Walking Dead 1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or "The Avengers," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** A quick little two-shot written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I told myself I wasn't, but I did. I am awful and have absolutely no control over my life. And hey, what else is new? - Prompt goes as follows: "Daryl is actually distantly related to Clint Barton (Hawkeye)."

**Warnings:** *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), and rather blatant abuse of time-line and canon details regarding both Clint Barton and Daryl Dixon's background. Hopefully AMC and the Marvel gods will not be too offended.

**Arcus**

_**Chapter One**_

He grew up knowing two things for sure.

One, archery ran in the family.

And two, Clint Barton was an asshole.

Which is why he figured it made things pretty fucking awkward, considering they were currently back to back in the middle of a burnt out trauma ward, covering each other's six like they'd been born to do just that.

"Heard you joined the circus or some shit," he hollered, skipping _the 'holy shit, where've you beens'_ in favor of brushing elbows with America's so-called finest. He took the nurses station at a dead run, coasting down the sloping side of the desk as Barton followed him, whipping the crowd of walkers into a froth as they stampeded down the hall after them.

"Oh, you heard that, huh?" Barton replied, eyes rolling as he popped off a shot with his bow, thinning the herd as some red-headed dame he'd called Natasha cleared the side of the desk and flipped right over them, landing in a defensive crouch a few meters away, breathing hard.

"So, what _really_ happened?" he tossed back, coasting high on the smoothness of it all, not even having to warn him as Barton tucked and rolled, ducking out of the way with a graceful arch as the buck knife he'd pulled out of his waistband went whizzing between them. Sinking bone deep into a walker's eye socket before the dumb-fuck could creep up and set its teeth into the red-head's exposed flank.

"I joined the circus, actually."

He chewed on the edges of a shit-eating grin, feeling the ripples through the layer of blood and grime coating his face like a second skin. There hadn't been time to do anything else but drive. Judith needed those meds. That's why they'd chanced splitting up in the first place. He just hadn't reckoned on getting hemmed in at the wrong moment. Nearly taking a bullet and a shiny black arrow up the ass when Barton and the red-head came tearing down the block and through the shattered sliding doors of the dinky county hospital to ruin his day.

_What was it, fucking old home week or some shit? Christ._

_Carol was never going to believe this._

He tipped his chin in acknowledgement when the woman threw him a nod and appraising glance, busying himself with yanking a handful of bolts – his and Clint's – free before dancing back, using the desk as a barricade, the air above his right ear _whooshing _as Barton loosed another volley.

It was the three of them against the world and he was fuckin' loving it.

"What about you?" Barton asked, raising his voice to be heard above the racket as the crowd of walkers moaned, pushing against the overturned desk in a way that made his hackles rise. "Heard you went to jail or something."

"Nah, that was Merle. He did a stint in juvy and then some," he shot back, hooking a walker – something that might have once been a woman – by the collar and sinking his knife into its temple. It dropped like a bag of bricks, stinking and desiccated. He ignored the brief flash of a grocery-store name tag as it went down. He didn't want to know.

"And let me guess, you spent half your life hauling his stupid ass out of the fire every time they cut him loose, right?" Barton returned, tone whip-crack sharp and just shy of scathing as another arrow whizzed into the melee.

He fixed him with a glare from behind his fringe as Barton shook his head, an emotion, not pity, but perhaps closer to disappointment, coloring the back of his gaze as their eyes met unexpectedly through the fray.

"And you guys wondered why we left?"

He didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

Silence had a way of speaking for itself in their family.

The desk groaned, metal bracings buckling. He hissed, clipping his shin against the table leg as the desk started grinding across the floor, slowly backing them into the wall as the weight of the walkers behind it multiplied. He ducked his nose under the bandana tied around his neck, the stench of old death and living rot almost unbearable in the close space.

"We need another plan," the woman piped up, smooth as silk and not a hair out of place. Talking like she was asking about the weather or some crap. Like_, 'no big deal, but we are probably going to die. No rush or anything.'_

"No shit, lady," he snapped, tasting the acrid back-wash of a bitter sweat as he weighed his options, frustration getting the better of him as he eyed the storage room just off to the left of the nurses station. _He was so fucking close!_

"But I ain't leavin', not till I got what I came for; you guys do what you want."

This was the last place on his list, the last resort. He wouldn't have chanced it otherwise. He needed those meds. Judith needed 'em and this was the only place in twenty miles he hadn't checked. And from what he'd managed to sniff out before Barton and his lady-friend rang the dinner bell, they hadn't been completely cleaned out.

Something unspoken passed between the two, an assessing nod, the tilt of a head, the slight rolling of a shoulder that indicated-

He blinked, taken off guard when, not two seconds later, Barton shouldered his bow, laced his hands together and gave the red-head a boost towards the ceiling. There was the quick wrench of screws, the screech of rusty hinges and she was in. Right up the frickin' air conditioning vent.

"Be right back!" she called, thigh-high boots waving lazily in mid-air before she _squeak-squeaked _through the vent on her elbows. His eyebrows arched on their own accord. There probably wasn't even enough room to sneeze in there and she was going at it like it was yesterday's news.

_Fucking mental, the both of them._

He fixed the man with a questioning look, taking a swipe at a walker that was getting a bit too adventurous, trying to crawl up the side of the barricade just off to his right. But Barton just shrugged, inspecting an arrow he pulled from his quiver like this was nothing out of the ordinary. And really, considering the news stories he'd seen before Wildfire hit, he figured that was probably pretty damned true.

"She always like that?"

"Worse. There was this one time in Budapest when-" Barton began, only to be cut off when his ear-piece, some new-fangled piece you don't see outside of those shitty sci-fi movies on the tube, crackled to life.

There was a beat of silence before Barton replied, clipped and to the point as the corner of the door frame bit into his back. They were running out of time.

"An alternative route really isn't an option here, Phil," the man answered, knocking another arrow as the meaty _shhlock-thunk_ of the first meeting its target echoed above the snarls and growls.

"Copy that, we're coming to get you," the voice – also apparently known as Phil - replied, fading off into static as some woman in the background yelled: "Form up, Barton's team needs an extraction."

They were shoulder to shoulder and down to three arrows each when they both seemed to come to some sort of unspoken agreement. Trading solemn glances as the walkers piled up, trying to crowd surf and crawl on top of each other as they pushed up against the overturned desk - reaching with bony fingers as they prayed for the desk to hold just a little bit longer.

"Whatcha thinkin'," Barton asked, the hint of that childhood Georgian drawl haunting the backdrop as the archer notched another arrow and held it tight against his ear.

"I could do with a change of scenery."

The grin he got in return hit him soul deep. Stinging in ways he figured seemed only natural, considering. Because he_ knew _that smile, that shit-eating, smack-talking smirk. It was the same one Merle used to sling him back when they were just pups growing up in the sticks.

It was the kind of grin his brother used to flash right before he did something monumentally stupid and dangerous to boot. Something that would make him laugh manically the whole way down. Whether it was jumping from the hayloft with only their mama's worn terrycloth robe for a parachute or making a run for it after nicking a pack of cigarettes and a Playboy from the corner store when the clerk wasn't lookin', that smile had never failed to light up across his face.

_Seemed like some things really did run in the family after all._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. There will be one more chapter, so stay tuned. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

**Reference:** According to Wikipedia, archery is the art, practice, or skill of propelling arrows with the use of a bow; from the Latin word '_Arcus_.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or "The Avengers," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** A quick little two-shot written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I told myself I wasn't, but I did. I am awful and have absolutely no control over my life. And hey, what else is new?

**Warnings:** *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), and rather blatant abuse of time line and canon details regarding both Clint Barton and Daryl Dixon's background. Hopefully AMC and the Marvel gods will not be too offended.

**Arcus**

_**Chapter Two**_

They vaulted off the edge of the desk and careened down the hallway. They raced each other down the blood-slicked tiles, dodging wheelchairs and abandoned IV stands, criss-crossing paths and bumping awkward elbows as the pack of walkers finally shoved past the desk and poured into the hall behind them.

He snapped off a shot, taking down the lead three in a tangle of limbs, slowing down the others. He gritted his teeth, eyes stinging with sweat as Barton whistled appreciatively, kicking at a walker in a wheelchair that tried to hook him by the thigh holster, bow string snapping with a gratifying twang as the archer felled two walkers with one arrow.

"Two for one," he crowed, his turn to be appreciative, high on adrenaline and something else he didn't want to examine too closely as his heart tightened in his chest. Seeing Merle, hell, seeing his _mama_ in the edges of every expression as Barton bared his teeth, grinning fiercely in the low light.

The last time he'd seen Clint Barton and his family, the two of them had been barely out of diapers. Just before his parents had decided they'd had enough of the Dixons and Georgia, packed up their two boys and left for Waverly, Iowa. They'd cut ties after that, opting to have Clint and Barney shuffled off into a state orphanage rather than with their own blood when some drunken idgit ploughed through the family station wagon a couple years later.

Merle had laughed when he'd told him, sayin' that's what you got when you abandon your family. He'd stayed quiet for the most part, unconvinced. He didn't remember much, just snap-shots of playin' with toy cars on a soft carpet, both their mothers watchin' them from the couch, smilin' all wide and proud and shit. Because despite all that time, despite the family drama and the animosity, it seemed as though-

The banter was effortless.

_Seamless. _

_Easy._

It made him fucking uncomfortable.

"Gotta get 'em while their hot," Barton tossed back, laughing, smacking his ear piece like he had all the time in the world. Like they _weren't _down to one arrow and a pistol with half a clip – give or take – each.

"You ready, Tasha?"

"Give me five," the woman replied, gritty and toneless as the receiver spat back the echoes. She sounded like she was in the middle of a coal mine, brittle and distant.

"We don't have five," Barton returned, voice rock steady and calming as his shoulder blades started itching – hackles up. They were being backed into a dead end, a barricaded set of doors – trapped. _This was not the time to be fucking chit-chatting!_

He looked up, catching a glimpse of a name plate as he surged forward, leaping at a walker that lurched unexpectedly through the door to his left – lab coat torn and stained with old blood – sinking his buck knife right through its spongy temple.

_Morgue._

He snorted.

_Figures._

The one place in the world neither of them probably wanted to be, and here they were stuck there, limp dicked and flappin' in the cross breeze.

"Copy that. Four it is."

_Forty meters._

"Cheeky," Barton muttered, last arrow notched and ready, empty quiver knocking awkwardly between his shoulder blades. He followed his gaze. Staring down at the point in the hall where the walkers converged, turning the narrowing strip of filthy linoleum into a churning mass of bodies that muted the light shining in through the filthy windows – all-encompassing, choking - dank.

_Thirty meters._

He squinted, swallowing a surge of nausea as he stared his death down in the flesh. He felt like he should probably be saying something, like he should be marking the moment when their shoulders brushed, when they met eyes for just a second too long. Sharing that look people get when they know it's all over.

_Twenty meters. _

But he didn't. If he'd ever known the right words to use, they'd fled a long ass time ago. He shook his head, hair stringy with sweat and gore. What did you even say to a thing like this? Too close to four decades of bad blood? To a face you recognized, but a person you didn't know? Was there some word he was missing? Some phrase that would knit everything back together, making it better – _whole _– just before it was ripped apart again? Was it even worth it?

_Fifteen._

He'd never been good with words. Carol knew that. She'd learned the hard way when he'd choked on all the shit he'd never had the balls to say. She'd deserved better, deserved someone that could make the words behave like they oughta. But every time he fucked up, she just smiled, looking at him in that way she did, the way that made his cheeks heat and his toes try an' curl up in his shit-kickers - like he was the best thing since sliced bread and all hers to enjoy.

She'd told him once that she didn't need words.

That she'd rather have someone who meant it and _didn't_ say it than the alternative.

But deep down, he'd always wondered.

_Ten._

Still, it didn't matter.

He'd been too selfish to set her free.

_Five._

His buck knife glinted, dripping with old blood as he raised his arm, defensive – _ready_ \- distantly aware of Barton doing the same beside him. He breathed, sucking in one last lungful as the walkers at the front of the pack surged forward, all slavering jaws and curling fingers as the inches between them melted away and-

Less than three seconds later, the entire room exploded.

* * *

He wasn't exactly privy to all the details but from what he could figure, about one and a half minutes into the four minute mark, the red-head popped out of the vent lugging a collapsible- _something_ that spat more rounds per second than he figured was even possible and frankly, everything was over pretty quickly after that.

Actually, considering their suicide run and all the constipated feelings that'd come along with it, it was pretty damn anti-climactic.

Luckily, he wasn't alone in that. Because when Romanoff slithered out of the vent, Barton slung out a hand to help her up, nose wrinkling as his boots sent half a dozen empty casings _ping-pinging_ across the linoleum.

"Could have at least left a few for us, you know."

"Give it a few days and your egos will heal," she replied, blithe and unrepentant, swiping her free hand through a mess of sweaty curls, somehow managing to look like she'd just walked off a runway somewhere. "I'm just sorry I had to interrupt the family bonding moment."

The woman's smirk was gentle humor in real time. Her expression fond, if not determinedly unmoved by her partner's near pout as the force behind the action brought them chest to chest. They were still skin to skin when the moment lengthened and they breathed in each other's air without complaint.

It was only when she shifted, one small hand tracing unerringly down the length of the archer's forearm – thumb rubbing intimate circles into the curve of an elbow - that he caught a flash of something at her throat, glinting in the low light.

His brow arched sky-high when she shifted again, hips grazing hips as Barton's hand wandered, lingering slightly as he thumbed a wayward curl behind her ear, worrying the frayed edge of a collar as- _was that an arrow?_

He cleared his throat, jolting the two out of- _whatever_ the hell that was, with a single minded determination he knew Merle would have called him a cock-block for. Struggling a bit in the backwash as his brain did a u-turn and made tracks back to that moment in the clearing a few days earlier. To the quiet, tension-filled kiss he'd stolen when she'd followed him to his bike after the decision to split up in order to cover more ground had been made.

Her eyes had been watery and tired but she'd smiled for him regardless.

He couldn't remember their last words. But he figured he'd remember that smile till the day he died. Because that was the shit you kept close to your chest - that was worth protecting.

If he'd learned anything since this whole mess had started, it was that life was all about the little things. _The little moments._ It was about connecting the dots until the whole picture just sprung out at you. It was laughing yourself sick. Or laying beside each other with your clothes on, content to just soak it in regardless of temptation because just that alone felt so fucking good, _so right_.

His mind must have wandered, because when he looked up, he found the two of them looking at him with a strangely unreadable expression. The urge to jerk himself away was immediate –_ instinctive_, but he refused to lose face. Instead he forced himself to hold it. Letting them know, without words that they were free to look. But everything else was gonna be extra.

_He weren't no cheap date._

* * *

And if he spent the next few minutes quietly wondering what'd _actually_ happened in Budapest, _well_, that was his business.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Two more chapters, stay tuned! Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or "The Avengers," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** A quick little two-shot written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I told myself I wasn't, but I did. I am awful and have absolutely no control over my life. And hey, what else is new?

**Warnings:** *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), and rather blatant abuse of time line and canon details regarding both Clint Barton and Daryl Dixon's background. Hopefully AMC and the Marvel gods will not be too offended.

**Arcus**

_**Chapter Three**_

The three of them were still collecting spent bolts and double checking the walkers Natasha had mowed down when Barton's backup arrived. He heard them before he saw them, a group of men and women, about ten strong. They were light on their feet – good – but not good enough. And like whispers on the breeze, by the time the lead two turned the corner, he already had a pretty good idea how it was all going to go down.

His hackles smoothed incrementally as Barton and the red-head visibly relaxed. In a lot of ways it was like watching a pack come together, the outliers circling close to the lead pair, seeking affirmation, companionship – _comfort_.

"What do we have here?"

He recognized the voice from the radio right off the bat. Phil something. Coulson, maybe. He took his measure through the sweaty band of his fringe. At first glance he looked like any other fed, short hair, dark glasses, that bland PSA expression. Looking distinctly out of place in a black tank and dark combats. But since snap-judgments weren't exactly his style anymore, he forced himself to keep looking.

"Family, sir." Barton replied, open in his affection as the two men completed the circle, acknowledging each other through wry smiles and just the hint of a nudge as the fed examined a scrape on Natasha's cheek. The woman tolerated the fussing for only a few seconds, but even he could see there was no heat in it when she eventually moved away.

"Cousins," he grunted, speaking up for the first time as whatever was left of his discomfort trickled between his shoulders in the form of a warm sweat. The group was tight-knit and organized, ruled on mutual respect and friendship rather than fear. They weren't a threat. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not unless someone crossed them first.

"Once or twice removed," Barton cracked, rolling his neck unconcernedly as Coulson approached him carefully.

"Small world," the man offered, smile faint but genuine as he stopped in front of him, taking off his sunglasses to reveal kind eyes and well defined crows-feet. Benchmarks of a life spent squinting into the sun.

He cocked his head. But it wasn't just that. There was something about the way the fed held himself. There was an honest sort of confidence, self-aware and even-keeled. It reminded him of- _ah._ His lips quirked, a military man, he'd bet his supper on it.

"Daryl Dixon," he replied, jerking his head as the man inclined his in response.

"Agent Phil Coulson. S.H.I.E.L.D. Initiative."

_Christ, he didn't want to know what the hell that even stood for._

He didn't extend a hand to shake and the man didn't offer. Trust was hard earned and didn't exist much between strangers these days. They'd been burned one time too many on slim chances and so-called happy endings. Blood or not, Barton was just as much a stranger as his friends and _hell _if he was going to kiss and make nice just because it looked as though fate had decided to throw him a freebie.

And to his credit, the man seemed to respect that.

But instead of turning away, the man's gaze only sharpened. The eyes were there, borin' a hole clear through him, but the attention was distant. Like he was rifling through some long lost mental filing cabinet. He could almost tell the exact moment when the appropriate file clicked into place.

"A cousin on your mother's side, correct?" Phil asked, waiting before Clint nodded before turning back to face him.

"Your brother?"

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Unsure if he was angry or relieved that the fed hadn't called Merle by name. Impersonal as it was, he supposed it would have sounded wrong, his brother's name comin' out of a fed's lips. Merle would'a shit. Hell, something about that rubbed even _him _the wrong way.

He decided to settle on irritated and let it slide.

"Didn't make it," he bit out, flicking a piece of brain matter off the tip of a bolt, inspecting it closely for cracks or breaks. "He went down fighting about a year or so back. Tough bastard."

"Condolences," Coulson replied, shooting Barton an inscrutable look as a group of black uniforms, armed to the teeth, breezed past. Truth was he barely noticed, still more than a little hung up on the fact that the man's words had actually sounded genuine.

"We've all lost a lot of good people," a woman behind him supplied - Asian, long black hair and a stern expression - surveying the room and everyone in it with a critical eye.

"Agent May," Coulson introduced, smile damn near indulgent now as the woman sent Barton and the red-head a clipped smile above his head. He was smart enough to keep his admiring whistle to himself when she came fully into view and was glad he did, because the moment the introductions were over she fixed him with a glare that could've melted plaster. Her expression host to a rather menacing _'don't fuck with me'_ vibe he immediately envied and respected.

She looked like she could use him like a tooth pick and toss him away wet in the morning.

The fingers that ghosted across her side-arm were calloused, practiced - _poised._

He snorted, ignoring the lot of them when they turned to look.

_Bet she was fun in a pinch._

* * *

He was caught off guard when the red-head used the natural break to round on him.

"You wouldn't have chanced coming here unless you were forced to. What was it you needed? Medicine?" she asked, matter of fact and right to the point, red curls bouncing temptingly around her nape as she approached. A distant part of his hind brain huffed in affirmation when he noticed how she seemed to make a point of not coming at him from behind. Instead, despite the purpose in her steps, she pushed herself off the desk and made the rounds, making sure he could see her coming, rightly sensing he probably wouldn't tolerate it.

_Smart girl._

He nodded, tossing her the list. "Plus any anti-biotics they got left," he added, not entirely sure where she got off on playin' little miss 'run-and-fetch' but too tired to get worked up about it as she caught it deftly.

He watched a flicker of expression pass across her face – too fast to identify as she perused the list quickly, eyes darting across the crumpled page.

"Problems on the home front?" Clint asked, watching the exchange from his perch on a hospital chair across the room, cleaning a handful of bolts as he re-stocked his quiver.

"Nothing we can't handle," he returned, keeping his tone bland as the feds attention seemed to sharpen, "sick kid, is all." The stretch that accompanied the words was a long time coming, spine arcing in a wavering stretch that caused tendons and bones to pop and shift.

_God, how long had it been since he'd slept more than an hour or two at a time? _

_H__e couldn't remember._

"We've been here before, a quick snatch and grab about a week ago. What they don't have, we do. I'll get it," the woman offered, nodding over at him as she pocketed the list. Giving neither of them the chance to protest as she unsheathed her belt knife and wandered off – motioning for one of the muscle to follow.

They watched her go, lithe little hips swaying, sweet as molasses and then some. Barely paying attention as somewhere in the background, the two feds started ordering around their minions, jabbering on about something to do with trucks and a supply chain until the sound of distant gun-shots overtook that of conversation.

"Bet she keeps you busy," he said finally, cycling through and abandoning about a dozen different comments before both his upstairs and downstairs brain finally agreed on something.

"You have no idea," Barton muttered. Tone so unerringly fond he nearly rolled his eyes.

_Fuckin, love birds._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. One more chapter! Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or "The Avengers," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** A quick little two-shot (apparently 5-shot written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I told myself I wasn't, but I did. I am awful and have absolutely no control over my life. And hey, what else is new?

**Warnings:** *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), references to drug use, and rather blatant abuse of time line and canon details regarding both Clint Barton and Daryl Dixon's background. Hopefully AMC and the Marvel gods will not be too offended.

**Arcus**

_**Chapter Four**_

They stuck to silence for a while after that. Trying not to let on just how little they actually had to talk about. Struggling not to show how heavy a couple decades of absence can weigh when you're feeling the brunt of it staring back at you from across the room.

_Funny how that kind of shit adds up. Family baggage 'n all that._

He shook his head, trying to figure out the last time Merle or his Pa had even_ mentioned_ the name Barton. He came up empty long before he realized it was a lost cause. Back before all this end of the world shit, sober or not, Merle had enough trouble sussin' out what _day_ of the week it was, let alone what the hero squad was up to.

_Hell, Merle had probably forgotten they even had a cousin, let alone a famous one. _

So, instead of talkin', of reminiscing and castin' their nets out for what they _didn't _know, they settled on an old Dixon standard, silence. Choosing to catalog their surroundings, take stock of their thoughts and try to keep track of the minions guarding the entrance to the trauma ward as Coulson and Agent May talked quietly in the far corner.

Personally, he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, content to watch the feds play house before something suddenly occurred to him.

"Where the hell were all you when all this went down anyway?" he asked, taking a page out of Glenn's book and making liberate use of air quotes as Barton looked up from his polishing. "Isn't this your 'thing', saving the world and whatever?"

The beat of silence that stretched out between them tasted like regret. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he counted it out; oppressive enough that it made him shift in discomfort. He flicked a thatch of hair out of his eyes, tasting the bitter-stale from the split ends as Barton straightened, spine smoothing incrementally, expelling the breath of air he'd been holding like he was readying himself for something unpleasant.

It felt like it was something he never should have brought up in the first place, like-

"We were out of the country when all this went down," Barton answered, slow and careful, like he was examining each and every word before putting it to voice.

"There was an op, nothing to do with all this, but me, Nat and Coulson's team got slated in. It was heavy shit, but run of the mill, you know?" the man continued, chin dipping into his collar, tired, before meeting his eyes again.

"Hell, I don't even know where we were, the Middle East somewhere - deep shits-ville, anyway," he added, rubbing a hand over his face, scrubbing at blood-flecked skin before he gave up and slid off the edge of the desk. "We were balls deep in that other thing when Wildfire went global. Someone above Fury scraped the whole op three days before the President's big speech."

"They were spooked, whoever it was, scared enough that they sabotaged it from the inside - nearly got the lot of us killed. Fury ordered us home, but by then the damage had already been done."

He clicked his tongue, sullen and muted in the back of his throat as he listened. He knew he was getting the cliff-notes, but hell if he wasn't interested anyway. He'd never considered what it'd been like for the rest of the world, for people trapped in foreign ports – foreign countries – caught in a political tug-of-war as the rest of the world tried to return America's sloppy seconds without actually getting their hands dirty.

Truth was it hadn't mattered. It might have started on American soil, but it sure as hell didn't stop there. Before the CDC he'd always figured that someone had fucked up – that in the panic and confusion of those first few days, had let someone on a plane who'd been bit or scratched. Maybe even before they knew how it spread. Fuck knows. All he remembered was the news reports – the grainy stock video of planes falling out of the sky. Of runways teaming with bloody shapes when the pilots – locked up safe and sound behind their double re-enforced doors - reported a disturbance in the rear of the plane, inadvertently spreading the disease, city to city, before they shut down the skies permanently.

But after their little trip to the CDC? Well, he wasn't so sure anymore.

That shit was a whole 'nother thing in and of itself.

"Everything went downhill so fast there wasn't any time to do anything other than try and get back in time to help. We practically had to hijack transport to get us into central Europe. But before we could get on a plane to get back home they suspended air-traffic, all of it, even Fury back in New York couldn't get clearance to move us. It was a total blackout."

"One of our transports tried gunning it; they made it halfway across the Atlantic before someone sent a crew missile after them," Barton added, nose wrinkling like he'd smelled something foul before he turned back to his bolts, cleaning the flights with a certain, methodological precision that was strangely calming to watch.

He blinked, watching the man's fingers gentle through the flights – lulling and quiet – mind tripping back into memory without his consent. He swallowed, trying to shake it, but the feeling refused to fade. For some reason there were snippets of the National Address floating through his mind's eye – a disassembled puzzle caught in a whirl wind of color and time.

He'd caught the tail-end of the broadcast in a corner bar eighty-three miles out of Atlanta. Merle was supposed to be meeting him there. Or at least that's what he'd been able to make out over the shitty bar phone – coin cover dented like someone had taken a crowbar to it – he'd been three shots and a beer in when someone hit the volume on the TV and everyone in the room went dead quiet.

Carol had asked him once.

What he'd been doing when the world had ended.

He still didn't regret the lie he'd told her.

Because the person sitting in that bar, tin of blue-coated ecstasy _rat-rattling_ in his back pocket, sittin' pretty on the blue-prints Merle had stolen from county lockup, wasn't who he was anymore - if it'd ever been.

His lips pulled back; practically able to feel the cheap, smoke-yellowed vinyl of the booth he'd been sittin' in. He'd been the only one in the place who'd been paying more attention to his glass then the words edging across the bottom of the screen. The atmosphere had been somber, tense - poised on the edge of something every sonofabitch in there could sense, clear as day, but couldn't quite put a name to.

It was written all over them. All over the bartender watching the clock, fingering the Glock he thought he'd hidden in his waistband. All over the woman sobbing quietly into her gin, fresh off shift from the diner across the street. All over the rich kid – bottle blond and wrung out - who ordered a shot of whiskey for the house, too drunk to keep his voice from trembling when the President approached the podium.

It was the same speech you hear a hundred times in the movies. The one that tells you not to panic, to stay in your home, avoid the infected and settle in for the long haul. The one that closes with the Lord's Prayer, only to be interrupted in mid-verse when the power finally goes out. The type of speech where if you were still sitting around with a thumb up your butt and only half a clue, you were probably already dead.

"We finally got state side last month, but lost half our manpower in the process. It's not just here, it's everywhere," Barton continued, tossing the shattered tail-flight of one of his arrows behind him, lip curling in disgust. "It spread. You'd be surprised how hard it is to do _anything_, to get _anywhere_ when half a continent worth of people are trying to eat you."

He pulled a face, knowing all too well what _that_ shit was like as the man settled himself onto the desk across from him. Close but not overwhelming as the scent of him – cold metal and fresh sweat - circled the air around their heads.

"Where'd you end up, in Europe, I mean?" he asked, wetting his lips as the words came out hoarse around the edges. He gummed at a split, embracing the sting as he fished his canteen out of his pack and took a greedy swig. "If you only got state side last month, that's a long time to be away from home ya'know? You hole up somewhere?"

"Germany," Barton returned. "At least at first," flipping the last bolt into his quiver with a gesture so smooth it would have made even _Merle_ take note.

"We managed to make it to France before shit really hit the fan – jumping from safe house to safe house. Coulson figured that the ECDC was where we needed to be, so we bunked with them for a while," the archer added, shaking his head, arms crossing – defensive - before his gaze grew distant. "Those first few months man, I've never seen anything like it."

"No shit?" he exclaimed, straightening in spite of himself, wondering at the odds as a strangely mischievous smile tripped across his features. It was decidedly out of place considering the circumstances, but he couldn't help it.

"We were up at the CDC in Atlanta before it blew. The doctor there, Jenner, said France had been the closest to a breakthrough before they ran outta juice."

The man just arched a brow, curious and incredulous in turn before he grinned.

"You know, for the end of the world, we both seem to get around one hell of a lot."

The laugh that rose up – deep and shuddery from the back of his throat - ended up startling them both.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. One more chapter. Yes, yes, I know. For real this time. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

**Reference:** ECDC stands for _"European Center for Disease Prevention and Control."_ This is the European equivalent of the American CDC (Center for Disease Control).


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or "The Avengers," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** Written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I told myself I wasn't, but I did. I am awful and have absolutely no control over my life. And hey, what else is new?

**Warnings:** *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), references to drug use, and rather blatant abuse of time line and canon details regarding both Clint Barton and Daryl Dixon's background. Hopefully AMC and the Marvel gods will not be too offended.

**Arcus**

_**Chapter Five**_

He remembered far more than he cared to about those last few days. Back when humanity had been hanging onto normalcy by the fingernails. Back when people figured it was only a matter of time before there was a cure – a magic eight-ball solution the government would pull out of their back pockets just in time for re-election.

Mostly though, he remembered the stupid shit, like the smoky, oak-barrel tang of high class Whiskey as he'd finished his glass in that shitty, back country bar. The razor burn on his chin, the discomforting twang in his right side when sore ribs kicked up a fuss at being moved the wrong way. He remembered the smell of old colts wreathed through the air above his head, circling the room like the merest wisp of a halo.

He remembered how at first the police had called them riots, civil unrest 'n shit.

Ironically, rather than existing in some politician's back pocket, the media had been the first to cry foul. Apparently watching people getting _chunks_ torn out of them during a live broadcast makes it pretty hard to believe all the government and FEMA-related bullshit.

But most of all, he remembered what it'd felt like to sit in that booth and watch the world tear itself apart. After everything that had happened over the past few decades, from fucking terrorism to Nordic gods and invasions from outer space, _this_ was it? _This _was the thing that brought them down? _This_ was their extinction event?

Shit wasn't even _close _to fair.

So perhaps that was why he suddenly found himself grasping at straws. Uncertain of what to do with the sudden gold mine of potential information sitting across from him - staring at a face that reminded him of things he'd rather forget and wondered.

"Why?" he croaked, sober again after the laughter from only a few minutes before, trying to temper the sudden desperation, the sudden desire to know, as he let his hair fan across his eyes, obscuring them from view. "Why'd you come back?"

But it wasn't Barton who answered. _It was Coulson_. Coulson who came up unexpectedly by his side, his sudden presence making him flinch as the fed turned towards him with a wry smile.

"Because we have a lead on a cure."

* * *

His first reaction was anger. Anger and disbelief coupled together with a particularly soul-crushing brand of disappointment he hadn't let himself feel since that afternoon decades earlier, when he'd watched his house go up like a dried out match-stick.

He'd been old enough to know better, but he'd lied to himself regardless. Telling himself over and over that it was alright. That his mama had made it out, that she was in one of those shiny fire trucks or in the ambulance idling on the curb. That she was at the hospital or lost in the crowd, lookin' for him.

It'd been a lie that'd been easy to believe, but a lie nonetheless.

Happy endings didn't happen in their family.

Barton knew that shit from experience.

* * *

Point was, he'd heard this song and dance before.

He'd let Rick serenade him with it after the Quarry, leading the charge to the CDC for answers. _Hope._ And look how that shit had turned out? There weren't no cure. No answer to the infection. It fuckin' was what it was. Anyone who said different was fucking selling something.

So instead of taking the bait, he did what he'd always done when faced with shit he figured wasn't worth the time of day. He ignored it. In fact, he switched topics and brought up something that'd been weighing on him while Barton had been busy with show-and-tell.

He took a deep breath, chewing on the words before he let them loose. "You know Stark's dead, right?" he started. "He set the tower to blow when the South ferry got overrun, gave the city enough time to evacuate the suburbs. It was all over the news, before the lines went down."

"We heard," Barton replied allowing the topic change with hedging grace, quiet and drawn in a way that made him wonder just how tight-knit the group had been. "We still haven't found Banner, Steve or-"

But Coulson clearly wasn't about to let it drop.

"I understand that it sounds hard to believe, but in this case the truth is stranger than fiction," the fed explained, hands poised – careful and deliberate – wrist to wrist in front of him. _Parade rest._

The dried blood and dirt warped his sudden frown. But the eyes staring back at him were quiet, questioning, and worst of all, open. Like you could say anything and he'd take you at face value, trusting and shit, while - at the same time - giving nothing away.

_The fed was good. He'd give 'im that._

"What? Is all this from up there or something?" he asked, making a vague motion at the ceiling, to space and beyond. Privately wondering why he hadn't thought of it before.

"No, not according to Thor and his father anyway. Asgard is just as stumped as we are. Communication is limited but we do have an intermittent line of dialogue – mostly one sided, but enough. We learned the hard way that it's contagious. They aren't immune. They are working on a cure but they need the causation - the firing point," Coulson explained, blue eyes flashing in the low light. "_That, _Mr. Dixon, is why we're here."

"While neither side thinks this came from their end, it's them we are going to have to rely on. France _was _close. Close because they solved an integral part of the puzzle. They worked to the end to ensure our operatives got as much data as possible, which was then passed on to Asgard, enabling them to take the breakthrough one step further," Agent May interjected.

"As you know, they're far more advanced," Barton added, enthusiasm clear as he ramped up for the big finish. "And it just so happens that the one person they need to do it is stuck here with us."

"A couple of weeks ago one of our installations on the east coast made contact with an Asgard citizen on American soil. He was part of our exchange program – a hush-hush show and tell at NASA - but presumed dead when he and his handler got caught in gridlock on the I-95 just outside of Cape Canaveral," Coulson carried on, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of his black vest with a gesture that would have looked more at home straightening a suit jacket or tie.

"He's an eccentric, but gifted scientist, into all that experimental stuff. Very important to our neighbors upstairs," Barton grinned, mirroring his gesture at the ceiling before making to continue. "They held out for as long as they could, three days or so – couple of failed search parties - but when there was no word, when he didn't make his evac point, well, the bifrost was closed. He was the last one they were waiting on."

He arched a brow, working through the slew of information before he spoke. "And what, the egg-head sent you smoke signals or som'thing?" he grunted, trying and failing to picture how you could get a hold of _anyone_ these days, no less a bunch of feds gone to ground in some military bunker god knows where.

"That's the best part," Barton returned, expression half amused, half wondering. "He rigged up something, jacked up a military radio and basically had it searching for open S.H.I.E.L.D. signals ever since he lost his handler and their team.

"So, E.T. phoned home, now what?" he asked, wondering where the hell all this was going as the red-head and her muscle turned the corner on the far end of the hall, all but _sashaying _into view. He trailed off, distracted when his eyes caught on the plastic shopping bag swinging from her fist.

_Fucking finally._

But the fed just smiled.

"He prefers the name Dr. Eugene Porter, actually."

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Sweet zombie jesus, I was so sure this was the final chapter, then things ballooned out of control and yeah- I am totally sure this is going to be wrapped up in only one more chapter. Christ. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

**Reference:** The south ferry (also known as the Statten Island Ferry) connections Manhattan to Statten Island (one of the five boroughs of New York, the southernmost tip of the state.) In the Marvel Universe Stark Tower is in the center of Manhattan.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or "The Avengers," wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** A quick little two-shot written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I told myself I wasn't, but I did. I am awful and have absolutely no control over my life. And hey, what else is new?

**Warnings:** *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), references to drug use, and rather blatant abuse of time line and canon details regarding both Clint Barton and Daryl Dixon's background. Hopefully AMC and the Marvel gods will not be too offended.

**Arcus**

_**Chapter Six**_

He blinked.

Wait, what?

_Oh hell._

He did a quick mental rewind. And yeah, _holy shit_. Hindsight hit that one right on the fuckin' head. Well, that made a hell of a lot of sense actually. It was all there, the odd comments, the stilted awkwardness, the weird sense of humor. Not to mention that unerring ability to stare right through you and see all the shit you didn't want rifled through.

The doc had always struck him as a man who didn't seem to fit in and was trying too hard to boot.

"Intel tells us he's heading to Washington with a group of highly capable survivors," Coulson inferred, "we're unsure of what he told them, but it is likely he shared he was in possession of information of a more- _sensitive_ nature. Enough to earn their loyalty and trust at any rate."

"The installation he got into contact with is in a highly populated area and was unable to collect him, instead, they instructed him to start making his way to the nearest S.H.I.E.L.D outpost that has the ability to meet him halfway," Natasha added, joining the conversation seamlessly as she handed him the bag with affirming nod. But he was too shocked to even double check its contents

_Well shit, mullet had been telling the truth this whole god damned time?_

"Which, of course, was Washington," Coulson maintained. "What he doesn't know is that installation was overrun three weeks ago. He's probably begun to suspect as much given their lack of communication. But the truth is he has nowhere else to go. The east coast installation can't reach him to let him know, so for all intents and purposes, he is heading towards a death trap."

He mulled it over, quick-shot and rough. He knew Porter originally had some sort of radio. Glenn had confirmed as much. He also knew he hadn't gotten it back after the whole dust up at Terminus. And despite the weeks since, he'd kept closed mouthed about it; even when Rick had tried to get answers out of him, the man hadn't budged an inch. Sticking to his "it's classified" line until Ford had forced Rick to back off.

He'd always figured the egg-head was lying, forced to cover his ass as everything spiraled out of control – the way little white lies are prone to do. Turns out he was protecting something much bigger. Forced to sit on the knowledge of who he really was, and the real weight of what he was carrying lest it fall into the wrong hands.

He shook his head, incredulous and unwilling. _Fuck, it all fit._

"Why are you tellin' me all this?" he asked, deciding to sit on the realization a bit longer. He didn't know the egg-head that well, but he sure as hell was going to make sure he had a good measure of Barton's friends and their intentions before he pulled the ace out of his sleeve. It was Porter who'd noticed something was off with Judith in the first place, after all.

"We need to get him and the information he has back to Asgard," Barton returned, speaking up after a long silence, sober and honest as he checked the tension wires on his bow.

"You have a group, sizable, close-knit. Probably one that you've been together with since the beginning - a family group – recently fallen on hard times," Coulson explained, deferring to Agent May when she stepped forward, giving him the fish-eye before letting them roam, looking him up and down like a predator sizing up another on neutral ground.

"If your people are even _half _as good as you, we could use your help. We have supplies, medical care, protection, transportation, food, weapons. What we don't have in abundance is people," the woman responded. "We have a lot of ground to cover and nowhere near the man-power to do it. Porter could be anywhere within a flat-state radius and that distance widens every day."

"The cure is real. It's happening. It's only a matter of when, not if. What we don't have is the missing piece, what Asgard needs to reverse engineer a cure," Natasha hummed, inspecting the sharpness of her belt knife as the atmosphere of the circle intensified around him.

He forced himself to keep still, the muscles in his left cheek jumpin' as the plastic bag warmed in his grip. _Wait for it._

"But our proposal doesn't end at just helping each other survive," Coulson continued, voice strong and confident, like he fully believed in the truth of each and every word. "This is a chance to make a difference. To take a stand and fight for what we've lost and build something _better_ out of the ashes. This isn't about fighting for our _survival_; it's about fighting for our _future_, the future of the human race."

"And if we refuse?" he replied, blunt and right to the point, genuinely curious what the feds would do if they didn't play nice, hold hands and sing Kumbaya into the sunset like some stupid-ass Hallmark commercial on TV.

"Then we'd wish you and group the best of luck and be on our way," Coulson returned, easy and serious, that wry little smile back across his face as his lips quirked upwards. "But our offer of supplies and medical care would still stand. Least of all you'd get a decent night's sleep and a warm meal out of the deal."

He nodded, considering, drawing it out despite the fact he'd made his decision about half a dozen seconds ago. He made a point to let it breathe, to catch Barton's gaze across the circle and fix him with a look. It was a signature Dixon special. The kind that said, _'is this for real?'_ and _'if you fuck with me and mine, I'll end you'_, all at once.

The nod he got in return - a barely there tilt and the merest dip of a chin – pretty much sealed the deal.

He turned, inclining his head towards the fed in recognition, posture easin' out around the edges as he met the man's eyes head on. Man to man and then some. The dude wasn't too bad, for a fed.

"I can't promise nothin'. We make our decisions _together_ these days. It's them you'll have to convince. But I'll make sure they hear you out," he offered. "Now, I got somewhere to be. But you're welcome to follow me back," he stated, hefting the bag in his arm before gesturing over at his bike parked out at the side entrance.

"…However," letting the unspoken part linger, wetting his lips as he sensed the dynamics changing. Not completely opposed to the situation as Barton and the red-head fixed him with a questioning look. Unwilling to stifle the small, but still completely _shit-eating_ grin that made tracks across his face.

"Your lost scientist? Well, I might be able to help you with that."

He took it as his due when they rounded on him, eyes wide, eager and disbelieving despite years of military training.

But it wasn't until Barton swore – cussin' out a blue streak that reminded him of Merle and better days, that he kicked back against the desk he'd been leaning on, a dark little chuckle working its way up his throat in spite of himself.

It joined the others as a lilting bubble of relieved and completely contagious laughter busted out into the open. Making a mockery of each and every one of them as for the first time in longer than he could remember, the idea of a future thrummed into the forefront, dusty but shin'in strong.

His lips quirked, struggling with the consequences of a full-blown smile.

_Ain't that just a treat?_

* * *

Clint found him in the crowd half an hour later, hailing him in stop-motion as he swung his leg over his bike. He checked the grips, turning the throttle slightly, enough to ease the beast into the idea of startin' again as he waited for the archer to catch up.

He caught a glimpse of the red-head and the feds waiting beside a blacked out SUV, talking close, casual and bored – a sure sign that they were probably talkin' about them. The sound of at least six separate engines starting drowned out everything else as the muted _pop-pop_ of distant gunfire showed that the feds were as good as their word. From what he'd seen they'd were exactly what they said, only better.

_Who knows, the trip to Washington might even be worth it, after all._

The smirk he hid was half-ass, but true enough as his eyes roved over the feds and the red-head. Thinkin' about the differences and similarities between them and his own. At the end of the day, they probably had a hell of a lot to learn from one another.

"All set?" Barton asked, stopping about a meter away, proximity close and almost intimate as black uniforms scurried this way and that in the background. "Need anything?"

"Nope. All good," he grunted, stuffing the meds into his leather bike bag, toeing the pedal impatiently, eager to get going before they lost what little light they had left. He hated ridin' in the dark, the roads these days didn't exactly make for easy sailin'.

"You got someone waitin' for you?" the archer replied, more of a statement than a question as the man's eyes crinkled in the corners, just like his mama's used to when she was seconds away from an honest smile.

And like clockwork, Carol's face flashed in his mind's eye.

All brilliant blue eyes and that silver, pixie-cut hair.

_Fuckin' gorgeous._

Gooseflesh shivered across his skin as he suddenly remembered her last words, what she'd said before he left. Words which only a few hours previously had been so hard to recall, were now ingrained in his brain in day-glow colors. Warm and bright and everything he didn't deserve but she gave to him freely anyway.

The ability to mask the way his cheeks heated was beyond him. Just thinkin' about it was enough. Thinking about giving in, takin' a chance, about trustin' her like she trusted him. About letting her have that final piece of him, the one he hadn't given to _anyone_. That he thought he _couldn't_ give, maybe-

"Yeah, I think I do."

The man's grin was immediate, instinctive – _real. _Like man to man, lover to fuckin' lover the dude was fucking happy for him or some shit. "Well then," Barton cracked, shouldering him gently before motioning towards the open road, pausing for just a half a second too long – allowing skin to meet skin - before he pulled away.

"Lead the way cousin."

He cocked his head and watched him go, covering the sudden pause by gunning the engine. Overgenerous with the clutch as Barton hopped into the SUV and slammed the door, neat and stream-lined as the vehicle pulled into position behind him.

_Huh._

_Cousin. _

He hit the horizon with an unsteady burst of speed, peeling away from the main pack as the purring roar of close to half a dozen engines rippled in his wake. Unable to shake the realization that at the end of the day, he just might like the sound of that.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. This story is now complete, I promise. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!


End file.

Walking Dead, Drama, Romance