Recruitment Part 2/7
by SLynn

The only reaction Clint showed at Natasha's abrupt departure was a momentary dip of his head. But it was just that, a reaction. And it was quickly over.

"Read it," he insisted, waving his hand across the table.

Thor was the only one who made a move, but he was quickly stopped by Jane who pulled his arm back in a hurry.

"He asked us to read it," Thor insisted. "Is that not what you want?" he questioned, turning briefly to where Clint sat. "Why does no one here speak plain? Our problem is not trust. I trust each of you with my life and the lives of those I love most. Our problem is that when we speak, we are not looking for answers, but for more questions. Is this common amongst you?"

"No one is going to read that file," Steve insisted, not exactly knowing how to answer Thor or to contain whatever it was that this was becoming.

"Tony already has," Clint returned. "And, honestly, if you want to... be my guest. I don't care."

"No one needs to read that," Bruce repeated.

"Why shouldn't we?" Tony asked, and for the first time everyone in the room recognized the subtle change of tone. He was angry. He was just as angry as Clint was, but for entirely different reasons.

"Okay," Pepper said, getting to her feet. "This is too much. Clint, I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Pepper," he assured her, completely sincere. "Don't worry about it."

Pepper glanced away, embarrassed, before turning to Jane, "Do you want..."

"Yes," Jane said, anticipating the question and thankful for the escape.

After the ladies left, the room was deathly quiet for a full five minutes. Tony was positively glowering at Clint, who held it together at first, but finally stood up and walked to the far side of the room where he remained, his back to them, as he looked out over the city. Bruce was uneasy, shifting his stance every few seconds, while Thor was the only one that remained perfectly still. Finally, Steve couldn't take it any longer. "What's going on here?"

Clint interlocked his fingers, resting them on top of his head, as he arched his back; the only sign he showed that he'd heard Steve at all. Tony, if anything, grew more agitated.

"I'll tell you what's going on," Tony said, pointing a finger at Clint's back. "He's been spying on us."

"I haven't been spying," Clint sighed, dropping his head, his posture taking on the stance of a man defeated.

"I'm sorry," Tony corrected sarcastically, crossing into the living room after him. "What are you calling it then, filing reports? Observing behavior? What? What is it then?"

"I haven't seen anything, Tony. If," Clint said, stressing that word, but still not facing them, "I'd been asked any questions, I wouldn't have any answers to give."

"You haven't seen anything because you spend all your time at the range or in the gym," Tony snapped.

"And why do you think that is?" Clint returned, ever word clipped short and measured.

"You've been in the lab," Bruce countered, joining them in the living room with Thor and Steve close behind. But when Clint only shook his head in response, he grew adamant. "You have. More than once. Agent Hill -"

"If Agent Hill reported my presence inside of the lab, I haven't heard of it. And if she has, she'd be mistaken, because I've never been there. I'd swear to it."

"But you don't think she's filed a report of her own," Steve said, just to be clear. Somewhat relieved to see Clint shake his head in return.

"What about Natasha?" Bruce asked, because someone had to.

"Yeah," Tony echoed. "What about her? She was pretty quick out the door. Is she off talking to the boss?"

"No," Clint answered.

"You're positive?" Bruce asked.

"I'm sure. We've talked -"

"And?" Tony interrupted.

"And what?" Clint snapped, wheeling around suddenly to face him.

"What did she say?"

"You really think I'm going to answer that?"

"No one expects you to betray a confidence," Steve said, trying to defuse the situation.

"Actually, that's exactly what I expect," Tony countered.

"Go to hell," Clint said with a brisk nod before making his way to the door.

"Wait," Bruce called, catching up to him. "You're right. Steve's right. We shouldn't ask you that. That's not fair."

"I agree," Thor said. "We should not speak of those not here to defend themselves."

"I'm sure Clint wouldn't lie," Steve said, trying not to be insulting, and perhaps missing the point that Clint regularly lied for a living.

"More the reason," Thor pressed. "The truth, hard truths, especially need defending."

Clint scanned their faces and saw that, with the exception of Tony, they'd all meant it. Still reluctant, he walked back into the living room and sat in the chair farthest from the rest of the group. After a steadying breath, he began with, "SHIELD has asked me to keep them informed on what is happening here."

"And?" Tony pressed.

"And what do you want me to say?" Clint asked, throwing his hands up in desperation. "I'm not in a position to tell them no."

"Why do they care?" Bruce asked, momentarily ignoring the implications of what Clint had just said.

"The Avengers was their project," Clint tried to explain, carefully picking his words. "They still think of it as their project, but there is concern in the upper echelons that control is being lost."

"Upper meaning Fury?" Steve asked.

"Higher than that."

"Who?" Bruce asked.

"No idea," Clint admitted.

"Ten years with the company and you have no idea whose calling the shots?" Tony asked incredulously.

"SHIELD isn't a company," Clint tried to explain. "There's no picnics or holiday parties, Tony. Hell, I couldn't tell you how many people are in SHIELD. I couldn't even tell you which countries are a part of it. They keep us compartmentalized for a reason."

"In case you start talking," Tony provided.

"Exactly," Clint agreed. "In case someone decides one day they've had enough, they're caught or they've got a better offer or they're just... " The next word out of his mouth was going to be 'tired' but even that felt like too much effort. Still, he could tell by the looks he was getting that he wasn't anywhere close to done yet. "I guess it runs like a company. Probably more like the military. Director gets a mission, he appoints a liaison, and the liaison assembles a team. You get the idea."

"Where did you fall on that scale?" Steve asked.

"Right on the bottom. Strictly a worker bee."

"And your liaison is..." Tony led.

"Was," Clint said shortly. "My liaison was Agent Coulson. He'd been my handler for as long as I've been in SHIELD."

Clint shook his head, not sure why that had been so hard to say. It wasn't anything they didn't already know. Still, it hurt. It still hurt a whole hell of a lot.

"I need a drink," Tony said, shaking his head as he headed to the bar. "Anyone else? Just me?"

"You said you had no recourse," Thor began, waiting until Tony returned to his seat. "That you were indentured. I did not think your society condoned such actions."

"I really don't think we have enough time to get into this entirely," Bruce said, pushing his glasses up on to his forehead as he rubbed his eyes, "but no. To simplify the conversation, no, most of modern society does not condone slavery."

"Were you drafted? Reassigned from the military?" Steve asked.

"No, I was never in the military and I think you're all getting the wrong idea here," Clint tried, feeling not only like he'd lost control, but that he'd never had any to begin with.

"I think they're getting exactly the right idea," Tony argued.

"No one forced me to be a part of SHIELD."

"No," Tony agreed, "they just gave you the very easy choice of joining up or prison."

If the conversation hadn't been so damn serious, Clint might have laughed at the shocked look on Steve's face. Bruce handled the news better, having been falsely accused on more than one occasion and doing a whole lot of assuming on Clint's behalf. Thor was harder to read. He seemed to be waiting for more information before passing judgment.

"Right?" Tony persisted. "that's how it went down, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?" Steve asked, and for the first time since Clint could remember, he sounded harsh.

"Nothing," Bruce answered for Clint with a dismissive wave. "That's how they work. They make things up and force your hand. They trap you with lies. Half of the things I'm said to have done weren't even possible. They tried it with Tony. They've succeeded with me. Steve, they kept you in a room for how long? How long did they hide the truth from you? That's how they work. That's how they operate."

Tony locked eyes with Clint and he knew that this was, in part, what he was waiting for, and it dawned on Clint that Tony would probably believe him if he lied. And he could. Steve looked as if he was ready to believe whatever Clint had to say, good or bad. With Thor it was nearly impossible to tell, his face was nearly expressionless, but he would listen before deciding, that was certain. Tony was waiting, as if he was expecting him to confirm Bruce's assessment, which Bruce already believed on Clint's behalf.

It wouldn't be hard to do, Clint had gotten really good at lying, but he was emotionally drained. He'd told Natasha so himself. He was tired of lying and hiding from his past. These were the people who had believed in him when he'd given ample reason for doubt. How would he repay that?

"They didn't make it up."

"What?" Bruce asked, completely caught off guard.

"I know how SHIELD gets things done and you're right. They do those things sometimes. But... they didn't make it up. Not with me. "

"It's all true?" Tony asked, and he also seemed surprised.

"Most," Clint conceded. "More than enough."

"That's not what I asked," Tony pushed. "That is not what I asked at all."

"Honestly," Clint said, "I forget..." trailing off as he watched Tony get up and return again with the file folder.

After rifling through it for a minute, he pulled a few pages out and handed them to Clint without even the smallest trace of a smile. Clint looked down at the papers and shook his head. There it was, his ledger, completely before him. Almost.

It was time to admit to it.

"Can I still get that drink?"

The other man didn't answer. He was about Clint's height, with dark brown hair, and had to be at least ten to fifteen years older than Clint was himself, maybe more as evidenced by the fact that his hair had begun to thin. He didn't even look at him, just continued to lay out Clint's own items in front of him on the table. His bow. Quiver, half empty. Gloves. Jacket. Bag.

"Hey," Clint barked, slapping his hands flat against the metal surface. "I'm talking to you."

The man ignored him. He hadn't even flinched. And for some reason, Clint swore he looked familiar. He'd seen this guy around, somewhere. He just didn't know where.

"Shouldn't I have a lawyer?" Clint asked, trying to draw him into any kind of conversation. "I'm allowed that. I know my rights."

Having finished, the man took a step back and casually clasped his hands in front of his waist as he waited beside the door.

"You're not local," Clint continued to press. "What are you? FBI? CIA? I don't know what you think I've done, but -"

Clint stopped short as the door opened. A tall black man in a long dark coat, with an eye patch of all things, stepped inside and dropped a file on the table in front of him.

"Clinton Barton," the man said, somehow making his name feel like an accusation. "You've been busy."

"Who are you?"

"That's not important," the one-eyed man said as he took a seat directly across from Clint. "Not yet."

For a long moment the man sat there and stared at him until Clint began to fidget. He was still in handcuffs, and they chaffed. He'd been locked up in this room, locked to this chair, for so long now he'd lost track of time. Clint was tired, hungry, and his head begun to pound because of the lights. And this guy... this guy made him nervous.

"How old are you?" the man asked.

"Doesn't your paper there tell you that?"

The man didn't answer. He just continued to stare at him and wait.

"Who are you?" Clint asked again.

"That depends. I can be a friend. And I think you need a friend right now, Clinton, because you are looking at a whole lot of time behind bars."

"I didn't do -"

"Maybe you didn't do all of it," the man interrupted, flipping open the folder as he spoke and fanning out the pages before him. "Let's say you didn't. How about this? How about I guess which ones are yours and which ones belong to someone else."

"If this is some kind of trick..."

"No trick. I'm not a cop. There are no cameras in here. Everything we say is strictly between me and you."

"What about him?" Clint asked as he gave the room another look, nodding at the man who was standing at the door.

"Don't worry about him."

"That's real easy for you to say," Clint laughed.

"I suppose it is," the man returned. "Let me tell you something. Earn some trust."

"This should be good."

"The cops here," the man began, and as he spoke he began to shift through the file, occasionally pushing one page off to the side as he did so, "they've got nothing on you. Nothing concrete. You've been careful. Organized. Detail oriented, which I can respect." He paused over one particular page and after a moment created a new pile. "Restrained. They don't have your fingerprints at any of these scenes. No eyewitnesses. They can't even put you in the towns where most of these crimes occurred."

"Sounds like I've got a pretty good shot of walking out of here."

"You would have," the man said, stopping his work to look him in the eyes, "but you got sloppy. You got caught."

Clint looked down at the three stacks of paper and watched as the man pushed the one in the center towards him.

"What happened, Clinton? Was it carelessness or desperation? What'd you get out of it? Twenty bucks, maybe. Something to eat. You look like you could use something to eat."

Clint wanted to protest, but at that moment his stomach betrayed him. Things had been rough lately. He'd lost some weight. Hadn't shaved or showered for at least a week. His hair was grown out and shaggy. He'd been lower before, but it had been a long time.

"Take a look," the man said, nodding at the stack of papers he'd complied. "Tell me if I got it right."

"Kind of hard to do like this," Clint answered, holding up his still cuffed hands.

The man consider it for a moment before motioning the other guy forward, who quickly unlocked him and moved back in position. The second he did, Clint's eyes darted longingly at his bow, and he considered it. He really did.

"Son," the man at the table said with a hint of a smile, "on your best day, I could still break you in half. And trust me, today is not your best day."

Clint rubbed his wrists without acknowledging what was so obviously true. He wasn't going to get out of here like that. Instead, he picked up the papers and flipped through them for a few minutes.

"You think these are mine?" Clint asked.

"I do."

"What about those?" Clint asked, indicating the two other piles of paper still on the desk.

"These here," the man said, holding up one set with his left hand. "These were someone else entirely. Different kinds of target. Less preparation. More violent. No, despite the unique... similarities, these weren't you."

Clint didn't say anything, but his eyes shifted to the set of papers in the man's right hand.

"You don't want to know about these? Or do you already know? Have you figured it out yet? Of course, there's nothing for you to figure out. You know, but the police..." the man trailed off, shaking his head slowly. "Do you think the police are going to believe that there are two men out there like you? Two men committing robberies with a bow and not a gun? Even if they put together that you worked together first," he continued, shaking the papers in his right hand for emphasis before letting both stacks fall to the table in a jumble, "do you think they'll care? They have you. As far as they're concerned, you're good for it all."

"That's bullshit."

Clint stopped his recollection and looked up, surprised by the outburst.