Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)
Lost and Found
Chapter 3—Making the Jump
Clint sat up suddenly. The shadows moving on the walls from the setting sun traced foreboding patterns in the unease of the archer's mind. His severe eyes traveled the expanse of the room from the corner in which he had moved the secondhand mattress. There was a silence that permeated the apartment. The constant hum of the refrigerator was absent, as was the nearly imperceptible buzz of electricity that only Clint really perceived.
He rose slowly, slipping his hunting knife from underneath his pillow into his back pocket. As he passed through the bedroom door, his left hand pulled the handgun from behind the picture frame. He slunk into the kitchen, silently padding over the linoleum and to the carpeted entranceway. The room was completely dark at this point—quiet and dark and wrong.
Clint slowly stalked to his front door. Through the peephole, the hallway was dark. A sudden sinking feeling washed over his body as his bare toes sunk into a sodden patch of carpet. He slowly bent down and brushed his fingers through the fibers. A viscous liquid seeped from under the door. Holding his hand to catch the thin rays of silvered moonlight, his gut clenched.
It was blood.
He grasped the doorknob and swiftly jerked the door open. A body fell inside.
Chris had been leaning against the door, Clint surmised, but it was very apparent he had been staged. Bruises, burns, and contusions littered the teen's body, twisting the features of his face into grotesque contortions. Every finger was broken, thumbs severed, gunshot wounds to both kneecaps. Bile rose in Clint's throat. Guilt and grief slammed into him, but he brushed it off out of necessity. His eyes narrowed.
A single broken arrow protruded from Chris' forehead.
"We don't leave loose ends." A raspy voice from the stairway whirled Clint on his heel, firing his handgun in the same fluid motion. The bullets glanced off the police-grade riot shield the Boss was holding. Clint froze, eyes locked on the older man.
A strange feeling, resurfacing from beneath the glass of his past, coursed through his veins and he remembered it was fear.
With the solemn incline of his head, the Boss slid the door shut and the echoing THUD of the door's lock sounded through the deserted hallway. A shockwave rolled through Clint's body as he realized the entire building was deserted.
In a flurry of decisive motion, Clint threw himself back into his apartment, pulling Chris' body into the room behind. The cloying smell of gasoline permeated the room from below.
"Stupid," Clint whispered as he pulled the curtains from his window and, incapable of stopping himself even in his panic, placed the heavy fabric over the broken body of his best and only friend. He could feel the crackle and crumble of the building beneath as a fire was lit.
He nearly flew back into his bedroom, stumbling as sudden explosions rocked the foundations of the apartment building, five stories below. He skidded to a stop at the closet door and wrenched it open. Smoke began to permeate his apartment walls. Heat began to sting his eyes; sweat began to run. He coughed briefly, pulled out his longbow with a full quiver of arrows, and shoved everything into a black duffel that lay already open for emergencies.
The popping and cracking of wood and plaster echoed louder as the gasoline accelerated flames pulled themselves closer, licking the floorboards beneath Clint's feet. Sirens sounded from far. Clint cursed them. Wetting his black bandana, Clint dashed back to the doorframe, tying the sodden fabric over his mouth and nose. The hallway was thick with smoke. The ghastly orange crept up the locked stairway, propelling Clint back into the relative safety of his apartment. The smoke burned his lungs; he coughed violently, doubled up.
More explosions rocked the building and Clint knew it was going down. The world began to sway. There was no other option. Slinging the duffel across his shoulders, Clint pulled open the kitchen window and clambered out onto the fire escape. He hadn't taken more than one step down the ladder when a bullet from below slammed into his right shoulder, taking with it his breath.
Clint ducked as machine gun fire peppered the crumbling side of the building, hand pressed firmly against the gaping hole pushed into his shoulder. Suddenly, the bullets stopped ricocheting and Clint glanced up in time to see dark figures disappearing into the shadows away from the alleyway. His mind began to race, searching for why. Why run when they had him cornered? Why run if they could have just watched him burn? Why—
A bomb.
"Fuck." The simple curse was spat with venom along with a dark gob of blood, eliciting another groaned curse. His eyes flickered back and forth rapidly, searching frantically for a plan. His eyes locked onto the fire escape across the alleyway.
.
.
"You're not gonna make the jump."
"Shut up Barney, I can do it. Why you gotta be so mean?"
"Cause you won't make it Clint. You're gonna jump, miss the damn bar AND the shot and you'll get all upset and cry the rest of the goddamn night. I don't wanna hear it. Can't you just stick with being NORMAL?"
"I'm gonna do it Barney. You're just mad that Jacques asked me and not YOU."
"Don't expect me to be there to pick you offa the ground."
.
.
He made it.
Just barely, but he felt that, in the grand scheme of things, it still counted. He flew across the expanse of the alleyway, down another two stories before his outstretched hands caught the metal railing. A cry of pain pulled itself from his mouth, echoed by the explosion that resounded through the streets. As the shrapnel closed the gap, Clint pulled himself through a miraculously open window and dropped to the floor.
The building was a condemned complex, in the process of shoddy renovations, but it served as a shield just fine. Smoke and debris crept up through the window. Clint shrugged off the duffle that had miraculously managed to stay draped across his shoulder and pulled the window closed with his good arm.
Sirens permeated the gloom from outside; lights from the fire trucks reflected off the dust particles that Clint stirred up. He heard the spray of the hoses hiss on the lapping flames. He listened to the panicked voices of his neighbors, simultaneously pitying them and cursing them for abandoning him to his fate.
Black spots began to invade his vision.
Everything began to narrow and converge.
Clint shook his head and brought a now trembling hand to his wound. Blood loss made it significantly harder to function. He unsteadily unzipped his bag and rifled through for a moment. A sigh of pained relief bubbled to his lips as his fingers brushed against his makeshift first aid kit. He pulled off his white cotton shirt.
Clenching his jaw, he braced himself and saturated the wound with burning alcohol, convulsing violently in blind pain. Whimpers and strained yells slipped through the cracks in his clenched teeth. His hands were shaking completely now as he brought a bundle of gauze to his shoulder and haphazardly taped the sterile fabric to his bare skin.
The world still spun.
Exhausted, Clint sank back down to the floorboards, propped up against the wall beside the windowpane. He sank into a black unconsciousness comingled with gunfire and sirens and then absolutely nothing.
—Break—Break—Break—
Phil stared at the coffee machine with sheer annoyance. Junior agents who dared enter the break room as he prepared his third mid-day cup promptly fled at the sight of Agent Coulson. Although barely out of "junior status" himself, Phil had already proven himself to be one of the best—so quite frankly walking in on him yelling at the old coffee machine, brandishing a roll of paper towels, tie very distinctly awry, freaked everyone the hell out. As he finally—sullenly—poured the thick brown liquid into a cheap Styrofoam cup, a deep chuckle sounded from the doorway.
"This kid's got you running in circles, doesn't he?" Coulson shot a glare at the man leaning against the doorframe.
"Good morning Nick. How are you Nick? Go fuck yourself Nick." Phil darkly threw a crumpled napkin across the room, relishing in a slight sense of satisfaction as the paper struck the director square between the eyes. Or, Phil supposed, eye and eyepatch.
"Real mature," Fury droned drily, crossing his arms across his chest. "What exactly is the problem Phil?"
"I don't exactly know where to start, sir," Phil sighed, sinking into a metal seat. Nick joined him. "All I know is he fires arrows and is in the military. How the hell do you form a search pattern on just that?" Nick leaned back.
"You said bringing in this asset would be no problem Agent Coulson. You've worked for me long enough to know that I. Do. Not. Like. Problems." Phil glared at the raised eyebrow. Fury merely stared back. "Y'know Phil," Fury began, leaning forward again on his forearms. "Of all the agents who've worked for me in my years as director, none of them gets on my nerves so much as you."
"It's lucky I'm good at my job then sir." Nick chuckled.
"Nobody else has the guts to talk back. That's why I like you Agent Coulson." He rose. "You're not afraid of taking on difficulty." And with that, Fury just…left.
Phil huffed. "Was that supposed to be a pep talk?" he yelled at the retreating man before throwing his hands in the air in defeat. "Some help."
"A-agent Coulson?" Phil leveled his gaze at the trembling intern in the doorway. After an awkward pause, Phil raised his eyebrow. "O-oh. Um, you have a-a call. On line seven. In your office." Phil allowed for the silence to refill the room before nodding.
"Thank you Agent Davis." The young man nodded and nearly fled the room. Coulson strode through the hallway and swiped his ID card through the reader mounted on his office door. He swept in and sat down while simultaneously lifting the telephone from its receiver. "Special Agent Coulson."
"Good afternoon, Agent, this is Detective Maria Hill from the Taylor case?" Phil wracked his brain, then answered.
"Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"
"Well sir, apparently you never signed off on the body…or anything really. The chief didn't like that. So. I'm supposed to be asking you to sign."
Phil groaned and rubbed his hand across his face. Paperwork was never really his strong suit. "Of course Detective Hill. Just—send me the file."
"I'm afraid you'll have to come down here Agent Coulson. Rules and all."
Coulson leaned back and stifled a vicious curse. "Yeah, okay, I'll drop by sometime tomorrow I guess." There was a slight pause. When Hill began to speak again, her voice was slow and uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Agent Coulson? I know this isn't really protocol, but—well—I guess I was wondering how close you were to finding the man who did this. I mean, Tanner deserves to know." Phil smiled slightly.
"I'm afraid we're hitting a bit of a dead end detective," he admitted, surprising even himself with his willingness to admit that. "There's too little information, too many questions."
"Well, he's—or was—in the military right?"
"Yes, but nothing came up on the profiles of active or discharged members."
"Well, what about MIA, KIA, or AWOL? This guy would need to be completely off the grid to kill like that. I'm willing to guess this isn't his first time is it?" But Coulson didn't even bother responding. His fingers were flying across the keyboard, delving into the killed in action files with a renewed fervor. A flashing name suddenly was blinking in front of him. Sniper unit. Iraq. Desert Storm. IED explosion. Bodies charred beyond recognition or identification. He scrolled down to the picture beneath. A painfully young, distressingly empty face looked back at Phil and something ached within his chest. Trapped in the intense blue eyes was a sadness that couldn't really be ignored. Without glancing away from the face, Phil printed off the profile, picked back up the hand-held and cut Maria off midsentence.
"You really should consider a job here at SHIELD." And with that he pushed himself away from his desk and slammed the phone back onto its cradle. Striding through the hall, the sea of interns and junior agents seemed to part before him. With a triumphant flair, he pushed into the director's office.
"I need a jet." Fury looked up, fingers steepled against his chest.
"Where?"
"Waverly."
"What in the name of God is in Iowa?" Clint tossed the profile on the desk.
"Buck Chisholm."
—Break—Break—Break—
Clint's eyes snapped open. His right arm was trembling and throbbing in a dull pain. Heat emanated from his limb. He swallowed, wincing as the motion tore at the dryness of his throat. Slowly, he pushed himself up and crawled to the windowpane. Across the way, his old home lay in a smoldering pile of ash. A tight feeling pressed against his chest. For some reason he could not explain, his gaze was pulled to the tight cluster of police officers beneath the streetlamp. His eyes narrowed as he picked out a sickeningly familiar face.
The Boss.
A new strength washed over Clint as he watched the man shake the police chief's hand. He slipped out onto the fire escape once more, bringing a single arrow onto the wrought iron. He watched with burning eyes as the older man brazenly strode down the sidewalk, cockily alone. Clint slipped down the ladder with a nimble, silent grace.
Stalking always his best skill.
He weaved through the evening rush inconspicuously and unnoticed. Suddenly, he was on the rooftops, running past the man to the corner he knew the Boss would turn. Clint never accepted a job without knowing certain things.
He knew where each of his employers lived.
As the older man rounded the corner, Clint stepped from the shadows and slid the lone arrow into the soft flesh of his stomach. The Boss fell against him with a soft grunt, air quashed from his lungs. Clint grabbed a handful of his hair and thrust the man's head back to stare into disbelieving eyes.
"I—I killed you," the man whispered.
"Nobody's dead til you find a body." With a sharp twist, Clint snapped the man's neck. "You shouldn't have let me find Chris's."
—Break—Break—Break—
Waverly was dustier than Phil was used to. Dustier and grassier and significantly more overgrown. The government issue black SUV seemed distinctly out of place to the extent that Phil felt a creeping sense of self consciousness, maneuvering the large vehicle down dirt roads and winding paths. He glanced to the passenger seat where a folded white sheet of directions lay.
He turned down a gravel pathway. A complete feeling of confusion washed over him as tattered circus tents came into view. Old rusted cages sat stagnant on the ground. The wheels on the train cars had rusted into the ground; weeds weaved through the frames, protruding from the bolts.
Phil slowed the car to a creep. It was as if he were traveling through time. Through the graveyard of the assassin's past. Old, faded posters were still nailed to posts. Racks of what once were magnificent costumes sat rotting. Props were strewn on the ground. Phil blew a breath between his lips as a ramshackle hut came into view. Smoke rose from the chimney.
Coulson pulled the SUV over and stepped out, patent leather shoes crunching on the foliage beneath. He slowly moved to the front door, feeling at his hip for his sidearm. Something was churning in his gut—it just felt…wrong. With a decisiveness that he'd acquired over the years, Coulson removed his hand from the gun and just knocked on the door.
The door opened to reveal an old man with a white beard and hard grey eyes.
"What do you want? For the millionth fucking time, I ain't selling the damn property." Phil held up his hands in a placating gesture.
"I just want to talk to Buck Chisholm. Is he here?" The man crossed his arms over his chest.
"What do you want?" Phil faltered for a moment before repeating:
"Buck Chis-holm." The man's eyes narrowed at the condescension.
"What. Do. You. Want?" Phil frowned.
"You're him, aren't you?"
"No shit." Phil suppressed a groan.
"Then sir, I regret to inform you that someone has been using your identity to enlist in the military." A flicker escaped the man's eyes.
"Show me his picture." Phil recognized a silent desperation. Slowly, he pulled the face out of his pocket and watched as the older man remembered.
—Break—Break—Break—
Clint sat on the step of the prop trailer, smoldering cigarette held loosely between two fingers. Smoke curled around his long blonde hair, his intense blue-grey eyes. His shoulders held a slight stoop to them, a far cry from the pride he generally portrayed.
"Didn't know you smoked," came a gravelly, familiar voice from above. The sixteen year old didn't even flinch as his old mentor sank down beside him, settling on the grass just below the step. When Clint spoke, the hoarseness and hardness startled even him.
"I don't. Just like to see the smoke." He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette as if punctuating his point. Buck sighed and rubbed his knees.
"Pretty expensive way to see some fucking smoke."
"Yeah, well. Carson flipped his lid last time I lit some hay on fire behind the tent." Buck's soft laughter rolled through the warm summer's night, eliciting memories of the two practicing together by the light of the fireflies.
"Almost forgot about that. Boss wasn't too happy. Came bitchin' to me 'bout my rowdy apprentice blah blah blah." The older man tossed a sideways glance at Clint out of the corner of his eye. The boy maintained his blank stare across the field, a twitch of his lips and the ghost of a smile the only indication that he heard. Buck sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Damn Clint, I fucking hated you."
"Well the feeling was mutual," Clint droned.
"No it wasn't." And it wasn't even an argument, just a statement of fact.
"What can I say, no survival instincts." Buck snorted.
"Yeah." For a moment there was a deep pause. Buck struggled for the words. Clint struggled to stay still against the bandages wrapped around his torso. "It was jealousy kid." Clint allowed his eyes to snap to the older man for the first time.
"What do you mean?"
"You're just so damn good at everything, that's what I mean." Clint dropped his eyes again.
"I'm also so goddamn stupid."
"Yeah, but so what? Look. You're a goddamn kid. You're supposed to be stupid. Jesus Barton, you can't beat yourself up over this." Clint rose suddenly.
"You're the one who said to be perfect at all times Buck! Well guess what? I fucked up! I fucked everything up! I couldn't even get the goddamn money back. I failed everything. I just—I just—"
"You thought you could trust your brother." Clint's hands dropped numbly to his side, his chin to his chest. Buck rose, but didn't embrace the teen. Clint wouldn't like that.
"I can't trust anyone Buck." Chisholm sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused palm.
"Then trust yourself. You're a good kid Clint. I mean that." Clint's eyes were suddenly boring into Buck's soul, searching for deception. It always amazed the man how much Clint Barton could convey in one look. "You're leaving aren't you?" Clint shrugged.
"Yeah."
"Don't expect you'd tell me where you were going huh?" A ghost of a smile traced itself along the boy's face.
"Nah."
"Alright, just do me a favor. Take your damn bow and practice some more. You're good." Clint nodded. He bent and pulled a knapsack from underneath the trailer that Buck hadn't even noticed. Buck smiled against a foreign pain in his chest. Clint turned to leave, but was stopped by a sudden outburst. "I'm sorry Clint. I'm so fucking sorry." The boy turned. Buck was awkwardly wringing his hands. "You were always like a little brother to me." His voice was hoarse and Clint knew he was telling the truth. He slowly lowered the knapsack and walked towards Buck. As he embraced the archer, Buck felt slow tears roll down his face and onto the boy's fine blonde hair.
—Break—Break—Break—
"It wasn't until three hours after he left that I realized he'd lifted my ID. Left my wallet though." A fond, wry grin lifted the left corner of the man's face. "That was the first time he'd ever hugged me too."
"He was sixteen then?" Phil's voice was soft.
"Yep. Three years ago." The agent mulled over the implications. Nineteen fucking years old. "He's not in any trouble is he?" Phil flashed a wan smile.
"Trying to get him out. Thank you Mr. Chisholm." Phil shook the man's hand and strode out the door and into the bleakness of the SUV. As he maneuvered the car into drive, and as he wondered still where to begin, his pocket began buzzing. "Coulson."
"It's Hill again." This time, there were no pretenses of formality. "The Boss is dead. Arrow to the gut, neck broken. It's him again. He's still here." A wave of excitement, rather than dread, rolled through Phil.
"I'll be there."
—Break—Break—Break—
AN: Hey! Sorry for the late update. Please review and tell me what you think, good or bad! I know Phil is kinda OOC, but I think that having Clint as his "charge" really will mellow him out. Thanks for reading!