This is the original draft of the ending of Too Far Gone. I was prompted to post this by a reader (thanks!) Although the basic story lines and the introduction are the same, the actual bit where Phil and Clint meet for the first time is very different, and would have made the sequel, Don't Tell different as well. I didn't use it in the end, and I'll tell you why afterwards. If you haven't read the series before it might not make sense, but you're welcome to try- though I'd suggest reading the series afterwards. Enjoy :)
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Clint
Clint wasn't certain how much blood he'd lost, but he didn't feel too great, to say the least. The dull headache had progressed to a pulsating mass of pain and his vision kept phasing in and out. His hearing also felt very off- sometimes he could hear everything crystal clear and other times it was like his was trapped behind a thick, glass wall. Clint had also realised that the combined blood loss and sleep deprivation was beginning to affect his already delicate mental state. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw one of his deceased targets- and Clint could remember every single on of them. In his early childhood, he had highly appreciated his phenomenal memory and used to be good at school. Maybe this was because he spent so much of his extra time there- often he literally stayed until the caretaker kicked him out. But once he joined the orphanage, things started to go down hill. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. With all the other things that were going on, such trivial matters such as science and maths seemed utterly pointless. Moore literally dominated his every living thought, and often his sleeping ones too. The only time he had been able to get out of his head was when he read, but even then, it wasn't at all effective. Reading made Clint realise that life he could have had. But somewhere along the line, he had given up. The only thing he was certain of now was that if he was going out, he was going out on his own terms.
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Phil
Phil managed to get through customs even with three hand guns and various knives thanks to SHIELD's superior technology, and boarded the plane.
Once on board, he took out the pictures from his bag. They were grainy and unclear. The first was taken in 1996, showing the whole circus sat or stood in front of what Phil assumed was the main tent. There were about 30 people, and they all looked like very… distinctive characters, with large handle bar moustaches and garish clothes. Kennedy had scrawled a few names over the people he believed to be important, including Barney, Jacques and Clint. The former was stood to the left with the photo beside the most normal looking people in the group. Phil assumed these were the stagehands. Barney was head and shoulders above the others, tall and formidable.
Jacques was standing at the centre back. He was tall and thin, but with wide shoulders and an untrustworthy look about him. Clint was then sat cross legged at the front of the picture beside a slim looking woman with the build of a gymnast and a small group of other boys that didn't look like performers. Although the picture was too small for Phil to see his facial expression, his body language was tense, wary and closed off.
The second picture, taken in 1997 depicted a large, seemingly empty field other than a wooden target and an 11 year old boy. Clint was stood with his bow drawn so the string was touching his cheek. Although Phil didn't know much about archery, his posture looked fantastic- his back was straight and his elbow pulled up to his shoulder, and yet he looked positively relaxed with his expression calm and empty.
The second to last photograph as of Clint walking off a stage- it looked like one of the rehearsals that Kennedy had talked about. His body language was relaxed and at ease. He was looking at someone off camera with something that wasn't quite a grin, more of a smirk, but either way, he looked happy. Phil remembered cynically that this expression would only last for approximately 30 seconds before fading.
The final picture was more of an accurate representation of Clint's description from Kennedy and Jason. It was taken in the year 2000, but presumably before Barney caused Clint to go deaf. It showed a brightly coloured wagon pilled with fabric that looked very similar to the main tent canvas. It looked like the circus had been packed up and was moving from one spot to another. On the back of the wagon sat Clint Barton, one knee drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around it, and the other one swinging freely off the vehicle. He was looking off into the distance pensively, but his expression was disturbing- It was dark, angry and showed a strange sense of someone being calmly furious. There was also a sense of frustration and sadness there, and the boy looked utterly lonely. How someone could even show that many emotions at one time Phil didn't know, but he now understood what Kennedy meant by Clint having too much going on in his head.
Suddenly feeling tired, Phil put the photos back into his bag. Clint Barton was giving him the sense of slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The boy seemed to be getting further and further away from being able to be helped, and Phil was loosing hope at learning of each stage of his life. At the same time his determination of helping him was growing- but could he be helped? Phil realised he really needed to sleep- it was the only way to stop his busy mind buzzing away.
Although he didn't like to let his guard down around other people, he had scrutinised the other passengers and none of them seemed remotely dangerous. Also, he hadn't slept in two days and wanted to arrive in Paris fit enough to fight in case worst came to worst.
He woke half an hour before the end of the journey and attempted to get his wits together. He was beginning to worry about how he was going to get the money back, but was aware that the most important thing would be getting Barton, even though the council might not agree.
After collecting his luggage, Phil took a bus to the outskirts of the city. The envelope had contained a map detailing exactly where the hotel was, but it hadn't mentioned that it was situated in one of the dodgier parts of town. The streets were narrow and dark, with litter in the gutters and a bitter smell in the air.
Phil was showed to his room, which had been booked under the name of Karl Jackson. As he made his way up the four flights of stairs- there wasn't an elevator- Phil wondered whether all of the Russian's clients were told to stay in this very hotel- what if he was staying in the room used by of all the other men trying to hiring killers? It was a funny thought, especially as he would be sleeping in the same bed as these other metaphorical men.
The room itself was small and dreary, with a sagging bed and a tiny, grimy window that have a nice view of the dirty street below. Phil was distracted from all this however, by the sight of a horribly familiar looking brief case lying on the bed. Beside it was an envelope, which Phil tore open.
To Whom It May Concern:
Four hours ago at 1900 Hawkeye escaped from our captivity. We have therefore returned the payment, five million dollars in cash. We apologise for any inconvenience caused, though we advice you to contact us on the number bellow to arrange another contract. This hotel room if booked for three days and you are welcome to stay- it is located in such a lovely neighbourhood.
Yours Sincerely,
Ivan Tchoverick
PS. Hawkeye wasn't in a state to get very far.
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Phil opened the briefcase only to find that it did indeed contain all of the money. He collapsed onto the sagging bed, suddenly full of so many mixed emotions.
One hand, he now had the money back. On the other hand, he had lost Clint Barton. After about a week of scouring America and now France to find him, discovering countless horrible things and realising that he actually felt pity for the assassin, he had lost him. After learning of Barney and Harold Barton's abusive tendencies, of Peter Moore and Jason Carter, of Stan and Jacques and Carson and Joseph Kennedy and Francis Hallard, he had lost him.
Also, Phil now knew full well who the Russian had been. Ivan Tchoverick was a Russian operative trained by the Soviet Union only to desert and become a freelance assassin. Ten years ago, after SHIELD had begun to express an interest in him, the man had seemingly vanished. Instead it seemed as if the man had been running an underground organisation of hit men and making millions. Suddenly, the damp, squashy room was beginning to feel too small. Phil needed to get out.
Surprisingly the room did actually have a makeshift fire escape, and Phil managed the tight squeeze through the tiny window and climbed down the ladder built into the outside wall. Once he his the ground he started walking in no particular direction, mind buzzing.
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Why had the money been returned? Presumably because Tchoverick assumed that Phil would simply try to hire someone else, especially as he was "a rich man quick to spend his wealth". But what was wrong with Barton? It sounded as if Tchoverick had managed to get hold of him after he refused to kill a target. So where would he be? And why on earth would an assassin refuse to kill a target? Phil knew he should call Fury, but didn't feel as if he had his head in enough of an order to participate in a decent conversation. If this had been approved by the council and a smaller area, SHIELD could have closed off the exits such as the roads and airports, and just manually search the city. But this was Paris, and the council assumed that Phil was trying to kill Barton. The whole thing was an utter mess.
Phil didn't believe in fate. For someone in his line of work, such hopeful beliefs were dangerous- it was better to reply on your mind and your body than some other worldly force. However, after that day Phil began to at least consider that there was something or someone somewhere controlling everything. Because what happened next couldn't have been a coincidence.
Phil hadn't been concentrating on where he was going at all, but found himself in a small, deserted square. Flats lined it on every side apart from ahead of him, where there was a small, rundown building that looked like a town hall. Sitting on the steps leading up to it was a small, beaten figure. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them with his head resting on his forearms. If someone had asked Phil how he knew it was Clint Barton, he would have just said, "I don't know- I just knew." Maybe it was because no one could ever look so utterly defeated and hopeless aside from someone with Clint's past.
As Phil approached him, it started to rain.
Clint wore a torn gray hoodie and black cargo trousers torn at his knees, which were scraped and bloody. His trainers were battered and he had a serrated knife strapped to his thigh and a gun stuck in the waistband of his trousers. Phil sat beside him slowly, careful to not make him jump. Clint didn't move.
"Hey kid." Phil said quietly. Clint raised his head from his knees, pushing his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes with a bony hand. His eyes, however, his eyes made Phil's heart clench painfully. They were full of a raw emotion that Phil didn't even have a name for. It was almost like sadness, but sadness when it had been felt for so long it's just accepted- it isn't an emotion anymore, it's a part of someone's personality. It was hopelessness too; an expression so void of hope and determination that it was simply empty. There was fear mixed with acceptance- Clint seemed to think that Phil would hurt him in some way, but didn't try to fight it as it was inevitable. It was just something that happened, as common and accepted as breathing. There was no anger- Clint Barton had completely given up. This wasn't a heartless assassin- this was a child that had been abused for so long he had forgotten that kindness existed.
"My name's Phil Coulson, and I work for an organisation called SHIELD. And I'm here to… I'm here to help you."
Clint just stared at Phil for a moment, with an expression that wasn't even disbelief- Clint just couldn't physically believe that Phil was actually here to help him. It was almost as if he didn't understand.
Clint dropped his head back onto his knees, and as he did so, Phil caught a glimpse of a hearing air behind his left ear. Phil felt a sudden burst of anger towards a man who would deafen his own brother. This spread to a father who would mercilessly beat his own child and a man who was entrusted to care for parentless children only to sexually abuse them. Then there was Edith, Stan, Rose, Kennedy and all the other boys as the orphanage who knew full well what was happening to Clint but did nothing to stop it. And the government in Iowa who worked out what was happening at Waterloo Home for Boys too damn late, and the council who looked at Clint Barton only to see the assassin, not the child inside. And that was what mattered most- Clint Barton was only a child that no one ever did the right thing for. And Phil Coulson was so determined to be the one who finally did something good for Clint Barton.
Phil laid a hand on Clint's shoulder. The boy stiffened, but didn't move away simply because he knew there was no point. You can run away all you want, but you can never out run it. But at the same time, the hand was confusing. It wasn't the sort of hand that would pull him round and punch him in the face, it wasn't the kind of hand that would make its way down the inside of his shirt. It was a warm kind of hand, the warmth soaking through the wet material of his hoodie. It was strong, and firm, almost like a lifeline.
"Clint, I've been told to find you because my boss things you will be an asset. SHIELD is a covert agency. I was told to find out whether you would work for us, or whether you were just another assassin. So I went back to the beginning. I met your father, and I talked to Stan, the old man who lived across the street. Then I talked to Jason Carter and Joseph Kennedy. I found Francis Hallard and he gave me a phone number. I called that number, and then all the numbers that followed until I talked to Ivan Tchoverick. I met a man in Los Angeles and gave him five million dollars- in return he gave me a plane ticket and reserved a hotel in Paris. Then I came to France and into the hotel room only to find a brief case containing five million dollars and a letter saying that you had escaped. Then I didn't know what to do. So I wondered around, and I've found you. I know Clint- I don't know everything but I reckon I know more than anyone else. I knew about Barney and Harold and Moore, about the Swordsman and your ears. And now I'm here to help you."
Clint looked up at Phil with an expression Phil didn't know how to read. "So you're here to hire me?"
"If you want to work for us, then yes. But if you don't, then I'm just going to do all I can to help you."
Clint's shook his head slowly. "No. You can't hire me. I don't want to do it anymore. I can't do it anymore."
"Do what anymore?"
Clint looked at Phil, and swallowed. "This. Everything. All of it- I can't do it. I've had enough. But you can help me though." To Phil's absolute horror, Clint took his gun out of his trousers and held it out of Phil. "See, I don't think I can do it myself. But if you could do it for me, that would be helping"
Phil just stared. Never, ever at any part of his journey had he been expecting this. Carefully, he took the gun out of Clint's trembling hands and put it on the step beside him. Clint look disappointed. Phil knew exactly what he wanted to do, but also knew that it would be the most stupid thing he could possibly do. At the same time, Clint looked so tired and defeated. So before the boy could move away, Phil pulled him closer, putting one arm around his waist and the other round his shoulders, rubbing his back. Clint screwed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth and went as rigid as a board. "Hey. Hey, Clint it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you Clint, I promise. I promise, ok?" He sighed heavily. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. I'm so sorry that Stan didn't stop Harold. I'm so sorry Barney and the other boys didn't stop Moore. I'm so sorry for Jacques and your brother but most of all I'm so sorry for not getting here earlier. I'm so sorry I couldn't have stopped all those other people myself. But Clint, you're the most amazing person you've ever met. No one's ever done anything good for you, and yet you didn't give up. Never did you give up- I think you just tried less, and that's a big difference. You could have ended it all so long ago but you didn't. Don't give up now."
Clint took a guttered breath and cried. His whole body shuddered with emotion now, not just the cold, and Phil held him closer. "I tried." He sobbed. "I tried, I did, I did I swear. I tried again and again even after all the things that happened but it never gets better. I tried to not give up but it wore me down, and there's nothing left of the old me now. They all killed him, and now I just have to kill what's left. It never ends so I have to end it myself. People don't help- people never help."
The tears ran faster down his face and Phil turned round that that he was facing Clint, and pulled him into his arms again. He wrapped his arms round his back tightly almost as if he was trying to hold the kid together. "Don't give up, Clint. Don't give up when you're so close. You didn't give up before, you just got worn down. The old you isn't gone, just hidden. And I can help you come back. Some people do help, Clint, and I'm trying to help you. I look at you and I see just a kid, not an assassin. All those people, Barney, Harold, Moore, all of them- they can't hurt you anymore. I won't let them hurt you. So Clint, please, please don't give up now, please just let me help you."
Clint took more guttered breaths, and his tears soaked through Phil's shirt faster than the rain had. Clint didn't know who this man was, but the warmth was spreading from him and his arms were tight and strong so that he wouldn't fall. Clint was so tired. He hadn't slept in an entire week, the crook of his arm still hurt from the needle and his head was spinning.
"I'm so tired." He mumbled out loud.
"I know." Phil said softly, and started to rub his hand up and down Clint's back.
"I just want the hurting to stop." Clint whispered
"I can make it stop." Phil replied soothingly.
Clint sighed and went limp in Phil's arms. "Okay."
"Will you come with me?" Phil asked.
This man hadn't hit him yet, hadn't sworn, yelled or touched him. Instead he had talked, and it sounded like the truth. "Okay"
Phil rubbed his back with one hand and brought the other hand up to squeeze Clint's neck comfortingly. Then he reached into his jacket pocket to get out his phone. Fury, not Eric picked up after it rung only once. "Nick? What are you doing here?"
Fury sounded amused. "First name terms- are you dying? I decided to come along for the ride."
Phil ignored the question. "I need an extraction team."
"Where are you?"
"In a square somewhere in Paris." Phil was too tired to even add sarcasm.
Fury, however, was not. "Helpful. We'll track your phone." There was muffled yelling in the background as Fury ordered someone to track the signal. "Do you have the kid?"
"Yes."
"Do you need a medic?"
"Yeah. Hypothermia, exhaustion and hell of a lot of other things. Oh and the Russian was Ivan Tchoverick."
Fury was silent for a moment. "OK, we need to get you out of there immediately. We've got your position. Keep an eye on the sky."
Phil waited until a black shape could be seen against the sky, which was a lighter shade of black. Phil squeezed Clint's shoulder. "Time to go. Can you walk?"
Clint didn't reply, but allowed Phil to help him to his feet. However once he stood up his body seemed to just finally give up, and his eyes rolled up into his head. Phil caught Clint as his knees gave way, and scooped him into his arms.
The quinjet managed to just fit into the square, and Phil ran over just as the doors began to open. He was greeted with Eric in his stern Doctor Yale mode, who pulled Phil over to a stretcher on the left side of the jet. Within minutes Eric was stripping of Clint's clothes and pulling him into new, dry ones that were far too big. Another medic gave him an oxygen mask and Phil was just glad that Clint was unconscious so didn't have to deal with these unfamiliar people all over him.
Fury pulled Phil to the other side of the jet, and he collapsed onto the floor, his back against the wall and his eyes closed. Fury slowly said down next to him. "What the hell happened out there? You look like someone just bitch slapped you round the face."
Phil ran his hands through his hair. "Hell, Nick. That kid is a mess."
Fury frowned. "Well the world's leading child psychologist does owe me a few favours."
Phil laughed bitterly. "And hell, he's gonna need her."
Fury nodded. "Then we'll get her. Don't give up, Phil. We've got him now and he's gonna be ok. Whether or not he becomes and agent, we can still help him out."
"Does the council know about all this?"
Fury smirked. "I broke the news to them before I left."
"How'd they take it?"
"Could have been worse. But they say that if he becomes an asset, then he can be cleared of all charges."
"And if he doesn't?"
"The council are not fully up my ass, Phil. I still have a little control. If he doesn't, we'll take things into our own hands. But he will Phil, just wait and see. I'm telling you, the world hasn't seen anything of Clint Barton yet."
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So there you have it. Basically I didn't use it in the end because I thought that it was too off character. It didn't show Clint Barton's strength- the fact that he gets effectively mind-raped but then gets up and kicks alien butt afterwards proves that he wouldn't react like this in this situation- though he is only 17. I think a normal person would react like this, but Clint isn't really normal. In a good way.
But the version I used shows Clint's strength and kick ass fighting skills- so please read my stories Too Far Gone, which is about Phil trying to bring Clint into SHIELD. But in order to find him, he goes back and talks to all the people in Clint's past to find out whether he will make a good agent, or whether Phil will have to take him out.
Then there's Don't Tell, which is about Clint after he has arrived at SHIELD. However it isn't all smooth sailing as Clint is either quiet and wary or very, very angry. He gets into fights, has panic attacks, but will only get better if he learns to trust, something which he has never done before.
So thank you for reading! Please read my other stories, including A Childhood Lost, which is about Clint's nephew who turns out to have a childhood far too like Clint's own. Please review, and thank you :)