1. I just might be the lunatic you're looking for

Author's Note:

There should have been a Hawkeye & the Black Widow movie. I could point to a lot of reasons why but I'm just going to go with the most obvious one. By the time the original Avengers movie aired in 2012 We'd had a Captain America movie, a Thor movie two Iron Mans and a Hulk. And okay, the Hulk movie was kind of crap, but it existed. It gave us a frame of reference. And then the Avengers came and we were supposed to have feelings about Hawkeye getting his brain zapped. Except there was a major portion of the audience who didn't even really know who he was, and Natasha had only a bit part in Iron Man 2, so we had these two characters who we were supposed to be rooting for whom we barely knew. That's just bad story telling. You can't ask an audience to care about the fate of a character they haven't really met. And because Clint and Natasha had been working for Shield together as Strike Team Delta, and because Phil Coulson should really have had more screen time to make killing off his character hurt more, the logical thing to do would have been to have a Hawkeye & the Black Widow movie.

This is not that movie… except that it kind of is.

Each chapter in this story will be a standalone short, you can read all of them or only some of them, you can skip them if you just don't find them interesting but in the end, you'll have the bones of what would at least be better than no Hawkeye & the Black Widow movie at all.


Clint's breathing was ragged as he pulled the motorcycle onto the crowded highway. His vision just starting to blur around the edges and his fever spiking. The mission had started to go sideways from the start but from the moment they'd arrived in Manila things had really gone off the rails.

"Hawkeye!" Natasha fairly shouted in his ear, the fingers holding fast to him digging into his ribs. Clint glanced over his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he spotted the motorbike that swerved out from behind a box truck.

"I thought we killed that guy!" He snarled in frustration, jamming the accelerator. He cut down a side street, taking the turn onto an alleyway so close he nearly clipped the dumpster near the corner. The AIM agent on their tail sped up and Clint turned sharp, sliding the bike sideways and picking up speed as he shot into a shipping yard.

"This was not a good idea," Natasha observed as they sped down a loading dock.

"I'm all out of those," Clint replied, his voice slurred. Natasha let out a curse, reaching up and deftly unclipping her helmet. As the AIM agent pulled up closer to them she yanked it off, swinging it into his face. He let out a choked sound as his nose broke and Natasha used the distraction to kick his front axel, sending the bike to shatter into a concrete pile.

"Clint! Stay with me!" She shouted, shaking him. His hands had gone heavy, his head muzzy and slow. There was a wall looming up ahead of them and he should do something about that, really he should. He just really couldn't remember what.

Natasha swore again, her small hand fisting in the front of his jacket. In a show of strength that would have impressed a man twice her size she braced him against her chest, kicking off of the back of the bike and taking him with her. They slid down the rough concrete as the bike slammed into the wall, bursting into flames.


"OMG, you're kidding me," Darcy stared at him across the table in the farthest corner of the coffee shop, her expression disbelieving.

"No, really," Clint said, leaning back in the bench seat across from her and taking a sip of his coffee. "The stuff those AIM guys shot me up with-"

"Clint you bugnuts," She interrupted him with a groan. "Thats The Bourne Legacy."

"It's… wait, what?" He blinked back in her with a confused expression, his coffee cup hovering half way to his mouth. The coffee shop was quiet, the late afternoon traffic on the street removed from the peaceful solitude. A lone barista was carefully cleaning the espresso machine on the other side of the tiny, threadbare shop but otherwise it was empty and Darcy crossed her arms over her chest with a huff, swinging one foot out to lightly kick his shin.

"I've seen it like three times," she replied, rolling her eyes. Clint stared at her with his mouth half open.

"Is there really a scene where-"

"How many times have you been hit in the head that you can't remember your missions from the movies you've seen?" Darcy asked with a hint of worry.

"I've been hit in the head a lot," he admitted grudgingly.

"The deal was for a story, Barton," Darcy said, her eyes narrowing menacingly. "I spot you in the poker game and you pay me back plus interest and the interest was coffee and a spectacularly good Strike Team Delta secret mission story. That wasn't even a good movie!"

"I like those movies."

"You are a horrible liar," she said in exasperation, "How did a guy with no lie game at all end up as a secret agent in the first place?

"That is a dumb story," Clint replied, taking a long gulp of his coffee.

"Well it can't be any worse than your fake action movie story," She shrugged. "Lay it on me."

"Don't suppose any of it's classified now," he sighed. "After the Circus I, well, I took some security jobs."

"Is that code for working for the mob?"

"Some of them were mobsters, yeah," he admitted. He paused shaking his head with a rueful chuckle. "Man I was so young and stupid."

"Now see, this sounds like a half way decent story," Darcy replied, settling into the booth.

The fist that connected with Clint's jaw was, on the whole, a lot bigger and more boulder like than the fists he was used to taking punches from. Your average run of the mill goon tended to have hands like snow shovels but this particular drug trafficker seemed to be setting a high bar for the overall size and mass of his hired muscle. On the up side, every goon beating after this one was going to seem mild by comparison. Clint side stepped the next punch, bringing his knife up to run a glancing blow over Thug One's ribs. He gave himself only a moment to check on Thug Two. Yep, still fighting Stupid Fed.

Clint dodged a lunge, dropping into a crouch and putting a fairly effective bruise on Thug One's kneecap as he tried not to wish a horrible death on Stupid Fed. Clint didn't actually know anything about the guy except that he had good dress sense and horrible situational awareness and that he was currently at least 75% responsible for Clint's latest Thug ass-kicking predicament. Clint would acknowledge 25% responsibility for the fact that a ham fisted goon was trying to rearrange his face, but he felt like that 25% would be moot if Stupid Fed hadn't walked into his trap for the Thug twins in the first place. He should have just shot all three of them.

He was just too nice.

Thug One's fist slammed into his ribs and Clint staggered back landing on his back with a grunt, the wind half knocked out of him. Thug One gave him a feral, toothy grin, one fist grasping the front of Clint's shirt and the other drawing back and aiming for Clint's nose. Well this was going to be horrible.

Thug One jerked, his whole body going rigid. His eyes rolled back in his head and for a moment that seemed an eternity he stood there, frozen with a macabre grimace on his face, then he tipped over sideways, landing face first on the filthy pavement of the alley.

Behind him was Stupid Fed, his tie askew and a science fiction looking gun clutched in his hand. Clint glared at him with narrowed eyes for a long moment as he untangled Thug One's fist from his shirt.

"I don't want to seem ungrateful," he said finally, clambering to his feet and dusting the grit of the alley off his hands. "Because I totally am, but didn't the FBI ever teach you it's rude to poach on another guys' hit?"

"I'm not with the FBI," Stupid Fed replied. Clint looked him over carefully, taking in his four figure suit and silk tie.

"Great, I'm attracting the big crowds now," he said, spitting blood out on the pavement. The Fed held out a plain white handkerchief and Clint's shoulders slumped. He accepted it with a nod of thanks, wiping at his chin.

"Agent Phil Coulson, Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"Ouch, don't hurt yourself," Clint said wincing. "Hawkeye. Great meeting ya, Phil excuse me if I don't hang around to clean up your mess." he gave a sloppy salute before turning on his heel, strolling with a casual pace down the alley as he unslung his bow.

"Hawkeye?!" Coulson skittered after him, his perfectly polished shoes kicking up the loose gravel. "The Amazing Hawkeye?! Clinton Francis Barton?"

"I swear to god, Phil if you call me that again I will shoot you," Hawkeye replied, rounding on him with a scowl. He leveled a threatening finger at Phil as if he were scolding a toddler before letting out a huff and spinning on his heel and continuing down the alley.

"You're number one on our recruitment list!" Coulson declared, undaunted, trailing after him.

"I got a job, thanks." Hawkeye said casually.

"It can't pay that good," Coulson protested. "In the last three years you've been on our radar you haven't taken a single job that could be described as morally suspect."

"SHIELD knows what kind of jobs I'm taking?" Hawkeye asked suspiciously. Clint didn't know a lot about SHIELD, no one did, but the sorts of people he tended to work for and against were exactly the sort that seemed prone to landing on SHIELD's list. What he did know was that overall you were far better off if SHIELD either didn't know about you or didn't care.

"You're number one on our recruitment list," Coulson replied.

"I picked up on that the first time," Hawkeye said with a sigh. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly before looking Coulson over again. He seemed younger than Clint had first suspected. Probably on his first field tour. Clint winced. Sentiment wasn't something he had a lot of room for in his life but somewhere this idiot probably had a mom who was really proud of him and it made Clint at least a little bit sorry for thinking about killing him to save his own ass. He shook his head, turning to continue down the alley "Look man, I live comfortable, I don't look over my shoulder. Much. If someone asks me to shoot something I don't want to shoot I tell them to fuck off. What are you going to offer me that's better than that?"

"We've got really great dental?" Coulson suggested hesitantly. Hawkeye stopped in his tracks, turning back slowly to face him.

"Seriously, Phil, that's what you're leading with? Dental?"

"Pretty sure you lost a tooth back there," Phil said wincing. He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he rubbed his eyes. "I don't know you. I don't know what you need so I don't know what to offer."

"Right now I need an extra large coffee and a cinnamon bun the size of my head but I'm not getting either one," Hawkeye replied.

"I would happily buy you anything you wanted in the nearest bakery if you'd join SHIELD," Phil said.

"That is a desperate act, Phil," Hawkeye observed, once more heading down the alley. "Because I can eat a hell of a lot of pastry. "

"My boss," Coulson let out another sigh as he trailed after Hawkeye. "I was a dumb kid and I poked into things I probably shouldn't have."

"I know what that's like," Hawkeye interjected.

"I probably should have ended up in jail but my boss stuck his neck out for me and recruited me instead," Coulson continued.

"How's that working out for him?" Hawkeye asked.

"Not that well."

"I know what that's like too."

"This mission has gone completely FUBAR," Coulson continued. "I think my boss might actually be dead and now I'm in charge."

"And you think what?" Hawkeye gave him a derisive eyeroll. "You'll recruit me and they won't disappear you?"

"I was thinking at least they wouldn't write on my boss's memorial: he died because he felt sorry for an idiot." Coulson replied miserably.

"Phil, how old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"How about that," Hawkeye said, a smile curling his lips. "I'll be twenty-two next month."

"You… seem older," Coulson replied hesitantly. Hawkeye let out a soft chuckle.

"You seem a lot younger," he said. "I'm not really in the market for a career change. And since these guys aren't in any shape to answer my questions any more, thanks for that, by the way, I'm going to need to go find me some new guys to put the screws to."

"I couldn't risk you killing them," Coulson said, sounding at least a little apologetic.

"I am seriously questioning why you'd want to recruit me if you think I'm that stupid," Clint replied with a snort, his steps once more heading down the alley. "If I kill them I tip off their boss. If I frame them for grand theft auto the local beat cops will be glad to keep an eye on them for me until I can leave town."

"Would it be rude to ask what you were planning to interrogate them about?" Coulson asked hesitantly.

"Their boss runs a very exclusive call girl service," Clint said, carefully checking over his bow.

"We're aware."

"Are you aware that most of the girls are under age?" Clint asked, turning narrowed eyes on him. Coulson gave him an uncomfortable look in return, honestly this guy had no poker face at all. "One of their father's hired me, Half a mil to get his daughter out. She's been missing since she was seventeen."

"Human trafficking-"

"He already went to the feds, they didn't do anything." Clint interrupted. "They're too busy trying to break up a Heroin ring that's killed fifty people to worry about one runaway. And now if you'll excuse me, you've really fucked my time table. The FBI's going to crack the drug ring wide open any day now and when they do they're going to bust everyone one of those girls over 18 for prostitution."

"The FBI isn't coming," Coulson said.

"Excuse me?"

"SHIELD as jurisdictional priority."

"Good for you," Clint said with a firm nod. "Don't tell me why. I don't want to know."

"Help me get my boss back and I'll help you take down the sex trafficking ring. That's what you were planning on, right?"

"I'm not stupid," Clint declared harshly. He was really staring to not like this guy. "Rescuing one girl is a piece of cake, I'm not going to risk my neck when I'm not getting paid. If their parents want them back I can provide references."

"Right, that's why you pulled the plug on that massage parlor in Reno."

It took every ounce of effort Clint had not to tense up. He slowly turned back, his extraordinary vision taking in every inch of Coulson from his $300 armani shoes to his titanium tie pin with a sense of growing distaste. He couldn't come up with one good reason why anyone should know about what went down in Reno.

"I really don't like you," he said, trying not to grit his teeth.

"You don't have to." Coulson said, resigned. He seemed like the type who'd had enough experience with being not liked to have become used to it. "I need your help, the way I see it we have the same goal."

"And when this is done I walk," Clint gave him a venomous glare. "No questions ask. You let me take the girl home to her family and collect my fee and I'm in the wind."

"We'll want to send someone along to make sure she ends up where she belongs," Coulson replied.

"Fine." Clint snarled.

"Fine."


"Fury, it was Fury wasn't it?" Darcy asked, grinning gleefully as she bobbed ever so slightly in her seat.

"Oh yeah," Clint chuckled, shaking his head. "In between hating each other Phil and I put together this elaborate plan for busting him out. They had him in the same brothel where they were holding my target. We found him chained up in one of the private rooms."


The room was swathed in a deep, rich red, velvet drapes covering the windows and red silk curtains surrounding the bed. Red and gold damask wallpaper gave the room a heavy feel that was only compounded by the ornate mahogany furniture. The man who was chained to the red velvet arm chair had a deep cut over one eye, the other blackened. His black linen shirt was torn at the sleeve and he had one leg slung over the arm of the chair, a cuban cigar dangling from his fingers.

"Who's this mother fucker?" He asked, squinting at them through the eye that wasn't swelling shut.

"Sir, this is Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton," Phil said, his gun still at the ready. "Barton, Senior Agent Nick Fury."

"Charmed," Clint said sarcastically as Fury took a long puff on his cigar. His bow was drawn, trained on the hall. "Better break your boss out of those cuffs, Coulson, before I decide I have better places to be."

"This is your idea of handling the situation?" Fury asked derisively as Coulson holstered his sidearm. He held out the hand that wasn't holding the cigar, the leather and brass manacles attached to the foot of the bed didn't give him a lot of range of motion and Clint wasn't inclined to give much thought to their intended purpose, which probably wasn't to incapacitate a federal agent.

"I needed backup, I didn't have time to call it in," Coulson replied, setting to work on the first cuff and glancing at the doorway where Hawkeye was still eyeing the corridor, his bow half drawn and tension curling across his shoulders.

"What's your story, white boy?" Fury asked, tucking the cigar between his teeth with a grimace.

"Oh you know, boy meets girl, boy loses girl, girls' old man hires a dumb Carney to get his daughter back from the traffickers who shanghaied her," Clint replied, his tone blasé. "Carney gets his face kicked in because Stupid Fed walked in on his operation. Stupid Fed cons the Carney into busting his boss out of a brothel."

"I hate it when I don't know if I should pat you on the back or tear you a new ass," Fury stated, turning his narrowed eye on Phil as he took a long draw on his cigar. The lock clicked and Coulson looked up at him with a flinch before tackling the second cuff. "Do I have to put you in for a recruiting bonus?"

"I did my best," Phil replied.

"If that's your best, Coulson, I'd hate to see you on a bad day," Clint huffed.

"How many kids are they holding here?" Fury asked, toying with the cigar with his free hand now.

"About eight teenagers, another three or four adult females," Clint replied, his eye sweeping the hall.

"So a dozen kids," Fury nodded, Clint let his eyes dart in his direction for only a fraction of a second. "We got a plan for getting them out?" The second cuff snapped open and he stood to his feet, rubbing his wrist.

"Not one that secures the 084," Phil admitted.

"Don't tell me what that is," Clint said quickly. "On the up side the plan involves a shit ton of C4 and that always makes my day brighter."

"The thermal flash'll do that," Fury agreed drily. "Did one of you assholes remember to bring me a gun?" Clint never took his eyes from the hall but he released the tension on his bow and swiftly unholstered the gun at his hip, holding it out by the barrel. Fury's hand closed around the grip and in the next moment Clint had bis bow drawn again.

"I'm not putting you out?" Fury asked cautiously.

"I got more," Clint replied.

"So many more," Phil said with a sigh.

"Son, I don't say this lightly," Fury edged up into the doorway, checking the sight lines. "But when we get out of here, I need to have a long conversation with you about how much of my budget I'm going to need to lay out to get you batting for our team."

"Sorry to disappoint, coach, I'm strictly free agent," Clint replied, easing out into the corridor.

"He's got a weakness for bakery," Coulson said, bringing up the rear. There were footsteps on the stairs and Clint let his arrow fly at the sound of raised voices, another arrow following the first as shots rang out. He ducked into the nearest doorway as Fury took the one across from him and Coulson took cover beside him.

"If we get out of this alive," Clint said, his voice dripping venom. "I'm going to shoot you."

"Tell Fury it's part of the price of signing on and he'll probably buy you the bullets," Coulson replied.

"And what, Fury let you shoot Phil in exchange for signing up with SHIELD?" Darcy asked with a mystified expression.

"Well, no, I dislocated my shoulder taking out some of the goons so I was wasted on pain killers when Fury finally made his sales pitch," Clint admitted.

"You are really interesting on pain killers," Darcy said.

"He brought me a cake," Clint added.

"That is so low," she shook her head slowly. "Even for Fury that, that is exceptionally amoral."

"Cake and narcotics, I didn't stand a chance," Clint agreed.


Friday night I crashed your party
Saturday I said I'm sorry
Sunday came and trashed me out again
I was only having fun
Wasn't hurting any one
And we all enjoyed the weekend for a change
I've been stranded in the combat zone
I walked through Bedford Stuy alone
Even rode my motorcycle in the rain
And you told me not to drive
But I made it home alive
So you said that only proves that I'm insane

Billy Joel - You May Be Right

Part of the Series "Coulson Lives but The Avengers Might Be the Death of Him" See author profile for more stories.