It had happened in seconds. One second, Dakota was outside of the Avengers Mansion. She had heard the sound of something breaking inside and had noticed the front door was open. She had drawn her gun, stepped through the door, and yelled out "Are you okay?" It had been a habit, an urge to ensure that nothing was wrong.

Nice, standard, general "good neighbor" sorts of things.

The next second, a fairly attractive and familiar man had slammed her to the wall in the foyer and clapped his hand over her mouth. The back of her head hit the wall hard enough to cause a blurred vision of stars for a moment and she was fairly certain he had bruised her ribs. Eyes level with hers, he stared into her eyes for far longer than acceptable and held a finger to his lips. After a moment, he pulled his hand away and released her. Dakota slumped against the wall for a moment before staggering from it.

"What the hell, Barton?!" Dakota hissed, her aggressive hushed tone well-practiced. She brushed herself off before readying her gun again. This time, she looked like she was seriously considering shooting Clint in the foot.

"Someone's in here. Kinda trying to keep you alive," he whispered back in retort, giving a sly smile. She swore the man was forever grinning or whining. SHIELD employees were so fucking weird.

But now wasn't the time to question her coworkers. Dakota nodded in understanding, then listened for a moment. The intruder was clearly not stealthy and was bound to smash into something else. Another crash was heard, this time clearly from the kitchen.

Betty fell out of the transformation, falling on the floor in laughing hysterics. Tears were falling from her eyes as her arms curled around her belly in a desperate attempt to stop laughing so hard.

“Doctor Ross, are you okay?”

“To leather, to dildos to curry vindaloo” She gasped out, falling backwards till she was lying on the training room floor.

“That’s probably Clint and Bruce’s Friday night.” She quieted for a second before breaking out in pearls of laughter, hand coming up to cover half of her face.

The farther I fall, I’m beside you; As lost as I get, I will find you; The deeper the wound, I’m inside you. For ever and ever, I’m a part of

“Have a good night, Mr. Stark.”

Stark nodded and smiled as the last R&D employee made the motions to leave the laboratory. He grinned once he was gone. Oh yes, this would be a good night. Eighty-nine consecutive hours without a blink of sleep. His shoulders were a little sore, but he knew that was just a result of the way he had been sitting and leaning over the table as he worked. His first time back at work with the R&D team in months, at least the workaholics who came to work on Saturdays. And he was one of them. Stark was in that much of a good mood. He felt as alert as he did nine hours ago, when he broke his original record of sleepless hours. Added bonus? There was nothing particularly angsty about this now. He wasn’t too scared to fall asleep, nor was he hoping to please just fall asleep already – no, he was energetic and sleep felt like a distant need. Like knowing that you’ll need to go for that painful dentist’s appointment in two months time. He wasn’t even pushing himself yet, he was still trying to find the point where he would need to start doing that.

Another thing: fresh back from Los Angeles, and he wasn’t a bit jet-lagged. And yes, he had flown in on a jet along with Rhodey. Mainly because this Iron Patriot business made Rhodey even more of a government media hotspot, so he avoided recreational armor flights (give it a few more months, Stark thought). Tony had agreed to ditch an armor-flight back to New York because he and Rhodey hadn’t hung out in a while now, but there was a selfish reason too: sitting in the jet, he tested his ability to remotely pilot a suit for the first time. Rhodey reported instances of Tony going completely blank (he even started drooling one time), but he was generally able to keep a handle on the multi-tasking if he was focusing hard enough. A matter of practice.

This would revolutionize business meetings. Sitting in a room, while flying an armor across the continent. He’d never be completely bored again.

“Sir, Agent Barton is on his way up.”

“Oh, you know you don’t have to talk, J,” Stark’s grin grew wider. Indeed, he caught JARVIS’ message before it was projected out loud by his speech drive. He did, however, also catch JARVIS’ resistance to not “talking.” Ensure that Master Tony speaks. That was a control protocol Stark had never programmed in. There were tons of those, things like, Remind Master Tony to shower, or Elicit Master Tony’s smile, or Do not allow complete silence. Stark’s fondness for the system had grown a million-fold now that his thoughts were connected to it like that.

Stark spun the projection in front of him (using his mind of course, he was still flaunting that even though there was no one in the room), the latest endeavor by the team of SI workers he had been working with. Eventually, he heard the doors sliding open. He couldn’t see who it was from where he stood, but he was expecting Clint (and he tapped into the security cameras to make sure it was him, you know, he might as well if he could), so he called out. “Barton, take the flight of stairs on the right, I’m right –”

A dull, blunt, sound. Like thunder. It shook the very foundations of the building. Stark started making for one of the glass walls, but he didn’t take a step before he felt it coming. The data felt like a cold stream, tendrils prying in his brain. Directive 31-00: under effect. Directive 31-02: under effect. Directive 30-11 and Directive 30-12: pending approval. Directive 3: prioritized. Directive 4: pending approval.

Stark’s undersuit was already bleeding out of his pores by the time the red lights and alarms started blaring. JARVIS didn’t need to say anything before Stark spoke, out loud because that was habit.

Bucky watched as arrow after arrow hit the target, hissing through the air, the thrum of the string a rhythm of its own.  He walked forward, looking towards the archer. 

Clint. 

Natasha's partner in Strike Team Delta.  The guy who had saved her.  Who had been at her side for so many years, a man she would fight for, would tear down cities for if she had to.  A man she had squared up to a guy who was known as a god for.  

He made his footsteps heavier, giving Clint more warning that he was approaching.  "Agent Barton?"  He asked, coming closer, watching the man ahead of him, the distance of the range and the pattern he was picking out into the target showing uncommon skill.  But then, he knew from Natasha just how good Clint was. 

Clint turned round and Bucky came over to him.  "Thought it was time we met."  He stated, a slightly wry smile curving his lips.  "Heard a lot about you from Nat, and realised that we live in the same damn place and we've never even spoken." 

"Yeah, things have been interesting lately.  Guess it's time we met."  There was a similarly wry smile on Clint's face as he looked at Bucky. 

It felt as though they were two predators, sizing each other up, making judgements without speaking a word.  Finally Clint nodded and held out his hand, Bucky taking it in a strong grip. "Bucky Barnes." 

"Clint Barton."

"Helluva shot." 

"Yeah I've been told.  Want to go a few rounds in the range?"

Natasha felt as though she was swimming through a misty darkness, clawing for the surface, coming up short each time.  She could hear the steady beeping of a machine, ECG her groggy mind supplied the detail, but slowly, too slowly.  It sounded as though it was in the distance, somewhere far, far away.  She felt as though she should keep trying to break free of the darkness, but she was tired.  So damn tired.  It would be easier to float in the darkness, to just let it cloak her in its warmth and drag her down. 

"Aww, ‘Tash…"

That voice.  Familiar.  Far away still, too far to really grasp at, just another cloudy memory. 

Clint. 

Her mind supplied detail again just as she felt something a touch of a calloused thumb across her knuckles, the gesture achingly familiar.  Clint.  He was there with her.  He was there and she was trapped in the darkness and she didn’t want to be anymore.  She needed to get back to him. 

She felt his fingers move against the palm of her hand.  Two controlled strokes.  Forgive.  Signed please.  Signed sorry.  She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his fault that there was nothing he could have done that he couldn’t have stopped what had happened.  It was a risk of their job.  It always had been. 

She vaguely heard the scraping of a chair beside the bed, heard him slump down.  Slowly she sucked in a deeper breath, bright, hot, sharp pain sparking along her side as she did, and she forced her eyes open, blinking against the sudden light. 

There he was.  Waiting, head bowed, face in his hands, looking utterly broken, defeated.  Natasha turned her head to look at him, carefully, painfully reached out, the tips of her fingers just brushing against his forehead.  His head snapped up and his eyes met hers. 

Carefully she raised her hand, choosing to sign to him rather than speak.  This was between them, the signing something that he had taught her, that to her felt like something that strengthened their bond.  “Idiot.”  She offered him a small smile to go with the word, the expression tugging at her split lip.  “Not your fault.”  The words were clumsy, one of her hands hampered by the IV line that ran into it.  There was no way that she could let him blame himself, he had had no choice in the matter.  She had been sent out on a solo mission. 

She swallowed, shifting painfully, carefully, forcing herself to move across the bed, pressing to one side, ignoring Clint telling her to stop, making her battered body obey her, gritting her teeth as she almost blacked out.  She looked at Clint.  “Come here.”  She signed, lightly touching the space beside her, waiting as he shifted up beside her, so careful, her hawk.  His warm, solid presence beside her was comforting.  She would survive, she knew that.  She would heal soon enough.  For now, more important to her was Clint.  Was making sure that he was okay.  Making sure he knew that they were okay. 

"You’re an idiot."  She murmured, voice gentle, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw fingers sliding up to card through his hair.  "You’re an idiot because there isn’t a damn thing that you could have done." 

“‘Tasha…”  His voice was a soft, achingly familiar rumble by her ear and she turned her head to look at him, face to face, tilting her head so their foreheads touched. 

"Just…just lie with me…please?"  She asked quietly.  There were so few she could let her guard down around this much, be this vulnerable in front of.  He was so much to her.  She reached out, ignoring the way the IV tugged at the back of her hand, taking his hand, feeling the familiar latent strength there, lacing her fingers through his, holding on. 

She had met Tony, met Bruce, even Natasha. But somehow, in the hustle and bustle of this new gig, she had sidestepped meeting Hawkeye.

Dakota had a soft spot for the guy, even though she had never met him. He was an ordinary man on a team full of superheroes, a guy who broke his bones just as easily as the next and was in and out of hospitals as often as he was on missions or in battle. His file said he was deaf, or at least had some sort of significant hearing issue, which only made the whole thing even more impressive.

Matt Murdock was blind, sure, but he got super special bat vision or whatever with it. This guy was just an ordinary dude who worked hard and got to play in the big leagues. It was one of the most impressive “under dog” stories she had ever heard.

Not that one could really refer to anyone in the Avengers as an “underdog.”

The brunette knocked on the front door of the mansion, a fairly familiar act at this point, and readied her badge. She tilted her head to the camera she had finally caught sight of, speaking directly to it. No doubt whoever was inside would have access to the feed. “Hey, sorry, it’s Dakota North again, with SHIELD. I was hoping I might be able to speak with Clint Barton today? I missed him on my last visit-“

"Sorry, Miss…Dakota, right? Could you hold on a sec?"

The voice came muffled through the intercomm, as if the speaker were speaking from several feet from the mic, but the voice was pretty recognizable: Clint. Good, so she had managed to catch him.

"Sure. Not a problem." He must have left the mic active, though, as she could hear shuffling about on the other end and several bits of cursing. After a moment, she spoke again. "Uh, do you need any help there?"

"Nope, I’m good- ah, dammit - here, Miss North. Totally fine. I’ll be right there." The voice seemed even farther from the mic now, and then it clicked in Dakota’s mind. That asshole. She recognized those damn sounds anywhere.

She quickly turned, dashing off the porch and racing around the side of the mansion, just in time to see a man with sand-colored hair climbing out a side window. She'd seen plenty of informants pull the same damn move. “Seriously, Mr. Barton?” He froze, hanging from the window for a moment, before audibly sighing.

"Just wanted one day without SHIELD trying to send me somewhere. One day with the big screen and some damn popcorn." He dropped to the ground with a defeated slump before turning to face her. "So, where the hell am I going now?"

Dakota looked him over for a second before raising an eyebrow. “The nearest bar. I’m paying.” At his confused expression, she sighed herself, shoving her ID into her pocket. “Fury said my job was to get acquainted with you guys. He didn’t specify how I had to do it. Over drinks works for me.”

Clint blinked for a moment. "…you’re not a SHIELD agent, are you?"

Now he was being stupid.

He'd changed shirts twice and was already breaking in the stress pepper while he tried to decide if he should bother mentioning his birthday to Clint. He was fairly certain he should - it was an unwritten rule of being in a relationship, wasn't it? - but he couldn't seem to breach the barrier of self-consciousness that had appeared somewhere between receiving an unexpected gift and trying to remember the last time he'd spent a birthday with anyone other than a newspaper and some form of street food. For the nine years he'd had with his mother, he'd celebrated, of course, but after her death he hadn't seen reason to until he was almost twenty. After that, he'd spent just about every single one of his birthdays with Betty until eight or so years ago, when he'd had to go on the run after the Gamma Pulse project failed. Not to mention that he was turning forty-four, which made him almost forty-five, which made him almost fifty, which was half a damn century. Clint wasn't even in his forties yet, was he?

Bruce grimaced at himself. No, he remembered from Clint's medical file - he'd turned thirty-seven this year. Seven years difference - that wasn't so bad, right?

"You're dodging the issue," he mumbled to himself, smooshing the pepper to his forehead. The issue, really, was that he didn't want the attention - or, rather, that he didn't know how to handle the attention. Even as he thought it, the resin pepper in his hand seemed to burn through his palm, and without thinking about it he chucked it at his bed, where it bounced off the comforter and thudded lightly to the floor. He himself dropped into the rolling chair at his desk and buried his face in his hands, his breathing growing erratic as his thoughts ran away from him.

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve gifts or attention, he didn't deserve to celebrate the accident of his existence - he had never deserved it, or at least never felt that he had, but especially not with all the trouble he'd been with the tower and Jess and...and Loki. He was a disaster, and no amount of cake and candles could repair him, and - was he having an anxiety attack over plastic vegetables?

He lifted his head and forced himself to steady his breathing. If nothing else, now he wanted to see Clint because he'd gone and made himself feel like shit, and Clint was quite adept at making him feel...less like shit. Although. Bruce still wasn't convinced he deserved Clint, either, after doubting him like he had...

"Fuck."