Hide & Seek

Part I

"But you have to be very quiet," Clint whispers, trying to hide his fear. He curses himself silently when his voice cracks. "Okay? You can't make a sound. If you do, you'll lose the game."

Cooper and Lila look up at him with big, scared eyes, and Clint can't help but wrap them in a tight hug. But he does manage to blink the mist from his eyes. "You have to promise me you won't make a sound. No matter what happens. No matter what you hear. Okay? I know you're the best at hide and seek. And this is the best hiding spot in the whole house. You'll win so long as you stay quiet, okay?"

There's a crash downstairs, and Clint quickly breaks off the hug. Cooper juts out his chin and nods, almost solemnly. He's probably old enough to know this isn't a game. As for Lila, she just stares at Clint, the tears building in her clear blue eyes.

"Daddy loves you," Clint breathes as he slides the panel into place and slips out of the closet, making sure to shut the door softly behind him. Then, he grabs his bow and quiver from out behind the dresser, where he always hides them when he's home to make sure the kids won't get a hold of them. There's another crash downstairs, this one louder than the first, and Clint grits his teeth. He doesn't know who his attacker is, but whoever it is—regardless of how strong or fast they are, even if they're a damn god—they've made a fatal mistake. Clint will make sure of that.

If he can help it, Clint doesn't want to engage the intruder in hand-to-hand combat. No, he wants to pick them off from a distance, end this with one arrow so he doesn't have to extend his kids' game of hide and seek longer than absolutely necessary. Silently, he makes his way to the top of the stairs, where he crouches and draws his bow. He stays as still as a statue, not willing to allow himself to blink even once, waiting for his target to appear as the footsteps grow louder.

At first, he doesn't know what hit him. He loosened his arrow the moment the shadowy figure mounted the first step, and now he's flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, a knife embedded in his left shoulder. He groans as he hauls himself to his feet and unleashes an arrow, scrambling behind the wall to avoid the second knife. He needs to draw the intruder outside. He needs to get him as far away from the kids as possible. This may be a battle he can't win.

For a moment, everything is silent. Clint wonders vaguely if his hearing aids have cut out on him, but then, for the first time, the intruder speaks. And it chills Clint to the bone. "You have as much blood on your hands as every Avenger, and every threat they claimed to have vanquished, Clint Barton. What right do you have to this life?"

Clint has asked himself that very question too many times to count. But right now isn't the time to ask it again. Shifting position, he catches his assailant's reflection in the window facing the staircase and takes a sharp breath. But then he steels himself and draws another arrow. This one, an explosive. Whatever damage it does, he'll repair it before Laura gets home from visiting her parents in South Dakota. He promises himself that as he lets it fly and charges down the hallway, leaving flecks of blood on the white carpet as he goes.

There's a boom, followed almost immediately by a roar of pain, or rage, Clint isn't entirely sure. All he knows it doesn't sound human. The walls are still shaking when he peeks out from where he's hidden, tucked in the doorway of Nathaniel's nursery. And, through the smoke, he sees the intruder striding towards him. Clint sucks in a ragged breath and, deciding he's running out of options, clambers to his feet and makes for the window.

He doesn't get there. His attacker catches him by the hood of his sweatshirt and, with frightening ease, flings him halfway across the room, sending him crashing into Nathaniel's crib. Clint tastes blood in his mouth and struggles to free himself from what amounts to a cage as his intruder stalks towards him.

"I'm disappointed, Barton," the intruder chuckles dryly, eying him with disgust. "I would have thought a hawk would defend its nest, especially when its young call it home. But, then again, to you this is only child's play. A harmless game of hide and seek, if I heard correctly."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Clint spits defiantly. He locks eyes with his assailant and snarls, all the while reaching for his quiver as discreetly as he can, "And if you've got a problem with me, take it up with me. Leave my family out of it."

The intruder just laughs. That's it, just come a little closer, Clint thinks as his attacker draws within inches of him. "Oh, Barton," the intruder sneers, "don't be so hopelessly naïve. What better way do I have to punish you for your sins than…"

Clint doesn't wait another second; he drives the arrow deep into his assailant's foot, not stopping until he feels it lodge in the floor below. Then, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the creeping white fog at the edges of his vision, he springs up and delivers an uppercut to the intruder's jaw. His attacker tries to stagger away but doesn't get far thanks to Clint's arrow.

Now, it's Clint's turn to chuckle as he snatches his bow off the floor and aims it at the intruder's face. "Talk," he demands, trying his best to mask the slur he hears in his voice. "Why are you doing this? Talk or I send this arrow right through your eye socket."

His attacker doesn't look at all disturbed. "You won't do that, Barton," the intruder says in an unnaturally calm voice, grabbing the shaft of the arrow that's the only thing preventing escape, or another attack.

"If I'm what you say I am, I will," Clint snaps in return, his finger itching to unleash the arrow and end this once and for all. But his heart tells him to wait. "You want to play a game? How 'bout Russian roulette? You're right, hide and seek is for children."

To Clint's surprise, his assailant laughs. And laughs. And laughs. Just as he's about to let the arrow fly, the intruder asks innocently, but through a sneer, "Tell me, Barton. When you told your children this was just a game of hide and seek were you intending to set the house on fire?"

A blind panic immediately starts to overtake Clint. His hands start trembling, causing the arrow to shiver in the bowstring. He didn't notice it before—probably because the explosion messed with his hearing aids—but the fire alarm is going off downstairs. He can't help but curse, and the intruder laughs again. "What are you going to do, Barton? Looks like you inadvertently raised the stakes in your little game."

And now Clint is in his attacker's face. He doesn't know what's gotten into him. But he knows he's running out of time. "Talk," he hisses, removing the arrow from the bowstring to jam it against the intruder's throat. "Talk or I'll shove this arrow through your fucking windpipe."

"There's that famous Barton spirit," his assailant only says through a slowly twisting smile. "But it won't be enough to vanquish me."

Clint shouldn't have let his panic cause his guard to fall, and he pays the price. The intruder kicks his feet out from under him, sending him crashing unceremoniously to the ground. Clint's barely fast enough to avoid being stabbed in the chest with his own arrow, which, apparently, his assailant has been freed from. Somehow, he manages to fire off two arrows in the time it takes him to roll out of the way and scramble back to his feet. He never misses, and doesn't this time, but it doesn't matter. They don't penetrate his attacker's armor. Cursing out loud, Clint makes a mental note to aim for the head, throat, feet and ankles—of course, he has to take low probability shots during the most important fight of his life.

"It's a pity, isn't it?" the intruder asks smugly, eyeing Clint up, clearly aware that he's starting to fade, and fast. Clint tries to blink the white fog from his eyes but only manages to chase it back to the corners. He swallows the blood in his mouth to not give his attacker the satisfaction of seeing it. "They should have known that you were out of your league, that you were just playing hero with your little bow and arrow, like a child. In case you haven't realized yet, this isn't the circus, and 'Hawkeye' isn't a hero."

His assailant is right. Clint knows that deep down inside; he just never wanted to admit it or even confront it. He knew after he was turned into a blue-eyed puppet by Loki; he knew after he was the only one injured in the Hydra outpost raid; he knew after that crazy Sokovian speedster had to save his ass during the battle against Ultron. But, through it all, he never quit. He never gave up. And he doesn't plan to start now.

As the white fog begins to choke out more of his vision, Clint bites his lip, tugs the knife from his shoulder and hurls it at the intruder in one fluid, well-practiced motion. He doesn't miss, never has, never will, and his attacker howls in pain and hits the floor with a thud. As Clint sprints for the door, he chirps over his shoulder, "Heh, guess I picked up a few t-tricks at t-the circus after all."

The fire has spread. It's reached the top of the stairs, and acrid black smoke fills the air, further clouding his vision. When Clint coughs, blood splatters onto his already stained flannel shirt. He ignores it and runs into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind him to keep the smoke out. He needs to get the kids out. He needs to get the kids as far away from the intruder as possible, and he estimates he has no more than two and a half minutes to work with.

When Clint removes the panel, it takes every ounce of will left in him to not embrace Cooper and Lila, especially when he sees the tears streaking Lila's face, the silent terror in Cooper's eyes. Instead, he just says, his voice oddly halting, "It's o-okay…Daddy's here now. And we're gonna play a new game, okay? B-but first…first I gotta get you outta here."

He can't carry Cooper, Lila and his bow so the bow is tossed aside. He hates using the pistol, but it'll have to do, and he grabs it from the nightstand's top drawer and tucks it into his belt. "Dad," Cooper begins when Clint turns to face his kids, but Clint puts a finger to his lips, flashing what hopefully passes for a smile, and Cooper falls silent.

"Listen," Clint whispers, crouching down so he can look his kids in the eyes even though he worries he won't be able to get up again, "you've won hide and seek. Now, it's t-time for t-tag. Okay? There's only one…rule. The moment we hit t-the ground…I'm it. And you have to g-get as far away from me…as you can, okay?" As he takes them both into his arms, he adds, his voice less than a breath, loud enough only for Cooper to hear, "G-go t-to t-the orchard. Be brave."

Time's up. Cradling his kids as tightly as he can, he hurtles towards the bay window he installed himself back when he and Laura bought the house as newlyweds and crashes through it. In the seconds it takes to hit the ground, he wishes he was able to fly. He wishes he was indestructible. He wishes he was telekinetic so he could summon something to cushion the fall. But he's not any of those things, and he hits the ground hard, back first to soften the blow for his kids.

And everything goes black. Clint lets out a gurgling sigh, and he can feel the blood running from his mouth down his chin. He tries to blink away the darkness, just like he did the white fog, but it doesn't dispel. He knows what's happening, and he slowly forgets where he is because he's been in this spot one too many times before, making them all blur together. Then, a small hand slips into his, a familiar voice shouts "dad," and his eyes snap open.

"Cooper, run," Clint gasps, chocking back blood as he does. "G-game's not over yet."

"Dad…" Cooper squeezes his hand, almost defiantly, staring down at him with eyes as large as saucers. "Daddy, get up. Please."

Clint doesn't know how he does it, but he pushes himself to his knees. He smiles at his son. He grabs his son's hand and rests it gently on his uninjured shoulder. "Cooper," he says weakly, his voice barely a whimper, praying he'll understand, "you…t-tagged me. I'm it. Run!"

Clint can see the tears in Cooper's eyes, but he doesn't cry. Instead, he nods, gets up and grabs Lila by the hand. "Come on, Lila, we gotta go," he says, his voice so strong and sure, Clint feels a rush of pride. "Dad's it!"

Only when Cooper and Lila are mere specks in the distance does Clint let himself crash to the ground. To make absolutely sure the intruder wouldn't find his kids, he had originally planned to make his way in the opposite direction, toward the cornfields, but now he's too exhausted, too weak, to even contemplate getting up. The white fog is gone now, replaced by an inky blackness that steadily encroaches on his best asset, the one thing that's kept him alive all these years. He's just about to let the darkness overtake him, just about to accept his fight is over and lost, when he hears a window shatter, hears an enraged roar that rivals even the Hulk's. Without thinking, he pulls the pistol from his belt, takes aim at the rapidly approaching figure and pulls the trigger.

He misses.

Thanks for reading! This piece will likely have one or two more parts. I really enjoy writing about Clint; he's definitely my favorite Avenger, and I love how he's a father and can be seen as representing the everyman. In case you were curious, this is set after Age of Ultron, and it was inspired by various rumors regarding Hawkeye's involvement in Captain America Civil War. I intentionally left who is attacker is a secret. Who do you think it is? ~Moore12