A/N: Continued thanks to everyone reading/reviewing/favouriting! Hope you all enjoy this next chapter!
Warnings: Some violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers.
10.
Clint walked into the room, and the mocking words died from Tony's lips as he saw the determined look on Clint's face. Clint stopped in front of Tony, Bruce and Steve, who were sitting in the living room, and slapped a file down on the table.
"I know you've been trying to find it, Stark, so here it is. My file. Unedited. No redactions. I won't blame you if you want nothing to do with me after." Then he turned and left the room, leaving a stunned group behind.
Boston
Clint Barton had been lost in a mindless void of death for so long he was sure he didn't have a conscience anymore. But on a drizzly afternoon in Boston, Barton discovered he had a limit.
He'd heard through a few people about a high risk, high skill job that needed doing from a man named George. Hawkeye had heard of George and knew he was a man you didn't tangle with. He stayed in the underworld and had his hands in just about everything. But Barton seized this chance to earn a great sum of cash and boost his reputation. A hit for George would take him up several notches on the ladder of mercenaries.
He visited one of George's employees in a back room of a pub in Boston and told him he'd take the job.
The mustachioed man nodded and threw a picture at him. Clint picked it up from the table and felt his stomach drop a few feet. The photo showed a young girl, perhaps five or six, with her long red hair in braids and a large, toothless smile.
Barton prided himself on never having an emotional connection to a target. He'd long since sold his soul to the devil and never looked back.
But he knew he couldn't take this hit.
He chuckled humourlessly, trying to ease the tension in his chest. What the hell was wrong with him? "And what'd she do to you, man?" he asked.
The thug frowned at him. "Sean Murphy made George look foolish. Kill the girl and make Murphy pay."
Barton shook his head and slid the photo back. "Hey, man, I don't do kids. No one said anything about a kid."
The thug scowled, casting a suspicious eye over him. "What's a matter, chief? You a cop?"
"No, not a cop." He stood up from the table and walked to the door.
"Hey!" the man yelled behind him. "Where do you think you're going? You can't just say no to George!"
Clint ignored him and continued into the dark and loud pub. His eyes quickly spotted two huge security guards headed for him. He slipped through the crowds and headed for the side door, sidestepping and pushing people as he went. He threw open the emergency door and took off into the night.
Footsteps pounded behind him, but he didn't even look back. Around the corner he found a fire escape attached to a small building. He climbed the first floor, then leaped over the railing and into the next alley. He only stopped fifteen blocks later, heading towards the library to do some research.
Only one thought was on his mind the whole time, and not once did he think to talk himself out of it or try and convince himself it was a bad idea. There was just no way he was going to let them kill the girl. Innocent children shouldn't pay for the sins of their parents.
Clint had to call in a few favours, but he found all the details needed for the hit. It only occurred to him once that he was digging himself a deeper hole for George to bury him in.
He hopped on a plane and arrived in Dublin the day before the scheduled hit, settling himself on the edge of the vast estate, prepared for a long wait.
It wasn't long before he saw a dark clad man enter the back door, so Hawkeye quickly abandoned his perch and slipped into the house.
The hit man didn't waste any time. By the time Clint entered the kitchen, Murphy was strapped down to a chair and the hit man was dousing the kitchen in gasoline.
Murphy was sobbing uncontrollably. "Don't. Don't – please. Please…my daughter." The black figure ignored him, pulling a match from his pocket and striking it.
Clint jumped through the doorway and pulled his bowstring back to his cheek. "Freeze," he said dangerously.
Only a shadow of the man's face was visible in the flickering glow. His mouth stretch in a grin as he flicked his wrist, and the match dropped.
The walls shot up in a blaze of fire, sending Barton stumbling back several steps. When he was right again, all that remained in the room was him and the wailing father.
He stumbled through the smoke towards Murphy. "My girl, my girl," Murphy cried as Barton cut his bonds.
"I've got her! You get out of here!" he shouted over the roar of the flames. Murphy stood, undecided for several moments, but the oppressive heat quickly made up his mind.
Hawkeye jumped through the smoke and after the hit man. He stumbled up the stairs and spotted the legs of the man a few steps above him. He leaped forwards, tackling the man, and the two tumbled across the landing. The flames licked up the stairs, traveling steadily forwards.
They traded a few blows before the man pulled a knife from his pocket and lunged for Clint's jugular. Clint was able to block the fatal blow with his forearm, leaving a hefty slice. He winced but followed through with a left hook, knocking the man out cold.
He rolled to his feet and let out a hacking cough before stooping low to avoid the blackening smoke.
With several muttered curses – most at his own stupidity – he dashed down the hallway, looking for Aoife's room. Three doors down, there was a door decorated with unicorns and hearts. This he assumed was her room. He wrenched open the door, but found the room empty.
"Aoife!" He called, and choked on some more of the smoke. "Aoife?"
He heard a small whimper from the closet. Clint's heart dropped to his stomach as his mind went back to his childhood. "Aoife," he said again, softer, moving to the closet. "Aoife, please, come out."
He saw two small eyes peek out of the closet. "D-daddy," she whimpered.
"He's outside, Aoife. He's fine. Now please come out, sweetheart. We need to get out and then I'll take you to your daddy." There was some more sniffling and then a small hand grasped Clint's proffered one, and Aoife stepped out of the closet.
Clint scooped her small form into his arms, and her arms immediately snaked around his neck as she buried her face into his shoulder.
Clint adjusted his jacket to cover her body, and then took a peek into the hall. The smoke was getting thicker. Cursing softly, he shut the door and moved to Aoife's window. The window overlooked the yard and a tree sat a few feet from the window. It would be easier if he didn't have a child, but it was his only choice.
"Alright, Aoife. Keep your eyes closed and hold tight, okay?" he asked. In response, she held on so tight she was almost strangling him.
He threw open the window and the fresh air was blessed. He took several gulps before climbing onto the ledge. He cast a calculating eye across the distance to the tree, added the extra weight, and jumped.
It wasn't his smoothest landing, but he made it. Aoife retained her death grip on his neck as he scaled down the tree. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the police gathering at the base of the tree, weapons pointed and shouting.
He ignored them until he touched solid ground, then raised his hands as they surrounded him.
"Get down! Get on your knees!"
He complied, interlocking his hands behind his head, staring them straight in the eyes. One officer, a rookie, looked absolutely terrified when he locked eyes with Barton.
They stepped closer. "Let go of the girl! Let go of the girl!" They shouted.
Clint scowled at them. "I'm not holding her." Aoife peeked out and squeaked, hiding her face back in Clint's shoulder. Her grip tightened. "You're scaring her. Put the guns away."
The police frowned and clutched their guns tighter, but didn't move any closer. Hawkeye stayed where he was, glaring at them. "Where's her father?" he asked.
Just then, Murphy pushed through the officers. "Aoife!" he called. The little girl unlatched herself from Clint and flung herself at her father. The police immediately launched themselves on Clint. He caught Murphy's eyes for a second before Clint was shoved into the ground.
They took his bow and quiver, the rookie's eyes nearly falling out of their sockets as one speculated that he might be the elusive Hawkeye.
From there, he was paraded around the station briefly before the FBI, CIA, Interpol and a slew of other acronyms Clint didn't bother remembering interrogated him before extraditing him back to the States.
They couldn't pin any of his old kills on him, but the fact that he had a bow and arrows on him, and that the victims were killed with arrows, was too much for the courts to discount. Not to mention the body that had been left inside the burning house at the Murphy's. The trial went very fast, and ultimately, a sentence was reached.
Clint had long ago given up any interest in his life. He ran with dangerous people who could kill him in a moment's notice. He accepted that – embraced it even. He no longer cared whether he lived or died.
He realized that moment what a joke that was. He cared very much, especially as the judge announced the death sentence.