III.
Clint lost some time as he stared at the file; when he reached for his coffee to try and steady his hands it was cold. He closed the file, gathered his things, and practically stumbled out of the restaurant. The fire at his heels raged, and fear coursed through his veins as he hurried down the street to the hotel he was crashing at for the moment.
The walk cleared his head a little, so after he locked his door behind him and checked the room once, he sat down on the couch and looked at the file again. Barney was clearly in the city, and was becoming a threat to Rick's operation. He was too good at his job. It didn't say who Barney was working for, but Clint read between the lines and realized it was probably Trick. He set the file down again and leaned back on his couch, running his hands through his hair and taking deep breaths.
All the deep breaths in the world wouldn't change the fact that Clint couldn't kill him.
There was no way he could do it, but if he didn't, then Rick would kill Clint and then send someone else after Barney and kill him anyway.
If they caught him.
That was the key. Clint had to warn Barney and they'd both have to disappear. The meager life Clint had built for himself would be over. That didn't bother him too much; he didn't like what he was doing, he just didn't know how to stop doing it. Here was his chance. He would choose not to kill his brother, the first real choice he'd made in years.
First, he had to prep for his own departure. He sifted through his bag and found the thick case that held his alternate IDs. He'd have to go farther than he'd been before. He had a vague plan to head to Seattle; it seemed like a calm place. He gathered his belongings into his duffel, armed himself again, and went to find Barney.
The file didn't offer much, but Clint knew how Trick thought about things. Clint headed for an area of town with a lot of nightlife and access to hookers, but he didn't have much luck. He stowed his stuff in the closest bus station, and only kept the gun and a couple of knives with him. He asked questions, moved between bars looking for any sign of his older brother all the way through the night. When morning came and he didn't have any leads, he found a place to curl up for a while and slept a little.
He spent the next day looking and failing as well, and he slept on the street again. When he woke and grabbed a cup of coffee from a nearby vendor, he realized he was being tailed. He had to find Barney soon; his own window would close today and Rick's guys would come find him.
Clint had to admit that the guy tailing him was good. He'd probably been on Clint since yesterday. But Clint was good enough at following people now that he knew the signs, and he knew how to lose someone. His climbing skills usually did the trick. He scaled a fire escape in an alley, jumped a few roofs, clambered down another, and found one more building to climb.
It didn't work.
Clint was stunned. But just as he was trying to figure out how to lose what was obviously a very skilled pursuer, he saw Barney buying a bagel from a vendor a half a block away. Clint forgot about the pursuer and sat down heavily on the steps of an apartment building, just watching his brother banter with the vendor, laugh and shake his head, and turn up the street to be on his way.
Barney looked good. He had his black hair cut shorter than Clint had ever seen it, his jeans were clean and tucked over shiny black cowboy boots, and he was wearing a bright red button down shirt over a white t-shirt with a black leather jacket thrown over that. He looked confident and strong, and Clint had to resist the urge to run to him and spill everything as if he were eight again.
Clint sucked in a shaky breath, stomped his feet against the flare of flame that rose at the sight of Barney, and stood to follow him. He pulled the baseball cap he was wearing down over his brow and pulled his jacket closer around his chest as he followed. He remembered that the person tailing him was still around. He was a guy in a suit, looked to be about thirty, wore dark sunglasses and had ducked into an alley as Clint was sitting down on the steps. Clint couldn't worry about him at the moment, though.
He couldn't lose Barney.
Barney was passing through a park, an older park that not many people frequented, especially at nine in the morning. Barney didn't seem like he was going to stop in the park, so Clint scrambled ahead of him and was able to step out on to the path in front of him a moment later.
He watched as Barney lowered his bagel from his mouth and stared, slack-jawed, at him.
"Hey, Barney," Clint offered, keeping a safe distance from his brother.
Confusion crossed Barney's face, and a trace of something hopeful flashed in his green eyes, but then anger dropped into place and Barney took a step toward Clint. "What the hell, Clint," he said, darkly, and Clint had forgotten how much like their father he sounded.
Clint took a sharp breath and backed up a step. "Wait. We have to talk, Barney. There's trouble." He could tell his voice was shaking, but he couldn't help it. He risked a glance to Barney's left to see if he could see the guy who'd been tailing him, but the guy had vanished.
Whatever. Clint just needed to convince Barney to disappear, and then he could worry about getting rid of the tail.
Barney's hand went to his jacket. "What kind of trouble, little brother? How did you find me?"
Clint ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a couple of pages from Barney's file. "I got hired to kill you."
Barney had to choke back a laugh, and he took a step back to look at Clint. "You're fucking kidding me, Clint. You couldn't kill a fly. You never had the stomach for fighting, much less killing." His voice got darker as he reached for the file, though, and Clint just stared.
"Are you working with Trick?" Clint asked.
Barney shook his head and sifted through the pages. He looked up at Clint incredulously. "You're serious, aren't you?" he asked.
Clint nodded. "You have to leave. You have to get out of the city and go somewhere else. I do, too."
"You couldn't kill me if you tried, Clint."
"Yeah, well, I'm not going to try," he retorted, and he pulled out the bus ticket he'd bought earlier. "They're going to kill me for not finishing this hit, and they're going to find someone else to kill you. I just wanted to warn you."
Just then Barney seemed to realize something. He stepped back, took a deep breath, and said, "Holy hell, Clint. You're Hawkeye." He wrapped his arms around his chest and ducked his head. "It didn't even occur to me," he said almost to himself, "Not even with the name. You've been pulling hits around this town for years, haven't you?"
Clint nodded. "I didn't have any other skills," he said quietly. "I didn't have anywhere to go, so I had to use what I had."
"Clint," Barney said desperately, "They're not going to let you get out of town, you know that, right? I know the guy you work for. He won't let you leave."
Clint shrugged. "The alternative isn't possible," he said simply. "You can get yourself out of here and you and Trick can set up somewhere else."
Barney cocked his head and looked at Clint as if seeing him for the first time. "I left you for dead."
Clint nodded and looked away. "Yeah, you did." There was silence between them. Nothing could fill it, after all, and Clint looked down at his feet and saw the flames rolling up again. He clenched his teeth against the heat. "Get out of here, Barney."
"Come with us, Clint," Barney said suddenly.
Clint's gut clenched at the thought, but he didn't say anything.
"I'll help you get away from your boss. I have good resources, you know."
"I know," Clint said through clenched teeth. "But then I'd be working for your boss," he added, and the thought of working for Trick made his stomach turn.
Barney thought for a moment. "We can go out on our own. We don't need him. You know what you're doing, and so do I. We can set up in a new city and be on our own again. No one to boss us around, no one to hurt us. Just us, like it used to be."
"There was always someone to hurt us, Barney," Clint replied sadly, and the fire flared again.
Barney nodded grimly. "Not anymore, Clint. Just us." His green eyes were wide, pleading, and his voice reminded Clint of the night when Trick stabbed him. Only now Clint had the power to say 'no.' Now Clint was the one making the choice, and he knew this wouldn't work. There might not be anyone around to hurt Barney, but Barney would always have the power to hurt Clint, and he couldn't take that anymore.
"No, Barney," Clint said softly, and the flames at his feet fell a little and the pain receded.
Suddenly Clint's eye caught movement to left behind Barney. He'd been so concerned with the suit that had been following him that he'd missed the guy in jeans and a hoodie who was stepping out from the shadows of the trees. The guy drew a bead on Barney, and Clint threw himself into his brother's chest, shoving him to the ground just as the shot rang out. Clint felt a bullet rip through his back as tumbled to the ground on top of Barney.
A second shot fired from behind Clint and Barney, though, and Clint looked up to see Rick's hoodie-wearing backup guy lying in a pool of blood on the ground. Drawing staggered breaths, Clint reached for his own gun and said, "Run, Barney. Get the hell out of here!" He rolled and found the guy in the suit standing about fifteen feet away, and he fired. He hadn't been aiming to kill – he didn't know who this guy was anyway – and his aim was off, thanks to the hot coals that had somehow filled his lungs, so his shot went wide. But it was enough to make the suit duck behind a bench; Barney scrambled to his feet and looked down at Clint with anguish on his face.
"They'll throw you in jail or kill you, so go!" Clint tried to shout, but it came out feeble and he coughed as nausea rolled through his stomach from the pain. Barney looked down at him with fear in his eyes, but then he looked beyond the suit and he had backup coming, so he nodded and ran.
Clint tried to raise his gun again, but his arms were suddenly made of Jell-O, and he couldn't make them work. He closed his eyes against the swimming sky above him and heard himself taking quick, jagged breaths, each filling his chest with searing pain.
A moment later, he felt someone kneel down next to him and put their cool hand to his forehead.
"Lay still, Mr. Barton. An ambulance is on its way," the man said, and there was something about his voice that made some of the pain seep away, that made Clint's breaths come easier. Clint didn't know what it was, but it was a voice he wanted to hear again. He opened his eyes and tried to focus, but the world kept tilting away, and finally he gave up and just listened to the voice in his ear that was telling him he would be all right, that they would look after him.
That's when Clint figured the guy was telling the truth. Everyone who looked after him hurt him at some point; these guys were just getting it out of the way early. He tried to look at him again, but this time the world faded to black entirely.
Clint woke to stern voices and felt an IV in his hand and cool blankets covering his chest.
"You weren't supposed to bring him in, Coulson. He's a hit man, a killer," the first voice said, a man with a deep resonating voice.
"I know, but I made a different call," the other man said softly, and Clint relaxed a little at the sound of him, remembering the calm, comforting voice when he'd been shot.
"Have you read his file? You were supposed to get rid of him."
"I've read it. Have you?" the man replied. "He's just a kid caught in a bad situation."
"A kid with more than thirty confirmed kills."
"He missed me," the man from the park said lightly.
"He was shot through his lung at the time," the other man retorted.
"He never misses," the calm man said.
Clint just wanted to listen to him talk. He didn't care that they were arguing over him. He was in a hospital and being cared for and this man was sticking up for Clint in a voice that warmed Clint to his toes, but not in the painful way his fire did.
"He got shot saving his brother's life," the calm man added. "He's got potential."
Clint listened to them argue for a few moments more, but the calm man's voice washed over him and he fell back into darkness.
When he woke again, his back and chest hurt like hell. He was sore and had trouble drawing deep breaths. He opened his eyes and saw the calm man sitting in a chair near his bed, reading. He was still wearing a suit, although Clint would swear it was a different tie this time. Clint turned his head to look for ways out of the room and the man set down his book and moved to Clint's bedside.
"Hey," the man said quietly. "Glad you're awake, finally."
Clint didn't reply, just nodded. He felt out of his depth.
"You took a bullet to the back, and it punctured a lung. You've been out for three days and you've had one surgery. How are you feeling?"
Clint ignored the question since it was clearly just an attempt to be polite. "Who are you?" he asked softly, unable to muster much volume.
"I'm Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. You're in our medical facility."
"Government?" Clint asked.
Agent Coulson smirked a little as he nodded, "Yes."
"Am I under arrest?" Clint asked, and that thought brought Barney back to his mind with a vengeance. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to sit up. "Barney –" His back lit on fire and he groaned, slumping back against the bed.
Agent Coulson pressed a hand to Clint's shoulder. "I don't recommend much motion right now, Mr. Barton. Your brother has disappeared, probably on the run thanks to your heroics."
"Nothing heroic about it," Clint protested through sharp breaths.
"You saved his life," Coulson argued.
"He saved mine first," Clint mumbled, closing his eyes.
"Rest, Mr. Barton. We'll figure out your situation when you've recovered," Coulson said softly.
Clint slipped back to sleep. The next time he woke he was alone in the room, but a nurse came in to check on him, upped his pain meds a bit when he reported an eight on the scale, and he was asleep again quickly. This happened again, but the third time Agent Coulson was back.
"You're looking a bit better, Mr. Barton," he said with a smile. "We should talk."
Clint almost blurted out that Coulson could talk to him until he died and Clint would be fine with that, but he reigned himself in appropriately. He nodded instead. "Why am I here?"
"Well," Coulson replied with a grin, "That's an existential question you'll have to work out for yourself, but I brought you to the hospital because you were going to die on the sidewalk otherwise, and it didn't seem like you actually deserved that."
Clint thought back to the argument he'd heard at his bedside. "But you were supposed to kill me," he said evenly.
Agent Coulson cocked his head to the side. "Yes, well, I was supposed to neutralize you as a threat. I'd argue I did what I was told."
"And the other guy who was in here earlier? What would he argue?" Clint asked.
Coulson chuckled. "The Director trusts my judgment. He just needed to see my point of view."
"Did he?"
"Yes. I'm here to offer you asylum within our organization. It can be temporary, perhaps permanent. That depends on several factors."
"What factors?" Clint asked, his voice rough from sleep. Coulson leaned over and offered him a glass of water. He lifted his hand to take it and pain exploded up his side. He winced and pushed himself back against the bed.
"Let me help," Coulson said softly. Clint nodded and accepted a drink from him. "We'd like you to take a couple of tests for us, one oral and one written, and we'd like you to let us help you heal from your wound. Once you've healed and taken the tests we can discuss your place here further."
"I can't take a test," Clint protested. He wanted to please this man with the calming voice and patient demeanor. He didn't know why, but he did. But he couldn't pass one test, let alone two, no matter how kind Coulson was, and he hated that.
"Why not?" the agent asked, sitting back in his chair.
"I haven't taken a test since a spelling test in fourth grade," Clint said quietly, feeling shame build in his chest, and his feet warmed at the end of the bed. There were people he knew at the circus who worked with Clint to keep him sharp on reading and writing, and he could spin a story over a fire with the best of them, but he hadn't been to school properly since he and Barney left foster care. He looked away to the window of the room, but he heard Agent Coulson sigh after a moment.
"We're willing to help, if you'll just try," he said, piercing Clint with his stare. "I know you don't have much formal education—"
"Fourth grade, Agent Coulson," Clint repeated. "I've never taken a real test."
"I disagree, Mr. Barton. I just think the tests you've taken most kids your age would fail."
Clint shrugged and looked away. "I can try, I guess."
Coulson nodded and stood. "If you'll take our tests and pass, then you can stay on with us for a probationary period."
"If I don't?" Clint asked, meeting Coulson's eyes.
"We'll figure that out when we need to, Mr. Barton."
Clint sighed and sank back to the bed. "You gotta call me something else, sir."
Coulson smiled. "Why?"
"I've never heard mister before my name in my life and it's kinda freaking me out," he said, grinning up at Coulson.
Coulson stared at him for a moment thoughtfully, shrugged his shoulders and said, "Get some rest, Barton. I'll check back with you tomorrow."
Clint found it easy to follow the man's order.