times for him before, batting his eyes and acting as if he was too stupid to pull something like that off. “It’s possible,” she decided to offer, giving him just enough rope so that she could watch him tangle himself in it later. There were a few photos of Ronin, nothing of his face, but the way he moved, the efficiency, and the timing? (And now Ronin was gone and Clint was here…) “I’m rarely mistaken, Mr. Barton, but I am willing to entertain the idea that I might be.”

Lois nodded her head. “Lane. I’m glad you recognize the name, then I assume you know my reputation?” Between her awards and the many stories she had written on Superman and the other heroes in her life — the only that hadn’t been printed under her name were the names of those people. (And at first, she would have thrown them to the wolves for the truth, but love happened — and a lot of things changed.) “So then, Mr. Barton, where does an Avenger go to vanish for years?”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

“Possible,” he repeated, not confirming or agreeing with it, just echoing the word. She had him at a disadvantage, he hadn’t been expecting an ambush. Especially one so calm, so clear. She was focused, too focused to fall for his first instinct of charming denial and general stupidity. Feigning ignorance was easier with people who assumed you were stupid. But she wasn’t looking at him like he was stupid. 

He shrugged a shoulder. “Impressive, that’s what I’d call it. The kind of reputation you only get after putting in a lot of work,” he said, tilting his head to the side. He fiddled with one of the aids in his ear. “Hard to say. Cap apparently prefers frozen lakes when he vanishes,” he quipped. “I was retired. I went fishing.” 

Emma scoffed a little under her breath. “Of course you have a contract.” She muttered. She couldn’t say that she was too surprised by that. She viewed them as cookie cutter products. One could replace the next. She had yet to be proven wrong. “Well, I am sure if you visit enough sick children and homeless shelters that you would be well looked after. The Avengers always are.” Emma’s tone was sharp in its delivery. They always came out as the so called good guys. A very different story for the X-Men.

“And I am very good at punishing little men who think they can cause trouble.” Emma responded just as quick as he mentioned that he liked to cause trouble. “And anything that the flouncey Asgardian did is simple child’s play.” Emma had found that controlling the minds of others to be telepathy 101. “By the time I was 18, I put another telepath in a coma. Albiet, she tried to kill me first so I feel it was justifiable.” Emma spoke about it casually. Astrid was a complete cow anyway and she had it coming. “And look how well that turned out.”

As he questioned what she meant by plaything, Emma smirked a little to herself. “It means whatever you want it to mean but I can be very persuasive.”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Clint was mostly kidding — he hadn’t read the contract, so he had no idea what was in it. It seemed like the sort of thing that was plausible though, and he didn’t bother saying any of this aloud. “Oh, that’s a good plan. I’ll show up and teach kids how to shoot arrows in their hospital rooms, they’ll love it,” he quipped, grinning crookedly at her. Her words were cutting, sharp, and he knew what she was trying to do with them. But he just let it roll off his shoulders. 

“Are there handcuffs involved? Because I gotta warn you, I grew up in the circus. I can slip a lot of cuffs and undo a lot of knots,” he replied breezily. “My safeword is not Asgardian, for the record. That’s way too weird.” If he pretended that bringing up Loki casually didn’t tweak at his brain, then maybe they’d move past it. “Survival of the fittest, telepath edition,” he said, nodding along to her story, mimicking her casual tone.

His eyes flicked over to hers, and he mirrored her smirk too. “Okay. But when you hate me nine days from now, remember you’re the one who started all this.”

He’d always been an active person, never able to sit still too long for fear of wasting a second of the day. Growing up, Bucky needed energy for school and work at the same time, coming home to make dinner for his sisters and force his ma to at the very least take a cup of coffee to sustain herself. In the war, he’d bust his ass making sure the Howlies didn’t get their asses popped by the Krauts, and chasing after Steve filled up his time in between and before. Living under the radar, jumping every time someone spoke to him, it hadn’t even been a half life. It had been merely passing time. Now, he got to go to the food cart outside the Tower and wave to the man selling newspapers, got to tell the vendor about his kid and laugh at what he said about his. He was part of the world again, and he was loving every moment.

Still, old habits died hard. He trusted Stark’s surveillance, but when he heard the smallest indication someone was behind him, he was around with his left arm poised for a beat before he recognised it as Clint. “No one would’ve done that three years ago,” he muttered, lowering his shoulders and taking in a single breath (and then it was over. Living in the moment was so much easier now). “Guess that means I have to be heading in the right direction, yeah?”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

“What, snuck up on you?” Clint asked, crooked grin on his face. “I think you overestimate my sense of self-preservation. I would’ve totally snuck up on you if I’d known where you were,” he quipped. He saw the tension flash through Barnes’ body, fading slowly, and he felt a little guilty for it. He shrugged to him. “But yeah,” he added. “Seems like it to me.” 

Barnes had always reminded him of Nat. Of himself. Clint had needed his own second chances a dozen times over, and since Coulson had given that to him, he had made a point to try and pay it forward. “You wanna spar for a bit? Been a while since I trained with anyone else.” 

Day 3: The Queen of Wands

Clint’s strengths are simple. He isn’t a god or a super-soldier or a genius. He’s just willing to put in the work. Over and over again, no matter how many times it takes, because once he’s decided he’ll master something, he’s going to do it. As a child, and even as an adult later on, he felt he had to in order to stay important to people. On good days now, it’s simply a habit.  

Day 2: The Ten of Cups

She’d missed people before. Steve, in the days before Berlin. Sam, since he went off the grid in D.C. Nikolai, Alexei, even James in the years she knew him only as a shadow, a presence that was comforting as well as frustrating in its lack of clarity. She’d missed people before, but she still wasn’t familiar, never would be familiar, with the feeling of losing a limb. Talking to Clint had once been a part of every day. She called him to ask what coffee he wanted her to bring. She went on a jog with his dog. She texted him with shaking hands in the middle of the night, trusting in his stupid jokes to even her out and allow her to breathe again.

He disappeared, and she lost an arm, and she wanted to rip his head off. She imagined taking off his limbs and throwing him into the Hudson. She replayed whacking his head off a metal pole in the Helicarrier after Loki’s possession more times than she could count in her head. She imagined hurting him.

And then she stepped into the room, saw him standing there, and all of her well laid plans went to waste.

At least, partly. The other part picked a cushion up off the sofa and lobbed it, with quite considerable force, at his head. “Hey Tasha?” she repeated, in a vague imitation of his voice. “Been a while? I thought you’d fallen off the edge of the Earth! I thought Kovinsky got you, or you’d rejoined the circus, or–” She wasn’t going to think about the or. “What the hell have you done to your hair?”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Clint let the pillow hit him. He figured it was the least of what she could do to him. It was certainly a lot less painful than he’d been expecting. He had fully expected to lose a limb, maybe two if she felt particularly vindictive in the moment. But that wasn’t who Nat was. Not really. People thought she was cold and cruel, but that’s because they didn’t know her like he did. There were only a few people in the world who really looked at Nat and saw who she really was. She was careful that way. 

He wasn’t. He had shown himself to her right up on that mountaintop, when they each had a gun pointed at each other, and orders to follow. He made a different call then, and showed her his throat. She hadn’t slit it yet. He had faith she never would. 

But if she did, he’d probably deserve it. 

“Kovinsky, really?” he replied. “That’s who you thought would take me out?” He pretended that’s what made his heart skip a beat. Not the thought that for a second, she believed he’d gone back to the circus. Was it so far from the truth? Was the truth worse? The thoughts raced and spiraled through his mind, but on the surface he just smiled that crooked half-grin, and ran a hand across the mohawk. “I thought it was cool,” he said. “It’s like... punky.” 

People tended to avoid Rictor, especially when he got like this. Even other mutants, even people who knew him well took a step back when he got this glint in his eyes. You look like you’re gonna blow something up when you get like this, Rusty had told him once, but his voice had been fond in a way no one else’s ever was because Rusty could handle Rictor’s mood swings. Other people couldn’t. Strangers especially couldn’t. 

Ric studied the man carefully for a moment, responded to his question with a shrug that mimicked the one the man had given him just heartbeats before. “Yeah,” he agreed, “names are stupid.” He paused for a moment, studying the man. “Julio,” he said at last. “That’s the name my mom gave me. Julio.” It felt like an offering, like an olive branch, like something heavier than a name. “Don’t call me that, though. I don’t — Nobody calls me that.” His stepmother used to, when she’d called him anything at all. Rusty had, sometimes, and Skids. Tabby, too, during their X-Terminator days, when they were kids who felt too much and knew too little. And then Rusty died and Skids left and Tabby’s presence became smaller and smaller until he ached with the absence of it and there was no one left to call him Julio and he told himself he preferred it that way.

Clint was speaking, was saying things that made sense in a way Rictor might have hated on another day, and he continued staring out into the water, eyeing the island that he’d pulled out of the sea himself. It was a part of him and he was a part of it and he wasn’t sure how to move forward with that. He wasn’t sure he could. “Okay,” he nodded after a long silence, dragging his gaze away from the sea and towards Clint instead. “Thanks.” 

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Nobody calls me that. If he hadn’t said it so desperately, Clint would’ve thought it was just a preference. But there was too much emotion in those words. Nobody called him Julio anymore. But Clint was willing to bet everything he had, which okay wasn’t a lot, that somebody had. Maybe a long time ago. Maybe what only felt like a lifetime ago, but was really still a fresh wound. 

“Ric okay?” he asked, instead of voicing any of his suspicions aloud. It would just rub salt in that wound, no matter how old it was. Clint wasn’t a sadist, despite what his recent actions might’ve made people think. Despite the reputation he had earned himself. In the end, he really was his father’s son, and his mentors’ pupil. 

When Rictor spoke again, Clint had gotten into his own head for a moment. He wasn’t sure at first, what the okay was in reply to. But the thanks was clear enough, and he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, anytime,” he said, turning his back slowly on the island. “You want a cheeseburger? Or coffee? I could kill for a coffee right now.”

Olivia didn’t say anything about his not half bad comment about her aim, she knew her aim was great, she’d been taught by one of the best and had used a bow for years. “My dad taught me” she replied as she knocked out the last guy with a hit to the head using her bow.

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Clint nodded. “Cool. Good family bonding,” he said, smirking at a joke only he’d understand. He had a bad habit of that. Archery had driven a wedge between him and Barney, had broken them apart when nothing else had managed. “You really seem to know what you’re doing, huh kid?”

Day 1: The Eight of Wands

Clint is propelled forward by love. Or rather, a deep desire for it. It makes him a steadfast, loyal friend, the kind who would walk into the fire for you — but it also makes him desperate. Craving love, even (and sometimes especially) from the wrong people, he throws himself headfirst into mistakes. He wants to love and be loved, but his sense of self-esteem is so twisted up that sometimes, he can’t bring himself to believe in love when it’s returned to him. 

“Good. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” Gabby had heard it all before about her being too young, and she had no desire to hear it again. Anyone with a problem could take it up with the people who made her like this. Oh, or Laura. Laura could kick their ass any day.

She looked back down, following his gesture towards the lackies. The Tracksuits as he called them. Tacky uniform. “Futzing?” Gabby raised an eyebrow. She liked that. She’d hand onto that one. “I’m… familiar. And they’ve certainly never hurt for money. Got a lot of above board profits and no doubt made enough below the table too.” She shifted slightly to get a better view. “You heard of Alchemax?”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

“Oh, I’ll probably still get hurt,” Clint said, peering out at the Tracksuits. “Those guys love to put holes in me.” But not as many as he put in them, and that’s what counted. At the end of the day, when he was sore and bleeding and bandaged, that’s what he focused on. That and Dog Cops. 

“Futzing,” he echoed, nodding. He looked back to her, curiosity blooming in his chest. “Can’t say I have,” he replied. “But you’re familiar, so why don’t you tell me the whole thing?” He leaned back on his haunches, eyes locked on hers. “Whoever they are, they’re bad news. And I don’t like the idea of you fighting them... alone. I don’t like the idea of me fighting them alone either, so maybe we can help each other out. Whattya think?”

Jason’s head tilted slightly at the question and he couldn’t help but bark out a loud laugh, it sounding warped through the modulator on his helmet. “Dude.” He couldn’t help it, another chuckle escaped him. There being a lot to clean up in Gotham was an understatement. The city was crawling with criminals—he was sure there were plenty of people who saw him as one too. There was barely a moment he could actually sit and just be. He supposed that people like him didn’t get those moments. 

“I’ve been down this road. It’s not my first trip. You think some random lecture from another vigilante I barely know is gonna stop that? Just curious in what the mindset is in that. I get this lecture from Batman every other weekend.” Though, he hadn’t seen Bruce in ages and there was a reason for that. The mere moment he spotted Bruce he’d feel the pit rage that lingered him want to strike out like a viper, the anger residing in his chest and spilling over in an instant. 

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Clint sighed lightly. God, had he been that irritating at that age? Or was he worse, with his desperation for attention and love? Probably worse, he decided, just as he shoved that in a box to never ever open again. 

“I also got that lecture,” he replied with a grimace. “Seriously. Big Bat showed up on my rooftop and everything. Talking about making sure I didn’t warrant a second visit,” he said, smirking lightly. He twirled the katana in his hand, watching the glint of the blade dance. “But you’re still young enough to make different choices. Me, not so much.” He paused, stretching his back. “At least for the sake of your spine, you should consider it.”

Answers had been hard to come by in Japan. Danny had known they would be, had understood it from the moment he made the plan to go. K’un Lun was a mystery even when he was there, but now that it was gone? There was no end to the number of questions he had about the details of where he’d spent fifteen years of his life. 

Lately, the questions had grown in number far faster than the answers that came along with them. He’d felt an energy in his chest lately, one that was familiar and comforting and impossible. He hadn’t told Ward about it yet, hadn’t admitted that he felt the Fist coming back and had no idea what it meant. As far as he knew, there were only two ways to gain the Iron Fist — defeating the dragon or completing the ritual Davos had used to steal it from Danny months before. And Danny hadn’t fought a dragon since that cave in K’un Lun, and he certainly hadn’t attempted the ritual. Colleen had the Fist. Danny had made that decision, had felt confident in it.

But his chest still felt warm and his knuckles were still bruised and he knew instinctively that if he tried, he could make them glow that faint, familiar yellow. And he had no idea why. 

Orson Randall was the only name he’d managed to uncover so far. If you want to know about the Iron Fist, one thug had told him after a brutal fight, Randall is who you should ask. He hadn’t known where to find the man, but he’d known of someone who might. A kid who hung out in alleys in Nagasaki, a kid who pushed passed Danny with a thin line of blood on his throat and a look of terror in his eyes. Danny should follow him, he knew. He should get his answers and he should go. But curiosity was a funny thing, and Danny…

Danny ducked into the alley, hanging back in the shadows. There was a man there, a man with a blade that made him ache for Colleen. Danny didn’t say anything, but he knew the man knew he was there. He stilled when he spoke, when he called out in English with an American accent. 

Hesitantly, Danny stepped out into the light. “You didn’t have to hurt him,” he said. “He’s just a kid.” A kid who knew more than he ought to, just as Danny had been once upon a time. The similarities made his heart pound. “What are you after? What are you looking for?” 

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Clint laughed, low and rough. It’d been a long time since he did that, even at something like this. “Kids can cause plenty of trouble,” he said, turning to face his ‘guest.’ “You look like a kid yourself,” he noted, lifting the katana up. But he only wiped it on his sleeve and slid it back into its sheath. 

It wasn’t the age so much – he was younger than Clint, sure, but he wasn’t a teenager. But there was something in his eyes, a sort of youth that Clint wasn’t even sure he’d ever had. He looked almost... lost. Not like he didn’t know which way home was, but like he didn’t know if there was a home at all. 

And there was the youthful curiosity too. “Nothing that concerns you,” he said, arching a brow. He adjusted the cowl around his face, pulling it up just a little. It felt strange to wear a mask again. Like a step backwards. Backwards, forwards, he was heading in all kinds of directions. Maybe he was a little lost too. 

“Look,” he said slowly. “I’m not usually big on answering twenty questions these days. So why don’t we just say that I’m taking out some trash, and leave it at that.” The Hand. That’s what he was looking for these days. It was just a name, just a whisper around town, no one seemed to know exactly what it was. But he’d heard that name and New York together a few too many times for comfort. He was going to find out what it all meant, just as soon as he shook this tail.

          “Not quite.” To be truly honest, when Bruce had found out, he might’ve thought Barton had sided with the League of Assassins. The patterns, the violence, certainly seemed partial to their patterns… But it wasn’t meant to drive their Head’s mission. Personal vendetta or vigilant cause? The World’s Greatest Detective needed to find out, if not to protect his City at large. The other, the Batman observed, was tense, decisive. It was a certain terse stillness that he trained himself into, something that could be hidden under the armor and the cape and the cowl. Bruce knew better than to underestimate anyone who caught his eye.

          “Aproximately 6,789 miles… Give or take.” Humor, rare. Better to keep things loose, or the two of them were going to trade blows before they could come to some form of peace treaty. Bruce took a moment of silence again to weigh his opinions, take precautions, calculate his approach… And even Bruce sometimes finds the guts to say screw it. With a few dutiful strides, the Bat made his full presence known, his permanently set scowl in full light. “I’d like you to convince me that I won’t need to make a second visit.” The deep growl of his voice had somewhat lightened, arms crossing over the bat spanning his chest, the overly dramatic cape flowing with the slow motion. “You can start by telling me exactly what this personal business of yours entailed, and if it followed you back.”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

“Shocker,” Clint muttered under his breath. He’d collected quite a few different reputations over the years. Archer. Criminal. Agent. Killer. They all felt like different lifetimes, eons apart, but all contained in his head. He remembered everything just a little too clearly. It was hard to forget the feeling of blood on your hands. It was sticky, warm – and so, so heavy. 

He scratched behind an ear with an arrow head and shrugged. “I’m gonna trust you on that one,” he said. “Math was never really my thing. Did you double check with the bat-calculator?” he asked, arching a brow. The mocking tone, the devil-may-care attitude — it was always the best way to get a reaction from a man like him. 

Sure enough, he was striding forward, huge and menacingly, a shadow falling over Clint. Clint looked up at the cowl and smirked. “Thanks,” he quipped.  He paused for a moment. “I don’t really see how my business is any of your business, bat-buddy,” he said, tapping an arrow against the armored chest in front of him. “But I didn’t exactly leave a lot that could follow me.”

Emma smirked at his response. “Oh but do ask them. It just another thing I can add to my ever growing list on why I find Avengers so tedious.” Emma told him, making no secret of her particular disdain for the other group. She had her own issues with them and she didn’t view them as an enemy but more a collateral damage. X-Men had fought for human and mutant alike and as much as the Avengers tried to preach now and then, Emma was quick to remind them that they are nothing but mere by standers in mutant affairs.

“I would sink my manicure deeper into your brain if you do prove to be…troublesome.” Emma said, looking him up and down for a moment, as if sizing up her prey. At his answer, Emma’s eyes narrowed at him. “Well, of course you would.” She muttered with slight bitterness. “It is another land your people would probably bring destruction to as you have done to so many others. I don’t mean to be rude but collapsing buildings and maniacs seem to follow you lot around like the plague, darling. Forgive me if I find your presence here to be unsettling.” Emma was sharp but it was her truth. She worried their presence would attract something that would hurt mutants. Her students. 

“Yes, yes, we do often extend a charitable hand to the homo sapiens and all that.” Emma was flippant as she linked her arm with the archer. “If you wish to experience Genosha fully, then allow me.” Emma said. “I am not the tour guide usually but I do enjoy a new plaything with biceps.”

/ ..-. / ..- / - / --.. /

Clint snapped his fingers. “Dammit. New thing in the contract, I’m not allowed to make the Avengers more tedious to people. Something about redeeming our public image, or whatever,” he said, smirking a crooked half-grin at her. She was one of those women with sharp smiles and a sharper gaze, who could cut with her tongue alone — but considering his best friend, he was used to that. He wondered what Nat would’ve said to her. 

“But I’m so good at causing trouble,” he said, just as cheerfully as he had before the threat. The threat he knew all too well, and she’d know that too if she was looking. She’d see Loki in his mind, all the things Clint had been made to do — and all the things he’d done of his own accord. “Might not be the best thing for your nails,” he said. “And hey, no offense taken here. I’m the first to admit that I’ve made a lot of messes.” He shrugged a shoulder. “But I try to clean up after myself too.” 

Most of the time, anyway. 

She walked over and linked her arm through his. Clint didn’t flinch away, just put his hand over hers. “How charitable of you,” he noted. “Now, when you say plaything...”