Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

Albert Einstein

---

The constant thump of that damn kid's tennis ball on the wall should have driven Daniel Carmine crazy. Instead he found himself leaning over the edge of his bunk to watch his cellmate repeatedly throw the ball. There was a faint X scratched into the concrete on the wall opposite their bunk bed and without fail, the tennis ball thumped into the center of it every single time.

His cellmate, Clint Barton, was lying on the floor, staring lazily at the tiny air vent in the ceiling as he tossed his tennis ball around the room. Daniel had never seen the kid so much as glance at the mark on the wall before he threw. But it didn't matter. It also didn't matter where the initial trajectory of the throw took the neon green ball; it always ended on the X and then bounced back into the kid's hand. Daniel had been watching him bounce it off everything from the walls, to the floor, to the metal posts of the bed for over an hour. Sometimes he bounced it off one other surface, sometimes he bounced it off several, but every time it hit the X.

Daniel thought it was better than TV.

If he wasn't so disturbed by the kid's age, or lack of it, or the dark intensity that bleed from those stormy blue-grey eyes, Daniel might have said as much. But his cell mate barely spoke, barely even looked at him. He just threw that ball for hours, ate alone, and fought like a wild animal if anyone gave him half a reason. He'd been in the infirmary a dozen times already, and he'd only been in this place for 2 months. Whatever had happened to land a kid that didn't look like he was old enough to vote in a place like this, Daniel didn't dare to hazard a guess. That kid had something dangerous brewing in him, though, so Daniel didn't dare to ask either.

---

Clint caught his tennis ball, stolen from another prisoner within a week of his incarceration. He threw it again, contemplating the vent in the ceiling. There was no way he could get into the ducts above it from here. The guy that built this place wasn't stupid. He had a plan though; he knew exactly where he could get into the ducts that spidered through the ceilings of his prison.

He threw his ball again, ignoring his cellmate watching him. The guy wasn't that bad, at least not that Clint had noticed. There wasn't a dark evil in him like Clint had seen in so many others locked in this place. But Clint didn't plan on being here long enough to get to know him. Besides, he was done making friends.

Cole Williams had taught him that lesson well.

He threw the ball again, harder than was strictly necessary, as a result when it snapped back into his hand, his palm stung a little.

I hope that son of a bitch rots in here.

---

2 months ago…

Afghanistan

---

"What the hell was that?" Clint growled, shoving Cole into the wall outside their barracks.

"It was a mission."

"The kid wasn't a target! You didn't have to kill him!"

"I couldn't get a clear shot, just like my report said; I had to get the kid out of the way."

"Bullshit!" Clint shouted, shoving him hard again before pacing away, trying to rein his temper. "I know where you were positioned. You could have made that shot easily!"

"That kid was a terrorist in the making! I did the world a favor!" Cole defended, shoving Clint back. Clint shook his head, horrified.

"That's insane…I've got to report you."

"Do that and I'll tell them you lied about your age. You'll be arrested and they won't believe a word you say."

Clint's steely gaze would have brought better men to the ground.

"Don't be a pussy, Clint…I did what needed to be done."

---

Clint blinked the memory away. His former unit mate was a murderer. Clint didn't regret reporting him, even if he was here because of it.

He threw the ball again.

---

"I need to speak with you." Clint stood ramrod straight in front of his commanding officer.

"Shouldn't there be a sir tossed in there somewhere? What is it, Barton?" Captain Tom Carter snapped. That kid had a hell of an authority problem, if he wasn't such a damn good shot, Tom would have booted him months ago.

"It's Williams, sir."

Tom sighed. Barton was the only person he'd ever known that could snap the word 'sir' like it was an insult.

"What about him, solider?"

"It's about the Ari mission and the kid he killed."

"You better think long and hard about what you're about to say, Barton." Tom glared, "Nobody likes wants a unit mate they can't trust."

Clint's eyes hardened until they were cold as ice.

"That's why I'm here. I don't trust him not to kill another kid."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I think you know what it means." Clint shot back. "And you need to do something about it before he hurts someone else."

"I don't need to do a damn thing!" Tom barked, getting into Barton's face. He gave the kid credit, he didn't even flinch. If possible, his gaze grew harder. "Especially not on your say so."

Barton didn't respond, but he didn't back down. He met Tom's gaze unflinchingly.

"Are you sure about this?" The Captain asked more quietly. "This is a hell of an allegation."

"Yes, sir." The walls the kid always kept around himself fell for a moment, and Tom could see the sincerity bleeding from his eyes.

"Okay then." Tom turned his back. "Dismissed."

Clint let out the breath he'd been holding and exited the tent. He looked up to see Williams staring at him from across the yard. He stared back. It was then, before Williams ever made good on his threat, that Clint knew his life in the military was over.

---

Clint blinked when Daniel jumped down from his bunk. He arched an eyebrow in question.

"Meal time." His cell mate grunted. Clint rolled into a backwards somersault, rising to his feet with ease.

Daniel was unfazed; he'd seen this kid do some crazy acrobatic stuff. He'd stood on his hands in the middle of the room for almost an hour once.

They walked to the mess hall together, but separated as soon as they were shuffled into the large room. Clint got his food and moved off to a secluded seat, away from everyone. He never sat in the same spot, didn't want to ever draw the attention of the groups that tended to sit at the same tables every day.

Clint was good at being invisible.

He chewed his food quickly, not wanting to spend an extra minute in with the rest of the prisoners if he could help it. He may be good at staying under the radar, but a seventeen year old in a military prison was cause for notice.

He kept his eyes roaming, never settling on anyone, but aware of everything around him. Not for the first time, he wished he was older. Being young is what had gotten him into this mess. All those people that said not to wish your life away, had never been in military prison for lying about your age.

---

1 year and 2 months ago…

---

"These should do you…my friend is good, so everything will check out." Marvi Gibbons assured as he slid a stack of papers bound by a rubber band across the table.

Clint took the papers, snapping off the rubber band and inspecting the documents. Birth Certificate, Drivers License, Social Security Card. All he needed to skip two years of his life and become eighteen.

"Thanks Marvi." Clint glanced up as he stuffed the papers in his bag.

"Looks like you've healed up pretty good." The juggler observed.

Clint's hand moved absently to brush against the scar on his chest. It was covered by his thin t-shirt, but he could still feel the rough edges of the knife wound that had nearly killed him.

"I'm fine. It's been six months." Clint replied gruffly.

"Heard anything from Barney? Or Swordsman?" Marvi asked curiously.

"No." Clint snapped. "Don't ever talk about them to me again, understand?" He growled, glaring furiously at Marvi over the table.

"Alright, kid, calm down." He glanced at Clint warily, "It was wrong, you know. What they did. It'll come back one day, it always does."

"If it doesn't, I'll get my revenge in hell." Clint smirked, standing and reaching to grab his re-curved bow. It had helped him become Hawkeye, the amazing marksman that never missed. He knew he wouldn't be allowed to use it in the Army.

He held it out to Marvi solemnly.

"Look after it for me. I can't take it where I'm going."

"You got it, kid." Marvi assured, taking the bow with reverence. He knew it was Clint's single most valuable possession. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Clint nodded once, and moved for the door.

"Hawkeye." Marvi stopped him with his voice. The older man's eyes were serious. "Trickshot doesn't really want you to go. You can work things out with him and I'm sure he'll keep training you."

"I don't want to work things out with him. He's made his choice and I've made mine."

"Clint, you have a good heart. Don't let what Barney and Swordsman did define you. Don't let Trickshot drive you away from where you belong."

"I don't belong here, Marvi. I never did."

---

Clint stiffened at an increase in activity around one of the tables. His eyes tracked the brewing fight with interest. One of the more intimidating prisoners, Liam, was causing trouble with Daniel's crew. Clint arched an eyebrow thoughtfully.

Now was as good a time as any, he supposed.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked down at his plate. His roll would work.

He ran his tongue across his lips, eyeing the distance. He weighed the roll in his hand. Then he threw it.

It bounced off Liam's head and down onto Daniel's table.

Clint was sure the entire mess hall went silent, but it might have just been his imagination.

Liam turned, glaring around the room to see who had dared throw food at him. Clint didn't try to hide. After all, the whole reason he'd thrown the roll was to draw the big bully's attention. Liam's eyes fell on him, standing with one foot on his chair, the other planted on the ground, a triumphant smirk on his face. He could see the disbelief in the large man's face.

Clint was clear across the mess hall after all.

Clint let his smirk widen in arrogance and tossed the man a little wave. Liam shoved one of his own crew aside and stalked towards him. Clint knew he had precious seconds before the fight started. He reached to his tray and grabbed his plastic fork. It wasn't much, but in the right place, it would do damage.

He let his smirk fall away when Liam got close, dropping down into his stance. He knew he'd have to use all his speed to get out of this alive.

He laughed suddenly, making Liam's eyes widen.

It was a wildly inappropriate time to laugh, he knew. But the thought had just struck him. How do you fight when you don't want to get killed, but you want to end up in the infirmary? He doubted anybody had ever thought that before. Anybody that had been in his head would have thought he was insane, letting his thoughts wander at a time like this.

He ducked under Liam's first punch. Wasn't prepared for the one from Liam's friend, though. It caught him hard across the temple.

"Son of a bitch." He hissed, blinking at his two foes.

This just got interesting.

He couldn't help it, he smiled.

---

Clint really wanted to shoot an arrow through whatever was shining so brightly above him. He forced his eyes open, only marginally surprised when his right eye didn't cooperate. He tried to raise his hand to feel the damage, but the jangling of handcuffs reminded him of where he was. The bright infirmary lights above him confirmed it.

Everything hurt. His head. His ribs. His back. His stomach. His left pinky. He'd accomplished his mission though. He was in the infirmary again. He watched his nurse move closer.

"Hey there, Clint. Welcome back." She smiled. "Both in the sense that you've been unconscious and that you're becoming a regular customer."

He forced a weak smile. She had always been kind to him, ever since his first infirmary visit. He almost felt bad. She would probably get fired for this.

"Hey Mandy." He greeted. "How long have I been out?"

"About two days…nasty little concussion…but that's what happens when you let two guys three times your size beat you into oblivion." She scolded gently, moving forward to brush his hair off his forehead. She was nice, she really was. Looked to be in her forties, very motherly. Everyone he'd ever talked to loved her.

"You'd think I'd have learned the first time." He shrugged, wincing something in his back rejected the movement.

"Yeah, moving probably hurts." She admonished, setting her pile of files on his bed next to his hip, an action she'd done many times in the past 2 months. She leaned over him, checking his pupil's responsiveness. Without looking, he stretched his hand to the files and silently slipped a paperclip off one in the middle. He slid it under his blanket. She leaned closer, checking a cut on his forehead.

"Am I gonna live?" He asked with a boyish grin. He'd learned his first trip that she ate up the hurt little boy attitude. The fact that he was barely seventeen and she knew it helped.

"This time." She grinned, leaning away and picking up her files. "Get some sleep, kiddo. I'll check on you in a few hours." She pulled a curtain around his bed.

"Yes, ma'am." He smiled, watching her walk away through a crack in the curtain. He glanced down at his hand, and the key card hidden in his palm. He would have a little bit of time before she realized it was gone from where it had been clipped to her front pocket. Even longer before she suspected him. He'd gone to great lengths over the past two months to cultivate an innocent image in her mind. He'd had her pegged from the beginning.

He kept his eyes on the staff through the opening in the curtain as he silently retrieved the paperclip and bent it into the shape he'd need. Once his first hand was free, the second was easy. He silently slid out of bed and watched Mandy and the other nurse move around the room. The doctor was in his office, focused on his computer. When both of the nurses' backs were turned, checking a particularly volatile patient that needed both their strength to deal with, he moved.

He slid his stolen key card through the electronic lock at the supply closet and slipped into the room. He closed the door silently behind him. He listened intently. But both the nurses were still dealing with whoever was in that other bed. He hoped it was Liam. He vaguely remembered getting a few good hits with his fork in.

Knowing time was precious, he looked to the ceiling. Just like he'd noticed with random glances during his many trips to the infirmary, it housed a maintenance vent. Big enough for a man to fit through to do maintenance on the air duct. He smirked, climbing the shelves easily and pushing the vent cover up and aside. He was inside his metal safe haven in seconds, and then was sliding the vent cover back into place.

He moved silently. He'd spent the last two months memorizing the layout of this place. He knew where everything was. From the guard's locker room, to the warden's office, to the laundry room. The guard's locker room was his goal. He counted on it being empty and unmonitored. Prisoners would have to make it through two electronically locked doors to get to it, so it was the least of their concerns.

It was, indeed, empty and he wasted no time slipping into the room. He'd spent time learning the guards' names and schedules for this exact moment. There were only two in this whole place that were anywhere close to his size. Donaldson and McArthur. McArthur was working today, Donaldson wasn't. As he moved to the absent guard's locker, he wondered idly if Donaldson would get fired when they realized he'd stolen his uniform. He couldn't bring himself to care either way.

Once he was dressed, he pulled Donaldson's hat low on his head, hoping to hide the bruising. Then he walked to the door, took a deep breath and opened it. He walked towards the exit as calmly as he could when his heart was pounding inside his chest. He nodded to the man at the sign in desk and he nodded back.

"Have a good day." The man even tossed out, with a smile.

"Planning on it." Clint smiled back, stepping out into the sun.

No one paid any attention to the guard walking across the yard and out the front gate. Nobody realized the seventeen year old prisoner in the infirmary was gone until Mandy went to get a few towels from the supply closet and her key card was gone from her uniform. Even then it wasn't until she realized her usually very curious and friendly teenage patient wasn't reacting to the search for her card in the infirmary that anybody thought to look for him.

Clint Barton walked out of the Fort Carson prison that day after only two months of planning. He wouldn't think about Cole Williams again until over ten years later. But he wondered, often, if Mandy lost her job because of him. If in saving his own life, he'd destroyed another's.

---

Three weeks later…

---

"I'm telling you, John, I can't make it to Arkansas by tomorrow…it's just not physically possible." Marvi argued into his cell phone. "Two days at least."

A figure moved closer to the pacing juggler, but stayed hidden in the shadows.

"Fine…I'll be there…yeah, you owe me." Marvi snapped his phone closed and turned, only to jump and step back when there was someone standing in the shadows next to his trailer.

"Hey Marvi."

"Hawkeye?" Marvi gasped. "I'd heard you were found out…that you were in prison."

Clint sniffed and shrugged, moving around Marvi to take a drink from the man's beer on the table. "I decided it wasn't for me."

"You bust out?"

"Something like that." Clint smirked, wondering if they'd figured out how he escaped yet. Wondered if they knew he'd just walked out the front door.

"Glad you're okay, kid. You need a job?" Marvi asked, trying to ignore the darkness in his young friend's countenance. The shadow in his stormy eyes that had only started to show after the incident with Barney, but that had grown to take over the formerly friendly gaze.

"You still have it?" Clint asked instead, not answering the question.

"You bow?" Marvi wondered, at Clint's nod he went on, "Yeah, of course…it's just inside."

"Can you get it? I need it where I'm going."

"Sure kid, sure…" Marvi agreed as he moved to his travel trailer and climbed inside. He came back out with the black bow and quiver of arrows. He handed them over to their owner. "Where are you headed?"

"Somewhere far." Clint replied vaguely as he slipped his quiver onto his back and ran his fingers lovingly over his bow. He raised his gaze to his old friend. "Bye, Marvi." He turned to leave.

"Clint?"

Clint turned his head, but not his body, waiting.

"You ever coming back?"

"No."

---

1 year later…

---

"Director."

"Agent Coulson, what can I do for you?" The Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, Nick Fury, glanced up from the papers on his desk to regard his top agent.

In reply, Agent Phil Coulson tossed a file onto his desk.

"What's this?" Fury asked even as he flipped the file open. A picture was paper clipped to the inside cover of the file. A military ID picture.

"Meet Clint Barton…former Army."

"Former?" Fury asked, glancing up from the file. "He doesn't look old enough to be former anything."

"He lied about his age to enlist…got found out a year in."

"So you want me to get him out of prison?" Fury frowned.

"No sir," Coulson smirked, tossing an 8x10 black and white picture down on top of the file. "He took care of that himself a year ago."

The picture showed a young man dressed as a prison guard walking across the prison yard towards the gate. It was a still from a video, Fury realized. They'd taken the shot just as the guard looked over his shoulder. He looked back at the military ID. It was the same face.

"Well damn."

"Exactly. But it gets better…he was only 17 when he busted out. He's been in the wind for a year working as a hit man for hire."

"And why in the hell would you think I'd want to know about some 18 year old kid that kills people for money?" Fury demanded. He was seriously wondering if his friend had lost his mind.

"Because, sir, I still haven't told you the best part. Ask me what he did for the military."

Fury rolled his one good eye and decided to humor him. He couldn't help it, he was curious.

"What did he do for the military?"

"Marksman. Why don't you take a look at his scores?" Phil prodded, arching an eyebrow.

Fury flipped to the appropriate page of the file. He blinked and reread the scores.

"That's not possible."

"That's what I thought, so I did some checking. He worked for the circus as a kid and became the Amazing Hawkeye. It's true, sir. He's never missed…never, not once."

"Well that is intriguing." Fury admitted. But then he sighed, "But the kid is a fugitive and working as an assassin, that doesn't exactly bleed mental stability."

"Director," Phil reasoned, "He broke out of Fort Carson when he was seventeen. He's a born operator. And that with his marksman skills he could be the best asset we've ever brought in."

"If you can bring him in. And if he doesn't start killing everybody."

"I'll take full responsibility, sir." Coulson assured.

"What the hell has got you so stuck on this kid, Phil?" Fury questioned.

"It's just a feeling, sir. We want him on our side. If only to keep him from getting on a different side."

"Fine. Go. Try and bring him in."

"Thank you, sir."

"Just try not to get yourself killed."

"You concern is heartening." Coulson smirked before striding out of the office.

"Heartening my ass." Fury muttered, "Better not get himself killed."

---

Thousands of miles away, in a dark room lit only by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, 18 year old Clint Barton sat across from a large Hungarian named Akos.

Well, Akos called himself Hungarian, but Clint knew the man and his crew were a born and bred Germans. They'd been forced to flee Germany two short years ago, and Akos, formerly Fritz, had changed his name and called himself Hungarian ever since. Clint didn't care either way as long as he got paid; he just knew the importance of knowing where the money came from.

He didn't speak Hungarian, so it worked out better in the end anyway.

"Ich weiß es zu schätzen, dass Sie sich mit mir treffen, Hawkeye."(I appreciate you meeting with me, Hawkeye.) Akos began politely.

Behind Akos, his two guards shifted nervously. The man called Hawkeye had his hand wrapped loosely around his bow where it lay across his lap. They'd heard stories of this man who never missed and weren't in a hurry to put his reputation to the test.

Clint looked Akos unflinchingly in the eye.

"Wer ist das Ziel?" (Who's the target?) He demanded, not in the mood for pleasantries. The German slipped off his tongue with ease, one of the several languages he'd picked up over the last year. It was something he'd discovered about himself. Learning languages came as easily as shooting a bull's eye. He'd been struggling with Russian though. He needed more practice.

He watched with satisfaction as Akos and his men all shifted nervously at Clint's tone. Good. If they were scared of him, they wouldn't try to cheat him.

"Abel Béres." Akos replied. "Er ist in Wien." (He's in Vienna.) He slid a grainy picture across the table between them. Clint picked it up, barely glancing at it before returning his gaze to Akos.

"500.000 US-Dollar. Die eine Hälfte jetzt, die andere Hälfte wenn ich den Job erledigt habe." (500 thousand American dollars. Half now, half when the job is done.) Clint instructed.

Akos nodded and Clint pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. He slid it across the table.

"Sobald ich die Bestätigung become, dass das Geld auf dem Konto ist, können Sie davon ausgehen, dass ich den Job übernommen habe. Ich werde Sie kontaktieren wenn er tot ist, danach haben Sie 24 Stunden, um den Rest zu überweisen." (When I get confirmation that the money is in the account, you can consider the job accepted. I'll contact you when he's dead and you'll have twenty four hours to transfer the rest.)

Clint stood, leaning across the table menacingly.

"Wenn Sie versuchen, mich zu verarschen, finde ich Sie. Egal wohin Sie gehen, egal wo Sie sich verstecken. Und ich werde Ihnen einen Pfeil ins Herz schießen."(If you try to screw me over, I will find you. No matter where you go, no matter where you hide. And I will put an arrow through your heart.)

Akos nodded quickly.

"Sie werden Ihr Geld kriegen." (You will get your payment.)

Clint darkened his gaze, just to push the point home and then strode out of the room.

"Ruf Patrik an. Sag ihm, dass Hawkeye nach Wien kommt. Wenn wir Glück haben werden wir zwei unserer Probleme auf einmal los." (Call Patrik. Tell him Hawkeye will be in Vienna. With any luck we will be rid of two of our problems by the end of this.) Akos breathed to his men, who nodded in agreement.

"Und beten wir zu Gott, dass der Kerl nicht überlebt , denn dann wird er sich rächen wollen." He added after his men had left. (And pray to God that man does not survive to seek revenge.)

Chapter Text

In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.

Albert Schweitzer

---

He loved rooftops.

He loved knowing that there was nothing above him but open air, nothing to confine him but the distance to the next building. He popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth as he watched Abel Béres move around his house. The man was living in blissful ignorance, unaware Clint had been watching him for a week.

He was laid out on his stomach, binoculars held to his eyes with one hand. A pile of his favorite Austrian chocolate was on a wrapper next to him and a bottle of water was resting on the small ledge his elbows were on.

He watched Béres go into his bedroom and climb into bed with his wife. He flipped the light off and Clint lowered his binoculars, glancing at his watch. Same time every night. You could set you clock by this guy.

Clint sighed, rolling onto his back to stare up at the sky. He reached for a piece of chocolate and tossed it up in the air. It flew high out of sight and then dropped back down, landing flawlessly in his open mouth.

It was almost a shame, he thought. Béres was going to be an easy job. The guy lived by a routine and routines made you an easy target. They also made youboring.

He tossed another piece of chocolate into the air. He rolled back over as he chewed it, flipping on the night vision in his binoculars. He settled in for another night of surveillance. He found himself checking the different rooms of the house, making sure no one moved in on his mark. He lingered for a moment on the room belonging to 4 year old Julian, Béres' son. He hated when the mark's had families, hated it more when they had kids. He knew firsthand how it felt to grow up without a dad. And here he was, plotting to take Julian's dad from him.

"Stop it, Clint." He hissed at himself, "It's just a job."

Only it wasn't just a job. It was his job. He was the one taking that little boy's dad away.

It was jobs like this when he hated who he had become.

He was like a shadowy version of a distance serial killer.

No, he was worse. He got paid to destroy lives. He got paid to not ask questions. He did it for money.

He was so weak.

"What else was I supposed to do?" He muttered into the night.

He'd needed money fast when he fled the United States. He'd ended up in Tokyo; in a room with a really bad guy who needed someone to get rid of a problem of his.

Clint, only seventeen, hadn't really seen a choice in the matter.

He'd been making money holding bets on his shooting. He'd gotten noticed by the wrong people. They'd snatched him in an alley, tossed a bag over his head, and brought him to a man named Hayato. Just like that, Clint had his first hired hit.

Four days and 481,800Yen later he had found his new profession. He hadn't let himself think about what he committing his skills to. He just realized he had a talent people feared. A talent people wanted to use for their own ends. And now, if they paid his price, he'd kill whoever they wanted.

He couldn't get out now even if he wanted to.

He wasn't the same kid who'd broken out of the military prison at Fort Carson a year ago. He'd killed people, a lot of people. Maybe some of them had it coming, but he knew a lot of them had just pissed off the wrong person. He was glad the people that hired him didn't want him to ask any questions. He didn't want to know the answers. He was tainted now, deep in his soul. The notebook he kept in his pack with the names of every person he'd been hired to kill might as well have been written in blood.

He also had enemies, several now, he was sure. He'd made the early mistake of letting himself be known by his arrows. By the time he realized how that made every kill easily tied to him, it was too late. So he just went with it. His calling card of an arrow through the heart generated a lot of business now. And Hawkeye had become a name both feared and respected. His age had stopped mattering to his employers quickly after that.

Because of both of those reasons, he couldn't just walk away. He'd spend his whole life looking over his shoulder if he did. Besides, he didn't want a life where he couldn't shoot his bow. The weapon had been an extension of his being since he was eleven years old and he'd stolen one from the prop tent at the circus. By the time they realized it was missing, he had gotten too good at it for them to want it back.

Clint sighed, annoyed with himself for letting his mind travel down that self depreciating path. So maybe he'd made a bad choice a year ago, choosing this path. But he was too far down to turn back now. He was too damn good at it too.

---

It was finally time.

Clint stood, balanced on the corner of his rooftop, bow ready to be drawn. He was just waiting for Béres to come out of his house. Clint had been pleasantly surprised when his target's wife had taken their young son out to a movie that night. It gave him the opening he needed to eliminate Béres without traumatizing his wife and son.

Well, not traumatizing them beyond coming home to find their husband and father had been shot through the heart with an arrow while they were gone.

Clint tensed when the front door opened. He pulled back on the bow string, sighting carefully. The door to the stairwell behind him creaked. Clint spun, his sharp eyes on the still closed door. He'd locked it when he got there, making sure he didn't get any unexpected visitors.

The door handle rattled.

His eyes narrowed, Béres forgotten for now. He inched closer, calculating the thickness of the door against the strength of his arrow point. He put his ear to the door, listening carefully. His eyes widened when he heard German on the other side. It shouldn't be alarming, given he was in a German speaking country. It was the whispered words that set him on edge.

"Beeil' dich und knack' das Schloss. Wir müssen leise sein wenn wir ihn überrumpeln wollen. Akos bringt uns um wenn wir das nicht hinbekommen." (Hurry and pick the lock. We must be silent if we are to catch him by surprise. Akos will kill us if we fail.)

Clint stepped back, his heart pounding.

Akos. That son of a bitch.

He pulled back the bow string, aiming just above the handle, where a man's head would be if he was trying to pick the lock. He waited until he heard the tell tale scratching of a lock pick, then he fired. The arrow tore through the thin door like it was paper.

The scream of pain that followed was very satisfying, however brief it was.

He drew another arrow faster than he could breathe. He nocked it and pulled back just as the door burst open. He met the first man through with an arrow to the throat. The second man got the same treatment as Clint steadily backed away while he fired. Distance was his ally, it always had been. He headed for the fire escape, firing his arrows rapidly to keep Akos' men back.

He heard the creak of the rusted metal behind him too late. He spun, firing his already strung arrow into the man's eye. He flinched when a thin rope flew over his head from behind and tightened around his throat. One hand went up to pull at the rope, the other swung his bow like a staff, knocking the next man trying to come up the fire escape back as hard as he could so he would clear the landing. He heard him scream as he fell the six stories to the alley below.

Clint dropped his bow when the rope around his neck tightened. He brought his now free hand up to feel for his attacker's head. When he found it, he pushed his thumb into the guy's eye. The guy shouted in pain, spinning them around to face the door again. Clint's eyes widened when he saw a gun pointed at his chest. The man wielding it was barely three feet away. Clint kicked the gun away before it could fire. Then he planted one boot in the man's stomach and the second on his chest. Then he threw his legs back over his head, and consequently, over the guy choking him's head.

The thin rope loosened and released.

Clint landed in a crouch. He pulled his M-9 sidearm from its holster on his thigh and fired through the man's back. As he dropped, Clint fired at the man he'd used as a platform. The bullet ripped through his forehead. It took three more bullets to get rid of the last of the men coming through the door. He spun to face the fire escape. Three men were already headed towards him. He spent three more bullets stopping them. He paid for it when one of the last four fired his own side arm.

Clint stumbled back a step, doubling slightly as the gun flew from his left hand. His other hand went to his left shoulder, pressing against the hole already leaking blood. He groaned through clenched teeth, moving his bloodied hand to the knife on his belt. He spun, throwing the knife at a target he'd only identified by approaching footsteps. The man fell with the knife still lodged in his throat.

Clint knew his only chance was to get to the fire escape or the stairs. The stairs were closer. The last three men seemed to realize this and split, one approaching Clint with his gun drawn, one moving to block the stairs, and one staying at the fire escape.

Clint laughed at the man moving carefully towards him. His abused throat protested painfully, but he ignored it.

"You laugh much for a dead man." The man spat in rough, heavily accented English.

"Oh I'm not dead yet." Clint grinned, "And you really should have pulled the trigger when you had the chance."

He moved before the man could process the words. He wrapped one hand around the gun, pressed the release for the clip, pushed the slide back to clear the chamber of its one round, moved the slide lock and sharply pulled the slide from the gun. It only took him a breath to do it, then he was driving his elbow into the man's throat to crush his larynx.

He got grabbed from behind in a bear hug. The man from the stairs was still standing there, crouched as if waiting for Clint to try and get through him. Clint threw his head back, hearing a crunch as his skull broke his attacker's nose. The arms didn't loosen, but the big man did stumble backwards towards the fire escape, pulling Clint with him.

"Kann der Falke fliegen?" He hissed in Clint's ear.

The archer's eyes widened.

Can the hawk fly?

"Oh shit." Clint breathed just before the huge arms sent him over the edge of the roof.

He hit the fire escape landing two stories down hard.

"Sonovabitch." He slurred, his hand going to his head, it came away bloody. Which was probably why his vision was doubled. He gasped in pain as he pushed himself to his feet. He heard the man that had thrown him yelling from above. As quickly as he could manage, he climbed over the railing and lowered himself until he was hanging by his hands. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and eyed the landing two more stories down.

He swung his body back and then forward, releasing his hold just before his shoulder could decide it wasn't going to hold him up anymore. He dropped, landing in a crouch that turned to a heap. His ankle rolled painfully.

He let out a pained yell, restrained through clenched teeth, as he pulled himself up again. Gunfire pinged off the metal around him. But he had a landing above him to protect him now. The twenty feet to the ground would be easy under normal circumstances. He could make that leap, land in a roll, and come up unscathed.

These were not normal circumstances. These were crappy, shitty circumstances. Circumstances where he had a brand new concussion, a nearly garroted neck, and a bullet in his shoulder. He was sure adrenaline and survival instincts were the only things keeping him upright.

He glanced around, knew he was wasting precious seconds. The remaining two men were hurrying down the fire escape even now. His eyes lit when he saw a dumpster on the other side of the landing. It would have to do. He took two running steps, planted the hand from his good arm on the rail, and used it to vault himself over the edge.

The silence while he fell was deafening.

He landed on something hard, that was sure to leave a bruise on his back, but for the most part it was just bags of trash. He was out of the dumpster in a second, pressing his back against it. He ripped his back up gun out of its holster on his ankle.

It took him a second to catch his breath enough to focus his vision and a second longer to feel like he could rise without falling over. Then he stood, turned, and fired twice. He released a deep breath, letting the gun drop to his side. He took an unsteady step away from the dumpster, only to return to it with a white knuckled grip.

A man stepped into the mouth of the alley.

"Verschwinde!" Clint snapped in German, his voice coming out rough and threatening. (Walk away.)

"Clint Barton." The man moved closer, with a confidence Clint rarely saw in anyone outside the military. The accent was distinctly American too.

Well shit. This day keeps getting better and better.

"Du hast den Falschen." Clint backed up a step. (You've got the wrong man.)

"We both know that's not true, Barton. Even if you haven't gone by that name in almost a year." The man was still approaching.

Clint kept moving back, bringing his back up gun to bear.

"You don't want to do that. " The man put up a hand.

"Oh no?" Clint huffed a pain filled laugh.

"No. For one...I'm wearing Kevlar."

"Won't matter if I shoot for the head." Clint pointed out sharply.

The man actually smirked at him. Clint's eyes narrowed.

"You won't do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you're still trying to figure out who I am and why I'm here and most importantly," He cocked his head a little, "If anyone else stateside knows where you are."

Clint flinched when his back hit the wall of the alley. He'd let the guy back him into a corner. He hated concussions.

"Maybe I don't care." Clint snapped, thumbing back the hammer.

"Barton…" the man shook his head.

Clint blinked around the blood dripping into his eyes and in that moment the guy moved. His gun discharged as it was twisted firmly from his grip. The archer's countenance darkened at the sight of his own gun pointing at him. He cocked an eyebrow curiously when the man in the suit pointed the gun at the ground.

"We don't have to do it this way." The man reasoned.

"Where'd be the fun in that?" Clint smirked.

He lashed out knocking the gun out of the man's hand with a swift kick. It skittered across the pavement into the shadows. Clint was already moving, kicking the man's thigh and then spinning to drive his elbow into his sternum. But the stranger was ready. He grabbed Clint's arm, twisted it up and back until he was sure the bones were about to pull out of socket. Clint grunted in pain as the man drove him towards the brick wall. Instead of letting himself get slammed, Clint raised his left boot, planting it firmly on the brick. Two quick steps and he was flipping backwards, landing more heavily than usual behind the man in the suit. He stumbled back a step, trying to push away the waver in his vision.

"Very impressive." The man praised. "You're as good as I'd heard."

"You don't know the half of it." Clint taunted, shifting so he could get an open lane to the mouth of the alley.

"I just want to talk, kid. We don't have to do this."

"I don't like talking." Clint growled, moving forward and lashing out with his fist. He grunted when it was not only blocked, but retaliated against. His head snapped to the side and he stumbled back. Never one to be deterred, Clint attacked again. He was deflected again and treated with a knee to the gut. He steeled himself to try again.

"You are persistent." The man was smirking again, like he was pleased. Clint frowned, and moved. A well placed punch to the bullet wound in his shoulder, brought him to his knees. He was wrapped in a headlock in the next moment.

This is how it was going to end. He was going to go down to some guy in a suit in a dirty alley in Vienna for a reason he didn't even know. Awesome.

"All I'd have to do is squeeze." The man informed him calmly, patting the back of Clint's head where his hand was braced. "And you'd be dead."

"No shit." Clint gasped, hardly believing he was being choked for the second time in one night and was actually talking about it with his attacker.

"Instead," the man stated carefully, "I'm going to let you go. Don't do anything stupid."

Clint's eyes widened a fraction when the headlock was released and he was pushed away. He doubled under the guise of stumbling and pulled a small knife from his boot. It wasn't much, but all he had to do was throw it. And he didn't miss.

But damn it if his curiosity wasn't demanding he wait for a second and find out what the hell was going on.

"Who the hell are you?" Clint demanded, hiding a wince when his abused throat protested painfully.

"Clint Barton." The man started again. "My name is Agent Phil Coulson…I'm with an American agency called SHIELD."

"SHIELD?" Clint questioned. He'd never heard of it.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement Logistics Division."

Clint blinked. That was a mouthful.

"I doubt you've heard of it. We're a covert agency."

"Good for you."

"I'm here to offer you a job."

"A job." Clint repeated blankly.

"Yes."

Clint was silent as he locked eyes with the man called Phil Coulson.

"You're bullshitting me."

He thought he saw Coulson crack a smile.

"No, I assure you, I'm not…this is a real offer."

"I have a job." Clint countered.

Coulson looked meaningfully at the two dead men on the fire escape.

"Something tells me your profession has just gotten more hazardous."

"I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can." Coulson was eyeing him like he knew something Clint didn't. "I'm telling you, you don't have to."

"Don't have to what?"

"Handle it. You don't have to do this anymore."

Clint scoffed, now he knew he was being bullshitted.

"You trying to tell me, you aren't trying to hire me to kill for you?"

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do." Coulson replied flatly.

Clint drew back with a blink. Oh.

"Why the hell would I do that when I'm sure I make a hell of a lot more now?"

"Because if all it was about was the money, you wouldn't have waited for Béres' family to leave." Coulson stated knowingly.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Clint scoffed. But his insides clenched, thinking of Julian Béres and the father he'd almost taken from him.

"I'd give you a reason, Barton, for every hit. I'll give you a file telling you exactly why the target needs to be retired and I know that's a hell of a lot more than you get now." Coulson cocked his head like he was sizing him up, "You aren't as cold hearted as you pretend to be."

"Oh no?"

"No…you're an eighteen year old kid who made a few unfortunate choices. I'm giving you a chance to make it right."

"Make it right." Clint scoffed doubtfully, looking away. He weighed his hidden knife in his hand.

"Béres is a doctor."

Clint looked back at him.

"I know that." He frowned.

"Did you know that he refuses to pay loyalties to Akos, the man who hired you?"

Clint didn't respond. That was answer enough.

"Akos threatened his family, so he moved out of Hungary to Austria…to Vienna…Akos hired you to send a message to everyone back in Debrecen who was getting ideas about doing the same."

Clint clenched his jaw angrily. He was angry at Akos for being an asshole. He was angry at Agent Phil Coulson for taking away his ignorance. He never would have taken this contract if he'd known the whole story, which is why he never wanted the whole story. Mostly he was angry at himself, for caring at all.

"What do you expect me to do?" Clint challenged, "I can't just walk away. I've got enemies that won't ever stop looking."

"We'd protect you, Barton. We protect our own."

Clint shook his head. This couldn't be real.

"You don't have to decide right now. But if you want a new beginning, I can give that to you. But you have to make the choice." Coulson crouched and placed a card on the ground and then turned to walk away.

"I don't think I have it in me anymore." Clint announced suddenly, not sure why the words were spilling out of his mouth. Not sure why he was confessing one of his deepest fears to this stranger. Coulson turned back curiously. "To be a good guy." Clint finished.

The smile Coulson gave him was one of calm understanding. That confused the hell out of him.

"Barton…the fact that you've had a knife in your hand for the past three minutes and haven't used it yet…tells me you do." Then he was gone.

Clint swallowed, limping forward to pick up the card.

It had a gray logo on it and the man's name printed across it with a string of numbers beneath.

He stared at it for a moment and then shoved it in his pocket and limped towards the fire escape to retrieve his bow. The police would be here soon. And he needed to be gone when they arrived.

---

"He'll call." Phil snapped at the young agent name Crawley that was in the room with him.

"You've said that for the past two days…Fury's ordered us back to the states within 48 hours." Crawley replied as he moved around the room and packed.

"He'll call." Phil repeated more quietly, staring at his cell phone on the table. He hadn't been wrong about Barton, he knew he hadn't. The kid would call.

---

Clint slowly blew out a breath as he sighted down the shaft of his arrow. He watched his target step out of his car and glance around. Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and the ache in his head, he pulled back on the bow. From the shadows of the alley, Clint fired. His black arrow flew true and ripped into the man's heart.

By the time Akos's men made it to the alley across the street, Hawkeye was gone.

---

Phil flipped his ringing phone open as he walked across the tarmac towards the SHIELD jet.

"Coulson."

"Can you get to Debrecen?"

He froze mid step, ignoring Crawley's confused look.

"Barton?"

"That's where I am."

"It's been three days."

"I had some business to tie up."

"Can it be linked to you?" Phil asked. He'd heard the reports of a thug in Debrecen named Akos being shot down in the streets.

"Yes…had to send a message."

"Understood." Phil allowed. "I can be there in an hour…there's a private airport just outside the city."

"I know it."

"I'll see you there, then." Phil nodded.

"Coulson…" the teenager started, Phil waited the beat it took him to continue, "if you're screwing around with me. I'll kill you."

"This is for real, Barton."

"We'll see."

The line went dead. Phil looked at his phone with a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Crawley, tell the pilot we have a change of plans."

"He called?" Crawley gaped.

"He called."

Chapter Text

The present is the ever moving shadow that divides yesterday from tomorrow. In that lies hope.

Frank Lloyd Wright

---

Coulson stepped off SHIELD's jet and looked around the empty airport. Almost immediately, a black clad figure appeared from behind the wall of the main building. Coulson suppressed a smile, striding forward to meet him.

Clint Barton met him halfway. He had a single black pack hanging from his shoulder, his quiver across his back, and his bow in his hand. Any wounds from the fight three nights ago seemed to have been treated with precision. He could see the outline through his t-shirt of a bandage covering the bullet wound Phil knew he had. He wondered with slight concern if the boy had removed the bullet himself. There was a carefully stitched cut on his temple, surrounded by a dark bruise. Again, Coulson found himself hoping the teen hadn't stitched himself up. He also tried not to feel bad about the purple and black bruise on the kid's jaw. He had caused that one.

"I'm glad you made it." Coulson greeted.

"I broke out of military prison." Clint blurted instead of replying. It had been bothering him as he waited for the jet to arrive. There was no way they could know; because there was no way a branch of the US government would want to hire a guy that had broken out of one of their military prisons.

"I know." Coulson allowed easily. He eyed the dark bruise circling the young man's throat, the reason the kid's voice sounded like he'd been gargling glass. He'd have to make sure the kid got checked out when they landed.

Clint blinked.

"You know." He repeated blandly.

"Yes. SHIELD has arranged to have your military record cleared pending your advancement into specialized training."

"Cleared?" Barton's blue gray eyes widened. "Completely cleared?"

"Yes. Once you complete the SHIELD Agent Training, you will be an upstanding US citizen once again."

Clint didn't know what to say. So he settled for just staring.

"Welcome to SHIELD, Clint Barton." Coulson cracked a brief smile, leading the way back to the jet. He allowed Clint to walk past him and enter first.

"You do know I'm only 18 right?" Clint questioned. He wanted to make sure every possible issue was dealt with upfront, before he got too invested. "Because the last government entity I worked for…they kind of got pissed about the whole age thing."

"I am well aware." Coulson assured as they both took a seat on the jet.

"Eighteen." Crawley shook his head in awe from his own seat. "If you pass training, you'll be the youngest recruit in SHIELD history."

Clint's eyebrow arched and he glanced at Coulson.

"We know about your age, but that doesn't mean we haven't made allowances because of it. Our typical recruiting age is twenty-one. I got permission to bend the rules."

"You do that a lot?" Clint eyed him warily, "Bend the rules."

"He never bends the rules, breaks the rules, or even looks funny at the rules." Crawley answered before Coulson could. He looked up to see two piercing gazes on him. "What?"

Clint sat back in his seat, regarding Coulson coolly for a moment before turning his stormy gaze to the window.

What's up with this guy? Clint thought as he watched Coulson glance at him through the reflection of the glass. What the hell is his play?

---

It was an over nine hour flight back to New York. Clint didn't so much as twitch from his position staring out the window the entire time. His bow rested across his lap, and his quiver sat between his legs.

Coulson didn't think it was entirely unexpected. The teenager was a trained sniper after all, and a self taught assassin. He was used to sitting in the same position for hours at a time so his location wouldn't be given away.

The only part of the young assassin's body that moved was his eyes. They were in constant motion, scanning the skies, tracking Coulson and Crawley's movements in the reflection of the glass. Coulson was sure that blue-gray gaze never missed anything, no matter how insignificant.

Crawley had fallen asleep at some point, Coulson wasn't sure when. But Phil stayed awake. Not because he thought Barton would do something rash, but because he knew falling asleep in the presence of an unknown was sloppy. He also knew Barton knew that. Coulson didn't need the kid thinking he was a sloppy operative. It was going to take a hell of a lot of work to get this kid to the point where he wasn't looking at them like an enemy waiting to strike. Coulson would have to convince him they could be trusted. And he would need at least some margin of respect to do that.

Phil had instead spent the last nine hours silently splitting his time between reading through a few files and observing his new charge. Clint Barton was painfully young. Reading about his age in a file hadn't been enough to prepare Phil for seeing the youth in the assassin's features first hand. It was startling, and heartbreaking. But it was too late to change this young man's past. Instead he could just make sure his future was headed in the right direction.

He had to give the teen credit though; Barton carried himself well, making himself seem older than he was. There was a coldness in his expression, a darkness in his eyes, and he carried himself with a confidence Phil rarely witnessed in anyone, much less an eighteen year old assassins. It made him seem years older than he was.

Barton was going to be a challenge.

He cast a rueful glance at the quietly snoring Crawley. He'd have to remember not to bring Crawley in on Barton's training. He liked Crawley, he really did. But the twenty five year old agent was better off in intelligence, not in the field. You didn't show weakness in any form to a guy like Clint Barton. Not if you wanted his respect. Crawley had lost that the moment he let his eyes droop and his head fall back.

Clint was an expert at exploiting weaknesses. And Phil had no doubt that if involved with his training, Crawley would get manipulated by the teen.

Yes, Crawley would need to be transferred as soon as they landed.

---

When the jet touched down at the New York training compound, Coulson made sure not to show any reaction to Barton's hand tightening around his bow. The teen was likened to a very wary, very lethal animal, who would strike the moment he felt threatened or cornered. Phil needed to make sure Barton felt neither.

"Crawley." Coulson barked. The younger agent jumped, snorting into consciousness. "We're here."

"Already?" Crawley yawned.

Clint turned away from the window for the first time since they'd taken off. He looked at Coulson. His glare clearly communicating his question.

Now what?

How the teen managed to communicate sarcastic sharpness with only his eyes, was a feat Coulson would grow to admire. Right now, he ignored it.

"Follow me."

---

Clint obediently followed him out of the jet and through the door that led them out of the hangar and into the main building. He had seen the size of the compound when they were on approach. The place was huge. Now that he was inside, he had to admit he was impressed. Everything was state of the art, from the hand print and coded access to every room, to the surveillance cameras he spied along the ceiling. He would enjoy finding the blind spots.

"First, we need to meet with the Director of SHIELD, Nick Fury. As yours is a special case, he is taking a personal interest."

Clint stayed stoically silent, his expression hard. There was a time when he would have thrown out some sarcastic comment just to try and get a reaction. But he wasn't in the mood for joking around.

They moved quickly through the compound. The sheer number of stares he got told him that the age rule at this place had never been broken, bent, or even glanced at sideways. He met every look with a dark glare, communicating silently exactly why he had been recruited.

"You're not making any friends by intimidating half the staff." Coulson informed him easily as they stepped into an elevator.

"I don't want any friends." Clint muttered darkly, casting one last glare out at the main floor before the doors closed.

They spent the short ride in silence. Coulson stepped out first, Clint right behind him. There was only one door in the half hallway before them. The entire left side of the hall was made of two way mirrors. Whoever was inside could see out, but no one could see in. The right side of the hall was a waist high railing, looking over at the rest of the main part of the compound.

They stopped in front of the door and Coulson knocked sharply.

"Enter."

The reply was sharp and clear. It reminded Clint of his old Captain. But when they entered the room and closed the door behind them, Clint decided Director Nick Fury was nothing like his old Captain.

The man wore a black patch over one eye, a long black trench coat, and a no nonsense set to his jaw. He wasn't like any military man Clint had ever met. The dark skinned man looked up from the file on his desk, fixing Clint with a hard, penetrating glare. Clint met it unflinchingly.

"Agent Coulson. Welcome back…is this him?"

"Yes sir." Coulson nodded seriously.

Director Fury stood from his desk, walking around it to inspect Clint more closely. Clint glanced at Phil, arching an eyebrow. The Agent nodded very slightly, silently instructing Clint to allow it. With an eye roll, Clint turned back to the Director, eyeing the tall man with a slight scowl.

Fury crossed his arms, eyeing the young man up and down. He was about 5 foot 10 and built lithely. Dark sandy blonde hair sat atop a face that should have been youthful, given the boy's age. Instead, Clint Barton's expression was set in stone and his eyes were far older than they should have been. A stitched cut sat across his temple, surrounded by a dark bruise. There was a matching bruise on his jaw, and a ring around his neck to make it a trio. He thought he could see the outline of a bandage on the teen's left shoulder too.

He held himself with confidence, but not arrogance. The bow in his hand looked like it was where it belonged. It took a long time to develop that kind of familiarity with a weapon. But he was young, damn young. Too young to have the kind of darkness in his eyes that Barton had.

The kid bled instability, both emotional and mental. Coulson was out of his mind.

But his right hand man wasn't his right hand man for nothing. And Coulson didn't specifically request to bring in someone as an asset unless he the person had something they couldn't afford not to have.

"Barton." Fury greeted shortly.

"Fury." Clint shot back in the same sharp tone.

Coulson closed his eyes briefly.

"That's Director Fury to you, Barton." Fury snapped.

"Yes, sir."

Coulson winced. How had the kid managed to make that sound like an insult?

Fury's eye narrowed.

"You've got attitude, kid. Attitude can be good, or it can be very bad. We'll see which one you turn out to be after you've gone through training."

Clint just stared at him, blinking as if the conversation had become boring.

"Agent Coulson."

"Yes, sir?"

"Get him in the system and cleared by medical. We'll see if he has what it takes." With that Fury turned and went back to his desk.

Clint smirked. That sounded like a challenge. He loved challenges.

---

"This is where you'll be staying." Coulson instructed as he led Clint into a room with two bunk beds.

"Homey." Clint deadpanned, eyeing the gray walls and metal bunks warily. "You do realize I broke out of the last place that looked like this." He muttered before falling silent.

"This is your manual and your schedule for the first month." Coulson went on as if he hadn't spoken. He handed Clint a thick spiral bound book with a stapled packet resting on top of it.

Clint took it, frowning. He glanced at the list of activities he had scheduled. Medical exam. IQ testing. Weapons training. Physical training. Hand-to-hand combat training.

Rinse and repeat. Clint thought to himself when he saw nearly the same schedule repeated every day for four weeks. A few new classes were added here and there. And the medical exam was only once a week, with different focuses each time. The IQ testing was only once.

"I know it's a lot." Coulson allowed. "But every agent goes through it."

"I can handle it." Clint rolled his eyes.

"Then all that's left is the paperwork."

Clint granted him a brief glance before looking back down at his schedule.

"And I'll need you to hand over your bow." Coulson's eyes were apologetic, but the hand he held out said he expected to be obeyed.

"You're kidding, right?"

"New recruits aren't allowed weapons outside of training."

"You're wearing out your welcome, Agent Coulson." Clint scowled.

"I'll make sure it's taken care of."

"And I should just trust you?" Clint snapped, pulling off his quiver.

"No." Coulson replied simply, "But what reason would I have for doing anything else?"

Clint scowled, shoving his weapons into the man's hands. His glare clearly communicated how much he thought the whole situation sucked. Coulson eyed him before responding to the glare verbally.

"I'm sure you can handle it." He smirked before striding out of the room.

Son of a bitch. Clint scowled after him.

---

4 weeks later…

---

"Well, I know you're dying to tell me. So go ahead." Fury leaned against the railing next to Coulson. His second in command was watching Clint go through progress testing for his basic training.

"It's even better than we anticipated." Phil replied immediately. He held up a file. "His preliminary scores."

"And?" Fury sighed.

"He's got a natural propensity for hand-to-hand, even though his focus is as a distance operator. His trainer thinks his acrobat training plays a part in that. He doesn't really have a set combat style; he just uses whatever works in the moment. That should tell you all you need to know about his mental flexibility." Coulson relayed with almost clinical detachment. "Physically, he's in great condition, baring the nearly healed bullet wound…."

"I heard the report about him attacking a doctor." Fury interrupted with a frown.

"All he did was step forward in a menacing fashion when the man told him he couldn't fire his bow for at least a month. No blows were exchanged." Phil waved away the concern.

"Comforting." Fury deadpanned.

"His eye sight is phenomenal. 20/10 and only because the doctor doesn't believe it can be any better than that. His hearing has the same perfection. His balance is almost supernatural. He's healing quickly, despite the fact that he's gone through the nearly same training as the healthy recruits…"

"Move on, Coulson." Fury waved a hand impatiently.

"Director, his test scores…" Coulson shook his head what Fury identified as actual amazement, "He got an extreme propensity for geometry and physics, but weaknesses in grammar, spelling, history, and science…"

"You do realize that's almost every other subject."

"But he tested at an IQ of 141." Coulson continued as if Fury hadn't interrupted.

Fury's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"He's got no record of attending any type of school after the age of ten." Coulson went on.

"Then how the hell can he do complex math?" Fury demanded.

Coulson shrugged.

"I haven't asked yet. He's smart, Director, very smart. The reason his scores are low in those other areas are because he was never taught any of them. If I work with him, I can have him ready for his GED before he's even cleared for missions. "

"You can have him ready?" Fury questioned knowingly.

"Consider this my request to be assigned as his handler. I'll submit it in writing before the day is out."

"No need, Phil." Fury sighed. "You haven't told me about his psych results."

Coulson hesitated.

"He's not talking much. The details of his past are vague to say the least. He seems stable and like he genuinely wants to be on our side now…but there have been some troubling reports."

"Tell me." Fury demanded.

"He hasn't been sleeping in his bunkroom. The recruits he was housed with confirm it."

"Where is he sleeping?"

"We don't know. I'm working on it." Coulson assured.

"What else?"

"Severe antisocial tendencies, anger issues, he's been getting into fights."

"And you still think it's wise to put him into covert training." Fury asked doubtfully.

"With his skill set, and knowing the operator we can turn him into? He's the single most valuable recruit we've ever brought in." Coulson stated firmly. "Give me six months with him. And if you still don't think he's safe to put in the field, we'll cut him loose."

"Six months." Fury agreed. "You seem interestingly confident, Phil."

"There's something there, sir, he's not as far gone as he wants us to believe."

He just needs to be reminded of that.

---

Clint watched the rest of the SHIELD staff while he ate. The other recruits were all eating at the two largest tables in the mess hall. The lab nerds had their own corner of the room. The field agents had their own little cliques. Then there were the medical personnel. They all ate quickly with pagers on their trays.

Clint had found the most sequestered seat in the mess hall and claimed it as his own the first day. A cold glare had kept anybody that tried to join him from ever setting down their tray. It had become a well established pattern. No one had even started in his direction since week one.

It was that knowledge that made it surprising when none other than Agent Phil Coulson headed directly towards him, tray in hand. Clint watched him approach with a small frown. Agent Coulson never ate in the mess hall. At least not when Clint had ever been in there.

He stared in surprise as the man sat across from him.

"What are you doing?" Clint demanded.

He'd hardly seen the man in the past four weeks. Except for when he caught him watching the training sessions from the viewing area high above them. Now here he was, sitting across from him in the mess hall like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"I'm eating." Coulson replied easily.

"I can see that." Clint scowled. "Don't you usually do that somewhere else?"

"Not anymore. You've excelled in your training. At this point, prospective covert agents are assigned a handler and undergo more specialized and intense training."

"Okay." Clint blinked. "And who's the lucky guy?"

"I will be your handler and will be taking over your specialized training from this point forward."

"You." Clint repeated blankly.

"Yes. If all goes well you'll feasibly have a mission in eight months. If all goes extremely well, maybe sooner."

Clint nodded slowly. Coulson nodded back once.

"0400 tomorrow. The main training room. Don't be late." With that Coulson stood and left, dumping his uneaten tray in the trash.

Clint blinked.

What the hell just happened?

---

He was waiting in the empty training room when Coulson walked in.

"When do I get my bow back?" Clint demanded immediately.

"This afternoon."

Clint felt the wind leave his sails a little at that and nodded.

"On the sparring mat." Coulson ordered. Clint obeyed immediately. "You have a remarkable talent for hand-to-hand…"

Clint smirked.

"But you're rash, uncontrolled, and therefore inefficient."

The smirk turned to an affronted scowl.

"I get the job done, don't I?" Clint challenged.

"Yes…but at what cost? Face it kid, you're probably always going to be one of the smallest guys out there..."

Clint frowned.

"But that just means you're easy to underestimate. You can use that against any opponent, but there's something you have to learn first."

Clint arched an eyebrow, waiting.

"Patience."

"You're kidding right? You do realize I'm a sniper. Patience is kind of my thing."

"Sure it is…when you're at roost for a mission. But everywhere else, you've got the patience of a kid in a candy store."

Clint glared.

"Eleven fights in the four weeks you've been here." Coulson pointed out.

"They had it coming." Clint defended.

"You like to hit first and think about it later," Coulson went on undeterred, "That'll get you killed in the field. I'm going to teach you to think first, and hit in the moment where it'll do the most damage."

"I'm a sniper, why does it matter?" Clint demanded.

"Because sometimes you won't be able to keep the distance you love so much. You need to learn to be in control now before your life or anyone else's life is on the line."

"In control of what?" Clint scowled.

"Yourself and the situation." Coulson replied, "Your emotions, your reactions, your tactics…if you keep control, you can win in anything, even when you should have lost."

Clint arched an eyebrow doubtfully, but didn't respond.

"We're going to spar now. I want you to focus on your defense. You have a good technique base from the Army. We're going to build on that. Don't try to hit me until I tell you." Phil instructed seriously.

Clint rolled his eyes, catching the black sparring gloves Coulson tossed at him. He slid them on and dropped into his stance, hands raised.

Coulson attacked. Instinctively, Clint ducked and punched his left hand into Coulson's stomach. The older man blocked it, grabbed Clint's wrist and twisted it behind his back.

"What did I just say?" He demanded sharply.

"Don't hit until you say."

"Then do it." Coulson snapped, pushing Clint away.

Clint turned slowly, jaw clenched. He raised his hands again. He blocked Coulson's first punch, ducked the second and tried to kick the man in the side. Phil grabbed his ankle, anchored his leg to his side, and kicked Clint's other leg out from under him. The teen's back hit the mat hard.

"Jesus." Clint gasped, sucking air back into his lungs. His eyes widened and he flipped into an athletic backwards somersault when Coulson made like he was going to stomp on his chest. He rolled to his feet, with his hands already up, which is what saved him from getting leveled by Coulson's round house kick in the next moment. He blocked it with his arms and stumbled two steps to the side under its force.

"What just happened there?" Coulson demanded.

"You tried to kick my head in." Clint growled, resisting the urge to attack.

"You tried to kick me. What happened?"

"You countered it. Put me on the mat."

"Then what?"

"You tried to stomp my ribs in."

"I put you in a position where you were scrambling to keep up. You need to stay in control of the fight, Barton. You're smaller than me, have less training, but you have everything you need to beat me…you just have to be patient."

"What do you want me to do, just keep letting you take swings?"

"Yes!" Coulson stated firmly. "You duck, dodge, and block until I tell you to do otherwise. You've got lighting fast reflexes, use them. Don't let me land a hit. If you can dodge, don't settle for a block. I'll spend more energy missing completely than I would if you blocked me."

Clint glared.

"Now don't try to attack…defense, Barton." Coulson repeated, unconcerned by the teen's dark countenance.

"Fine." Clint snapped, readying himself again.

Coulson attacked. Clint defended. He gritted his teeth against the urge to strike back.

"Good!" Coulson praised as he continued to press forward with punches and kicks. "Keep defending…now…I'm backing you to the wall…" Coulson instructed even as he continued to move, "what do you do to change our positions without striking out?"

Clint, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, leaned back, bending until he was past parallel to the ground, watching Coulson's leg sweep over the space he'd just been occupying. Then he threw his hands back and to the left, launching his body to follow. He coiled his body in like a spring; all his weight on his hands and then exploded forward, twisting in the air to land just behind and to Coulson's right.

Coulson had spun as Clint moved, but the punch he tried to throw was blocked. He stepped back.

"Impressive. I've never seen anyone do it like that." Coulson grinned. "And it was quick enough that you didn't leave yourself vulnerable. Well done."

Clint shrugged like it was nothing and wiped sweat from his forehead.

"Let's go again…remember…defense."

Clint scowled. It was going to be a long morning.

---

Clint dropped his tray heavily onto his table in the mess hall. Everything hurt. He hadn't been this sore since basic training in the Army. And all he'd done is duck, dodge, and block. For four hours. Then his attacker had finally announced it was breakfast time.

Coulson filled in the seat across from him.

"So, am I ever going to get to hit anybody when I fight? Or am I just going to kill them with kindness?"

"When you prove to me that you can stay in control and not let your temper and your emotions run you in a fight…I'll teach you when to hit."

"Didn't I prove I could do that already?"

"One morning of mediocre success doesn't mean you've mastered it. When what I'm teaching you becomes instinct, when you don't have to tell yourself not to attack, then you'll be ready to hit back."

"Awesome." Clint grumbled, picking at his high protein oatmeal. He watched the other recruits from his training class sit down together at a table. His eyes narrowed. "I thought you said recruits got assigned handlers after the first month."

Coulson followed Clint's gaze.

"I said that covert operative recruits get assigned a handler. All other recruits stay in general training even after they start handling missions."

Clint blinked.

"Why is it different?"

"Covert operatives have a much more intense training regime. Their job is much more dangerous and the missions much more sensitive. You're training will be strict and focused when you're with me. More broad when you're with the rest of them."

"With the rest of them? I thought you were doing all my training now."

"Only when you're not in with the rest of the recruits. You and I will train from 0400 to 0800 then you will participate in group training from 0900 to 1500hours. Then you're back with me until you're released for free time at 1800 hours."

Clint frowned.

"I have to train more than them?"

"Yes."

"That sucks."

"I think you can take it." Coulson smirked.

Clint frowned. How did that keep getting used against him? He turned his head back to his breakfast and didn't speak for the rest of the meal.

---

Clint jogged to a stop on the track, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder. He knew the closest of the recruits was a lap and a half behind. He was done. Finally. The trainer waved him off telling him without words that Clint could consider himself excused. No words were needed. It wasn't the first time he'd finished the 10 mile run before anyone else. The time margin between him and the others was actually getting a few seconds longer every day.

Clint forced himself to take deep breaths as he headed for the door. At least the track was indoors. That was something, he supposed. He pushed the door open, only to groan when he saw Coulson leaning against the wall reading a file.

"Great. You're done early." Coulson snapped the file closed.

"1500 hours…you said I didn't have to do round two with you until 1500 hours."

"I did. You can use the next fifteen minutes to shower, then meet me in Briefing Room 2."

"Briefing room?" Clint questioned with a confused frown as Coulson started walking away.

"Study hall." The handler tossed over his shoulder.

Clint's eyebrows drew together.

"Wait…what?"

---

Clint stretched his sore muscles as he pushed open the door to Briefing Room 2. Coulson was sitting at the head of the long table with a file open in front of him. On the table in front of the seat next to him was a second file, with an apple sitting on top of it and a bottle of Gatorade sitting next to it. It was blue, his favorite.

Clint arched an eyebrow, moving over to sit in front of the apple. He tossed it up in the air once, before setting it decisively back on the table, not to be touched. He nudged the Gatorade to sit with it.

"Couldn't spring for something sweet?" Clint complained, as if that were the reason he wasn't accepting the snack.

"Apples are sweet." Coulson replied easily, not looking up from his file.

"Yeah…healthy sweet." Clint replied sourly. "You guys force feed us healthy all day."

Coulson didn't reply. Instead, he pointed at the file in front of Clint.

"Let's get started."

Clint obediently flipped his open, but not without a long suffering sigh. He blinked at the loose paper that rested atop the stack bracketed to the file. The words "Record Expunged" were all he was really able to absorb.

"You're all clear, no longer wanted. Not even a history of being wanted." Coulson assured.

Clint nodded, carefully folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.

Coulson cleared his throat.

"Now, for the next several months we'll be spending the afternoons doing two things: Mission Training, which involves learning protocol, studying scenarios, and reviewing trade-craft…and preparing you to take the GED."

"The GED?" Clint looked up from where he was reading over the inordinately detailed schedule Agent Coulson had created.

"Yes."

"Why do I need to take that?" Clint frowned.

"Because you need more than a third grade education." Coulson replied.

Clint dropped his eyes, seeming almost ashamed at his lack of education.

"It's not your fault." Coulson backpedaled. "You're incredibly smart, Barton. Your abilities with Physics and Geometry show that. I'm just going to help you learn the important things you missed."

Clint nodded, still looking subdued.

"First, let's talk about languages. You tested very well in that area, so how many do you know."

"How well do I need to know it?"

"I could drop you in the country today and you wouldn't miss a beat switching languages in your mind."

"Spanish, Farsi, German, Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean…oh and English." Clint smirked at the last one.

"Six languages besides your native one…impressive…now list the ones you can just get by with."

"Afrikaans, Hindi, Italian, French, and Cantonese."

"Now the ones you know how to ask where the bathroom is."

Clint sighed as if this were a waste of his time.

"Thai, Vietnamese, Portuguese, Polish, and Russian."

Coulson wrote the last one in his file and shook his head.

"You got around a lot this past year."

"It's easy to get from place to place when people are paying you hundreds of thousands of dollars." Clint shrugged.

"You must have a remarkable ear for languages. That will help you on missions." Coulson realized. "We'll make sure to take time to develop that…now, flip to page six. Let's talk protocol…"

They spent the next hour going over protocol and talking about why they were important. Clint, much to Coulson's annoyance, argued against every one.

They spent the hour after that studying American History. Coulson didn't let the kid know he was impressed when Clint read each chapter quickly, able to dictate back answers to questions with nearly perfect recall. Finally, Coulson instructed Clint to close the textbook.

They spent the next hour in the shooting range. Coulson released the black recurved bow back into the archer's hands.

Coulson, when he considered it later, would think it was ironic. It was when Clint fired his bow that his eyes were the darkest, his countenance the angriest.

It was like he was punishing himself.

Chapter Text

When we have lost everything, including hope, life becomes a disgrace, and death a duty.

W.C. Fields

---

Clint pushed open the window to his bunk room, empty now except for him. His roommates had all requested different sleeping assignments after the first month of training. He didn't know if it was because he was covert now or because he tended to appear in the room at odd hours. Either way, he didn't care. He liked it better when he was alone.

He breathed in the cold night air, wishing it could wipe away the dream that had woken him after only a short hour and a half of sleep. Clint dreamed often. It was never an experience he particularly enjoyed, because his dreams were always filled with blood. Sometimes it was his own, as his mind remembered and twisted his last encounter with Barney, turning it even darker and more heartbreaking than it already was. Sometimes, rarely, it was the blood of his parents. They'd been stolen from him before their time. They were the reason he rarely drank, and when he did, did it barely at all. He blamed alcohol mostly, because he didn't have anything else. It was alcohol that made the man that hit their car run the red light at twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. It had been a miracle that he, only six at the time, and his brother Barney had survived at all.

But usually, it was the blood of the many people he'd been paid to kill that haunted him. All of their names were written carefully in the small notebook he kept in his pack. Never to be forgotten.

He'd remembered a few of those names in his dreams tonight. Relived their deaths in vivid technicolor. He'd woken in a cold, hyperventilating sweat, the smell of blood still in his nostrils and the feeling of his bow string still on his fingers. He could still feel his hands shaking where he had them clenched around the window sill.

Clint looked up at the sky, staring at the full moon through the high trees that surrounded the compound. He watched a bird fly from the roof of the building into the trees. He clenched his eyes closed, wishing, not for the first time in his life, that he could fly away so easily.

Suddenly the window frame felt confining.

Clint pulled back into the room, shutting the window sharply. He moved to the bunks, climbing the side and reaching up to push away the large vent cover. He pulled his old worn pack out of the duct and tossed it down to the bed. Then he replaced the vent cover and jumped to the ground. He pulled his pack to him and rifled through it, extracting a small, worn, leather bound book. His hands shook as he stared at it, the knuckles of his hands turned white where they were clenched, one around the book, and one into a fist at his side.

Abruptly, he moved to his door, silently pulling it open and glancing up and down the quiet hallway. He'd mastered the blind spots of the surveillance cameras within the first two weeks of his stay, however slim those blind spots were. He'd told the security team he was practicing for the future, when they'd asked why he was flipping, running, and rolling down the halls like he was in a movie.

The security guards had shrugged, and promised to tell him whenever they caught him on film. They'd only talked to him twice more after that.

He made quick, efficient work of the hallway and slipped into the stairwell. Each landing of the stairwell was monitored by camera to watch who came in and out of the doors. So he stuck to the stairs themselves, climbing up on the railings and jumping up and across the small rectangular expanse to the next level. That part was mostly just for fun, because he'd had to get on camera entering the stairwell and would have to again to get to the roof. But he enjoyed the athleticism of it.

Once on the roof, Clint quickly moved to the only point that wasn't monitored. The very edge of the east corner, the highest point of the entire compound. With a sigh he dropped down to sit on the ledge, dangling his legs over into the open air.

He expelled a shaky breath, bringing the notebook to rest in his lap. Carefully, as if the pages would shred if he handled them too roughly, he opened it, thumbing from page to page taking in the list of names written in careful and clear block letters. Finally he came to the one he'd been looking for.

JAMES MONTOYA

James Montoya had been vacationing in Spain when Clint took the contract. Distantly, Clint could still hear his wife's screams as her husband suddenly sprouted an arrow in his chest and crumbled to the ground.

He closed his eyes, seeing the scene as if it were yesterday. His jaw clenched and he turned the page, searching once again for a name. His fingers shook as he ran his index across the name he was seeking.

BRIANNA WILLIAMS

She had been young, in the prime of her life, living the good life in Paris. Clint didn't know why a contract had been issued on her. His week of observation had showed nothing but shopping, partying, and fine dining.

He turned the page sharply, not wanting to remember the shock in her eyes when he'd cornered her in an alley and slit her throat before driving an arrow through her heart. She'd always been surrounded by people, in the busiest parts of the city. He hadn't been able to get a clear shot from a distance. It wasn't often that he had to get close to finish a job; but he'd done what he had to.

He sought out one final name. The last of the three that had haunted him tonight.

GABRIEL ALEXANDER III

Gabriel had been a paranoid scientist living in seclusion in Italy. He wasn't a native, Clint had been able to deduce that from the man's near inability to communicate on his seldom and short visits to the town near his secluded home. Clint didn't even know what he'd been a scientist of.

He closed the book abruptly, clenching his hands around it and raising his eyes up to the dark sky. The cool but not yet cold air swirled around him and he inhaled deeply. It only helped minutely, but it was enough for the moment. Enough to keep him from giving up and giving in.

For one more night, the darkness encroaching on his soul wouldn't win.

---

Clint was already in the training room when Coulson arrived for their morning session. The teen's eyes were bloodshot and dark smudges painted the skin below them. His features were drawn and tired. But there was a new level of dark intensity in his stormy gaze that set Coulson on edge immediately.

"Everything okay?" Coulson hedged carefully.

Clint glared silently where he stood in the middle of the training mat. Coulson's eyes narrowed warily as he pulled on his sparring gloves. Something was off, but he seriously doubted he could get a straight answer by asking. So instead he moved to the mat, watching Clint raise his hands in defense.

Fifteen minutes later, Clint was pulling himself up off the ground, his hand going to wipe at the blood leaking from his mouth. He didn't have to look at his handler to know the man was glaring.

"Why aren't you trying?" Coulson demanded.

"I am." Clint defended roughly, raising his hands in defense once again.

Coulson expelled a sharp breath and attacked. Three moves in his gloved fist snapped into the teen's temple, sending him stumbling a step to the side.

"No, you're not." Coulson growled. "I've barely been able to touch you for the last week since we started training, now I've put you on the ground twice and hit you half a dozen times. What's going on?"

"Nothing." Clint snapped. "Let's just keep going."

"So you can keep punishing yourself?" Coulson shot back with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Clint scowled.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh?" Coulson arched an eyebrow, "So your reflexes have just suddenly slowed to a snail's pace out of the blue?"

"Let's just keep going." Clint demanded, lashing out with his fist. Coulson knocked the blow away easily and stepped back.

"No. I'm not playing a part in whatever issue you've got going on right now. You want punishment? You can do wind sprints. Get on the wall."

Clint spent the rest of the morning doing wind sprints and calisthenics. A furious and confused Coulson stood with crossed arms as he watched.

---

Coulson looked up from his desk when the lead trainer Agent Bryan knocked on his open office door. He could tell by the look on the other man's face that he wasn't bringing good news.

"I just wanted to let you know that your boy earned an extra five miles in his run today, so he'll be late."

Coulson frowned, sitting back in his chair. He raised his eyebrows in question.

"He got in two fights."

"Did he start them?"

"Don't know. Nobody's talking. But he finished them alright." Bryan sighed, "Coulson..." He hedged.

Phil frowned, rising from his seat and moving around his desk.

"What?"

"Both times Barton let the other guy get some pretty good hits in. He got up smiling over and over until suddenly he decided he'd had enough and he put the guy down hard."

Coulson sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"You need to get whatever is going in that kid's head figured out or I'm going to have to report him to Fury."

"You didn't already?" Coulson looked up in surprise.

"Barton's got too much potential not to give him a chance at working his shit out." Bryan allowed, "Just get it worked out."

Coulson nodded once, shaking the man's hand when he offered it.

"Thanks, Todd."

Agent Bryan nodded and left. Coulson returned to his seat and dropped heavily into it. He closed the file on his desk sharply. Something was particularly riling Barton and Coulson wished he could figure out what it was. He thought back over the very brief sparring session they had this morning. The teen's eyes were bloodshot and shadowed by dark smudges beneath them. He'd looked exhausted.

Coulson's eyes narrowed and he clicked his mouse and brought his computer to life. He logged into the security footage and pulled up the camera that was positioned in Barton's hallway, a few doors down from his bunkroom. He queued it up to lights out time, watching Barton enter the room at the absolute last moment. The kid liked to push the boundaries.

He fast forwarded, watching and waiting. His gut told him Barton hadn't slept last night and that the kid probably didn't remain in the room that reminded him of his prison stint. Sure enough, a little over an hour and a half after lights out, Clint's door opened and the young man moved stealthily into the hallway, making quick, efficient work of dodging the cameras after that. Phil didn't find him on the footage again until he entered the stairwell, and then for the last time as he moved onto the roof. He glanced at the time stamp on the video.

0038 hours.

He shifted the video into fast forward again, pressing play when Clint's lithe figure slipped back into the stairwell. He checked the time again.

0350.

He sighed and sat back, staring at the screen. It was paused on the image of Clint mid climb over the railing on the stairwell. He chewed his lip for a moment and then sat forward abruptly, changing the footage to the night before.

He found nearly identical footage.

He checked the night before that and then the one before that.

No wonder the young archer looked exhausted. He had barely slept in four days. Coulson suspected that if he checked the footage over the past month before that, he would find similar evidence. With another sigh, he logged out of the security footage and pushed away from the desk. He gathered his files and headed out of his office towards Briefing Room 2.

---

Clint was drenched in sweat and still breathing heavily when he pushed his way into Briefing Room 2.

Coulson glanced at his watch. The teen was only eight minutes late.

"I thought you had five extra miles."

"I did." Clint answered simply, moving to his seat.

He sat and pushed away the bag of chips and Gatorade Coulson had set out for him. Coulson hadn't yet figured out why the archer refused to accept the offering, but he had several working theories.

He eyed the purpling bruises on the assassin's face. Clint studiously ignored him and flipped to the appropriate page in the file that contained the agency protocols. The teen made a show of studying the words and Coulson leaned forward to flip the file closed. Clint's eyebrows rose but he didn't look up.

"Talk."

"No thanks." Clint refused, sitting back in his chair and regarded Coulson with a cool glare.

"Two fights? And that bullshit this morning? What's going on today? Why is today worse?" Coulson questioned firmly.

Clint blinked, the base of his jaw twitching minutely.

"Worse?" He asked as if he had no idea what Coulson was talking about.

"Worse than what you usually torture yourself over." Coulson replied bluntly.

Clint's eyebrows rose minutely as if intrigued by the words.

"You think I torture myself?"

"I think you punish yourself."

Clint stared at him coolly.

"You're wrong."

"Really? Is that why you've spent the last four nights on the roof?" Coulson shot back.

Clint's eyes narrowed accusingly.

"When I get a report of my agent being in two fights, I get curious. I checked the security footage, Barton." Coulson sighed, leaning forward to meet the teen's eyes squarely. "Whatever it is. Whatever reason today is the day it's so much worse. You can tell me."

Clint stared at him, but there was nothing in his eyes. He was on complete lockdown. Phil sighed and pulled his protocols file from his pile and flipped it open.

"Protocol for dealing with foreign police..."

Clint chewed his lip briefly, watching Coulson closely. The man was surprisingly perceptive. Clint was disappointed to learn he wasn't as good at hiding his internal agony as he thought. He blinked when Coulson stopped reading abruptly and looked pointedly at Clint's protocol's file.

He flipped it open to the appropriate page and Coulson continued reading aloud.

Clint continued watching him, though, instead of following along in his file. Coulson had thrown him off by calling him out about today. Today wasworse. Because while he never slept well, last night had been the first clear nightmare he'd had for almost two weeks. He'd had blurred, half nightmares that he woke up not remembering, but nothing as real as the memories he'd relived last night.

His time on the roof had done little to dampen the black mood that had surfaced as a result. The anger and self loathing weighed on him so heavily he'd needed to do something to sooth it.

Getting his ass kicked had always done a good job of that.

And where that left off, physical exertion picked up. So the wind sprints and extra five miles had helped too. And as soon as he could get to the range, he was going to fire his bow until he ached. Because if his body ached and hurt, he could more easily ignore the pain that had taken root in his soul.

"Barton." Coulson snapped, drawing Clint from his musings. "If it's not too much to ask..." he motioned at the file open in front of him. Clint dutifully lowered his eyes to the papers and followed along as Coulson continued.

---

Coulson had only left for a minute. He'd gotten a call on his cell phone and told Clint to sit tight.

He'd only laid his head down for a second while he waited.

Clint flinched awake thirty two minutes later to find his handler leaning back easily in his chair with his feet propped on the table, a file open across his lap.

Coulson looked up when Clint violently jerked into consciousness. There was a wild, terrified quality to his eyes that Coulson had never seen before, but would eventually come to associate with the archer's propensity for nightmares.

Coulson watched quietly as the young assassin returned to reality. Whatever nightmare had taken hold in the painfully short time the teen had been sleeping was blinked away. Clint raised wary eyes to him expectantly. Coulson knew he should reprimand him for falling asleep. But the kid looked so damn exhausted; he hadn't had the heart to wake him up. Now, seeing him wake like he'd dreamed a horror story made Phil inexplicably want to assure him that everything was alright.

He settled for dropping his feet back to the floor.

"Scenario Eight: You're in South America and your cover is blown..." Coulson began to outline the scenario that had been next on their list, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Clint blinked. He expected to get reprimanded. But Agent Coulson didn't seem as if he was bothered at all by Clint's impromptu nap. He watched the man for a moment, wondering what that meant, before a pointed look put his eyes back on his papers.

---

Coulson figured it out by accident in the end.

Clint had been late for their morning training session. In light of the young agent's rather disturbing sleeping pattern, Coulson had been torn between pleased he'd slept in and annoyed that he was late. In the week and a half since he'd first discovered Clint rarely slept through the night, he'd been trying to keep a closer watch on his charge. He found himself checking the security footage every morning, hoping he wouldn't see the familiar figure sneaking to the roof.

Now, as he stormed into Barton's bunkroom, empty of any other recruits, he was still deciding if he was going to be angry or understanding. The archer was nowhere to be seen; even the blankets were gone from his bed. If not for the various articles of clothing that were strewn around the room in true teenage fashion, Coulson would have thought it unoccupied. He was about to leave to check the roof when he realized the air in the room was almost stagnant. He looked up at the large vent cover on the ceiling.

Couldn't be.

Silently, Coulson climbed up the side of one of the bunks and pushed the vent cover up and aside. He poked his head up and blinked calmly at the set of stormy blue grey eyes staring blearily back at him. Barton was wrapped in his blankets, pillow scrunched under his head. The confusion on his face suggested he didn't know what time it was.

"You're late." Coulson announced. "Get your ass to the training room in ten." Then he simply dropped back down and walked out of the room. No need to make a big deal of it, even if he was completely confounded as to why the teen chose to sleep in an air duct when he had four perfectly good beds to choose from.

At least he knew where he was sleeping now.

---

"Dammit, Barton! What was that?" Coulson snapped, pushing the kid away from where Coulson had him in a headlock.

"I thought I had an opening." Clint frowned.

"I'll tell you when you have an opening…defense, Barton!"

"This is stupid." Clint muttered.

"What was that?" Coulson barked.

"I said this is stupid." Clint repeated clearly and sharply.

"Stupid? What? You think your old style was more effective?" Coulson asked mockingly, "Okay. You want to do it your way?" he asked. "Let's do it your way, Barton. Go for it."

Clint blinked at him.

"What?"

"You think you've got it all figured out and that I don't know what I'm talking about? Try to take me down. Your bullet wound is practically all healed so you don't have that as an excuse this time."

"Fine." Clint growled, dropping into his stance.

He only gave Coulson a moment to do the same before he moved. He threw a right cross, Coulson ducked. He followed with a left jab. Coulson grabbed his wrist twisting it around to try and lock up Clint's shoulder. Clint rolled with it, using the leverage of Coulson holding his wrist firmly to launch his scrunched body in the air and over their joined arms, effectively untwisting his own limb. He pulled his left arm sharply towards himself, bringing Coulson with it. He had intended to drive his fist into the man's ribs, but Coulson had other ideas. He used the momentum of Clint's pull to launch himself up off the ground, bringing his fist up to slam into Clint's cheek. The teen's head snapped to the side and Coulson kicked the back of his knee, making it buckle. A kick to the ribs and the kid was on his back.

"Come on, tough guy. Show me what you've got." Coulson taunted.

The next exchange was shorter and ended with Clint in a deadly headlock.

"I thought you had it all figured out, Barton? Teach me a lesson, come on!"

It took three more rounds with similar results before it took Clint a moment to push himself back up from the mat.

"Just stay down, Barton." Coulson advised. Predictably, the kid didn't listen. He stood, wavering and launched another attack. Coulson had him on his back in two moves.

He knelt next to him as Clint gasped air back into his lungs.

"You are damned persistent. You've got heart, Barton. You don't quit and that's a damned good quality. But you have no control, and until you do, you aren't ready to be the aggressor in a fight. You let your emotions cloud everything and then you lose sight of what you're trying to accomplish. Now have I made my point or do you want to go a few more rounds."

Clint didn't reply, he just continued lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and pulling air back into his lungs. Coulson nodded.

"That's it for today. Go get some breakfast. You have just over an hour before general training."

Coulson was at the door before Clint's voice stopped him.

"Let's go again."

Coulson turned back.

"Barton…" He prepared to argue, but Clint had his hands up defensively where he stood in the middle of the mat.

"Try to hit me, Agent Coulson. I dare you."

Coulson arched an eyebrow, intrigued. He moved back to the mat. He didn't give Barton time to prepare, he just attacked. He hit nothing but air. Clint was sliding by him easily. He struck out again with the same result. Six minutes later, he finally hit flesh. But it was only the flesh of Clint's arm as he blocked and spun away.

"That's it, Barton." Coulson praised.

He kept attacking, but Clint kept dodging, moving faster and faster. Sometimes he just ducked, sometimes he dodged from side to side, but the best times were when he would flip acrobatically up or around where Coulson was attacking.

"Now look for an opening." Coulson coached. He purposefully left his right side open. "Hit."

Clint's left fist slammed into his ribs. Coulson absorbed the blow and continued throwing punches and kicks.

"Patience, kid." He reminded.

He was shocked. The archer was actually listening and obediently dodged, ducked and blocked.

"Now." He snapped. A foot slammed into his ribs. "Excellent!" Coulson grinned, stepping back; he resisted the urge to massage his bruised rib cage.

Clint smirked, straightening from his stance.

"If I knew all I had to do was kick your ass, I would have done that day one." Coulson teased, gripping the back of the teen's neck and squeezing. "That's what I've been talking about! Instinct!"

He thought he might have seen the archer smile a little as Coulson released him and stepped away and firmly ordered the kid not to be late again. He couldn't be sure though because Clint ducked his head before he could get a clear look.

That afternoon, Clint came into Briefing Room 2 to find a Hershey's candy bar on his file and a bottle of his favorite Gatorade next to it.

Clint eyed it for a bit longer than usual before pushing it away. Coulson was sure he saw actual hesitance in the gesture for the first time.

---

"Two weeks?" Clint frowned.

"You won't even know I'm gone." Coulson assured. "Hell, you'll probably celebrate as soon as my back is turned."

Clint frowned. He'd been training with Coulson for a month now. Two weeks without that extra training didn't sound bad, he supposed. It was actually starting to sound better and better the more he thought about it.

"Agent Hanson will be taking over your training while I'm gone."

Hold up.

"What?" Clint complained.

Two weeks without Coulson was one thing. But two weeks with someone else ordering him around wasn't nearly as appealing.

"It'll be fine."

"But Hanson is a dick."

"Agent Hanson." Coulson corrected sternly, pretending he didn't see the eye roll in response.

"Fine. Agent Hanson is a dick."

"It'll be fine." Coulson repeated. "Your GED is in three weeks so all you'll be doing is reviewing tradecraft and studying."

"Whatever." Clint muttered, crossing his arms angrily over his chest.

"Why, Agent Barton, it almost seems like you'll miss me."

"Unlikely."

Chapter Text

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.

Anne Lamott

---

He missed Coulson.

He never thought he'd say it and he would never tell his handler, that was for sure. But Coulson was a pleasant walk through the park with sunshine and puppies compared to Hanson.

To start, Hanson didn't agree with Coulson's training in patience. Clint had spent the last week and a half getting yelled at for being a pussy and being afraid to deliver a hit. Clint had found himself slipping back into his old fighting habits. He just knew Coulson was going to rip him a new one when he found out the last two weeks of progress had all but disappeared.

Hanson also didn't appreciate Clint's tendency towards sarcasm. His mouth had been strangely more present in the face of Hanson's domineering and forceful persona. Clint had lost more than one meal to wind sprints because of 'insubordination'.

"We're changing things up today, Barton." Hanson announced as Clint came into Briefing Room 2.

Clint frowned, arching an eyebrow in question.

"Forget these books. We're going to do some hands on experience."

"But…" Clint barely started to protest before Hanson was striding out of the room, clearly expecting to be followed. With a sigh, he returned the way he'd just come and jogged to catch up to Hanson's long stride.

"What are we doing?" He asked resignedly.

"Anti-interrogation training."

Clint frowned behind Hanson's back. He'd only ever done anti-interrogation training with Coulson and only the basics of it so far. Coulson had been waiting until he completed his GED to delve more deeply into any more areas of training. Clint was absolutely sure he wasn't going to enjoy this.

---

Clint had counted up to six minutes and twenty six seconds before his lungs had had enough. He tried turning his head to the side, but Hanson was having none of it. He kept the wet cloth pressed against his mouth and nose and kept running the hose over it.

So this is what drowning felt like.

The thoughts drifted through his brain with the scary kind of detachment you feel when something that shouldn't be happening is actually happening and you can't quite wrap your mind around it.

Kinda sucked.

Clint tried not to panic when the first drops of water slid into his lungs. But his body had other ideas. It tried to cough, but instead just opened the gates for more water to flow in.

Shit.

All he'd been able to focus on was the fact that he couldn't breathe. He distantly heard the door slam open and a familiar voice spouting off curses. But Coulson was out of town, and he didn't realize his mind wasn't playing a cruel trick on him until the cloth had been ripped from his face and he was pulled roughly from the chair to rest on his hands and knees.

Then all he could focus on was that his lungs were turning inside out.

---

Coulson had gotten back to the base three days early. He'd been surprised to find Briefing Room 2 empty. Clint's study materials were all there, but the teenager and Hanson were mysteriously absent.

"Jessica?" Coulson walked up to the Agent that was in charge of all room assignments. If you wanted any room in the base for anything, you got it cleared through her. They hadn't had a double-booked training or briefing room since she'd been hired.

"Agent Coulson! Welcome back." She greeted with a smile.

"I can't seem to locate Agents Barton and Hanson. They were scheduled for Briefing Room 2, but they're not there." He informed her patiently.

"Oh, Agent Hanson requested the use of Training Room 6 for this afternoon." She informed him with barely a glance at the electronic data pad in her hand.

"Training Room 6?" Coulson frowned. That was one of the rooms used for interrogation and anti-interrogation training.

"Yes, sir." She chirped.

"Thank you." Coulson moved away quickly, heading to the appropriate level via the stairs. He approached Training Room 6 and looked through the small square observation window on the door.

Everything from his brain to his heart stuttered to a stop.

His agent was convulsing in a metal chair while Hanson ran a hose over his face.

Coulson pushed the door open so hard it cracked the plaster of the wall it slammed against.

"What the hell are you doing?" He barked at Hanson.

The litany of curses he let fly at the other man as he stalked forward would have made his mother have a stroke. He reached Barton's side and ripped the cloth from his mouth, bodily yanking the teen out of the chair so he was on his hands and knees.

"Get the hell out. I'll deal with you later." He ordered the other man with a glare. Once he was sure he was being obeyed, he knelt at the coughing Clint's side.

He pounded on the teen's back roughly.

"Keep coughing, Barton!" He ordered as he continued pounding his palm against the archer's back. As Clint coughed, Coulson caught sight of the stopwatch abandon on the floor. Trainees were supposed to start the stopwatch when the exercise began and stop it when they reached their limit. Coulson barked once more for Clint to keep coughing and reached for the stop watch.

6:26 blinked at him. Well damn.

Abruptly Clint expelled a stream of water, inhaling wetly immediately afterwards and expelling more water with the next cough. He inhaled again; sucking in air like it was the most precious thing in the world. Then he promptly vomited all the food in his stomach.

The coughing tapered off and Coulson pulled Clint away from the pile of watery vomit. He framed either side of the kid's face in his hands.

"Breathe, Barton!" He ordered. Clint was hyperventilating, having coughed for so long his lungs couldn't keep up with supplying the air his body was demanding. "Breathe!" He repeated. And he kept saying it, over and over, until Clint's grip on his forearms wasn't bruising and the teen's chest wasn't heaving so dramatically. He waited patiently as the storm colored eyes focused on him and then he smirked.

"6 minutes and 26 seconds, Barton…that's a record."

Clint coughed again, wetly, and drew away from him, something fluttering across his eyes for only a moment before he locked his emotions down. Coulson saw it though and it cut him to his core.

Betrayal.

---

That afternoon, Phil put in a formal request to stay on base until further notice. When Fury demanded to know why, he simply stated he was needed here. Because he had seen betrayal flash across Clint's eyes. And he knew, for there to be betrayal, there had to have first been some measure of trust.

It was with that flash in his agent's eyes that Coulson knew without a doubt that there was hope.

---

He cornered Hanson in the locker room.

Coulson waited until the room was clear of everyone but them and then he turned and strode towards Hanson with an expression that had made better men crumble. He wrapped his hands in the other agent's t-shirt and slammed him hard enough against the lockers that the door behind the man's shoulder blade bent inward.

"What the hell were you thinking? I left precise instructions on what you were supposed to go over with him! Anti-interrogation wasn't anywhere near that list!" Coulson barked lowly.

Hanson tried to break the other agent's grip, but to no avail.

"The kid is supposed to be a covert agent. He's not going to be prepared for a mission by studying books all the time." Hanson defended.

"That kid's training is none of your damn business! I'm his handler! I make the call about what he needs and doesn't need to study! You had noright to deviate! Anti-interrogation is never done by anyone but an agent's team leader or primary handler! You are lucky that Fury didn't take my suggestion to just cut you loose." Coulson punctuated the last sentence by pulling Hanson away from the locker and slamming him back.

"I was assigned to train him while you were gone. I could make whatever call I wanted." Hanson shot back.

Coulson let him go and backed up, staring at him darkly. Then without warning he threw a right cross into Hanson's cheek bone. The agent's head snapped back against the lockers and he faltered briefly. Coulson sent a swift uppercut into the man's ribs and then dropped him with a left hook. Hanson looked up at him from the ground, blinking in surprise.

"You don't come near him again." Coulson ordered lowly. "Understood?"

Hanson nodded quickly, watching through wavering vision as Coulson straightened his suit jacket and stalked out of the locker room.

---

"Would you just admit that you're angry at me for leaving?" Coulson demanded as he and Clint sparred the following morning.

"I'm not angry." Clint shot back sharply as he dodged Coulson's flying fist. He flipped away, putting distance between them.

"Your tone suggests otherwise." Coulson argued, as he pursued Clint the distance across the training mat.

Clint just rolled his eyes and blocked Coulson's next flurry of attacks.

"Hanson's been reprimanded, if that helps."

Clint eyed him for a moment, sensing there was more to the "reprimand" than Coulson was letting on.

"He was just giving me some hands on experience." He shrugged, leaning back at a nearly ninety degree angle to allow a sweeping kick from Coulson to pass over him.

"You nearly drowned."

"It was training. Are hostile captors going to stop the second I start struggling?"

"He took it too far. And he had no right to even approach anti-interrogation with you." Coulson snapped. Clint was right, anti-interrogation training did demand a level of brutality. But there was a line and way it was done to make sure the agent never felt they were truly in danger. Hanson had disregarded all of that.

"Maybe." Clint admitted. "But I can take it."

"I know you can, but that doesn't mean you have to. He was out of line."

Clint shrugged, ducking a punch and sliding around behind Coulson.

"I told you the guy was a dick." The indignation in the teen's tone almost made Coulson laugh. He'd never sounded more like the mere eighteen year old that he was.

He knew he was angry.

"It won't happen again." Coulson promised.

He thought he might have seen something like relief pass through the archer's eyes, but the flash was gone before he could be sure.

---

Coulson made it up to him by canceling their afternoon session. Instead of studying they spent three hours in the range, firing every range-safe weapon SHIELD had. Coulson walked out two hundred dollars richer when a SHIELD sniper bet him Clint couldn't beat him in a competition. Three increasingly complicated rounds later, Clint was declared victor and the gathered crowd of SHIELD agents had dispersed in slack jawed awe.

Coulson would have been shocked too if he hadn't already known Clint could shoot six bullets through the same hole from six different points in the room. Or that he could fire six bull's eyes with his bow and arrow blindfolded. Or that he could deflect an arrow off an obstacle to make a bull's eye from an impossible angle.

He was two hundred dollars richer because nobody had believed the rumors.

They all knew better now.

Coulson didn't know if that was good or bad for Clint's standing amongst his peers. He wondered if the new found knowledge just served to isolate the archer more. His suspicion was confirmed when the other agents started giving the teenaged assassin an even wider berth than before.

Clint's smirk when he realized the shift, told Coulson that had been his intention all along.

---

"Barton?" Coulson shivered in the cold New York night air as he cautiously approached his protégé on the roof. Coulson had decided on a whim to see if Barton had ventured up here tonight. Something in his gut told him the kid needed company, whether he realized it or not. So he'd come.

The glare over his shoulder clearly snarled "Go away."

Coulson wasn't to be deterred.

"What? Do you own the roof?" He challenged. "I wanted some air."

"So crack a window."

"And miss this joyful exchange?" Coulson shot back.

Clint scowled into the night and turned to look pointedly in a direction away from Coulson. The older agent was unconcerned as he gingerly sat a foot to the kid's left. He eyed the small leather bound book clenched in Clint's hands and noted it for later.

"So rooftops, huh?"

Clint didn't respond, didn't even look at him.

"Whatever it is that keeps you awake. You can tell me about it."

He eyed the book again as Clint's hands clenched around it, wondering what it was.

He didn't expect a response and didn't get one. Instead, he sat, silently next to the eighteen year old former hit man for the next three hours until they headed inside to start the day.

When Coulson was waiting on the rooftop the next night, Clint didn't say anything. He just sat in his spot and stared at the black night. Coulson stayed, the entire night, again.

---

"You're results are in." Coulson said by way of greeting as he walked into Briefing Room 2 on Clint's 83rd day of training, his 53rd with Coulson.

Clint arched his eyebrows expectantly, catching the bag of Skittles Coulson tossed at him and tossing it onto the table to be forgotten.

"You passed, congratulations, you have your GED."

Clint couldn't help it, he smiled.

"Does this mean no more studying?"

"No." Coulson laughed, "But it does mean you've earned a field trip."

"A field trip?" Clint arched an intrigued eyebrow.

"Call it a training mission. It's like learning to ride a bike…you don't want to do it without training wheels."

Clint shrugged.

"Okay."

He'd been stuck on base for almost three months now. He'd do whatever they wanted if it got him out of here for a few hours.

---

"I can't believe I'm holding a paintball gun like it's a real weapon." Clint muttered lowly. He knew Coulson could hear him through their comms, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It was about time the guy got a taste of Clint's ability to talk endlessly to pass the time. It was a finely tuned skill he'd mastered as a child in the circus when a lot of time was spent traveling. He hadn't felt like talking much in these past years, ever since Barney. But he thought the old past time would help time pass quicker now, as he waited for the training mission to start.

Besides, Coulson did always urge him to talk.

He'd arched an eyebrow when Agent Coulson had handed him the tiny black device and instructed him to put it in his ear. Apparently SHIELD took their field trips seriously.

Except when it came to their weapons. Because paintball guns...seriously?

Clint had been laying along the thick branch of an oak tree in the same position for three hours now, a paintball sniper rifle nestled into his shoulder.

"I told you this was a training mission." Coulson's unbearably calm voice didn't sound the least bit annoyed by Clint's complaining. Clint chewed his lip in thought, deciding where he wanted to start his little experiment.

He spent the next hour complaining and commenting on everything he could think of, from the branch he was laying on being too barky, to the coolness of the air, to the bird that he insisted kept eyeing him like he was food. None of the issues were of any real concern to him, but as he'd talked he'd gotten curious. Coulson had to have a breaking point. But if he did, Clint hadn't found it yet.

"When is this so-called training mission going to start. It's been four hours and the only thing that's moved out here is my friend Raptor. Yes, he's still eyeing me like I'm going to be his next meal." Clint mock scowled at the small fluffy blue bird perched on the small branch next to him. It had been resting in Clint's tree for two hours, and didn't seem inclined to move anytime soon.

"Yes, the three foot vulture that's been perched in the branch above you for two hours." He swore he heard his handler roll his eyes. Clint smirked.

"He's huge…and ugly."

Clint shook his head at Raptor and mouthed 'you're not ugly'. The blue bird cocked its head a little.

"I'm sure."

"And don't even get me started on the bark burns I have on my stomach from climbing this tree."

"If bark burns were a real ailment and I didn't know for a fact that you are too good at climbing things to hurt yourself doing so, I'd actually consider being concerned."

Coulson sounded downright bland and it made Clint smile. Dry sarcasm. His handler was a secret master of it. Clint was beginning to particularly enjoy drawing it out of him.

"Does that mean I get the jungle gym I've been asking for?"

"Director Fury is not going to approve the removal of the ceiling tiles in the main training room just so you can climb around in the rafters."

"How do you know if you don't ask?"

"I am getting you unrestricted access to the range, though. Effective as soon as we get back."

Coulson had expertly dodged his point about the rafters, but managed to get Clint's attention at the mention of the range. All new agents had strictly monitored access to the range for a reason Clint didn't know or care about. What Coulson didn't know, is that Clint had been sneaking in through the air vents for weeks now. It was one of his preferred ways of working of the remnants of his nightmares.

Not that he wouldn't enjoy not having to sneak around.

"What's it contingent on?" Clint asked.

"Nothing. Consider it a reward for applying yourself in training."

"Coulson, you tell me literally everyday that I have the focus of a gnat when it comes to studying."

"Then consider it a reward for marginal improvement." Coulson allowed. Clint's eyes narrowed.

"You know I've been sneaking in." He surmised.

"Yes." Coulson admitted.

"And with unrestricted access, I can't get in trouble for it."

"That's the idea."

"You aren't mad?"

"No."

Clint shrugged slightly. Well okay then.

"This doesn't mean I approve."

"Of me practicing?" Clint scoffed.

"You know that's not all it is."

Clint frowned, realizing not for the first time that his handler was much more perceptive than he gave him credit for. He was saved from responding when he spotted movement through the trees.

"I've got two vehicles on approach." Clint announced abruptly as two trucks pulled up to the small cabin he was watching.

"You're cleared to fire, Agent Barton." Coulson's tone was professional again.

Clint sighted down his scope, the night vision was already on. He found his first target quickly, aiming for the small X painted on the man's paintball mask.

"This is so unrealistic." He muttered even as he squeezed the trigger. He saw the man's head jerk back and then he raised his hands, signaling he was dead. He saw the four other men immediately go on alert.

His mission was simple. Kill them all without getting killed. He was allowed to complete the mission in any way he saw fit. Clint had chosen his vantage point carefully. He could take out one, maybe two more of them before they realized where he was shooting from. Which was why he'd chosen a tree whose branches were intermingled with the branches of the tree next to it. He could switch positions easily if he needed to.

"Sorry, Raptor, but we're gonna have to move pretty soon." Clint whispered to his blue bird companion. He sighted again, firing quickly before switching targets and barely managing to take out a third man before a grenade was heading his direction out of the grenade launcher one of the remaining two had pulled out of the back of the jeep.

It was a paint grenade.

But the purpose was the same.

Clint jumped to his feet and ran along the length of his branch and jumped the foot to the next tree. He got three drops of paint on his shoulder.Shrapnel. He liked this version better than the real thing. He continued moving through the trees, pulling his gun strap over his head so he could use his hands for balance. He made it to his secondary location in less than two minutes. By the time he got his gun off his back and was settled against the trunk, the two remaining men were at his primary location.

Clint had chosen this tree because it had a perfectly positioned branch where he could rest his rifle without having to lay down to fire. He was preparing to sight through the scope when Raptor fluttered down to sit on the branch next to the gun.

Clint blinked dumbly at the small bird. It had green paint speckled all over its body. For some reason the sight was incredibly funny to him.

"Coulson, we've had some collateral damage. Raptor is down."

"Barton. If it's not too much to ask, stay focused."

"Coulson, a civilian has been caught in the crossfire."

"Barton."

"Yeah, yeah, focus. Right." Clint rolled his eyes and then sighted through the scope. The two men were moving towards him. He fired off a shot. One of the men raised his hands. The final man raised his gun, pointed it directly at Clint, and fired.

"Shit." Clint scrambled up the tree as green paint peppered the bark around him. By some miracle he wasn't hit. Raptor flew off with a disgruntled chirp. The final man was closing in on his position. Clint eyed the distance to the next tree. He was farther up than he'd originally planned. The distance between branches was greater. He slid his rifle strap over his head and settled the gun against his back. He blew out a deep breath.

"Barton?"

Clint ignored his handler and ran the length of the branch. His feet handled the increasingly narrow support easily and his balance didn't waver. He reached the last part of the branch he could optimistically expect to support him and jumped. His path took him coincidently twenty feet over the head of the final target, who stared up at him in slack jawed shock.

Clint's left foot landed first and he ran the length of the branch until his momentum brought him slamming into the tree trunk.

"Ow." He groaned, even as he pulled his side arm and turned. He knew the man would be already targeting him, so he jumped. A paint ball shattered on the bark behind him as he fell six feet and landed in a crouch on a thick branch. His momentum carried him forward, throwing off his balance. He flailed, twisted and fired his hand gun once. He saw the final target raise his hands in defeat just as his boots lost their grip on the branch and he pitched forward.

Well shit.

He dropped his gun as he fell, choosing instead to use his hands to seek purchase on another branch. His forearms scraped across the rough bark of a branch, tearing though his long sleeved Under Armor. Thankfully, his gloved palms wrapped firmly around the branch a moment later and his fall came to a sudden stop. He hung there silently, his legs dangling the ten foot expanse to the ground.

He made sure his path to the ground was clear and then let go. He landed in an athletic crouch. He spotted his gun on the ground a few feet away.

"Barton, if it's not too much of an inconvenience, sit rep."

"Your dry sarcasm is music to my ears, Coulson." Clint smirked, retrieving his gun and straightening.

"You do realize if this were a real mission, you would have broken protocol about four times."

"You gonna report me?" Clint snapped, checking the raw abrasions on his forearms. He still firmly believed 75 percent of the protocols were a waste of time. This was an argument they'd had several times before.

"Just don't do it again, or I will."

Clint rolled his eyes, walking away from the SHIELD agent that had acted as a target. The man had opened his mouth to speak, but Clint turned away before he had a chance. He purposefully disappeared into the shadows as quickly as possible.

"Preliminary reports from the agents on scene say you were 100% successful."

"Do my ears deceive me or are you actually proud." Clint grinned as he picked his way through the dark woods towards the rendezvous point.

"But that you fell out of a tree."

"I didn't fall." Clint defended with an affronted huff.

Coulson remained silent and Clint could picture the look the man would be giving him.

"Falling implies that I was unable to recover. I caught myself." Clint added petulantly.

"Any injuries I should know about?"

Clint glanced at the scrapes on his arms. He could feel another one on his cheek.

"No."

"Be at the RV in two minutes."

"Sir, yes, sir." Clint mocked, but he picked up his pace anyway.

---

Coulson slid out of the jeep when Barton came trudging out of the woods.

"I get to use my bow next time, right?" Barton grumbled as he came to stand in front of him.

The young archer had a scrape across one cheek, and seemed to be purposefully hiding his forearms from view, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

"It's a little harder to make your bow non-lethal." Coulson reminded.

"Sounds like a personal problem," Clint shrugged, then added seriously, "I'd rather use it on a mission than a rifle if I can help it."

"I'm aware."

"Well as long as you're aware." Clint rolled his eyes and moved past Coulson to the passenger side of the jeep. He tossed his paint ball sniper rifle in the back seat and pulled the door closed. Coulson climbed in the driver's side and shut his door as well.

"You did well, Barton." Coulson acknowledged as he cranked the jeep to life and started back to the base.

"I know." Clint smirked, resting his head back against the head rest. "Poor Raptor though. Took a grenade. It wasn't pretty."

"At least he's no longer a threat to your immediate safety." Coulson mocked blandly.

Clint hid a smirk and looked at the clock.

"So do we still have training at 0400? Cuz that's in like…two hours."

Coulson cast him a sidelong look. Clint sighed heavily.

"Thought so."

---

Clint pushed open the door to his bunk room with a sigh. After they'd gotten back to the base and Clint had sat through a practice de-brief with Coulson, he'd finally been cleared to go back to his room.

He collapsed onto his bed, leaning over to pull at the strings on his boots. A white box on his bedside table caught his attention. The red block lettering and cross on its top told him it was a First Aid Kit. A single Hersey's chocolate bar sat on top of it.

He stared at the supplies, a small frown emerging on his lips.

Coulson was the only possible source, that much was obvious. The real question was why did his handler go to the trouble. Clint's frown deepened. People didn't just do nice things; he knew that to be an undeniable fact. They always wanted something in return.

He thought suddenly of the snack Coulson brought him every day during their study session. Clint had steadfastly refused to eat it, sure it was some sort of way to lure him in. To make him feel like Coulson cared when he didn't. He wasn't so easily fooled.

With a scowl, Clint reached for the first aid kit. He needed it for his arms. It would be stupid not use it now that it was here. But he left the Hersey bar where it was.

---

Four Days later…

---

"Focus, Barton." Coulson coached.

Clint narrowed his eyes, staring intensely at the objects in front of him. He reached forward and moved his castle three spaces.

"Check." He announced.

Coulson's brow wrinkled and he regarded the board doubtfully. He considered for a moment before shifting his King. Clint reached forward and moved a bishop before he'd even released the vital piece.

"Check mate."

Coulson blinked at the board, unsure when he'd lost control of the game. He studied it closely, trying to determine if he had, indeed, lost.

He had. Again.

Barton had an amazing mind for strategy, Coulson had discovered. His rare ability to view situations from a, sometimes literal, bird's eye view gave him an advantage. He saw the big picture and all the possible moves.

He'd never played chess before today.

It had only taken Coulson ten minutes to explain the concept and rules. Clint hadn't lost a match.

"Again?" Clint asked, already setting up his pieces. He liked this game. He liked that he won.

"Let's call it a day." Coulson decided, glancing at his watch. It was fifteen minutes till six. He could give Clint fifteen minutes.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, get out of here."

Clint wasted no time gathering his things and making a bee line for the door, already deciding what he wanted for dinner.

Coulson carefully packed the chess board and pieces away, thinking of different ways he could nurture the strategic part of Barton's mind. Every day he felt like he discovered something that made Barton a more valuable operative. Something that reinforced in his mind that he'd made the right call bringing the young assassin into the agency.

The older agent calmly followed Clint's path and headed to the mess hall. Without a word, he got his food and joined his agent at the most secluded table, back in the farthest corner of the room. He was pleasantly surprised when Clint responded, if only mildly and with succinct responses, to his attempts at conversation. To Coulson it was progress.

And he could work with that.

---

"How long?" Coulson asked with a frown as he stepped up next to the Range Operator, Daniel Lewis. The small, compactly built man was staring through the observation window, arms crossed across his chest.

"Almost four hours now." Lewis replied gruffly. "I came down because there's a team coming in for an early training session at 0500 and I need to get some targets set for them. I didn't think anything of him being here, because he has his own access code now," the sour look he shot Coulson clearly stated what Daniel thought about that, "and I know he trains early with you. I figured he was just getting some practice in before your session. Then I checked the access log, like I do every morning and night."

"And he's been here for four hours." Coulson sighed, glancing at his agent through the window. Clint had his black quiver strapped to his back and his bow in his hands. He was sprinting around the combat training area of the range, firing arrows at impossible speeds from different points in the room.

"I checked the footage before I called you, just to be sure." Daniel sighed. "He hasn't stopped, except for water."

For four hours.

Coulson sighed again, twitching his wrist so he could see his watch. It was a quarter to four in the morning.

"Thanks Daniel. Give me a few minutes and I'll clear him out."

"Don't sweat it, Phil." Daniel smiled in understanding. "The kid's damn entertaining to watch."

Coulson understood the sentiment. If his genetics didn't tell another story, Phil could swear the teen had superhuman abilities. He nodded at Daniel as the man walked away. Coulson took a deep breath and typed in his access code. The door slid open and he stepped in.

The combat training portion of the range consisted of a large open area with various forms of cover placed intermittently. Several simple bull's eye targets were spread around the same area. Many of them had black arrows sprouting from their center.

Coulson wondered, as he moved closer, what frame of mind he would find his young charge in. Clint had progressed to the point where he usually greeted Phil as he approached him. Sometimes it was nothing more than a jerk of his head in acknowledgment. Sometimes it was an actual verbal greeting consisting of one, sometimes two whole syllables.

Coulson celebrated the small victories.

Something told him Clint wouldn't be acknowledging him tonight. There was only one reason the archer would spend four hours straight training with this intensity.

This was one of the days it was worse.

Coulson approached carefully, making sure he was clearly visible. As he expected, Clint ignored him.

"Barton." He called quietly but firmly.

The tone had the desired effect. Clint hesitated against the stack of crates he was using as cover, and his grey-blue eyes flitted in Coulson's direction. He refocused on the targets, nocking an arrow and taking aim.

"Stop." Coulson ordered in the same calm, firm tone.

Clint hesitated again, the string drawn back to his cheek and his eyes pinned on the target. Coulson clenched his jaw when he noticed the fine tremors that were running through the archer's entire body, but specifically his hands.

"That's enough, Barton."

"It's not enough." Clint snapped back abruptly. Coulson's eyebrows rose a little in shock. "It could never be enough."

Coulson latched on to the small nugget of insight and pushed forward.

"Enough for what, Barton?"

Clint's jaw twitched and Coulson swore he saw the archer's lower lip quiver. Instead of replying, Clint suddenly loosed the arrow. It flew unerringly into the red center of the bull's eye. Coulson moved forward, his hand stopping Clint from loading another arrow. He met the storm colored gaze firmly.

"Enough for what?" He repeated quietly.

Clint stared at him, his blue-grey eyes wide. He opened his mouth like he was going to respond, but then closed it just as quickly. He tried to pull his bow from Coulson's grip, but the older man held strong.

"Talk to me, Barton. What is it? What makes it worse today?" He questioned almost gently. "Why are you punishing yourself?" Even as he said it, he tried to figure it out, "Is it guilt?"

"You don't know what you're talking about." Clint nearly growled, trying again unsuccessfully to pull his bow free.

"You spent a year as an assassin for hire. You killed a lot of people. Guilt is natural, Barton."

"I don't feel guilty, Coulson!" Clint snapped. "I feel angry! Give me my bow!"

"No." Coulson denied firmly, yanking the weapon out of Barton's grip. Four hours of firing arrows made your hands tired, Coulson knew that was the only reason he'd succeeded.

"Coulson." Clint warned darkly.

"You can't keep going like this, Barton. It's not healthy."

"Give it back."

"No."

He'd never seen the amount of anger that rose in Clint's eyes before. He almost took a step back.

"Coulson…"

"No." Phil denied again, his tone final.

"I need it." Clint admitted in a low whisper, as if the admission were somehow weak.

"And you can still use it," Phil assured, "When I'm here to monitor you. I knew you'd been sneaking down here to practice, to vent even, but this," He grabbed Clint's left hand, which was shaking subtly, and displayed the raw, bleeding skin of his fingers, "You didn't even wear your guards, Barton." Coulson scolded.

"So, I'll wear my guards next time." Clint argued, making a grab for his bow, Coulson shifted it out of his reach.

"You don't get it do you?" Phil snapped, "There isn't going to be a next time, not like this. I don't know what happens to drive you to this on days like today. Maybe it's the guilt I mentioned, maybe it's something else. You won't tell me, so I don't know. I do know that I'm not just going to stand here and watch you self destruct."

Clint glared at him, then at the hand that held his bow.

"Why did you even give me access to the range?" Clint hissed lowly.

"Because you love archery, Barton. I know how much you honestly enjoy it. There are times when I can tell it's downright cathartic for you. But you're letting whatever's going on up here," He pointed jabbed a finger against Clint's temple, "twist it into something dark. I'm not letting you ruin one of your greatest gifts. Because this," he held up the bow, "shouldn't be a punishment."

Clint frowned deeply and stalked towards the door without another word.

Coulson shook his head in a silent show of frustration. One step forward, two steps back. Clint was certainly turning out to be every bit the challenge he'd expected. And then some.

Chapter Text

Hope is the feeling we have that the feeling we have is not permanent.

Mignon McLaughlin

---

Coulson spent the next ten minutes deciding how he was going to handle Clint in their morning training session. They'd argued before. Coulson had scolded before. But it had never been like this. He'd never done something as serious as taking away the archer's bow.

As he walked slowly to the training room, he decided he would play off whatever Clint did. If the teen was angry and argumentative, he'd be stern and firm in his decision. If Clint was broody and dark, he'd be quiet and calm.

He wasn't prepared for Clint to act like nothing had happened.

The archer was waiting calmly in the training room, sparring gloves strapped into place, the picture of calm indifference. Coulson was immediately on alert. He approached warily, grabbing his sparring gloves and pulling them on.

"You warmed up?" He asked calmly, looking for any hint as to the archer's frame of mind.

Clint glared at him as if it were a stupid question.

"Then let's get to it."

Clint raised his hands in defense.

"Now…as always, Barton, patience."

Clint nodded impatiently and waved Coulson forward. With a slight narrowing of his eyes, Coulson attacked.

---

Coulson stumbled back, his hand going to his stinging cheek. He blinked at Barton, who had dropped back into his defensive stance and was staring at him intensely.

"Nice hit."

"You left it open."

"It would seem so." Coulson admitted ruefully. "But we were practicing your defense."

Clint shrugged.

"You're always telling me to let instinct take over. It was my instinct to hit you in the face." Clint replied with a slight edge to his tone, "Since you left it open." He added as an afterthought.

Coulson didn't miss the sarcasm in the blue-grey eyes. He was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to.

"Fair enough." Coulson allowed. "Again."

He thought he saw a vicious glint in Clint's eyes as he approached. When he was nursing some seriously bruised ribs ten minutes later, he was sure of it. He breathed away the pain from the kick, meeting Clint's eyes unflinchingly.

The kid had a bone to pick. Coulson could take it. So he did, for the rest of the training session. He didn't complain, scold, or coach him to be patient. He just let Clint fight. Let him land hits Coulson probably could have blocked if he'd really tried. And when Coulson released him for breakfast, Clint's expression wasn't indifferent any more.

When Coulson didn't immediately follow him out of the gym, Clint turned back at the door.

"You coming?"

Coulson nodded and waited for Clint to turn back around before smiling widely. Maybe everything was working out just like it needed to.

---

They were driving to the sight of Clint's second training mission the next time the incident with the bow came up. It was only five days later and Coulson had held to his word and strictly monitored Clint's use of the weapon. Clint hadn't said anything about it, until they were in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York, headed to a secure training compound.

"You were right."

Coulson didn't respond for a moment, not sure he'd heard the words correctly.

"About?" He finally sought more information when it didn't seem as if Clint were going to expound.

"My bow." Clint replied simply, his hands unconsciously tightening around the weapon where it rested across his knees.

Coulson hesitated, wondering if Clint would divulge any more. After a moment, and with a sigh, the teen continued.

"I don't have to think when I'm shooting it. I've done it for so long, it's instinct now. I don't have to think about anything. I just do it." He sighed deeply, "Sometimes I need to just not think about anything." He admitted quietly, his eyes staring intently out the passenger window.

"There's nothing wrong with that, Barton." Coulson answered calmly. "But you were taking it too far."

"I know." Clint replied softly. "I can't promise I won't do it again." He turned to meet Coulson's waiting gaze. "But I'll make it a last resort."

Coulson nodded. It was more than he'd expected and he was willing to take the compromise.

"Fair enough." Coulson looked back out the windshield, watching the training compound come into view. "Bow's all yours when we get back."

Clint nodded, reaching for the briefing file he'd been given for the training mission. Coulson parked the car, flipped on the interior light and unfolded a map of the compound.

"Your safe house is here." He pointed at a red X on the map. "The mission time line is forty eight hours."

"I know, I read the brief." Clint assured. "Six targets, all in different locations, forty eight hours to take them out with my brand new collapsible and paint filled tip arrows."

It would still hurt to get hit by one, but the tech guys assured them they weren't lethal. Clint had practiced with them for about an hour until he was sure he had gotten a firm handle on the different weight and balance of the new projectiles.

"You'll have radio contact with me the whole time." Coulson reminded as Clint pushed open the Jeep door. "Try to remember protocols."

Clint waved him off and slipped his quiver onto his back, and then settled his pack over it.

"See you in two days." He tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared into the shadows.

Coulson sighed and tapped his ear piece to turn it on.

"Comm check."

"Loud and clear."

"Check in when you get to the safe house."

"Got it."

The comm line went silent and Coulson shifted back into drive, heading for the perimeter command post on the outside of the compound. He'd be staying there for the next two days, acting as operational support for his agent. He was still getting used to being the handler instead of the agent in the field. Until Clint, he'd never acted as the sole handler of any agent. He'd run operations, managed teams temporarily, and acted as a mission leader more times than he could count. But he'd never been this involved in an agent's training and operation.

Clint's first training mission had been easier. Four and a half hours in duration, he'd seen it more as target practice for his agent than an actual mission. This one was different. It was venturing closer to the real thing. Coulson had never felt this mixture of anticipation and concern before.

He knew Clint would succeed; the young man was too skilled of an agent not to. The archer had a unique way of doing things, but he tended to be effective. He also tended to be reckless and prone to not considering his own safety before acting. Coulson hoped that had been a fluke of his first training mission and not something that would become a regular occurrence.

---

Clint reached the edge of the compound and eyed the line of buildings. His safe house was six blocks in. He smiled when he saw the nearest building had a fire escape. And with the close set of the buildings he could move by rooftop.

It wasn't until he was jumping to pull down the access ladder that he noticed how new it was. The metal didn't show a hint of rust and the ladder slid down with barely a squeak of resistance. The fire escape was a new fixture, added for this training mission.

Coulson.

A sudden warm feeling welled in him. His handler was damn perceptive. Clint preferred being higher up, well above everything so he could see the playing field from his bird's eye view. Coulson had gone to apparently great lengths to make sure he had that opportunity.

As he climbed, Clint found the warmth suddenly being replaced by a colder, darker feeling. Why had Coulson gone to the trouble? What did he want from him? Clint hated owing people because they tended to collect on the debt at the worst times.

A small part of his brain whispered that Coulson was just giving him the opportunity to play to his strengths. Clint ignored it. Insisting to himself that people didn't just do nice things.

They just didn't.

---

Clint tucked into a roll as he landed on the roof of his safe house. He rolled to his feet, rolling his shoulders and wincing. His quiver just didn't like it when he rolled over it and it took it out on his spine. He tapped his ear piece.

"I'm here."

"The door will open directly into your room."

Clint was already at the door typing in his access code. The light above the key pad flashed green and he pushed his way inside. The room was dark but apparently outfitted with motion sensing lights. An overhead light flickered to life as he moved into the room. There was only one window, a feature he was extremely fond of. He would be able to move around the room with relative freedom without worrying about someone catching sight of him. If he was going to be here for any great amount of time, he'd probably spend most of his time on the roof though.

"Nice digs." He eyed the cot against the wall.

"You've got all the standard provisions of any SHIELD safe house. A bed, emergency supplies, an weapons supply, and a burn bin."

"Fancy."

"What's your first move?" Coulson asked.

Clint tossed his pack on the cot and headed back for the door.

"Gonna scout the area. I'll let you know if I find anything."

"Remember, don't engage any hostiles until…"

"I have locations on all of them." Clint interrupted with an eye roll. "So I can't get caught by surprise. I got it."

"I know." Coulson assured. "Be careful."

Clint hesitated at the door. Be careful. No one had told him to be careful since his mom had turned him loose on the playground by himself for the first time when he was four. He'd ended the day with a broken arm from the jungle gym.

He didn't fall. He was pushed.

He cleared his throat.

"Yeah." He replied uncomfortably before moving out onto the roof. He moved to the edge and dropped to his belly, scanning the area with his eyes. He caught the slightest movement of a shadow in a window four blocks away and two stories lower.

Seemed like a good place to start.

He started moving over the buildings, jumping, rolling, climbing, and leaping from rooftop to rooftop until he was across from the building he'd seen the shadow in. He lay out on his stomach and settled in. He could outwait anyone. He tapped his ear piece.

"I've got movement in building six."

"Do you have a visual?"

"Not yet."

As if on cue, the shadow moved across the window again. Tall, lean, definitely human.

"Check that. Visual confirmation of one hostile."

"Marked." Coulson replied. Clint visualize the map Coulson would have spread out in front of him, marking the corresponding building in his mental map as he knew Coulson was on his physical one.

"Moving on."

Clint shimmied backwards on the roof until he knew he was safe to stand. Then he moved again. His night progressed in this way for the next six hours. He moved. He saw something suspicious. He stopped. He watched and either confirmed a hostile or decided the building was vacant. By the time the sun was rising, he had confirmed locations on four of the six men he was hunting.

---

He tapped his ear piece as he slipped back into his safe house.

"I'm back."

"You've found four. Parameters dictate that they will change locations every eight hours."

"So I have to find two more guys in the next two hours or do all of this again?" Clint frowned, collapsing onto his cot.

"You knew the parameters when the mission started."

"And I thought it was stupid then too."

The comm. line was silent for a moment.

"Don't do it, Barton."

"If I take the four out in the next two hours, the last two will be easier to handle."

"You don't know their locations. The parameters dictate that if the targets make your location, the time and location constraints are lifted and they can come after you. If you give away your position, you'll make yourself vulnerable and put yourself in the position to be the hunted instead of the hunter."

"So I won't give away my position."

"Barton, I'm ordering you to stand down."

"I'm sorry, what was that? You're breaking up." Clint tapped off his ear piece. He stood from his cot, grabbed his bow and headed out into the rising dawn.

---

Coulson dropped his head into his hands.

"God damn it, Barton."

He stood from his chair, pacing across the room. He fought the urge to storm to the compound and a tear a strip off his agent for disobeying orders. Instead he paced. Barton had good instincts. He was breaking orders and protocol, but he had to let it run its course for better or for worse. The kid wouldn't learn if he didn't.

With a frustrated sigh, he returned to his chair and tracked where he thought Barton would be moving.

---

Clint was waiting when his first target cautiously emerged from his safe house. He looked one way down the deserted street, and then the other. He was already pulling back into the safety of his building when a collapsible tipped arrow suddenly slammed into his chest. The tip folded in on itself spurting bright purple paint across the man's bullet proof vest.

He looked up in shock, barely catching sight of a black clad figure on a rooftop before it was gone.

Clint moved quickly, making a beeline over the rooftops to the next location. He only had an hour and a half now until the hostiles would change locations. He had three more guys to take down before they did that.

---

Clint watched the third target's shoulders sag in defeat as bright purple paint exploded from the tip of the arrow that bounced off his chest. He had fifteen minutes to get to the last target before he would have moved to a new location. The man was across the compound. He would have to move quickly and smoothly or he wouldn't make it time. He took off in a sprint across the rooftop.

Had he waited and checked the scene before he left, he would have seen the man watching the take down from the shadows of an alley. The man brought a radio to his mouth as he watched the archer move swiftly away.

"Rooftops." The man announced to his remaining two teammates. "Little bastard's sniping us."

---

Clint frowned as he watched the fourth location. There hadn't been any movement in the four minutes he'd been watching. The man should have at least been moving out to a new location by now. He froze when the metal of the fire escape on the side of the building creaked. He scrambled to his knees, nocking an arrow as he rose. He swung around to face the fire escape and loosed the arrow as soon as the man cleared the ledge.

His arrow flew true and purple paint sprayed across the man's chest. Clint wasn't ready for the second man that appeared next. He dove to avoid the paint ball headed his way, rolling away and to his feet. He took off in a sprint, moving across rooftops. He heard the man following him.

The sudden appearance of a man on the rooftop ahead of him had Clint skidding to a stop at the edge of his current roof. He looked at the man in front of him, then glanced at the man behind him. He smirked, gave them both a wave, and then stepped off the edge of the roof.

---

The dumpster three stories below him only had a handful of trash bags in it and several empty boxes. He was reminded vividly of his fight the night he met Coulson. It was as if the world stopped producing noise as he dropped. The only sound was the one the air made as he passed through it.

The landing was painful and his head cracked against something hard. He realized, as he scrambled out of the dumpster and saw the blood smear on his bow, that it was the weapon that had caused his temple to bleed and his vision to white out for a moment.

He clicked on his earpiece as he sprinted down the alley.

"So, uh, maybe you were right." He admitted around his heavy breathing.

"Do tell?"

"I got all four of them, but…" Clint trailed off, grunting as his momentum carried him into a brick wall as he tried to pivot ninety degrees and move down the gap between two building backs.

"The final two made your location and now you're on the run?"

"More or less."

"If only someone had warned you not to take them out until you had all six locations."

"Yeah, why didn't you say something, Coulson? I thought that was your job."

The silence told him his sarcasm wasn't appreciated.

"I can still finish this." Clint stated confidently.

"Prove it." Coulson challenged firmly.

"I will." Clint shot back. "I'll check in when it's done."

"Barton…" Clint hesitated with his finger over his earpiece. He leaned his back against the brick behind him, his eyes scanning from one end of the alley to the other.

"Yeah?"

"Let me do my job."

"I thought that's what you were doing."

"No. I was pacing and waiting for you to get back in contact."

"You were pacing?"

"Where are you?" Coulson demanded sharply.

"In an alley between buildings twelve and thirteen." Clint answered immediately.

"Any idea where the two hostiles are?"

"Chasing me."

"There's a fire escape two blocks east. Let's get you back in the sky."

Clint nodded even though Coulson couldn't see it and wiped away the blood that was trying to leak into his eyes.

"East?"

"East. Now move."

Clint did.

---

"I found them." Clint announced, pulling his bow off his back and crouching on the edge of the roof.

"Together?"

"I found one of them." Clint amended. "But his buddy will be close by."

"Take him out and watch your six."

"Sir, yes, sir." Clint breathed mockingly, already drawing back his bow string, arrow nocked. He loosed the string just as he heard the roof door slam open. He was already drawing another arrow before his first even found its target. He turned, sliding the arrow into place, but it was too late. A boot knocked his bow out of his grasp and a fist was headed towards his head. On instinct, he ducked and slid around, away from the edge.

"What's happening?" Coulson demanded.

"Five is down, but Six decided to join the party up here with me."

"Alright, this is what we've been training for every morning for the past three months. Patience, Barton, let him come to you."

Clint nodded, mostly to himself, and watched Six charge him. He ducked the first swing and dodged the jab that followed. The roundhouse kick passed painlessly over him as he bent backwards at the waist.

"Look for an opening in his defenses and exploit it. One hit and retreat. Make every strike count."

Clint blocked a right cross and latched onto Six's wrist. He held him in place for the second it took him to chop his foot into the man's ribs, then he released and retreated a couple steps. The man came at him again. Clint knocked away a left jab and ducked under the closely following right hook. Six dropped into a crouch, sweeping his leg out. Clint launched himself into a back handspring, avoiding the leg and giving himself some room.

Six came again.

Another ducked hook, the left this time, and a kick that forced him to bend backwards to the point where he would only have to put his hands to the ground to move himself into a handstand. He came back up and Six was off balance from his missed kick. Clint spun in place, bringing his boot up as he came back around to crack into Six's jaw. The taller man stumbled back a step, but merely shook his head to clear it.

Clint crouched in his stance, waiting.

Six moved again, Clint blocked the cross, but the uppercut to his ribs got past him. He doubled slightly and an elbow snapped into his cheek. He felt the skin split and he retreated a few steps. Six followed him. Clint didn't have time to think; he just reacted instinctively.

He ducked a hook, saw an opening at Six's ribs and slammed his fist into it. He blocked a jab, then a cross, then a hook, and then caught Six's leg against his side. Bracing himself with the leg, he twisted himself into the air, snapping his boot into Six's jaw and releasing his leg so he could complete the move and land on his feet, instead of his back.

Six immediately lashed out with his leg, Clint dodged, and the side kick passed by him harmlessly. Clint used the moment to step closer and drive the heel of his palm into Six's short ribs. The larger man hissed in pain, but to his credit, didn't retreat. He swung wildly with his arm instead. Clint ducked and spun around him. The man had left his whole left side open. Clint slammed his boot into the man's thigh, buckling the whole appendage. He drove his elbow into his temple, driving him to his knees. He was preparing to bring his boot up for the knockout blow, when Six raised his hands.

"Give." He gasped. "I give."

Clint froze and then retreated quickly towards his bow.

"Six is down." He announced over the comms.

"I heard. Congratulations." Coulson was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again there was definitely a hint of poorly hidden pride in his voice."You just broke the training scenario time record."

"No shit?" Clint smirked as he moved across the rooftops to his safe house.

"By six hours and fourteen minutes."

"So I was right." Clint grinned, tucking into a roll as he landed on a roof.

"No. You still disobeyed orders and violated at least half a dozen protocols."

"You gonna report me?"

There was a beat of silence.

"You'd lose your record if I did that." Coulson pointed out. Nothing more was said on the matter.

Clint collected his things from the safe house, and headed out. Coulson was waiting for him at the edge of the compound.

"Okay?" He asked, eyeing the still sluggishly bleeding cut on Clint's temple, the cut on his cheek, and the purpling bruises that surrounded both.

"Fine." Clint assured. "But remind me to quit jumping into dumpsters."

Coulson smiled and took Clint's pack and tossed it in the back of the jeep before moving around to the driver's side. Clint carefully laid his quiver in the back seat and climbed in the passenger side, resting his bow between his knees.

"Don't disobey orders like that again." Coulson instructed firmly as he revved the engine to life. "It's my job to keep you alive. You have to trust me to make the right calls."

"But I completed the mission and broke a record." Clint defended.

"I'm here for a reason. You would have completed the mission either way, you know that. You just chose to act rashly and without patience."

"If I didn't take them out then, that whole six hours would have been wasted."

"The parameters gave you forty eight hours to complete the mission for just that reason. You should have waited, made sure you had control of the situation before you acted. You almost failed because you didn't wait."

"But I didn't fail." Clint shrugged.

"Right, because you had patience in the hand-to-hand fight." Coulson smirked. "You fought how I've been training you to fight and you won,easily, because of it."

"Are you sure it's not just cuz I'm awesome?" Clint smirked.

"Yes." Coulson stated immediately. "Admit it, Barton, you embraced the training. You let it be your instinct."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Fine. You were right. It made the fight easier not to always be the aggressor. I bow to your infinite wisdom."

"As you should."

---

Coulson turned down the radio when he noticed Clint's head tip against the window. The archer had slouched as low as possible in his seat and his eyes were closed. His breathing was even and his hands had loosened around his bow.

He supposed it was expected. The teen had been running all over the compound all night and spent all of the night before sitting on the SHIELD base's roof staring at nothing.

Coulson drove carefully, skillfully avoiding potholes and navigating turns so that Clint wouldn't be woken. It turned out he needn't have gone to the effort. Fifteen minutes after drifting to sleep, Clint's whole body tensed. His hands turned white around his bow and his brow furrowed deeply.

His eyes remained closed. He was dreaming.

Coulson watched him carefully, while still making sure to keep the Jeep on the road. Clint bodily flinched and muttered something under his breath. His head jerked away from the window, only to roll back towards it a second later. His breathing was speeding up and Coulson could see a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.

Then it was over.

Clint flinched violently awake, his left hand drawing a hidden knife from his combat vest that Coulson didn't even know he was carrying. There was a wild, terrified look in his eyes and Coulson could tell he wasn't back to reality yet.

"Hey." He called. "Barton."

Clint flinched, turning sharply to look at him. The wild look was still there and the knife was angled towards him dangerously.

"Barton…Clint, it's me. It's Coulson. Calm down. Breathe." Phil ordered calmly.

Clint blinked and the wild terror was replaced by confusion and quickly following horror.

"What…?" Clint gasped.

"You had a nightmare. You're okay. We're on our way back to base from your second training mission. You broke a record, remember?"

Clint blinked again, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

"Yeah."

The knife disappeared from sight as quickly as it had appeared, and Clint took a deep calming breath.

"You okay?" Coulson asked cautiously.

"I'm fine." Clint defended without his usually sharpness. He was still shaken by his dream. Another name in his ledger, haunting him from the grave.

"Okay." Coulson placated, sneaking a glance at him. "We're almost back. We'll do the debrief after you get yourself cleaned up."

Clint nodded numbly, turning his gaze to the window. They made the rest of the ride in silence.

---

Coulson ordered Clint to stop at medical before he could go shower. Six butterfly bandages later, his cheek and temple were cleaned, rubbed with antibiotic ointment, and pulled closed.

He pushed his way tiredly into his room only to freeze at the sight of something on one of the bunks. He strode over to it and snatched the brand new set of archery guards from the mattress.

Coulson.

"That's it." He snarled, storming from the room.

He found Coulson in Briefing Room 2.

"What the hell is this?" He snapped, throwing the black arm guards on the table.

"Those are new arm guards. Your old ones are worn out. These are the highest quality."

"I know what they are." Clint growled, "Why the hell did you get them?"

"Because you need them."

"No! Why did you get them? Why do you keep doing this?" Clint demanded.

"Doing what?" Coulson asked, keeping his tone deliberately calm, though his eyebrows had risen in surprise.

"Doing things for me! Getting things for me!"

"I don't understand."

"First it's all the damn snacks during the afternoon session. Then the first aid kit. Then there're brand new fire escapes installed on buildings during the training mission and my safe house has direct roof access. And now this!" Clint gestured angrily at the guards.

Coulson stood very slowly.

"What are you getting at, Barton?" He asked very carefully.

"I don't like owing people!" Clint barked. "I don't like feeling like I have some sort of debt to you for all of this stuff! What the hell do you want from me?"

Coulson stared at him for a moment before taking slow measured steps towards him. He wasn't surprised when Clint held his ground. His agent never backed down.

"All I want, Barton, is for you to do your best, to do your best, every second of every day. That's all I'll ever want from you." The handler explained quietly but firmly.

Clint was suddenly uncertain. He didn't know how to process what Coulson had just said.

"But…"

"No buts, that's it. Do your best to do your best." Coulson ducked his head a little to force Clint to meet his eyes as the archer tried to look away. "And I promise to do my best to help you in any way I can. Whether it's a snack so you aren't starving during the afternoon session since you get your dinner an hour late. Or a first aid kit because it's like putting an elephant through the eye of a needle to get you to go to medical for anything that isn't life threatening. Or fire escapes and direct roof access because I know you see things better from up high." Coulson smiled slightly, "Or getting you new arm guards so you can shoot your bow without worrying about hurting yourself."

"I don't worry about that." Clint pointed out quietly.

"I know." Coulson allowed. "I do."

Clint's expression shifted, breaking for only a second before solidifying again, masking everything and shutting Coulson out. But that second was enough.

Coulson saw.

He smiled at his agent and squeezed his shoulder.

"You'll never owe me anything other than that, Barton." Then Coulson headed for the door. He turned back before he left. "We'll do the debrief later. Get some rest." Then he was gone.

Clint watched the door swing closed and remained rooted in his spot. It hit him then, for the first time, as he processed his handler's sincere words.

Coulson was wrong.

The man had pulled him up by his bootstraps and changed the direction of his life. He was the most sincere and honest person Clint had ever met.

He would always owe Phil Coulson so much more than just doing his best to do his best.

He would always owe him everything.

 

Chapter Text

I find hope in the darkest of days, and focus on the brightest.

Dalai Lama

---

Coulson was stumped.

He'd given Clint the day off from training in light of his "success" in his training mission the night before. Since Clint wasn't supposed to be back on base for another 38 hours after he'd completed his mission, Coulson had decided he could take one day off, baring the de-brief they still had to do.

It was that de-brief that had led to Coulson's current bafflement.

He couldn't find Clint anywhere.

He'd given the teen the morning and most of the afternoon to himself, but Fury was growling about wanting a report on Clint's training mission and Coulson needed to do the de-brief to be able to compile that report.

Of course, he needed to find Clint in order for any of that to happen. And his thirty minutes of searching had yielded no results.

He'd checked the usual spots. The roof was empty except for a precocious little blue bird that had stared at Coulson as if it had a higher level of intelligence than him. The air ducts above Clint's room were empty except for the pile of blankets the teen had compiled. Coulson supposed if one were sleeping in an air vent, blankets were needed given the perpetual draft. The range was full of new recruits getting weapons training. The training gym was taken over by a team prepping for an overseas mission. Clint wasn't in the mess hall, but the Mess Operator had informed him the teen had taken his lunch to go.

Now Coulson stood in the main area of the SHIELD base outwardly calm, but inwardly confounded. And then it hit him. There were more places than the roof for the archer to get his bird's eye view. The SHIELD base was ripe with interconnecting catwalks that hardly anyone ever used unless they were doing maintenance.

Coulson headed for the stairs. It took another ten minutes of searching before he came upon his quarry.

Clint was sitting on the edge of one of the metal platforms, his legs dangling into open air. His usual black cargo pants and black t-shirt were replaced by black athletic shorts and a gray ARMY hooded sweatshirt. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and he was leaning forward so his armpits were hooked over the bar that ran the length from one support to the next, half the distance between the rail and the platform. His elbows where both bent and his hands were stacked on the bar to support his chin.

He tilted his head without lifting it to look at Coulson as he approached.

"De-brief time?"

Coulson blinked, opening his mouth to say that it was, but the words stuck in his throat. Clint looked so relaxed he didn't want to ruin it quite yet. So he cleared his throat and improvised.

"I have the room the whole afternoon. So it can wait a little bit longer," Coulson allowed, lowering himself to sit next to Clint and dangle his legs as well. He refrained from lounging on the bar though, instead just resting his elbows and forearms on it.

Clint shrugged and returned his gaze to the sight before them.

"You haven't been avoiding me, have you?" Coulson was only partly joking. Forty-five minutes to find the young archer sure made it seem like Clint was avoiding him.

"I didn't know you were looking for me." Clint replied with a shrug. Coulson analyzed his tone and decided Clint meant nothing more than what the words said. He wasn't avoiding him after the confrontation last night; he'd simply just not realized Coulson was looking.

Coulson didn't even try to convince himself he wasn't extremely relieved by that deduction.

"It's fascinating to watch people when they don't realize they're being watched." Clint announced suddenly.

"It's also called spying." Coulson pointed out.

"Well it is what I do." Clint smirked. He moved one of his hands to point at a man at a computer terminal. "That guy, he's been trying to hit on the girl at the terminal next to him for an hour and a half."

"With any success?" Coulson asked curiously.

"No. The guy doesn't take a hint."

"Can you hear them?" Coulson asked curiously.

"No."

"Then how do you know what's going on?"

"Body language." Clint shrugged, "And I can read lips."

"Just another skill you picked up in your cryptic past?" Coulson nearly laughed. Of course the kid could read lips. Why wouldn't he be able to.

"It pays to be able to know what people are saying when they think no one is listening." Clint replied seriously.

"I suppose that's true." Coulson admitted. "So you're tendency to spy from above isn't a new development?" He surmised. Reading lips wasn't something one just learned one day. It would have come from years of training.

"I see things better from a distance. I always have, ever since I can remember." Clint replied easily. He rested his chin back on his folded hands.

Coulson nodded, looking out over the bustling activity below them. He could see why Clint enjoyed watching from up here. They were hidden in the shadows of the building, but had a clear view of everything going on. It was fascinating.

"Can I ask you a question?" Coulson asked carefully.

Clint tilted his head to look at him, looking all of the mere eighteen year old he was. He arched an eyebrow in permission.

"You can do complex geometric math and physics. How?"

"I learned." Clint answered simply.

"When? Something tells me it wasn't a trade taught at the circus."

Clint sighed, looking back over the main area thoughtfully.

"I started using a bow when I was eleven. I realized a few years later that I could figure out where the arrow was going before I ever shot it. So I did some studying." Clint shrugged, "It's not like I calculate a complicated formula every time I fire, it's mostly years worth of instincts now. But the more complicated shots, or the ones where I ricochet an arrow off something, I work it out in my head before I fire. It only takes a couple seconds."

"You taught yourself complex geometry and physics?"

Clint shrugged as if he didn't think it was that big of a deal. Like young teenagers just taught themselves complex math every day. Coulson shook his head in amazement. The mind this kid had, and he didn't even know it.

Coulson smiled to himself.

"De-brief in fifteen minutes. Then you can go back to stalking people from the catwalks."

He saw Clint try to hide a smile and pushed himself back up to his feet. He was two steps away when the archer's voice stopped him.

"Coulson?"

He turned back with an expectant look. Clint had leaned back to look at him.

"After the de-brief, do you think you have time to spar?"

Coulson's eyebrows rose in surprise. Then he smiled.

"Of course." He eyed the bruises on the teen's face from his training mission. "But don't think I'm going to take it easy on you."

"I sure as hell hope not." Clint smirked, "I need to learn to fight after a concussion." He reasoned as he climbed to his feet and brushed past his handler. "Bad guys won't give me a day off."

Coulson's brow furrowed as he turned to follow. Then he shrugged, acknowledging the logic in his agent's thoughts.

"Fair enough."

---

When Clint pushed his way into Briefing Room 2 fifteen minutes later he found a Hersey Bar and a Blue Gatorade sitting in front of his usual chair. Coulson was reading through a file and barely even glanced up when he walked in. Clint sat, accepting the file Coulson pushed towards him.

He stared at the snack and then slowly reached forward and twisted the cap off the Gatorade. He took a short drink from the bottle and then tore open the candy bar. He broke off a piece of it and tossed it into his mouth.

"I arrived at the compound at 2300 hours and proceeded up the fire escape to the rooftop of Building One…"

Coulson smiled down at his file and he started jotting down his notes as Clint recounted the details of the training mission.

Forget one step forward.

He felt like they'd just taken a giant leap.

---

"You don't have to be invisible, just unremarkable." Coulson coached. "Somebody trying to hide in the shadows is suspicious. Somebody walking their dog down the street is normal. You want to be so uninteresting that even if your mark sees you, he forgets you a second later."

"So…" Clint drawled from where leaning against the railing at a large mall. "You want me to blend in."

Coulson rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the statement from where he stood next to him.

"Essentially." He allowed, "I want you to walk to walk through the crowd down there, and lift three wallets from three targets."

"What targets?"

"I called in a favor and have three agents from the Los Angeles base here on a little field trip. See if you can spot them."

Clint's eyes scanned the crowd below them.

"Red shirt, blue hat."

"Why him?"

"His hand has gone to his hip at least twice since we've been here."

"Could be an off duty cop."

"Not with the way he's carrying himself. Operator all the way."

"Okay, one for one. Two more, hot shot."

"Blonde with the very reasonable shoes on and the black skirt."

"Why?"

"Because nobody wearing those shoes now would be shopping for the shoes she's been circling for the last twenty minutes. Obviously a plant."

"Two for two."

"And last but not least, Mr. I'm-too-serious-to-be-standing-in-a-toy-store. Did he rent that kid he showed up with or something?"

"It's his nephew."

Clint got an "Ah." expression like that explained everything.

"How long have you had them pegged?" Coulson asked with an amused grin.

"Since about fifteen minutes after we got here."

"Okay, smart ass. Go steal their wallets. I'm going to do a line up afterwards and if none of them pick you out…you pass."

"Time line?"

"Ten minutes."

"That's it?" Clint gaped in surprise.

"Now 9 minutes and 55 seconds."

"Shit." Clint hissed, moving away quickly.

Coulson settled against the railing to watch. He had to wait a full two minutes for Clint to appear downstairs. Coulson cocked his head curiously when the kid came strolling in with a little teenage blonde girl on his arm. They were chatting and laughing together like they'd been dating forever. She pulled him excitedly over to the shoe store and Coulson could see Clint's exasperatedly amused expression as he followed like any loyal boyfriend would. He followed the girl around the shoes dutifully, not even brushing shoulders with the female agent. Coulson saw his hand slide in and out of her larger purse though and the wallet was in his jacket pocket before Coulson could blink. The LA agent didn't even spare the teenage couple a second glance.

"Not bad, kid." Coulson muttered, wondering what Clint would do with the girl now. It turned out he was going to keep her as his cover for the duration. They strode merrily over to a pretzel vender and Clint bought her one with money from the wallet he'd stolen.

Then they strolled towards the toy store where Clint seemed to be asking the girl a question. She cocked her head thoughtfully and pointed out a few different action figures. He asked another question, looking to Coulson like he was actually sheepish about something. The girl laughed and kissed his cheek, pulling him towards the stuffed animals, and right into a collision with the second agent. Coulson didn't see Clint actually lift the wallet, but he had no doubt it had happened. The tall agent looked nothing more than annoyed as the little blonde girl apologized profusely. She said something and gestured at the stuffed animals. The agent glanced at Clint, who shrugged with a boyish smile. Then the interaction was over. Clint let the girl pick out a stuffed animal, which he paid for with money from the second wallet and together they practically skipped out of the toy store.

Coulson watched curiously, wondering what Clint could be planning to get the last wallet. The final target was standing in line for ice cream. Clint said something to the girl and she nodded enthusiastically. They got in line behind the agent. And didn't make a move. They proceeded through the line just like any other customer until the Agent had paid and put his wallet back in his pocket. A second later Clint whispered something into the girl's ear. She smiled and tilted her head a little, accepting the kiss Clint planted on her with enthusiasm. Clint turned them and their energetic, impromptu make out session sent them stumbling a step right into the final target's back. The girl's face flushed crimson as they broke apart and Clint apologized with a laugh to the agent, smiling charmingly at the girl, who giggled and kissed his cheek. The agent actually smiled at them and turned away, unconcerned.

Clint bought her ice cream with money from the third wallet. Then they casually made their way out of the main area. Clint appeared at his side thirty seconds later.

"Very impressive. Who was the girl?"

"She was having lunch with some other girls. I told her I was trying to make my girlfriend jealous and I'd buy her three things if she pretended to be my girlfriend."

"Okay. We'll let the agents stew for another hour and then we'll pull them in for the lineup."

"Who are you lining up with me?"

"You're choice. Pick them out." Coulson gestured at the crowd.

"Black beanie and skateboard. He was hanging around the toy story like he was going to shoplift. He drifted pretty close to the target several times."

"Who else?"

"Polo and slacks on the bench. He's obviously an off duty cop and he's been patrolling the area for an hour. His daughter is on a date at that restaurant and he's keeping an eye on them. Comes across sketchy, though."

"Anyone else?"

"Nope."

"Just those two? You're that confident?"

Clint shrugged.

"I'll pull in a few randoms, just for fun."

"You doubt me?" Clint scoffed.

"I'm cautiously optimistic."

Clint rolled his eyes.

---

Fury didn't believe Coulson later when he told him not one of the agents had fingered Clint as the wallet thief. Not until Fury talked to the agents himself. Coulson couldn't hold back an arrogant smirk when he reminded Fury he had told him Clint was a born operator.

---

Coulson groaned as he rolled over in his bed for what he thought had to be the fifty millionth time in the last hour. Sleep was eluding him in the most aggravating fashion. He prided himself on remaining calm and collected in even the worst of situations, but he allowed himself a fit of frustrated anger as he punched his pillow repeatedly.

He just wanted to sleep, was that too much to ask?

With a sigh, he sat up and kicked away his blankets. Maybe he just needed some fresh air. The rooftop seemed to help Clint, so maybe he'd give it a shot. The teen hadn't spent the night on the roof in over a week. Coulson had been checking the cameras.

So he hadn't expected Clint to be sitting in his usual spot, shaking with the cold with that little leather book clenched tightly in his hands. He stood frozen for a moment, blinking in surprise. Then he strode forward.

"Why the hell don't you have a jacket on? It's November!" Coulson scolded sharply. He missed the way Clint flinched as he ripping off his own sweatshirt and tossed it forcefully at the teen. "Put that on."

Clint obeyed numbly, not even glancing at Coulson as he sat down next to him.

"If you're going to brood out here, at least wear a jacket." Coulson grumbled.

"How did you know I was here?" Clint asked quietly.

"I didn't." Coulson replied, turning to look at Clint's profile. The bruises from his last training mission were faded to nothing but a light pale yellow and the cuts were nothing but pink lines that would fade in time. "I couldn't sleep."

Clint heaved a sigh that seemed too big for his body and nodded in understanding. Coulson stared at him in concern. The teen's jaw was clenched and his hands were shaking even though they were clenched around that little book. His body was rigid with tension and every breath seemed like it caused physical pain.

"Today's gonna be one of the days when it's worse, isn't it?"

Clint grimaced a little bit, expelling a shaky breath as he nodded slightly.

"Does it have something to do with whatever is in that book in your hands?"

The way the boy's fingers clenched around the object in question told Coulson all he needed to know.

"What is it?" He asked carefully.

The sharp shake of Clint's head was about the response he'd been expecting. He nodded in acceptance, looking out over the dark cold night. They sat in silence for a few moments and then Coulson sighed.

"Whatever it is," Coulson began, "I know it probably feels like it's too big, too much for you to ever be able to handle and maybe it is." Coulson sighed, "I just want you to know, you don't have to handle it alone." He assured before falling silent.

Clint didn't answer, just continued to stare out at the night. It was only when Coulson fixed his gaze up on the moon that Clint turned briefly to look at him. He stared intently at his handler's profile for a heavy moment and then looked up at the moon himself.

They spent the rest of the night just like that. Neither noticed that after a little while, Clint's hands stopped shaking. And not long after that his jaw relaxed and the tension slowly seeped out of his body.

It was only when the sun started to rise and Coulson realized they were both late to their morning session, that it he considered the reason he hadn't been able to sleep. And wondered if that reason was sitting on the roof next to him.

---

Coulson was waiting in Briefing Room 2 when Clint made his way into it seven minutes late. Clint was breathing hard and sweat was dripping down his temples as he dropped into his seat and immediately screwed off the cap to the blue Gatorade that was waiting for him.

"Run tougher than usual?" Coulson asked in confusion. Clint usually completed the ten mile daily run with ease. Clint finished his long drink from his bottle with a gasp.

"Agent Bryan added five miles to my run from now on."

"Why?" Coulson frowned. Agent Bryan usually told him if Clint was acting out enough to earn more running.

"Because I finished twenty minutes before the rest of the training group." He explained, "Sorry I was late, I'll get faster."

"It's okay." Coulson assured. "I've got a surprise for you."

"Tell me it's another bottle of something wet." Clint swallowed down the last of his Gatorade and took a moment to belch into his fist.

"Then I have two surprises for you." Coulson amended, pulling a sealed water bottle from somewhere next to him and sliding it across the table. "You're going to make yourself sick, drink that one slower."

"What's surprise number two?" Clint asked, tearing open the bag of Doritos in front of him.

"Your third and final training mission."

"Final? But it's only been four months. You said I wouldn't get cleared for real missions until 8 months in."

"I said if all goes well it would be 8 months and if all went extremely well it would be sooner. You've been here for five months, four months in specialized training with very impressive scores in all of your assessments and have preformed remarkably well in previous training missions despite our different takes on what following protocol means." Coulson gave him a stern look at that and Clint flashed his most innocent smile.

Coulson slid a file across the table and gestured for him to open it.

"Simulated hit. An agent will be acting as the target and you'll have a two week window to retire him." Coulson explained.

"Location?"

"Brooklyn."

"For real?" Clint's eyebrows arched in surprise. "An actual city?"

"Yes. The entire situation is supposed to be authentic. I sent the target in two weeks ago and even he doesn't know who we're sending or when you'll be sent. This is as close to a real hit as we can get you without actually assigning you one."

Clint skimmed the front page of the brief in front of him. He'd never gone after someone with this much information before. He usually just had a name, a picture, and a city. He did the rest himself. Coulson had created a whole bio for this target, detailing his home life, his job, and the reason he was being taken out.

"Ready?" Coulson asked.

Clint shrugged.

"Lay it out." He sat back, pulling the file towards him so he could read along as Coulson verbally briefed him on the mission.

"We've had to improvise a little, we haven't field trained a covert agent for distance kills in over a decade so…" Coulson shrugged a little. "Anyway, target is Alexei Dubrovsky. He's an ex-KGB hitman who has infiltrated the United States under the alias Martin Shane. He's on SHIELD's kill on sight list. So that's your job."

"So the guy's on SHIELD's shit list. Doesn't sound like a fun place to be." Clint studied the picture.

"It is definitely not, because it's the people on that list that we send agents like you after."

"Sucks to be him." Clint smirked, tossing the file up onto the table.

---

Clint was climbing through the air ducts, shamelessly eavesdropping on various conversations, when he heard them. He was over the main locker room that was connected to the main training gym. He paused when he heard his name, frowning.

"Did you hear that Barton is going out on his final training mission? Rumor is he'll be cleared for active duty by next month." One agent was saying. Clint shifted forward so he could peak down through the slits in the vent cover. He recognized the two agents as Ramirez and Sinclair.

"That dude is freaky." Sinclair responded. "I overheard Agent Bryan say SHIELD hasn't trained a covert distance assassin in over a decade."

"That's because distance operators are pussies." Ramirez responded with a scoff. "Don't have the balls to face the guys they take out."

Clint's frown deepened and his eyes darkened.

"That fits Barton," Sinclair chuckled. "I know a guy that was bunked with him when he was first brought in and he said the guy was scary detached, never talked to anyone, always avoided the other recruits. He saw him sitting up in the catwalks once. Freaky."

"Not everyone has the nerve to take out a target up close and personal." Ramirez shrugged. "Probably why the put Barton on distance kills. Don't want to risk anything going sideways if he screws it up."

"That'll be enough, Agents." Coulson suddenly appeared around the corner, his face set in stone, but his eyes hard. The two junior agents practically tripped over each other as they moved away.

Clint watched them leave with a frown. Neither of them were field agents and he knew in his head that neither of them had any idea about what it took to be an assassin. But for some reason their words stuck in his mind. And they would fester there for the next week and a half as he took on his final training mission.

---

"How is it I can't get you to string a sentence together when we're on base, but I stick an earwig in you and you don't shut up?" Coulson didn't sound annoyed, or even the least bit frustrated. He stated the question with barely any inflection.

Clint smirked from his position crouched on the corner of a church roof, leaning against a large stone angel. He lowered his binoculars from where he'd been watching "Alexei Dubrovsky" move around his apartment. It had taken him three days to locate the target, and he'd been watching him for the seven days since, learning his habits and movements. The guy was good, Barton had to give him that. For a fake ex-KGB agent, the SHIELD agent really sold the part. He'd even caught a Russian accent as he'd watched the guy from three tables over at a local café.

"You are always urging me to talk."

"So I should urge you to shut up from now on?"

"Overwatch, you wound me."

"Focus, Hawk. You ready to take the shot?"

"Yeah." Clint laughed a little, pulling his bow off his back and nocking an arrow. "When will my new bow be ready?"

"Techs said two weeks."

"I still don't think I need one."

"I know you like your bow, but it's technologically outdated."

"Whatever." Clint grumbled, sighting the distance three buildings down the street to Dubrovsky's apartment. His intention was to get him with an arrow the next time he passed in front of his window.

It was that moment that his psyche decided to work against him. He frowned as he remembered Sinclair and Ramirez's words. For a moment he thought they were right.

And a moment was all it took.

Suddenly he was parkouring across rooftops, headed for the apartment.

"Hawkeye?"

Clint winced as he came to a stop a building away.

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to take the shot sometimes today?"

"Yeah. About that…" Clint took a running start and leapt onto Dubrovsky's building. He moved to the roof access door.

"Hawkeye."

Clint winced again. Coulson sounded pissed and like he knew exactly what Clint was doing.

"Can't talk now, Overwatch."

"You were in the vents weren't you? God damn it, Hawkeye! Those guys don't know the first thing about field operations much less covert field operations."

Clint ignored him and moved silently down the stairs.

"Hawkeye, I am ordering you to return to your vantage point!"

Clint sidled up to Dubrovsky's door, pulling a lock pick set out of his left cargo pocket.

"Hawkeye!"

Clint knelt in front of the door and quickly and efficiently picked the lock. He pushed the door open, whipping the bow off his back and nocking an arrow before the interior was even visible. He rolled into the room when a bright blue paint ball whistled through the air above him. He rolled up to his knees and loosed the arrow. It hit Dubrovsky's chest unerringly. And it was over.

That was when Clint heard the gasp at the doorway. He spun.

A young brunette woman with a toddler on her hip was standing there with her hand over her mouth. Clint's shoulder's sagged.

Shit.

---

"What part of return to your vantage point did you not understand?" Coulson barked as he stood toe to toe with Barton in Briefing Room 2. Coulson had remained terrifyingly silent the entire ride back to the base. Clint knew he'd screwed up, but any time he tried to say something Coulson glared him into silence.

"I didn't think…"

"No Barton! You didn't think!" Coulson paced away. He spun back and raised an accusing finger, "Do you have any idea how serious of a breach of protocol that was? Let's not even talk about the fact that you disobeyed a direct order again!"

"I…"

"You are a distance operative, Barton! First and foremost! Do you think I brought you in because you can pick a lock?" Coulson snapped. "I brought you in because you can shoot a man from 2 ½ kilometers away and never miss!"

Clint opened his mouth to say something again, but Coulson forged on.

"Those agents in the locker room don't know anything about you or what you do! Anybody can kill a man with a handgun in an alley! You are the only man on this base that can do it with a bow and arrow from 500 meters away!

"I thought you were ready. I thought you had your head on straight enough to start preparing for real missions. But if you let what to guys like that think about you affect your mission critical decisions, then you are not only not ready. You've already failed."

Clint lowered his chin, looking at the ground.

"I stuck my neck out for you." Coulson growled, "If I told Fury about this, you'd be not only kicked out of SHIELD, you'd be deported and placed on our Threat List."

"You're not going to tell him?"

"I haven't decided yet!" Coulson snapped. "God, Barton, I can't even look at you right now." Coulson turned away angrily.

"Coulson…"

"I don't want to hear it." Coulson hissed, turning back. "You disobeyed an order, broke protocol, and created a witness! I am so disappointed, Barton, I can't even put it into words."

Clint clenched his jaw, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"Get out of my sight and be ready to run in training tomorrow morning."

Clint obediently marched out of the room. He moved mechanically to his bunkroom and climbed stiffly into the air duct. He cocooned himself in his blankets and buried his head under his pillow.

---

Coulson was scowling when he stormed into the training room at 0400 the next morning. Clint practically leapt up from where he was sitting on the ground waiting.

"Coulson…"

"I haven't decided if I'm going to tell Fury yet, Barton so…"

"Shut up." Clint snapped.

Coulson blinked.

"Excuse me?" He growled.

"You talked yesterday. It's my turn." Barton insisted.

Coulson's eyes narrowed.

"Okay. Go ahead." He waved demonstratively.

Clint hesitated now that he had his full attention. He licked his lips and took a deep breath.

"I don't care what people think."

"The evidence speaks to the contrary."

Clint held up a hand.

"My turn to talk." He snapped. Coulson held his hands up in surrender. "I don't care what people think. I didn't do what I did because I cared what those two assholes thought. I couldn't give less of a damn about what they think…"

"Then why…" Coulson stopped at Clint's glare.

"I did what I did because for a second, I believed it. I believed I was too weak to do this. That I did it from a distance because I was too weak to do it up close. I was wrong. I'll always be able to do it, up close or far away," He took a shuttering breath, "Maybe that's scarier than being too weak to do it at all."

Clint looked down briefly as if collecting his thoughts. When he raised his eyes again, Coulson was surprised to see the honest sincerity in the teen's storm colored eyes.

"I don't care what people think. But I couldn't sleep last night because for some reason, I care what you think and I knew that I had let you down. You took a risk on me and I have fought you at every turn and now when it really mattered, I disappointed you. I'm sorry I let you down. And I swear to you right now, that it won't happen again."

Coulson expelled a shaky breath and nodded.

"Okay." He accepted graciously. And just like that, it was over.

"Now, Agent Coulson, try to hit me. I dare you."

Chapter Text

Life ceases to be so oppressive: we are free to give our own lives meaning and purpose, free to redeem our suffering by making something of it.

Walter Kaufmann

---

"I get it, Coulson, the only reason I'm catching this mission is because it has to be distance and it has to be now."

Clint rolled his eyes as he led the way into Briefing Room 2.

"You're supposed to be on probation for another four weeks because of the incident with your last training mission."

"I know. I promise to be on my best behavior."

"Good, now have a seat, Fury is doing the briefing himself in ten minutes."

Clint dropped into his usual seat and Coulson sat in his.

"I still think a two month probation was overkill." Clint muttered.

"It beats getting fired."

"True." Clint allowed.

"And the only reason that didn't happen is because the witness didn't make it into the report. Remember that when you want to start breaking protocols left and right."

"I remember." Clint chuckled a little, tossing his handler a smirk.

"Good." Coulson gave him one last firm look and then Fury was striding into the room, his long trench coat flapping behind him.

"North Korea." Fury stated right off the bat. "Tom Johanson has been spotted by one of our resources in the country."

Clint frowned. Tom Johanson was one of the distinguished few on SHIELD's shit list.

"It has to be distance because nobody in North Korea can know that we were there. That means no Robin Hood act, Barton, I need this neat and clean. You take this son of a bitch down with extreme prejudice and then get the hell out of that country."

"Understood." Clint nodded.

"There is no embassy, there are no friends on the ground, when you get there, you are on your own. Coulson will go over the details with you on the flight out. I still haven't made up my mind about you, Barton, don't make me regret choosing you for this."

Clint was silent for a beat longer than was necessary.

"Yes, sir."

"Godspeed, gentlemen."

And then Fury was blowing out of the room. Clint glanced at Coulson.

"Wheels up in two hours." Coulson slid a file across the table to him. "Familiarize yourself, get your gear together and meet me in the hangar in an hour."

Clint nodded and scooped up his file as he headed out of the room.

---

Clint chewed his lower lip as he ran his hands along the curves of his two week old bow. It was recurved, like his old one, but it was very different. It folded up on itself into a compact rectangle, making a lot easier to transport. It fit into a slot on his new quiver and that sure beat putting the string over his head all the time. He wouldn't be using it on this mission unless something went very wrong. SHIELD had issued him a M-24. They really didn't want anyone knowing who had done the hit, and apparently his arrows were like a flashing neon sign.

"Do you like it?" Coulson asked absently where he was reading over the mission file.

"Yeah. Those techs know what they're doing."

"Yes they do." Coulson agreed. He glanced up when Clint folded the bow away and set it on the floor of the jet with his quiver with a sigh. The young archer looked back at his brief with a deeply furrowed brow.

Coulson put down his file and turned to face his agent fully.

"It's not the same." He stated suddenly.

Clint looked up at him, but there wasn't any surprise in his eyes. The darkness Phil had been seeing less often these days was there though.

"It's not the same as before."

"I know that." Clint replied as if Coulson were being ridiculous. "It's no big deal. He's a target. This is a hit, that's it."

"Don't do that." Coulson scolded, "Don't disassociate. Read that file. It's all there. Every dirty little deed Tom Johanson ever did. It's not the same. I promised you, you would knowwhy every time. This is me showing you why. Tom Johanson is evil. He has murdered and hurt a lot of people and poses a very real threat to our National Security. Read that file and know that you are justified. You want to know anything about him, you ask me. Ask the questions, get the answers and know that you are doing something good."

Clint stared at him.

"It's not the same." He repeated Coulson's words quietly.

"No." Coulson allowed himself an almost gentle smile. "So don't let it be up here." Coulson reached forward and tapped Clint's temple twice. Clint nodded granting Coulson a half smile.

"Okay." He agreed.

"Good." Coulson sat back.

Clint kept watching him.

"You know it was probably the stupidest thing anybody's ever done."

Coulson blinked confusedly at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"You had me in a head lock. Could have killed me. But you let me go." Clint shook his head, "I could have killed you right there in that alley."

"But you didn't."

"You didn't know I wouldn't. You couldn't have."

Coulson met his eyes.

"It was a risk I thought was worth the possible result."

Clint shook his head bemusedly, accepting the warm words instead of rejecting them as he would have five months ago.

"What if you'd been wrong? What if I'd killed you?"

"But I wasn't. And you didn't."

"What was it? What about me made you take that risk? What made you fight so hard to make sure I made it here," He motioned vaguely around the jet.

Coulson regarded him thoughtfully.

"I saw," he began seriously, "an asset with more potential than anyone I'd ever met who was headed down a road that he didn't want to be on. I saw a supposedly hardened assassin who waited until a target's wife and son were out of the house before setting up for the hit. After that night, I started seeing an eighteen year old kid who was fighting everything that was stacked against him, even fighting himself, to become good again. And that made me fight too."

Clint looked away, blinking away the moisture that was prickling in his eyes.

"I fought for you, Barton, because I knew that you would not only get here, but you would be great at being here." Coulson finished.

Clint cleared his throat.

"Have you ever been to North Korea?" He asked, needing to change the subject for his own emotional stability.

"Once, for an extraction."

"I've been three times. I made about 2 million in this country alone."

"That's partly fascination and partly disturbing."

Clint shrugged.

"I found this little place that sold the best kimchi. I guess I won't have a chance to enjoy the cuisine, though." He sighed. "Have you ever had kimchi?"

"No, can't say that I have."

"Not even in the states?"

"No."

"Shame. It's pretty good. Have you ever had real Italian lasagna? There was this little place on the water in Venice that had amazing lasagna."

"I've been to Rome several times, but never Venice."

"The place was called Trattoria Casa Mia. Amazing lasagna. What about Paris? You been there?"

"Yes."

"There was this little café I went to every time I was in the city, juts for the crepes. Literally the most amazing thing I've ever put into my mouth."

Coulson nodded absently, trying to focus on his file.

"Then there was this one time in a little coastal town in England I had this fish that was amazing. And I don't even like fish."

Coulson ignored him, narrowing his eyes at his file as if it would help him absorb the information.

"In Germany, I had…"

Coulson yawned suddenly, snapping his file closed.

"I'm beat. I'm going to get some shut eye, Barton."

"Oh okay." Clint fell silent, watching as Coulson laid his head back and closed his eyes. It was actually fairly impressive, he thought. The older man seemed to fall asleep almost instantaneously.

Clint sat back in his own seat studying the picture of Tom Johanson. He was used to studying pictures. To memorizing everything about a person's face down to the smallest detail. Like the distance apart their eyes were set, the shape and size of their nose, the shape of their jaw, the number of creases in their forehead, and exact shade of their eyes, the shape and thickness of their eyebrows. He memorized everything, knowing he'd need to react in an instant to make a hit. He needed to be able to recognize the target without conscious thought.

So he studied and memorized every line and contour of Tom Johanson's face, so when the moment came for him to squeeze that trigger, he wouldn't have to think.

---

"Come look at this map." Coulson instructed as he spread the map across the small table in their tiny apartment. Clint had a hard time believing something this small was an official SHIELD safe house, but Coulson insisted it was.

Clint carefully placed the sniper rifle back on the carpet in front of him and laid out his cleaning tools next to it. He pushed himself up from his cross-legged position and moved over to look at the map.

"Our resource says Johanson is here." Coulson circled an area between two side streets. "Satellite footage." Coulson tossed a stack of 8x10 black and white photos on top of the map. Clint picked them up and examined them closely.

"Entrances in the front and back." Clint observed, putting the photos aside and studying the map.

"What do you think?" Coulson asked.

Clint accepted Coulson's pencil when he offered it stared hard at the map again. He slowly drew a large circle around Coulson's mark.

"That's about a kilometer and a half, the best we can expect from the rifle we brought with the environmental conditions forecasted. With only front and back entrances…" he drew a very thin X with the cross going through Coulson's mark. He shaded in the thin triangles of space on the right and left side of where Johanson's building was located. "I need to do some scouting before I can choose a vantage point."

"Our resource in the area says Johanson will be leaving the country in two days on a boat. We don't know what port or his destination. Your best shot is when he's leaving the building that day. That gives you less than 48 hours to pick your perch."

Clint nodded, still studying the map.

"You up for some sightseeing?" He smirked up at his handler.

"I've been told the kimchi in this country is good." Coulson smirked back.

---

"This is it." Clint announced over his comms as he moved to the edge of the rooftop.

"It's only the third building you've scouted, are you sure?" Coulson replied from where he was casually reading a newspaper in a local restaurant half a block away.

"I'm about to scope it and I'll let you know." Clint replied, even as he pulled out a hand held scope. He dropped to his stomach and held the device up to his eye.

"Well?"

"Perfect line of sight to the front door. I've got a flag in my peripheral that I can use to measure wind speed."

"Okay then."

"Can we get some food now?"

---

"Barton?" Coulson announced himself as he approached Clint where he was sitting on the farthest corner of the roof to their safe house, tossing a rubber ball between his hands. Clint glanced at him over his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Couldn't." Clint admitted. He watched Coulson sit next to him out of the corner of his eye.

"Can I ask why?"

"I never could sleep before a hit." Clint shrugged. "Not everything is different apparently."

Coulson nodded in understanding, relieved it wasn't another nightmare that kept his agent up.

"The important things are, though." He reminded.

"Yeah." Clint agreed. "Johanson really do all that stuff in his file?"

"Yes."

"Fury said to take him out with prejudice. What does that mean?"

"It means that this guy deserves worse than a bullet to the brain, unfortunately that's all we're allowed to give him, so we give it with prejudice." Coulson explained, "Meaning we savor every moment of this mission and take pride in the fact that we were the ones to end this evil son of a bitch."

"I like that." Clint smirked.

"Something told me you would." He eyed the blue rubber ball in Clint's hands. "Where'd you get that?"

"Found it."

"Where?"

"In one of the buildings I scouted. The one I said looked like it had squatters."

"So you took it?"

"What good was it doing sitting there all by itself, no one to bounce it? No good, that's what. I liberated it."

"Fascinating."

"The ball?"

"No, the reasoning your mind comes up with sometimes."

---

"The disturbance I've arranged will force him to use the front door. He should be coming down any minute. Are you set?"

Clint stretched his neck and lowered his head to look through his scope. He shifted slightly, settling the rifle more comfortably against his shoulder.

"Set. Think we can get permission for a quick field trip when we get back?"

"What kind of field trip?"

"Retrieval. I hate using someone else's rifle."

He thought he heard Coulson mutter something about temperamental snipers.

"You have a rifle of your own?"

"In a storage locker in South Dakota along with a few other odds and ends."

"Like?"

"Maybe if you're a good little spy I'll show you."

"Eyes on target." Coulson announced suddenly. "He noticed the blocked rear exit, he's headed to the front. Exit on my mark…10…"

Clint licked his lips and glanced at the flag to his left. He made a quick calculation in his head and then a minor adjustment for a change in the wind.

"5."

Clint blew out a deep breath and closed the eye not looking through the scope. He brushed his index finger along the trigger.

"3…2…1…mark."

Tom Johanson appeared in his crosshairs.

"Got him."

He fired and watched Johanson's head explode.

"Target down, confirm."

"Confirmed. Nice shot, Hawk. Bug out, I'll meet you at the house."

"You got it."

---

Coulson had been watching Johanson through the reflection of a window and he dove for cover like everyone else when the back of the man's head exploded half a breath after he'd walked out the door.

One shot, one kill. 'Atta boy, Barton.

He stood, sliding towards the back exit as chaos erupted around him. He tapped off his ear piece as Clint confirmed his directive and stepped into the back alley. The gang fight that had been taking place thirty seconds ago was inexplicably absent, save for one man. Coulson slid a wad of bills into the man's hand without making eye contact and strode out of the alley.

---

Coulson shot Clint a warning glare.

"Sorry." Clint smiled sheepishly. "Won't happen again."

Coulson went back to his file.

Clint cocked his head at the X drawn on the wall.

Coulson had shot him an exasperated look when Clint had managed to sit still all of two minutes before stealing Coulson's pen and drawing an X on the wall. He'd stared blankly the first time Clint threw the ball, ricocheting it off four separate surfaces before it bounced against the center of the X and back into his hand. Coulson had just looked back down at his file, unconcerned, after that.

It was Fury's fault, really. He was late to their de-brief. Clint thought he was doing it on purpose, Coulson had no comment on the matter.

Clint had accidently on purpose bounced the ball right onto Coulson's file, the reason for the warning glare. He wouldn't do it again, but he had wanted to see what his handler would do. He'd smirked when Coulson didn't even flinch, just raised his scolding glare calmly.

Clint threw the ball.

A few seconds later, it bounced into the X and back into his hand. He carried on with his game for fifteen more minutes until Coulson suddenly reached out and caught the ball before Clint could.

"Sit."

Clint did, just in time for Fury to push the door open and stride in.

"What? Were your Spidey-senses tingling?" He whispered. Another warning glare had him shutting his mouth.

"Report, Barton."

"We arrived in North Korea at 1600 hours local time and proceeded to the safe house…" Clint outlined the mission down to the most finite detail and then Coulson did the same from his point of view.

"Target was retired at 0732 yesterday morning." Clint finished.

"Excellent work, gentlemen." Fury nodded, standing from his seat. He hesitated briefly before addressing Clint again. "Barton, the Council wants to meet you. Report to the control room in one hour." And then he swept out of the room with no further explanation.

"The Council?" Clint frowned, glancing at Coulson.

"The governing body of SHIELD." His handler explained with a frown of his own.

"Why are you frowning?" Clint demanded.

"It's not the habit of the council to demand an audience with an agent, especially not a new agent."

"So why are they?"

"I don't know." Coulson admitted, his brow furrowed worriedly.

"I really wish you didn't look so worried. It's making me nervous."

"I'm sure it's nothing." Coulson assured, schooling his features expertly.

"Yeah that was reassuring."

---

Clint blinked patiently at the door separating him and Coulson from the large TV screens that Coulson had told him the Council appeared on. Coulson stood next to him, equally calm.

"He's testing me isn't he?" Clint asked, staring at the door. "My patience?"

"Director Fury does nothing without a purpose."

"That's Coulson speak for 'yes' isn't it?"

"Yes."

Clint nodded.

"Thought so."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Coulson?"

Phil glanced at him questioningly. Clint turned his head to meet his eyes.

"You'd tell me if I should be worried, right?" He asked quietly.

Coulson didn't get a chance to answer, because the door slid open and Fury beckoned them in with a sharp 'enter!'. Coulson led the way into the room.

The Council was already tuned in and Clint resisted the urge to retreat at the dark and suspicious glares he was getting from them. Apparently his shady reputation preceded him. A guy has one year working as a hit man and nobody ever lets him live it down.

"Clint Barton, it has come to our attention that you have a unique skill set, unlike any other agent."

Clint stepped forward when Coulson nudged him.

"I guess you could say that." He allowed.

"We have a mission for you."

Clint blinked and felt Coulson tense behind him. A quick glance at Fury showed the Director to be scowling deeply.

"I'm technically not cleared for active duty." Clint pointed out carefully.

"Did you or did you not just shoot Tom Johanson in the North Korea." Something about the man's tone rubbed Clint the wrong way. He hardened his gaze.

"That's classified." Clint taunted. The man glowered at him, Clint smirked.

"Agent Barton is on probation and cannot actively accept missions." Coulson stepped to stand at Clint's shoulder. "The Johanson op was a special circumstance requiring his specific skill set."

"We're overturning Agent Barton's probation and assigning him the Orion mission." The spokesman of the Council stated.

Clint frowned in confusion when Coulson stiffened.

"I formally request to serve as operational support on location." His handler bit out sharply.

"Denied."

"Excuse me?" Fury stalked forward, standing on Clint's other side. "These two agents are under my command and I can assign them as I wish. Agent Coulson is Agent Barton's handler and as such it is his prerogative to be on location for a mission of such sensitive nature. It would do the Council well not to overstep the realm of their authority."

Barton forced himself not to stare at Fury in slack jawed shock.

"Fine." The council member snapped. "The Orion Mission won't be made operational for three more weeks. We're still in the process of acquiring a suitable safe house. I suggest you use your time to prepare for the monumental task that lay ahead of you." Abruptly the screens all went black.

"What the hell?" Clint looked to Coulson in surprise. "What just happened?"

"They just assigned you a mission."

"Can they do that?"

"Yes." Fury frowned. "Coulson, read him in on Orion and use these next three weeks to get him ready. Barton, I hope you're ready for a trial by fire." He strode out of the room.

"Why do people keep saying creepy stuff like that?" Clint frowned. "What's Orion? Why do you and Fury look like someone just made you swallow strychnine?"

"Come with me." Coulson ordered, leading the way out of the control room. He didn't respond to Clint's continued questions until they were closed into Briefing Room 2.

"What the hell is going on?" Clint demanded in frustration.

"Orion is one of the most covert missions we have on file. It is highly sensitive and very dangerous."

"What is it?"

"There's a compound, in the Andes Mountains, until now we've only ever been able to get satellite footage. The one team we've ever sent in was all killed."

"Who's there?"

Coulson ran a hand down his face.

"We believe it to be a HYDRA compound."

"HYDRA." Clint repeated blankly.

"Nazi group during World War Two." Coulson explained. "Captain America supposedly wiped them off the face of the planet."

"Captain America."

"Didn't you read the information in the SHIELD database that I assigned you?"

"I did. I'm just," Clint paused, trying to decide what word was best, "processing."

"Anyway, we believe that compound is host to an attempt to resurrect HYDRA."

"In the Andes." Clint stated without inflection.

"They couldn't very well do it in Germany. We'd be all over them."

"And why don't you just bomb the compound?" Clint asked, scooting to sit on the table.

"The compound is at a high altitude with snow year round. There's a village just two miles down the mountain from them. Too much of a risk of an avalanche for something we don't even know for certain."

Clint sighed, closing his eyes as he thought. It was a lot to absorb.

"What am I supposed to do, shoot arrows at them, something tells me that wouldn't be too effective."

"No. The Orion Mission is a conditional operation. The first part is observation, if you confirm they are trying to resurrect HYDRA and not just some cult that likes the mountains, then the mission progresses to phase 2."

"Which is?" Clint was almost afraid to ask.

"Destroy the base and everyone in it."

"Without accidently laying waste to the little village two miles away." Clint shook his head. "That's impossible."

"I know." Coulson agreed. He met Clint's eyes seriously when the teen looked up at him in surprise. "That's why we're going to need a hell of a plan."

---

"And this couldn't wait until after we got back?" Coulson asked as he parked their rented SUV in front of the storage locker Clint had directed him to.

"I told you. I don't like using someone else's rifle." Clint reminded as he climbed out of the SUV and moved to the locker. He twisted the combination lock and pulled it off. Then with one swift movement he slid the door up.

"Is that a motorcycle?"

"That's my Ducati." Clint ran his fingers along the handle bars of his black motorcycle and moved deeper into the locker.

He pulled a long black case off a shelf and brought it forward.

"That it?"

"Custom modified Accuracy International AS50." Clint announced, setting the rifle case on the hood of the SUV and opening it. "I hit a target at two and a half kilometers with this baby once. Granted the environmental conditions were damn near perfect, but I still nailed the son of a bitch in the temple."

He ran his fingers lovingly over the cool metal.

"Why is it here? You didn't have it on you when I recruited you."

"I stopped bringing it with me on contracts a couple months in, the bow was my calling card."

Coulson nodded.

"We're coming back for my bike after this mission."

Coulson dipped his head in agreement and Clint closed the case, slipping it into the backseat of the SUV. He returned to the locker and pulled it closed, snapping the lock back into place.

"Let's hit the road. I've got to give that beautiful piece of machinery some tender loving care if she's going to cooperate for me. I've been neglecting her."

Coulson shook his head, somehow not at all shocked that his agent had personified the weapon. He turned the SUV back in the direction of the airport, not entirely sure how he'd been convinced to fly to South Dakota just to retrieve a gun.

 

Chapter Text

The wings of hope carry us, soaring high above the driving winds of life.

Ana Jacob

---

Clint winced in pain, shifting against the cold concrete floor and pressing against the bullet wound in his side even though it hurt so bad saying it 'hurt like hell' didn't quite seem to cover it. He leaned his sweaty forehead against the arm he had supporting his head and squeezed his eyes closed, forcing his battered, exhausted mind to block out the German voices on the other side of the cell bars and to focus on Coulson's voice in his ear as he remembered how he'd gotten into this situation.

---

Two Days Ago…

---

"I don't like it." Clint complained, running his tongue over the comm. device that had been implanted in his molar.

"You just need to get used to it." Coulson assured, gathering his things as their jet landed in a small airport in the Andes. They'd be taking a helicopter to their secure safe house seven miles from their target.

"It hurts."

"That's because it's implanted in your tooth. The pain will fade."

"If you say so." Clint frowned, shouldering his pack and quiver and lifting his rifle case with his left hand. He followed Coulson out of the jet. Their helicopter was already waiting for them.

"You sure you remember how to fly this thing?" Coulson arched an eyebrow in Clint's direction.

"You were there when I learned, Coulson, two weeks ago." Clint rolled his eyes.

"That was a controlled environment. This is the Andes Mountains."

Clint put his gear in the storage area and started walking around the helicopter, doing his pre-flight checks. When he was done, he pulled himself up into the pilot seat glancing at Coulson who was sitting in the co-pilot's seat.

"Oh man, Coulson, look at all these buttons, I can't remember what they're all for!" He mocked as he flipped various switches and did system checks, "I wonder what this does." He pushed the engine starter button, listening as the machine sputtered to life. He smirked, "Lucky guess."

"You're hilarious." Coulson glared dryly.

"I know." Clint smiled, pulling on his head seat, Coulson did the same. "Let's get this show on the road."

As they moved over the mountains a few minutes later, Clint glanced over at the older agent.

"Do I get to learn to fly the quinjets?"

"Let's focus on getting through this mission first, then we'll talk about it." Coulson replied.

"Is that Coulson-speak for 'yes'?"

"It's Coulson-speak for 'maybe'."

Clint shrugged. He would take that. They were in the air for just over thirty minutes when Clint put them down in the large field next to their safe house. Their altitude was high and snow covered the ground. While Clint did his post-flight checks, filled out the flight log, and covered the helicopter with a tarp, Coulson carried their gear into the safe house.

Clint joined him a few minutes later.

"How can we have a safe house so close to their compound and they don't know about it?"

"Intelligence suggests they don't often leave the compound, which is where we'll find our advantage."

"Time for some scouting?" Clint suggested.

"Eat something first, then you can go look around and I'll get us up and running here."

"Sounds like a plan." Clint agreed. "Tell me you brought more than MREs."

"Sorry."

"Man," Clint complained, pulling one of the ready to eat meals and collapsing down on his designated cot. "I really need to learn to cook. Or you could, since you're the handler."

"In what world does that mean I need to cook for you?"

"My world."

"You want better food, learn to cook."

"Yeah, okay, in all my spare time."

"You never know what kind of training a mission will call for." Coulson shrugged cryptically.

Clint smiled, hearing the unspoken promise.

"So our master plan…" Clint trailed off meaningfully.

"Once you get the lay of the land, we'll set up a surveillance routine and figure out exactly what we're dealing with. If we need to, we'll figure something out when the time comes."

Clint nodded. Trusting Coulson's plan to create a plan. He chewed thoughtfully on his dinner.

"You sure you don't want to scout with me?"

"I need to get our comms up and the security for this place up and running."

"Fine." Clint frowned petulantly. "I'll go freeze my ass off by myself."

"I'll make you some hot chocolate." Coulson compromised.

"I'm not a child, Coulson, you can't make everything better with hot chocolate." Clint rolled his eyes dramatically, "Unless it has those tiny marshmallows, that's a different story."

"Finish your dinner." Coulson instructed, dutifully ignoring Clint's rambling, but smiling where the agent couldn't see.

---

Clint jumped when Coulson's voice suddenly sounded in his ear.

"Comm check."

"Loud and clear." Clint replied easily, shifting in his tree. He repositioned his binoculars as he looked at the compound.

"How's it looking?"

"Pretty quiet."

"You find the compound."

"Yup." Clint lowered the binoculars. "Something's not right. There's not a lot of movement. I don't get it."

"It's cold, they're probably inside. Are there guards?"

"Yeah, at each entry point…" He raised the binoculars again, focusing on one of the guards. He watched the man raise a hand held radio to his lips and nearly fell out of his tree when he heard the crackling of the receiving radio not twenty yards to his left. "Shit." He whispered, flattening his back against the tree trunk and quieting his breathing.

"Hawkeye?"

Clint stared through the trees, his lungs seizing when he saw two men walking through the trees in his direction. He looked at the ground, tremendously glad he'd moved to this tree directly from another one when he'd realized it had a better line of sight. That meant there were no footprints below him to give him away. He contemplated briefly just pulling his bow and shooting them. But then they'd be missed, and there was a good chance they would pass right by him without knowing he was there.

"Barton?"

He held his breath as the men drew closer to his tree. They stopped below him, chatting amicably in heavily accented English.

"So I told him he could go to hell." One of them was saying. The other one scowled.

"And that comment got us assigned to walk to the village and get supplies. Well done, Luca."

The wind gusted through the trees, blowing some snow off the branch Clint was crouching on and sending it fluttering down onto the two men's heads.

Clint mouthed 'shit' to himself and prayed to anyone who was listening that they didn't look up.

As if just to spite him, both men casually glanced up then back down. Clint knew the exact moment they realized they hadn't just seen a tree, they'd seen something in the tree. They both looked up again, slowly.

Clint met their eyes for a split second before he moved. He dropped, landing on Luca's back. He snapped the man's neck in one swift movement and pushed him away as he fell. Clint landed in a crouch, kicking away the gun the second man was raising. He pulled his combat knife from where it was sheathed on the chest of his vest and attacked. The man was still in a shocked stupor, Clint had pulled the knife across the man's throat before he could even process that Clint had moved.

"BARTON! Report!"

"Two men." Clint rubbed his forehead roughly. "They were headed to the village and stopped under the tree I was in. They looked up."

"Are they both down?"

"Yes."

"Good…" Coulson trailed off suddenly and the hair on the back of Clint's neck stood up. "You said they stopped?"

"Yeah."

"For no reason?"

Clint stiffened as a voice rose from behind him.

"Sorry! I drank a whole gallon of coffee this morning." The man was laughing. Clint spun, reaching for his bow where it was stored in the small of his back. He snapped it out into full form even as he reached for an arrow.

The other man had stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene in front of him. He brought up his gun and fired at the same time Clint did.

Bullets travel faster than arrows.

Clint shouted in pain as the lead tore into his side and forced his body to double over. The shooter fell a moment later with a puff of snow, an arrow sprouting from his throat.

"Barton!"

"I'm hit." Clint gasped out even as he collapsed his bow and stored it before taking off in a run. "God damn it."

"How bad?"

"Through and through to the right side."

"I'm on my way."

"Coulson, somebody would have heard that shot."

"Then haul your ass, Hawkeye."

"Sir, yes, sir." Clint hissed in his usual mocking tone, pushing himself into an all out sprint.

---

Clint stumbled against a tree, his hand pressing into his side. He was still at least five miles from the safe house. Coulson had to be closing in. Unfortunately, Clint could hear the pursuing men behind him. And they were getting closer. He just couldn't run as fast as usual with a bullet wound, go figure.

"Where are you?" Coulson demanded.

"At least five miles out."

"I'm a mile and a half away. Just keep moving."

Clint pushed himself off the tree and soldiered on. He'd only gotten a quarter of a mile before a voice was yelling at him to stop.

"Do not move!" more accented English.

Clint froze, slowly raising his hands out from his body to show he wasn't a threat. He heard multiple guns cocking and knew he wouldn't be able to get his bow out before they turned him to swiss cheese. He waited for the inevitable, but it didn't come. Instead footsteps drew slowly closer to him. His mind raced.

"They aren't shooting me." He whispered.

"I'm almost there." Coulson assured.

"It's too late. I think they want me alive." He murmured, licking his dry lips.

"Barton…"

"I can take it." Clint assured. "Just don't let me die in there."

"I'll get you out. I promise, Barton."

"Phil, don't you think it's about time you called me Clint?" The archer fell silent as the men behind him drew close enough that they would be able to hear. A boot slammed into the back of one of his legs, sending him to his knees. He was roughly slammed to the ground after that and his bow and quiver were ripped from his back. A thin rope was used to bind his hands back and then he was yanked back up to his knees.

"American?" The apparent leader demanded.

"Nazi?" Clint shot back.

"Spy?"

"Can you use more than one word at a time, or is that too much of a challenge?"

"Clint, shut the hell up." Coulson barked in his ear.

He acknowledged that Coulson may have a point when a meaty fist slammed into his temple and turned his lights out.

---

Coulson watched Clint go limp from where he was concealed behind a thick tree. Two men grabbed his arms and proceeded to drag him back the way they'd come, leaving his legs to bump along the uneven, snowy surface.

Coulson leaned his back against the tree, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He pushed away the panic. He pushed away the fear. Instead he let the anger and determination take root. He would get his agent back. He would need a hell of a plan to do it, but he would do it.

He headed back to the safe house quickly.

I'm coming, Clint.

---

Clint flinched awake when cold water hit him in the face with a splash. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to figure out what had happened. He was in a wooden chair, his hands secured behind his back. His side felt like it was on fire. His head was pounding, from either bloodloss or a concussion. At this point he figured it might even be both.

"Open your eyes, Spy." A thick German accented voice demanded.

Clint wanted to clench his eyes shut forever, just to be obstinate, but until he had a better handle on the situation, he probably shouldn't make too many waves.

"Not a spy." He insisted, wishing his voice was stronger than it was.

"Not spy?" The man laughed. "Okay. What spy would use this weapon anyway?" He held up Clint's bow. "Who are you, Robin Hood?" He laughed again.

Clint glared. That guy was going to die for putting his grubby hands on his weapon.

"Why are you here?" The man asked.

"I'm a professional builder of snowmen and nothing beats the snow in the Andes." Clint replied before he even processed that he was going to speak.

"Barton?"

"Snow men?"

"You know," Clint really didn't think he should keep talking, but his mouth didn't really seem to care what he thought, "White, fat, pointy noses." He tilted his head to the side curiously, "Kind of like Pillsbury Dough Boy over there." He nodded at a larger man in the back of the room.

"What the hell are you doing? Keep your mouth shut!"

Clint figured he should have expected the punch.

He knew he should stop, zip his mouth closed and wait for Coulson to come and get him. But he didn't. Because shooting his mouth off at these guys made him feel like he hadcontrol of something in this situation. Even if it was just a measure of control over when they hit him.

"Just hang in there, Clint, I've got a plan."

Clint raised his eyes back to his captors, not even trying to restrain the near hysterical laughter that bubbled from his throat at the terribly serious and stern looks on their faces.

"Why are you laughing?" The leader demanded, slapping an open backhand across Clint's mouth. Clint spit out the blood that rose and laughed anew.

"It's just funny." He turned his gray-blue eyes to the leader. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

"A filthy American spy!" The man spat.

"You must really have shit for brains, Shit for Brains." Clint bit out. "You already said it. What kind of spy uses a bow and arrow?" He laughed again, "Think about it."

"What are you doing, Barton?" Coulson demanded.

He saw the exact moment it clicked together in the man's head.

"Hawkeye."

"Congratulations, you aren't completely useless." Clint mocked.

"Why are you here?" the man demanded.

"Why am I ever anywhere?" Clint replied, suddenly serious and leaving his implication hanging. The man's eyes flashed with fear for just a moment before anger took over. But Clint saw it and he smirked.

"You better start thinking long and hard about who wants you dead, Shit for Brains." Clint settled back in his chair like he didn't have a care in the world. "Because you can kill me, but the contract will still be out there."

"Who hired you?" Shit for Brains shouted, reaching out and clenching his hand hard around Clint's jaw.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Clint mocked, laughing again as Shit for Brains paced away angrily. "What's with all the English anyway? Ashamed of your roots?"

"I am ashamed of nothing." Shit for Brains turned back, smiling himself now. "We practice, so we may blend in when we move into your United States."

"Victor…" One of the men gaped.

"What? He is a dead man anyway? Who is he going to tell? The rats?" Victor, Clint still thought Shit for Brains was more appropriate, laughed. He stepped up to Clint again. "You willtell me who hired you, Hawkeye." He whispered before swinging his fist in a hard closed back hand. The momentum knocked Clint and his chair over. He grunted as he hit the concrete floor, clenching his jaw tightly as the hole in his side screamed in protest, reminding him vividly that it hadn't been treated, was still bleeding, and didn't like being knocked around.

Two of Victor's men pulled him back up, cutting the rope on his wrists and shoving him into the corner of the cell. They took the chair with them when they left and pulled the metal barred door closed with a clang. He listened to their voices retreat, and allowed himself to curl in on himself.

"Coulson?" He whispered, pressing his hand into his side.

"I thought it was Phil now."

Clint smiled, leaning his head back against the concrete wall.

"Sit rep." Coulson sounded almost gentle.

"Still shot." Clint grumbled.

"Still bleeding?"

"Yeah."

"Do something about it." Coulson ordered sharply. Clint blinked and pulled at his t-shirt. They'd taken his vest and jacket. He stifled a groan as he pulled it over his head. He used the hole from the bullet to help him rip it. It took him just a few minutes to have it in strips. He folded two of them up into pads and used the rest of them to bind those pads to both sides of the hole in his body.

"Done." He breathed, exhausted from the effort.

"Are you hurt anywhere else? I know they didn't just smile pleasantly with you running your mouth at them."

"Just showed me some old fashioned hospitality." Clint muttered, something about his pride not wanting to admit they'd knocked him around so easily.

"Hospitality, huh?" Coulson seemed to know exactly what he was not saying. "Okay. What have you learned?"

"They're planning something in the States."

"Are you sure?"

"Unfortunately. We need to burn this place to the ground, Phil. Tell me you've got a plan."

"I've got a plan, but it's going to take some time."

"Well I bought you some."

"I heard. He thinks you're there to kill him for a contract."

"Now he's busy trying to figure out who wants him dead."

"And he's got a reason to keep you alive." Phil sighed, "That was some slick thinking, kid."

Clint grinned tiredly, absently running his tongue across the communicator implanted in his tooth. He didn't mind it so much anymore. Especially because it gave him a lifeline to Coulson that would be hard for them to take away. He didn't quite understand exactly how it worked, but he knew that Coulson could only hear what he said, not what anyone around him said, something about the way the transmitter worked. He also didn't know how a device in his tooth made him able to hear Coulson. The techs had rolled their eyes at him when he'd asked.

"It also makes him think you know something he needs to know. He's going to try and persuade you to share."

"I can take it."

"Okay." Coulson allowed. "I'm coming, Clint." He promised.

"I know, Phil." Clint sighed, leaning his head back against the wall again. "I know."

---

Clint gasped as they pulled his head out of the tub of water. He coughed, struggling against the hands holding his shoulders, keeping him on his knees.

"Who hired you?" Victor asked calmly.

"Your mother." Clint laughed.

Victor nodded to the men holding him. He had time to suck in a breath before his face was submerged in the water again.

"Six minutes and twenty six seconds, Clint. You can hold your breath for six minutes and twenty six seconds. Just stay calm. They won't hold you under that long."

Clint listened to his handler and counted in his head, using it as something to focus his mind and keep him from panicking.

He gasped when they pulled him up at 3 minutes and 41 seconds.

"Who sent you?" Victor growled.

"Who do you think?" Clint drawled. Hoping to pull someone to the forefront of Victor's mind. They needed to know if he was working with anyone, if there was anyone else they needed to add to their list. The frustrated confusion in Victor's eyes told him the compound was independent and Victor had no idea who would want him dead. Clint breathed a sigh of relief.

"You will tell me."

"Oh you think so?" Clint laughed. "You think I haven't been caught before? You think I haven't been sitting in a shit hole like this with an asshole like you asking me who's cutting my check?"

It was a bluff. He hadn't ever been caught by a mark. Ninety-nine percent of the time his marks didn't even know he was coming until it was too late. He needed to sell it, though, so he smirked arrogantly.

"And I didn't get the reputation I have by not finishing what I came to do even when I'm in a shit hole like this, with an asshole like you."

Victor's eyes hardened and Clint smiled even as his head was forced down once again.

---

Clint winced in pain, shifting against the cold concrete floor and pressing against the bullet wound in his side even thought it hurt so bad saying it 'hurt like hell' didn't seem to cover it. He leaned his sweaty forehead against the arm he had supporting his head and squeezed his eyes closed, forcing his battered, exhausted mind to block out the German voices on the other side of the cell bars as they argued about who could have sent Clint to kill their leader.

He thought about the last two days and how he'd gotten in this situation. His whole body ached, not only from the beatings he'd taken, but from the vicious fever that had taken hold. Heat pulsed from the bullet wound on his side and he knew without looking that he had an infection sinking its claws into him.

"Clint? Answer me damn it!"

Clint flinched.

"Phil?"

"You answer me when I call you, understood?" The words were sharp, but Clint could hear poorly hidden worry in his handler's tone. He must have called his names a few times.

"I'm not doing so hot, Phil." Clint breathed, groaning as a wave of pain crashed through his body.

"I'm getting close, Clint. I just need four more hours."

"Infection." Clint informed bluntly. Coulson was silent for a moment.

"Where the hell is the Hawk I found in an alley in Vienna?"

"What?" Clint frowned.

"That Hawkeye had a bullet in his shoulder, a concussion, and had nearly been garroted…and he still had it in him to try and kick my ass across the alley."

"You kicked my ass." Clint pointed out dryly, curling his body a little more.

"I said you tried, not that you succeeded." Coulson explained. "My point is that the Hawkeye I know doesn't give up, he doesn't back down, and he sure as hell doesn't let an asshole like Shit for Brains get the best of him."

"You saying I'm stubborn?" Clint managed a weary smile, forcing himself to sit up. He ended up collapsed in the corner, but he wasn't lying down anymore, not for these guys.

"I'm saying you're the most bullheaded, rash, and exhausting person I've ever met."

"Awe, Coulson, that's touching."

"You're also the best agent I've ever had the privilege of knowing. And I know these guys won't win, because you won't let them."

"Okay." Clint nodded a little. "Do your thing, Overwatch, I'll do mine."

"Four hours, Clint."

"I can take it." Clint steeled himself.

"Who are you talking to?" a man was suddenly at his cell door.

Clint stared at him dumbly for a moment.

"My head," He tried to explain, "Concussion…I'm talking to myself."

The man didn't look convinced. He pulled the radio off his belt.

"Victor."

"What is it?"

"He's talking to someone."

"We checked him for communicators, you said you didn't find any."

"I didn't, but I didn't do a sweep for frequencies."

"I'm on my way."

The man motioned to someone out of sight. Two other men appeared at the door, one of them carrying the damn wooden chair. Clint steeled himself and when one of the men grabbed his arm to pull him up from the floor.

Something in him snapped.

Whether it was Coulson's encouraging words or his own internal stubbornness, he wasn't going quietly anymore. He lashed out. An open palm to the solar plexus doubled the man to a more manageable level. He put one hand on the man's chin and the other on the crown of his head.

And he twisted. Sharply.

The crack of bones broke the silence in the room and Clint acknowledged immediately he'd just made a mistake. He immediately raised his hands and didn't try to dodge the swift fist to the bullet wound on his side.

He cried out in pain, collapsing to his knees. He was only able to rest there for a moment before he was being pulled up and dropped in the chair. As his hands were secured behind his back, Victor strode into the room. The leader took one look at Clint, then at the dead man on the floor. He raised questioning eyebrows to his other two men.

They shrugged, almost simultaneously. Clint would have laughed if he hadn't been completely distracted by the flaming sword that seemed to be jammed into his side. Victor motioned for the men to get rid of the body. Then he turned to Clint, pulling a device the size of a cell phone out of his jacket pocket.

"Do you know what this is?" Victor asked.

"I bet you're gonna tell me." Clint managed to force out.

"It's a device that scans for transmitting frequencies. I will find your communication device."

"What device?"

"Who are you in communication with?"

"I'm not in communication with anyone." Clint denied, watching with forced calm as Victor turned on the device and brought it towards Clint's head.

"Clint…" Coulson sounded for the first time since Clint had known him like he didn't know what to say.

Clint glared straight at Victor when the device lit up as it hovered next to the left side of his jaw.

"Interesting." Victor smiled darkly. "Open his mouth."

A steel like grip locked on his jaw, forcing it open as Victor slipped the device back into his pocket. He pulled out a small flashlight and clicked it on, turning it to shine into Clint's mouth. Clint darkened his gaze, trying not to show the fear he was feeling. Victor's eyes lit up suddenly.

"Ivan, go find Josef and ask him if we may borrow some pliers."

Ivan, presumably, left quickly but the grip on his jaw didn't waver.

"Are you fond of the dentist, Hawkeye?"

Clint glared.

"I, personally, despise the practice." Victor continued conversationally, "No matter how many times they tell you it will not hurt, it always does." Ivan practically sprinted back into the room, handing a grungy pair of pliers to Victor.

Clint tried to pull away, but the grip on his jaw was unrelenting. Victor pushed the pliers into his mouth and the archer exhaled sharply through his nose.

"I pleased to tell you, Hawkeye, that this will hurt very badly." Victor smiled darkly as he closed the pliers around Clint's molar.

Clint determination not to show pain or weakness lasted for the next ten seconds. Then Victor adjusted his grip and really started pulling.

Clint couldn't help it then. At that point nothing mattered but the pain.

And he screamed.

---

"Clint…" Coulson knew what was going to happen. He knew there was no way he or Clint could stop it. There was nothing he could say. He listened, straining to hear anything as he pressed his finger against his ear piece like it would help.

Then Clint screamed and Coulson felt like the ground dropped out beneath him. He dropped down in the nearest chair. Then it stopped. There was no tapering off, no gradual silence; it just ended, suddenly and abruptly.

Coulson pulled his ear piece out of his ear and threw it angrily away.

"The last of the villagers have made it safely to the road."

Coulson looked up at the leader of the small village two short miles from the compound.

"I suggest you join your people." He advised, pulling his open duffle towards him. He stared at the bars of C-4 for a moment and then zipped the bag shut sharply.

I'm coming Clint.

Chapter Text

Hope is knowing that people, like kites, are made to be lifted up.

Unknown

---

Clint rested his head against his arm with a sigh. He was pressed back in the farthest corner of the cell, his knees drawn up, and his elbows resting on them. His arms were bent back so he could cover his head with his hands. A small measure of comfort that he was hidden from view, but it made him feel better about the situation.

After unceremoniously having his molar ripped out of his mouth, he'd been left alone. He still had to spit blood onto the floor every few minutes when it pooled too much in his mouth.

Now all he could do was wait. He was honestly surprised shock hadn't set in, given the amount of blood he'd lost. He didn't even want to think about the hot and inflamed bullet wound on his side. It had stopped bleeding, but the makeshift bandage was stuck painfully to the wound. He hoped he wasn't awake when it was treated properly.

He sighed again, only slightly, because his ribs ached with the bruises he'd acquired during this ordeal. Coulson had said four hours. By Clint's count, two had passed. He let his head settle more deeply against his arms and closed his eyes.

He would just rest for a minute.

---

Coulson settled against a tree and looked at the compound through his binoculars. The biting cold was keeping everyone inside, but he was under no illusions that after discovering the communicator in Clint's tooth the men wouldn't be expecting a rescue. Coulson knew he needed to act quickly and carefully.

He'd scouted around the entire compound and found four entry points, each watched by the guard that was placed at each corner of the compound. Coulson had picked his point of entry carefully. He had good cover from the trees all the way up to the fence.

Coulson pulled out his detonator and raised his side arm to point at the guard protecting his entry point. Then, without wasting any more time Clint didn't have, he flipped up the button cover and pressed it. The fence on the opposite side of the compound exploded. Coulson had slipped just one small part of one bar of C-4 against the base of the fence while the guard had nodded off for barely a moment.

Coulson had fired in time with the explosion, masking the sound of his gun. The guard crumpled and Coulson moved. He scaled the fence, throwing his jacket over the spiraled barbed wire and levering his body quickly over and down the other side, dragging his jacket after him. He slipped it back on and sprinted to the side of the building, pressing his back against it next to the door.

When the door pushed open, he was ready. He slammed the butt of his side arm into the man's temple and he fell without a sound. Coulson slipped silently into the compound and pulled the door closed behind him.

He knelt, pulling his pack off and around to rest on the ground in front of him. He pulled out a wad of C-4, detonator already attached, and pressed it against the wall next to the door.

As he'd hoped, the explosion had drawn the HYDRA hopefuls to the other end of the building. Coulson moved quickly but carefully, placing small wads of C-4 on all the support walls he came across. He cursed in frustration as he hit a dead end and had to turn back. He didn't know the building's layout and he didn't know where Clint was. And it was slowing him down.

He only had ten minutes until the four hours he'd promised Clint ran out. He fished another detonator out of his bag, flipped up the button cover and pressed it. He heard another small explosion rock the compound, courtesy of the charge he'd laid in the tree line. He hoped it would buy him enough time.

---

It took him eight agonizing minutes to find the cell, one minute and seventeen seconds to kill the two guards outside it, ten seconds to grab Clint's bow and quiver, and seven seconds to use the key he found on one of the guards to open the door.

"Clint?" He called as he hurried to the slumped figure in the corner. It looked like Clint had been sitting up at one point, but had slid down the wall to lie on his side. He didn't even twitch at the sound of Coulson's voice.

Phil held his breath as he pressed his index and middle finger to the pulse point in the teen's neck. He felt the heat of the fever before he felt the thump of blood pumping. Fever meant life.

"Clint?" He called again, carefully scooping Clint's jaw in his hand and turning the teen's face towards him, hoping to get a flicker of a reaction. There was nothing. Blood had dried in a crude stain across his chin, the entire left side of his jaw was puffy and bruised looking, and his lips were cut and swollen.

The handler quickly found the bullet wound, trying to peel back the bandage. He realized quickly that wasn't going to happen unless he wanted to start the bleeding again. If Clint's ghostly pale complexion was anything to go by, the kid couldn't afford to lose anymore of the vital substance.

"Damn it." Coulson cursed, feeling the heat emitting from Clint's body. The fever was bad. He shifted Clint to lie on his back as gently as he could and then he took the teen's face between his hands. "Clint, wake up!" He barked in his most authoritative tone.

The bruised eyelids didn't even twitch.

"Barton!" He snapped, lightly tapping the teen's unswollen cheek.

Still nothing.

"God damn it, Clint! Wake up!" He demanded, shaking the unconscious boy's head a little.

There was a flicker.

Then two slivers of stormy grey and blue were locking on him through a tiny slit in his eyelids.

"Thank god." Coulson sighed. "Stay with me, Clint." He ordered.

Clint's mouth moved slightly, but Coulson didn't hear anything but a slight murmur.

"What?" He asked, leaning closer.

"You came."

It was then that he noticed Clint's right hand had found purchase on his jacket, and was holding a white knuckled grip.

"Of course I came." He assured warmly. He saw Clint's eyes drift closed again. "No, Clint! Stay awake! Damn it!" The teen was gone again. Coulson quickly pulled him up and over his shoulder into a fireman's carry, looping one arm between Clint's leg and using the same hand to hold Clint in place with a grip on his wrist. It would be hell for the bullet wound, but it was the best way to get him out of here quickly.

Coulson made sure he had Clint's quiver looped over his arm and made sure the bow was securely in its slot. Then he put his gun in his free hand and moved. He put a bullet in each of the four men that came between him and his exit. When he hit the open field, he ran, trying to ignore the way Clint bounced on his shoulder. He got to the fence and slide Clint down to rest against it. He set a tiny charge at its base, fixed the detonator to it, and scooped Clint up bridal style to move them away.

Once he was a safe distance, he pressed the button. The hole wasn't big, but it was enough. He brought Clint over to it and carefully put him through to the other side of the fence, climbing through after him. He shifted the boy back onto his shoulders and made for the cover of the trees, knowing the tiny explosion would have been heard and men would be coming to investigate.

When he'd gained some distance between them and the compound, he slid Clint down to rest against a tree, pulled at his final detonator and pressed the button. The dozen charges he'd set to that frequency blew simultaneously. He pulled out his binoculars and moved briefly away from Clint until he had a clear line of sight.

The compound was leveled. Anybody that had been inside or too close when the blast went off would be dead. Coulson scanned the area around the compound, hoping they'd catch a break.

No such luck.

There were men moving into the trees, towards his location. A few lucky survivors, he was sure, but it looked like one of them was the leader. He was barking at the other men and stomping after Coulson's tracks with gusto.

Damn it.

He sprinted back to Clint and shouldered him again. He moved as quickly as he could back to the safe house. He knew they'd be able to follow the trail he was leaving, but he had weapons at the safe house, and it was built to be unbreachable if the security protocols were put into effect.

He just had to get them there.

---

They were gaining, Coulson could hear them. They were moving more quickly than him, able to travel without the burden of a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight. Clint may be a smaller guy, but his body was all lithe muscle and that just made him heavy.

Well, at least if you had to carry him through a forest in the Andes mountains.

The safe house was in sight. He just needed to get Clint inside where he was safe and then he could deal with these men so intent on pursuing them. He hit the clearing between the trees and the small house at a run. When he reached the keypad that would give him access to the house, he saw the men pursuing them reach the edge of the tree line.

The keypad flashed green and the lock clicked. Coulson practically slammed the door open, lowering Clint to the floor almost immediately. He cradled the teen's head all the way to the hard floor and then moved quickly towards the weapon's locker.

Another access code later and he was pulling out an automatic assault rifle. The men were halfway across the clearing when he stepped out the door and opened fire. Two of the men dove for cover behind the small helicopter. The rest of them had raised their own weapons and were barely able to get off a few shots before one or more of Coulson's bullets ripped into them.

His magazine empty, Coulson stalked forward into the snow. The nearest man was pushing himself up from the ground, one leg riddled with bullets. Coulson chopped the butt of his rifle into the man's neck. He fell back, his mouth open in an eternal gasp.

The next man he came to was gasping with four bullets in his chest. Coulson picked up the man's gun and shot him once in the head.

The third man he'd shot was already back on his feet, gun up. Coulson ducked and moved to the side just as he fired. He heard the bullets hit metal. He looked over his shoulder to see several holes in the side of the helicopter.

"NO!" He growled, diving at the man. They hit the cold ground in a tangle of limbs. Coulson drove his elbow into the man's cheek, and then spun him around into a head lock. Then he squeezed and gave a final little twist, hearing the man's neck break.

The last man he came to had his taken a bullet to the throat and was already dead.

Coulson turned, facing the helicopter and the two men he knew were hidden behind it. He tilted his head, frowning when he saw only one pair of boots visible in the gap between the metal and the snow. An arrow suddenly whistled through the air six inches in front of his face. Coulson turned sharply to watch it fly, his eyes widening when he saw the missing man sneaking towards him from where he must have moved into the trees while Coulson was dealing with the rest of them.

The man fell back with a gurgle, arrow in his throat, his gun falling uselessly to the ground. Phil turned back towards the safe house in time to see Clint slide down the wall next to the door, his bow slipping from his grasp, and his eyes sliding shut as even as he fell.

"Clint!"

He ducked away from the sudden fire in his direction, moving to the tail of the helicopter. He slid around, his side arm drawn, but the last man wasn't there.

---

Victor quietly approached the fallen archer, raising his pistol.

Hawkeye's eyes opened slightly, blinking at him wearily. Then the archer smiled.

Victor froze when he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple.

"You must be Shit for Brains." Coulson nearly snarled.

"I am Victor." Victor replied firmly, "I am a revolutionar-"

His words were cut off, and his head snapped to the side as Coulson fired into his temple, point blank. He didn't even watch the man fall; he was already scooping Clint up in his arms bridal style and carrying him into the safe house.

When he lowered the now unconscious teen to the nearest cot, he immediately moved to retrieve the emergency medical supplies. There was a whole corner of the safe house dedicated to first aid. But the two things Clint really needed, blood and antibiotics, he didn't have. He had some antibiotic pills, but those would only do so much good.

Especially if Clint couldn't keep it down. Coulson wasn't holding his breath that he'd be able to.

He gathered sterile bandages and antiseptic, depositing them on the small table and then dragging it over next to Clint. Then he ran the water until it was hot, filled a large bowl with the steaming liquid, added it to the table and then brought all the towels in the safe house over to his crude workstation.

The first thing he did was soak two wash clothes in the water. While they rested in the bowl, he carefully rolled Clint onto his left side, so both sides of the bullet wound were accessible. He needed to get the crusted bandage off the teen's side, but he couldn't just pull it. So he pulled the washcloths out of the water, let them cool for a moment so they didn't burn the skin, and then he pressed them to both sides of the wound as gently as he could. He needed to loosen the hold the bandage had.

He carried on in this fashion, rewetting the cloths and placing them back on the soiled bandages, until he was able to peel the folded strips of t-shirt away.

He swallowed back the sudden fear the sight wound brought forth.

---

Coulson spent the next hour cleaning, irrigating, and disinfecting the wound. He scraped away the already dead tissue, and did his best to make the wound sterile. He couldn't stop the infection, but he could treat the wound and hopefully keep Clint alive until he got him to medical care.

When he finally had the wound packed and bandaged, he rolled Clint back onto his back. He went to the sink and filled a glass with luke-warm water and then stirred salt into it. He returned to Clint's side and set the glass on the table.

"Clint? Can you hear me?"

He tapped the archer's cheek gently.

There was an immediate flicker of response. Clint's eyes twitched open and he looked around wildly.

"Hey! Focus, Barton! I need you to sit up and gargle this." He instructed, already slipping his arm under Clint's shoulders. Clint nodded weakly. He didn't exactly help Coulson get him upright, but he didn't resist either.

Coulson slid behind him, bracing Clint's back against his chest and brought the glass of salt water to his lips.

"Don't swallow, just swish it around then spit it in this." He coached, bringing the bowl he'd retrieved just for this up onto Clint's lap.

Clint nodded again and opened his mouth willingly. Coulson helped him drink.

He groaned as he swished the salt water around his abused mouth.

"I know it hurts, but it'll help it heal." Coulson comforted quietly.

When he was satisfied he'd done all he could for Clint's tortured gum, he put the glass back on the table and pulled a water bottle towards him. Then he dumped an antibiotic pill out onto his hand.

"This is an antibiotic. It's the best we can do right now and I need you to swallow it and then try to eat something."

Clint nodded once more, let Coulson put the pill in his mouth and then swallowed it back with the water from the bottle. He coughed almost immediately, but kept the pill down.

Coulson gently laid him back and went to the MREs. He found a snack pack of bread. It wasn't much, but it was softer than a cracker. He tore it open as he moved back to Clint's side.

"I'm going to tear it up into small pieces so you don't have to chew."

It took thirty minutes for Clint to get the whole 3x3 square of bread down. He threw it all up less than two minutes later.

Coulson gave him a morphine shot after that and just let him sleep. Then he went to inspect the helicopter. He slid into the pilot's chair and looked at the control dashboard.

He didn't think smoke was a good sign. He flipped a few switches but there was nothing. The controls were, literally, shot.

"Damn it." He muttered. He didn't like to pilot, but he knew how. It had been their best shot at getting Clint to help. He didn't waste any more time in the chopper. He went back inside and to his computer. His satellite phone was sitting next to it. He dialed the SHIELD base.

"This is Agent Coulson, ID 2-3-5-9-8-7-Yankee-Tango, confirm the line is secure."

"Confirmed, Agent Coulson."

"Get me Fury."

---

Clint flinched awake when the door to the safe house opened. It was more the cold air from outside that woke him instead of the sound. He turned his head, watching through bleary eyes as Coulson moved around the room.

"Phil?" He was horrified that his voice came out weak and cracking.

Coulson turned to him and smiled.

"You're awake." He moved to Clint's side. "The helicopter is dead, but I got a call to Fury. He'll have a team here by dawn."

Clint nodded, letting his eyes drop closed again. He wondered if it was possible to feel hot and cold at the same time. He thought he might have sighed in relief when a cool cloth suddenly rested against his hot forehead.

Coulson watched Clint drift into sleep again and reached for the ear thermometer on the table. He carefully placed it in Clint's ear and pressed the button. When it beeped he pulled it out and looked at the readout.

102.8

Not good. Worse than it had been an hour ago when Coulson had checked it just before going out to deal with the bodies in the clearing.

"Just a few more hours, Clint." He whispered.

---

Clint slid in the mud as he ran, his sneakers creating a sucking sound as he pulled them from where they mud tried to steal them. He rounded the edge of the prop tent and pulled up short. His feet slid in the mud, unable to get traction to support his sudden stop.

He fell with a splat, but immediately pushed himself up, backing away from Swordsman as he advanced.

"Clint, Clint, Clint." The Swordsman shook his head, "Always too curious for your own good."

"You can't do this!" Clint snapped. "You can't steal from people and expect me to just look the other way!" He wiped blood out of his eyes, wincing as his hand brushed against darkening bruises on his face.

"We offered to cut you in, Clint, but you just had to be a little bitch about it."

Clint spun around, watching Barney come up behind him.

"You know what you have to do Barney." Swordsman pointed out sternly.

"Why'd you have to make me do this, Clint?" Barney frowned angrily, pulling a knife from his belt. "Why couldn't you just keep your mouth shut and join us."

Clint backed away from his brother and flinched as Swordsman grabbed him from behind.

"Barney…" Clint begged.

"I'm sorry, Baby Bro. But I've got to look out for myself now…" Barney whispered just before bringing the knife up and then down into Clint's chest. Clint stared in shock into his brother's eyes. Wishing to see something to tell him Barney really was sorry. That he didn't want to do this. But there was nothing like that there. There was only anger and hate.

When had his brother started hating him.

Swordsman released him and Clint dropped heavily to the mud, blinking at the rain that fell into his eyes.

"Hey! What's going on over there?" A voice yelled. Trickshot.

Swordsman and Barney were suddenly gone. Clint grasped weakly at the knife still protruding from his chest, acknowledging what he'd known for a long time now.

He was alone.

"Hey! Calm down, Clint! Breathe, damn it!"

Clint gasped, his eyes snapping open. He saw Barney, holding him down, holding a knife over his chest.

"I'm sorry, Baby Bro…"

"Barney!" Clint gasped, his hand going to his chest. He felt for the knife that wasn't there. Looked into Barney's angry, hateful eyes that weren't real. Then everything wavered.

Coulson was there for a half a breath, looking worried and confused, then he was gone.

Barney was glaring at him, bringing the knife towards his chest.

"You just had to be a little bitch about it."

"Please…Barney…" Clint gasped.

"Clint! Focus! Focus on my voice! It's not real!"

Coulson.

"He's not here. You're safe and nobody's going to hurt you."

Phil.

"Focus, Clint."

Clint blinked and Barney was gone. Coulson was hovering over him, his eyes wide and concerned. Clint's hand went again to his chest, his fingers brushing the rough scar.

"Are you with me?"

Clint nodded, his eyes suddenly burning.

"You're okay." Phil reached for something out of sight. Clint felt a prick in his leg a second later. "Just sleep, Clint. You're safe."

Clint slept.

---

Phil sat back, blowing out a ragged breath.

This kid's god damned nightmares were going to give him a stroke. He didn't know who Barney was, but Coulson wanted to kill him. Anybody who could put that kind of fear and pain into Clint's eyes , Clint who had laughed in Victor's face as he tortured him, deserved to die.

He eyed the pink scar on Clint's upper right chest. It was from a knife, that much he could deduce on his own. He wondered if Barney had been the one to put that scar there. Clint had other scars, years older than the knife wound. Most of them were on his back and reminded Coulson of a child he'd know when he was in 5th Grade. His name had been Jake. He'd had marks like that on his back; Phil had seen them when they changed for gym class.

Jake had been beaten to death by his father in the middle of their 6th Grade year.

Clint's scars were old, spoke of past abuses that the young man had survived. Coulson didn't know the story. He didn't know if he wanted to. Because if he did, he didn't know if he could stop himself from finding whoever did it and putting a bullet through their forehead.

---

The next time Clint woke, he was surprisingly lucid. Coulson watched him blink at the ceiling and then turn his head to look at him.

"Who's Barney?" Coulson asked quietly.

He knew he should probably wait, give the kid time to be himself before he started digging. But he didn't.

Clint looked confused.

"You had a dream, you called out to him." Coulson explained.

The archer frowned.

"He was my brother." He finally responded, clearing his throat with a groan.

"Was?"

"He's not dead." Clint sighed, his hand going absently to the scar on his chest. "At least not literally."

"He stabbed you?"

"They were stealing." Clint explained quietly. "I tried to stop them."

Coulson nodded, needing no more explanation. That alone, was horrifying enough. The kid's own brother had stabbed him in the chest.

Who would ever find it easy to trust after a betrayal like that? That Clint had become the person he was, the man he was becoming, in spite of that, told Coulson everything he needed to know about Clint's strength.

---

When Clint drifted into consciousness again there was a familiar thump of air surrounding him. He felt the uncomfortable set of an IV needle in his arm. He forced his eyes open, finding Coulson immediately to his left. His handler looked exhausted with red rings around his eyes. There was still worry in the man's hazel gaze, but he was smiling.

"We're in a helicopter on our way to a hospital. You're going to be okay, Clint."

Clint nodded at the assurance.

"Did we get them?" He asked around the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. He saw Coulson frown and lean closer. Clint realized he hadn't heard him, so he reached for the mask.

"Leave that there." Coulson scolded. "You want to know how the mission went?"

Clint nodded, grateful for his handler's perceptiveness.

"We got every last one of them, Clint."

Clint smirked a little.

"Good thinking getting yourself captured on purpose to give us eyes and ears in the compound. Don't know how we would have done it otherwise, kid." Coulson added lowly, a meaningful glint in his eyes.

Clint frowned in confusion and Coulson smirked.

"At least this time you didn't break protocol."

Chapter Text

Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.

Bill Cosby

---

"Stop hovering. I'm fine." Clint assured, even as he shifted in his seat on the jet. Coulson raised his hands in defeat and sat back in his own seat.

Clint shifted again, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. He'd been released from the SHIELD infirmary in Brazil just this morning. He'd spent a week and a half there after being transferred out of the local hospital in Argentina that had saved his life. Everything still hurt in its own way, but considering the first time he'd woken up in the hospital his pain meds had worn off, he took the dull aches without complaint.

Clint finally sighed and gave up trying to get comfortable. It just wasn't happening. He snuck a glance at his handler, Coulson was sifting through the stack of files he always seemed to have with him.

"So…thanks." Clint stated suddenly. "For saving my life. I guess I owe you one."

Coulson put down the files and looked at him very seriously, more seriously than Clint expected or was prepared for.

"I didn't save you so that you would owe me, Clint. I saved you because you're my friend. You don't owe me anything."

Clint stared hard at him and then nodded, accepting.

"Why did you lie in the mission report?" He asked curiously. Coulson had needed to explain their "report" again when Clint was more coherent. Clint hadn't had a chance to ask the questions burning on his lips until now.

"I knew you didn't pay attention when we went over the protocols." Coulson accused.

"What?"

"Mission protocol for captured agents." Coulson prodded.

Clint blinked and then his eyes widened.

"Disavowed."

"Protocol dictates that I should have cut you loose the moment you were captured. Packed up and went home."

"But you didn't." Clint realized quietly.

"No." Coulson smiled. "You're not the only one that can break protocol, Clint. And besides," He shrugged, "I always thought that one was stupid anyway."

Clint smiled, shaking his head as Coulson turned back to his files.

"You do this often? Bend the rules?"

"Only when it's worth it." Coulson replied easily.

Clint watched him for a moment, considering, before using his foot to pull his pack towards him. He groaned as he leaned over and rifled through it. He felt Coulson's eyes on him, watching curiously. Clint leaned back slowly, pulling his small leather book with him.

He weighed it in his hand for a moment before holding it out to Coulson with the most serious expression the handler had ever seen the teen wear.

"Take it." Clint urged when Phil didn't move.

Slowly, he reached out and took it.

"Go ahead." Clint nodded at the book. Coulson opened it to the first page, frowning slightly at the list of names written in clear, precise capital letters. He turned the page and found more names. He kept turning.

"Clint…"

"That's the list of every person I took a contract on. 287 names of people I killed for money."

"You were only working for a year." Coulson breathed in shock.

"Yeah." Clint scoffed, "Scary isn't it. Some of the contracts had multiple names, groups of people I had to take out. And sometimes I would take multiple contracts at once and group them by country so I could get them done faster."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"So that you would know." Clint replied seriously. "Because you deserve to know what you saved me from."

Phil looked at him then, seeing the pain and sincerity in his agent's eyes.

"What I'm going to tell you now, I've never told anyone. But after these past months, after everything, you deserve to know the whole story."

Phil nodded, afraid to speak that he would somehow derail the direction the conversation had taken.

Clint took a deep breath and then started speaking.

"It all started with my parents. They were amazing. The kind of parents that would stand in line for nine hours just so you got the latest toy before anyone else. We were coming home from dinner, celebrating my dad's birthday, when the guy ran the red light. His blood alcohol was off the charts and he was going 20 miles above the speed limit. My parents were killed on impact, and my brother, Barney, and I spent the next two months in a hospital. I was six years old. And my whole life just changed in a moment.

"We didn't have any family, no trusted friends, it was just us. Me and Barney against the world. The orphanage was bad. Too many kids, not enough money, and a director with a short temper. I still don't know how I drew his attention. Maybe it was because I was always climbing things. I loved being up high, even back then," Clint smiled wistfully before his expression darkened, "God, that man was a mean bastard. I was ten when Barney told me we were going to run. He used to look out for me back then. Protect me when he could. I would have followed him anywhere."

There was pain in Clint's eyes as he spoke of his brother. Coulson's own throat tightened at the sight of it, so fresh and real even after so long.

"I ended up following him to the circus, well it was a carnival technically, Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders. It was amazing to a ten year old. All bright lights, fantastic stunts and fascinating people. We were only there for two months before a man called Swordsman caught me throwing knives at a target. I'll never forget the look on his face when he stopped yelling long enough to realize I'd hit the bull's eye every time. And that was when I stopped being Clint Barton and started being The Amazing Hawkeye.

"I was good, damn good," Clint smirked, "It didn't matter what weapon they put in my hand, I only had to practice for an hour before I could hit the bull's eye every time. I was famous, at least in our little world, and Barney got jealous. He got bitter, because all he did was work with the props. I was center stage every show. And maybe he thought I was leaving him behind." Clint shook his head.

He still didn't know what had poisoned his brother against him.

"I stole a bow from the prop tent when I was eleven. The prop manager almost skinned me alive until Swordsman stopped him, told me the bow was mine, and he would add it to my act. Five years we spent there. I learned acrobatics, the high wire, the trapeze, everything, and for a while I thought I was where I belonged.

"Then one night when I was months from turning sixteen, I caught Barney and Swordsman stealing money from the owner. I confronted them and after they roughed me up a little, I realized they weren't my brother and my mentor anymore. They were going to do whatever it took to shut me up, so I tried to run. They cornered me outside the prop tent and Barney stabbed me in the chest." Clint said the last part quickly, as if the words themselves pained him.

Coulson wondered if the teen realized his hand had gone to the scar on his chest.

"They left after that, I recovered, Trickshot, another marksman at the circus, took over my training. Things went sideways between us six months later. He told me to leave and I did, got a buddy to get me fake papers so I could be 18 and I joined the Army, got assigned to a sniper team. For a year it was great. I didn't really like all the orders, or the sand, but I was doing good, serving my country. Then they found out I'd lied to enlist and arrested me.

"You know about my escape from prison. And about the year that followed. I hated what I was doing. I mean seriously? Killing people for money?" He looked at Coulson, "That was so weak. I was too weak to find another way to survive and by the time I realized how deep I was, it was too late. I couldn't stop, I didn't want to stop. I was good at it and I made a lot of money." Clint laughed a little, "What eighteen year old doesn't want millions of dollars? And I have it, now, sitting in a bank account, that I have no desire to access anymore.

"Because of you. Because you pulled me back from the edge and reminded me that I could do something good with these skills that I have. That maybe I could have something real to fight for again."

Coulson smiled, glancing down at the book.

"Why the book?" He asked quietly.

"So I would never forget." Clint replied. "So that none of them would be forgotten." He pointed at the book. "You want to know what I dream about that makes some days worse?" Clint asked, "It's them. I remember them and on the days when I do, I hate myself even more. I hate myself for what I did. On those days all I can feel is anger. I'm so angry all the time. Angry that I didn't find another way. That I was the one that filled the contracts. And on those days I do whatever I can to just make it better, like getting in fights and getting in trouble so I have to run or firing my bow until I hurt. Anything to make it better."

Coulson met his eyes seriously.

"It's that anger that tells me I made the right call six months ago when I offered you a way out. You have it in your head that you're some evil, dark person. That you should be punished. But you're not. You're eighteen and you made some bad choices. But this shows me," He held up the book, "That if you could take it back, you would. That's enough for me. So I'm not worried about your past, Clint. I only care about your future and what you choose to do to make it right."

"You think I ever could?" Clint's eyes dropped to the ledger then rose back to Coulson's. "Make it right?"

"I think you already have a really good start." Coulson assured, holding the book out for Clint to take it back.

Clint shook his head.

"You keep it. Let me know when I make it right."

Coulson nodded, tucking the book into his pack. Clint watched his ledger disappear into his handler's bag. There was no grand epiphany. No great weight lifted from his shoulders, but he felt the load lighten, as if someone had taken a share of the weight so it wasn't so oppressive anymore.

Maybe he wouldn't ever be able to make up for everything he'd done. But he would try. He would do whatever it took to show Coulson that he hadn't made the wrong choice that day he didn't choke him in a dirty alley in Vienna.

---

Four months later…

---

"I can't believe I'm on a mission on my birthday." Clint complained as he made the trek over the rooftops of Venice to get back to his and Coulson's safe house.

"The mission's over, Hawk, there's still time to celebrate. I'm told there's an amazing little place on the water that has the best lasagna."

"You're making my mouth water." Clint grinned as he stopped to appreciate the sight of the moonlight on the water, absently running his tongue across his brand new fake molar. He still wasn't used to it yet and had flat out refused to have a communicator put in his mouth for the foreseeable future.

With a sigh, he continued his trek, eventually shimmying down the drain pipe on the safe house and swinging onto the balcony. He pushed open the door and laughed.

Black and purple streamers were hanging from every possible point in the ceiling. A long package was wrapped on the table next to two to-go boxes.

"I didn't know they delivered." Clint chuckled, leaning down to smell the lasagna.

"I'm very persuasive." Coulson smirked.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know." Coulson smiled. "Don't tell anyone." He ordered seriously.

"You're secret's safe with me, you big softie." Clint smirked. He eyed the present.

"Go ahead." Coulson rolled his eyes.

Clint tore into it.

"Shit." He gasped pulling out the new quiver.

"It's automated. You can change the arrow tips with the control on the side." Coulson explained, "The techs were very proud."

"This is awesome." Clint beamed. "Thank you."

Coulson smiled.

---

"What are you doing up? You're supposed to be flying us out of Italy at 0500." Coulson asked as he came out onto the balcony to lean against the railing next to Clint.

"Bad night." Clint admitted easily, demonstrating his shaking hands to Coulson.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good." Clint smiled slightly, "Just needed some air."

"Tell me."

Clint sighed.

"Jack Corbin."

Then he told Coulson the story of the hit. It had become a routine of theirs. For some reason, when he told the story, shared it with Coulson often in the middle of the night on the SHIELD rooftop, it hurt less.

He'd told Coulson 73 stories since the day he'd given the man his ledger four months ago. And the nights where he needed to share were becoming fewer with greater lengths of time between them.

He was healing. Slowly. But he was healing.

"Thanks, Phil." Clint whispered into the night an hour after he'd finished his story. "For not letting me deal with this alone."

"You're not alone anymore, Clint. You never will be again, don't forget that."

Clint granted him a half smile, warmed by the words. Coulson reached out and squeezed his shoulder before returning inside and leaving Clint to take one last deep breath of the cool night air before he followed.