Oh, What a Life

If he'd been just a hair faster, if he hadn't hesitated New York wouldn't be in pieces right now. Clint grimaced and focused on hauling away the rubble. Volunteers were sorely needed. Rogers was working with the cops on clearing out the intersections; Stark had thrown some money at several repair crews and sent them in. Banner was in the wind and Thor was back in Asgard as far as S.H.I.E.L.D knew. It was a rare show of New Yorker spirit as the city came together to start healing. Clint preferred to avoid the crowded areas, places where Rogers was working –the volunteers were constantly flocking to him, asking him about the battle and for his autograph. So far, not many people had recognized him for which he was grateful. He wasn't some hero like Captain America. Not this time.

Clint shoveled another clump of debris away, turning his focus to the glass. It had been three days since the attack. Hopes for survivors were dimming. Rogers was leading the rescue efforts, searching through ruined building after building, in the thick of volunteers. Clint was keeping to the fringes of the clean up efforts, focusing on glass and building fragments. Day one of the clean up had focused on getting rid of the alien remains; between S.H.I.E.L.D and the military's involvement, they'd taken care of that within twenty-four hours. After he was done with the clean up crew, he wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do.

When he went in to debrief, Sitwell took one look at him and shook his head. "You're better off helping Cap right now. Report back when you're done with that." Sitwell paused, "And grab some casual clothes Barton, you don't need to look like a post-apocalyptic survivor." That was four days ago.

Each night when the shifts were done, Clint headed to the first motel he'd found. On the first night, he walked home on autopilot before he realized that his shitty apartment was a pile of wreckage. It just figured. He spent the next three hours travelling between motels and hotels in the area only to be denied at the fist eight because he was smelly and covered in filth. He didn't have any spare clothes to change into or a place to shower. He couldn't physically set foot on the helicarrier where he had a change of clothes and a room with his name on it –he didn't need to try to know that it would end with either a panic attack or a full out brawl with the other agents. It was too soon. At least the New York office was still standing, but they didn't have any available rooms since the helicarrier agents needed a place to be stationed. (Clint had actually called after the fifth hotel threatened to escort him off the premises –you would have thought stopping the alien invasion counted for something.)

Of the Avengers, Clint spent the least time in the spotlight. Covered in sweat and grime from the day, wearing a spare S.H.I.E.L.D uniform that was too loose, he wasn't exactly recognizable. Especially with the lack of purple. But his suit had been in even worse shape after the Battle. It was at the ninth motel he tried when he was recognized, ushered into the best room and provided with some spare clothes and towels. It was to that motel he returned, focusing on the physical exhaustion dragging his body down. Anything was better to think about than what had happened four –five? –days ago.

But every step he took, every time S.H.I.E.L.D brushed him off, he couldn't help but think about what Coulson would have done instead. The lump that suddenly seized his throat was becoming far too familiar and Clint paused for half a step, taking a brief, deep, breath before he shuffled into the bathroom. He wouldn't know what Coulson would do because Coulson was dead. Clint might as well have released the arrow himself.

Clint undressed and showered thoroughly, watching the black dust disappear down the drain. Under the hot water, he felt his muscles gradually relax. As much as he ever relaxed these days. He dried off and wandered to the single bed, collapsing on it, careless of his nudity. He was a superhero dammit. They should just be privileged, having a superhero grace one of their rooms. And if a cleaning lady walked in, well, good for her. She could tell the story to her children and grandchildren for years to come.

His head had barely touched the pillow before he was asleep. And it couldn't have been hardly more than five minutes before he was jerking awake, his clenched hands yanking at the blankets in an aborted dream-gesture. Clint took a minute before exhaling slowly, forcing his body to relax from his feet to his head. It was nothing new, the nightmare. He fought against Loki, tried to turn and aim his bow at the alien but couldn't. It was true too, he had, so many times, tried to turn his aim on the foreign god but his body wasn't his own. Clint smiled self-deprecatingly. Not like anyone was likely to hear that story or remember it. Not at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Despite his reluctance and still racing heart, sleep swallowed him whole and spat him out again a few hours later. "Phil!" he shouted hoarsely, staring blankly at the spot where his handler had been seconds ago. His body was drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around his body, the only remnants of his body's physical struggle.

Clint groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He needed something that was more distracting that this clean-up work. Preferably someplace with as few agents as he could find. Ignoring one or two hateful glares was easier than thirty or a hundred. More than ten of those glares going around, had the hair on his neck standing up and his fingers twitching for his bow. Not everyone was happy with his work. His brief foray to Sitwell's office had proven that one.

Three days of interrupted sleep and hard labor in the day, allowed him to fall asleep easily. Unfortunately it never did anything to stop the nightmares. By six am, Clint had given up even pretending to sleep. He threw on some fresh clothes, grabbed his motorcycle keys and drove to the New York office. There were always agents on duty and awake, and sometimes even asleep, in their offices.

Clint winced at the thought, a memory of Coulson asleep at his desk worming its way to the forefront of his mind. Coulson passed out over a stack of paperwork or in front of his computer used to be a common sight. Everyone knew to steer clear of waking him up. Clint used liked to make a challenge for himself, seeing how many sugar packets he could balance on Coulson without waking him up. He only ever made it to four; which was just one packet too many for how Coulson took his coffee.

Coulson would shoot him a sleepy glare. "Least you could do is bring me a coffee for this sugar," he would yawn.

And Clint would smirk and set down the coffee in front of him. "Me, sir? I didn't do anything."

It was their way to say good morning.

Of course, Coulson always knew he was lying. But he would just take his coffee and start pouring the sugar in. Clint could remember the first time he'd decided to try and take Coulson on. He was still a probie at the time when he'd snuck through the vents and started raining sugar packets down on the unconscious man. Just the day before, one of the senior agents had chewed Clint out for making too much noise near Coulson's office and informed Clint that if he wanted to avoid jail he shouldn't piss Coulson off. Naturally, it was the first thing Clint set to do.

But the older agent had just heaved a sigh. "Barton, if you have enough time to shoot sugar packets at senior staff, you have enough time to hit the mats. Go."

Something about Coulson's tone had him obeying and heading down to the gym –on his own time, of course. When he got there, Coulson was already waiting at the mats, his brows drawn together as he radiated disapproval. Clint stepped up, about to snark when Coulson lashed out, knocking Clint's feet out from under him.

"Perhaps you should spend more time practicing hand-to-hand than firing sugar packets at senior staff?" Coulson smirked at him.

Clint got to his feet, scowling. "You make it sound like I go around throwing sugar at all the senior agents or something. And I don't need the practice; you caught me off guard is all."

"Ah, yes. Because I acted unpredictably." Coulson had arched a brow and waited for a moment before he struck at Clint again.

Expecting the blow this time, Clint blocked it hastily. Coulson didn't leave him enough time to draw breath before he was attacking again, going through the paces with him until they were both drenched in sweat. Coulson was clearly the better fighter, having gotten through Clint's defenses more often than his sparring teacher ever had. Clint hadn't even been able to go on the offensive, he was left on the defensive as his brain whirled through what he could do to get on the offensive to try and take Coulson down.

"Don't need the practice?" Coulson had quipped.

"I just needed a challenge," Clint muttered under his breath.

Once pleasant, the memory was now stained and battered with the recent death of Phil Coulson. Clint shook his head, dismissing the memories as he hurried through the halls to Sitwell's office. The man was as much of a workaholic as Coulson had ever been. Probably part of the reason the two of them had gotten along as well as they did despite having only been in the field at the same time once or twice. Given the recent number of deaths within the agency, Sitwell had been given a temporary level eight security clearance which meant that he was the highest ranked agent on sight at the New York office.

Fury and Hill hadn't been able to stay around to deal with the clean-up given that the World Security Council wanted to be debriefed on what exactly happened at the Battle of New York. As though they didn't already know. It made the situation more difficult considering their limited command situation. Hill was apparently in charge of overseeing the repairs on the helicarrier –and she had left yesterday for Washington, D.C. Which meant, for the time being, Sitwell was in charge. Unsurprisingly, Sitwell was still at his desk, typing out what looked like a report of some sort. There were going to be a lot of those going around soon.

"You got any real work for me to do?" Not that cleaning up NYC was less meaningful, less valued, but it wasn't enough.

"Does it look like I've got the time right now, Barton?" he snapped. Sitwell pulled back, swiveling in his chair to address him. He sighed, rubbing his face. "Nobody is sleeping well, psych's got their hands full with traumatized civilians and agents who survived by the skin of their teeth. You need some work to do? Ask Captain Rogers or Stark –you five are supposed to be out there being something bigger, better. Y'know, in memory of Phil at least. For Christ's sake Barton, we're all busy here. Find something to do. If we need you, we'll call you."

Clint stiffened. "Understood," he said flatly before turning and walking out. Message understood, loud and clear.

Natasha had already been sent on a series of Intel missions; she wasn't likely to be back for a month or two. Rogers had dedicated himself to helping the city recover; he was in the news every day. Stark had paid people to do his part, sending them out in red and gold costumes so everyone would be able to tell his team apart while he went about repairing his tower. Banner was in the wind. And Sitwell just wanted Clint to stand around shoveling rocks every day?

Natasha was gone and Phil was dead. He needed something to do. Like hell he was going to go to Rogers and ask for something to do. The city needed repairing, needed to be tidied up. But everywhere Clint looked, he just saw the damage that he let The Bastard inflict. Every other Level 7 agent was out in the field. But not Clint, not the famed Hawkeye, S.H.I.E.L.D traitor. The one who killed thirty-two agents, including Agent Coulson. No one had the time to deal with a traitor; no one who was around S.H.I.E.L.D was willing to associate with him.

Before he knew it, Clint was on his bike and speeding out of the city. He needed something to do. If Nat needed to find him, she'd be able to. Wherever he ended up. Taking a break from S.H.I.E.L.D was not what he wanted, but maybe it was what he needed. Some distance to see what he had done, what had happened. As he drove out of the city on autopilot, he tried to gather his thoughts and come up with some sort of a plan. His safe houses would be good rest stops, but none of them were what he was looking for. He didn't want to be stuck in a noisy suburb or one of the cheap, rodent/roach infested apartments he'd bought in case he ever hit an emergency with S.H.I.E.L.D. He only had three safe houses, each of which he was able to buy cheaply and never bothered to repair. The nearest one was in Ohio, then Nebraska and finally Nevada. None of which would give him anything to do, other than spend enough money to raise eyebrows at. They needed a lot of repairs that Clint never had any time to do.

But Ohio was closest to New York. He had a spare set of clothes there, an identity he could take with him and some extra cash. Not that he would leave them out in the open; they were tucked away safely in an armed safe. If he was ever on the run, he needed workable back-up plans. When he was a contract killer, he'd had a few too many times when his employers turned on him and he had no where to disappear and lay low. So he purchased his first safe house as soon as he got a gig in Peru –he bought his Nevada safe house. Back at his apartment in New York, he used to keep his spare cash tucked under his mattress.

Despite what Nat said when she found out, he was not an eighty year old woman. He just liked having cash on hand and it wasn't as though he left his apartment unlocked and inviting for thieves. Just because she could break in, didn't mean it was… the worst plan ever. Except for the part where his apartment had been crushed under a giant alien and his money was probably long gone by now. Clint winced. So maybe it hadn't been the best plan.

At his first gas station stop, Clint checked through his wallet and made sure he would have enough cash to last him to Ohio. He wouldn't. He used his personal credit card for each gas stop until he was in the middle of Pennsylvania before he switched to cash and drove to Ohio. By the time he got to his apartment, he was half starved and ready to pass out again so that was the first thing he did. The couch wasn't the most comfortable one, but it was better than the floor. At least he could tell that the rats hadn't made it to the couch. Small mercies.

He woke up in the middle of the night, sitting upright, reaching towards someone who was never going to be there. He swallowed back Phil's name and slowly lay down, closing his eyes. Clint wasn't sure what it was, but he woke up another three times that night. Once to his neighbors having enthusiastic sex, another to the scurrying of rats across the floor and by the third time, it was his neighbors going at it again. Loudly.

His stomach growled at him. There was no point in tossing and turning for another couple of hours. Not if he was going to keep being woken up anyways. Clint rummaged around in the dusty cupboards, searching through cans of soup. It would do if he was in a tight spot, but he wasn't really. And somehow vegetable soup at eight in the morning just wasn't appealing. He checked over his clothes from yesterday and changed into them before packing two of the spare changes he kept here. Clint swiped his thumb over the lock pack and then inserted the correct password before taking out a quarter of his spare cash.

It took him twenty minutes to locate the nearest diner and he ate a quick breakfast before he was back on the road again. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. And driving, so far, seemed to keep his mind off of everything that was going on.

Perhaps of all the things Clint had done in his life, none of them were quite as simple as driving to Iowa. It took nine and a half hours. It was well after dark when he found the place, a worn for sale sign hanging from at the beginning of a driveway. Of all places, it was Iowa where he found the answer that he hadn't known he was looking for. At least it wasn't near Waverly. He drove up to the farm and it was as though some part of him settled. He could do something here.

Grow some vegetables or whatever it was that farmers did. Maybe buy some cattle or something. He could build a life here, in the middle of nowhere, make up for the destruction he caused in New York. From what he could see, it was a two storey farm house with a white wrap-around porch. There were no picket fences or nosey neighbors. Seemed like as good a place as any.

And if S.H.I.E.L.D needed him, they could call. If. The Avengers –Clint paused at that. If Tony really wanted to find him, he probably could. But no sense being obvious about it. Clint went through his wallet, pulling out one of his aliases that he regularly used for banking. He didn't want to end up arrested and come back to nothing. So he had a contingency plan in Flint Martin. And more than enough money to pay for the farm –which was, thankfully, privately listed.

I promise two things; this story will not only take place on the farm; there will be Phlint and there will be action sequences. Nearest action scene to you? Approximately chapter three.