Hi guys, I don't know if anyone is reading this but this is my first story so please be nice. I welcome any constructive criticism, but pleased be warned that flames will be used to bake cookies. :)
This story is an au, where Clint has not yet joined the Avengers (he is a freelance assassin), and he is only 19, whereas the rest of the Avengers are:
Iron Man (Tony Stark) – 35
Captain America – 29
Black Widow – 29
Dr Banner – 38
The Battle of New York and Loki still happened, but Clint was not involved.
I do not plan on there being any romantic pairings in this story, but I will let you know if that changes.
I rated this story T, but for language and other things, and I will try to give individual warnings at the beginning of each chapter.
Please enjoy:_
Warnings: Some bad language and mild violence
Prologue:
Clint ran, pushing through the crowded streets as his assailant grew closer. He cursed. How had they found him? He had been careful to leave no trace of himself in his previous apartment, and had gone to great, expensive measures to ensure that he we would not be tracked any further than into the next town. Yet they had still managed to find him. Shoving an old man into the road as he twisted round a corner, Clint heard the agents shout "STOP, Clinton! We only want to talk!"
Clinton? They knew his name. How the hell did they know his name? That name had been buried deep for many years, and even before that Clint had always referred to himself as 'Hawkeye' when with clients. After all, what struck the most fear into people's hearts? Clint Francis Barton the 19 year old carnie, or Hawkeye - the elusive, deadly, world famous assassin. Yet despite Clint's constant secrecy, this man knew his real name. Not good. Very not good. What else did they know about him? If the man knew his name, it was likely that the man also knew about Clint's past. Pushing the thought from his mind, Clint checked behind him and swore – the man was still following. This man was good, as were the others that had come before him, chasing him round the world, each country bringing a new man to run from. The brutal determination these men showed, each and every time, in tracking Clint, made him even surer that they would not be friendly when they eventually caught up with him.
As to who they were; Clint had no idea. All he knew was that, while returning to his safe house a few months ago, he had noticed an armed man in a suit following him. Not one to take risks, Clint had fled the country (Italy), taking nothing with him but his compound bow (surprisingly easy to sneak through airport security) and a wallet full of fake IDs. Unfortunately, this hasty departure had not been enough to shift whoever was following him; in every country, city and town Clint visited, he saw a suited man, watching his every move. Whoever these men worked for REALLY wanted to catch him. But Clint wasn't one to comply.
Clint figured he was probably being followed by the CIA, or some other American organisation, although these people seemed far superior to those bumbling idiots. Maybe some big criminal group? The kind of organisation led by people with big money and dead hearts who wanted him to do a job for them. Well, either wanted a job done or wanted him dead. Being a well-known assassin tended to bring that kind of negative attention.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Clint swore hysterically. He hadn't been paying attention to the direction he was running in, just wanting to get away from the suited man and his VERY big gun. Unluckily, that lack of attention had led to him being cornered in a dark alley, in the backstreets of London, with no escape as the mysterious suited man closed in. Clint looked up in despair. Well… almost no escape. As the man grew ever closer, Clint jumped up, reaching upwards to grab hold of a broken fire escape. With both his hands manically gripping the rail, he pulled his body taught to swing himself up and onto the railing. Having managed this with ease, he made a daring escape away from the alley, leaving the suited man alone and angry.
Or at least… that was how it was MEANT to go. In reality it happened slightly different: As Clint pulled his body taught to swing himself upwards, the suited man pulled his gun out and fired twice. He missed. Or so Clint thought. A second of shock as the truth sank in, then burning, overwhelming pain as it truly registered. Collapsing to the floor, Clint grunted in pain. The bastard had shot him in both legs.
Not one to be set back by a mildly crippling injury, Clint pulled himself up using his bow for support. After briefly getting his balance, Clint made a wide, desperate swing for the suited man's head. At the same moment, a wave of nausea washed over him, and Clint missed the man, spinning wildly out of control and collapsing to the floor in an ungraceful, embarrassing pirouette. As Clint lay there, his vision blurring to darkness, he made out the distorted image of the suited man bending down to crouch by Clint's head. His words swimming as Clint slowly fell unconscious: "For the record, I didn't want to shoot you, however you just rather rudely ignored my attempts at negotiation, and keep running away. That kind of thing really makes my job tiresome."…
And then darkness.