Work Text:
For more than five decades Peggy Carter served in the intelligence community, and while technically retired, there was no getting away from the community entirely. She'd been around too long, knew more secrets than was surely healthy, and had buried most of the bodies herself. Requests to consult were as regular as the sunrise.
Today was different, however; Peggy didn't wait for the call, but took the liberty of inviting herself. She'd been waiting for this since 1946, after all.
It took some guessing, as Darcy was distressingly non-specific about dates and events, but she'd told Peggy enough for her to make a rough timeline. Her trainer was older than Darcy, by probably a decade or so. He'd been in long enough to bring home an assassin and become a well-respected, top agent by the time Darcy met him. So, Peggy estimated his arrival in SHIELD somewhere in the mid to late '90s.
And today was the day. Late August, 1998, and one Clinton Francis Barton found himself in some rather hot water. He was, according to Phil Coulson's report, very young, very angry, and very gifted. The most pure and deadly shot Coulson had ever seen. He'd make a tremendous sniper. Maybe even one of the best.
Peggy never knew if she'd see this day, but as she looked out the car window at the passing town — quaint, tidy, so very American in its simple, relaxed charm — and as she considered the long road to today, she was reminded that she really ought to call Tony again. He was being entirely ridiculous about his daughter and was running the very real risk of missing out on her childhood entirely. And why? Because he was terrified of turning out like Howard? Well, if that was what it was, he wasn't doing very well at avoiding that. Silly boy.
She'd adored Howard, he'd been her dearest friend for so very long, but she was well familiar with his faults. All of them. And more than once she'd been moved to express her disappointment in his distant, weak attempts at fatherhood. Tony deserved so much better than that. And while she and the Jarvises had done their best to make up for Howard's detachment, nothing could wholly replace an absent, yet eternally disapproving father. She most certainly did not want to watch history repeat in this way. Darcy deserved better, as well.
"Director Carter? We're here," her driver called.
"Thank you. We'll wait for him." She tapped her fingers on the door handle and looked out at the red brick building housing the Warren County jail. Oh, Mr. Barton. Well, Darcy had said he tended to rather crash through life, but Peggy hadn't expected he'd start so disastrously.
Ten minutes later, two agents hustled a young, blond man out of the building and towards the car.
Rolling down her window, she gestured an agent forward. "What happened to his face, Agent Coulson?"
Phil Coulson pursed his lips and glanced back over at Barton who was sporting a swollen nose and an impressive red-black bruise on his right cheekbone. "He got into an altercation at breakfast this morning, ma'am. He, apparently, suggested taking another inmate's sister out on the town."
"In the vernacular, I assume," Peggy said with a roll of her eyes. "Very well, load him in."
Coulson hesitated and said, "I'd like to come with you, ma'am."
"Not this time. We'll meet you at the airport."
"He hasn't agreed."
"He will."
Coulson looked at her, his consternation obvious, though he tried to hide it. He was one of Nick's favorites; however, as far as she could recall, Darcy hadn't mentioned him in particular. Of course, she'd been very careful to limit the number of agents she did give name to and was, even then, stingy with last names. Clint, Natasha, and Skye, were the only ones Peggy ever noted.
"Until he agrees, he's still a prisoner of the Warren County Sheriff," Coulson protested. "Director."
"Yes, I'm well aware. I'd like to have a conversation with young Mr. Barton."
"But, why him?" Coulson caught himself and tugged on his shirt cuffs. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm just curious. You don't usually come out on recruitments."
"I know. Someday, perhaps, you'll get the whole story. But, not today. Your recommendation said he was very gifted and very promising. I happen to agree, and now I wish to speak with him," she repeated more firmly.
"Yes, ma'am," he muttered, an edge of irritation to his voice. But only the smallest edge; he was far too proper an agent to offer anything like insubordination.
Peggy couldn't fault Agent Coulson for his unhappiness. He'd been tracking the boy for months, since SHIELD took an interest in the unusual tools used in his crime spree. And now, so close to bringing Barton into the fold, here was a retired director sticking her nose in. Well, he'd just have to be patient a little while longer.
The boy was led to the back of the car, and shoved into the seat next to her. He squirmed and let out a little squeak of pain that he tried very hard to muffle.
"Oh, for Lord's sake," Peggy said, exasperated, "remove the handcuffs. Mr. Barton won't be going anywhere."
Coulson did as requested, though he didn't look particularly pleased, then he shut the door and stepped out of their way.
"We'll be flying out of Des Moines, Agent Madaki. Though, I think we might need about an hour, if you don't mind."
"Yes, ma'am." He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb while Peggy raised the privacy screen.
"No, thanks, lady. I don't really go for cougars," Barton grumbled and glared out the car window.
"Good, I don't go for children," she told him.
"I'm almost twenty," Barton said, giving her a dark scowl.
"Wonderful, I'm 77. I own knickers older than you." She reached for her attache case and pulled out Clint's file. "My name is Peggy Carter, you may refer to me as Director Carter."
He grunted and turned his attention out the window.
"Tell me, Mr. Barton, do you fletch your own arrows?"
His head jerked and he shot her a look, suspicious but with touch of shock. "What?"
"Well, a marksman such as yourself, surely you don't trust mass-produced arrows. So, I can only assume you fletch your own."
"I know what you're doing," he growled.
"Seven arrows were fired—"
"Loosed."
"Pardon?"
"Arrows are loosed not fired," he corrected, tilting his chin up and giving her a condescending, narrow-eyed glare.
"Very well," Peggy said, smiling at him. "Seven arrows were loosed at the factory. Four, very carefully placed to knock out the security systems. Three were more haphazardly shot, including the one that struck and killed the security guard."
"I'm not rolling over," he shot back with heated defiance.
"As you like. Frankly, I don't care a whit about your brother or your mentor. I'm not sure you ought to, either. They did leave you, after all."
She pulled out a pair of pictures from the file, evidence photos of two arrows. "The fletching on the arrow that killed the security guard does not match the fletching on the arrow that was used to knock out a security camera. Both were done quite neatly, but the ones in your quiver show exceptional skill. As does the arrow used on the camera."
"Whatever."
"So, you didn't shoot the security guard. His name, by the way, was Tyrell Raymond. Did you know that?"
He shrugged and muttered sullenly, "They told me."
"He had a wife and a child."
"I know," he snapped and glared out the window.
"You tried very hard to save him." The police report included the transcript of a desperate 911 call, and according to the police on scene, when they entered and ordered young Mr. Barton to put his hands up, he refused. He held on to the injured man and tried to will him back to life until two officers were forced to drag him bodily away so the paramedics could get to work.
"Unfortunately, the artery under his right arm was severed," Peggy continued. "Even if he'd got to hospital immediately, he likely would have died anyway."
"Agent Coulson said," he told her, a snarl curling his lips, but his voice cracked and he glanced down. Tears were gathering on his lashes and he scrubbed at his face, trying to hide them away.
Oh, Lord, he was a boy. Such a young boy. He might be nearly twenty, but sitting next to her, his face drawn and battered, he looked like he might have been all of twelve. She could picture this boy, desperate, pleading, pressing on the wound while the man bled out beneath him.
Darcy'd spoken of him so often, and with such affection and admiration, Peggy couldn't help but be rather partial to him already. She'd been curious for over fifty years. And now here he was, a broken, scared child. Everything in her cried out to comfort him, but he likely wouldn't accept it, and they didn't know each other yet.
"Your attempts to save the man will likely mitigate, to a degree, the more serious charges against you — accessory to murder, accessory to aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. You're still quite on the hook for attempted burglary in the first degree. And I've got a feeling the DA will come up with a whole list of additional charges. That was not, after all, your first burglary."
"Whatever," Barton muttered and scrubbed at his eyes again before looking back out the window. "I get it. The military or jail."
"Yes, that is the immediate, practical choice before you now," Peggy agreed. "The burglary charges will likely carry a sentence of 25 years to life. If you cooperate with the authorities, perhaps you'll get ten years, parole in five. But then what? What will you do?"
Barton shrugged and refused to look at her again.
"And that is the more important choice before you, Mr. Barton," she told him. "What sort of man do you wish to become? That's what will decide your future — not jail, not the military — your own resolve in who you will be. And that is not a choice anybody can present to you; it's one you must consider in your own heart."
His lip curled up in a petulant sneer and he crossed his arms, slumping down low in his seat.
Peggy let out a light, quiet laugh. Oh, yes, he was so very tough and stubborn. Well, he'd quite met his match. She'd wrangled boys like Clint Barton for the better part of half a century. She knew how they thought, it was only a matter of being patient enough to get to the point where his resolve would start to crack. She had time.
Looking down at his file, her amusement turned into a frown, and she had to again resist the desire to put a hand on his shoulder. Sympathy was not what he needed now.
"Your parents were killed in a drunk driving accident, your father the drunk at the wheel, leaving you orphaned at nine. You and your brother bounced from foster home to foster home, until you ran away and joined the circus." Oh, Mr. Barton. "How was that?"
"What? Being an orphan? It sucks."
"Does it? According to county records, your father was brought in numerous times on suspicion of child abuse and domestic violence. Your mother refused to cooperate. You boys were silent on the subject." She tapped her finger on the file and kept her voice even, though she felt her disgust and rage building. "Goodness, you fell out of trees quite a lot, didn't you?"
"Fuck off," he shot back, his voice hot.
She ignored his vulgar growl. It mustn't be very nice to have somebody poke at those particular wounds, and she regretted the necessity. "I was actually asking about the circus, however. How do you like that?"
"Oh," he said, his bristling aggravation draining away as the subjected turned. "It's okay."
"Just okay? Many a child has dreamed of running away to the circus. You actually did it."
"They were … I mean, some of them are okay. When we first got there, I couldn't do a lot, so they just had me doing little, shit jobs all day. But, it wasn't so bad. It was a lot of work, but there was someplace to sleep and the food was good."
"Are you a hard worker, Mr. Barton?"
"Stop calling me Mr. Barton," he ground out through clenched teeth.
"Clint, then. And in answer to my question …?"
He seemed confused by her refusal to respond to his temper with her own. He looked down, the long fringe of his hair falling into his eyes. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, you work or they'd leave you behind. So, it's not like there was a lot of choice."
"There's always a choice, as you well know," she told him, raising her eyebrow. "And how did you learn to shoot? In the circus?"
"Nah, before. Me and Barney used to go out hunting squirrels and rabbits. And I liked to …" He shut his mouth, and pressed his lips together tightly. Oh dear, he'd nearly let himself have an almost civil conversation with an authority figure. Peggy hid her smile by licking her lips and looking back at his file.
"According to Agent Coulson, you are a remarkable shot. The best he's ever seen. You should know Agent Coulson has seen quite a few snipers in his day. If you've impressed him, you must be excellent." She held up a flyer to his small, traveling circus. "It says here, you're the world's greatest marksman. Hawkeye, they call you."
"I guess," he muttered.
"You must pull in quite the crowd. Young, dashing, and a magician with a bow. I imagine you're a popular act. Why you've got center place on this flyer." She looked him over, still struck by how very, very young he was; all gangly arms and legs and sulky scowls, with only the barest hint of wispy, blond fuzz on his chin.
"Why turn to crime?" she asked. "Surely, your gifts could have been profitably used in a more legitimate arena."
"Look, lady," he said, his pale cheeks turning red on what was surely an embarrassing blush. "Take me back to jail, or stick me in an army uniform, just … none of that shit matters."
"Of course it matters. Also, you're the one who must decide where we go. Back to jail or to the airport. Tick tock, Clint. You're running out of time. Agent Madaki is taking the extremely scenic route, but we can turn around and go back to the jail at any point."
"I don't know," he said in a quiet voice, hardly more than a whisper.
"Pardon? I'm quite ancient, you know, my hearing's not what it was."
"I don't … I don't know, okay? I don't know," he exclaimed, choking on his frustration and fear.
"Yes, it is okay. Entirely understandable, in fact," she told him gently. "I'll tell you what, Clint, I'd like to see you shoot. Surely there's a range somewhere nearby. Would you mind very much if we stopped?"
He gave her a sidelong glance, studying her, trying to see if this was some sort of trick, or if he'd really be allowed to pick up a weapon again. "Why?"
"Why would I like to see you shoot?" She waved the flyer at him again. "That's an absurd question. How often does one get the opportunity to watch the world's greatest marksman work?"
That made him angry, he must have been sure she was mocking him, and he set his jaw, truculent and defensive. "Quit screwing with me."
"I have absolutely no interest in screwing with you. What would I get out of it? That would be a waste of an afternoon for both of us." She dropped the flyer into the file and sat back, giving him an impatient look. "Do you honestly believe I flew all the way to Iowa to toy with you? I assure you, I have far better things with which to occupy my time."
The fight went out of him, and he fell back into sullenness. "Yeah, you should have gone shopping instead of bugging me."
Peggy narrowed her eyes. "Shopping?"
"Sounds like you haven't hit a Victoria's Secret since disco was king." He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see what she'd do, how she'd take it. It only took her a second to recall her earlier comment on the age of her knickers. And then she laughed.
"Oh, there you are. I knew there was a good-natured lad under all the grump and fuss." His eyes moved away from her to stare at the back of the seat in front of him and his lips twisted into another little sneer. She laughed at him again. "No use trying to hide it, I've seen it now."
He grumbled quietly to himself and kept up his sneer, though she could tell is was less actual petulance now but rather the act he was trying to hold on to.
"So, what do you say?" she said. "Shall I ask Agent Madaki to find us a shooting range? Perhaps you know of one?"
He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip for a moment, still waiting, no doubt, for this to be a trick of some sort.
She chuckled and gave him a challenging look. "How about this — a little shooting competition. You and me. If you win, you can pick where we stop for lunch."
Thrusting out his jaw, he looked down his very swollen nose at her. "What if you win?"
"Do you think I might?" She raised a finger, cautioning him. "Before you answer, you should know I've been shooting for over sixty years. I may not be the world's greatest marksman, but I'm not too awfully bad."
Gnawing on the pad of his thumb, he thought for another moment, but for the first time since they'd met, some of the anger left his face, and his mouth ticked up rather than down. His eyes were brighter, some excitement, even pleasure, in them. He'd get a chance to show off, and what cocky, young man didn't relish that opportunity?
He finally shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster and said, "There's one at Banner Park."
"Excellent." Peggy lowered the privacy window and addressed her driver. "Agent Madaki, do you suppose you could find us the shooting range at someplace called Banner Park? Clint and I have a desperate need to show off our shooting prowess to one another."
Agent Madaki smiled into the review mirror and nodded. "I passed it just a little way back, ma'am. I'll turn us around."
Peggy raised the divider again and sat back, giving Clint a triumphant nod.
"So, you didn't say," he commented. "What would you get?"
Peggy tapped a finger on her lips in thought and raised an eyebrow at him. "What do you think I ought to ask for?"
He snorted, a soft, amused sound. "I know I'm irresistible, but I'm still not into cougars. So pick something else."
"Oh, please. As if I'd be interested in a scrawny, little thing like you." She gave him a scathing look and said haughtily, "I kissed Captain America, you know."
Clint leaned towards her a little bit, and underneath his studied indifference, his eyes lit with curiosity. "Bullshit."
"Ha! Captain Steve Rogers was a very dear friend of mine. And he was bloody gorgeous, so you'd better believe I most certainly did kiss him. More than once, too. Of course, then he went off and sacrificed himself for the good of the world." Peggy sighed and gave Clint a commiserating look. "Life is not often fair, is it?"
He shook his head 'no', but continued to be more interested in Captain America. Which, was Peggy's hope all along. She'd got him now, got underneath that prickly hurt, chipped away a bit until she found a hint of the true boy still alive in there. "How'd you know him?"
"That's quite a long story." She tossed her hair and waved a hand at him. "I doubt you want to hear the boring tales of an old woman."
Clint bit his lip and gave her a long, searching look, then he grinned. "If you didn't want to tell me you wouldn't have mentioned him, would you?"
With an amused laugh, she tipped her head at him. "Clever boy. Very well. When I was your age, I thought my life was going to be a very particular way and that I would do the expected, boring things. I tried very hard to want those things. It was what my family wanted for me; to be safe and content. I wanted to make them happy and be what they wanted for me. But, the war changed everything. I worked as a code breaker, and then had an opportunity for something more."
"And you took it."
"No, not at first. I tried so very hard to be like the other young women of my age. It took somebody very special to remind me that I was more than other people's expectations. My older brother. Older brothers have a way of knowing us in a manner nobody else does, don't they?"
"I guess," Clint muttered, but interest was fading as suspicion crept back in.
"He was killed in action and I was devastated," Peggy continued. "He told me time and again that I was not meant to settle, I was meant to fight, and I think he was quite disappointed that I was taking that easy, safe road. Eventually, I realized that all he'd ever wanted for me was for me to be myself, whoever that might be.
"Quite aside from wanting to go to war to fight for my fallen brother, I wanted to honor him by finally letting myself truly be who I was. So I joined a special operations program, one he'd recommended me for. I became a spy. Once I'd embraced my desire to stick a thumb in society's eye, I wanted to prove myself. Prove that I was as good as anybody else. Women at the time didn't have many opportunities to serve in the field, as I'm sure you know."
"Sure," he mumbled, but he looked curious again.
"When the Americans finally joined the war, I liaised with one of their organizations, the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Have you heard of it?" Clint shook his head mutely. "I worked on the staff of their operational head, Colonel Chester Phillips. He was a tough old bastard, but he was good to me. He gave me the opportunities I craved to prove my worth. We became involved in something called Project: Rebirth. The creation of Captain America. Or, as I knew him, Steve Rogers."
"That's pretty cool," Clint admitted, but he caught himself, remembering he was supposed to be moody and petulant, and tried to drop back into his indifference.
Peggy pressed on, "Steve wanted what I'd wanted, the opportunity to prove himself, the chance to do his part in the war. He was an exceptional man, but oh, Lord, was he stubborn. The US government took our soldier and made him a dancing monkey — that's what he called it. They used him to promote war bonds and make propaganda films. He hated it, but if that was his part, then he'd do it. Until one day, we were in France, and his best friend's unit was captured. Finally the soldier we'd trained had his chance. Of course, the bloody fool tried to sneak out by himself to stage some sort of rescue. I don't know what he thought he was going to do, but I convinced him to let me help."
"What did you do?"
"Well, I went to my friend Howard Stark," she said conversationally, "and convinced him to fly us behind enemy lines, where we dropped Steve. I got quite an earful from Colonel Phillips, let me tell you."
"Howard Stark?"
"You've heard of him?" she asked, smiling, and he gave her a little glare that said yes, of course, he knew who Howard Stark was. "He and another scientist called Dr. Erskine, were the leads on Project: Rebirth. Oh, he drove me mad, absolutely bonkers. But, Howard was one of my closest friends for more than forty years, and I miss him every day."
"So …" Clint started, once more trying not to be interested, but Peggy knew what was coming next. "You know Tony Stark?"
Peggy laughed then pointed a finger at his nose. "Don't ever let Tony convince you he's so very impressive. You now know somebody who changed his nappies, and who gave him a little swat or two on the bum when he was a child. Well, I gave him a swat or two as a teenager, too. And, actually, I'd like to give him a swat now. He's being utterly ridiculous."
"What about?"
"Oh, never mind; let's just say family business." She paused and looked out the window, before continuing with calculated thoughtfulness, "Family's a funny thing, isn't it? You'll find quite a lot along the way, even when you're not looking for them."
"It's just me and my brother," Clint said with a small shrug and he turned his eyes to look back out his own window as the car came to a stop.
"What about the other people in your circus?" Peggy asked. "The people who took you in? Might some of them be family of a sort?"
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"And you'll find more as you go through your life."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. You will." Agent Madaki opened her door and held out his hand to help her out. Clint scrambled to follow. "Thank you, Agent."
"You're welcome, ma'am." He glanced at Clint and then back to Peggy. "Do you want me to go with you?"
"I think we'll be fine on our own. If you'd like to go to lunch, we can spare you for a couple of hours."
He shook his head and planted his feet. "I'll stay, ma'am."
"As you like. We'll eat afterwards, then. Would you mind getting my weapon out of the boot?" He nodded and moved to the back of the car.
While she and Clint waited, she watched another black sedan pull in behind them. Smiling, she waited for the car to stop before walking over. Agent Coulson got out and nodded to her.
Peggy nodded back and asked, "Have you his bow?"
Agent Coulson looked hesitant before firming up his lips and heading to the rear of his own vehicle. "Yes, ma'am."
"I want to see what all the fuss is about," she said, hoping to put him at ease. Then she turned to Clint. "I'll admit, I've only shot a bow once or twice and not for decades, but I'm a dab hand with a pistol."
"I'm pretty good with a gun," he said modestly.
"We'll trade off, and you can show me how to properly use a bow."
"Sure," Clint said, his mask of indifference settling back into place in front of the other agents.
The two agents handed each of them their weapons cases and Peggy waved them off as she and Clint walked to the range. Agent Coulson stared after them, looking like an uncertain puppy dog.
Peggy gave Clint an exasperated look. "These young fellows, they forget I fought Nazis." Clint's eyebrows shot up and Peggy opened the door letting him go in front of her. "A gentleman would have opened the door."
"You fought Nazis, a gentleman wouldn't insult you by pretending you couldn't open a door," he said with a smirk.
"Clever boy," she murmured again. "How often does that smart mouth get you into trouble?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes."
"I'm sure," she said with a roll of her eyes.
Once inside, Peggy paid for their range time, then led the young man off. She had to fend off the attentions of one of the well-intentioned, but ultimately irritating range masters, who tried to tell an old woman she ought to choose a smaller gun, and then tried to give her some instruction. She glared the man away and put three rounds through a target's heart. Clint laughed until he was doubled over.
When he managed to compose himself, Clint took his turn. Then he spent some time complaining about the arrows. He also complained about the sights on her pistol, and about the limits of the range itself, but it was clear to Peggy that he was having fun. He drew quite a crowd as he focused on showing her just how skilled the world's greatest marksman was. And, she liked to think she drew a few interested onlookers as she showed him her own skill.
When they'd had their fill, she was happy to pronounce Clint the winner. His abilities were, without a single doubt, preternatural. He blushed under her praise, but readily accepted the shoulder pats and handshakes from the rest of his audience.
"Well," she said on a long breath as they walked out of the range. "That was an impressive show."
"It was okay," he said, still trying to hide from her, but much of his reserve had melted away. "It's not a very good range."
"It's a perfectly nice one for the average person, but I can see how you might not find it challenging."
"You did pretty good," he said, and she could see she'd earned some admiration from him.
Peggy rubbed at her left shoulder and groaned. "Goodness, I'm too old for a bow. I'll feel that later."
"Hey, you hit the target the first time," he said with stout encouragement. "I've let other people try, and they're lucky if they can even keep the arrow nocked."
"How'd you do your first time?" she asked.
"I kind of sneaked it, you know? We were set up for a show that night and I wasn't supposed to be in the main tent, but nobody else was around and I wanted to try." He gave her a crooked smile. "I missed the target and put an arrow through the tent. I got my hide tanned for that."
Peggy laughed and he shrugged. "Jake, the lot man, was the one who caught me, but after he whooped my ass, he told Mr. Penberthy — the guy who runs the circus — that I could draw a bow, and he thought it would be a pretty good show to have a kid marksman. It got me out of working the chow tent everyday. I only had to do it every other day after that."
"Ah, a bit of nerve and daring can get you quite far, can't it?" Peggy gave him a fortifying pat on the back.
Peggy and Clint handed back their weapons to the agitated and still lingering pair of agents and then walked to the car.
"So, you won fair and square," Peggy told Clint. "What would you like for lunch?"
"A cheeseburger," he said promptly. "Definitely a cheeseburger. Jail food sucks."
"That sounds wonderful. I'm quite starved. Do you have a recommendation?"
"There's some places in Des Moines that are okay."
"No favorites?"
"Not really. Usually just go to whatever's closest and cheapest," he said.
She told Agent Madaki to find them an appropriate restaurant, and then the pair of them got back in the car.
"So," Peggy said as the car began to move again, "why do you like to shoot so much?"
"I don't know."
"I don't think that's true."
"It's just … " he trailed off and bit his lip, thinking. "It's nice to have something to focus on. When I've got my bow, it's just me and the target, and there's nothing else in the whole world. Nothing else matters."
"Ah, everything else slips away. I can see the appeal," Peggy told him. It made sense for a troubled young man to find something to pour himself into and the release of having no worries for a time.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Of course," Peggy said.
"Why do you want me? I'm a good shot, but I'm a screw-up at everything else."
"I'm sure Agent Coulson told you how your gift can be used to help."
"Whatever, sure, you want somebody who can snipe assholes," he said with an impatient roll of his eyes. "I think there's probably twenty other guys you could get. Like Green Berets and shit. Not some fuck-up who should be in prison."
"I don't think there's anybody we could get who's got as much skill and potential as you have," Peggy said honestly. He truly was that gifted, and from all that Darcy said, he was only going to get better. Which was incredibly hard to believe, but the possibility was more than intriguing. "But, it's more than your ability to shoot. We look for very special people."
He thought about that for a second before his face fell into a nasty scowl. "Oh, I get it now. Special screw-ups who don't have any family or anybody who'll miss them if they go off on some suicide mission."
"Do stop being such a child," Peggy snapped back. "You're smarter than that. What's the point of recruiting talent only to waste it in that manner? Quite honestly, I want my agents to come home, thank you very much. I want highly-skilled and very clever people who can think on their feet to solve problems and get themselves out of very dicey situations. And I won't lie, you will face extremely dangerous situations. But, I don't think you're afraid of a bit of danger."
He pressed his lips together and gave her a stubborn, mulish look.
"We recruit from all over," Peggy pointed out. "From the military, universities, police forces, and other intelligence agencies. We look for the very best. But, I want people who've had to live life, too, in all it's unkind messiness. I want people who know what it is to make difficult choices; choices that will have personal consequences.
"It's all very well to follow protocol and procedure, but life does not follow tidy protocol. I need people who understand that. You, Clint Barton, understand." She gave him a serious look and said, "You could have run. But, you stayed to help that man."
"Fat lot of good it did."
"No, it did not do much for that man, but you stayed anyway. You could have run, got clean away. But you stayed and faced the consequences of your actions. And even here today — do you really think you belong in prison?"
He looked away from her and his shoulders slumped, defeated. "Probably."
Peggy nodded and considered him. "I've been fortunate enough to know quite a few men who I would say were very good men. But not one of them was perfect, and each of them made mistakes. And, in this line of work, yes, sometimes those mistakes get people killed. But, a good man is one who will still try to do right, who will not shrug off or hide from the consequences of his actions, but will try to make them right however he can. A good man, a good person, will learn from those mistakes and try to be better. It is a constant struggle, Clint, to be a better person, and to learn what that means. I'm 77 and I'm still learning."
Looking thoughtful, he chewed on his lower lip and stared at the seat. Peggy, finally, let herself put her hand on his shoulder. This was a good man, and one day he would train her friend, he would keep her alive, and she owed this man for all he would do for SHIELD, for the world, and all he would teach Darcy. And it never left her mind that there was another little girl out there who would need him one day, too. Peggy knew all too well the horrors of the Red Room. To save one child from that …
"I believe you're a good man who made a terrible mistake. Now, what do you do about it?" She asked quietly. "You didn't save Mr. Raymond despite your efforts, but I can assure you that I know your skills can help save other lives. Look out the window, look at those houses. A family from any of those homes may need you one day. If you could use your bow to save one of those lives, would you take the shot?"
"I don't know," he said quietly, looking at the passing neighborhood.
"I do. You did it when you tried to save Mr. Raymond. It's a dreadful truth that sometimes we fail no matter how hard we try. All of us. You are not unique in that, Clint. Now, you can take your punishment and go back to jail, or you can move forward and do your very best to save the next life in your hands."
He glanced back at her, his face a mixture of wavering uncertainty and desperation.
"Learn from this tragedy, Clint," she told him in a quiet, insistent tone. "Teach others that life resists protocol and teach them how to deal with it when your best is not good enough. Because, however you go about it, you must pick yourself up. You are too good a man to give up. I know it, know it in my bones, that one day you will make a very big difference in this world."
He scoffed, a shaky noise, and sniffed a little, casting his gaze out the window again. "Right, with an arrow."
"For want of a nail," Peggy murmured and he shot her a confused look. "It means that a very small thing can turn the course of a war. So, yes, Clint, an arrow. But, more important is the heart of the man carrying the bow. And that is no small thing at all."
"Do you …" He took a deep breath and stared down at his calloused hands.
"Yes?"
"You really think I can?" he asked in a small, quiet voice.
"I do. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
"Why me, though?"
"I've just got a good feeling about you."
He gave her a frustrated scowl, he wanted something better, he needed somebody to convince him he could be good. He so desperately wanted to believe it.
"It is both very complicated and very simple," she told him. "It is simple enough to say that you stayed. Something goes horribly wrong like that, and many people would panic and run. It's an entirely human reaction. You did not run. You were afraid for something other than yourself. You stopped to help a stranger, heedless of the consequences to yourself." Reaching out across the seat, she tapped the back of her hand against his chest. "I saw the heart of the man. And it's worth taking a chance on, don't you think?"
Clint shrugged and chewed on his lip. "So how's it complicated?"
"Oh, well," Peggy said with a sigh. "I think you're clever enough that you'll figure it out for yourself some day. I can't possibly tell you, because it wouldn't mean anything right now."
"When's some day?"
"Hmm, seventeen years, give or take," Peggy said.
"Seventeen years?" He gave her a suspicious look, then his face cleared and he laughed. "Right, okay, bet I figure it out in seven months."
"Really?" Peggy raised her eyebrows at him and smirked. "Care to wager on that?"
He tipped his chin up and gave her a smug look. "What are the terms?"
"I presume you know the conditions of your agreement with SHIELD?"
He made a sour face. "Yeah, Agent Coulson explained. One year staying at whatever base they stick me on. No leave or anything, except in extraordinary circumstances." He put a great deal of derision on the last two words. "So, house arrest for a year. Then two years of probation."
"Come on then, you're considering giving yourself up to 25 years to life in a tiny cell." She waved a hand at him, dismissive. "You'll have a bunk, and you'll get to train with your bow and, undoubtedly, more weapons than you've ever dreamed of. I think you'll survive."
"Fine," he grumped.
"But," she said, "those will be my terms of the wager. If you figure it out in seven months, I'll convince Director Fury to end your 'house arrest' early."
"You'd do that?"
"My dear boy, if you figure it out in that time, I'll personally see you're promoted a full grade." She gave him a challenging look. "Though, you've yet to agree to go with us."
He threw his head back on the headrest and let out a gusty sigh. "God, fine, give me the papers, I'll sign."
"Wonderful." She reached for her attache case and pulled out Clint's file and the contract within. Then she handed it to him along with a pen. "Now, what are you betting if you don't figure it for seventeen years?"
"What do you want?"
"Well, I do like a good cheeseburger," she said, making a show of thinking it through, "but do you know what I really like? A nice dinner of filet mignon and a glass of fine whiskey."
He snorted. "Okay, I'll buy you a filet mignon and a whiskey."
Scrawling his name across the bottom of the contract, he handed it back to her and she stuck her hand out for him to shake.
"The terms are acceptable to me," she said.
Clint smiled crookedly and took her hand in a solid shake. "You got a deal, Director Carter."