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It wasn't that Clint didn't keep up with the news, it was just that when you're a world-saving Avenger and a landlord to a building that used to belong to a prolific Russian gang, in a relatively high-crime area, you kinda had to prioritise certain news locations. No point paying attention to what was going on in Queens when there was some giant squid-alien-thing attacking Portugal, or the Russian Bros were back harassing your tenants. Plus, that was what the vigilantes were for, right? Not that Clint liked to think of himself as above street-level crime (because he definitely wasn't) but it was hard to monitor all the subdivisions when New York was so damn big.
So really, Clint wasn't that surprised to find out there was a vigilante keeping the streets of Hell's Kitchen a bit tidier; what he was surprised at was how prolific and well-known the guy was. Apparently the guy had been making city-wide news for some time, and yet, somehow, he had completely escaped Clint's attention. To be fair, Clint only really paid attention to the live Bed-Stuy news feeds, because SHIELD had their own people for keeping up with world-threatening events. He just had to keep his phone on vibrate.
Clint hadn't even consciously intended to end up in Hell's Kitchen that evening; he'd been following leads on the Russian Bros for a week or two (they'd been oddly quiet around Bed-Stuy and he'd been getting suspicious), which had lead to some dock-side warehouse that was documented as belonging to some bank he hadn't heard of before. From his hidden perch atop a stack of strapped up crates, Clint had watched the Slavs loading up truck after truck with industrial metal boxes, their sneering laughter echoing out across the open water, rifles swinging haphazardly across their shoulders. Each truck had a logo, or symbol, crudely painted on the side in uneven strokes - it wasn't one he was entirely familiar with - and an uneasy feeling began to sink into the pit of his stomach. A feeling that the Russians might be involved in something far bigger than themselves, something involving serious drug or weaponry cartels.
He shifted his quiver strap a little higher up his shoulder, rolling ideas for what to do next over in his mind. On one hand, it would be more than a touch stupid to try and take on the whole warehouse full of meatheads by himself, but then again, that was kind of his thing: he hadn't risen through SHIELD and into The Avengers by thinking reasonably and choosing the most sensible options. On the other hand, he didn't exactly know what those thugs were up to and who all the packages were going to - or what they contained. Was it worth risking being completely in over his head and getting the shit beaten out of him, just because he didn't want to hand it all over to SHIELD to handle?
"You've wandered far." A low, rough-edged voice broke through his thoughts and probably would've made him jump, had he not been in surveillance-mode.
Clint twisted to the side to see a lean man crouched on the crates besides him, clad in a red suit made from some material that he was unfamiliar with. It looked like leather, but reinforced, almost. A set of billy clubs were slotted by his thigh and atop his cowl were two little devil horns - interestingly, there were no eyeholes in the mask, just ruby-red plastic where the man's eyes would be, Clint noted with curiosity.
He shrugged casually, as though the man's ability to sneak up on him, utterly silent and unnoticed, wasn't unnerving him. If there was one thing Clint hated, it was feeling useless and disadvantaged by his disability. In reality, yes, he was at a disadvantage compared to an agent or thug who had their hearing, but he liked to think his archery, hand-to-hand combat, observation and survival kills helped to make him equal with anyone else he might encounter.
"Just following up on a lead." He turned his head back to the Russians, who were dragging a final crate into a waiting truck. The two men half-carrying it were wheezing with effort while several other guys stood around, arms folded, cackling at them and presumably making fun of their struggles, in Russian.
"No Avengers with you?" It was hard to place the vigilante's tone; it was suspicious, almost, but not quite accusatory. Clint wanted to demand who the hell he was and what his issue was.
"Nah. More of a personal pursuit, than an agency one."
"Good. Last thing I want is a Norse God and a whiny billionaire stomping all over The Kitchen and causing havoc."
Clint let out a soft snort of laughter - they may have been his friends and work-partners but he was well aware of how his teammates tended to blunder through operations at time, regardless of carefully planned specifics and details.
"I'll be honest," Clint admitted, "this looks beyond me and what I'm here for." When the man in red remained silent, Clint continued. "The building I own used to belong to Ivan and his Bros, but they've been suspiciously quiet recently, so I thought I'd look into it a little. But whatever undertakings they've got going on here," he gestured to the scene unfolding in the warehouse in front of them, "looks to be deeper and more involved than what I came for."
The man had his head cocked to the side, like a curious dog; he rolled his jaw, seemingly in thought. "Yeah. You could say that." He hesitated, as if deciding whether or not he trusted Clint with whatever intel he had. "They're working for Kingpin - Wilson Fisk - but I've got it covered. No need to bring anyone else in."
Clint shrugged easily, there seemed no point in arguing with the guy. Yeah, he'd prefer to be involved in taking the Russian Mafia down, at least for his own piece of mind and because of his prior involvement with them, but the vigilante clearly didn't want an Avenger on his turf and clearly felt he had it handled.
"Sure, man." He shifted, as though to slip away into the darkness, but hesitated. "If I hear something - that might be of use, I mean - how do I get it to you?"
"You don't. Anything you hear will reach me, too." There was a sharpness, a cold hardness to the vigilante's tone that put Clint's guard up. The unspoken 'I work alone' echoed loudly through the chilly air. A bitter taste bled into Clint's mouth; as usual, he had only wanted to help but had put his foot in his mouth and come off as an asshole.
He swallowed the apologies that rose like bile in his throat and nodded curtly, though the guy was looking away from him and back towards the still brightly-lit warehouse, and allowed the shadows to envelop him.
* * *
"You want a refill?"
Clint flinched as the sleep-rough voice of his boyfriend broke him out of his thoughts; he knew he'd been hunched over his glowing laptop screen for a while, but he hadn't realised it had been that long.
Phil appeared at his shoulder, bare feet silent against the wooden floor, a steaming coffee pot in one hand, his rangers mug in the other. As he leaned over to top up Clint's chipped purple mug, he pressed a soft kiss against his neck. The blonde twisted to meet his lips and kiss him properly, biting down on his lower lip teasingly.
"How did the follow-up go? The leads any good, in the end?"
Clint cupped his now hot mug in his palms, rubbing his fingertips over the scalding ceramic in thought. "Yes and no?"
It wasn't meant to come out like a question, but Phil seemed to understand it wasn't going to a straight forward answer; he drew out the scuffed chair beside Clint and lowered himself onto it, coffee pot on the table and brimming mug in hand.
"I ended up at a dock-side warehouse in Hell's Kitchen, where the Bros were loading up trucks with crates. No idea what was in them, though my guess is either drugs or weaponry. That's usually their style." He paused to sip his coffee, letting the bitter taste wash over his tongue. "Then some guy showed up in a red onesie - definitely not a home-sewn one. It looked like leather, maybe, but reinforced, somehow. Guy had little devil horns on his mask, too."
Phil nodded in understanding. "You met Daredevil then. I mean, not too surprising, considering it's his patch."
Clint blinked at his boyfriend. "You- You know him?" Surprise and confusion twisted his expression.
"Of course. The media nick-named him The Devil of Hell's Kitchen when he first appeared and he seemed to run with it. From what I've heard, he doesn't particularly play well with others - and not in a Stark-type way either. Any attempted contact with him by SHIELD agents has continually been shut down."
Clint nodded slowly. "Yeah, I got the same kinda thing; he wanted to know if I'd come alone or if I was on an Avengers operation. When I indicated it was more of a personal matter, he seemed pretty keen for me to leave, sharpish. Had no idea who he was, just figured he was some vigilante, so I figured I'd do a bit of reading up on him."
"What time did you get in?" Phil asked, looking back at Clint's computer screen and at the half a dozen open tabs, all with articles on Daredevil and his antics - the majority of which were from a Hell's Kitchen news site called The Bulletin.
The blonde shrugged, "some time after 3." He scrolled down the page on a piece about an Irish family-based gang that Daredevil had single-handedly taken down and left immobilised for the cops to find the following morning.
"I can send you over the files we've collected, at SHIELD." Phil offered. "There's not a lot on the man under the mask, but there's some analysis on his movements and operations. He never seems to kill anyone - seriously injure, yes, but never kill - not that anyone's found, anyways."
Clint shrugged again. "Nah, thanks. Just wanted to know who the guy was, really. He can have it his way; the Russian's seem like they're into some shit that runs far deeper than what I was there for. Not too interested in digging into what he does, or whatever. If the Bros start reappearing around here, then that's a different story, but until then..." He trailed off and took a gulp from his coffee mug.
Phil squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "Sure. Well, someone's got to walk Lucky and I doubt it'll be the one who was up all night running around the city and researching vigilantes."
* * *
Phil's gonna be pissed.
The thought sifted its way through the static that was currently making up Clint's brain. Blood coated the inside of his teeth, thick and overpowering like melted chocolate; it slid in pregnant droplets from his nostrils and ears, hot against his already sweat-slicked skin. The only sound permeating the air around him the rhythmic drumbeat thudding of his own pulse, roaring in his ears. His muscles ached and twitched relentlessly, fingers quivering, biceps throbbing, burning with strain.
The Russian thug that stood looming over him, leering and spitting words from between gapped teeth- in what Clint assumed was a furious scream - was ruthless in a way unlike anything he'd encountered with the Bros before. These goons were definitely from an outside group; Ivan and his mafia were much more into the tape-'em-up-and-shake-'em-up style, nowhere near as violent and manic as the gang flitting around the warehouse Clint was currently being held in. It wasn't like he couldn't handle the fuckers, but damnit, a bit of a warning would've been nice.
Gappy slammed a meaty hand into Clint's already throbbing left shoulder and pushed him until his chair rocked onto its two back legs. A queasy involuntary feeling of panic sloshed like water in his stomach and he swallowed hard; the taste of blood burned down his already raw throat. The thug leaned in closer, breathing sour fumes over Clint's face as he continued his relentless demands.
Clint liked to think his lip-reading skills were at pretty good form, usually, given that he'd first picked it up as a kid, trying to follow the whispered conversations of pitying adults and useless social workers, and had been practising much more customarily since that shit with the so-called "Arms Dealer" who'd sold him that bogus sonic arrow. But the blurriness of his vision, combined with (what Clint assumed to be) a thick Russian accent, he was more than half making a wild guess about what was being spat at him.
He blinked through what he hoped was an innocent expression and gave the best nonchalant shrug he could.
Gappy's eyes went dark and his brows drew together with rage, the scowl drawing ugly deep ridges in his already lined face. A putrid purple colour flooded across his features and he began to tremble like a boiling kettle. Swiftly, Clint drew his head back and cracked his forehead right into the thug's nose; he felt the delicate bones shatter under his forehead and wished he could hear the pathetic shriek of agony and surprise he knew had accompanied it. The ache that had been burning through his skull escalated to a roar as his forehead made contact, then leapt to a banshee scream as the fucker's fist swung like sledgehammer across his temple. Clint's vision burst into white and for a moment he floated, hearing nothing, seeing nothing and feeling nothing.
Then, in one hot slick flush, everything came rushing back, like burning bile.
When had he ended up on a boat? The world seemed to be tipped on its side, bobbing unevenly like a ship on a rough sea. Nausea flooded through him, and it was all Clint could do to not let himself vomit. Biting down on the inside of his cheek and trying not to retch, he wondered if there was any vaguely plausible explanation that Phil might buy for the definitely-mild-possibly-severe concussion that was currently wreaking havoc on the his poor brain.
Not that there was much point on focusing on excuses if he didn't actually work on getting out of there, any time soon.
Forcing his eyes open and fighting through the relentless attacking waves of nausea, Clint realised the scene around him had changed. What had before been a somewhat organised warehouse (for a group of meathead thugs, at least) with products being loaded into crates on one side, and then transported to the metal bay doors on the other, half filled with filthy jacked Slavic guys, all dressed in some form of mismatched sweat suit, was now a disorganised chaotic mess.
Much of the product had been scattered across the floor, spreading powder and weaponry alike, and several large crates had been smashed open, each now adorned with a bloodied thug, in some state of unconsciousness. The other meatheads were either lying prone on the stained concrete floor, or had - presumably - decided to take their chances and flee. A sudden movement caught his eye and Clint tipped his head back, smearing his own blood across the floor, in time to see a red-clad figure coil and strike a goon mid-lunge.
Huh, looks like the Devil is an angel after all.
As the thought slid across his mind, the static began to swell again, heavy and choking. The urge to submit, to just let his weighted eyelids drag softly close, and to just drift away in the fuzz of the static, was desperately tempting. It was like a calling warmth, that promised comfort and protection.
Fuck.
A sense of wrongness lurched in Clint's gut; if there was one thing his less-than-ideal youth had taught him, it was that there was no place for comfort amongst chaos and blood.
He forced his uncooperative eyes open, tugging urgently against the bonds around his wrists and ankles as he did so - something still had to be responsive, right? Stiff plastic bit into his skin and Clint spat out a curse - not that he could actually hear it. His eyelids finally peeled open and the man in the red suit was nowhere in sight. The only movement was the pathetic twitching of a handful of thugs, still lying blood-soaked and beaten on the concrete floor.
When the fuckers had dragged him in there (after ambushing him outside his own goddamn flat) he'd had his head covered during the actual tying-to-a-chair process, but several times through their little interactive torture show, he'd managed to get a few surreptitious looks at the seat below him (not all of them by choice) and it had looked concerningly poorly made. Definitely not a solid IKEA purchase, if you asked Clint.
He arched his back sharply, writhing like a snake on the rough floor, until he felt the cheap wood groan in a final protest, before splintering apart. He rolled unsteadily to his knees, tearing the remaining wooden limbs from his bonds, until he could easily slip the plastic loops free.
Nauseating dizziness flooded him, like a bucket of iced water, as he rose to his feet. Clint squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked them open, which decidedly did not help. It was fine: all he had to do was get out of this fucking warehouse and find somewhere relatively safe to hide until the worst of the concussion was over, then he could skirt back home and bear the wrath of Phil.
A hand touched his shoulder and Clint flinched so hard the world spun around him, the ground somersaulting upwards as he tried, desperately, to keep his balance and his stomach. The hand regained its grip on his shoulder and he found himself being bodily forced to his knees. Clint's stomach clenched, and not because of the nausea. He squeezed his eyes shut again and forced a deep breath in, fighting consciousness and the growing irrational anxiety.
Gloved fingers touched his jaw, his chin, angling his head to the side. They brushed his temple, surprisingly gently, then released his face. He could feel breath on his face, smell the faint mint that lingered there.
He forced his eyes open, to see Daredevil crouched in front of him, hard lines of concern etched around his mouth. His lips were pressed tightly together into a white line. He was close enough that maybe if Clint's vision wasn't so damn blurry, he be able to tell if those red plastic rubies were see-through, or not.
It took him longer than it should have to realise Daredevil was talking to him.
Fuck.
His lips were still again before Clint had even started focusing on trying to read them. Clint's shifted one of his hands to the base of his throat, like he'd been taught to by one of the nurses who'd attended to him at the hospital after the incident. He'd gotten pretty good at estimating and controlling his volume since then, but it tended to slip when his focus wasn't exactly all there.
"Can you say that again? Didn't quite catch it." His lips felt uncooperative, like two bits of rubber, mashed together.
The lines around Daredevils mouth seemed to cut deeper for a moment, his jaw rolling and clenching.
We should get out of here, before Fisk hears of the disturbance and starts sending more of his men our way. Daredevil repeated. His speech speed remained the same as before, Clint noted, and he hadn't made any effort to over-enunciate his words - which people tended to do when Clint asked them to repeat themselves. It pissed him off every time; just because he was hard of hearing, didn't mean he was stupid, okay? Plus, that actually made it harder to understand what they were saying.
"Yeah, agreed." He planted both hands on the concrete beneath himself and pushed off. Daredevil gripped his shoulder, firmly but not tightly, until he was steady enough to stand on his own.
You think you can walk on your own? The red suited man had turned to face Clint before speaking, waiting until he knew Clint's focus was on him and not on attempting to balance himself.
The blonde nodded, then immediately regretted it as his vision swam. Stars blinked around him as nausea burned low in his stomach. He exhaled long and slow, until the red-stained floor stopped sloshing like a hungry ocean, desperate to claim him, again. Forcing himself to straighten up, he pushed a smile onto his lips, knowing it more than likely looked like a manic grimace.
"Lead the way."
* * *
Clint both loved and hated SHEILD assignments: on one hand, it often meant several days, crouched and waiting to take a shot, days where he didn't really have to talk to anyone. It felt almost natural, to slip into that calm and quiet space, where it was just him, his weapon, and the target, where he was in control. The assignments where Phil was his handler and he was grouped with agents he liked and respected, who felt the same about him.
And then there were assignments like this one.
Assignments where he didn't have Phil, where he'd been jammed in with guys who always seemed to know exactly how to get under his skin. Where he'd be in the field and not hiding up in a nest, away from the action and just observing until it was his time to shine. Where things, more often than not, seemed to go awry.
He always came back from those assignments feeling the same. Like his skin was too tight, squeezing the air out of his lungs until he could barely breathe. Everything itching and burning and pulling, all at once. He couldn't seem to sit still, foot constantly tapping, fingers twitching, eyes roaming, always. Tension seemed tattooed into his body, making him edge around every corner. It wasn't like he was paranoid, just like he'd brought the mission back with him, burned into his every being.
That night had been particularly bad: he'd shifted restlessly in bed besides Phil for hours, and when he had eventually fallen asleep, it had only been for less than an hour, before Phil had shaken him from a nightmare, resulting in Clint scrambling around on his bedside table for the handgun that wasn't there. He'd ended up on the floor, sucking in harsh breaths and jittering. His boyfriend sat behind him, his slim legs bracketing Clint's bare muscular thighs, one hand flat on his chest, the other sweeping through his hair.
Once he'd calmed down enough to put his hearing aids in without jamming them into the delicate cartilage, he knew there was no going back to sleep.
Up high had always been a safe place for Clint, ever since he was a kid, hiding from his monster of a father. Now, even though he knew the danger had been left behind days ago, in the South of New Mexico, he still found solace sat on the edge of Gotham West, his legs dangling freely off the lip of the roof. It wasn't exactly a warm feeling of safety, like the feeling when a loved one hugs you tightly against their chest and it just you and them against the world. It was more like a reliability kind of safety. Like, height had kept him from harm before, and it would do so now, too. He felt free up there, above it all, in control.
"Nice choice." A rough-edged voice sounded from behind him. Clint didn't jump this time; he'd heard the footfalls approaching across the gravel rooftop, though he suspected Daredevil had done so, deliberately. He twisted his neck around to follow the other man as he came closer and crouched down at the edge, a meter or so away.
"Wasn't purposefully on your patch," he said, "just needed somewhere high and away from home."
Daredevil nodded and stared out over the buzzing nightlife, lit up like fairy lights. "How's the head?"
Clint snorted, "yeah, just fine now, man. Phil was insistent about getting medical to check me out. The Russian Bros tasered me right at my temple, which pretty much made my hearing aids explode - now my ears are, like, extra-specially fucked." He grinned ruefully.
The other man nodded again. "Fisk has shut down operations in that particular warehouse, since. Something about compromised security." There was a hint of amusement in his tone, though his mouth remained passive.
The blonde laughed again. "Uh huh. Well, I think that was more you, than me. I spent most of my time in there strapped to a chair and getting bloody."
"Yeah, but there was still an Avenger in the warehouse. And one Avenger knowing what he's up to opens up the floodgates for the rest of them, and SHEILD, sticking their noses in."
"Not exactly like it was my choice to be there. The Goons snatched me from outside my block. I was helping one of my tenants clear out her flat, when they literally did a snatch and grab, on me."
A smirk tweaked at the corners of Daredevil's mouth. "That would explain the sweatpants and string belt look you had going on."
Clint rolled his eyes. "I prefer comfort over fashion, okay?" He looked the man next to him up and down, "which you look like you do not."
The Devil tipped his head to the side and Clint held back a laugh.
Daredevil shifted, suddenly, rolling his head to the side as if he was listening hard to something, his jaw twitching slightly, the tendons in his neck flaring. In a fluid motion he rose to his feet, uncoiling like a cat.
"I've gotta go. See you round, Hawkeye." Within a moment, he was gone, back the way he had come and off the edge of the rooftop and into the gaping mouth of the darkness.
Clint stared back out over the glowing city, again. What was the guy's power? Super-hearing, perhaps? Which would be fucking ironic, considering who he'd been sat with. Though, he had gotten a better look at the Devil's mask; the eye covers were definitely not see-through, though whether that was for the benefit of the wearer, or so everyone else couldn't see his eyes, was debateable. Maybe he had bat powers? Whatever. It was almost more fun wondering, than actually knowing.