"The baby bird is acquired," Clint says as the young girl gets into the car, strapping in. Shutting the door, Clint makes his way around to the drivers side, glancing around for anything suspicious. "No hostiles in sight."
"Good. Get the girl back to base, Agent," Sitwell orders him. "Try not to frighten her too much."
Clint snorts, "I'm great with kids. Barton, out." Clicking his comm off, Clint gets into the truck, glancing back at the five year old now in his custody until further notice. "How're you doing there, sweetheart?"
"Okay. Where are we going?" she asks, looking at him through the long cut of her fringe.
"Somewhere safe," Clint says, backing up out of the parking lot and making his way towards the expressway. At some point, he turns on the heater, figuring that maybe the little girl might not be used to the cold. "What was your name again?"
"Mary-Sue."
"Mary-Sue?" Clint raises an eyebrow. "Who named you that?"
"The nuns," Mary-Sue answers flatly, briefly throwing Clint off-guard. Wait, what? Sitwell never said this kid was an orphan – I thought she witnessed her mom's murder. Near-murder. "Foster-homes aren't safe. Other kids aren't always nice."
"I'm going to call you Mary, if that's okay. Were they mean to you?" Clint asks, after a pause. When Mary doesn't answer, Clint thinks up a different question. "Why would you think I'm bringing you to a foster-home? I mean, I get it, if you think you're being taken back because- because of what happened to your foster-mom, but…" he trails off. Mary fidgets a little and it's then that Clint notices the red under her nails in the rear-view mirror and the circles in her palms – is that blood on her arms, too? Shit. Who the fuck was in charge of her before me? I'm going to put in a fucking complaint, man…
"I'm always moving," she mutters after a few seconds and suddenly, it resonates with Clint oddly, who starts having flashbacks from the circus. He remembers always working – packing up the tents and practicing his precious five minute act with Barney. Trickshot didn't care much about their schooling, so long as they could read, write and talk properly. I'm always moving.
"I understand that, kid," Clint says, voice tight. He focuses on driving for a while and maybe half an hour passes, before he notices Mary fidgeting in the back seat. He pulls into the next gas station, unpacking them both from their belts before leading Mary into the diner, just off the side.
It's a stereotypical highway diner with a creaky door, smelling like grease. Surprisingly, cleaning detergent is another one of the big smells. A dark-skinned waitress leans out of the kitchen door, calling out to them in a familiar Iowa accent.
"Just a minute, honey. Dishwasher just broke and we're mopping up."
"Well, that explains the smell," Clint mutters, before smiling calmly, popping his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. "Bathroom?"
The waitress glances down at Mary, who – despite her silence – is doing the classic gotta go dance, before pointing to the left. "Just over there, honey. Handicap should be open if you don't want to bring your little girl into the gents."
"Thanks," Clint says, before the waitress disappears.
"I can go to the bathroom myself," Mary whispers.
"Okay, but I'll be outside the door, in case you need help," Clint says. They make their way to the handicap bathroom, Clint turning on the light-switch before letting Mary close the door behind her. While he waits, Clint glances up at the diner menu over the bar, wondering if the kid is hungry.
The waitress eventually pops back out. "What can I get you?"
"You got bottled water behind there?"
"Sure – taking away? Costs less, cause you don't use a glass," she presumably reaches into the fridge behind the counter, taking out two bottles and putting them up in the bar. "Your girl still inside? They get real independent at that age – I've got two, one girl who's seven and a boy turning three."
"Mary's…" Clint blinks. "Crap. How old is she? Five?"
The waitress laughs, "It's so easy to lose track, ain't it? I swear, one minute my baby girl could fit so snug in my arms. Now, she's nearly as tall as me, but to be honest, I'm pretty short. My girl though – she can do all sorts of gymnastics. I'm so proud. Her pop is a proper carnie, y'know." Clint nods, wondering at the thought of another carnie in Iowa. For all I know, it's Barney. That'd be a classic, me meeting him again through his wife. A glance at her hands shows no ring though. Obviously, however, the waitress has done the same thing, because she motions with a tea-towel to his crossed arms. "No ring," she notes out loud. "Her momma around?"
Clint grimaces, the picture of the agent's medical file flicking through his mind. The woman who fostered Mary had been tortured extensively, for reasons unknown. She's in critical care, hidden away in a private hospital room – apparently Fury holds her in high esteem, so she's probably got around the clock guards, as well.
"No. She's not around," he says, before the door creaks open. Clint looks down at the little girl he's been charged to take care of. "You wash your hands?"
"Can't reach."
Clint sighs. "C'mon, back inside." Mary slinks out of view and Clint helps her wash her hands, wrapping his arm around her torso and lifting her up to the right height, working the taps and pressing the soap for her. "Good girl," he says after she finishes, grabbing some paper towels for her to dry her dripping hands. Mary glances up at him through her long bangs, eyes a little wide. Clint repeats himself. "Good girl."
Mary goes a little red, biting her lip trying to contain a smile as she enthusiastically dries her hands, putting the damp paper towels in the bin. Clint ruffles her hair before they go back out, heading to the bar.
"Want something to eat, chickadee?" Clint questions, getting a happy nod. He picks her up, swinging her onto a tall stool, to her giggles. "There we go," he murmurs, smiling himself and sitting up beside her. "What do you think about nuggets? Or a burger?"
"Burger."
"With all the toppings?"
Mary wrinkles her nose, looking up at the menu with narrowed eyes. "No. Cheese and ketchup."
"Alright then," the waitress writes it down on her notepad. "Kids burger with cheese and ketchup. You want a pop with that, honey?"
"What's a pop?"
"A coke," Clint says. "Small glass, please."
"We've got some plastic kids cups," the waitress says helpfully. Now they're closer, Clint can read her sewn name-tag properly, the curly writing having confused him beforehand. Cassidy.
"Thanks. Can I get the barbeque ribs and fries? And a pop?"
"Sure. I'll get Jess on it. You in a hurry?"
"Naw," Clint waves her off before taking out his wallet. Cassidy reads out a rough total from the till and he hands over some bills. "I always forget to pay. Might as well do it now. Keep the change."
"Thank-you," Cassidy winks, then goes into the back to give Jess the order. The truth is, half the time it's Phil paying and the other half of the time, Clint's eating then getting caught up in murder and SHIELD business.
Mary pokes his arm.
"So where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe," Clint repeats his earlier statement.
"Safe isn't safe," Mary says in a supremely, genuinely wise way for her age. Clint is kind of disturbed, actually. "Where are we going?"
Clint finds himself stumped.
"I can't tell you," he says, brow furrowing. "It's…with what happened and because of where she worked…" SHIELD, a woman in Level Six Communications fostered you, somehow, without getting called out for it. "It's complicated kid. I have to make sure you're safe. The guys that…"
"Hurt her."
"That hurt her," Clint lowers his voice, "are still out there. We don't know why she was targeted; but in the event that an employee from our organisation is killed, we get their family to safety. You were her foster-kid. It would be so easy for you to go missing, because the adults that look after you in homes usually have other children to care for."
"Why?"
"Did you see anything? Did you hear what they wanted?" Clint whispers the question, before Cassidy comes back in to serve them their Coca Colas, pouring ice and cold cans into glasses. She even pops in a straw for Mary, who gives a small smile before sipping cheerfully, quiet as a mouse.
"There you go. I'll bring your order round front soon. Just call if you need something," Cassidy says, giving Mary a small wave before heading back into the kitchen. Faintly, Clint can hear her talking to Jess, presumably. He looks back to Mary, eyeing her critically before finally asking the question Sitwell said she refused to answer.
"Mary. What happened to Agent Hill?"
"We were having chicken nuggets."
Maria pokes Mary's nose with a ketchup-covered nugget, making her giggle and reach out to copy her. Mary watches in awe as Maria reaches her tongue up to lick it off.
"Then- then something came through the window and it make the room go white. It hurt my eyes."
There's a sudden crash from the window, something heavy dropping into the sink. Maria immediately grabs Mary, pulling her into her chest, but there's no explosion – just a bang and everything is so bright as Mary screams in fright. Something breaks – a heavy crunching sound, before a door slams. Maria runs and they bash into something, the blue china that had been to Mary's back during dinner reflecting the light.
"Mommy put me in the china cabinet. When she locked it, they couldn't get me."
The blonde agent man reaches over, picking her up and bringing her to sit on his lap. It's so strange to Mary – yet not. Maria was like this. Maria hugged her tightly and made fun jokes. Maria kept her safe. Maria cried happy tears when Mary asked to call her mommy, after a year together. This man, who hasn't even told her his name, is much like Maria. He's not like the Matthews, or Ms Karen. The Matthews had so many rules and smiles that made her tummy flip-flop and Ms Karen was…cold. All Mary can remember about Ms Karen was the cold.
Mary wants to know this blonde agent man's name, even if having a name would mean she had another person to leave. I want Mommy.
"They were all dressed up and had guns. Mommy fought them, but they shot her in the legs. They kept punching her face and making electric hurt her. They put a fire on her shoulder. They wanted me."
"You?"
The nastiest one, who's big and scary, comes over to where Mary's inside the cabinet. He leers at her through the glass before trying to open the door, only for it to stick firm. He frowns, before tugging again. It doesn't work and when he shakes it again and again, the cabinet doesn't even move, let alone give.
"Yeah," Mary whispers, reaching for her coke. The blonde agent man tugs it over, letting her out of his comforting grip to lean forwards. Mary takes a minute to drink, shuddering slightly as she remembers what they did to her Mommy. "My Mommy's china was in a special cupboard though. It didn't let them get me. It was locked. They tried to make Mommy open it, but she just set off an alarm instead. She-"
Maria's almost face-to-face with Mary, held up by one of the goons in front of the cabinet. The glass has backwards numbers on it, facing towards Maria and she locks eyes with Mary – or tries to, at least. One of her eyes can't open and her other one has blood from her hairline dripping into it. Everything about the other people there and every way they've hurt her Mommy scares Mary, but it's been hours. She's long stopped crying.
"Pegasus, rock-a-bye, Hunan, one, monastery," Maria says clearly and concisely. The computer in the glass blips, decreeing the passcode wrong. The man holding Maria up slams his fist into her face, before she groans, speaking again. "Pegasus, rock-a-bye, Hunan, eighteen, monastery-" It goes on and on, negative after negative result, each time a different number. Mary starts crying again, because each wrong time, the man hits her again, once bringing her back to the bloody chair and peeling part of her leg skin with a kitchen knife.
"Don't look, baby girl, Santa Clause will save you," Maria slurs, multiple times, confusing everyone.
The men eventually decide to kill her.
"We'll just carry the cabinet out with her in it," says the one that tried shooting the glass. "One last try, Agent Hill, then you're dead."
Maria is brought back to the cabinet. She's silent, trying to draw in enough breath to speak.
"Pegasus. Rock-a-bye. Hunan. One. Monastery." She says, the man holding her bringing up his gun upon recognising the same passcode from the first time – but then she says one last word. "Santa."
The cabinet beeps, the screen flickering, pulsing. A timer appears, counting down from a strange number – seventeen seconds. Mary wipes her eyes, confused. Maria chuckles, wincing and grimacing almost immediately afterwards, shutting her eyes and becoming limp in the man's arms. He sets her down like she's a box of books – heavily, but close to the ground, an argument breaking out.
"Then what happened?" the blonde agent man questions.
"Santa came," Mary says. "Santa's black, y'know."
"Santa- wait. Wait. Santa? Santa Clause – Saint Nick? Holy cow, Nick Fury rescued you?"
When the timer runs down to zero, there are a few seconds, before a man in a leather coat steps through the broken backdoor with half a dozen black-suited men, guns firing. Mary shuts her eyes and covers her ears, not looking, trying not to listen to the screams and loud gunshots that will haunt her dreams to come. Eventually, the noise dies down.
"Clean this up," a man says. "Get Hill to an ICU, for fucks sake."
"Yes, sir-"
"Yes, Director-"
"Mary," he addresses her. She opens her eyes. "My name is Nicholas J. Fury, but you can call me Santa."
"I get to call him Santa," Mary says, before a round lady with her hair hidden under a blue net comes out of the kitchen with Cassidy, placing ribs and a burger in front of them, each with a side of fries.
"There ya go, folks. I'm Jess."
"Thanks," the blonde agent man says. "I'm Clint. This is Mary."
"Mary-Sue Poots," Mary finishes distantly.
"I'm going to open this up and take you out. Don't do a runner and make one of these agents have to catch you." Santa says, looking at Mary balefully as the other agents pick Maria up, taking her away. When Maria disappears, Mary looks to Santa. It's then that she notices the eyepatch. She watches as he puts his hand on the glass, which zips a blue light over it before flashing green. There's a click, before he pulls the cabinet door open.
Santa pulls Mary out of the cabinet, some of the china falling out onto the ground where Maria had been laid. There's blood everywhere. Santa walks away, to the kitchen exit, pointing at the sofa.
"Go sit."
"Poots?" Cassidy smiles. The blonde agent man – Clint – tilts his head, nodding.
"Yeah. Clinton and Mary-Sue Poots."
Mary frowns as she picks up her burger, looking up at Clint- Clinton? – strangely. "Do I call you Clint or Clinton?"
Clint chuckles, "Eat your food, kid. Other adults get to call me Clint."
Okay, Mary thinks. I have to call you Clinton, then. Clinton, like the President. She thinks about Maria, teaching her about governments and how school is important. Mary doesn't think she can spell government, so maybe that's why school's important.
She wants to ask Clinton, but they're both eating. Clinton is already a third of the way through his ribs and he's finished his chips. Mary hurries to eat her burger faster, so she doesn't get hungry later. Mary doesn't know if Clinton is nice, like Maria – he could be like the Matthews, who always told her to finish eating quicker and whose kids stole her food when they were done, or he could be like Ms Karen who stared at her as she ate, looking at each piece of food going in her mouth like it was dirt.
"Woah," he pauses suddenly, putting his rib down. "You're going to make yourself sick. Slow down. We've all the time in the world."
"Okay," Mary whispers, looking to her food and putting her burger down, grabbing her drink again, staring at the ice inside as she sucks her straw. She picks at her fries, occasionally throwing glances at Clinton. He eats and he chats with the nice lady behind the bar, with the dark skin and bright, green eyes. Mary thinks she's so pretty and looks away quickly when she glances at Mary, scared at getting caught staring.
Eventually, she finishes her burger, drink and fries. Mary feels sated. She missed lunch with her mommy today, a bit. Her arms itch and Mary feels her shirt tugging and tearing something as she scratches it. Wincing, Mary crosses her arms as she feels her shirt get wet above her elbow, where she'd scratched herself during her time stuck in the china cabinet.
"You cold, kiddo?" Clinton questions, before taking off his black leather jacket, putting it around her shoulders. Mary's eyes widen before she tugs it around her, sticking her arms through the huge arm holes. The jacket is huge on her, but it has a fluffy inside and it's toasty warm from Clinton wearing it. Clinton snickers. "Bit big for you, chickadee."
"Mmmm," Mary hums, agreeing. She yawns afterwards. Her tummy is perfectly filled and the jacket is warm, making her feel sleepy. She becomes a little more alert when Clinton picks her up, but he just puts her on his hip like her mommy did, checking with the waitress to make sure they'd paid in full before picking up their bottled waters.
"Say bye, chickadee."
"Bye," Mary says, looking at the pretty waitress one last time as she smiles and waves at them both, watching her as Clinton walks them out of the diner into the snow. It immediately attracts her attention, the wind blowing cold air in her face, down her neck and up the arm holes of Clinton's jacket. "It's cold."
"Can't do much about it, unless you're some kind of weather witch," Clinton says, before unlocking the car and putting her in the backseat, buckling her into her booster seat. Mary's a little surprised, but very happy to find he leaves his jacket with her. "From here on out, we're driving through the night. If you need to go to the bathroom, tell me, alright? I'll stop somewhere."
"Okay. Can I go to sleep?"
"If you can, sweetheart," Clinton says, before shutting the door, heading around to the drivers. Once inside, he turns the key in the ignition, rolling out onto the road and turning on the heating. As they head up the highway, Mary notices how he looks at her in the rear-view mirror – but eventually, she forgets, curling up inside his jacket. She falls asleep.
She wakes up screaming.
Elsewhere:
"You know, I did not expect for you to be so damn lazy in covering up after yourself," Nick says, glaring annoyedly at her. "You're supposed to be my up-and-coming best agent, May."
Melinda raises an eyebrow, giving him a pleasant – if confused – smile. "What are you on about?" she questions, unwrapping her hands.
"Mary-Sue Poots. Named by the nuns you gave her to." Nick watches Melinda's smile disappear, to be replaced by a horrified expression. "Oh yeah, I know. So does one of my potential future right hands, apparently. Fostered the kid out of the blue, keeping it on the down-low and using her own credentials to manipulate the paper-trail. Wasn't enough to fix the bullshit you'd left behind from your little seclusion in eighty-eight."
"What happened?" Melinda demands.
"Mercenaries. Hill's going to be in hospital for months. The girl's gone into hiding with an agent that Coulson recruited." Nick narrows his eyes at Melinda's flinch, working it out pretty quickly. "You didn't tell him."
"I told no-one, let alone my daughter's own father, that I had a kid," Melinda hisses, before going over to her bag on a gym bench, packing up quickly and methodically. "Why are you coming here to tell me this personally, Director?"
"You need to clean up. Only you know your exact route, but if your enemies picked up the trail, it must not be that hard to follow. I'm giving you the next month off. If anyone asks, you're on a mission. When you come back, know that you won't be getting that pretty fucking promotion to level seven for at least another year. Dismissed."
"Sir," Melinda growls, grabbing her bag and leaving. Nick watches her go, feeling disappointed and guilty, for good reason.
If Phil Coulson never finds out he's got a daughter, even if it needs to be kept secret her entire life, I'll never forgive myself.
When Mary starts to whimper in her sleep, Clint starts looking on either side of the highway for some form of motel. The next town turns out to be half an hours drive, so he books it. Unfortunately, Mary wakes with mommy on her lips, crying her heart out.
There should be a survival kit in the back. Sleeping bags, blankets, Clint thinks as he pulls over onto a wide dirt-track dusted lightly with snow. Parking out of the way, off to the side, he climbs into the back, shushing her gently as he unbuckles her. Mary kicks a little, arms flailing, but Clint works patiently, staying calm. He knows nightmares – nightmares are special friends of his. His worst one is Barney punching him, beating him black and blue on Trickshot's order. He can't imagine what Mary saw when Agent Hill was tortured.
"I'm here, I'm going to keep you safe," he says when she stops moving, just crying. It's awkward, sitting in the middle seat, twisting around so he can face her, but he bears it. "Do you want to be held, chickadee?" Mary lets out a sad whine, still crying and Clint decides to just go for it, pulling her out of her seat into his arms. She's still wearing his jacket and Clint takes care not to hold her too tight, in case she had any bad experiences. "It'll be alright," he reassures her, "I'm not too bad at this, am I? Never really hung out with kids before."
"Is Mommy dead?"
"No, she's just very hurt," Clint shakes his head, brushing a kiss on her dark hair. Maybe it's because he's a genuinely decent person, under all his bad deeds, but seriously – Clint feels like he's handling Mary almost too well. Maybe that's why I was chosen to look after her, he thinks, grimacing at the thought of someone like Sitwell – stiff, distant and not adult-friendly, let alone kid-friendly – looking after this little girl having nightmares in the back of his car. "You'll see her again when she's better, I promise."
"P-p-pinky promise?" she sobs. Clint immediately roots around for one of her hands in his jacket, finding one and linking their pinkies, meeting her eyes.
"I double pinky promise, you will see your mommy again when she's better. Do you believe me, Mary?"
Mary nods. "I b-believe you, Clinton."
A snort escapes his nose. Clinton? God, nobody calls me that. "Mary, while I'm with you, you can call me Clint."
"B-b-but I'm not a-a big person."
"Being big doesn't matter, unless it needs to. It doesn't need to, right now," Clint says, bopping her nose and wiping some of her tears with his thumb. Strangely, it's a lot wetter than they show in the movies and it takes him a couple of swipes to decently clear her face. "So, call me Clint, or Hawkeye. That's my codename. Cool, right?"
"Why?"
"Iowa, the Hawkeye state – it was my name in the circus. I was one of the best archers in the country. Still am, I suppose. I got better over the years, though." Clint shuffles a bit, adjusting his grip on Mary so he can reach over the seats to the boot, grabbing the survival kit and dragging it over. "We're going to have a sleepover in the car, tonight, so if you have a nightmare, I can wake you up. If I have a nightmare, you get to wake me up."
"You have nightmares, too?"
"Everyone has nightmares, kiddo," Clint says, unpacking the sleeping bag and blankets, putting the rest of the survival kit in the footwell of the passenger seat. "You're getting the sleeping bag. I'll take the blankets."
"I've never slept in a sleeping bag before."
"Well, tonight's going to be fun, isn't it?" Clint grins at her, revelling in how she smiles through her sniffles. "Let's get you set up, then."
The next day, Clint convinces Mary to 'play pretend'. If people ask, Clint is her dad and he's called Jake. If people ask, Mary isn't called Mary-Sue Poots, she's called Louise Ellen. Mary knows they're going into hiding, so Clint doesn't lie to her, telling her that this is important.
"Bad guys can track you down by your name and what you look like. When we stop for supplies, I'm going to braid your hair back, okay?"
"Never had a braid before," Mary says in reply.
"Awesome. I get to make amazing braids and when you're older and someone else does them, you'll remember mine because they were perfect."
They stop at a Walmart and Clint makes a game of it. We've got to pretend we're moving house, but everything we owned got lost when the house broke in an earthquake. We're from Oregon, going to go live with my mom, your gramma, in Dubuque. They get clothes, suitcases, toys, pots and pans and an egg timer that Mary sees and insists they get. It's a funky egg-timer, to be fair, made to look like a baby chicken in bright yellow. When the timer went off, its eyes go googly.
Clint also gets coloured hair extensions, going to the bathroom after they buy them to stick them in Mary's hair, braiding her hair into a crown around her head, neon blue and purple flashing through it.
"I look pretty!" Mary exclaims, leaning closer to the mirror to stare at her hair, twisting to see. Clint grins, crossing his arms, feeling smug and proud of his work. "Can I have make-up, too?"
"Sure," Clint says, ready for the question. Using the giant make-up set he bought, in case they needed to change their looks drastically, he does Mary's make-up, not for the first time praising himself for actually paying attention to Sara in the circus, when she did the other performers' make-up and the customers' face-paint.
Sometimes, Clint thinks he could have gone into hair and beauty, once he'd left the circus – it's not like he couldn't have dealt with the stigma, either. The cashier just before had looked at him suspiciously for buying the make-up case. I bet the only reason they didn't call me a fag was because I had Mary with me. To be fair though, it's not like Clint hasn't experimented with either sex. He ponders his own sexuality as he finishes Mary's make-up, happy that she has the ability to stay still.
The rest of the day is spent driving. Driving, driving and driving. By the time they get to the safe-house in Wausau, Wisconsin, Mary had complained enough that Clint stopped at a store to get her a Nintendo Gameboy to distract her with. When they go to take their new belongings into the safe-house, Clint debates on whether to leave the dozens of discarded toys on the floor of the backseat or not.
"We might need to scarper," he reasons, looking to Mary on the sidewalk. "Hey, chickadee – pick six toys to take inside. The others stay in the car." Mary's heartbroken expression makes Clint uncomfortable, but he sticks with his guns. "Six. Now come pick, before I do it for you."
Mary picks six of her toys, then tries to take in another by hiding a figurine in her pocket with her Gameboy.
"Hey," Clint crouches down in front of her, "I said six. You can keep your Gameboy as well, as number seven, but you aren't allowed a number eight. If you want a different toy, we can come and get a different one and put an old one in the car to replace it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy," Mary says and for a moment, Clint wonders why she's calling him daddy, until he realises that there's a person approaching from behind. Mary puts one of her toys back as they pass and Clint waits until they've turned the corner to praise her.
"Good girl. You're a very clever girl." Mary blushes and Clint hugs her impulsively, feeling Mary reciprocate easily and tightly. He squeezes gently. "Let's go inside."
Elsewhere:
Melinda's next punch makes the man's teeth crunch and he groans, spitting out a tooth.
"I want a name," Melinda demands, voice low.
"No names," the man moans, "not part of the contract-" Melinda punches him again. "I don't know his name!"
"So they're a he, then," she picks up, digging her fingers into a deep slice in his shoulder. He lets out a hoarse yell. "What did he look like? Ethnicity, nationality, hair colour, anything."
"American," the man rasps, voice tight as she removes her hand. "About thirty. He was desperate. Looked like he'd get a new grey hair every day from stress. Sort of like that guy from Twin Peaks, but not ginger. Brunette. Said she was his daughter that was stolen from him."
"Anything else you can think of would be helpful and will probably extend your life," Melinda states. She watches him panic and goes to dig into his wound again, when he shouts.
"He was a doctor! He had a bag – the Doctors Without Borders logo was on it!"
Melinda takes this in, before punching him again, this time knocking him out. She leaves the room, setting the room alight, throwing her bloodied leather gloves into the blaze. The SHIELD agents on her tail will be left to find him, their single lead to Maria Hill's attackers burnt to cinders. Fury said to clean up after herself and she damn will do.
Getting into her car, Melinda looks to the file Fury had given her. Mystery massacre in an unnamed village in the Hunan Province. An agent found an 084 in the form of a baby girl – my daughter, according to blood tests – who was the only survivor. Placed into foster-care, always moving to keep her hidden…
"An oh-eight-four," Melinda thinks of the people who must have adopted her daughter. This American doctor must have gone mad. His village slaughtered, his wife presumably dead and his daughter taken... "Did he watch? Did he run? Is he the one who killed everyone?" Melinda will have to find him. It's not just a matter of loose ends anymore – this wasn't someone trying to get to Melinda.
This was someone trying to find their family.
Melinda thinks of Maria Hill, damaged beyond any extent a Communications agent in SHIELD has been injured in the last forty years. All for her, Melinda thinks of her daughter, remembering her soft skin and little tuft of hair. Nuns named her Mary-Sue. What did her parents name her? When did she start speaking? Was she crawling or walking when she was taken from them?
The windows of the building shatter, fire billowing out. Melinda glances at it before driving off, knowing that because she'd broken the security cameras, she couldn't be identified.
Now, to find this 'doctor'.
The safe house is pretty empty. Mary doesn't seem to mind though. Clint contacts Sitwell to tell him that he's got them both holed away. What he does not expect is to hear Fury's put you on indefinite babysitting.
"What the actual hell, Sitwell?" Clint questions because while he doesn't mind looking after Mary, to be indefinitely babysitting? Clint is an Operations agent, meant to fight and- and not be sitting on his ass for however long they need him. Sitwell tries to pass it off as protective detail, but Clint isn't having it. "I want to be put through to someone higher up the chain, Sitwell. I'm not having this. Mary's sweet, but she's a kid, a foster-kid. She needs stability. I'm only supposed to be temporarily assigned to her-"
"I've got no input here, Barton," Sitwell says, interrupting. "I've tried to see why she needs someone with your skill looking after her, but her file's classified – Level Sevens only."
"Level seven?" Clint whistles, eyes widening. He twists, leaning back in his chair to see through the kitchen door to Mary in front of the TV, playing with Action Men. He leans back over the table, wiping his face slightly. "I don't believe you. Who are her real parents?"
"Classified. There was a blood test done when she was a baby, but I can't see the results of anything from that, except that she's blood type B-negative and she was born mid-nineteen eighty-eight. Her whole file was blacked out when I received it. The sweep we did of Hill's house got basically nothing. She likes pink and blue, maybe – she's got a lot of Beauty and the Beast paraphernalia. Hill's house is practically empty. Their only personal belongings are fabric."
"She left nothing to chance. She knew," Clint mumbles. "Hill was what? A level above us?"
"Something like that. I think she just got promoted to Level Six."
"Okay, I'm no good at maths, but I know six minus four is two," Clint says, grumbling a bit. "Why am I still Level Four, again?"
"Because you have disciplinary issues when you aren't working with Coulson. Learn not to be a cheeky shit and you might get promoted. So anyway, just to recap, you're babysitting and I'm complaining on your behalf."
"You got that right."
"Great. Coulson or Garret?"
"Garret," Clint says. "Coulson'll probably say it's a learning experience."
"Going behind your recruiting agent's back…see, this is why you don't get promoted."
"Shut up and complain at them for me," Clint rolls his eyes and hangs up, leaning back in his chair to look at Mary. "Hey, chickadee, go get the phonebook from beside the door. It's time for you to pick a name for yourself."
"I like Louise."
"Nope, new name. This one won't be pretend, either. I'm going to be with you for a long time, kiddo," Clint says, coming up with a plan as he speaks. "We're going to make up a story based on the truth and we're going to stick with it for ages and ages." Mary frowns, Action Men resting in her lap. Clint sighs. "Get the phone book and bring it to the kitchen. We're going to have a big, big talk, okay?"
Mary doesn't say anything, making Clint wince. She still does as he says though, collecting the phone book and bringing it to the kitchen. Clint takes it, setting it on the table and patting the chair beside him for her to sit on. As she climbs up, Clint tries to think of what to say and how to say it. He's quiet for a minute and as he thinks, he takes out his hearing aid, itching his ear. He makes sure to keep an eye on Mary as he does, reading her lips when she speaks.
"What's that?"
"It helps me hear," Clint says, putting it back in. "When I don't have it in, I read peoples lips, or speak to them in ASL – American sign language. I'm learning foreign sign languages too, in case something happens abroad and I can't communicate with anyone…or if something happens abroad and I need to pretend I can't communicate with anyone."
Mary blinks at him for a second, before her eyes widen and she giggles, hiding a smile behind her hands. Clint grins at her, happy his joke works on kids.
"Can you teach me?"
"Sure," Clint says before thinking. After the word has slipped out of his mouth, he pauses and internally panics about teaching sign to a kid – but aren't kids supposed to pick up languages far more easily than adults? "I'll teach you," he confirms, speaking slowly. "So that you can pretend as well. Pretending is going to be a big part of your life, chickadee and for that, I'm sorry."
"Why is it going to be big?"
"Because…because you're special, Mary," Clint tells her quietly, twisting in his chair to lean over a little, evening the height differential. She's so young, he thinks, staring at her. Mary is five and she's never had a permanent home. Maria Hill could have honestly fostered her out of the goodness of her heart, but somehow, Clint doubts it. Maybe it became genuine as time went on, but she fostered Mary because she knew something – who her biological parents are, most likely, something that both puts Mary in danger and potentially compromises her parents.
Clint can't think of any other reason.
…except one, the thought comes from the back of his head. SHIELD was meant to contain the weird and dangerous. What if this isn't a 'dangerous' situation – what if this is a 'weird'?
"You're so special that I'm going to adopt you," he states without provocation, making an internal memo to phone Sitwell about cancelling that complaint. "I'm going to keep you safe for as long as I can and I'm going to look after you, as well, as my own daughter."
"You're going to be my actual daddy?" Mary asks, eyes getting watery.
"Yes," Clint says, "but there are conditions. One is that you have to become a completely new person, Mary. You have to choose a new name and create a story about what happened before we were together. Something close to the truth – like how your mom was really hurt and can't look after you anymore. We're going to cut your hair and I'm going to ask my bosses if a friend of mine can join us. Her name is Laura and she's a secretary. She also rescues animals. She is also my girlfriend. Hopefully, you'll get to meet Kate, too."
"Who's Kate?" Mary questions.
"Laura's cat. Laura will say her name is Hawkeye, but seriously, that's my name, so her cat is called Kate, okay?"
"Okay," Mary says, lip trembling. "So, you're going to be my new daddy, for real?"
"For real, chickadee," Clint says, not surprised when she launches herself at him, having seen her moving before she leaped. He can hear her crying into his shoulder and can feel the wet patch starting to grow. "Alright, alright…" he hugs her tightly, unable to contain his smile. "Are these happy tears? Please tell me they're happy tears."
"Happy. I'm so happy. You're gonna be my daddy!"
Clint grins. "Duty of care, chickadee. You aren't going to be able to get rid of me. Double pinky promise," he raises his hand, watching Mary wrap her tiny pinky around his. He shakes it, before reaching for the phonebook. "Now. How about we try finding you a new name, baby bird?"
One month after the attack on Maria Hill:
"He needs therapy."
"He needs to live in a damn mental hospital," Fury mutters as they watch an agent interrogate Doctor Calvin Johnson through the glass window. Melinda looks at him with only half-concealed pity. "Barton did something…not completely stupid. Idiotic. Rebellious."
"What?"
"Take a look at the newly adopted Daisy Louise Barton. Hell of a coincidence and if Barton were any more travelled and seasoned an agent, I'd call bullshit." Fury gives her a folded piece of paper. Melinda takes it, unfolding it. It's two separate photocopies on a single piece of paper, one with an adoption certificate, signed Clinton Francis Barton and Laura Megan Thompson and the other, a picture in black and white of a man Melinda recognises as Agent Barton holding a young girl in a courthouse, kissing her forehead.
Melinda looks at Daisy Barton – Mary-Sue Poots, Daisy Johnson, Julie May – and releases a shaky breath.
"Does he know that Coulson…"
"No," Fury says. "Barton's only a Level Four agent. Sitwell tried to get her file. It was classified Level Seven then – I've had it reclassified as Level Eight since then and updated it myself. Daisy Barton will have a second file at whatever level Barton manages at the time, like normal."
"Thank-you, Director," Melinda murmurs, before handing back the paper. Fury tucks it in his pocket, before taking out another paper, this one a small, glossy photo of Daisy that he hands over to her. The second exchange is wordless and they watch the agent talking to Doctor Johnson call in some muscle to restrain him as he loses his temper, lashing out. The agent turns to the glass window.
"I'd recommend containment in a medical facility."
Fury leans forwards, pressing the comm button. "Arrange it."
"Yes, sir."