Clint would have sworn that his last thought would be of Darcy. It isn't.

Clint's second to last thought is, "Fuck. Darcy is going to kill me." This is in reaction to the natural wonder of the world that he'd been standing on five seconds prior that just turned to so much glittering stone dust underneath him.

His last thought as he rotates in the dust filled air, trying to find something to shoot a grappling arrow at, is, "Jesus. This is going to fucking hurt."

The fact that the Avengers had been gone for six days didn't bother Darcy nearly as much as the fact that on the third day Coulson had reassigned her from her Washington/New York routine to playing gopher for him under the pretense of giving her a feel for handling, which tells her he's worried now. But, she's not. Not.

She keeps going. If she stopped training or working every time she couldn't talk to Clint for a day or so, she'd never get anything done. Plus, Washington and Shield don't stop every time the Avengers go AWOL. There isn't any footage anywhere, though. Darcy had kinda been under the impression that the whole damn planet had Google spies every four or five miles, so she's somewhat let down by the lack of Big Brother.

And all she can do is work. Can't stop. Because she doesn't want to be in the middle of a goddamn mani-pedi when they come to tell her that Clint is...

He's not. He's fine. They all are. Jesus.

Anyway, she's not alone. Pepper has been moving so fast that Darcy's thinking it's not going to take much before the redhead's molecules start vibrating or something. Coulson's got Darcy pulling every string she's managed to tie in the last year just in case someone, anyone has heard anything. No one has. Jane has been on the extra long distance party line with her kinda sorta in-laws and modifying the gamma radiation detector network that Banner and Stark spun up to find the Tesseract and set it to scan for the Hulk. No pings yet.

When Thor comes to get her, three days later, from mandatory naptime (it's either lie down or I will feed you drugs, Ms. Lewis), no doubt Darcy's happy to see him. But now there's ice in her throat. Because if it wasn't bad, Natasha would be here. If it wasn't horrifically bad, Coulson would have come. If it wasn't catastrophic, Thor wouldn't be using his indoor voice.

"Lady Darcy, you must come. And you must not be afraid."

She stops her lip from wobbling, remembering every time she had to walk home because Debbie forgot her. Darcy Lewis does not cry. She will not. But it's hard to talk when you're following a hammer thrown through the sky and she can't ask any details. Hard to keep your eyes from watering, too. Because she's a fucking coward and she's never told him...and it's too late.

So when she gets to the Helicarrier med bay and Clint is awake and talking and only half in a body cast, Darcy smacks Thor across his stupid granite wall of a chest and probably breaks her hand. "You fucking asshat, I thought he was dead!"

"My apologies, Darcy. It was very...close. I believed I might truly be calling upon him in Valhalla, in future days." And yeah, now she can see the way Natasha has that hard stare like she can keep Clint upright and safe just by not blinking. The way Coulson's jacket is crinkled and the agent's fair skin is just a little pasty under the nonchalant expression.

The others are hovering, too. Cap got two deep grooves between his eyes that are practically canyons and he keeps touching the spot where Clint's foot is bouncing a little under the blanket and Tony is far too still, just on that verge of breaking into manic motion and side eying the machines that line Clint's bedframe like if he can't fix his teammate, at least he can soup up the hydraulics and Bruce keeps looking at the chart in his hands and then back at Clint and then back at the chart and not quite believing either.

"Nine lives. Me and cats, Doc. Don't worry about it. I think I'm only on my fifth. Maybe sixth." Stupid shit eating grin. And Darcy would fall for it, too, except half of his face is purple and red from bruising and smiling makes him wince.

"Goddamn it, Clint."

"Hey, sweetheart." Clint looks up at Darcy, at her pale face and her hair in rat's nests from flying Thor-style and those dark blue eyes, so wide they're almost round. "I'm okay, baby. Just a busted shoulder and some...other stuff."

"Other stuff." Darcy keeps her voice flat and level.

"Ribs and a bruised hip and a lot of hide gone and..."

Natasha speaks up. "And several punctured organs that required emergency surgery."

"Stuff. I'm good." His good hand waves off the concern.

"Blood loss. Infection from going untreated too long. Hypothermia. Because you wouldn't just hunker down, you had to try and look for us."

"Nat. Shut up." Darcy's eyes have taken on that hard vulnerable look again and it sends a flash of fear through his gut that's got nothing to do with pain or meds or the fact that at least a third of his blood is gluing together sand somewhere. He knows what it is now, he thinks. That brittle surface gloss of a woman who learned way too young not to count on anyone, and the well protected softness that's waiting for him to check out. And it's possible that maybe Darcy tries to leave first just to keep herself safe.

And there's a possessive side of him that wants to dare her to try and see how far she'd get. But with him laid up like this, it'd be easy for Darcy to slip away. Clint forces the bitter thought away. She's here now.

But if Darcy bolts on him over this...

Darcy blinks a few times getting her head in order. He's only human. He's going to get hurt. You knew going in, Lewis. Suck it the fuck up. She steps over to the bed, careful not to break Natasha's line of sight. Then she grabs his good hand and holds on for dear life.

Thor looks over Bruce's shoulder at the chart and then excuses himself gallantly. A few minutes later, Tony gets twitchy and says "Ladies and gentlemen. I fucking got this," ducks out, ducks back in to corral Bruce and they wonder off jabbering.

Cap looks just a little self-conscious and goes to find snacks.

Darcy glances over and Coulson and Natasha have done that super spy thing where they fold themselves away and disappear without so much as a *pop*. She hasn't gotten that lesson yet, they're holding out on her, the bastards.

"I'll be okay, Darce." His eyes are steady and blue on hers, willing her to believe it so that he can, too. "Hey, not the first time someone's tried to kill me."

She nods at him and gives him a wobbly, crooked smile. "Yeah, I know." She lets her fingers trace the skin down his forearm that looks relatively unshredded. And then brushes the old ragged scar less than an inch from his heart. "Which time was that one?"

"AIM, drill-bit projectile. I kept it. It's a damned useful design."

Her small cold fingers against the line of scar on his chin and jaw, not far enough from his jugular for any sort of comfort. "Barney." His eyes go a little dark and she kisses his temple.

"Sorry." Clint had told her about his brother, one night in the shelter of dark with Darcy wrapped around him like a security blanket.

"Nah. I've lived with it this long. He made his choice. He picked the wrong side." Clint's figured it out this time, he thinks. Put people around you that you can turn your blindside to and not worry about getting a knife in it and you don't miss family so much. Then again, having those people makes you do stupid ass things like try and crawl through the desert with a broken collar bone, smashed shoulder and a dislocated hip and try and get them out because you figured out that it was all a fake set up when the stone arch you got shot out from under you reset itself.

She listens to him breathe, under the hum of the machines. It's shallow, but steady. She can be steady, too. All she has to do is not let go. Darcy pulls a chair to her with her foot and sits down, and lets Clint tell her about the arch and how it made him think of her. "My last thought, baby. Well, almost." He flashes her the sad puppy eyes and fine, yes. They're fucking effective. Jesus.

She scoffs at him for being sentimental, but not before she kisses his scruffy jawline right over the scar. "Dumbass hero."

Darcy's holding his hand and mocking him and he can smell the ozone that lingers when you travel Air Thor and he closes his eyes because he's home.

A few days later, between Thor's Asgardian connections and Tony and Bruce's sciencing they've built some sort of vita-ray-esque healing device that won't fix Clint immediately, but shifts recovery from months to a couple of weeks. Everyone is grateful, since frustration has Clint snappish. Which is no fun. Tetchy assassins who can turn paper airplanes, plastic cups and balls of thread from the sheets into weapons make everyone nervous. Everyone is also a target. Even Darcy, who gets pegged with a miniature nerf dart when she walks in after being gone a couple of days on an assignment. Bruce had brought him the toy in hopes of diffusing some of the nervous energy.

Clint grumbles at her while she unsticks the bright yellow foam from over her heart. "Thought you'd forgotten me, baby."

"No chance of that. I've got your name tattooed on my ass." Big innocent eyes flutter at him heart-stoppingly.

Clint's eyes bulge. She did not. "You did not..."

She runs her finger along one dangerous curve, with a wicked twist to her mouth. "Right here. Big 36 point old English script."

"Damn it, Darce, Coulson's gonna kill you. SHIELD agents aren't supposed to...no identifying marks, remember?" Plus, while he's not against tats, he doesn't want them all over that sweet ass. Speaking of which...she's been in her uptight suits the last three times he's seen her and while that's got its appeal, he wants a better view. "Lemme see..." He tries to snag the belt loop of her slacks with his good hand, but she's dancing just out of reach. They'd taken his cast off, finally, this morning, switched him out to a wrap and a brace, but his free movement is still shit.

It's too damn hard not to enjoy being faster and more agile than him for just a little while, so she wags a finger at him. "Oh, no. Not 'til you're cleared for duty, hotshot. I'm gonna go get you some jello."

"Darcy..."

Something in his voice makes her turn back. "What flavor? Cherry or blue?"

"Apples." His eyes are fixed on her mouth and it curves up and her hand brushes along his arm.

"You really are feeling better." God, he's better. Yay. Darcy leans in and kisses him, letting her tongue linger on his lower lip and tasting the coffee he's just finished. "I'll see what I can do," she whispers against his mouth.

"Don't run off, stay with me. C'mere." Clint slides his fingers into her hair, all pulled up and back and finds the bobby pins holding it, pulls them, lets the spicy scent of her shampoo swirl around him with the tumble of curls.

"I got up twenty five minutes early to get my hair like that, Barton." Darcy wriggles onto the narrow bed and lays her head against his good shoulder. He sets his chin on her head and she can hear his heartbeat and almost ialmost/i wants to cry like a goddamn girl in a chickflick. Stupid thing to do now that he's okay and cleared to get up, come home (and when, exactly did the Tower become home? Oh, yeah.) and start PT again tomorrow.

"Yeah? I can probably put it back up for you in five." She tilts her head up at him and he shrugs, and it's fucking good to be able to shrug again without wanting someone to knock him unconscious. "Former cover job. M'sieur Francois."

"Don't think I'm not going to use that talent, soldier."

"All yours, baby. Well, I help Nat out sometimes, too."

Darcy nods solemnly. "Share and share alike. I'll call on Cap the next time I need something off the top shelf." She squirms away and shrieks when he pokes her in her ticklish ribs. "Oh, okay, god, never mind. You can do all my top shelf stuff, jesus."

He smirks at her, enjoying the view as she pants and glares at him. "Damn right."

She settles back against him, tracing along where the cast had come off. The skin is new and pink, where it chafed, but there are still traces of yellowed bruises.

He's been trying to tell her for a month. Coming in nearly DOA made it a priority. Jesus fuck, Barton, now before she gets skittish on you again. "Gotta tell you something, Darce."

"What?" Darcy's been worried that she's about to get the superhero standard, I'm too dangerous baby I'm gonna leave you for your own good and maybe that's the reason she hasn't been here. But this doesn't feel like a brush off. Clint's got his hand in her hair, a calloused thumb running the nape of her neck sending warm tremors down her spine and his heart is steady and slow like he's right on target.

The rasp of his stubble catches her silky hair and he has to bat the clinging strands away from his face. And it gives him an idea. Maybe a lameass idea, but hey, "I need a hand, first."

The abrupt change of tone swings her off-guard. "Ooookay."

"Got a meeting with Fury in a little bit. Ought to get myself cleaned up."

"You want me to call an orderly? It's not hard, hotshot. Just push that green button..."

"I want iyour/i help." His voice is seductive and rumbly.

And somehow, Darcy's standing behind a seated Clint with a razor in her hand and looking at him in the mirror, skepticism written all over her. "Are you sure?"

Clint's eyes are level and blue as the sky. "Yeah. Just go slow and don't cut my throat."

She holds her breath when she takes the first stroke, and he sets a firm hand on hers to guide her. But the line in the shaving cream is straight and the skin is smooth. And she finds a rhythm. It's not that different from doing her own legs, but he's trusting her and...Oh. Holy Fuck.

His head tilts back and that long, tanned throat is open and vulnerable and he's in her hands and oh, god.

Clint's got his eyes closed and a half-smile on his face and she's got to stop for a minute and make her hands stop shaking. "I love you, Darcy." His eyes open to watch her face.

Swallowing hard. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She doesn't have to say it back. She doesn't. It doesn't matter to him if she never says it, he can feel it every time she touches him. But he can't remember anyone ever...

It doesn't matter.

Gonna toss the dice or not, Lewis? There's a shutter coming down in his eyes and damn, she doesn't want it there. She wants this. He trusts you, Darcy. How much do you trust him?

Darcy sets the razor down and comes around and sits on his lap, straddling him on the chair and whispers it in his ear. "Good thing, since I love you, too." And it feels like an honest to fucking god elephant just stepped of his chest, when she kisses him, shaving cream be damned.

"Is this what you two call professional behavior?" Coulson's voice is dry but when they look up at him, the Agent's got just the tiniest hint of satisfaction skirting the edge of his face and Clint recalls that his handler has always had a knack for putting what Clint needs just within his reach. Clint gives him a glare but only gets a shrug of, "Two birds, one stone, Barton."

"Hey, Boss. You're the one that told me that a handler always makes sure his asset is in top trim when going to deal with the higher ups. I'm doing your detail work, like a good little trainee." Darcy shoots him a killer smirk and picks up the razor again.

"Just get him there on time, Ms. Lewis."

"Sir, yes sir."