(This is not my chapter and the credit of the characters goes to their respective authors)
Clint wasn't big on rumors. He generally found them annoying (but some were entertaining) and tended to ignore them. But when he heard the gossip that was running wild on the helicarrier, he didn't know if he should laugh or stare.
Apparently Nick Fury was seeing someone. Which was both a ridiculous and frightening idea.
Ridiculous, because who would Nick Fury pair up with? He was sarcastic, critiquing, ruthless, pitiless and probably compassion-less. But it was for those same reasons it was frightening - what kind of person could put up with him?
Normally he'd go to Natasha and discuss the rationality of said rumor, but the female spy was away in Indonesia on some mission and he was left to stew alone.
At the moment he was crouched on the balcony railing of an abandoned building, peering rather moodily through a pair of binoculars at the man he'd been told to watch. Apparently he was the brother of some mafia-don S.H.I.E.L.D was trying to make friends with, and some other rivals gangs were underhanded enough to attack family not involved in the underworld. So, as a sign of good will, S.H.I.E.L.D put a shadow on him for protection. Clint got that, he totally understood. But why did it have to be him?
Grumbling under his breath, he watched as his target – no, not target, object of babysitting – messed with his phone as he walked, not paying attention to the shady alley's he was walking by or any of his surroundings really. Clint probably wouldn't have either, except for the fact that he'd been chewed out by Fury often enough about getting lazy on observation jobs, and that was the only reason he saw the dark form that shot out of the alley, snatched up the man and dragged him into the shadows, all in a split second.
If Clint hadn't been watching, he would have the man has just disappeared.
And of course seeing your mission objective vanish from the street and into a potentially – probably - hostile area banished all laziness Clint could have had and he leapt down the streets below, making a bee-line for the alley while contacting Fury.
"What is it, Barton?" It sounded like Fury was angry about being interrupted – he probably was in a meeting again – and was in no mood for jokes.
"Someone just apprehended the target – objective, sir," the archer said as he skidded around the corner to the alleyway, in time to see the man being dragged around into another back lane farther down. He hurried about him, checking that his bow was in working order as he went.
"Well get to it," Nick growled. "You were given this job for a reason, so do it right. Now, where are you?"
"Uh," Clint dashed after the struggling man and his captor, and jumped over a garbage can the kidnapper had knocked over to slow him down, "somewhere in the back lanes by Bourbon Avenue and Hudson Street. I should be fine. Talk to you later, Fury."
"Bourbon Avenue?" Fury sounded stumped. "Wait a moment, Barton -" But Clint had already ended the message and lunged at his objective and the man who was pinning him down. A quick punch to the solar plexus had him reeling and Clint managed to snatch his target away safely. A quick glance confirmed the fact that, yes, the man was fine, and no, because he was fine he wasn't allowed to do any major damage to the kidnapper.
With a sigh he cracked his knuckles and got ready to beat the man down a bit – nothing too serious – and was preparing to pounce when suddenly the back door of an establishment flew open and a man with black hair shocking green eyes glanced around the scene. He had a bin full of empty beer bottles, and the sounds of a bar were heard from the building inside. He was probably a bartender or something. All the man had time to do was blink then the kidnapper had scrambled towards him, pulling out a butterfly knife and pointing it at him.
"You take a step closer and I'll shank this guy!" The man snarled, exposing yellow teeth and ugly gums – probably from smoking. Clint wrinkled his nose at the thug. Ew.
"Huh." The bartender blinked. "I haven't been held hostage in a while. You're holding the knife wrong," he told the trembling thug.
"What? The fuck are you going on about, moron?" The thug said, obviously confused and baffled by the lack of fear in the bartender's eyes. "Can't you see that I have a knife? I could shank you! Any second now!"
The bartender shrugged and continued on with his casual conversation. "Mm, well, you might, but not holding the knife like that. Because if you do, this can happen." Whirling, he snapped a leg up faster than the thug could follow and almost faster than Clint could. It neatly collided with the man's hand, and his poor grip sent it spinning and leaving a shallow gash on his cheek as it flew by. The bartender followed up with a seamlessly-flowing kick to the chin that sent the thug head-over-heels and slamming painfully against a dumpster a foot away.
The black-haired man regarded the now unconscious man contemplatively. "Maybe I used a bit too much force," he murmured, putting down the bin that he still held. He brushed down his apron and black vest and turned to regard Clint. "Is he alright?" He asked.
"Huh?" Clint glanced down at the man he was watching and realized he had fainted at his feet. The excitement had been too much, obviously. "He'll be fine, just fainted. Who are you?" He addressed the man cautiously. His movements had been those of a fighter, and not just any, but an experienced one that had taken on serious situations and came out on top. Maybe a war veteran? He didn't look like a regular soldier, though...
The man laughed, ignoring the tension in Clint's question. "Oh, I'm just a bartender who works at this little place." He motioned to the one he'd come out of.
Clint arched an eyebrow. "Just a bartender?"
"A bartender with past experiences," the man admitted, rubbing his head sheepishly. "Do you have a comm or something to call your superiors, or do you need a phone?"
Clint stiffened at his words. How had he known he had superiors, or a comm? This man knew he was with the government, somehow. Seeing his suspicion, the bartender hurried to put his hands up in the air. "I know people," he was quick to reassure, "and I've seen your... branch of government. Don't freak out, please. I've already knocked out one person and it's only," he paused to check a watch made of a strange bronze metal that piqued Clint's interest, "ten a.m."
He couldn't be sure of the man's truthfulness, but it didn't seem like he was lying, and to contact HQ wasn't a danger. Reaching up, he pressed the comm in his ear and murmured, "This is Agent Hawkeye, requesting body retrieval and a pick-up at this location." There was a muttered affirmative from the secretary, and Clint was quick to reach down and grab the unconscious man. Throwing him over his shoulder, he eyed the bartender, who was idly inspecting the scuffs on his combat boots. How odd for a bartender to wear combat boots...
"Agent Barton," he said reluctantly, extending his hand to the bartender. The other man looked slightly surprised, but strode forward and shook it. His hold was firm and friendly, but with an undercurrent of strength that made Clint shiver. He hadn't been able to tell until now, but looking at the bartender, he could feel raw power rolling off him in waves. He felt lucky that they were on somewhat friendly terms, because if that power was directed at him in a hostile manner, he didn't know how well he'd hold up.
"Percy Jackson," he said cheerfully. "I work at the Golden Fleece. If you're ever up for a drink, feel free to drop by." He gestured to the building that he'd come from.
"Uh..." Clint didn't get invited for drinks by total strangers often, so he was a bit stumped on how to reply. Percy didn't seem to mind, just waving a hand and grinning endearingly, then disappearing into the door of the bar. "Say hello to Nick Fury for me!" was the last he said before he was gone.
Clint blinked. What just happened? He rubbed his head where he felt a slight headache come on, and realized he probably looked like Fury right now. Shaking his head, he walked towards where a discreet grey van rolled up a few feet away. Whatever. He'd search up this 'Percy Jackson' and if he was real, then he'd take him upon those drinks.
————
It appeared that Percy (Perseus, actually, but he couldn't blame the guy for using a nickname) Jackson was indeed real, and was indeed affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. somehow. He had been unsure of why he had had to go through almost a thousand protective fire walls to get to his file - it was one of the most protected he'd seen - but when he got to the documents he gulped at the bartender's background info. No wonder the man had seemed terrifying – he was. Because, come on, how many twelve years old escape a gun wielding kidnapper with what appeared to be a baseball bat (man those pictures were fuzzy; cellphone cameras sucked)? And going from North America to Greece in a day or two, both in crazy situations like massive sink holes and earthquakes while still a teenager? He really did know 'people.'
But, heck, his day had been crazy, and he really wanted that drink now, so he went back to the same bar he'd found those two weeks ago, and stepped in. It was cozy, and comfortable, the kind of place he'd want to return to every Friday or so, and was popular if the crowded tables and laughing people meant something. Going up to the bar, he settled on a stool and asked the bartender on duty, who wasn't Percy, (obviously) "Is Percy in?"
The man snorted and tugged on the black bandana holding his red-haired shaved-at-the-sides mullet back. "Yeah, he's in. He owns the place – he's always here. Just out back for a minute or two." The bartender – and Clint wasn't sure how Percy had hired this man, because he seemed more fit to be running around with a metal bat and motorcycle, not serving tequila – glanced over his jeans and black dragon t-shirt dubiously, and met his eyes. The others were an icy grey that seemed to shoot straight into Clint's soul, but whatever he saw must have satisfied him (somehow) because he motioned him through with a jerk of his thumb. "You're cool. Just, don't freak," he said with a grin.
Clint was confused, but the man had already turned away to prepare a drink so he slipped past the counter and through the storage room to the door to the back alley. Biting back the amusement of seeing the other man in the same place he'd met him, he pushed open the door just in time to get an eyeful of Percy contentedly kissing someone – someone very familiar. Someone with chocolate skin and an eye patch and a trench coat and oh shit Percy was kissing his boss.
Later Clint would vehemently deny his freaked out squeal of 'Jesus shit!' but it was pretty understandable because Nick Fury, the most asexual and unlikely to be in a relationship person he could think of was making out with the (agreeably handsome) black-haired bartender with the crazy taekwondo moves, and dammit he was glaring at him now. In the present time, all Clint could say was that he was happy he had just put his hands up and went back inside to order that drink (and several others) because that glare could kill. Oh, and that those rumors were now not ridiculous, but just frightening. Very frightening, because Percy Jackson was very frightening, and in the next couple of years all the things he heard and saw only confirmed that opinion. He did not regret learning about Fury's relationship (because now he had something to hold over Natasha's head, ha!) and he did not regret keeping quiet about it (except for teasing Nick about it occasionally, but he never told anyone because it wasn't to him to tell) but he did regret how he had found out about the two's relationship.
Well, only a little. Because damn would that make for a good story once the other's found out about it on their own.
And all those firewalls around Percy's files? Yeah, those made sense now.