When they find Clint, the situation was nothing any of them were prepared for. Clint was curled up in a phone booth, located near a back alley in an abandoned part of Budapest. Clint was clutching the phone against his ear, staring ahead blankly. Perhaps most concerning of all, was the blood that he was coated in. June –the secondary leader on this extraction (only secondary due to Phil's presence, and he'd feel bad about that later) –stepped out, checking the perimeter worriedly. Phil followed her, knowing that if this were a combat situation, Clint would have a small stockpile of projectiles built up. But Clint didn't have a single weapon in his vicinity. Then again, Ronin wouldn't need a weapon in order to kill someone, Phil thought wryly as he stepped up to the door and gave a polite knock. For a long moment, Clint didn't react and Phil could feel his heart start to seize in panic. But then ever so slowly, Clint raised his head, blue eyes meeting Phil's. Phil cautiously opened the door, checking Clint over, trying to determine if the blood that he was covered in belonging to him or not. The blood had already soaked through his shirt by Phil's estimate. Clint's face was splotchy with dried, caking blood in places and he stared ahead listlessly. If it wasn't for the fact that Phil could see him take each controlled breath, he would have rushed forward to check for a pulse.
Phil slowly stepped inside, crouching down until he was eyelevel with Clint. He suddenly felt the urge to fly back to Quantico just so he could punch Barney in his face. The Clint in front of him was by no one's definition okay. Unless their definition was based solely on the fact that the person was breathing. So, possibly, by Fury's definition, Clint was okay.
"We got your call, Barton," Phil began gently, watching his agent for a reaction.
Clint blinked slowly and jerked his forward in what might have been a nod.
Phil adjusted his tie unnecessarily and methodically, just to give his hands something to do. He used that moment to compose himself, to brace for the fact that the man he was seeing was just a slim shadow of the Clint Barton he was used to.
"I'm here to bring you home, Agent Barton." Clint didn't respond. "If you are able to stand, do so."
Clint slowly pushed himself to his feet, wobbling precariously for a moment before steadying himself. He shifted his stance, his head lowering submissively as he stood at attention. Phil inhaled sharply and resisted the urge to bask in Clint's show of submission –that wasn't what Clint needed. An Omega showing submissiveness to an Alpha was their way of acknowledging that they trusted the Alpha in charge, or that they were willing to do as the Alpha wanted. Within a structured hierarchy like S.H.I.E.L.D. it was a show of respect and trust usually. This wasn't exactly within their parameters of normal. But then again, it was Barton. Phil resisted the urge to try and reassure him, fighting his instincts. Phil got to his feet, opening the telephone booth door and letting Clint shuffle out first, noticing that his agent was favoring his left leg.
"Back to the quinjet Barton," he said gently.
Clint shuffled towards the quinjet obediently. And that was probably worse than the eerie silence, was his obedience. It just wasn't Clint. Phil spotted the medic, an anxious young man practically bouncing in place with anxiety. Anyone who knew they were going to have to give Hawkeye medical attention as quite right to be anxious, really. But all Clint did was sit down quietly beside the medic and willingly submit himself for medical treatment. Phil caught June's wide-eyed surprise as she entered the craft and he waved off her questions. Besides not having answers, they wouldn't be getting anything out of Barton until the shock wore off. At least that's what Phil hoped it was.
"Dr. Taylor'll be happy to see you back Barton," the medic babbled, carefully wrapping a blanket around Clint. "She's been going a little stir crazy without you around for her to micromanage," he laughed at that, tentatively offering Clint a bottle of water.
Clint didn't react. Reluctantly Phil walked over to the medic, took the water bottle from him and twisted the cap off, gently pressing it into Clint's hand. At first Clint did nothing, but then he grasped the bottle and mechanically took a long swig from the bottle. Phil glanced at the medic, subtly scenting the air until he could identify the man's orientation. Beta, strongly smelling of antiseptics. Betas were almost always better to have around Omegas. Betas didn't have a stressful relationship with Omegas, at least not usually, and so they were best at calming down an Omega. However, in some situations, Alphas were always good to have on scene. Phil checked out the other agents on board; all of them were Betas. Which probably explained why Clint only reacted when Phil approached. Because he was an Alpha, and it was instinctual for Clint on a number of levels to obey Phil. As a higher officer, one that Clint was accustomed to obeying and as an Alpha.
"He's pretty deep in shock," the medic admitted softly, staring at Clint concernedly. "A few hours or so and he should come out of it."
Phil nodded, acknowledging that he had heard the Beta's words before stepping back to stand beside June. "It's hard to see him like this," she commented softly.
Last year, during an op in Cairo they'd been working with June's team. She needed a sniper and Phil had been eager to see how Clint would work in the field. Their target hidden himself in a church and June's team had the blue prints out. They could flush him onto the roof but they were worried they'd lose him in pursuit. It wasn't their first mission, but it was probably about their third. They'd just come in from Giza, tidying up a mess with the pyramids when Phil was notified of June's predicament and agreed to help. Clint set up his perch and Phil watched June's team chase the target onto the roof. He wasn't there for more than two seconds before Clint had taken the shot.
"I know," Phil agreed, keeping his expression bland. If he let go of that control, it would become all too apparent just how worried he was.
At least they had Clint back. Phil watched as the medic tried to examine Clint without disturbing the archer. Finally, the medic sat back and shook his head. He didn't look worried about Clint's physical status at least. At around the fifth hour of their travel, Clint fell asleep. Phil wasn't sure whether to be relieved or more concerned. The medic explained that it wasn't surprising considering that Clint must be going through a great deal of stress. When they landed in New York, Dr. Taylors was waiting on the roof with a gurney. Phil watched as they transferred Clint from the quinjet to the gurney and wheeled him down to the infirmary. Phil attempted to follow only to be stopped by Dr. Taylors.
"No," she said. "Agent Barton needs to rest –I will call you if his situation changes. He might be like this for a few days, Agent Coulson. And I can tell just from looking at you that you're about to fall over and pass out. Go home. I'll call you if something changes."
There wasn't an argument Phil could come up with to prove he was needed in the building, so after a moment, he nodded. He probably should have slept during the flight, but he hadn't been able to relax with Clint so deeply in shock. There was no paperwork he needed to be doing considering Jasper and Maria had been taking care of it for him while he investigated the potential Code Eight on Barton. Tomorrow, he would have to start filling out all the detailed reports on what had happened. But for tonight, he decided to heed Dr. Taylors' advice and head home.
Phil couldn't remember the last time he had been home. The last few weeks were blurred together; something about Brazil and hot, moist jungles and then there was France and salty breezes before arid Budapest. His stomach growled at him on the ride home, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in about seven hours. Not since he was on the 'jet, somewhere over the North Atlantic Ocean. Ten hour flights were most definitely not his favorite. Entering his apartment was familiar and welcoming, although Phil walked straight into the kitchen. Everything was perfectly spotless which meant the cleaning service was still coming by regularly. A few years back they'd once forgotten and he had returned home from a two month op in the Congo to a dusty apartment and a mouldy fridge. Phil glanced at the clock on his stove, the red numbers blurring together. He gave up on trying to read them and grabbed a package of the cheap microwaveable oatmeal he hated. It was quick, fast food and not at all that good.
Phil yawned, pulling the bowl of oatmeal out of the microwave when it dinged. He ate it plain, wondering if he would be home long enough to make it worth a quick grocery run sometime tomorrow. Probably not. He was never home long enough for that. Phil rubbed at his eyes, setting his bowl in the sink before stumbling to his bedroom. He changed into an old, soft t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before collapsing on his bed and passing out. Phil woke up once, feeling exhausted and hungry. He stumbled into the kitchen, threw another bowl of oatmeal into the microwave and had enough time to marvel that there was a fresh jug of milk in his fridge. S.H.I.E.L.D. must have notified his service that he was home. He took the milk out appreciatively and dug out the brown sugar, adding both to his oatmeal. He didn't even look at the time as he ate, checking his phone out of habit. No messages. Phil dropped the bowl into his already empty sink and stumbled his way back to his bedroom to pass out again.
The next time he was fully conscious, he was showered and wearing a clean suit and it had been three and a half days since he returned to New York. He had one text message dated yesterday informing him that Clint had been more receptive to Dr. Taylors' commands than he had been in the past two days but other than that, there were no major changes. Phil headed into the office, dreading the paperwork he was going to have to fill out, but feeling better than he had in weeks. And the jetlag was finally over and done with, which was something he definitely didn't miss having. The other agents stayed clear of him for which he was grateful as he sat down at his desk and started writing his preliminary report on Bruce Banner and his outing in New York. By the time it was two o'clock in the afternoon, he'd started writing the report about Agent Barton only to be interrupted by his stomach growling. He headed down to the cafeteria, grabbing a plate of roast beef and vegetables gratefully. Phil had just finished eating when his phone rang.
"Coulson," he greeted, as he returned his dishes to the kitchen.
"Agent Barton is back with us," Dr. Taylors informed him. "We would appreciate if you could come debrief him before he hurts any more of my medical staff."
"On the way," Phil promised, hurrying towards the elevators.
In the background he could hear a loud crash and some shouting. Dr. Taylors sighed heavily before disconnecting the call. It was a relief to arrive at the infirmary room and find Clint perching on the chair in the corner, holding his lunch tray like a weapon. The only reason it was a relief, was because it was normal behavior for Barton. Phil opened the door and neatly sidestepped the lunch tray that flew towards him.
"Barton, what is this about?" he asked, letting authority slip into his voice.
Clint wobbled precariously on the chair, his bad leg holding most of his weight on the seat of the chair while his other foot rested on the back of the chair. It couldn't have been comfortable. "C-Coulson?" he asked, blinking at Phil disoriented.
"Yes," Phil answered slowly. "Do you remember? You called me from Budapest. You're in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s infirmary, Agent Barton. Terrorizing Dr. Taylor's staff again."
Clint slid down the chair and for a moment Phil worried he was going to have to catch him, but even with his injured leg Clint landed easily on the bed. "I-I don't," he stuttered. "Budapest?" Clint suppressed a shudder.
Phil glanced around the empty infirmary before stepping closer. S.H.I.E.L.D. had two infirmary wings and whenever possible, they tried to keep their patients in wing one. Wing two was reserved for Clint and any other agents that were prone to fighting when in medical. "Yes. You were taken by Duquesne in France. He took you to Luxembourg, just outside Wallendorf." He watched Clint, hoping to see a reaction from him.
Clint ran his hands over his face, foot jiggling impatiently. "Luxembourg," he repeated softly. "Budapest…" He stopped moving abruptly, setting his hands down beside him. "Yeah, yeah I –I remember."
That wasn't the kind of reaction Phil had been anticipating. "You phoned me from Budapest, saying that you'd made a mistake," Phil prompted gently.
Clint flinched at that, twisting his hands around the bedsheets. "I fucked up, you mean," he corrected quietly.
"I don't know about that," Phil said lightly. "The city was still in one piece."
Clint smiled tightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Good for it," he said vehemently. "There's a bunch of people that aren't."
"Start from the beginning," Phil prompted.
Clint shook his head. "No, I… I don't really remember," he mumbled, looking across the infirmary.
Phil arched a brow. "Don't remember or don't want to talk about it?"
Clint turned back to him, guarded. "Don't remember," he said, iron in his voice. "What are you even doing back? What are you doing here with me –you guys should have killed me by now."
"What for?" Phil demanded. "Your superior officer sold you out. That's on him, not you."
Clint stared at him, openly surprised. "Holtz?"
"He's currently in with our Interrogators," Phil explained. "You were innocent in this situation."
Clint's expression shuttered again. "No, no. You don't get to sit there and tell me that. I fucking killed people. You know why Holtz sold me, right? Cuz I'm a fucking murderer. I work for the wrong people."
"You work for S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Before you guys –"
"You were kidnapped by Hydra, trained to be a killer and tortured until you did their bidding."
Clint jerked back in surprise. "Kidnapped? Who's been telling tall tale—" He froze, his eyes widening. Clint threw his head back and laughed. "Let me guess, you found my brother? Got his side of the story?" Clint snorted. "Well he left out a detail. He fucking sold me to Hydra. There was no kidnapping. And sure they tortured me, but I was the one who went out and killed people. Who else have you been talking to? Duquesne?"
Not for the first time, Phil wished he could go back in time. Make several stops along the way. One of the first would be to when he had Barney Barton in custody, so that he could punch him in the face. "Yes. We had Barney in custody, and Duquesne is currently in our custody."
"Had?"
"Barney is currently in the FBI's custody as he cooperated and gave us the location of several Hydra locations."
Clint scoffed. "Good for him."
"He said he was the one who arranged for you to get out?" Phil asked cautiously, sitting down in the chair Clint had been balancing on not long ago.
Clint shrugged. "He would say that. I guess he had something to do with it."
"How was he involved?"
"He called in a friend and she was the one who got me out," Clint said, his hold on the sheets tightening until his knuckles were white.
"She sounds like a talented woman," Phil commented idly. Clint didn't react. "Why did it take so long for you to call for help?"
Clint glowered at him. "Maybe because I was a captive?"
"I thought she freed you."
Clint stiffened. "Oh. You meant after."
"Yes."
Clint ducked his head, focusing on unclenching his hands from the sheets as he individually relaxed each knuckle. Clint didn't answer.
"Agent Barton, you phoned me, nearly incoherent with grief. Tell me what you think you did."
"I don't think I did it!" Clint snapped. "I did do it. I fucked up."
"How?" Phil repeated patiently.
Clint rolled his shoulders, turning away from Phil subtly. "I –see when you found me? I had this friend, right. Well we'd been through a lot together. And he came with her, the woman, to help me out. But he-he had this plan? To get revenge on-on them, for what they'd done to us. And she wanted to take a shot at them too, right. So I, I agreed. Because they stole everything from me, they nearly killed me; they made me kill people who didn't deserve it!
"They aren't good people, Coulson. So I agreed. And they dressed me in black, gave me a sword and a gun and we drove across Europe blowing up one Hydra facility after another. Because they'll never end until you cut off every head… We destroyed six facilities. No survivors. The Winter Soldier doesn't leave survivors, ya know? Neither does the Black Widow."
Phil couldn't help the way his eyes widened at the mention of those names, or the way his hand spasmed as he wanted to ask Clint a million questions about them. If Barney was able to call in the Black Widow as a favor then Phil had passed up such a huge opportunity. Then again, he hadn't even known or suspected that Clint was involved with Hydra. But he'd had no reason to suspect that it was even possible for someone to escape from Hydra.
"I should have known that. Innocent people would die. They weren't all bad, Coulson. But they worked for a bad organization and we-we killed them all." Clint shuddered at that, pulling at the stitching on the sheet. "My friend, they uh, they had him longer than they had me. They had codes. We didn't know. We didn't know," Clint's voice trembled, blinking back tears. "They called a code and he-he's the Winter Soldier. I don't know how to help him. Widow took off, I don't know where. I don't know how I got away. I just…" Clint shrugged, a little bit helpless as he casually swept his hand across his eyes.
"We want to work with you on this, Clint," Phil said gently. "I've talked to Director Fury. I think there are some things you don't know about Hydra, that we know. And I bet there's a lot more that you know about Hydra."
Clint stared at him, disbelievingly. "You want me to work with you? Even though you know who I am?"
"You're Clint Barton," Phil replied. He got to his feet, pouring them each a glass of water. He turned back, offering a glass to his agent. Clint took it numbly, staring at the water for a moment before taking a drink. "You're Hawkeye."
Clint
The answer –shouldn't have been that simple, yet it was. He was Hawkeye. No one else could do what he could. But he'd let Bucky down, he'd let them take Bucky. He should have disagreed, tried to get Bucky to join S.H.I.E.L.D. anything other than running in, guns blazing and with no escape plan. But maybe that was what Bucky had wanted, was to die in a blaze of glory after having lost everything that ever mattered to him. Clint should have done more.
"What're you going to do to me now that you know?" Clint asked, watching Coulson carefully.
"Hopefully try to convince you to stay on with us when your sentencing is up," Coulson answered. "We can keep you safe; provide you money, food and shelter. A job. Work that feels meaningful to you." He paused. "If you ever change your mind on being an asset, working as one, there are plenty of other positions open to you. R&D would be grateful to have your mind helping them design anything. You're better at logistics than half the analysts we have employed, because you've been out in the field."
"No," Clint said, shaking his head. "I like doing this. It's… I get to take out the bad guys. I know what they've done. I get to make the call if they deserve it or not."
"You're welcome to stay with us, Agent Barton," Coulson said. "We have no problems with that."
"Even your director?"
Coulson smiled wryly. "Would you feel better hearing it from him? Because we need to debrief you and go over your history. If you're willing to help us fight against Hydra."
Clint swallowed, taking another drink of water. He pushed the memories aside of when Bucky had asked him that same thing. It didn't work out so well for his friend. "We can save my friend, right?"
"We can do everything in our power to try," Coulson said.
It wasn't a promise. But it was better than nothing. "I want to talk to the Director." It felt surreal –Coulson knowing who he was. What he had done. If he'd spoken to Duquesne, which he no doubt had, then he knew everything. Duquesne wouldn't have hidden any of the atrocities Clint had committed a lifetime ago.
Coulson phoned Director Fury and within an hour, they had sealed off the infirmary and turned the audio and video recordings off. Clint could feel his hairs standing on end when Coulson had pointed out that it was happening.
"Director Fury isn't a very trusting man. He's making this as secure as he can. I'll be here the whole time," Coulson said. "I'll be your witness. It's just Director Fury never knows who he can trust."
Clint nodded slowly. It did make sense, especially considering what had happened with Holtz. He was looking forward to seeing the agent when he got out of the Interrogator's room. Make sure that Holtz was truly apologetic for what he'd done. If they'd programmed Clint the same way they had programmed Natasha or Bucky, he wouldn't have walked out of that Hydra facility. In the last moments he'd seen Natasha, she had grabbed him and told him everything she could. About her own experience.
"I thought it was just us," Natasha had hissed. "The Black Widows. They plucked at our memories, told us we were ballerinas, specialists in our own field. Our own world. They had codes to wipe us blank. I thought it was only us. An enchantress found me, caught me snooping around and ripped each code out of my head. She thought it would make me her plaything. I came to after I'd killed her, when all the codes were gone. I never thought… He's not Bucky anymore, Clinton. Get out." And then she vanished into the dark corridors of the Hydra cell.
Clint stayed behind, because he'd always been an idiot. People always said to be careful of the Winter Soldier, to never trust him, because he was more machine than man. As though a metal arm could make him more machine and less human. The image was still burned into his mind. The intercoms had blared, a screeching blast of Morse code once they entered the archives room. Bucky was frozen, his every muscle tense as his eyes drained of life. Natasha gasped, loud and echoing in the small room, her arm like steel as she dragged Clint away. She tucked them into a dark alcove, where no one would notice them unless they were looking. Clint waited there, peering out to watch the archives room. A high ranking Hydra officer came running down, several other officers following behind him as they entered the archives. Clint drew his sword soundlessly, waiting for Bucky to fight them.
He knew it was different the moment he saw the light leave Bucky's eyes. But he just didn't understand how different. The Winter Soldier he had met all those years ago had burned with anger and a scathing sense of humor. He was still human. But as they led Bucky harmlessly out of the room, Clint was beginning to realize that he had known a very different side of the Winter Soldier. But it didn't mean Clint was going to give up on his friend that easily, even as he stepped into the hall, blocking their path. One of the officers snickered.
"He thinks they are friends," he sneered, his Austrian accent heavy. "Well, Winter Soldier, show him just how good of friends you are."
Clint and Bucky reacted at the same time, in flawed unison as only Ronin and the Winter Soldier could. Clint's sword neatly lopped the head off the nearest Hydra officer and Bucky's arm closed around Clint's, easily throwing him backwards. The other officers scattered in disgust as the scientist's body fell to the ground. Clint got to his feet, feeling the beginning of a bruise on his forearm. Bucky had used his metal arm.
"Buck," he called, frustrated. "We came here for revenge. We came here to kill them!"
The Winter Soldier didn't react, other than adjusting his stance. It was all at once horribly familiar, horribly terrifying. It was an old routine. Years of training with him had given Clint insight into how the Winter Soldier operated, but had never given him an advantage. Charging recklessly always resulted in Clint being pummelled half to death.
"Bucky, come on," Clint cajoled. Natasha's warning was echoing in his head, but he couldn't understand what she meant. Codes?
"He is ours again," said the highest ranking of the officers. "Kill him."
At first Clint didn't understand who the officer was talking to, but then Bucky was advancing. Only he didn't move with the ease Bucky had settled into –it kind of reminded him of how the leopards at the circus used to move. But it was a steady gait, light on eye contact and with a smile usually. Not this. This was all the Winter Soldier in his glory, every step was full of intent and his eyes promised death. There was no Bucky. Clint stepped backwards, his grip tightening on his sword.
"Bucky," Clint said, helpless. They'd ended up together, they'd escaped together. His beginning at Hydra practically started with Bucky.
"Shut up," he spat in an unfamiliar Russian accent.
And then Bucky closed the distance between them, his metal arm flying for Clint's face. These people either didn't know who he was or they didn't care. The Winter Soldier had always been more important and maybe this was why. Because they had codes to wipe him clean, return him to this existence. Bucky was going to hate himself. He could remember everything that he had done as the Winter Soldier, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He was there, watching. Watching as his body attacked Clint.
Clint drew his sword, stopping Bucky's blow for a second. The Winter Soldier caught his sword and twisted the metal together, ruining the blade as he yanked it from Clint's grip. Expecting it, Clint let go of the blade and raced down the hall towards the nearest officer. A gunshot echoed through the hall, leaving Clint more deafened than usual as he cowered behind the Hydra officer. The second bullet went clean through the first officer and into the second, showering Clint in blood. He threw the body towards the Winter Soldier and fired his gun at where he knew Bucky's arm was most sensitive. He didn't want to hurt him but he didn't know what else to do.
He fired another shot, aiming higher, hoping to distract Bucky; he barreled down the hallway and dove into the nearest doorway he could find. He slammed the door shut, his heartbeat echoing inside his skull too loudly. He still couldn't hear anything. He scanned the room, and caught sight of the window just as the door was forced open. Clint fired at the window and jumped through it, racing into the darkness of the forest that surrounded the Hydra base. Assuming Bucky had followed; Clint climbed the nearest tree and started easing his way through the branches to another tree. He avoided travelling deeper into the forest, keeping instead to the outskirts and heading directly east. For once, he was grateful for the lessons he'd taken at S.H.I.E.L.D. When evading pursuit, it was assumed that the person they were pursuing would run straight ahead in a blind panic. But as an operative if they were being pursued, they had to break out from that panic. Head in a different direction and keep following it. The ground wasn't wet or damp and it was pitch black out –Bucky wasn't going to be able to track with this kind of light. However, it was nothing that would stop Clint.
At some point in the morning, he must have crossed the Austrian border and into Hungary. He caught the nearest taxi, paid for it with stolen money and let the driver drive him into Budapest. It was a blur after that. He didn't really remember phoning Coulson or how he came to medical. But it was enough to know that he was at S.H.I.E.L.D. and that he was alive.
"How are your injuries?" Coulson asked, setting a chair down beside his, presumably for Director Fury to take when he arrived. It wouldn't be much longer, Coulson had explained.
"Dr. Taylors' patched them up nicely," Clint answered. "I've had worse."
Coulson arched a brow at him. "In the year you've been working for us, you've never almost died."
"See, I was overdue," Clint teased, grinning at Coulson. It was fun to try and rile the man up. The best he had managed was the suspicious eyebrow raise and a few laughs here and there, but it was better than nothing. One day he'd get a full reaction –probably one out of anger. But no, Coulson really didn't seem like the kind of guy to do that.
And for all his years with Hydra, Clint wasn't really sure if he'd ever come this close to death before. Seeing how he was unconscious for the worst part of the ordeal and then tortured, hauled across the country, then across the continent and finally fought with a super soldier, he figured it was alright to not really consider the effects it would have on him. Dr. Taylors' said if he wasn't careful from now on, he could end up with permanent leg damage. The scarring on his chest was never going to look attractive and he was lucky the injury wasn't worse. She had also admitted to being concerned by how high his pain tolerance was and Clint managed to brush the comment aside. Even for S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, his tolerance was terribly high. Probably because of all the torture, really, but that wasn't something you just casually dropped into conversation. It made people go quiet.
Fury pushed open the doors, striding into the room. He glanced at Coulson and then turned his attention to Clint. He took the nearest seat and Coulson didn't sit until Fury was seated.
"How do I know if I can trust you?" Fury asked bluntly, leaning back in his seat. Beside him, Coulson's bland mask was back in place.
"You trusted me before," Clint said, more than a little apprehensive.
"I trusted that you would stick out your service. As someone with nowhere else to go."
"I still don't have anywhere to go," Clint argued. "They almost killed me. They don't care who I am."
Fury's mouth twisted down. "They took you from us, Barton. You are a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset on a potential –potential –path to doing something great. In five years, let's say you've become a Level Six asset. Privy to some of the world's greatest secrets, about political and economic weaknesses and personal friendships to expose –you'll become a target. They'll want you underground with an Interrogator, to break you."
Clint crossed his arms. "Been there, done that," he fired back icily.
"You are a risk, Agent Barton," Fury argued, his eye on Clint with steely determination.
"He isn't," Coulson said, cutting into the conversation. "He's gone through Interrogation before. We can put him on a priority evac list; make sure he's never in their custody for longer than seventy-two hours."
"I could probably last ninety-six," Clint heard himself say. And what even? Four days in isolation, with expert torturers? He wasn't sure he could last that long. It would depend on how the Interrogator operated.
Fury ignored him. "He's still a flight risk."
"Offer him a better deal; he's been here long enough. He can make his own decisions."
Fury huffed, turning back to Clint. "Will you sign on to S.H.I.E.L.D. willingly?"
Clint hesitated. "What about my years left to serve?"
"I can have them converted due to your exemplary behavior, but that is contingent on your agreement. It's not something you can back out of."
"And if I don't agree?" Clint glanced between Coulson and Fury, at the way their lips were turned down. Coulson in particular looked most regretful.
"Hydra will be hunting you. Other organizations will start to fight for the bounty to bring you in. At best, you would stay here, in New York, with a protection detail. Indefinitely," Coulson said slowly.
"At worst? We would have to lock you up or try and modify your memories," Fury stated.
Clint looked down, his fingers twitching impatiently. Neither offer sounded great. "I like what I do here. I like knowing I'm taking the bad guys down. But I –I don't know if this is something I want to do for the rest of my life."
"I think we can afford to give you vacations and free time, when you need it. Your contract would be unlike any other agent's," Coulson explained.
Clint ground his teeth together. "I had half my life stolen by Hydra and now you want to steal the rest of it!"
"You are a criminal assassin with a kill count so high we aren't sure how many people are on it," Fury said bluntly. "We are offering you full medical, a full-time playing job complete with every benefit imaginable. The work you do doesn't have to be killing. You can take time off, switch departments, figure it out. I don't know if I can trust you."
"Because I'm Ronin?" Clint snarled, glaring at Fury.
"Because you are a talented young man," Coulson interjected, frowning at Clint in disapproval. "You can shoot an arrow faster than anyone can shoot a bullet. You are gifted in a lot of things, Agent Barton. And you have a criminal record, which as far as we know, is the only thing keeping you here." At that, he gave him a pointed look.
Oh. Oh. That's what this was about? Clint glanced back down at his hands. "I like the work. I like the organization. I would never go to Hydra or some other organization. I don't –they don't have Coulsons. Or Sitwells or Hills." He fidgeted, tugging at the bedsheet absently. "They just make you kill whoever it's convenient to. Whoever asked for it. I don't like that. I'm not here for the money or the benefits."
"What are you here for?"
"I'm here because I'm useful," Clint said, turning to meet Fury's gaze. "And if you help me save my friend, I'll stay here. However long you need me to stay."
Fury brought his hands together, steepling his fingers. "Tell me about this friend."
With only a brief glance at Coulson –who was smiling proudly –Clint, told them everything. How Barney sold him to Hydra, how he met the Winter Soldier and befriended Bucky. It had more to do with his stubbornness than anything else, as he relentlessly chattered about mundane things with Bucky. It took a while before the other man thawed enough to talk back at all. He told them why he stole the money, how it was all for Bucky, how he had escaped via the air ducts last year in order to check on his friend. He told them about Natasha saving him, leading him back to Bucky. The crazy plan to get revenge on Hydra –and how did he ever agree to that? It was possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Neither Coulson nor Fury reacted much to his story, even as he quietly told them about Bucky becoming the Winter Soldier.
"I'm sorry you went through that," Coulson said.
"We'll do what we can for your friend," Fury said, his eye on Clint's. "But when I send the paperwork to you, you'd better sign it."
"Yes, of course, sir."
Fury paused, turning to Coulson for a moment. They didn't exchange words. Whatever their conversation was, it passed entirely in micro expressions that were there-and-gone-again so quick Clint couldn't even process them.
"You are the first and only Omega to have escaped Hydra," Fury said, as bluntly as ever. "We have tried to rescue them before. But our previous plans were disastrous –every Omega chomped down on a suicide pill. Since you cleared all of medical's tests, we know you don't have a false tooth. So I want to know what's so special about you, Hawkeye."
"Those were the –the other Omegas. Older ones. Maybe in their late twenties, early thirties," Clint said quietly. "They aren't –they aren't all there." He paused, gesturing to his head. "They weren't good fighters. They ran into battle and took out as many as they could before they died. Hydra agents used to talk about them; how they were the biggest failure Hydra had ever seen. Too bloody, too much of a waste of good fighters." Clint twisted his mouth in disgust. "So they used them as traps, for cannon fodder. Duquesne liked to remind me what I could have ended up like. It was an injectable shot, turned them into these mindless drones."
"There are more Omegas like you then?" Coulson answered, hope bright on his face.
"I guess so," Clint answered, wary. "Few of 'em are more like Bucky. Brainwashed. Most of 'em would be like me, yeah. Tortured into compliance. I don't really –" Clint paused, frustrated. "I was kept with the Winter Soldier, sent out on missions. I didn't see the others. I came into Hydra with a skillset they put to use. Most others aren't as lucky. I don't know what they went through."
In his line of experience, he hadn't met too many Omegas like him. And when he had crossed paths with them, they didn't talk.
"Not all of the Omegas got names like you," Coulson said, cautiously.
Clint smiled bitterly. "That's because the names are how they tell us apart. Those of us that were… special. The Omegas that have no talent, remain mediocre? They don't get names. I don't really know what became of them. I got separated when they were worried about all that."
It was mostly a blur, the first few weeks after he had been sold. It wasn't like anything he had ever experienced before. There were so many kids, his age and younger. A few were older, but not many. Most of them had glassy eyes and it wasn't like they were there. Clint kept to himself while the others cuddled up. They were housed in one area together, a building that resembled a barn more than a house. There were cold drafts; there was always a sick kid. And there was never enough food to go around. Clint used to split his rations with the youngest kids, the skinniest ones. When he could, he'd give his own portion to the sick ones. But he needed to eat, and he needed to survive. It wasn't like he'd been treated particularly well at Carson's. It wasn't long before he couldn't split his rations with the kids anymore.
In the mornings, they'd be led down into a training area where they could show off their skills. There were swords and guns provided. There were no instructions, no one inside the ring with them. No one ever touched the guns. Clint picked up a sword, confident that he could do a decent job after all the times he'd seen Duquesne in action. It must have impressed the right people. The children tried to get him to teach them and he did what he could before he was forcibly dragged away and handed from one officer to another until he wound up in the back of a cargo truck. Some other kid he didn't know was there. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the kid's name. But he was the one who had said that Bucky was more machine than human. They let Clint off at a farm with three other Hydra agents. From there on, he was taught by the Swordsman and the Winter Soldier at a little farm in the middle of Virginia.
When he and Bucky escaped, they figured New York was far enough away to keep them safe. It probably wasn't. But it did provide them enough anonymity to disappear entirely. Until… until Bucky got sick, until Clint was arrested. It was enough until then.
"Thank you, Agent Barton," Fury said, nodding.
Fury asked a few more questions and Coulson had the odd question here and there which Clint did his best to answer, struggling to remember what few details he could. Mostly there had been too much panic and fear to leave him with anything other than those distressed feelings, but he knew Barney had sold him to Hydra when they were doing a show in Utah. He remembered feeling like he was locked in darkness for an eternity before he was led into the barn where the other children were. He knew that it had been several days before they reached the destination though, because the cargo truck had had to stop a lot. For gas stops, for the Hydra agents to lead the captive Omegas out for bathroom breaks. Food consisted of stale bread or crackers being thrown in at them.
When Fury and Coulson went to stand, Clint stared up at them. "You're gonna find the place, aren't you? Save the kids?"
"We're going to do what we can," Coulson agreed.
"And we're going to look for your friend," Fury added. "Sign the paperwork tomorrow. I'll get Hill on it tonight. Coulson, I need this typed up so I can send it to the WSC."
"WSC?" Clint repeated, searching for an answer.
Coulson smiled at him. "Ask me tomorrow, Agent Barton. Rest up." Coulson turned his attention back to Fury, continuing their hushed conversation as they left the room.
Clint laid down slowly, feeling oddly unsettled by the whole situation.
