The Bird and the Worm
Clint
Working with Coulson wasn't the worst thing possible. Clint had moved through into the probationary period within a year. Because he worked with Coulson, he was treated as a level three equivalent agent even though everyone knew he wasn't. Coulson got the full documentation regarding their targets but Clint got an abridged and highly redacted edition. Sometimes, Clint wasn't even allowed to go with Coulson on missions. He'd tried to sneak a copy once but Coulson had intercepted him first.
"This is all you're able to see," he'd said amusedly. The entire form had been redacted except for the part with Coulson's name and the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo.
During Coulson's "super-secret" missions, they kept Clint off duty for the most part. Unless Coulson was going to be gone for more than a month, then Coulson was the one who made plans to see who would be handling Clint in his absence. Oddly, it wasn't as bad as Clint had been expecting things to be. In the beginning it was boring, milk run after milk run but then Coulson started letting him in on the exciting parts. Where he actually got to kill the bad guys. Drug dealers, slavers, murderers and even war criminals. Anyone on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hit list. There were some differences in working with S.H.I.E.L.D at least. For one, Clint knew they were the bad guys and he didn't have to take casualties. In fact, Coulson seemed impressed whenever Clint went out of his way to avoid casualties. Really it just went to prove how terrible the run of the mill sniper was. A fact that Coulson seemed to be accepting, considering he had recently allowed Clint to take his bow and arrow with him whenever they could afford to do so. At Hydra, Clint never knew who or why he was killing someone. Just that it had to be done. And sometimes with Hydra, it was less about killing them and more about torturing them, driving the information from them. They used to make Bucky do that and have Clint watch.
Apparently, in the year and a half that had passed, Clint had started to make a bit of a name for himself. Within S.H.I.E.L.D. they had taken to calling him 'Hawkeye' because he hadn't missed a shot yet and he could see everything when he was focused on it. Coulson had tried to put a stop to it, but there wasn't really much purpose to it when Clint used it every chance he could. It was a battle Coulson would not be wining and the other man seemed to have gracefully accepted defeat, merely shaking his head whenever he heard someone refer to Clint as Hawkeye. There was a lot more oomph to a name like Hawkeye. Best of all, it was unrelated to Hydra; unrelated to his dirty and bloodied past. Hawkeye was the name of someone with a future, someone who had something to head towards. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. was better than living on the streets, better than being a slave to Hydra, but he wasn't sure if there was anything out there better than S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint kind of hoped there was.
"I have to go," Coulson said, dropping a folder down on his desk. "It's a long mission, unfortunately. I have some investigating to do."
"What am I cleared to know?" Clint drawled, stretched out across Coulson's couch.
"Other than that I'm going to be out for some long mission? Nothing." Coulson smiled that smug all-knowing smile. He had to know it drove Clint up the wall when he smiled like that.
"Who's in charge of me while you're gone?"
Coulson paused at that, grimacing distastefully. "Holtz." He held up a hand and Clint quieted his protest before he'd really even started it. (Had he changed so much so quickly? Clint quickly scowled to make up for his silence). "It's his first try back. He's passed through the training sessions and says he's ready to try working with you. I've left him detailed notes. If he proves troublesome, just go to Agents Sitwell or Hill -they've got my back-up requests."
"No. Absolutely not going to happen Coulson," Clint growled. "I am not working with him! He nearly got an agent killed over his damn pride."
"Barton," Coulson sighed. "These orders come from my superiors. There's nothing I can do."
Which was why Hill and Sitwell were his back-up. Clever. "What're my orders?" he asked, resigned. A year ago and he would have been fighting tooth and nail about this. But he knew Coulson would have tried everything he could to find someone more suitable than fucking Holtz. It was only if there was no one that Clint was stuck with the man.
Coulson actually winced. "I don't have them, Agent Barton. You'll have to go see your acting handler. I'm leaving in ten minutes."
Clint sat up. "Seriously?"
Coulson lifted his shoulders, as close to a shrug as the man would ever get. He was sorting through his desk for some reason. As though he would need paperwork wherever he ended up. Actually, knowing Coulson, he would end up needing a lot of paperwork. He always did. "It's very urgent."
And no matter how much Clint pushed and whined, Coulson said nothing on the subject other than to threaten locking Clint up in his office. Clint grumbled all the way out of Coulson's office and all the way straight to his new acting superior, Agent Holtz's office. He would have stalked Coulson around to the plane, but he knew that with a mission as urgent as this one was, that so much as seeing the plane or cargo was a breach of his terms as a level three probationary agent. And anyways, Coulson would have just gotten angry. Might as well go and see someone he didn't like.
Holtz looked up. He looked the same as he had last year. Clean shaven, smug and dressed in crisp slacks and a white button-down shirt. "Barton," he said resignation heavy in his tone.
"Holtz," Clint greeted, equally unimpressed. "Do I have a mission?"
"Fifteen hundred we're flying out to France. We have to keep an eye on the Omega Rights professor Sarah Miller."
"Parameters?"
"Ensure her safety. Lopez and Woo will be her shadows; you're the one scoping out potential sniper nests. Using any means necessary, but try and not get caught by the media or any other political figures. The last thing we need to do is create a scene."
Clint hid his grimace with great difficulty. As though he didn't know. It was part of basic training to be a sniper; avoid creating a scene when possible. That way, he would have more time to escape before the body was found. Granted, at times, a scene could be useful too. So long as he was prepared to blend into the crowds and disappear, provided he had enough time for it to happen. "Where are the blueprints?" he asked.
Holtz slid the papers over wordlessly. Clint scanned the page, looking for the labels to work out where Professor Miller would be speaking. He frowned. "How high risk of a target is she?"
Holtz spared him a condescending look. "High enough that she gets S.H.I.E.L.D. bodyguards. A lot of rival organizations have been sending her threats and some of the more old fashioned countries don't like what she's got to say."
Clint nodded absently. Whoever had arranged for this lecture to take place was pretty clever. Professor Miller would be speaking in an enclosed with a limited number of people. Two S.H.I.E.L.D. guards would be stationed at each entrance, and another one would stand watch over the balcony that led into the room. Finally, there would be Clint who was stationed outside the building to watch for any sign of snipers. What kind of lectures was this woman giving that made her such a high priority target? Clint guessed whatever the content was, must be fairly accurate if there people upset enough to be trying to kill her.
"Barton," Holtz said after Clint had started digging through his papers. "This is your packet. Get out of my office and go make yourself useful. Also make sure to bring your bow; we want them to know we're protecting her."
He grabbed his go-bag, always packed and ready to go from his S.H.I.E.L.D. quarters and boarded the plane due to take off in a few hours before settling in to read up on the mission. Usually he and Coulson would go over this together. Then again, the packet was the first thing Coulson handed over before giving Clint the choice of whether or not he wanted to participate in the mission in the first place.
Professor Sarah Miller, twenty-eight years old, a graduate of Stanford specializing in Gender Dynamics and Biology. Her most known work was the novel titled "The truth about Omegas: We don't need Alphas." Which definitely sounded controversial. Clint skimmed through the articles attached which seemed to indicate that she had solid science in her reasoning and was working on a method that could safely alter how Omegas' experienced their heats, thereby forcing the Alphas into extinction. Of course Alpha extremist groups had started popping up, firing back with hate propaganda about how they were the only orientation that would survive the next gene transformation as they were supreme. Interestingly enough, nowhere in Sarah Miller's book did she discuss forcing the Alphas into extinction. In fact, she discussed being able to use the leaps in her understanding of Omegas to understand Alphas and force their biology to curb down by fifty perfect during heat week. The supremacy groups had started firing back with death threats, but Omegas and Beta scientists had started flooding to attend these lectures.
Clint spent his preparation time deciding on where the likeliest of snipers might set up and in turn mentally mapped out the routes he would be taking to find them. He was so engrossed in his work that he wasn't even aware of Holtz and his team boarding the quinjet until they were taking off from the airstrip. He suited up while the others shared their plans. When he had first started working with Coulson, the worst part was definitely the man's planning meetings. Every plan had a back-up plan. He didn't go over all of them, but he made sure there was one back-up plan that every agent had memorized. Clint hadn't cared about the plans, he just wanted to jump into the mission and get it over with.
But he learned his lesson quickly. During one of Coulson's secret missions, Clint had been assigned to a handler by the name of Malone. It was a brutal mission. They had flown into Somalia expecting to be negotiating with a rebel Beta colony that were attempting to strong-arm the government into denying Omegas and Alphas voting rights, citing the other two orientations were too uncontrollable. Clint would later learn that Malone was apparently notorious for failing to research his assignments but no one had reported him because he liked to bully around the Omegas under his charge. The first words out of Malone's mouth left the man in handcuffs and Clint watching dumbfounded as they hauled Malone to the dungeons. As an associate, they didn't give Clint the chance to say a word before they shoved a rag into his mouth and threw him into the cell next to Malone. Thankfully Agent May happened to be in the area and within seventy-two hours, she smoothed relations over between the government and the rebel colony before rescuing Clint and Malone. All things considered, it hadn't been that bad. He was left alone in his cell, bound and gagged.
"A lesson to remember boys," she had said, thoroughly unimpressed as she marched back onto the quinjet.
Clint was pretty sure that might have been the first time he'd ever fallen in love with someone. But it ended rather abruptly when he heard word of Agent May's marriage. Still, Clint was willing to bet there were very few agents cooler than Agent May. Coulson didn't even compare to her. Honestly, news of her marriage had probably come at the perfect time because it seemed that after that screw up of a mission, he was working every second job with her. It was fantastic.
The next mission he'd spent with a handler who didn't go over contingency plans resulted with Clint being tortured. It was a mission in Alaska of all places, investigating A.I.M. activity. They'd stumbled upon who they thought was a civilian trapped under a wire net and when Smith sent Clint in, he was captured. He never did see Smith again. It was Coulson who came this time to haul his ass out of a bunker ten feet underground.
"S'like when we first met." Clint could remember deliriously grinning at Coulson after that. Coulson had only smiled indulgently and half dragged, half carried him out of the bunker.
Most of that mission was a blur, but he did remember that when he woke up in the hospital, Coulson was sitting at his bedside, writing reports. It was a new experience. Clint had never woken up with someone sitting beside him, watching over him. At Hydra, Bucky wasn't allowed into the room or there were days where he would have been there too. But they were kept fairly segregated.
"Why?" Clint had asked thickly, staring at Coulson.
"Hey," Coulson had replied, smiling at him. "I didn't know you were awake."
Clint had gestured impatiently at Coulson. "Why?" he croaked, ignoring the way it hurt his throat. He gestured again, mostly in Coulson's direction but getting his bearings was kind of difficult. The world was still spinning.
Coulson had blinked, probably pretty confused. "Why am I… here?" he asked, tentatively. Clint nodded, relieved. "Because you're my asset. Someone has to make sure you're safe. And Dr. Taylors' is out today. I wasn't sure you'd trust anyone else."
"Oh," Clint had slurred, surprised. "You can go now."
"It's pretty quiet here, actually. I'd rather stay."
Clint had fallen asleep, watching Coulson do his paperwork. The man never left.
Clint wasn't sure which part he should take as being a sign; the fact that when his handlers didn't run through contingency and emergency plans, he ended up in jail or that this only happened when Coulson was out on a mission? Either way, the situation with Holtz did not bode well. As they landed in France, everyone scattered to get in position. Clint started following the paths he'd chosen.
"How's it look out there Hawkeye?" drawled Holtz.
"All clear," Clint replied cautiously, edging down the dark alleyway. "So far."
Clint glanced around before scaling the nearby fire escape. This building had the best sightline to the lecture event. Anyone with a half decent eye and an expensive scope could make the shot. "Might not be for long though," Clint commented.
"Hawkeye," Holtz hissed tightly. "This is not the time or place for idle chitchat."
Clint rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to do for the next four hours then?"
"Entertain yourself," Holtz growled irately. "Not the rest of us. Comm. chat is for check-ins and emergency use only."
"Fine, fine," Clint replied airily as he pulled himself onto the top of the building. No sign of anyone.
Clint scanned the surroundings; nothing was out of place. Everything looked just fine. "What's it like in there?" Clint asked just to be an ass.
Holtz's barely muffled growl was well worth it. "Would you shut up already?"
"Just a question, boss man."
That seemed to be all it took to determine the course of their interactions. Every check-in Clint gave, Holtz responded less and less. None of the others on Holtz's team bothered to reply to Clint either and he wasn't sure if it was because they were so under his thumb or if it had more to do with them not wanting to end up on his bad side. But Clint was pretty sure none of them liked Holtz. The man was an asshole.
Clint sighed and looked around, stopping when he heard what sounded like heavy boot steps as someone climbed the fire escape. How could he have missed that? "Holtz, there's someone out here."
"Take care of him, Hawk," came Holtz's tight voice.
And then, the assailant pulled himself onto the roof. Clint drew an arrow smoothly, aiming it at the intruder as he took in the sniper rifle the man had carried with him. Clint fired the arrow smoothly and watched as the man ducked with what had to be supernatural skill, the arrow sailing over his body. It took a minute for what had to be the man's laughter to catch up to Clint.
"Really boy?" huffed a familiar voice. "That any way to greet an old friend?" Duquesne got to his feet, grinning viciously at Clint.
"What are you doing here?" Clint asked numbly.
"I'm here for you," Duquesne replied, smirking. "Chisholm sold us both, kid. You don't get to just up and leave."
"How'd you even find me?" Clint growled, drawing another arrow. It was at that moment that his comm. unit cut out completely.
The faint hum of background noise it had been picking up went dead silent. Clint risked a glance over at the building; nothing seemed out of the ordinary and there were no screams coming from within. However, it was all the distraction that Duquesne needed as he charged Clint. Clint spun; using the upper limb of his bow he narrowly deflected Duquesne's short-sword.
"A bow?" Duquesne mocked. "You trying to take after Chisholm or something? 'Cos if you are, I gotta tell you, you ain't nothin' compared to him!"
Duquesne lunged towards him, his sword an extension of his arm as he aimed to get through Clint's defenses. Clint jerked backwards, shoving the lower limb of his bow at Duquesne's sword. The blade glanced off the fibreglass and for a minute, Clint could have sworn he saw Duquesne's eyes widen a fraction in surprise. But then he had rushed towards Clint again, a flurry of sharp deadliness in his every action. If Clint had a sword in hand, he would have been evenly matched against Duquesne –the man had spent ages training Clint in how to wield it. But he had never fought against his ex-mentor using a bow and arrow before. With a sword, Clint could have been taking advantage of the openings Duquesne was fond of leaving, but he didn't have enough stability to draw an arrow as his mentor hacked away at Clint's recurve. Clint grabbed an arrow from his quiver, twisted away out from Duquesne's reach and lobbed it away from the man before blocking the man's next strike.
Damn, Clint though, mentally mapping out the trajectory of his shot. He didn't have enough force in his throw. At least it would still hit; he would have a chance to recover the arrow. It was the only one he had brought with him. If he had a string or something, he could make a throwing arrow but string wasn't exactly plentiful on a rooftop five stories off the ground. The easiest solution would be to fire, but Duquesne had spent too long rehearsing with Chisholm to give Clint that chance. If they weren't in such close quarters, Clint would have missed Duquesne's huff of laughter. It was satisfying when it cut off as Clint's boomerang arrow slammed into his cheek. Without the proper force, it wasn't enough to do much more damage than a bruise but as the arrow fell back, Clint snatched it up and leapt backwards, narrowly missing Duquesne's sword.
"You gettin' tired yet, old man?" Clint jeered, ducking away from the next blow. "I could do this all day!"
Duquesne snarled and leapt forward, his sword slashing for Clint's leg just as his fist slammed into Clint's temple. His blade bounced off from Clint's recurve harmlessly. Grunting at the pain, Clint slammed the lower limb of his bow against the vulnerable side of Duquesne's leg. Duquesne barked out a curse, hopping aside. Clint drew and fired at Duquesne's dominant hand; but the man tilted his blade, stopping the arrow harmlessly.
"Poor Ronin; all alone, without a master to care. Without a single friend in the universe. Or didn't you know? Poor James is dead."
Clint gritted his teeth. "That's a lie."
Duquesne straightened at that, interest lighting his eyes. "So, you do know where he is."
Clint stiffened, drawing another arrow. "I won't miss this time. I'm not going back."
"Oh I think you're gravely unprepared, boy," Duquesne laughed. "But go ahead and try."
Clint released the arrow smoothly, watching it sail towards Duquesne. The echoing twang of a bowstring cut through the noise and Clint turned towards the sound, peripherally watching as the second arrow slammed into his, knocking it aside. Atop the next building, Clint could just make out the form of someone in a black trench coat standing there, a bow in hand. Clint glanced at the Swordsman just in time to deflect his blow, slamming his bow against the Swordsman's solar plexus. Scuffling with Duquesne though, came with a price. Clint couldn't focus on everything, and despite his best efforts to keep Duquesne between him and the archer, Duquesne managed to trip Clint with his sword and sent him stumbling to the edge of the building. Clint grabbed onto the ledge desperately, throwing his weight against it as he watched his bow fall into the alley below.
Crawling up, Clint pressed a finger to his comm. unit. "Holtz," he begged, hating the way his voice cracked as he heard the snap of a bowstring. "Holtz, I need that back-up."
Clint flinched instinctively as the arrow slammed through his pant-leg. Instinctively, he jerked his leg away, ignoring the rip of fabric as he went to stand.
"You're hopeless," Duquesne laughed, standing over him. "You think we didn't know you ended up in S.H.I.E.L.D. –you thought we couldn't find you there?"
Clint sat back down warily, his quiver pressing into his back. "I thought if I left you guys alone, you'd show the same courtesy."
"We don't work that way, Clinton."
Duquesne lifted his sword, pressing it against Clint's neck. "Now. Tell me what I want to know. Where is the Winter Soldier?"
Clint glanced at the blade nervously. "Well, he's not here."
Duquesne arched an unimpressed eyebrow. "Cut the smartassery or I'll cut you."
Clint looked up the blade, straight into Duquesne's blue eyes. "I have to say, I don't think the big bosses would like that very much. You know how they get."
Once, a long time ago, Jacques Duquesne was a mild-tempered man. He liked kids for the most part and loved performing in the circus. But he also had a habit of gambling and got himself in some trouble with Chisholm. So Chisholm sold him out to Hydra. As a Beta, Duquesne was nobody special except for his skills. He got a glorified teaching position and rarely left their established base. But over the years, his bitterness at life grew to consume him in various ways. He gambled more, drank more. Hydra punished him when he couldn't pay what he owed, but it never stopped him. It just did something to the person he used to be, it turned him colder and crueler.
Duquesne smirked, a delighted glint lighting his eyes up, and Clint knew that nothing had changed in all the time he'd been away from Hydra. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this, you ingrate." If anything, Hydra had probably punished Duquesne for losing both Clint and Bucky in the same day.
Clint lost his train of thought as Duquesne grabbed an arrow and shoved it through his chest. The pain didn't register until Duquesne was grabbing a second arrow as Clint's lips fell open in an enraged shout. Dimly, he was grateful it wasn't an explosive arrow implanted in his chest.
"Where is the Winter Soldier?" Duquesne growled, a sadistic grin crawling across his lips.
Clint could feel the blood running down his stomach. "I heard he went home," Clint gasped out. "Back to the cold Russian winters." For good measure, he spat at his torturer, sweeping his legs out to knock Duquesne onto his ass.
Standing proved to be more difficult that he had expected. Duquesne was already up, one of Clint's arrows still clutched in his hands. Thankfully, it was just a regular arrow. His sword had fallen aside and the Swordsman wasn't willing to give Clint the chance to get it.
"Still scared of me?" Clint laughed wheezily. That, actually, probably wasn't a good sign. "You won't even fight me on even terms."
"You don't deserve them," he fired back, shifting his hold on the arrow.
"I kicked your ass last time, I can do it again," Clint threatened.
Duquesne raised his arm, signalling –and, oh, right. There was an archer. The familiar whoosh of an arrow streaming through the air and then it felt like someone had knocked his leg out from under him as Clint fell back down. It wasn't until he looked down that he realized what had happened. He'd been shot; clean through his thigh, narrowly missing his artery. Clint reached out a shaking hand towards the arrow, watching in horror at the blood running down his leg.
"You're outnumbered," Duquesne retorted. "And outplayed. I'm not here to kill you. I'm just here to bring you home."
"No," Clint growled out, slamming his hands down against the rooftop. "No." Despite the throbbing in his leg, he gingerly began to push himself to his feet. It was getting harder to breathe. Better to be dead than to go back to Hydra.
Clint launched himself forward, screaming in pain as he felt the arrows push deeper while he grabbed Duquesne's sword with both hands. No one was going to be saving him from this. Clint charged towards Duquesne, feeling his grip slacken against his will as black started to edge into his vision. He wasn't going back, not without a fight. Duquesne grabbed onto the sword blade with experienced hands, halting the start of Clint's attack. Clint jerked backwards, satisfied as he sliced the Swordsman's hands open before stabbing at him. The sword slipped between his arm and side, just narrowly missing what would have been a fatal wound. Gray and white flecks started to speckle across Clint's vision and with a desperate cry, he slashed to the side, driving the blade past Duquesne. Clint dropped to his knees, weightless, as he collapsed.
He wouldn't tell them about Bucky. Bucky was currently bartending at a strip club back in New York. Bucky, who had met the acquaintance of one Nadine Roman. He was courting her, in some kind of an old-fashioned gesture. Bucky was trying to move on. He hadn't been violent, had kept away from it. It didn't matter what they did to him. He wouldn't sell Bucky out; he wouldn't put all those innocents in danger. If Hydra knew, they would burn the joint to the ground. Or force Bucky to do it. Clint couldn't let that happen. He'd had enough people fail him in his life. He wasn't going to do the same to anyone else.
Duquesne hauled Clint up by the back of his suit, removing the comm. unit. He turned it over in his hand before pulling out a cell phone. Clint felt his eyelids grow heavy, drooping shut. He couldn't really see much, think much. It was… fuzzy. It hurt.
"Holtz, job's done. Payment's in the dumpster out back. Good work."
Consciousness fled as quickly as the realization crept in. S.H.I.E.L.D. had betrayed him.
Clint woke up with a start, panic creeping in when he realized he couldn't see. He couldn't see. He twisted violently, the hard leather restraints keeping him tied down. Clint screamed in frustration, slamming his body against the restraints desperately. Not again, not again, he begged. A burning prickle seared his eyes. His skin felt too hot, too tight. He couldn't breathe. Clint gasped for a breath, tugging at the restraints feebly. It was no use; he was chained down and blinded. Any minute, any minute the interrogators would come in. They'd take out their scalpels or the water boards. He was shaking so hard he could hear his chains rattling against the bed. It was too loud, god; he was making too much noise. His breath caught in his chest, and he choked on the tears and the phlegm. Fuck. Fuck, they would be coming in any second. Clint pulled at his chains, hating the whimper that spilled past his lips, echoing in the room with his short breaths and the rattling of his chains. He couldn't seem to stop panting, grasping at every breath of oxygen, trying to breathe.
The restraints wouldn't give in, he couldn't move. He couldn't see. He couldn't even breathe. If he couldn't get himself under control, the interrogators wouldn't even have to do anything. He couldn't look for himself, tell if they were there, if they were coming. Was he in the observation room? Were they already watching him? Clint jolted in fear as one of his cuffs banged against the metal edge of the bed –shit they were coming. They were coming and there was nothing he could do. His throat closed off and Clint tried to scream, but he couldn't make a sound. He clawed at the bed helplessly, writhing against the restraints. A door slammed somewhere and Clint twisted towards the noise, his heart hammering.
He wouldn't be able to save Bucky. To keep him safe. Fuck, any second the interrogators would be in and they'd ask him where the Winter Soldier was and Clint would babble it all out. He'd betray Bucky the way he'd been betrayed himself. The pain would be next; they couldn't just take his confession and do nothing so they'd cut Clint up a little before they went to collect Bucky, before they dragged him screaming down here to the dungeon for Clint to watch in horror as they broke Bucky-the-person and turned him back into the Winter Soldier. And it would be all his fault. It was his idea to get them out of here, to hide, to turn to S.H.I.E.L.D. Bucky would never be the same, would likely never forgive Clint. They'd be in Hydra's hands forever. It was a fluke that they'd managed to escape last time; Hydra would never give them the opportunity again. They'd push harder with the brainwashing, maybe even snap Bucky in half with that. Maybe wipe Bucky entirely; leaving only the machine that was the Winter Soldier.
He was going to die here, alone. Bound and blind, he would never know what killed him. The suffocation of his body betraying him? He gasped out another, shuddery breath, on the verge of hyperventilating. What was wrong with him? He'd never been able to hear the way other people did, since he was a kid. All he had was his eyesight and without that he was nothing. He was worse than nothing, he was useless. Useless wound up dead. Fuck, he couldn't stop choking. There wasn't enough air. Everything was growing dizzy; it felt like someone had taken his bed and was running him in wild circles with it. Clint cried out pathetically, begging for them to stop, as he tossed and turned against his restraints, fighting with everything he had. He ran out of energy at the same time he ran out of breath, collapsing against the bed, open and vulnerable to whoever walked into the room. There was nothing he could do. They would come in and kill him, torture him, and there was nothing he could do. Fuck, fuck. He was dead. He couldn't breathe –there wasn't enough air in the whole universe.
Another door slammed, closer. Much closer. Shit, they were here already. They'd come to kill him. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to live. He wanted it to stop, just everything. He was useless. They were going to kill him. He was going to sell Bucky out, and they'd tear him apart piece by piece before disposing of him. No one would care. S.H.I.E.L.D. had already sold him out; clearly they didn't want him. No one needed him; there were plenty of assassins in the world. The heavy step of a boot step alerted him to someone's presence. An inhuman keen of agony ripped its way free from his throat –no, no, god. He wasn't ready to give up his freedom. He wasn't ready to go back. He wasn't ready to die, not yet. Fuck what would he even do if he lived? Murder more people. He deserved this.
"Stop with the blubbering already," came a familiar bark. "You can be so pathetic sometimes."
Clint froze; his heart about to beat out of his chest. His fingers spasmed involuntarily. "B-Barney?" he croaked.
"Who else did you think it was?" Barney snarked. "Jesus, no wonder they almost didn't take me. How'm I supposed to make this look good for me?"
Clint curled his fingers against the metal of the bed, ignoring the way it pinched his skin. He could hold onto it, feel the pain. Remind himself that this was real. "What do you mean?"
"FBI didn't like my "methods" so I needed a better prospect. Hydra was hiring."
"No," Clint pleaded, his voice suddenly turning brittle.
Barney snorted. "It's not like it's the end of the world for me, baby bro."
"What are you doing here?" Clint asked weakly, hating himself for the way his breath hitched, on the verge of a sob. At least he couldn't see himself. The unexpected slap to his cheek did nothing to help his racing heartbeat or the way his breath had started to stutter. "B-Barn?" he asked, voice wobbling.
"To smack some sense into you," Barney said, snorting out a laugh. "Seriously, if you keep moving around like this, you'll rip your wounds open. Again. You nearly died on the operating table already, doing that dumbass stunt. Who even does that?"
Clint frowned, knowing it was no good, that the blindfold covered half his face. "W-what?" Clint asked, struggling to keep track of what Barney was saying, what it meant.
"Diving for the sword, ya dummy. You broke the arrows off, drove 'em in deeper while you were at it."
Right. Clint could remember that. "Wh-what's that got to do with you?"
Barney snorted. "I was the one who shot you in the leg? Remember that?"
This wasn't even real. No way. Barney had never studied under Chisholm. He wouldn't –he shouldn't know how to use a bow. Clint nodded weakly, even as he dismissed Barney's words.
"I didn't know it was you though," Barney continued, oblivious to Clint's struggle. "It was my first paid job. I'm here as a contractor, you know, apparently it's helpful to have an FBI agent on the inside or whatever."
Clint could care less. Barney's voice cut in and out, and Clint just focused on one deep breath in and one breath out.
"Chisholm was an ass, always refusing to teach me. But I hung around, watched you. Learned a few things," Barney chuckled. "So I guess you can thank yourself for the new scar."
It was getting harder to block out Barney's voice. Couldn't it have just been a nightmare? Clint wondered. This whole Barney part. They hadn't seen each other since Barney had sold him to Hydra, and how he was here, working for them like he belonged there. He was just a Beta. No one special except for all his ties to Clint. Had they arranged it intentionally? To get Barney here, to use him against Clint?
"I hear they used to call you Ronin, when you worked here. And swordsmanship, really? How'd you lose to Jacques? Well, they call me Trick Shot these days."
Clint squeezed his eyes shut, as though it would block out Barney's voice. He inhaled evenly and exhaled heavily. His entire body felt like it was weighted down with lead. He didn't want to move, for that matter he wasn't even sure he could move anytime soon. He had enough sense back that he was aware of the aches and pains in his body. His wrists and ankles were the worst off from all his thrashing around, but the throbbing tension in his thigh and chest were different. Those would be from his attackers. He was definitely lucky that he hadn't accidentally ripped them wide open.
"Why are you here Barney?" Clint demanded tiredly. "Is it really for the money? The connections? Or are you here to blackmail me?"
Barney snorted. "They'd have to be pretty friggen' stupid to think they could use me as a hostage for you."
"Yeah," Clint agreed. "Now will you get out?" Just leave me alone, Clint thought exhaustedly.
"Orders, they want me down here. Can't risk you opening that pesky wound again!" The forced cheer in his voice only grated on Clint's raw nerves more.
"I won't," Clint replied tightly. "I'm tied down. All that moving around earlier didn't open them. Besides, I'm not suicidal."
Clint heard the distinct sound of fabric shifting. He wondered whether Barney had sat down –was there even a place for him to sit? Or had his brother just shrugged? "You want me to go, I'll go."
"Yes," Clint growled.
The last he had seen of Barney was him standing at the entrance to the circus, turning over a wad of cash in his hand, looking like he'd just found the solution to his every problem. And maybe he had. Maybe that was why he'd decided to just sell Clint. As though he had any right to someone else's freedom. The image was burned onto the back of his eyelids, tainting every memory he ever had of his older brother. Barney was a lot of things, but a good brother was definitely not one. He very rarely had Clint's best interest at heart. Barney came first and always would. Clint was the afterthought, the little brother he'd never counted on.
"Okay," he said, his voice more subdued. "I'll go."
"I don't want to see you again," Clint said roughly. "I don't want to hear your voice or even your name."
Barney took three steps; Clint counted them, tracking the sound when Barney suddenly stopped. "You might not want to hear it… but Clint, I was just a fucked up kid with nowhere to go. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry." Another three steps. Pause. Four steps, the door swung open and then shut.
Clint clenched his hands. That apology was worth exactly nothing. The only person Clint had ever had in his life to rely on was his big brother. His big brother, who threw a collar on his neck, dragged him out from under the big top and threw him at the feet of Baron Strucker. Clint had watched in confused horror as one of the Hydra agents had walked over and handed Barney a wad of cash. Honestly, at first, Clint hadn't understood what was going on. He thought Barney was just pissed that Chisholm had taken Clint out for an impromptu dinner celebration. But then he'd caught sight of Duquesne, trussed up in the back of the truck and he'd realized that he was being sold into a sketchy organization. Clint had stumbled to his feet, started towards his brother when a hand caught him by the back of his shirt and threw him aside easily. Not one to be deterred, Clint had only launched to his feet and raced over to Barney.
"Barney, give 'em the money back," Clint had urged him. "And we can go home. Please."
Barney had looked at the cash in his hand and then to someone behind Clint. "We don't have a home," he'd said just before one of the Hydra goons had hauled Clint back.
Clint shouted, but they quickly gagged him and tossed him into the back of the truck. No one even looked over. It was the evening, sunlight glinting off Barney's red hair, casting him in the long shadow of his brother. Barney was counting his money; he didn't even look up as they drove off with Clint. Needless to say, his welcome to Hydra was no less pleasant than the long truck ride over. Duquesne didn't say a word the whole time. But the first thing Strucker had ordered was for them to be separated, for Clint to be sent to the range, to test his skills. When he refused, they dumped a bucket of ice water over his head and sent him to bed with no food or drink. Nothing to keep himself dry with either. He stopped refusing the second day, when he developed a cough. They were pleased with his marksmanship and sent him on to the Winter Soldier for lessons.
The rest was pretty much history. Clint was a dumbass fifteen year old, following around a mute twenty-one year old. Learning the tools of the trade, learning how to kill fast, how to kill slow and how to extract information. Clint wasn't even sure how long it had been before they added Duquesne into the mix where Clint quickly picked up how to fight with a sword. They gave him an outfit, something similar to a samurai's robes, all black and lined with gold. He took the katana they gave him and marched out to his missions, wishing he could get away. He used to dream of freedom. Of Barney growing a conscience, coming back to rescue him. Even though he knew it would never happen, he'd never considered that Barney might have one day joined the same organization he'd sold his little brother out to.
The door opened again, creaking a long eerie note that left Clint tense and afraid.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't Ronin." The speaker chuckled and goosebumps raced down Clint's exposed extremities. "Nice to see you again. If you're a good boy, we can make this quick," he purred.
Clint gathered the spit in his mouth, forcing himself to let go of the bedframe. He had to keep strong. He couldn't freak out like he had earlier. He needed to keep Bucky safe. He would tell them whatever they wanted about S.H.I.E.L.D. He couldn't keep back everything they wanted to know, but he had no reason to protect that organization. Coulson's face came to mind, his kindly blue eyes. There was no way that Coulson had sold him out –but Clint had thought that before, about Barney. People did what they thought they had to. It wasn't impossible. But Clint couldn't imagine Coulson working with guys like this, not even Baron Strucker. He just couldn't see it. Maybe he could keep a few of Coulson's secrets safe too. Maybe.
He waited until the interrogator had moved over him to start slicing before he spat at him. He dug deep, into the place he always went when the torture started. Where he could hold onto his fragile memories, the people he wanted to protect. He tucked Bucky safely there and fit Coulson in where he could before he tried to fight the torturer off. He was careless about his injuries. They didn't matter. Hydra wouldn't let him die and every interrogator knew just how much the human body could withstand. They wouldn't kill him, not even by accident. No matter how much, at times, he wished they would.
It was the right decision to leave Steve behind on this one, Phil thought as he crouched down, examining the scene of destruction. Banner had definitely been by. They'd had to wait until he'd crossed several international borders before S.H.I.E.L.D. could get involved and despite Fury's initial hesitation, Phil had pushed him into investigating the situation.