Title: Sin (Wait for the Punishment)
Author: Serena
Summary: He can't deny the inherent rightness of the rifle in his hands. Part of the Falling in Reverse Trilogy.
Timeline: Set prior to Clint's recruitment to SHIELD in the Falling in Reverse Trilogy.
AN1: This is the last oneshot filler leading up to the first chapter of Perfection of Duality, the sequel to White that will be posted on July 26th, 2015.
AN2: Reading this story's predecessors isn't strictly necessary, but will help you pick up on many of the hints I drop in the text.
"I'm not a damn trick pony, Laura."
"Not saying you are."
"Then what exactly is this about? I'm not exactly Army Ranger of the year."
She leans back in her chair, popping her feet up on her desk like a cocky ensign. "I don't know what you were expecting. When you register range scores like the ones you have been, people in high places are going to do two things. One, they're going to want to see it for themselves to make sure we're not bullshitting them. And two, they're going to want to make friends with you very quickly."
To be honest, this hadn't been what Clint was expecting when he was called before his commanding officer. He figured that there was probably some censure they hadn't given him yet.
"Goody," he deadpans. "I love new friends."
Laura's look tells him she is not amused. "Clint," she warns. "I'm asking you to do this as a friend."
He cocks a brow. "It's an official request though."
"I thought wrapping it in the really nice paper of friendship would make it easier to swallow."
He rubs a frustrated hand over his face. "So let me get this straight," he says, crossing his arms. "I do this demo in front of a bunch of military bigwigs, they slap me on the back, and that will be that?"
She shrugs. "More or less. Except it'll probably just be one bigwig, if that makes you feel better."
"This all sounds pretty pointless."
Laura's previously pleasant expression falls into something far more serious. Her feet drop back down onto the ground, and she clasps her hands together. "It is and it isn't."
"Engimatic."
She ignores his interruption. "This could either mean big things for you, or nothing at all. I've heard through the grapevine that the CIA is getting together some special strike forces from all the divisions of the military. They might be considering you. It's a bit of a long shot, considering you haven't seen any real field action, but with the scores you put up, it might not matter."
Clint freezes, grinning wildly. "X-Files. I'm going to be on one of those elite squads to hide the aliens from Mulder and Scully."
Laura seems like she isn't going to indulge him, but finally she grins in return. "If you are, I'd better be the first to know."
"Aye-aye, captain."
"Commander, actually."
"Close enough."
She rolls her eyes. "You're dismissed, Corporal."
It's a few days later that they're set up in the sniper nest, set up to look like an abandoned building. It's their hardest course: a low nest, tree cover on the targets with the furthest one over a mile away. (Simple, though, really. For him.)
He can't deny the inherent rightness of the rifle in his hands. He prefers his bow, but even the best wouldn't be able to shoot as far as the weapon in his hands can. Plus the bow isn't exactly Army standard issue.
He may be a Ranger, but it's moments like this that he can only remember the Marine's rifleman creed.
Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.
He's shooting without his spotter. Laura said that they wouldn't be allowing him one, and it's weird to not have Solomon calling out the wind speed and distance measures over Clint's shoulder.
Regardless of his partner's absence, Clint can do this on his own. His adrenaline sharpens his focus, makes his body feel like it's humming. He almost forgets about the critical eyes of the General and his Commander behind him.
As he fires his first round, the bullet striking the absolute center eye of the target, he grins.
There are not many things Clint Barton is cut out for—his career in the circus had been a bust after everything that happened with Barney, Swordsman, and Trickshot. His brother and his mentors are in the wind, proving to Clint he'd never be much of a criminal. (It's over a year ago now. He's to the point where he oscillates between grief and blinding anger within the blink of an eye. Barney promised they would stick together. He can remember everything about him when he made that promise. The sweat dripping between his brother's brow, the harsh set of his mouth, the ill-fitting clothes he'd stolen from their foster home hanging on his lanky body. We're gonna go, Clint. We're gonna get outta here, just you and me. We're gonna take on the world, little brother.) Even though he now wears the uniform of an Army Ranger, it's but a costume covering up his numerous citations throughout his training.
No, Clint isn't a carnie, not anymore. He's not a brother, not a criminal. He's not an Army grunt.
There is one thing he is, though. One thing he knows he is with a thudding certainty in his heart as he hits the center eye of the furthest target. He lets out a breath, and ejects the last shell casing.
"I'll be damned," he hears General Ross breathe. Clint knows he has binoculars, can see the neat bullet holes punched through the dead center of each of the targets.
"What did I tell you, General? He's a crack shot, and fucking quick when he shoots. Best I've seen, for sure." Laura must really want him on that X-Files squad, he thinks smugly.
Clint is already pushing himself to his feet when the General orders, "On your feet, Corporal." He stifles the eyeroll, more for Laura's benefit than his own. "Where on God's green Earth did you learn to shoot like that?"
He stands at ease, not bothering with the routine of being at attention and shrugs with a single shoulder. "Always been good, I suppose."
The General was clearly expecting a lengthier answer, but Clint wasn't about to test his luck. "So how old are you, Corporal?"
"Eighteen, sir." And he's drilled it into his head every night. Born in 1978. 1978. June 18, 1978.
The General chuckles at that. "By god, they get younger every year," he says, looking both at Clint and at his CO.
Laura looks like she wants to bristle, but unlike Clint, she is a great soldier. "With all due respect," she says, "age doesn't have any bearing on natural talent."
General Ross gives her a condescending look, somehow displeased that she had spoken. "And with all due respect, Commander, you would do well to give me another reason besides your family name that you've been given your title."
That seems to only stoke the flames in her eyes higher, but she holds back. "Of course, sir." She'd gritted that out, those words dragging from behind her teeth. Clint wants to say something, but Laura will have his head if he tries to play savior.
Despite Ross's disdain for Laura, he seems very interested in becoming friends with Clint. "So, Barton, this is normally the part where I'd ask you to let me buy you a drink," he says and throws a friendly arm over Clint's shoulders. Clint eyes it, but doesn't speak up. If the eyes Laura are giving him mean anything, it's that I know he's a dick, but if you embarrass me in front of my superior no one will find your body. "But since you're underage, I can hardly condone such behavior."
Clint can't hold back his derisive snort. "We're in Germany. The drinking age here is practically nonexistent."
"Be that as it may, we are on US Army soil. Therefore, we must both uphold the laws of our country."
Ah, yes, god forbid we didn't do that. "Absolutely. I completely agree with you."
The General misses the sarcasm, roaring and slapping Clint's chest, but Laura doesn't. Her look might actually give him an aneurysm if he isn't careful. "I like you, son. I know there are several, high-ranking officers who would love to meet you..."
When Solomon gets back to base that night, he's definitely tipsy. Clint can tell by the way he drags his feet when he walks. Every bunk is empty, unsurprising on a Friday night, so no one but Clint is around to see Cross as he salutes sloppily to his partner, and oh man, maybe he's more drunk than Clint thought. "Did they make you dance for 'em?" he slurs out, then proceeds to do a poor impression of a tarantella. "I bet they did. I bet you sucked the General's dick, too."
William Solomon Cross is a strange man. He's in his mid-twenties, and as far as Clint can tell, no one cares much about him. He's been average through training, socializes as much as the next grunt but has no visible emotional ties with anyone, and doesn't get any visitors or mail. (Though, you could probably say similar things about Clint. Minus the average part.) He's a good spotter, though, but his bearing has always been uncomfortable. He never seemed the type to join the US military. He was always spouting off about government conspiracies, how he's going to one day work for the CIA because they haven't stopped following him his whole life, and quite frankly, Clint wonders often about how he passed the psych evals.
One of his most unsettling traits is the way he stares at Clint sometimes and then leans in, eyes wide, and says, "I know things about you, Barton. I know things about everyone."
Which, you know, wouldn't be nearly half as unsettling as it was if Clint didn't actually have something to hide.
"Not into the whole Sugar Daddy vibe I was getting from him," Clint replies from his bunk, not looking up from his book. "He offered, I said nah."
Cross laughs. "You're funny. I'm 'onna miss you when you leave."
His head snaps up. That didn't— "What?" Solomon doesn't answer as he ambles over to his own bunk. "Solomon, what the fuck are you talking about? I'm not leaving. If we get deployed, we go together. You know that."
Solomon makes a contemplative noise as he plops down on his bunk as starts trying to remove his boots. "'M not talkin' 'bout goin' somewhere. 'M talkin' 'bout when they find out you're not eighteen."
Clint's internal organs leap into his throat. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Solomon. You're drunk. Go to bed."
He lets out this eerie series of giggles. "I might be jus' a leeeeeettle bit drunk, but lemme tell you, you're really good. I don' think anyone suspects a thing."
"Solomon," he says, setting the book down and moving to stand, "I don't know where you heard that, but it's bullshit."
"I ever tell you why people call me Solomon an' not William?" Cross says as though he hadn't heard Clint. "M'parents were real Catholic. Went to a Catholic school, dragged m'ass to church every Sunday. In one'a the stories there was this guy. He's the son'a David an' shit an' he built the first Temple an' he was the chosen ruler an' I don't know. I just liked that. My parents named m'after 'im sorta. M'middle name, anyway." His boots are finally off, and Cross kicks them away from his feet and flops backwards onto his bunk, his feet still on the floor. "I wanted people to know me like that an' choose m'name an' shit an' when people hear Solomon I wan' thm t' thk a me..." Solomon drifts into incoherence as the alcohol finally drags him under.
Clint's heart is racing.
He sleeps in fits that night. He wakes up at every small sound, his body prepared for the Military Police to come carry him away.
When Solomon wakes up in the morning, every muscle in Clint's body tenses. He's already been awake since dawn, debating on whether he should gather his belongings and fucking run or stay and try to outlast his spotter.
"Aw, fucking shit," Solomon whines. "What the fuck did I do last night?"
Clint allows himself to relax, if only marginally. "Not sure. I must've already been asleep when you got home."
"You granny," he replies, and then winces. "Last thing I remember is Shepard buying everyone tequila shots."
"You know that boy is a bad influence on you," Clint says.
Cross laughs, and winces again, "Ugh, fuck you, Barton."
Clint manages to extract himself from the conversation, leaving Solomon hungover and falling back asleep in his bunk and heads outside.
Logically, running wouldn't make much sense, would it? He hasn't done anything yet to warrant attention drawn to his doctored files. Desertion would only give them a solid reason to actually arrest him. If Solomon has known about Clint for... however long it's been, why hasn't he said anything? Does he plan on saying anything?
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. God. God, what is his life?
He'd tried so hard to avoid becoming a criminal, and yet here he is, actively committing a felony. (Punishable by up to $10,000 in fines and three years in prison, if he remembers basic training correctly.)
"Corporal Barton," he hears his CO snap from behind him. It's her official voice, so he immediately snaps to attention and turns.
She's alone, and after he salutes, she tells him, "There are more people here to see you. Follow me." He does as he's told, and while he wasn't thrilled about the prospect yesterday, today the thought of getting the attention of his superiors nearly sends him into a panic. But he breathes as though he is shooting, walks like he learned in basic. "Remember what I said about the CIA strike teams? I think you got their attention. I mean, you hit dead center on every single target, and you made them in record time without a spotter. You outdid yourself on this one, Barton."
He forces a smile. "Goody."