Work Text:
Think You Can Wait
I was drifing, crying,
I was looking for an island.
I was slipping under
I'll pull the devil down with me, one way or another ...
We've been running a sleepless run
Been away from the baby way too long
We've been holding a good night gun
We've been losing our exits one by one
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He blames it all on the rain. Maybe he should blame it all on Natasha, or whatever her name is; the red-headed witch who left him standing in the cold with his fingers clamped over the deep cut her knife had left between his ribs as the rain fell in icy sheets that soaked him to the skin. She had told him there were no heroes and looked at him with pity as he sank to the ground.
Stubborn and out of options, he made his way inside S.H.I.E.L.D. -- the most secret government agency in the United States. He stowed a pack in the air vents and was then betrayed by the pale crimson drops of water and blood that stained the tiles overhead and fell to the floor in front of a cadre of elite agents. At his best, he could have taken them all down, but not today.
He was fucked from day one, he decides and lets the agents muscle him into handcuffs and shove him into a metal chair. He doesn't accept defeat easily, but it's been days since he had a decent meal, he's chilled to the bone and he feels sick and dizzy.
For a moment, it's overwhelming. He's so fucking tired ...
The next thing he knows, he's on the floor with some guy in a suit pointing a gun at him. His instinct kicks in and he tries to hook the Suit's legs out from under him. There is a snap and a buzz and pain screams through his body. Then he feels a sharp prick in his arm and everything stops -- the pain, the buzzing in his head, the twitching muscles. The face of the Suit blurs and fades into darkness.
He wakes up in a white room. There are restraints on his arms and for a panicked moment, he's certain that those IV tube in his arm are leaking lethal poison into his veins. He tries to fight, but he's too weak and frightened. Then a face comes into his field of vision. The Suit. Clint doesn't recall him looking so ... so damn kind. It's a ruse ... maybe. Clint watches him warily.
"If you stop fighting the restraints, I'll take them off. If you try anything, you know I have a taser."
"Yeah. I remember." He pulls his wrists against the leather. "Please?"
"Manners. That's unexpected. Do you know where you are?"
"S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Your security sucks." The drugs make his throat and mouth dry and his words sound broken. The suit releases him from the restraints, but the IVs in his arm are still restraining him.
"Apparently." The Suit actually holds a cup of water to his lips. It's a small and kind gesture. Nobody has touched him like that for a very long time. He doesn't remember much of the rest of the conversation. He remembers that the Suit has a name. Coulson. Agent Coulson, with kind blue eyes. The bed is warm, the pillow soft beneath his cheek. He has the best security in the world watching him. That should make him crazy, but instead he feels safe and allows his body to rest.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Coulson has his bow. This shocks Clint because the last thing Coulson should do is trust him with it. There hasn't been much trust in Clint's life and he doesn't know what to do with it when it's given to him. He holds it tight because he's afraid that this is a snare and he's about to be caught.
He doesn't know what to make of Coulson. The guy looks like a pencil-pusher, but Clint knows appearances are deceiving. He tests the draw of his bow and tries flirting with Coulson., who just gives him a serene half-smile and walks him back to his room. Clint doesn't argue. He's still feeling like he's an old dishrag.
Rattling Coulson is going to be his mission, he decides. "Are you trying to seduce me?" He flutters his lashes at Phil.
"If I said yes, what would you do?"
To his horror he feels himself blushing. "Try me and find out."
"Director Fury will want to talk to you tomorrow. He's not nearly as nice as I am." He turns and walks away. Clint feels absurdly satisfied with himself and falls asleep ... again.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Director Fury isn't a man to be trifled with. Clint knows the type, but he's never known anybody with the aura of power and menace that surrounds Fury. That damn eye patch and black leather duster are his armor. Clint knows all about armor. His just isn't as visible as Fury's. Despite that, their conversation is innocuous. Fury asks how he got into S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Nobody thinks about air vents," Clint tells him.
"We did."
"Not on the thirteenth floor," Clint smirks. He can't help it. Fury glares at him, which chills his bones. "Sorry, sir."
"There are six floors above that," Fury says.
"Six floors with a rappelling harness," Clint tells him. "Granted, I'm pretty agile. A guy your size? That's a different story."
"Don't lie to me, Barton. You were in no condition to rappel down the outside of the building and there was no rope in your pack."
"Okay, but there are unsecured vents, sir, which you might want to take a look at in your design plans. You know those are on file with the Architectural Board of Review right? Anybody can see them. I mean, not the super-secret stuff, but the plans for walls, ceilings ... air vents." Fury looks interested and Clint continues, "I waited until somebody opened the back door. You know you've got a back door? The one where they take out the trash? I hid in a dumpster then slipped in. Found an open hatch to an air vent."
"I take it bleeding on the floor wasn't part of the plan?"
"No, sir."
"What the hell did you think you were doing, son?" Fury looks at him, not unkindly.
Clint could lie and say he just thought it was a cool idea, but something about Fury's interest makes him tell the truth. He takes a deep breath, "I thought ... Hey, I never said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer .. but maybe if I could impress you, I could become something more than what I was ... am."
Fury lifts up a thick file. "You are an assassin, a vigilante, a low-life criminal, who associates with questionable company, including a woman we know as Black Widow. You are not prime material for a recruit to S.H.I.E.L.D."
"I guess not, sir. So, I guess I don't have options?"
"I'll leave that up to Agent Coulson. I just wanted to know how the Hell you got into my house."
"Yes, sir."
"Go back to medical, Barton. You look like a ghost."
He feels like one; pale, cold and washed out. He is escorted back to the medical floors by a silent agent named Sitwell. He remembers he was the one who hauled his ass off the floor when he was captured. Sitwell has a black eye. Clint looks at him. "Sorry about the eye."
"Don't worry about it. My girlfriend thinks it's sexy."
"T.M.I, man," Clint shakes his head and Sitwell laughs. "Could you do me a favor?" It's a daring thing to ask, but Sitwell just arches a brow.
"Depends on the favor."
"I had a backpack with some stuff in it. Just personal stuff --" he amends quickly. "No weapons. Just ... it's kind of all I have but my bow."
Sitwell nods, "I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks."
Then he's back in bed with nothing to look at but the ceiling. He falls asleep counting the tiles. When he wakes up, Coulson is standing in the doorway. He looks a little gray around the eyeballs, like he's not feeling well. Clint yawns. "It's not tomorrow."
"I've been authorized to bring you on board as an asset," he says bluntly.
"And if I say I don't want to be an asset?"
"I get out my paperclip." Clint hopes he's joking.
"You're willing to take that chance? I'm nobody's hero, you know what I've done."
"I know what you've done and who you've killed. I'm throwing you a lifeline. If you're as smart as I think you are, you'll take it. You don't want to go into the prison population, Barton."
The thought hits like a punch to his gut; it takes his breath away, makes his heart pound and makes his hands shake like he's got a fever. He fists them in his sheets to still the tremors. He's been in prisons, and they didn't all have bars. "I guess I'm your man, though I don't know why you'd want me."
"Leave that up to me. We'll talk more later." He holds out Clint's battered iPod. "Something to help you pass the time."
Clint takes it, but won't meet Phil's eyes. "Thanks. It's ... it's kinda dull here."
"I added a song to your playlist."
"Yeah? Let me guess. Secret Agent Man?"
Coulson just smiles and leaves. Clint presses the power button and hits play. What he hears startles him to the point that tears start in his eyes and streak down his cheeks.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Two days later, Clint is released from medical. Coulson escorts him down to a cubicle of a room which holds a desk, a few metal shelves, and a narrow Captains' style bed -- basically, a mattress laid down over a low set of drawers. Behind a narrow door there is a tiny washbasin, a toilet and a medicine cabinet.
"Showers are communal, but usually you can have some privacy," Phil informs him. "The gym is down the hall and the range is the next floor up. Your allotted time is from 2pm to 4pm." Coulson looks around apologetically. "I know it's Spartan, but until you finish training, this is what you get."
"No. It's okay." He hadn't expected luxury, and at least this place has a door that locks and it's warm and dry. The way he's been living make this feel like the Ritz.
"Agent Sitwell will be in charge of your training. When you're ready to go out on missions, I'll be your handler."
"Gosh, sir. I can't wait."
Coulson gives him a long-suffering sigh. "Don't screw up, Barton."
Clint gives a short, bitter laugh. "You don't know me very well. Screw up is my middle name."
"That's funny. I thought it was Francis."
"Are we back to that name thing, Agent Coulson?"
Coulson sighs. "I'll let you know when you can call me by my name."
"Gee, sir. I can't wait for that day."
"Trust me, Barton. You can. I'll see you in my office after you settle in. There's paperwork involved."
"Great."
"And this ..." He holds out a black plastic band. "This goes on your ankle."
Clint hopes his grin is cocky. "House arrest?"
"Standard procedure for unvetted assets." Coulson kneels and raises the cuff of Clint's fatigues. "Boot off."
Clint makes an elaborate show of untying his boot and toeing it off. Coulson snaps the cool plastic around his ankle. There's a long surgical scar running the length of Clint's calf. Coulson looks up, a faint flush on his cheekbones. "That's quite a scar, Barton."
"It's what happens when they put in a metal rod and screws into a broken bone. It happened a long time ago." He shrugs off the phantom pain that is more about betrayal than the injury. "It's good now. You know, stronger at the broken places."
"Yes, I know." Coulson pulls Clint's cuff neatly over the anklet and stands up. "My office in an hour."
"Yes, sir." This time, there is no smirk on his lips. Coulson, he decides, deserves that much respect for saving his ass.
After Coulson leaves, Clint stows his few possessions. His clothing consists of a few faded t-shirts, a long-sleeved henley and well-worn jeans. He wonders when he'll be able to leave the compound alone. Not for weeks, he guesses. He looks in the medicine cabinet. Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. Tylenol and ibuprofen, bandages. A pack of disposable razors. Generic soap. The desk is empty. Apparently pens and pencils are lethal weapons. Or maybe they just don't want their "recruits" to contact the world outside. Cell phones? Clint opens his cheap burn phone. No signal. It figures. Having explored the limits of his world, Clint lays down, sticks his earbuds in his ears and falls asleep, waking up just in time for his meeting with Coulson.
Sitwell is waiting for him, which is a good thing since Clint has no idea where Coulson's office is located in this vast complex. He thinks Coulson must rate a pretty swank office. He's wrong. He follows Sitwell through a maze of mostly empty desks to a glassed off cubicle. At least the glass is frosted so it doesn't feel like Coulson is supervising from a fishbowl.
Sitwell knocks. "We're here."
Coulson is on the phone. He motions them in, gestures them to sit. "That's very interesting. Thank you." He hangs up. "Jasper, there's an issue with Agent D'Amato. See to it."
From the way Sitwell sighs, Clint guesses that D'Amato is an ongoing problem. Coulson rubs the bridge of his nose as if he can massage away a headache lodged there. "Barton."
"You wanted to see me, but I can come back later."
Coulson takes another look at the papers on his desk, clips them together and puts them in a file drawer. "Let's go for a walk."
"I've been to the range."
"That's not what I meant." He gestures to the door. "I'd like some coffee that isn't scorched."
"Sounds good to me," Clint agrees. His heart is beating a little faster at the thought of fresh air. He follows Coulson into an elevator and rides up to the lobby level. "So, this is what the front door looks like?"
It's impressive. Black granite, glass and stainless steel with a black S.H.I.E.L.D. logo set into grey and black terrazzo, and a reception desk that looks like the prow of an ocean liner. "I thought you were supposed to be a"covert operation"." He makes quote marks with his fingers to annoy Coulson.
"Window dressing," Coulson says. "Have you ever been to the NSA?"
"No... I can't say I have."
Coulson's lips quirk. "That's a field trip for another time. There's a Visitors Center that looks a lot like any high-tech campus. The real workspace is invisible."
"Hide in plain sight," Clint says. "If you're transparent, nobody looks beyond the shiny glass."
Coulson nods, pleased that Clint understands. They leave the building and walk down the busy New York street to a tiny coffee shop tucked between a skyscraper and a Chinese takeout that has probably survived due to the influx of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel seeking an escape from headquarters.
The shop smells heavenly; like coffee and sweet dough. Clint orders a large Americano, Coulson, a cinnamon latte and two big cinnamon scones. He pays with a S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card and shrugs apologetically. "I have a few perks," he explains.
"I'll bet," Clint mutters. "I'll be eighty-five before I see one of those."
Coulson takes them to a corner table in the back of the room. He lets Clint take the seat with his back against the wall; Clint habitually codes the room looking for threats, weapons, people he doesn't trust.
"It's safe," Coulson says. He sits at right angles to Clint; his view of the room is almost as good as Clint's. Coulson pushes the plate of scones towards Clint.
"I'm starting to feel like the fatted calf."
"You're still about fifteen pounds under your ideal weight according to medical."
Coulson has a smudge of foam at the corner of his mouth which Clint finds unaccountably adorable. "Why, Agent, I didn't know you cared," he bats his lashes.
Coulson sighs. "Barton ... focus."
"I am."
"Medical also gave me the results of your physical."
"Christ, haven't you guys ever heard of HIPAA?"
Coulson gives him a small smile. "We've heard of it."
"So, am I dying or something?"
"Hardly."
"Then what?"
"Do you know what 20/20 means?""
"Yeah, perfect vision."
"For most of us. Your vision tested out at 20/3. The best ever tested. A hawk's visual acuity is 20/2. Not only do you see perfectly, your field of vision retains that acuity on the periphery."
"My father called me a freak."
"He was wrong. It is an incredible tactical advantage. And because of that, I'm withdrawing our offer to recruit you as an asset."
Clint feels the familiar hollow sickness of abandonment. "Great. I'll pack up my things."
"We would like to train you as an agent," Coulson says, and Clint swears he sounds a little breathless.
Clint feels a little breathless himself. He leans back against the banquette, crosses his arms. "Seriously? Just because I've got great 'visual acuity'?"
Coulson pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket. "The results of your IQ test. Genius is 180. Your IQ is 157. That is extraordinarily high."
Clint swallows a sip of coffee. His father had also called him a dumb fuck. He doesn't tell Coulson that. "Sir, I never really graduated from high school. I mean, I took an online GED test ..." he shrugs.
"We don't care. You're smart enough to learn whatever we need you to learn. You speak at least five languages with varying degrees of fluency. You broke into S.H.I.E.L.D. You're more than smart enough, Barton. And you never, ever miss a target."
"So, do I get dental and vision?"
Coulson grins at him. "We even have life insurance, though the premiums are a little high for field operatives."
"Hell, I never figured I'd live forever," Clint grins back. He holds out his hand. "You've got yourself an agent from the scratch and dent shelf."
Coulson's hand is warm and firm with gun callouses on his palm. Clint should be surprised by that, but he's not. "So, what's next?"
"Better quarters. More range time, classes on the technology we use in the field."
"I'm giddy with excitement, Agent Coulson."
"Finish your scones, Barton. We need to get back."
"Don't tell me. More paperwork."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. has never embraced the concept of a paperless society," Coulson says. He can't quite hide the warm amusement in his eyes, and Clint realizes that he might have found a home.
The End