Clint
The walls were so white it was hard to see where they met the floor. The table he was strapped to was also white, and the only other color in the room was from the blood they were taking out of his arm via a needle in the crook of his elbow. They had been taking the blood for some time. Clint was beginning to panic.
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Phil
"You understand the assignment?" Fury asked sharply as they strode through the Helicarrier corridors towards the hanger.
"Yes sir." Phil replied. He and Fury looked even more serious than usual, and both junior and senior agents scurried to get out of their way.
"The council are all up to eliminate him. But I think that'd be a damn awful waste." Fury growled.
"Yes sir."
"I've pulled out all the stops in this one, Coulson. When I look at Clint Barton, I see potential. But I also see a hell of a lot of hard work. You sure you're up for this, Phil?" Fury glanced at the lesser agent.
"I am, sir." Phil replied firmly.
Fury nodded slowly. "And I wouldn't expect anything less." They entered the hanger, and stopped at the steps of the quinjet. "But the council are breathing down my neck. We're doing this behind their backs so you're virtually on your own with this- no help from SHIELD. If you don't think he could become and asset, you take him out. Understand?"
"I do sir."
Fury frowned. "Then good luck." He turned to leave, but not before saying, "Don't let him kill you."
Phil knew Fury was only half joking.
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Phil read the file over on the journey. He had never entered a mission with any less intel, and felt terribly under prepared - the council wanted nothing to do with this, and SHIELD had no further help to give.
The file contained basic information on Barton's childhood but went no further than the age of 14. Other than this, however, it stated the whereabouts of Barton's childhood associates, which Phil would use to evaluate whether or not Barton would be useful for the organisation. The validity of the file was also questionable- if it was correct, Barton was only 17 years old. But Phil point blank refused to believe that someone of that tender age could have had 134 kills already to his name. But if the file was correct, Phil was worried that the kid was already too far gone.
SHIELD dropped him off in Waverly, Iowa, gave him a car and then left. Phil then realised that he was fully on his own. It was actually very disconcerting- normally he would have someone over the comm. or at least a prearranged check in point. But there was nothing.
There was a SHIELD safe house- or more accurately, apartment- two blocks away from where Harold Baton, Clint Barton's father was living. Safe houses were renowned for being the most scarcely equipped places you would ever inhabit. Other than the extensive first aid kits and numerous MREs, the cupboards were bare. However, Phil didn't plan on staying too long, so this didn't bother him. He was acutely aware that the longer he took to find Barton, the more kills the assassin could have made.
Waverly was a sleepy town. The streets were wide but empty, and the whole place reminded Phil of a Wild West movie. Although it was only the late morning, the day was already beginning to get hot- the sun was beating down on the tarmac, and Phil was glad he had packed more than his usual assortment of identical black suits.
Harold Barton lived on 5th street northwest, in the same house that Clint Barton would have grown up in. It was a ten minute walk from the elementary school the assassin attended, and Phil found the whole thing completely bizarre.
The street was average. Grass grew through cracks in the sidewalk and where the kerb met the road, but it seemed like a pleasant neighbourhood. A couple of boys were kicking a ball across the street, and an old man was mowing his lawn opposite the Barton household. The other houses were neat and well looked after, with fresh, bright paint and tidy gardens.
The Barton house, however, was different. The grass was long and full of weeds, looking like it hadn't been cut in months. A banged up red truck was parked in the gravel driveway but clearly hadn't been driven for a long time. The paint on the house was peeling, and may have once been white but had now faded into a dirty gray. The windows were grimy and most of them had curtains drawn. The strangest thing, however, was the bike beside the garden path. It was nearly entirely rusted, but splatters of red pain could be seen across the handle bars. The tyres were flat and the brake cables were frayed. It looked sad and abandoned; the grass had grown through it, effectively tying it to the ground.
Baring in mind there had been no children living in this house for nine years; Phil found the bike pretty creepy.
However, the house seemed to be empty. Phil crossed the street and waved at the old man mowing the lawn to get his attention. The man stopped the lawn mower and leaned on the gate.
Phil smiled. "Morning. I don't suppose you'd know where Harold Barton would be?"
The man's face was wrinkled and weathered, but kind. However it darkened. "He'd be in town, I'd recon. Probably at a bar. Wassit for?"
Phil hesitated. Normally he would try to keep as low a profile as possible. However he needed to learn all he could about Clint Barton and this man might know something. "It's about his son, Clint Barton. Do you know of him?"
The man grimaced. "Ah the Barton boys. Yeah I knew them, pretty well in fact. Haven't seen him in a long while though. He in trouble?"
"Well, I'm trying to get him out of it. But I need to learn as much about him as possible."
The man nodded slowly. "Good kid, Clint. Didn't get a fair deal either." He glanced up at Phil, frowning. "Here, why don't you come inside? I might be able to help."
The man introduced himself as Stan, and lead Phil into the kitchen. They sat at the table, and Stan got out some lemonade with ice, because although it was cooler inside the heat was still uncomfortable. "So, what do you need to know?"
Phil picked up his glass and leaned back. "Any thing you can tell me might help."
Stan sighed deeply, and his eyes unfocused. "Clint was a little kid, you know. Shorter than the others his age, but bright. Real bright. His hair was kinda a dirty blond colour, and all over the place, in his eyes and everything. I remember my wife, Rose tried to cut it one time but it grew back so fast." Stan smiled slightly, and then grew sombre. "I never really met his mother, but he sure didn't get his temperament from his father. Clint was a good kid, painfully polite and wouldn't hurt anybody. Barney was different- much more like his father, I'd say. Taller, broader. Had a mean look in his eye, you know?" Phil nodded, and Stan continued, sighing again. "I don't think he was too good to Clint. And Mr Barton had a nasty temper, real nasty. If he got too bad Clint sometimes came round here to get out the way, and he was always welcome. But it wasn't often enough, most of the time I don't think he could get away. Harold drank, you know. But even when he was sober, he didn't do nothin' good for those kids. At first Clint just got it from his father, but when Barney grew older- and there was a big age gap between the two brothers, Barney was nearly seven years his senior, if I remember correctly. Anyway, Barney grew up and became almost as bad as his father. Clint was out of the house most of the time. He went to school early and came home late. Or he was around here, or one of his friend's houses. And even through all of this was going on, he was nearly always bright, always cheerful." Stan shook his head sorrowfully. "But something must have happened over there. It was the night their mother left- Edith, nice woman, but not too clever and couldn't stand up to Harold- she was out most of the time anyway. Clint came over the next morning- why I can still see him now, standing there all white and shaking. I don't know what drove Edith away, but Clint was never quite the same after that. We tried to ask him what happened, but he didn't tell us nothin'. He never told us nothin', though most of the time he didn't need to. It didn't take a genius to work it all out.
Not three months after that, Harold got in that car crash. Broke his back in too many places and was in hospital for too long. They took the Barton boys over to that orphanage yonder. And we never saw 'em again. See me and Rose would have looked after 'em if we could, but we didn't have that kinda money to look after two boys." Stan sighed again and looked out of the window over the garden. "I hope he did well, that Clint. He was a good kid."
For a moment they were both silent. Phil had spent plenty of time trying to work out what would drive a seventeen year old to become an assassin and knew something must have gone wrong somewhere in his childhood- that or he was just plain crazy. But he hadn't expected this. He had at least though that younger Clint would be more of a Barney character. Eight year old Clint seemed like a completely different person to the Clint Barton today, who killed for money.
Stan looked up at Phil seriously. "I don't know what that boy is doing now. But you look an awful lot like one of those government people, so I suppose it can't be anything good. But please, whatever you're intending to do, remember that people don't always make their own decisions. Often other people make them instead. Do what ever you can to help that boy, no matter what he's done. He's a good kid."
Phil didn't have the heart to tell Stan what Clint had become, but thanked him and then headed into town. He really did not want to talk to Harold Barton after hearing what Stan had to say about him, but he was also suddenly far more determined. He didn't know why or how that little eight year old had changed so much into what he was today, but Phil was sure going to try to find out.
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Clint
They'd taken maybe two pints of his blood, and then the flash backs started. He wasn't sure whether it was because of the lack of sleep, or the blood loss, or the blinding white room, but they were so real he could almost smell the alcohol on his father's breath.
Clint was doing his homework when the front door slammed. Heavy feet dragged across the carpet-less hall and Barney, who was reading a comic in the corner of the room smirked at Clint.
Clint pushed his head down and concentrated on the wavering letters in front of him. If he was lucky, his father would have drunk enough to just go to his room and fall asleep straight away. And Clint really, really wanted to be lucky.
But the living room door opened slowly. Clint stood slowly, hands shaking. He darted to the other side of the room and hid behind the sofa. His father stumbled in- his face was covered in shadow and Clint couldn't see his features. He was impossibly tall, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He moved away from the door, and Clint was getting ready to run when Barney pushed him into his father's path. Clint fell, and then rolled to his feet and sprinted up the stairs. He had been hoping his father would let him run, but he could hear the heavy footsteps and laboured breathing behind him. Too late, he remembered that he shouldn't have ran upstairs- years ago he'd got so scared he'd risked a jump out of the window to get away, and broken his left ankle. Since then, he'd remembered to run out of the back door and down the garden, into the woods behind the house. Then he could hide in a tree, where he could see his father coming. But tonight he'd been so preoccupied with the science homework that he'd forgotten. Silently he cursed himself for being so stupid.
At the top of the stairs he ran into his bedroom, and wriggled under his bed. He used to have a lock on the door which he had put in himself, but it had only lasted a few weeks before his father had knocked the door down, and it had broken.
His father stood in the door way, his heavy workman's boots shoulder width apart, and his hands on his hips. "Come out." He growled.
Slowly, Clint crawled out from under the bed. He'd learn years ago that it was best not to argue.
Afterwards, his father had shut him in the blanket box in the bath room. It was completely dark, and he couldn't get out as it was padlocked shut. His lip felt as if it was bleeding, but he knew his father had made sure other than that not to his him anywhere visible, so that he could go to school tomorrow. His father preferred it when he was out of the way.
Clint pushed his fist into his mouth and curled up in a ball. He never used to be claustrophobic, but he suspected that he had developed it after being shut in the box so many times. He could feel the panic tightening his chest, but made sure not to cry- that would only make things so much worse. Clint was a man. Men were brave, not afraid, and did not cry like girls. It was five hours before his mother came home and let him out, but Clint didn't let a single tear fall.
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Phil
Stan had given Phil directions to the bar that Clint's father would probably be inhabiting. It was in a shadier part of town- not that this worried Phil, who been to places far shadier than Waverly. The bar was a long, low building, and little of it could be seen from through the grimy windows.
Harold Barton clearly never fully recovered from the car crash. He sat hunched over on a bar stool, leaning heavily on the bar. A pair of crutches lay at his feet. Clint Barton's file contained a grainy picture of Harold, who in his day had been tall and fit, with wide shoulders and a sturdy build. Now however, he was anything but as intimidating. He had put on weight, and the fat rolled over his leather belt. His hair had turned gray, receding from the centre, and judging by the way he was stooped he had developed a sort of a hunch. Even so, he certainly had a violent air about him, and the other people in the bar seemed to be giving him a wide berth. Phil certainly wouldn't have wanted him as a father. He had also decided that Harold wouldn't be at all as honest and open as Stan, therefore was going for a different approach.
He took a seat behind Harold, who didn't look up from where he was glaring into his beer glass. Phil cleared his throat, and Harold looked up. "Here," He said. "Aren't you Barney Barton's father?"
Harold squinted at Phil with piggy eyes. "What of it?" He growled.
"Well my boy was friendly with yours' when he was a lad, if I remember rightly. How's he doing nowadays?"
Harold sighed and rotated his jaw. "I ain't seen him in a long time."
"Really? Hey, can I buy you a drink?" Phil asked.
Harold seemed to grow more interested at this. After the bar man came over and gave Harold another beer at Phil's expense, Phil tried again. "So what's he up to, do you know?"
Harold took a large mouthful of beer. "Joined the army, last time I heard."
"And didn't you have a younger son?" Phil asked as the bar man handed him his own drink.
Harold nodded slowly. "Clint. Hu, haven't heard of him for nearly nine years."
Phil raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? How come?"
Harold lowered his glass. "Clint weren't such a good kid. Barney however, Barney was alright."
Phil nodded. "Yeah, I could always see a bit of you in Barney. He was a good kid."
Harold nodded again. "Barney took after me. Clint, hell I don't know. Not after me, for sure. And he was a right smart ass, never could shut up. Not like Edith, either."
Phil glanced over at him. "You have trouble from Clint or something?"
Harold shook his head and grimaced. "See, a boy's gotta be brave, strong. If aint, then he just needs toughening up a little. Thing is, Clint got a lot of toughening up, yet it never did nothin'."
"Toughening up?"
Harold had finished his beer, and gestured for another. "Sure. Something my father taught me, and his father taught him, so on. See the world aint a nice place. Yet you gotta go out there scared of nothin'. I help by makin' 'em braver. If they stop bein' scared 'o me, they aint gonna be scared of anythin' out there. Barney got it real fast, by the time he was seven I could leave him alone. He used to help out with Clint a little. See Clint never got it. Clint was always scared." Harold's speech was becoming slurred, and Phil wondered how much he had already drank. The barman was keeping an eye on him, in a way that suggested that this happened often.
"So Clint wasn't like you at all?" Phil asked slowly.
"Nah. He wouldn't of hurt nobody. He was littler too, and skinny. Nothin' to 'im. He was real fast, proper little runner. Towards the end he could even outrun me." Harold chuckled slowly.
Phil put down his glass, wary that Harold would see his hand shaking with anger.
"Towards the end?"
Harold darkened. "Yeah. Car crash, I got all bust up. They took my boy away, and Clint too. That orphanage out of town. There for a year or two before I heard they ran away. And I never heard from them again, till Barney writes and says he's joining the army. After that, nothin'. Just me up in that house now. Just me."
Harold stared into the depths of his beer glass and didn't say anymore. Phil knew he should try to get more out of him, but the man was becoming incoherent and quite frankly, Phil was worried that if he stayed in his presence for much longer he might end up punching him in the face.
Phil reflected on the way back to the flat, that none of this was what he had been expecting- not that he had known what to expect at all. But Clint Barton's childhood seemed to be tragic, and Phil was almost beginning to pity him. He wondered that maybe if someone had stepped in to help him before it was too late, he wouldn't have become what he was today. Two people had now told him that Barton would never hurt anybody- so how had he become such a master assassin?