An Accidental Hero

Part I

Clint can feel the heat radiating off the ground, but he ignores it, as he has been for the last 27.5 hours. Blinking to clear the sweat from his eyes because he can't afford to move, he watches his target through the scope of his rifle. His finger curls around the trigger and squeezes.

Before his target hits the ground, Clint is on the move. A glance at his watch tells him that he has less than nine minutes to get to the evac point, located five blocks to the northwest. In the past, he wouldn't have been afraid to be late. Coulson would have his back, recognizing that a sniper doesn't always have the luxury of conforming to a rigid schedule. But, now, he's terrified. Since he was cleared to return to the field three months ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. has left him to fend for himself twice when he missed his evac. He knows why and hasn't complained, not even when they abandoned him in Siberia for nearly two weeks during the heart of winter.

Somehow, he makes it to the evac point with a minute and a half to spare without attracting any unwanted attention. Spotting the beige Jeep Wrangler he was told to look for parked at the very edge of the abandoned industrial complex, he jogs over to it. The doors click unlocked when he reaches it, and he climbs into the backseat.

The agent assigned to pick him up today is none other than Agent Jeremy Danielson; if Clint wasn't suddenly so damn exhausted, he would have told him to pull over and walked back to the base himself. "Agent Barton," Danielson finally says when they're rolling through the streets he just sprinted through, regarding him with barely masked disdain through the rear-view mirror, "I was told to inform you that your quinjet will be leaving at precisely 0500 tomorrow."

"Water," he only croaks in response as he slumps further into his seat, letting his chin fall to his chest as the adrenaline that he's been running on for the last 10 hours drains away. "Need water."

"I didn't bring any so you'll have to wait until we get back to base," Danielson replies; his voice is neutral, but his cold eyes betray that he's enjoying watching Clint suffer. Many at S.H.I.E.L.D. do these days, and Clint doesn't fault them. He can't.

"It's for you," Danielson says flippantly, and suddenly a phone is flying at him. Clint curses when his reaction time is too slow, and the phone smacks him in the face, causing Danielson to snicker.

"Barton, have you finished making your damn point yet?" Fury's voice accosts him the moment he puts the phone to his ear.

"Hello to you too." Clint chokes back a cough. He can't sound weak in front of Fury, not after everything that's happened. "Not even gonna ask how the mission went? 'Cause it…"

"I know how it went already, Hawkass. You're not my only set of eyes on the ground," Fury cuts him off, clearly not amused. "All I care about is whether you've finished making your point yet."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Clint plays dumb. He knows exactly what Fury is talking about, and he doesn't want to go down that road. Not yet. Probably not ever.

To Clint's surprise, Fury just heaves a sigh. "Look, Barton, you haven't gone home in over four months. If putting you on an indefinite leave of absence is the only thing that will…"

"No," Clint snaps, so harshly that Danielson jumps in the front seat. Clint would have laughed if he wasn't being quickly seized by a blind panic. "We had a deal."

"We did have a deal, Barton," Fury admits. Clint's good at reading people—it's a large part of the job he does to put food on the table—but he can't figure out what Fury is after. "I've held up my end of the bargain, putting one of my best assets at risk in the process. And you haven't. You haven't done either of the things I asked of you."

Clint snorts. He can't help it. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Danielson squirms in the front seat at Clint's words, but Clint ignores him. He doesn't care if the agent reports back to the others that he had the nerve to mock Fury, confirming what they all think they know about him. His reputation is already in tatters, and if his taking every damn borderline suicide mission nobody wants hasn't changed that, it's never going to be repaired.

"Barton, you know you don't have to ask," Fury replies, and Clint can hear the frustration dripping off of each word.

"If this is really about the Avengers Initiative, you of all people should know I don't play well with others." For some reason, Clint's words ring hollow. He swallows the lump that's formed in his throat and adds bitterly, "Besides, I was only there 'cause I know how to fly a damn quinjet."

Clint waits to be chewed out, but Fury is silent. Just as he's about to hang up, figuring that the call must have been dropped, or his boss broke another phone in a fit of rage, Fury says, "Barton, I don't know what else to tell you. I'd try to give you another pep talk, but I'm fresh out of ideas, and I don't want to waste my breath on you since I know you're not planning on giving me the time of day. I'll leave you at this: if you can't forgive yourself, nobody can."

The line goes dead before Clint can respond. Without thinking, he throws the phone to the floor, but then he sinks back into his seat. That's when he remembers—he really could use some water.

Clint sweeps the room the moment the door is shut and locked securely behind him. He checks the pantry (where his bow has remained stowed away in its case since Manhattan because he never goes in there anyway), the closet, the shower, underneath the bed, in every nook and cranny he knows that he could hide in on a job. Satisfied that he's safe, he sits down on the edge of his bed and pulls the picture from his pocket.

"Ah, honey, I'm sorry," he whispers, and part of him can't believe that he's talking to a damn picture when she's only a phone call (or a plane ride) away. After muttering a curse under his breath, he continues, "I…I just can't come home yet. I hope you understand. It's just…"

All he needs to do to recall why he can't go home is look at the wall across from his bed. When he returned to the base after Manhattan, he had found his room was destroyed—his mattress and pillows slashed, his bathroom mirror and favorite coffee mug shattered, his S.H.I.E.L.D-issued clothes torn and strew across the room. Nothing was left unbroken. And, on the walls in bright red spray paint, was every label he had applied to himself after waking up in the helicarrier. He scrubbed and scrubbed, but he couldn't fully erase them. Clint didn't ask to move, or even tell anybody about it, because he didn't want to cause any more problems than he already had.

Shivering to himself, even though the room is hovering around its usual sticky 83 degrees, Clint returns the picture to his pocket, slides down across the foot of the bed and curls in on himself until he's huddled in a tight ball. He stays like that until, mercifully, for the first time in roughly 39.5 hours, his eyes become too weighed down to open again. But then he dreams, as he always does, and probably always will…

The god is circling him, and he swallows hard, his gaze coming to rest on the floor because it feels somehow safer. He has defied his master, and he does not deserve to look him in the eyes. "I asked you a simple question, and you refuse to answer?" the god snarls, and the scepter flares in his mind, making the blue-filmed word sway dangerously and then spin in rapid circles.

It is enough to bring him to his knees, and he knows that is what the god wants so he stays there, even as the world begins to steadily level out. He coughs, swallowing the vomit that has risen into the back of his throat, and repeats, "That's classified, sir."

The god's eyes blaze like the scepter in his hand. "Foolish, mortal," he snaps, and the world lurches. And then there is pain—his mind cracks and shatters—and he bites back the scream he knows the god wants to hear. If this is the end, and he knows it is the end, he is as certain of it as he is that he must obey the god, he will not die screaming. He will not tell…

Clint snaps awake. The world is still spinning, but he manages to stagger to his feat and pull the pistol from the holster on his belt. It takes him a minute to realize that he's alone—he's alone in his room back at the base, and he has been since 0821 this morning after another successful solo mission. "Damn it, Clint," he mutters to himself when he catches his haunted reflection in the television set. And then, on an impulse, he punches the wall, right where the vandals had painted MURDERER, and shouts, "Damn it, I can't do this anymore! I can't! I won't! God damn it!"

He punches the wall again and again—long enough to make his knuckles bleed and hard enough to leave a few dents—and then sinks to the ground, exhausted, defeated, shattered. He stays like that the rest of the day, not moving an inch, not looking at anything but the memories playing on repeat in his mind.

Natasha corners him in the kitchen connected to the mess hall.

Using the air vents, Clint had navigated his way there to grab something to eat, whatever he could get his hands on without anybody seeing him. When he leaped down, landing a little less gracefully than he would have liked because his knees are still acting up, he turned around and saw her standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression neutral. "Knew you'd have to get something to eat eventually," she quipped, trying for levity but failing.

Clint responded by grabbing a bagel off of a nearby tray and stuffing it unceremoniously into the pocket of his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued jacket. Before he could vault onto the table and propel himself back into the air vents, Natasha caught him by the arm, her touch unnaturally gentle but still enough to make Clint recoil as if stung. He knew her well enough to see the hurt in her eyes when he edged more than an arms distance away, but he didn't care. The way he saw it, she should be grateful that he didn't make for the air vents again (even though he only did because something, call it experience, told him that he would deeply regret that decision). And that's why he's stuck here, barely listening to Natasha explain that your team this and your team that and your team blah blah blah.

When she's done, she offers him a hopeful smile, which only makes him snicker. "'Tasha," he mutters, burying his fists in the pockets of his pants so she won't see that he's clenching them so hard his knuckles have turned a ghostly shade of white, "they're not my team."

"Yes, we are." Damn, she's so stubborn, Clint thinks. She's almost worse than Fury. "Clint, there's something you should know, need to know about the Avengers Initiative. Fury didn't want me to tell you, but I…I think it's time."

Clint notices the hesitation, but he's still curious, and he catches himself walking over to her. She's good, he thinks, stopping and then taking a step back because he's not about to get caught in this web. He's been Natasha's partner long enough to know how she operates—she's the master manipulator, preying on her mark's weaknesses, drawing them in with promises that she has no intention of fulfilling. And, right now, he's her mark, and he takes another step back when he realizes that Fury probably put her up to this because the timing is a little too perfect.

"Fury put you up to this?" Clint snarls, and he notices for the first time that he's backed himself into a corner. He suddenly feels like one of the lions at Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders, trapped in the ring by its tamer, being baited into doing something it doesn't want to do. Once, in his third year at the circus, one of the lions lashed out, striking its tamer with its sharp claws. An arrow to the jugular took it down swiftly, humanely, and part of Clint wishes that he could suffer a similar fate.

"Clint…" Natasha begins, but her voice trails off. Then, she shakes her head and chirps, "Come on, Hawkass, Fury can't put me up to anything I don't want to do. You of all people should know that. Remember what I did to him when he tried to send us out a week after we got back from Budapest?"

He chuckles at the memory of Natasha waving the kitten-shaped flash drive she bought hours before from a Wal-Mart clearance bin at Fury, yelling, "If you make us go to the Ukraine, I'll leak all your files to the Daily News," and it makes her smile. She continues, clearly emboldened by his reaction, "Look, Stark has been on my case lately, alright? He wants all the Avengers to stay at the tower, and all the Avengers includes you."

This again. Clint chuckles again, this time bitterly. Not this again. "Look, 'Tasha, I don't know where you got it in your damn head I'm an Avenger, but I'm not. I just flew the damn quinjet!"

His words are harsh. Final. She clearly got the message because she turns to leave. When she eventually replies over her shoulder, Clint can hear the waver in her voice, and he can't help but wonder if it's genuine or just an act to play on his emotions, "Clint, many years ago, this young, brash S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was sent to kill me. I never thought he'd stand a chance against me, but he managed to corner me in a back alley. I was bleeding, I was exhausted and, for the first time in my life, I was afraid. I thought he was going to kill me, but he made a different call. In my mind, he'll always be a hero, even if he doesn't see himself that way and never really has."

Clint's mouth goes dry. He watches Natasha leave and doesn't try to stop her. As soon as she's gone, he flees back to the air vents. It's only when he's safely in his room—his hunger and the bagel stuffed in his pocket long forgotten—that he allows himself to truly consider what Natasha had said and if maybe, just maybe, she's right.

But all he has to do is look at the walls to know that she's not.

The boot crushes his hand before he can reach the discarded knife. The white at the edge of his vision surges forward, and he bites back a yelp because he knows that Jacques will only make this worse if he knows how much pain he's really in.

He curls in on himself, trying futilely to protect his already battered ribs, as the boot begins to kick him over and over. As the seconds turn into minutes, he lets out a gurgling sigh, and blood dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin. If he's going to die here, and he knows that as a master swordsman Jacques could easily kill him if he wants to, he will not go screaming. He will not cry.

And then a hand grabs him by the collar of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. He can only watch in mute horror as Jacques's face morphs into the god's. "You are nothing," the god says, and he is suddenly frozen in place because the god deemed that it should be so. "You think yourself a hero? You are nothing but a failed circus archer who was pitied by a bumbling S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and…"

He's not going to listen to this. It's just a dream. He knows it's just a dream, and he has to wake up. He has to wake up. Clint forces his eyes open and grabs the knife that he always hides under his pillow. Shakily, he gets to his feet and stalks through his room, checking each nook and cranny to make sure that his tormentors were really figments of his dreams. Only when he's turned on every light and swept the room a second time does Clint allow himself to slump down in the chair at his desk and bury his head in his hands.

It was just a dream, he tells himself again, but his breathing is ragged and his heart is pounding as if everything that he experienced during it had really happened. He curses under his breath when he realizes that he's soaked with sweat. Only when he manages to steady his breathing does he allow himself to look at the clock; it's almost 0330, which means he only has two hours until he was supposed to get up anyway. Heaving a sigh, he gets up and heads to the bathroom to take a shower, hoping it will wash away more than just his sweat. He already knows that it won't.

When he's finished, it's a little after 0400, and his stomach has started growling like a caged lion. Evidently, the stale bagel that he choked down yesterday wasn't enough to keep his hunger at bay. Every day but Sunday, the mess hall opens at 0500, largely to cater to agents who have to leave on missions early in the morning. Sometimes, when Betty is in a good mood, she'll open closer to 0430. More often than not, she'll only let her favorites grab something before its official opening time. Clint used to be one of her favorites. He can't say if he is now—he hasn't tried to take advantage of his status since Manhattan.

The clock reads 0421 when Clint gives into his hunger. He slips out of his room, stopping to jiggle the door handle five times to make sure that it's securely locked, and then makes his way through the deserted, dark hallways to the mess hall. He doesn't realize that he had broken into a run until he has to practically skid to a stop to avoid slamming into none other than Erik Selvig.

Should've just used the air vents, bird brain, Clint thinks bitterly as Selvig looks him over and asks, with a twinge of concern to his voice, "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

Clint shrugs and chirps, "Some of us got to get up early for work." But then, suddenly, a blind panic seizes him because this doesn't make sense and maybe—no, no it can't be—he's still trapped in his dream and… Clint didn't intend to raise his voice, but he does anyway when he demands, "What the hell are you doing here? Thought you got sent to the damn crazy bin."

The look Selvig gives him says maybe you belong in the crazy bin, but he only cracks a smile and replies, "I was for a bit, but I got out recently. Fury brought me in a few days ago because he wanted my help with a project. And, before you ask, sorry, it's classified."

Oh. That makes sense. Burying his clenched fists in the pockets of his S.H.I.E.L.D-issued jacket, Clint shakes his head in a poor attempt to clear away some of his (stupid, irrational) panic. When that does nothing, he mutters, directing his gaze at the wall over Selvig's shoulder, "I, uh, yeah, that makes sense, uh, sorry if I…"

He doesn't get to finish because Selvig walks over and throws an arm around his shoulders. Clint instinctively flinches at the contact, but he doesn't jerk away; he already made enough of a scene as it is. "Come on, Barton, let's go grab some coffee. Sounds like you could use somebody to talk to."

Clint balks. He doesn't need anybody to talk to, and he hears himself blurt that out before he has a chance to think about what he's saying: "Look, uh, I'm good. I, I, uh, have to go. I'm supposed to leave at 0600, gotta get ready."

Selvig, to his credit, doesn't try to stop him when he pulls away and starts down the hallway. As he goes, Clint can hear what Selvig said about him, back when they were both blue-eyed puppets in the god's grasp, ringing through his ears—he's got no soul, he's got no soul, he's got no soul—and he scrunches up his eyes in a futile attempt to make it to stop. And that's when he hears Selvig say, his voice filled with concern that Clint doesn't deserve, "Barton, talking about it, it helps. Believe me, I know. And I also know this: it's one thing to understand it wasn't you who did all those things and another thing entirely to accept it and allow yourself to heal."

Clint doesn't turn around. He keeps walking, biting his lip to keep from snapping a retort over his shoulder because, well, Selvig is right. He does know. He, more than anyone else, does understand, but that doesn't mean that he wants to talk to him. Right when he's about to turn the corner and make for the nearest air vent because it's safer to keep back to the room that way, Selvig calls, "And, Barton, you did have a failsafe too. I saw it in action."

Clint breaks into a run and never looks back.

Thanks for reading! This story will likely be either three or four chapters. It's set between The Avengers and Winter Soldier, for anybody who's curious. I know that Age of Ultron, in a sense, explained where Clint was during Phase II by giving him a family, but I don't think it's that simple. I can't see him wanting to put them at risk, and I feel like he would see himself, potentially, as a danger because of what happened with Loki. So this is my take on that scenario. I may have taken some liberties with the timeline, but I hope you'll forgive me.

"An Accidental Hero" can stand alone as its own story. It can also be viewed as a companion piece to "Hide & Seek." There are references to "Hide & Seek" in here, but you don't need to read it to understand this because Hide & Seek is set after Age of Ultron (though I would appreciate you checking it out as well!). One thing you should know in advance is that my Clint is a composite character; I took elements from the movies, comics and even other FanFiction stories and blended them together.

Anyway, I'd appreciate reviews. Thanks so much for reading, and I look forward to hearing from you! ~Moore12