Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Again thanks to Khell for acting as my awesome German translator! :D
Just to clear things up, Fort Carson is a military base but there is also a Army Regional Confinement Facility at Fort Carson, ergo, the Fort Carson prison Clint escaped from.
For those of you that wanted more of Clint being a contract assasin, this is the last of it in this chapter. I toyed with the idea of it taking longer for Coulson to bring him in, but I want this story to be about Clint and Coulson and their journey towards trust and friendship. That will take a while as it is. I may do a short story one day that shows snapshots of the year Clint was in the wind. In it would show a few of Clint's hits and also how he came onto Coulson's radar. Perhaps after I've finished the rest of this series.
Also this will NOT be a Clint/Coulson slash. I will never right a slash story. This story is purely the origin of the deep friendship and trust between those two awesome men that my previous stories spoke about.
Thanks to all my chapter one reviewers: blackdog-lz, vamgirl1902, Liliththestormgoddess, GregsMadHatter, LEMarauder, ReviewerWhoBegsForUpdates, clovely-littleme, tpt player 5701, captain-ah-mazing, Strawberrywaltz, Avelly Allen, KatyaKatianaKaterina, Dani9513, and all Guests. You guys are awesome with your encouraging words!
Enjoy Chapter Two!
Last Time:
"Und beten wir zu Gott, dass der Kerl nicht überlebt , denn dann wird er sich rächen wollen." He added after his men had left. (And pray to God that man does not survive to seek revenge.)
In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.- Albert Schweitzer
He loved rooftops.
He loved knowing that there was nothing above him but open air, nothing to confine him but the distance to the next building. He popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth as he watched Abel Béres move around his house. The man was living in blissful ignorance, unaware Clint had been watching him for a week.
He was laid out on his stomach, binoculars held to his eyes with one hand. A pile of his favorite Austrian chocolate was on a wrapper next to him and a bottle of water was resting on the small ledge his elbows were on.
He watched Béres go into his bedroom and climb into bed with his wife. He flipped the light off and Clint lowered his binoculars, glancing at his watch. Same time every night. You could set you clock by this guy.
Clint sighed, rolling onto his back to stare up at the sky. He reached for a piece of chocolate and tossed it up in the air. It flew high out of sight and then dropped back down, landing flawlessly in his open mouth.
It was almost a shame, he thought. Béres was going to be an easy job. The guy lived by a routine and routines made you an easy target. They also made you boring.
He tossed another piece of chocolate into the air. He rolled back over as he chewed it, flipping on the night vision in his binoculars. He settled in for another night of surveillance. He found himself checking the different rooms of the house, making sure no one moved in on his mark. He lingered for a moment on the room belonging to 4 year old Julian, Béres' son. He hated when the mark's had families, hated it more when they had kids. He knew firsthand how it felt to grow up without a dad. And here he was, plotting to take Julian's dad from him.
"Stop it, Clint." He hissed at himself, "It's just a job."
Only it wasn't just a job. It was his job. He was the one taking that little boy's dad away.
It was jobs like this when he hated who he had become.
He was like a shadowy version of a distance serial killer.
No, he was worse. He got paid to destroy lives. He got paid to not ask questions. He did it for money.
He was so weak.
"What else was I supposed to do?" He muttered into the night.
He'd needed money fast when he fled the United States. He'd ended up in Tokyo; in a room with a really bad guy who needed someone to get rid of a problem of his.
Clint, only seventeen, hadn't really seen a choice in the matter.
He'd been making money holding bets on his shooting. He'd gotten noticed by the wrong people. They'd snatched him in an alley, tossed a bag over his head, and brought him to a man named Hayato. Just like that, Clint had his first hired hit.
Four days and 481,800Yen later he had found his new profession. He hadn't let himself think about what he committing his skills to. He just realized he had a talent people feared. A talent people wanted to use for their own ends. And now, if they paid his price, he'd kill whoever they wanted.
He couldn't get out now even if he wanted to.
He wasn't the same kid who'd broken out of the military prison at Fort Carson a year ago. He'd killed people, a lot of people. Maybe some of them had it coming, but he knew a lot of them had just pissed off the wrong person. He was glad the people that hired him didn't want him to ask any questions. He didn't want to know the answers. He was tainted now, deep in his soul. The notebook he kept in his pack with the names of every person he'd been hired to kill might as well have been written in blood.
He also had enemies, several now, he was sure. He'd made the early mistake of letting himself be known by his arrows. By the time he realized how that made every kill easily tied to him, it was too late. So he just went with it. His calling card of an arrow through the heart generated a lot of business now. And Hawkeye had become a name both feared and respected. His age had stopped mattering to his employers quickly after that.
Because of both of those reasons, he couldn't just walk away. He'd spend his whole life looking over his shoulder if he did. Besides, he didn't want a life where he couldn't shoot his bow. The weapon had been an extension of his being since he was eleven years old and he'd stolen one from the prop tent at the circus. By the time they realized it was missing, he had gotten too good at it for them to want it back.
Clint sighed, annoyed with himself for letting his mind travel down that self depreciating path. So maybe he'd made a bad choice a year ago, choosing this path. But he was too far down to turn back now. He was too damn good at it too.
It was finally time.
Clint stood, balanced on the corner of his rooftop, bow ready to be drawn. He was just waiting for Béres to come out of his house. Clint had been pleasantly surprised when his target's wife had taken their young son out to a movie that night. It gave him the opening he needed to eliminate Béres without traumatizing his wife and son.
Well, not traumatizing them beyond coming home to find their husband and father had been shot through the heart with an arrow while they were gone.
Clint tensed when the front door opened. He pulled back on the bow string, sighting carefully. The door to the stairwell behind him creaked. Clint spun, his sharp eyes on the still closed door. He'd locked it when he got there, making sure he didn't get any unexpected visitors.
The door handle rattled.
His eyes narrowed, Béres forgotten for now. He inched closer, calculating the thickness of the door against the strength of his arrow point. He put his ear to the door, listening carefully. His eyes widened when he heard German on the other side. It shouldn't be alarming, given he was in a German speaking country. It was the whispered words that set him on edge.
"Beeil' dich und knack' das Schloss. Wir müssen leise sein wenn wir ihn überrumpeln wollen. Akos bringt uns um wenn wir das nicht hinbekommen." (Hurry and pick the lock. We must be silent if we are to catch him by surprise. Akos will kill us if we fail.)
Clint stepped back, his heart pounding.
Akos. That son of a bitch.
He pulled back the bow string, aiming just above the handle, where a man's head would be if he was trying to pick the lock. He waited until he heard the tell tale scratching of a lock pick, then he fired. The arrow tore through the thin door like it was paper.
The scream of pain that followed was very satisfying, however brief it was.
He drew another arrow faster than he could breathe. He nocked it and pulled back just as the door burst open. He met the first man through with an arrow to the throat. The second man got the same treatment as Clint steadily backed away while he fired. Distance was his ally, it always had been. He headed for the fire escape, firing his arrows rapidly to keep Akos' men back.
He heard the creak of the rusted metal behind him too late. He spun, firing his already strung arrow into the man's eye. He flinched when a thin rope flew over his head from behind and tightened around his throat. One hand went up to pull at the rope, the other swung his bow like a staff, knocking the next man trying to come up the fire escape back as hard as he could so he would clear the landing. He heard him scream as he fell the six stories to the alley below.
Clint dropped his bow when the rope around his neck tightened. He brought his now free hand up to feel for his attacker's head. When he found it, he pushed his thumb into the guy's eye. The guy shouted in pain, spinning them around to face the door again. Clint's eyes widened when he saw a gun pointed at his chest. The man wielding it was barely three feet away. Clint kicked the gun away before it could fire. Then he planted one boot in the man's stomach and the second on his chest. Then he threw his legs back over his head, and consequently, over the guy choking him's head.
The thin rope loosened and released.
Clint landed in a crouch. He pulled his M-9 sidearm from its holster on his thigh and fired through the man's back. As he dropped, Clint fired at the man he'd used as a platform. The bullet ripped through his forehead. It took three more bullets to get rid of the last of the men coming through the door. He spun to face the fire escape. Three men were already headed towards him. He spent three more bullets stopping them. He paid for it when one of the last four fired his own side arm.
Clint stumbled back a step, doubling slightly as the gun flew from his left hand. His other hand went to his left shoulder, pressing against the hole already leaking blood. He groaned through clenched teeth, moving his bloodied hand to the knife on his belt. He spun, throwing the knife at a target he'd only identified by approaching footsteps. The man fell with the knife still lodged in his throat.
Clint knew his only chance was to get to the fire escape or the stairs. The stairs were closer. The last three men seemed to realize this and split, one approaching Clint with his gun drawn, one moving to block the stairs, and one staying at the fire escape.
Clint laughed at the man moving carefully towards him. His abused throat protested painfully, but he ignored it.
"You laugh much for a dead man." The man spat in rough, heavily accented English.
"Oh I'm not dead yet." Clint grinned, "And you really should have pulled the trigger when you had the chance."
He moved before the man could process the words. He wrapped one hand around the gun, pressed the release for the clip, pushed the slide back to clear the chamber of its one round, moved the slide lock and sharply pulled the slide from the gun. It only took him a breath to do it, then he was driving his elbow into the man's throat to crush his larynx.
He got grabbed from behind in a bear hug. The man from the stairs was still standing there, crouched as if waiting for Clint to try and get through him. Clint threw his head back, hearing a crunch as his skull broke his attacker's nose. The arms didn't loosen, but the big man did stumble backwards towards the fire escape, pulling Clint with him.
"Kann der Falke fliegen?" He hissed in Clint's ear.
The archer's eyes widened.
Can the hawk fly?
"Oh shit." Clint breathed just before the huge arms sent him over the edge of the roof.
He hit the fire escape landing two stories down hard.
"Sonovabitch." He slurred, his hand going to his head, it came away bloody. Which was probably why his vision was doubled. He gasped in pain as he pushed himself to his feet. He heard the man that had thrown him yelling from above. As quickly as he could manage, he climbed over the railing and lowered himself until he was hanging by his hands. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and eyed the landing two more stories down.
He swung his body back and then forward, releasing his hold just before his shoulder could decide it wasn't going to hold him up anymore. He dropped, landing in a crouch that turned to a heap. His ankle rolled painfully.
He let out a pained yell, restrained through clenched teeth, as he pulled himself up again. Gunfire pinged off the metal around him. But he had a landing above him to protect him now. The twenty feet to the ground would be easy under normal circumstances. He could make that leap, land in a roll, and come up unscathed.
These were not normal circumstances. These were crappy, shitty circumstances. Circumstances where he had a brand new concussion, a nearly garroted neck, and a bullet in his shoulder. He was sure adrenaline and survival instincts were the only things keeping him upright.
He glanced around, knew he was wasting precious seconds. The remaining two men were hurrying down the fire escape even now. His eyes lit when he saw a dumpster on the other side of the landing. It would have to do. He took two running steps, planted the hand from his good arm on the rail, and used it to vault himself over the edge.
The silence while he fell was deafening.
He landed on something hard, that was sure to leave a bruise on his back, but for the most part it was just bags of trash. He was out of the dumpster in a second, pressing his back against it. He ripped his back up gun out of its holster on his ankle.
It took him a second to catch his breath enough to focus his vision and a second longer to feel like he could rise without falling over. Then he stood, turned, and fired twice. He released a deep breath, letting the gun drop to his side. He took an unsteady step away from the dumpster, only to return to it with a white knuckled grip.
A man stepped into the mouth of the alley.
"Verschwinde!" Clint snapped in German, his voice coming out rough and threatening. (Walk away.)
"Clint Barton." The man moved closer, with a confidence Clint rarely saw in anyone outside the military. The accent was distinctly American too.
Well shit. This day keeps getting better and better.
"Du hast den Falschen." Clint backed up a step. (You've got the wrong man.)
"We both know that's not true, Barton. Even if you haven't gone by that name in almost a year." The man was still approaching.
Clint kept moving back, bringing his back up gun to bear.
"You don't want to do that. " The man put up a hand.
"Oh no?" Clint huffed a pain filled laugh.
"No. For one...I'm wearing Kevlar."
"Won't matter if I shoot for the head." Clint pointed out sharply.
The man actually smirked at him. Clint's eyes narrowed.
"You won't do that."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because you're still trying to figure out who I am and why I'm here and most importantly," He cocked his head a little, "If anyone else stateside knows where you are."
Clint flinched when his back hit the wall of the alley. He'd let the guy back him into a corner. He hated concussions.
"Maybe I don't care." Clint snapped, thumbing back the hammer.
"Barton…" the man shook his head.
Clint blinked around the blood dripping into his eyes and in that moment the guy moved. His gun discharged as it was twisted firmly from his grip. The archer's countenance darkened at the sight of his own gun pointing at him. He cocked an eyebrow curiously when the man in the suit pointed the gun at the ground.
"We don't have to do it this way." The man reasoned.
"Where'd be the fun in that?" Clint smirked.
He lashed out knocking the gun out of the man's hand with a swift kick. It skittered across the pavement into the shadows. Clint was already moving, kicking the man's thigh and then spinning to drive his elbow into his sternum. But the stranger was ready. He grabbed Clint's arm, twisted it up and back until he was sure the bones were about to pull out of socket. Clint grunted in pain as the man drove him towards the brick wall. Instead of letting himself get slammed, Clint raised his left boot, planting it firmly on the brick. Two quick steps and he was flipping backwards, landing more heavily than usual behind the man in the suit. He stumbled back a step, trying to push away the waver in his vision.
"Very impressive." The man praised. "You're as good as I'd heard."
"You don't know the half of it." Clint taunted, shifting so he could get an open lane to the mouth of the alley.
"I just want to talk, kid. We don't have to do this."
"I don't like talking." Clint growled, moving forward and lashing out with his fist. He grunted when it was not only blocked, but retaliated against. His head snapped to the side and he stumbled back. Never one to be deterred, Clint attacked again. He was deflected again and treated with a knee to the gut. He steeled himself to try again.
"You are persistent." The man was smirking again, like he was pleased. Clint frowned, and moved. A well placed punch to the bullet wound in his shoulder, brought him to his knees. He was wrapped in a headlock in the next moment.
This is how it was going to end. He was going to go down to some guy in a suit in a dirty alley in Vienna for a reason he didn't even know. Awesome.
"All I'd have to do is squeeze." The man informed him calmly, patting the back of Clint's head where his hand was braced. "And you'd be dead."
"No shit." Clint gasped, hardly believing he was being choked for the second time in one night and was actually talking about it with his attacker.
"Instead," the man stated carefully, "I'm going to let you go. Don't do anything stupid."
Clint's eyes widened a fraction when the headlock was released and he was pushed away. He doubled under the guise of stumbling and pulled a small knife from his boot. It wasn't much, but all he had to do was throw it. And he didn't miss.
But damn it if his curiosity wasn't demanding he wait for a second and find out what the hell was going on.
"Who the hell are you?" Clint demanded, hiding a wince when his abused throat protested painfully.
"Clint Barton." The man started again. "My name is Agent Phil Coulson…I'm with an American agency called SHIELD."
"SHIELD?" Clint questioned. He'd never heard of it.
"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement Logistics Division."
Clint blinked. That was a mouthful.
"I doubt you've heard of it. We're a covert agency."
"Good for you."
"I'm here to offer you a job."
"A job." Clint repeated blankly.
"Yes."
Clint was silent as he locked eyes with the man called Phil Coulson.
"You're bullshitting me."
He thought he saw Coulson crack a smile.
"No, I assure you, I'm not…this is a real offer."
"I have a job." Clint countered.
Coulson looked meaningfully at the two dead men on the fire escape.
"Something tells me your profession has just gotten more hazardous."
"I can handle it."
"I'm sure you can." Coulson was eyeing him like he knew something Clint didn't. "I'm telling you, you don't have to."
"Don't have to what?"
"Handle it. You don't have to do this anymore."
Clint scoffed, now he knew he was being bullshitted.
"You trying to tell me, you aren't trying to hire me to kill for you?"
"That's exactly what I'm trying to do." Coulson replied flatly.
Clint drew back with a blink. Oh.
"Why the hell would I do that when I'm sure I make a hell of a lot more now?"
"Because if all it was about was the money, you wouldn't have waited for Béres' family to leave." Coulson stated knowingly.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Clint scoffed. But his insides clenched, thinking of Julian Béres and the father he'd almost taken from him.
"I'd give you a reason, Barton, for every hit. I'll give you a file telling you exactly why the target needs to be retired and I know that's a hell of a lot more than you get now." Coulson cocked his head like he was sizing him up, "You aren't as cold hearted as you pretend to be."
"Oh no?"
"No…you're an eighteen year old kid who made a few unfortunate choices. I'm giving you a chance to make it right."
"Make it right." Clint scoffed doubtfully, looking away. He weighed his hidden knife in his hand.
"Béres is a doctor."
Clint looked back at him.
"I know that." He frowned.
"Did you know that he refuses to pay loyalties to Akos, the man who hired you?"
Clint didn't respond. That was answer enough.
"Akos threatened his family, so he moved out of Hungary to Austria…to Vienna…Akos hired you to send a message to everyone back in Debrecen who was getting ideas about doing the same."
Clint clenched his jaw angrily. He was angry at Akos for being an asshole. He was angry at Agent Phil Coulson for taking away his ignorance. He never would have taken this contract if he'd known the whole story, which is why he never wanted the whole story. Mostly he was angry at himself, for caring at all.
"What do you expect me to do?" Clint challenged, "I can't just walk away. I've got enemies that won't ever stop looking."
"We'd protect you, Barton. We protect our own."
Clint shook his head. This couldn't be real.
"You don't have to decide right now. But if you want a new beginning, I can give that to you. But you have to make the choice." Coulson crouched and placed a card on the ground and then turned to walk away.
"I don't think I have it in me anymore." Clint announced suddenly, not sure why the words were spilling out of his mouth. Not sure why he was confessing one of his deepest fears to this stranger. Coulson turned back curiously. "To be a good guy." Clint finished.
The smile Coulson gave him was one of calm understanding. That confused the hell out of him.
"Barton…the fact that you've had a knife in your hand for the past three minutes and haven't used it yet…tells me you do." Then he was gone.
Clint swallowed, limping forward to pick up the card.
It had a gray logo on it and the man's name printed across it with a string of numbers beneath.
He stared at it for a moment and then shoved it in his pocket and limped towards the fire escape to retrieve his bow. The police would be here soon. And he needed to be gone when they arrived.
"He'll call." Phil snapped at the young agent name Crawley that was in the room with him.
"You've said that for the past two days…Fury's ordered us back to the states within 48 hours." Crawley replied as he moved around the room and packed.
"He'll call." Phil repeated more quietly, staring at his cell phone on the table. He hadn't been wrong about Barton, he knew he hadn't. The kid would call.
Clint slowly blew out a breath as he sighted down the shaft of his arrow. He watched his target step out of his car and glance around. Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and the ache in his head, he pulled back on the bow. From the shadows of the alley, Clint fired. His black arrow flew true and ripped into the man's heart.
By the time Akos's men made it to the alley across the street, Hawkeye was gone.
Phil flipped his ringing phone open as he walked across the tarmac towards the SHIELD jet.
"Coulson."
"Can you get to Debrecen?"
He froze mid step, ignoring Crawley's confused look.
"Barton?"
"That's where I am."
"It's been three days."
"I had some business to tie up."
"Can it be linked to you?" Phil asked. He'd heard the reports of a thug in Debrecen named Akos being shot down in the streets.
"Yes…had to send a message."
"Understood." Phil allowed. "I can be there in an hour…there's a private airport just outside the city."
"I know it."
"I'll see you there, then." Phil nodded.
"Coulson…" the teenager started, Phil waited the beat it took him to continue, "if you're screwing around with me. I'll kill you."
"This is for real, Barton."
"We'll see."
The line went dead. Phil looked at his phone with a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Crawley, tell the pilot we have a change of plans."
"He called?" Crawley gaped.
"He called."
End of Chapter 2
I realize they didn't come up with the SHIELD acronym until Iron Man came about, but within this series' universe SHIELD has been around for a while and I would hope they'd figured out a way to shorten their division's title by now lol. Sorry for that inconsistency.
Everybody buckle up, this is my longest story yet! It has its moments of action and its moments of non-action, all of which I believe are vital to understanding who Clint is and the journey it takes him to realize his purpose. So get ready! All of my chapters are long-ish and there are 11 of them! Here we go!
The song the titles come from is a country song, so it may be harder for people to figure out. However, I believe it's fitting for Clint. I'll announce what song it was at the end of the story :)
Reviews make me happy! :D
Here's your preview
"Briefing room?" Clint questioned with a confused frown as Coulson started walking away.
"Study hall." The handler tossed over his shoulder.
Clint's eyebrows drew together.
"Wait…what?"
