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She knows it's a bad idea right off the bat. Clint has a lot of strengths, but confronting his past and using his words? Are most definitely not two of them. The smart thing to do would be to send Natasha, or even some completely random SHIELD agent, to deal with his brother's reappearance and subsequent havoc-wreaking.

But being a stubborn fucking imbecile is most definitely on Clint's list of talents. He refuses Natasha's offer of assistance. He ignores Coulson's direct order to bring backup. He all but quits on Fury when he tries to reign him in, and if it were any other agent he probably would have been booted out the door on his ass. But it's Hawkeye, one of the agency's most formidable agents and an Avenger on top of it. He's indispensable whether anyone likes it or not, and it's a combination of that and an honest to god complete lack of caring that has him taking off in the middle of the night, the Jeep already loaded and gassed up. He expects to hit the road and not look back until Barney is dead, or in the passenger's seat next to him. (Preferably the latter, obviously, but he's never really been much of an optimist.)

What he doesn't expect is to find Darcy in said seat already.

"What's up?" she says cheerfully. "Got any snacks? It's not a road trip without snacks."

"Get out," Clint growls. Darcy rolls her eyes.

"How long have you known me?" she retorts. "I think we both know the chances of that happening."

"I will pull you out of this car bodily," he warns, tossing his duffel at her. Darcy shrugs.

"Try me." If she thinks that he's bluffing, she's wrong, and it's easy enough - though not quite as easy as he thought it would be, she's stubborn as a mule and has very sharp elbows - to yank her out of the seat and fireman's carry her a few yards away, dumping her unceremoniously onto the dirt. Darcy glares up at him and leaps back to her feet.

"Fine, be that way. But we both know you suck on your own and it's either me, or Fury finds out tomorrow that you're gone and sends somebody to tail you. What's it gonna be, Robin Hood?" She's kind of fascinated by the murderous look in his eyes, and marvels again at what a spectacularly bad idea this is. But Clint has become a friend, flirting buddy, and someone she genuinely cares about. She'd do the same for Jane, she rations. She did do the same for Jane, in a way, and that time she almost got blown up by Loki's destroyer. What's the worst that can happen this time around?

~*~

Well, Darcy muses. This isn't exactly the way in which she expected things to go wrong, but...

What happens is that she gets attached. Somewhere between the first day and the fourth, she loses herself in the journey and allows herself to forget its destination. She and Clint bicker and tease each other, fight over the radio station and crash in the sketchiest motels known to man. She half-suspects initially that it's his way of trying to scare her off, but please - she's seen worse. Eventually it just becomes more of a joke than anything. Motel #1 has roaches, motel #2 has a broken shower head and next to no water pressure, and motel #3 smells vaguely of urine. When they pull into the gravel driveway of motel #4 (no air conditioning), Darcy disappears as Clint checks them in. She returns to find the Jeep parked in front of one of the far rooms, and knocks on the door. Clint answers it shirtless, hair wet and post-shower spiky.

"Where have you been?" he demands. Darcy rolls her eyes (an occurrence he's finding is quite common with her).

"Gee, sorry Dad," she says sarcastically. He stands aside to let her in, and she lands on the unoccupied bed with a bounce, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of her shopping bag. Clint sighs, and she takes it as a personal victory that he's stopped even trying to fight her anymore.

"I just want to go on record as pointing out that this is a terrible idea."

"Noted," Darcy acknowledges gleefully, already pouring shots into the paper water cups from the bathroom.

~*~

It is mostly a terrible idea, but since it ends with Clint's hands up her shirt, Darcy can't really find it within herself to complain too much.

"God, you have the most incredible tits," Clint moans, and wow is he drunk. Darcy giggles, which quickly turns into a gasp as he pinches both nipples tightly. She's pretty drunk herself, everything swimming and reverberating inside her head. It's a good drunk, the kind where she feels warm and liquid and loose, and she claws at the hem of her shirt, struggling to get it over her head so that she can press her bare chest against Clint's. He moans again, pulling off her already undone bra and twisting down to replace his fingers with his mouth. Darcy arches beneath him, clutching at his head tightly enough that it would probably hurt if he wasn't completely plastered.

"I thought you were best friends with Natasha, aren't you supposed to be able to hold your liquor?" she asks rhetorically. She doesn't actually care about the answer, and in fact isn't sure Clint even heard her until he presses an open-mouthed kiss to her belly button then his face is right in front of hers, blurred and smiling.

"Russian," he mumbles, pressing his mouth back against hers almost immediately. The man's a fucking phenomenal kisser, and she's pretty content just to make out with him, but his wandering hands have other ideas, and before she realizes it he's sliding down her zipper and slipping a hand inside her jeans. She squirms, kissing him eagerly as he pushes her panties to the side and strokes her, long and slow with broad, bow-roughened fingertips. Darcy's breath hitches, and he breaks the kiss once she stops responding in lieu of frantic gasping. Her fingers clutch tightly at his forearms, but the corded muscles there are so tight that her grip feels weak and insufficient. She's lost in a haze of alcohol and lust, just starting to ride the edge of the high when Clint unceremoniously pulls his hand back. Darcy gasps.

"You asshole," she chokes out, but Clint is too busy wrestling her pants and underwear down her legs, then sets to work on his own. She's still a little pissed to be left hanging, but that quickly dissolves as his hands reach for his belt buckle. Damn. If she thought his chest and forearms were a nice sight... "Condoms?" she asks. Clint's brow furrows.

"You think I brought condoms to track down my long-lost brother?" he asks.

"Oh for the love of god." Darcy sits up, but too quickly, and it feels like her brain goes sloshing from one side of her skull to the other. It's not exactly a pleasant sensation. She grunts pathetically, praying beyond all reason that she doesn't vomit now, of all moments, because she fully intends to see this through. She waves her hand vaguely across the room. "Purse," she instructs. Clint stumbles across to the table, naked as the day he was born, and Darcy admires the view right up until the second he starts rummaging around in her bag. "Hey!" she protests. "Invasion of privacy! Bring that over here." He raises an eyebrow, but does as told.

"Don't you think this is the wrong time to get all shy on me?" he asks, taking in her bare chest and splayed legs. Darcy ignores him and digs around until she comes up with a little foil square. Clint pulls the covers down as she tears it open, hovering over her so that she can slip it down his cock. They're both quiet as he moves into place, wisecracks forgotten when he nudges against her entrance. Darcy blows out a breath and spreads her legs a little wider, encouraging him, and then Clint eases into her. She squeezes her eyes shut and wiggles, helping him inch his way in until he's buried to the hilt. Every little noise, from a car backfiring outside to the dripping bathroom faucet, seems magnified in the small space, and above it all is their stuttered breath tangling together in the air. Darcy opens her eyes to see Clint peering down at her with an indefinable expression. He opens his mouth and she's suddenly terrified of what's going to spill out of it.

"Just..." She trails off, not even sure what she's trying to say except to keep him from speaking. Whether Clint senses her apprehension or just plain changes his mind, he suddenly ducks and flips them over. Darcy squeaks as her world unexpectedly whips around, and she gets that sickening spinning sensation in her head again.

"Please don't puke on me, 'cuz that'd really ruin the mood," Clint pipes up from below her. Darcy giggles, and his hands reach up to grab her hips, setting those amazing forearms to work as he lifts her up and sits her back down. She mimics the motion, slowly starting a rhythm, and the moment passes. It gets fun again, his hands going back to tease her breasts. She braces a hand against his chest and picks up the pace, bouncing furiously as the rickety old bed frame squeals its protest.

"How badass would that be if we broke the bed?" she asks. Clint's eyes light up like an excited twelve-year-old, and that makes Darcy laugh again, bending down to kiss him. He meets her halfway, then pulls himself upright so that she's sitting in his lap with her feet planted against the mattress. He buries his face in her neck and grips her ass tight. She's close, clit rubbing against his stomach with every thrust. She doesn't know much about Clint's sexual habits aside from what she's picked up in the last fifteen minutes or so, but she can hazard a guess, and he strikes her as someone who likes it rough and dirty - which, for the record, is fine by her. She leans forward and catches his earlobe between her teeth, biting down just past the point of gentleness, and is rewarded by a gasp and his hips bucking up beneath her. She grins and does it again, then moves so that her mouth is centered over his ear. "If you're serious about breaking this thing," she says slowly, enunciating each word as she digs her nails into his shoulders, "you're going to have to fuck me a lot harder than that."

It does the trick. With a strangled noise akin to a wounded animal, Clint spills her backwards, leaving his knees folded beneath him and her spread wide in front of him. He hooks a hand under her knees to pull her forward, then braces the other beside her head and goes to town, slamming into her with abandon. Darcy loses coherent thought, her moans increasing in volume - enough so that their next-door neighbor starts pounding on the wall separating their rooms.

"Shut the fuck up!" they hear clearly through the paper-thin plywood.

"I think he means," Clint pants, "shut the fucking up." Darcy can barely catch her breath between the awesome sex and the laughter and it's basically the best feeling ever. She reaches both hands down, one to her clit and one stretching awkwardly beneath her to fondle Clint's balls where they smack against her ass. He shouts, and comes; her own orgasm trails just a few seconds behind, sudden and intense. Her mouth flaps open wordlessly as she rides through it, blood roaring in her ears. Clint finishes, collapsing on top of her, but her hand still works between her legs for another good fifteen seconds or so before she finally starts to come down. She pants at the ceiling, dazed and sated.

"We didn't break the bed," she points out. Next to her, Clint groans.

"Next time," he wheezes.