Chapter Text
Clint skids to a halt outside a crumbling office tower, bow in hand and blood running down an arm. Thankfully it's not his draw hand, but that doesn't make the sting of the cut across his upper bicep any less annoying. The archer mutters a few curses, reaching behind him into the quiver when he spots a couple of civilians running out of a building - they must be fearless if they're not running screaming like the rest of the general populace - who actually do look remarkably familiar -
Clint's hand pauses just above an arrow, recognition dawning in his eyes.
"Brandt?"
"Ethan?"
Oh, shit. This is not good. As far as Hunt is concerned, William Brandt had nearly died on a mission, had left the IMF and moved halfway across the world and settled down somewhere in South East Asia, doing consulting work for a government security firm that had set up base in Asia, sending postcards from time to time. This is going to be awkward. Very awkward.
"Hawkeye, move!"
It takes Clint a bare second to catch sight of the shadow looming across them, and instinctively, he lunges forward, tackling his former team-mate/boss out of the way. The decapitated head of Loki's pet dragon falls to the ground seconds later, splattering them with a spray of green-blue-something blood, making Clint groan at the thought of having to clean off the sticky fluid from himself.
There's a crow of triumph from both Stark and Thor from his earpiece, and Clint winces, climbing to his feet. Maybe if he's fast enough, he can duck out of sight and get out of explaining to Ethan why William Brandt isn't really William Brandt, and why William Brandt actually uses a bow to fight super villains and is called Hawkeye instead.
A firm grip closes over his wrist.
Hawkeye nearly breaks it out of instinct, then realizes that it's Ethan and hastily lets go, stepping back a couple of paces. Coulson is shouting something into his ear, he thinks it's an evacuate order so the clean up crew can do their job, or that the older man is just concerned because a dragon's head just fell where his last known location was. He's not entirely sure, really.
Behind Hunt, Jane emerges, followed by Benji and a new guy who must be his replacement on the team. The latter looks a little perturbed, but his two other team-mates are simply amused.
"Nice get-up, Brandt. Mind telling us what's going on?" Jane arches an eyebrow elegantly at him, and for a brief moment Clint really doesn't want her to meet Natasha.
"And why you're here, in New York, with a ruddy bow and arrow, of all things?"
Clint's eyes narrow slightly as he shoulders his bow and quiver. Of all the places in the whole, wide world and of all the people he could possibly meet, he has to be here in New York City, and he has to run into his old IMF team. Fate must either really love him, or hate him, and Clint's pretty decided on the latter.
Natasha pops up in the shadows at the far end, silently padding over. She's gotten dangerously close to Benji when Clint finally sighs again, "Tasha, don't," and the rest spin around to stare at the flame haired assassin who'd almost gotten the drop on them. Jane springs into action, but Natasha is faster and far more deadly, pinning Jane's arms behind her back before letting them go and leaping back. It's her way of saying she means no harm unless someone comes at her first, but her presence there is comforting for Clint.
Ethan turns to him, eyebrow raised. It's his 'I'm waiting for your answer' face, and Clint can't help the chuckle. Nothing seems to faze the guy, nothing at all.
"My name isn't William Brandt." Clint sticks out the hand that isn't covered in blood, and offers his ex-team leader a charming smile, just as a black SUV pulls up around the corner. "Clint Barton, Avengers Initiative."