Ok. Another drabble for Tumblr.
Someone asked: First mission with SHIELD for Clint.
Somehow, Phil got in here and it became pre-slash. Huh. Oh well.
Current Song: Sax Rhomer #2 by the Mountain Goats
Current Thought: Huh. Not even midnight yet. BORED.
Title comes from the quote by Mark Twaine:
"The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one."
The Secret of Getting Ahead Is Getting Started
He's twenty years old and it's his first mission with SHIELD.
Clint is equipped with a bow, a quiver full of standard metal tipped arrows and wrist guards. He's in a SHIELD jump-suit, he's got a head-set on and he's on the roof of a building somewhere in the middle east. That's alright. Clint's been training for months for this one mission, for the rest of his time at SHIELD. He'd passed all of his field tests. Now all he has to do is put them into action.
He's been waiting for his target for three hours and he finally sees the guy. Some big bad that the big-wigs upstairs in the Council don't like, so Clint gets to shoot him out of the game.
Clint's been focusing on this guy for months, learning what he looks like, his background, everything he's done. He takes his research seriously, no matter how much the other junior agents say he slacks off, and he knows his target backwards and forwards, inside and out.
He trains his arrow on the man, holding his bow steady and getting ready to let go. He's just waiting on his handler's go-ahead.
"Now Agent," he hears. Sitwell. Clint tries not to roll his eyes. He's never been a big fan of the man, ever since he first started with SHIELD, but still. They'd saddled him with Sitwell. Perfect.
"Roger that, sir," he says, a bit tiredly, but then he freezes. There's something wrong.
Clint's been studying his target for months. He knows the man's mannerisms, how he walks, talks, what he likes for breakfast, what he likes in women. The man that Sitwell is telling him to shoot, though? Not his perp. Not his perp at all.
Clint doesn't lower his bow, but he does say into his comm., "Sitwell, sir. That's not my target."
"Of course it is, Bentin. Now shoot him," is the response.
Except Clint knows that's not his perp and that's definitely not his name. "Barton, sir," Clint corrects. "And I know that's not my target. I know how he walks and how he talks and I know what he looks like. That's not him. But he's gotta be out here somewh-"
"Bentoe, we didn't hire you to talk. We hired you to shoot. Now shoot him."
Clint sighs. "Barton," he mutters. "What is so hard about that?"
"Excuse me? Shoot him agent, shoot him now, or you're suspended."
"But-"
"Shoot. Him."
"No," Clint says, and takes out his ear piece so he doesn't have to listen to Sitwell losing his shit. He scans the crowd and looks for the familiar figure he's been studying all of this time. He knows that's not his perp, but a decoy. All he has to do is think like his target and he can find him.
It's not that hard. He finds his perp trying to sneak off scene in a workman's robes and shoots the man in the forehead, dead-center. He knows it's the right guy because his decoy looks pale, runs and is gunned down.
It's, officially, his first kill. Unofficially, it's his second.
When Clint makes it back to their base camp, he's put in hand-cuffs and detained. Sitwell is stark-raving mad and when he gets Clint back to SHIELD HQ, demands that Clint be punished for not following orders or get suspended. Either way, Sitwell doesn't want to be the rooky's handler.
Whatever. No love lost there, Clint thinks.
He's sitting in a room, waiting, when a man in a suit walks in. His hair is brown, and so are his eyes, and he's got wrinkles starting on his forehead, around his eyes, and around his mouth. Some look more like laughs lines than anything else.
He's only a few years older than Clint and he sits down in front of him. Clint narrows his eyes.
"Howdy," he says dryly, trying to see where this man stood.
"Agent Clint Barton, correct?" the man says instead. So he's a no nonsense kind of guy. Alright. Clint can work with that. And he gets his name right on the first try, so he's worth listening to, at least.
"Yessir," he says and tries to salute only to realize he's handcuffed to the table.
"And it says hear you have problems with authority and insubordination?"
"I don't know sir. You're the one with the file. You tell me."
The man rubs his eyes and closes the files. "Why don't you tell me what happened, then?"
Clint sighs. "It wasn't my target. I know it wasn't. I got the right guy, the Director told me so. I've got good aim and a good eye. I realized it wasn't him and found the right man. Then I took him out. End of story."
"You ignored a senior agent in favor of following your own agenda," the man says wryly.
Clint rolls his eyes. "I was right though. And Sitwell's an idiot."
Surprisingly, the man nods. "Sitwell can be an idiot, I'll admit to that. But he's still your superior." Clint stays quiet. "And he's not your handler anymore. So."
"Am I suspended?" Clint asks softly. It sucks because he just started and he's already getting into trouble.
"It was requested," the man admits. But then he smiles and something in Clint's stomach twists. "However, I denied that and made the decision to take you on myself and see what damage I can do here."
"How?" Clint asks, leaning forward.
The man leans forward too. "I'm superior to Sitwell."
Clint laughs. He tried to stick out a handcuffed hand and fails, so instead he says, "Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye. Nice to meet you sir."
The man uncuffs him though and shakes his hand anyway. "Agent Phil Coulson. I think we'll get along just fine…"
Hope you enjoyed!
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