Hide & Seek
Part II
Before the accident, before the foster homes, before the circus, Clint and Barney used to play hide and seek almost every night. The game would always start right when the old, rusted pickup truck screeched into the driveway and their old man got out, unleashing a steady stream of expletives that rivaled even the relentless Iowa wind. Barney would turn to Clint, squeeze his hand and say, "Alright, Clint, I'm going to shut my eyes and count to 10. One…two…"
Clint was too young to know any better. He'd scamper off and would, more often than not, end up perched somewhere high—on top of the cabinets in the kitchen, in the tree next to the back porch, on the highest shelf in the mud room's coat closet. He'd hide for what felt like forever but wouldn't budge or make a sound, even when the yelling escalated, even when a bottle or plate shattered, even when the door slammed and his mom started sobbing. The day after the accident, the representative from the child services department found him half frozen in the tree. He stayed out there all night because Barney never came to find him.
Clint doesn't know why he remembers that now. And the memory immediately fades when he starts coughing again, the blood rising in the back of his throat. When he's done, he groans and again tries to reach for his phone which, miraculously, is still tucked in the back pocket of his worn jeans. It's probably broken, but it's his only hope now and, well, he did fork out a fair amount of his hard-earned cash for a case claiming to be virtually indestructible. If it is, I'm demanding a refund, he thinks, but he doesn't find the line as funny as he normally would.
Finally, he manages to yank the phone free, and he mutters a curse when he accidentally cuts his pointer on its shattered screen. Holding it close to his face because his vision isn't exactly what it used to be, he presses send, praying it will just dial the last number he called. And, remarkably, it does, but it just rings and rings and rings and then goes to voicemail: "Hi, you've reached Laura Barton. I'm not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
Clint's stomach lurches. His mind goes directly to the darkest place—his attacker has Laura, has Nathaniel, and there's nothing he can do, no way he can protect them—but he shakes that idea away. They're safe, he tells himself; Laura told you they were going to that college football game tonight, remember? Because he knows the voice message is already recording, Clint takes a deep breath and says, hoping he at least sounds somewhat like himself, "Laura, when you get t-this, please d-don't panic. Everything's gonna be…alright. I promise. The kids are safe. And I-I'm gonna make sure you all stay…safe. I j-just wanted to call to t-tell you I love you a-…"
Clint manages to press end fast enough so Laura won't have to hear his violent coughing. The blackness at the edges of his eyes lurches forward, but he blinks furiously, beating it back the only way he knows how because, damn it, he's not ready yet. When his coughing fit finally dies down, after a few excruciatingly long minutes, Clint unsteadily fumbles for his phone, which had managed to slip out of his hand during that little ordeal. He has one more call to make.
It's funny, really. He can't call the people he trusted most in this word beyond his family, the only people he even considered family before he met Laura at that tiny South Dakota hospital all those years ago. He can't call the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D.; he was the one who walked away from the Avengers, and with red still left in his ledger too as Fury just had to remind him, so he doubts any of them would race to his rescue. Besides, they had kept so many secrets from him—the real intent of the Budapest mission, for one—so he could never trust them with his family anyway. As for the Avengers, it's not like he can call them up and ask them to assemble over little old him. He can't help but snort at the thought as he fiddles with his busted phone until he manages to access his call log. Fortunately, the number he wants is near the top, and he presses send, hoping he'll actually pick up because if he doesn't, he has no idea what else he can do.
Clint heaves a sigh of relief when, after only ringing twice, the phone crackles and Wilson asks, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Barton, I thought we told you to enjoy your retirement. I hope you're not calling to get in on the action."
"Heh, had 'nough action t-tonight t-to last…" A rough cough prevents Clint from finishing his quip, and he realizes Wilson has gone very quiet on the other end of the line. Maybe I lost him, he thinks blearily as he reaches up and wipes the blood from his mouth. I mean, cell reception is always pretty spotty out here and…
"Barton, what's wrong?" Wilson's voice tears Clint from his musings, and he can tell this isn't the first time he's asked this question. "Barton?"
"Yeah, yeah…still here," Clint wheezes, trying not to start coughing again even though his lungs are burning. He pauses to collect himself and then continues, his voice so slurred, he sounds like he just downed six too many beers, "Can't g-get rid of…me t-t-that easy. 'S Cap' 'round?"
To his credit, Wilson doesn't panic. He only says, his voice shaking ever so slightly, "yeah, he is, hang on a second," and then there's the pounding of footsteps on the other end of the line. Clint squints against the encroaching darkness, and he can't help but wonder why it's so damn cold when September is only in its first week and it's not even all that windy. And, right when he's about to ask Wilson if he dropped dead or something—now that would be ironic, Clint thinks wryly—there's a loud rustling sound and Steve asks, not even trying to hide his concern, "Clint, what's going on?"
"I-I…c-could use some b-backup," Clint wheezes, cursing himself because his voice is finally failing. Since he's running out of time, he forces himself to continue, chocking back the latest cough even though doing so coats the back of his throat with fresh blood, "At t-the farm…g-got attacked. D-didn't k-know who…else t-t-to call 'n 'm…not in g-good shape. K-kids 're 'kay, and Laura's outta t-tow-…"
Clint's voice fades, and only silence greets him. As the phone slips from his trembling hand, he wants to scream—this isn't a prank! I wouldn't fuck around like this, about this!—but he can't; all he can do is let out a helpless, pathetic gurgle. That seems to have snapped Steve back to reality because he says, suddenly eerily calm, "Clint, listen to me. Hang on, okay? We'll be…"
He doesn't get to hear the rest; a heavy, black boot comes down on his phone, crunching it into the ground, killing Steve's voice instantly. Clint's too exhausted to be afraid. Blinking up at the intruder, he licks his lips and tries to mumble a quip, something about if hadn't just jumped out a window, he'd wipe away that smug smirk, but all he gets is another gurgle.
If he had been asked how he'd die back when Coulson took a flier on a circus act who couldn't miss, when Fury decided an arrow could speak louder than a bullet, when he himself decided to stop toeing the line between good and evil and fly straight, he would've said he'd go down in a blaze of glory. He'd die saving the world—a true hero. And, in a sense, he will. He didn't save the whole world, but he had saved his own, and that's enough for him.
His assailant turns from Clint to the burning house and back to Clint. Clint watches idly, only vaguely registering that the intruder is no longer smirking. Finally, his attacker heaves a rather deflated sigh and quietly reflects, "It didn't have to be this way, Barton."
Clint only nods, but then he lifts his chin from his chest in defiance. It's about all he can do now. "C-coulda …made a d-d-different call."
The intruder's expression turns deadly, and Clint's addled mind registers that he's made a mistake, but he doesn't care. It's the truth. He expects his assailant to put him out of his misery then and there, but nothing happens—not even when he lets his eyes slip shut, lets his chin fall back to his chest, lets his grip on the arrow embedded deep in his shoulder slacken. He surprises himself when he whimpers, his voice barely loud enough for even himself to hear, "'M sorry…"
He doesn't see the intruder's expression soften at his words. He doesn't hear the apology whispered in return. He doesn't feel the hand reach down and wipe the blood from his mouth, the tears from his cheeks. Only after Clint takes one last shallow breath does his assailant turn and retreat to the road and the waiting ride, leaving the job unfinished but never once looking back.
Hope you enjoyed Part II! This story will either have one or two more parts, depending on the demand. I'm curious to know who you think Clint's attacker is. I deliberately left it unclear, and I would love to hear who you think it is, and if your guess has changed from after reading Part II.
To answer a few reviewer questions at the same time, my Clint is a composite character. I drew from a variety of sources, the movies, the comics, even other FanFiction pieces I've read. In the comics, Clint is deaf, was a carnival act and was on the wrong side of the law to start out. In the movies, he had a family and is a former SHIELD agent. I've combined the two worlds because, at the end of the day, Clint doesn't get much attention in the movies and little is really known about him. Plus, I feel like he's a much more compelling character this way. Hope that clears up any confusion. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! ~Moore12
