Chapter Text
“Wait. You own things other than branded t-shirts?”
Kate Bishop’s eyebrows waggled just above the top of the novel she had her nose in while lounging across his couch, of course. Based on the weathered edges and unfamiliar library sticker on the binding, it must have been something for her lit class.
“I never thought I’d see the day. Honestly, I’m almost impressed. You’re actually putting effort into this gig,” she added with a noncommittal shrug. “Minus the moth holes.”
Clint Barton was at a loss for words and suddenly regretting putting on his best suit today.
Sure, it was a little worn at the elbows and slightly frumpy, but without the typical tears, stains and holes that so much of his closet had these days. And yes, there might have been a rogue tater tot in his left front pocket, but that was quickly dealt with.
“They’re not moth—” he started but just as quickly stopped, not wanting to stoop down to her level. He sighed, “Thanks for the almost compliment.”
God, Barton. You’re just a walking stereotype, aren’t you?
It wasn’t that he was necessarily bad at laundry or just preferred to wear his things in, and Lucky did behave better with treats (though pizza was still king). As much as his female coworkers wanted to chalk it up to bachelor syndrome, Clint was convinced that it was just that, uh…
His line of work was complicated, alright?
And today, he was off to an interview, off to potentially fill a contract role that his last gig recommended him for. An interview which was going to start… in less than thirty minutes, he realized, staring at his phone.
Shit.
“As much as I love sitting here and taking potshots from my resident freeloader before I’ve even got coffee in me, I’ve got to go,” he announced, clearing his throat. “Make sure Lucky doesn’t get into too much trouble.”
“Aye aye,” Kate called over her book, already back to reading and happy to ignore him. “Break a leg or whatever.”
Her send-off almost made sense, considering the circumstances. A little bit of acting would be involved in today’s mission. After all, Clint was auditioning for a security job, which wasn’t exactly his usual line of work. It wasn’t that far off, when you got down to it.
As much as he tried to pep talk himself on the way over, it was hard not to feel a little out of his depths with the giant skyscraper looming overhead.
“We’re not in Iowa anymore,” he muttered to himself, eyes skyward as the building in front of his stretched up into the heavens.
The marble flooring that gleamed in the sun, the white noise of the waterfall wall in the lobby, the sea of people drifting in and out, carefully monitored by a slew of cameras. From where he was standing, this whole thing was a security nightmare, something he’d be groaning at and trying to pass off at his usual gig.
But here he was, about to walk into it (mostly) willingly.
He strolled into Stark Tower, past the reception desk and the public elevator bay to the back of the building, towards an elevator that accessed the floors not typically visited by those who flittered inside. It was the closest thing he’d ever gotten to feeling like a VIP.
Probably the closest he ever would, with his track record.
“Mr. Clint Barton, I presume?”
The disembodied voice rang out from the top of the elevator car, nearly sending him shooting out of his skin. His eyes darted around, trying to pinpoint the source without much luck.
“Yeah, who’s asking?”
“More of a what than a who, sir. I’m JARVIS, the building’s resident AI. I’m happy to bring you up to the sixtieth floor where Ms. Potts is expecting you.”
His gaze landed on where the speakers probably would be in the car, quickly spotting a few cameras as well. Alright, maybe he underestimated just how much tech Stark was hiding in here.
Artificial Intelligence, with a whole personality and a British accent to match? That was a new one.
Frankly, the whole thing gave him the heebie-jeebies, but Clint cleared his throat and replied, “Great. Thanks.”
He figured they’d probably have some intense security, all things considered. It had been more than a little bumpy for Stark Industries lately— kind of a car crash, actually (pun firmly intended). And Clint was somehow here to come help pick up the pieces… in a way.
He got a little lost looking through the elevator walls, listening to the floors tick by, getting further and further away from the ground floor until they were engulfed in darkness for the last dozen or so floors.
If his brother, Barney could only see him now… In a suit that barely fit, about to talk to a woman who made more money in a minute than he did most years. And all it took to get himself here was a bunch of weird questions, a comprehensive credit check (to rule out blackmail schemes or paparazzi undercover), a background check the NSA would be proud of, and one lonely interview.
He probably would’ve thought Clint was insane— but his brother wasn’t exactly known for making the best decisions either.
And he didn’t have time to think about potentially genetic family traits right now.
Clint straightened his tie as the elevator doors opened, revealing a strawberry blonde wearing a bright smile. Pepper Potts has been CEO for less than two weeks but had always dressed the part, in perfectly tailored suit sets and a pair of heels he probably couldn’t put a price on if his life depended on it. But the nerves shining through her polite but firm facade only proved she was human and in a hell of a predicament.
As effortless as she might have appeared to casual passersby, there was a good reason his meeting with SI had been pushed up a week, with only 24-hours’ notice.
“Mr. Barton, so nice to meet you,” Pepper greeted with an outstretched hand he quickly shook, biting back the ‘despite the circumstances’ that seemed to hang off the tip of her tongue. “Please, let’s talk in my office.”
Led to the furthest door at the end of the hall behind a swath of executive assistants and secretaries, he tried not to stare at the mishmash of Stark Industries awards and memorabilia lining her office walls. Instead, Clint quietly sat across from an impeccably dressed Pepper, her backdrop a slightly smoggy view of Manhattan, most of the other buildings looking more like low-rises from where he sat.
“Thank you for taking the time. I know the updated interview slot was kind of last minute, but….” Pepper started, not having to finish the sentence.
Clint shook his head politely, “Understandable, considering everything, I think.”
“So tell me about yourself,” Pepper continued with a brilliant smile, seemingly appeased. She flipped open a file folder that had been sitting on her desk, “I see a good chunk of your previous work is—?”
“Classified, yes.”
They both knew what that meant. What it was code for. Especially as the head of a multi-billion dollar company. Pepper didn’t seem perturbed by the lack of detail, offering Clint a soft smile.
Still, it was hard to get an honest read on her.
Maybe it was all of her work at the executive level. Maybe it was just what being a woman in this kind of position did to a person, hardened them, made them close off their emotions to push past the bullshit. Or maybe it was just the fact that she’d managed to put up with man-child Tony Stark for as long as she did. Not that Clint had a lot of room to judge on that one— and Kate reminded him as much every chance that she could.
Anyway, it was no secret she was the little engine that could inside the Tower, even if she didn’t have the title to reflect it.
“How about this…. Tell me what you know about the position,” Pepper started, leaning forward in her seat, elbows on her desk. “I’m happy to answer any questions if you have them.”
“Well,” Clint said, clearing his throat, not really having expected a pop quiz. “I uh, don’t know a lot. It’s a personal security detail, right? I don’t believe the job description mentioned who or what.”
But it must have been big, he’d assumed, if Fury was so quick to try to put him on it.
After all, when had Clint’s job ever been easy?
Pepper nodded, blue eyes glued on Clint as she clarified, “It would be for Darcy Lewis, Tony Stark’s daughter. And, as you know, all of the information provided in this interview is covered under the NDA you signed ahead of our meeting. So, forgive me if I’m a little light on details.”
“Long-term, or?”
With a sigh, Pepper closed the file folder, telling Clint they were about to go off-script. How far off-script was yet to be seen. But based on the way her fingernails tapped on her desk, he’d say this whole situation was more reactive and proactive.
And that was never a good sign in his business.
“Well, the recent hires have been shorter-term than anticipated,” Pepper said carefully. Clint knew that was code for ‘difficult client’— hell, it was barely coded, to begin with. “But we’re hoping to find the right fit.”
Clint nodded, eyes drifting to the photo of Tony, Pepper and Darcy on the desk, realizing just why she’d been put in charge of this interview and the vetting process.
“So, what do you do outside of work?”
Shifting in his seat slightly, Clint tried to keep his smile. He wasn’t exactly used to the conversation turning to him, not when he was talking shop. But, all things considered, there were probably a lot of considerations when taking on new security. He couldn’t fault them for wanting to be thorough and ensure what Pepper had referred to as fit— he preferred the term competent, but hey, semantics.
“Well, I’m a landlord in Bed-Stuy. I’m fully licensed in most weapons and defence tactics, both legal and illegal in New York state,” he added for good measure. “And I have a dog named Lucky. Hope that isn’t a problem with the potential accommodations?”
Part of the job was living on-site since he’d be needed at the drop of a hat. Clint hoped he wasn’t being too forward by asking, but Pepper didn’t look ruffled at the question.
“Not at all. We’re a pet-friendly tower,” Pepper assured with a smile. “Your property will be fine with you being remote?”
“Absolutely,” Clint affirmed. “I have some help in the management department there.”
And her name was Kate. Sure, she was barely legal drinking age, but she could handle assholes— tenants— and issues with more grace than most. Plus, Pepper didn’t need to know the nitty-gritty.
“Any women in your life?” Pepper asked, voice a little tight as she tried to frame what was definitely an awkward question. “Sorry, I know. I just have to ask. Nature of the job.”
But all Clint could wonder in response was just how often the previous men in his position had screwed up in that particular department. He was getting a lot more information out of Ms. Potts’ questions than her replies, with a very colourful picture of Darcy Lewis forming in his head.
“Just an ex-wife,” Clint said, assuring Pepper and her raised brows, before adding for both of their comforts, “very ex.”
Pepper cleared her throat and nodded, “Understood.”
At that point, a man appeared in the doorway of Pepper’s office. Clint spotted his reflection in the window just over her shoulder. The one person he hadn’t been expecting to show up. His feet must have only just touched US soil, probably within the last hour. But now that he was there, Clint kind of just expected him to keep walking, especially once he realized the interview was in progress.
But he probably should have known better.
“This the guy?”
Clint’s head whipped around to meet the man behind the voice as if he hadn’t been tracking his movements for the last full minute. But Tony Stark himself stood in the doorway, dressed in a suit worth more than most peoples’ monthly mortgages, even if he looked a little worse for wear.
Clint conceded that getting attacked at the Monaco Grand Prix by some psycho with electrified whip hands would probably do that to you.
“Yes. Mr. Barton, this is Tony Stark, whom I’m sure you know. We were just about to get to the paperwork, Tony,” Pepper explained, the edge in her voice and the crease in between her eyes telling Clint all he needed to know about the two.
Work wife, maybe future real wife if he got his shit together, and this definitely wasn’t his first time crashing one of her meetings. And Stark did have his name on the side of the building, so it was hard for Clint to fault him.
But this little drive-by definitely wasn’t spur-of-the-moment, he’d bet. Stark likely wanted to know who would be protecting his daughter, even if he didn’t want to be the one running it. Fatherly intuition, maybe.
It was almost wholesome in a weird, roundabout way.
Clint rose to greet him, shaking his hand firmly, maybe a little too firmly as Tony looked him up and down. This would typically be the point in the conversation where someone would say ‘nice to meet you’ or something benign and polite, but Tony wasn’t any of those things.
So Clint wasn’t surprised when he, like any good businessman, got straight to the point.
“That’s my little girl, you know. My flesh and blood,” Tony said in a tone sounding more like Clint was a senior taking his daughter to the prom than hired help. “You got that?”
“Got it, sir,” Clint replied automatically.
Tony’s eyes darting between his for another beat before he murmured, “Good.”
And, with that, he turned on his heel and flew out of the room before Pepper could even think to step in. She seemed a little flustered, clucking slightly as she processed the whirlwind that was her boss and turned to smile at Clint.
“Sorry about that,” Pepper chuckled a little nervously.
Clint waved it off, not wanting to make it more awkward than it already was. “Really, it’s no problem. You were saying something about paperwork?”
“Yes! Well, your references are impeccable, credit clear, and you come very highly recommended— even by a couple of people who probably shouldn’t have known you were on the candidate roster….” Pepper said evenly, shooting him a wry smile.
Clint wasn’t sure exactly which strings Fury had pulled to get him this gig, but he was starting to think it was the whole damn orchestra. He’d never had an interview go this smoothly, even if his other job’s idea of ‘interviews’ was slightly different than this one. So it took him a few seconds to catch up, with Pepper graciously filling the lapse in conversation.
“All said, if you’re interested, I’m comfortable with going over the paperwork with you now.”
A beat passed before Clint realized he hadn’t been daydreaming just then.
“I’m hired?” he asked, a little dumbly.
Pepper smiled, sliding a stack of paper at least 30 pages high across her desk towards Clint. She dropped a pen on top of the pile and affirmed, “You are indeed, Mr. Barton. Just sign right here on the dotted line.”
Hook. Line. Sinker.