So, I HUGELY admire Aggie2011's Vantage Point Universe, so I decided to begin my own Clint-centric universe: the Record Keeper Universe. It mainly focuses on the relationship that develops between Clint and Coulson, starting with Clint's recruitment to SHIELD.
And I know I shouldn't be writing ANOTHER story, but this has been sitting around on my USB for ages.
Disclaimer: The Avengers do not belong to me.
Chapter One: Catch Me As I Fall
Catch me as I fall
Say you're here and it's all over now
Speaking to the atmosphere
No one's here and I fall into myself
Clint Barton was not an easy person to fool. Those who had ever doubted that fact learned the hard way not to mess with the cutthroat assassin. So the eighteen-year-old couldn't figure out for the life of him why this man was tailing him, unless he wanted an arrow in his eyeball.
People and their motives would always confuse Clint.
He had woken up relatively happy that morning; it was New Year's Eve, and he was going to finish his contract that night, and then he could get the hell out of Switzerland. Not that he didn't like Switzerland, of course. But science conferences and stalkers really put a damper on Clint's mood.
The well-trained assassin moved closer to the center of the crowd crossing the street. Clint hated crowds, but the last way to lose a tail was to duck into a deserted alleyway. He then joined a group of college-aged kids walking into a shopping center. American students on a trip, he guessed. They entered a small coffee shop. Clint followed.
The coffee shop was fairly crowded- a sign that their food was good. Christmas lights outlined the menus on the wall, and the employees wore elf hats and bells. German Christmas music poured through the speakers. There was a fake fireplace near the back. Clint ordered a cup of regular coffee, cream and sugar, please. The barista blushed slightly when he thanked her and flashed one of his signature smiles. She gave him a little extra sugar.
Clint grabbed the mug, placed a tip in the jar, and made his way to a two-person table next to the fireplace and sat down. From this point, he could watch everything and everyone, but few would notice him. His favorite situation.
From across the room, the barista caught his eye. He smiled again, and she smiled back, slightly bashfully. She was pretty. She had an oval face and full cheeks. Her chocolate brown hair fell in loose waves. And the smile was just the cherry on top. For a minute, Clint felt pang of loneliness. Having a solo career wasn't always fun.
Clint was pulled out of his thoughts when he caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye. Damn his tail was good. The older man took no notice of the teen; instead, he he stood in line at the counter, waiting to order something. Clint nursed his cup of coffee as he observed the man with is blue-gray eyes.
The man wasn't exceptionally tall- but that didn't mean anything. Clint wasn't exactly the tallest person in the world either. He had short brown hair and rather prominent ears. The was a slight bump on the man's right side, betraying to Clint that the man had a gun.
Clint sipped his drink, eyes following the man as he received his drink and sat down at an open table next to the door. Shit.
They stayed like that for a while, Clint observing, the man acting like he had no idea Clint was watching him. Clint finished his coffee and stared longingly at the empty mug. It was good coffee. He decided to get another cup.
The barista was still there when he ordered a cup-to-go. He gave her a wink before leaving the coffee shop, not paying his stalker a second glance.
Clint went through a series of intricate paths to get back to his safe house. By the time he got there (three hours, 18 minutes, and 32 seconds), he was fairly confident that he had lost his tail. For the time being. He spent the rest of the afternoon prepping for his kill. It was going to have to be up close and personal tonight, so he would sadly have to leave his bow in the trunk of his car. Instead, he cleaned out his Glock 26, refilling the bullets, and attached a silencer to it. Then Clint made sure his knives were sharp.
Finally, at five, he slipped into the suit that he hated. He rarely wore it, since most of his work was done from a distance, but from the few times he did wear it, it tended to end up as an inconvenience. He slipped one knife into its sheath underneath his left arm, another tucked neatly into his sock, and slipped the gun into the custom-made pocket on the inside of his jacket. He glanced in the mirror, grabbed his sunglasses, and left the apartment room after making sure that there had been no traces of him being there. He wasn't coming back tonight.
Clint jumped into his car after checking that his bow and arrows were stored safely in the back, underneath a blanket, and drove over to the skyscraper in which the science convention was taking place. He parked a couple of streets away, and walked around to the back of the building. He glanced at the "secured" door for a minute before smirking. It was a simple four-digit code. Probably easy enough to crack, but he wasn't taking any chances. Quietly and discreetly, he slipped out the knife under his arm, and pried the keypad off of the device. A few wires cut later, and the door clicked open. He replaced the keypad and slipped inside.
The party took up several floors of the building, with more presentations occurring above that. Clint grabbed a directory and a champagne from the passing waiter and pressed into the crowd. Sustaining awareness about the crowd surrounding him, he consulted the directory. Stark would be presenting some amazing piece of technology on the fourth floor at 9:00. That gave Clint plenty of time to check all of his exits and situations. Sipping his champagne, Clint wandered around for a couple of hours, checking out a couple of presentations with obvious disinterest. All the while, he kept a distant eye on his target.
The job was done quickly, and with ease. The man had suspected nothing, nor did the drunk people surrounding him. A shot to the head, and Clint was out of the building and shrugging off his suit jacket.
Clint pulled out his cell phone and called Oveur Paxting, the man paying him to take out his target.
"Paxting," the voice answered.
"It's done," Clint said simply.
"You're positive?"
"I never miss," Clint's voice became less like rock and more like steel. "I expect the money by noon tomorrow."
"It'll be there," Paxting promised. Clint pressed the end button on his phone, ending the call. Next on his list: get the hell out of Switzerland and away from his mysterious stalker.
Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division watched from a parked car as Barton walked out the front door of the science conference with not a care in the world. He was slightly surprised that the young man- teenager, really- hadn't noticed him, as he had for the past week. Or maybe he did, and he was just beyond caring.
Phil watched Barton call someone while he walked down the street, toward where he'd parked his car. Phil brought the radio up to his lips.
"I've got sight on target," he said. "He's moving south."
The reply came, slightly garbled. "Affirmative. Should we move out?"
"Negative, Agent Sitwell," Coulson replied. "Let's see where he goes next."
Barton continued walking for several blocks. In addition to the jacket, he ripped of the tie and slipped out of the leather shoes. Coulson listened to the sporadic reports from the other agents as they trailed Barton to a small rental car on a deserted street.
"He's on the move," one of the agents reported.
"Check. I've got it from here. Where is he headed?" Coulson replied.
"The airport, sir."
"Okay. I'll call when I get to wherever we're going." Coulson started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. He dialed a number on his cell phone as he cruised down the street.
Ring.
Ring.
"Hello?"
"Hey, James, it's Phil."
"Phil!" James exclaimed. James had once been a SHIELD agent stationed in Switzerland, before suffering the loss of a leg in a field operation gone wrong. He had retired and found a much safer job working as the head of security at the Geneva Cointrin International Airport. He didn't associate himself much with secret agents any more, but Phil was an old friend and James was willing to do him a favor once in a while. "How are things across the pond?"
"As crazy as usual," Phil replied. "Nothing is ever simple with democracies."
"I hear you," James agreed. "Now, there must be a reason you called, because I highly doubt you wanted to catch up and gossip like old ladies."
Phil took the on-ramp onto the highway and merged into the inside lane. "Listen, I need a favor of you."
"Anytime, anytime," James said. "Just as long as it doesn't involve risking my life," he joked.
Phil smiled slightly. "Are you working tonight?"
"Yeah, I'm on break right now. Why?"
"I'm following a person and he's headed to the airport right now. I'm not sure where he's going; we've been tracking him for about a week and he hasn't purchased any tickets, as far as we know. He's more of a spur-of-the-moment type, he probably wouldn't have purchased one earlier."
"What do you want me to do? Stop him from buying a ticket?"
"No, I want your men on the lookout for him. It'll be like looking for a needle in an airport-sized haystack, I know, but this is slightly important. If you do find him, tell me what plane he takes. But let him go- in fact, let him get through security with as little problems as possible."
"Alright, who is this mysterious person, and what does he look like?"
"His name is Clint Barton, but he probably won't use that name when he purchases a ticket. He's on the shorter side, but well built. Sandy colored hair, blue/gray eyes, very serious looking. He was wearing a suit before, but he probably changed into something more inconspicuous- probably jeans and a sweatshirt."
"Phil, is this another one of your recruiting sprees? If I recall correctly, they tend to be a little... outlandish."
Coulson flipped on the blinker on the car to merge onto the offramp. "I'm not sure what it is, James. It would be great if we could recruit him. He'd be a really valuable asset, but he's a little unpredictable. And volatile. I have no idea what his reaction will be."
"I'll give it a shot, Phil, but I can't promise anything."
"Thanks, James," Phil replied. "This means a lot. Just tell your men to be careful, okay? He knows I've been following him for a while. He's probably expecting trouble."
"Will do. Just stay safe, okay, Phil?"
Phil smirked. "I'll try." He ended the call and focused on navigating his way through the busy airport.
-.-.-.-
Clint sauntered up to the security check in the airport. He wasn't positive yet on how he was going to get his multiple weapons onto the plane, but he figured he would just play it by ear. It wasn't like he was going to hijack the plane, or anything. He came to a stop behind a man who was significantly taller than Clint.
Clint quietly slipped a bullet casing into the outer pocket of the man's carry on. The casing of the bullet that was currently residing in a certain man's head. It wasn't long before security guards were flocking over to the station. The man looked completely befuddled, hands in the air, asking what was happening. In all of the commotion, Clint took his bag and slipped between the security detectors. He knew he would show up on the cameras, but he figured that he would at least be in the air before anyone noticed that he had never gone through security.
Clint spent the next twenty minutes wandering around, observing. At one point, he pick pocketed a man who was a similar height and had a similar hair color to Clint. He had seen the white corner of a ticket peeking out of the man's sport jacket.
Clint studied the ticket and went to the designated gate. The flight was set to leave for New York in a mere fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to get away. But also plenty of time for Clint's stalker to track him down. He sat down in a chair that faced away from the large window. Shoving earbuds into his ears, he pretended to turn on music and kept a sharp eye out for any suspicious looking people.
Suspicious became evident when the third security guard walked past his gate and conveniently glanced in Clint's direction before casually conveying something over the walkie talkie.
He knew he was caught.
By why wasn't anyone stopping him?
The minutes ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace. If it weren't for his inbred ability to stay still for up to 23 hours at a time (he had tried it once, and it was a highly unpleasant experience), Clint was sure that his leg would be twitching, he would have gotten up multiple times, and he would have probably been demoted to watching the TV (reading the reporter's lips, of course). By the time the ramp door opened, Clint had counted another four security guards who seemed to find a peculiar interest in the blond haired man sitting in Gate 12. He wasted no time in handing the attendant his ticket and strutting purposefully down the loading ramp.
He settled into his aisle seat in the economy seating and shoved his bag underneath the seat. An elderly woman sat in the window seat, but the one between them remained empty.
Five minutes later, people had started wondering why they weren't taking off. Their questions were answered when a flight attendant maneuvered her way to the row Clint and the elderly woman were sitting in.
"Excuse me," she smiled sweetly. "I was wondering if you have the right ticket. There is a man at the gate who insists that he had a ticket for this plane and that he was supposed to sit here."
Clint made a show of digging his ticket out of his jeans pocket. "Yes, I think so," he said politely. It says 23C. I am in 23C, right?" Just as long as she didn't check the name on the ticket, he was fine.
"May I check the name, please?" She held out a manicured hand.
Clint shrugged. "Sure. I mean, I am Frederick Scott. I'm not sure why you would need to check that." He was stalling. "But I suppose if you really wanted to, I am free tonight," he smirked.
The attendant drew back indignantly. "I highly doubt that was necessary," she said in a clipped tone.
"Perhaps not," he smiled. He noticed another attendant walking towards them. "But it was worth a try, right?"
The other attendant tapped the first one on the shoulder. "It's been sorted out. The Mr. Scott was supposed to be on a different flight."
"But-" the first one trailed off. She took another glance at Clint. "Alright." The two walked back up to the cockpit.
There was a moment of silence before the elderly woman spoke. She was looking out the window at the moving ground below them. "I would just like you to know that I heard nothing of that conversation. My hearing aides seem to have malfunctioned. I don't know why you are here, but if you try to deceive anyone else again, I will not hesitate in reporting you." Clint nodded once, but the woman continued. "It is possible that you are Frederick Scott. It is also possible that you needed to get to New York for some reason. I find both those options highly improbable, though."
"Thanks," Clint muttered, not sure if the woman was helping him or threatening him.
-.-.-.-
Clint stepped out of the plane and into the airport. As he scanned his surroundings, he caught a familiar flash of brown. Clint quietly swore under his breath. Clint didn't even ponder the fact that the stalker had somehow gotten to New York before Clint. The two men locked eyes for a split second before Clint was off.
So… a little into to the story. Setting the scene and all that fun stuff.
Please review and I MIGHT update before six months pass lol
-Silver out.
P.S. the song lyrics at the beginning of the chapter are taken from "Whisper" by Evanescence. I do not own them.