Llamas. Clint continues to annoy people.


Clint wasn't surprised that there was an audience the next morning at the range. Because he didn't feel like playing for a crowd first thing in the morning, Clint did the most boring exercises he could think of, taking his time warming up. Not able to put it off any longer, he started with his easy tricks – different angles for his bow, different angles to the target, different firing positions, that sort of thing. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard a group coming up behind him, seeing Paul leading the rest of the men he'd be working with. "Hey," he said, firing another arrow.

"Hey," Paul nodded. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah," Clint shook his head, turning around to face the group, noticing Coulson standing in the background. "You?"

"Lunch, then we were going over the mission again, few other things." Paul ordered, waiting as Clint nodded, packing up his equipment.

The following day was the same, and the night before they were supposed to leave the knock on the door that Clint had been halfway expecting came. "It's open!"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Barton." Coulson demanded as he walked in.

"All the world's a stage, yet those you see here are anything but actors, here to drrrraw you in, delight your senses, and make you forget your world for you shall be brought into ours." Clint said theatrically, not looking away from the TV. "Or something like that, it's been a while since I heard that particular opener. These guys don't need me, they just need somebody who can do the job, play along with their jokes, and then leave them to do whatever they need to do. Acting like they expect me to act is easy, and less chance of getting hurt." He finally glanced over at Coulson. "Besides, it's good training, right?"

Coulson just stood there, before turning around and opening the door. "That it is, Clint." He paused, then turned back around and pointed a finger at the archer. "Just don't pull that with me. Clear?"

"Crystal."


The back of the Quinjet was silent as it took off from the Helicarrier. "Three hours, give or take," one of the pilots called back. "We'll let you know when we're about thirty minutes out."

Clint watched as the rest of the group all seemed to fall asleep. He sat there, fingers nervously running over his bow, quiver at his feet, wondering if he'd become so used to this sort of thing that one day, he'd be the one falling asleep. A file was dropped into his lap, making him jump slightly.

"Take a look," Coulson instructed quietly. "This is some background information on a group called HYDRA; they're the ones who are running this little science experiment that we're going to go and shut down. HYDRA, and all the little groups that seem to spin off of them, are really SHIELD's biggest group of enemies and are why SHIELD was founded in the first place, after Captain America revealed how dangerous they truly were back during World War Two." He, too, crossed his arms across his chest and appeared to fall asleep as well.

Clint spent the rest of the flight reading, until one of the pilots called back "thirty minutes!" and everybody started moving. Paul and Coulson went to talk with the pilots, while the other four men went over their gear. Radar beckoned Clint over, passing him an earpiece and microphone. "Communications check."

The Quinjet landed, and Clint followed the rest of the group into the forest. Half a mile out, they paused. Paul pointed to Rabbit and Radar, who vanished into the trees. When the building was in sight, Clint started looking for good vantage points, choosing one and scrambling up into the trees.

It wasn't until he reached a good branch and started scanning the building that he realized that something didn't look right. "Problem." he murmured over the radio. "I'm seeing about ten guys with guns, all outside. Maybe more."

"Shit," Paul breathed into the radio. "Barton, how many do you think you can take out?"

Clint thought for a moment, watching the men walk around. "Five, if I'm lucky. Three for sure." He reached into his quiver for an arrow. "Say when."

"Wait one. Report, the rest of you."

"Draw 'em off, we can get explosives in place. They're around back here." Clint couldn't see Radar, but he could see Rabbit crouching in the brush, rifle in hand.

"Same here," Bill whispered.

"Alright Barton, It may get hot for you, be ready to move. Go."

Clint took a deep breath, shoving down the panic that he was about to kill people, and glanced over the pattern of the men again. Choosing one, he aimed and released the arrow, quickly grabbing a second, then a third, as he fell into a rhythm. Draw, aim, fire. He started with the men closest to the brush, aiming for their heads, hoping that they'd think that there were some natives out there. Somehow, it worked, and he was able to put down six of them before shots started being fired and the rest were killed by the others.

"Rabbit's clear." "Radar's clear." "Bill's clear."

"Alright. Barton, keep doing your thing. Rest of you, on my mark. Mark!"

Clint was prepared for the explosions, closing his eyes and holding tighter to his branch as they went off. He then listened to the radio as the five men entered the building. It took less time than he expected, but it still felt like an eternity, before Paul's voice came back over the radio. "Building is clear, all hostiles down. Coulson come in. Barton, come in with Coulson." He waited until the Quinjet was landing before sliding out of the tree.

Coulson hurried down the ramp, heading for where Paul was waiting. Clint swung in behind him, glancing around. "Report."

"You need to see this." Paul led the way inside, to a room that hadn't been on the map, stepping over bodies on the way. Clint had an idea that it would be bad, considering that the others were standing in the hall, looking pale, and avoided approaching the door. Coulson looked through the window on the door and closed his eyes. "Do you have the computers?"

"Yeah. They managed to get all the papers in there, though."

"Where are the scientists?"

"Next room. We got four of them alive."

"Alright. Grab the scientists, the computers, and then burn it." Clint hadn't heard that tone of voice from Coulson before.

"Rabbit, Barton, scientists. Radar, Bill, start on the computers. Max, go get the gas. Give me your grenades." Paul snapped out the orders. "Coulson, go back to the jet, tell them that we're leaving in 20. I'll be right there to grab the computers too."

Clint started to follow Rabbit and Bill, only to be stopped by Coulson's voice. "Barton. Come here." Coulson was speaking in a low, firm voice. "This is why we do what we do. This is what we want you to fight to prevent from ever happening. This is why we ask you to kill." He pointed at the door.

Nervously, Clint glanced through the window, and immediately wished he hadn't. He didn't have words to describe what he was seeing, just that it was something that he never wanted to see again in his life, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. "Llamas, huh?" Then, swallowing heavily, he hurried to complete his assigned task, hearing a couple grenades going off behind him.

The flight back was quiet, with the four HYDRA scientists tied up, gagged, and blindfolded, then tied into seats, each SHIELD member lost in his own thoughts. As the Quinjet landed and security guards escorted the scientists off, Paul held the rest of them back. "Go change, then we're going to debrief. I don't want to drag it out any longer than needed. 45 minutes." Their group split up then, each man heading towards his quarters.

Coulson followed Clint. "I'm going to stick with you, if that's okay?" Clint glanced over, and nodded.

As soon as the door closed behind the two men, Clint dropped his bow and quiver on the bed, and started pulling off his clothing, heading straight for the shower, mindless of the other man in the room. Coulson just sat down in the desk chair, staring at the wall. Clint closed himself in the shower, letting the water run as he leaned against the side of the stall, letting the shakes that he'd been fighting off finally come. When he felt that he could face people again, he quickly finished, wrapping a towel around his waist before heading back into the other room. Coulson didn't move, so when Clint was finished getting dressed, he went and lightly touched the other man on the shoulder. "Coulson?"

"Barton." Coulson jumped, turning to look at Clint. "Sorry. Ready?"

"Yeah." Clint tipped his head to one side. "You okay?"

Coulson stood up, straightening his jacket. "I have to keep reminding myself to never think that I've seen the limits of human depravity, and that one day I will be able to retire, secure in the knowledge that I had a role in putting an end to it all." He looked at Clint. "You?"

Clint shrugged. "Ask me again tomorrow. Right now, though, I just want to get the rest of this done with, have something to eat, then watch TV until I pass out. Hiding in my room tomorrow watching cartoons and MTV sounds good, too."

"The resiliency of youth." Coulson noted, then didn't say another word until the debriefing.

The debriefing was short, and Clint was able to mostly listen. When asked about his decisions, he threw out that he wanted to pull them away from where he could see the rest of the team, or knew they were, and his idea about native attackers. When it was pointed out that there were no natives around there, he just shrugged. "Worked, didn't it?" That got some laughs; if they were slightly hysterical, nobody said anything.

Coulson accompanied him to the mess hall, where the sight of the dinner options made Clint start to feel green. Grabbing the first salad he could see, he bolted it down, escaping back to his room.

That night, Clint woke suddenly and barely made it to the toilet in time. Splashing cold water on his face, he tried to get the sight of bloody, decimated bodies out of his mind, and the empty looks on the faces of the other...things...in that room. Scrubbing his face with a towel, he sat down in his bed, turning on the TV. It took a few hours, but he finally fell asleep again.

The next morning, he met Coulson in the mess hall. "You look...rested." Coulson said by way of greeting. "How many nightmares did you have?"

"One," Clint said, slowly starting to eat. "Just couldn't fall asleep."

"What was the nightmare about?" Coulson took a sip of coffee. He wouldn't admit it in public, but he was feeling about the same way that Clint looked – he just had more practice at hiding it.

"That...room." Clint shuddered. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to even think about zombies. Ever again."

"What about the room?" Coulson took a chance, and pressed. "If you don't want to talk about it..." he left Clint an out.

"No," Clint shook his head, breathing deeply. "I think...it may help. It was the faces. And the bodies. Then they broke through the door and started chasing us and that was about when I woke up and puked my guts out."

"Nothing about the men outside?" Coulson wondered when he'd stop learning things about the archer; it was almost refreshing to hear something that was practically a normal nightmare for any given person who watched too many zombie movies. Being surprised was a near-daily occurrence these days, and Coulson wasn't quite sure if he liked it or not.

"Not after seeing what they were protecting. Maybe if they'd just been doing stuff in a lab, or with technology, but seeing what was going on there, I only regret that I didn't get them all myself."

"Well, don't take any outrageous risks in the future, especially when you're working with a group." Coulson warned. "But it's nice to hear that, as disturbing as it may seem."

"Huzzah," Clint mimed waving a flag, raising one finger in the air and waving it back and forth, yawning. "Barton has proven, yet again, that he's completely nuts and also that he can be a cold-blooded killer."

"Barton! How's our favorite eagle-eye shooter this morning!" Bill looked, to Clint's opinion, disgustingly awake as the man slapped Clint's shoulder and sat down.

"You are too fucking awake and happy right now. Share." Clint held out his hand, as he theatrically dropped his head onto the table. "And it's not eagle-eye. It's Hawkeye."

"Hawkeye. Huh. Suits you. You do remind me of those hawks that just sit there and wait on telephone poles by the side of the road, kinda. They're mouthy little things, just like you." Bill nodded. "And my secret? I've been all night, and have probably had about three gallons of coffee, following a quite nice bender." He leaned closer to Clint, speaking in a loud whisper, "I may still be drunk. Not sure."

"Whereas the rest of us are heading off to psych in about an hour, should the rest of them even emerge from their rooms at all today." Paul groaned, dropping into his own seat next to Coulson. "Barton, Coulson, you're certainly welcome to join us. Have to say, though, damn fine job on your first op."

"That...was your first...huh?" Bill glanced between Clint and Coulson in confusion.

"Not mine, his." Coulson pointed at Clint. "What if I told you that he's been a SHIELD employee for barely six months? And I thought you knew. Oh well."

"I want to keep him even more, now." Bill pronounced firmly. "Barton, I'm going to tie you up and keep you under my bed. Don't worry, I'll change the litter box regularly."

"Like to see you try." Clint retorted. "Can't even see you being able to keep a goldfish." He took a second look at the other man, yawning. "Besides, I can take you." He dropped his head back on the table, cradled in his arms.

"He awake?" Paul leaned over. "Coulson, Psych?"

"Maybe. Me, no. But if he's not there, don't wait." Coulson leaned over the table. "Hey, Clint. Barton!" When he didn't get a response, he shook his head, standing and moving around the table.

"Nah, don't worry, I got him." Bill stood up, moving to pick up the sleeping Clint, only to be stopped by Coulson's raised hand.

"He's trained to be on a pretty thin trigger, for now. Surprised he even fell asleep out here." Coulson stood to one side, reaching out and shaking Clint's shoulder. "Barton!" He jumped back as Clint woke up and automatically reached out to grab at Coulson, falling off his seat in the process.

"Ow." Clint glared. "Do you mind? I was dreaming of the twins!"

"Might be better to sleep in a real bed, Barton. Don't want to scare the tourists." Coulson held out his hand, helping Clint stand up, then physically turning him around and pushing him towards the door. "Gentlemen." He nodded, directing Clint out of the room.

"Twins? Damn." Bill shook his head. "But if he's trained to respond like that..."

"Then he's not just a shooter." Paul nodded, gulping his coffee. "You're right. I had asked to have him assigned to our team just a couple days after I met him, was shot down before I could even finish my sentence. He's not just ops, he's an operative, in every sense of the word." Paul finished his coffee, and stood up. "It halfway makes you wonder if we're even seeing the real Clint Barton, or just a front. Go ahead and try to be friends, Bill, but don't expect that he'll be completely open with you. The only person I think he is truly himself with is Phil and one of the training agents in Manhattan, and maybe not even her. Be right back, need a refill."

Bill leaned on his elbows, head in his hands, staring at the table. He was still in that position when Paul returned. "He's just a kid, Paul. He still looks it. And they're asking him to go off and be an assassin?"

"Yes." Coulson dropped into the seat he'd been in before, reclaiming his coffee. "But you've gotten the wrong conclusions. Incidentally, that little display he just gave the two of you will get better in time, as he starts to subconsciously label places as safe. It just takes a while for some, wouldn't've happened in Manhattan." He sipped at his coffee, then reached out and picked up Paul's, swapping mugs. "SHIELD doesn't have very many operatives like he will be; there have been probably ten, fifteen over the past fifty years, simply because they're not used much. He'll probably be more security and moonlighting on teams than going at it alone. Don't be offended, either, he's pretty scared of people hurting him, likes to stay pretty closed off."

"I wouldn't!" Bill objected. "He's the first shooter since Jonas that I'd want to have on the team. The rest all agree, and that was before we even left!"

"That's very nice." Coulson gazed steadily across the table. "And I'm sure that Clint appreciates the thought as well. Want to be his friend? It'll have to be on his terms, so don't push him, don't expect him to reciprocate." He stood up, draining the mug of coffee. "And on that note, I'm heading back to bed. Paul, don't expect Clint at the psych session."

"As long as he makes it there within the next 24 hours, and gets his report done in 36, I won't have a problem. Same for you on the report, Bill, but you're going to psych with the rest of us. Changed my mind. Go get the others."


Clint woke up slowly, taking his time to stretch before climbing out of bed. Scratching the back of his neck, he rummaged in his wardrobe for clothing, before deciding that he wanted lunch. Dinner, he amended, looking at his watch. Opening his door, he had to step over a body lying in front of his door. Frowning slightly, Clint took a look at who it was, before kicking at Bill's feet. "Dude. That's creepy, you know? People'll talk." He ignored Bill's scrambling to his feet, continuing his trek to the mess hall.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Bill had caught up with Clint, and matched pace. "We just thought you were a random shooter who had done this all the time!"

"Would it have made a difference?" Clint risked a glance at the other man. "First time, seasoned veteran, whatever. It wasn't anything big." He shook his head. "Especially after seeing what was going on."

"Not that," Bill stopped, staring at Clint. "Why you're here. You're not a regular operative."

"I'm here as security and to be a shooter as needed." Clint's face could have been rock, for all the emotion he showed. "Nothing more."

"Paul said you weren't regular ops, and your reactions this morning were...surreal."

"Paul needs to shut the hell up." Clint scowled. "And you'd react, too, if you were woken up from a very nice dream by anybody other than who the dream was about." He paused. "Or a supermodel, that'd be a good alternative."

"Twins. Think I'm jealous." Bill nodded as they entered the mess hall. Gathering food, the two sat down at a table. "How'd you know twins?"

Clint eyed Bill, thinking about how much to share. "I worked in a circus for a couple years. There was this one act, twins, that did the tightrope." He grinned, remembering. "Super-flexible, too. They were always fun to watch, especially when they were talked into doing their contortionist act with their boyfriends."

Bill looked like he couldn't decide if he was jealous or sympathetic, which made Clint laugh. "They weren't single?" He slumped over, poking at his dinner. "Damn. There goes that idea that you'd introduce me."

"Nah. It was them and the weightlifters. The guys'd break anybody in half if they made moves. Look, no problem, touch, well, you'd better have a damn good reason like the end of the world. Besides, that circus is closed now, so who knows where they ended up." Clint stabbed at his food. "I'm going to the gym, wanna come?"

"Sure. Now I wanna spar with you, just because I'm curious." Bill nodded. "And hey. What did you do in the circus?"

"What do you think? Archery, of course."

Clint had just pinned Bill to the mat for the third time in a row, when he heard his name being called. Looking up, he saw Coulson. "Yeah?"

"Done making Bill feel old? You've got someplace to be."

"Can I shower first?"

"Since I'm feeling particularly generous at this point in time, I will even allow you to wear something other than work-out clothing and give you a full thirty minutes. Not that you're going anyplace special."

Coulson led Clint to Medical, and once inside, to a room marked Psych. Seeing it, Clint dug in his heels. "No way. I don't need psych. I'm not crazy. You said that you were keeping them away!"

"I also said that you'd go see them after your first mission, and it's the rules, Clint. You don't have to answer their questions if you don't want to, but I would suggest that you at least try. Talk about the mission, that's it. Understand?"

Clint scowled. "I. Don't. Want. To."

"Tough." Coulson knocked, then opened the door. "How about this. You don't go in there, I'll lock you in your room for the weekend and take away your TV, music, and books." He gave Clint a shove in the back, making the younger man stumble forwards. "Don't do any damage to people or property, and you might even get a cookie." He leaned through the door. "Doctor."

Clint heard the door shut behind him, but didn't move. "He said."

"He also said that it's the rules, Agent Barton." A young man stood up from behind a desk. "So, my name is Doctor Beeks, nice to meet you. Have a seat." He pointed at a chair. "These sorts of things are just as important as regular medical and dental visits, and are part of SHIELD requirements for anybody who goes out in the field." He sat down, picking up a file folder. "So, let's start off with the mission you just returned from. It was ugly, I've heard. What was your take?"

Clint slowly moved towards the chair, eyes darting around the room, and sat down. "I climbed a tree. I shot some men. The rest of the group shot more. We brought back some scientists. The place was burned down. That's it."

"Oh?" Clint wondered how the doctor could infuse so many questions into just the one syllable.

"Yeah." Clint sat back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I...see." The doctor raised one eyebrow, writing notes. "Tell me, you ever have nightmares?"

Clint didn't answer, just stared at the doctor.

"Agent Barton, this will be much easier if you talk to me."

"Agent Coulson said that I didn't have to talk if I didn't want to. And I don't want to."

The doctor sat back and stared at Clint. "And now I see why Agent Coulson said many, many times that I wasn't allowed to see you until after your first mission." He shook his head, then leaned forward, tapping his pen against the desk. "So, Agent Barton, let me tell you how this works. Between me and Medical, we can prevent you from doing anything but sitting around on your butt, watching TV all day. I can even work with Medical to get you some drugs that will make you very, very happy or a drooling vegetable, either way, you wouldn't be leaving your bed. You are not cleared from any mission until you are cleared by me. For me to clear you, you must talk to me and answer my questions."

"Only about the mission?" Clint asked, eyes darting around the room. "Nothing else?"

"Depends. I'll try to stay just on the mission, but I may need to ask other questions to help me understand."

"Fine. Yeah, I had a nightmare. Got chased by zombies in that one, nice change from the usual. Couldn't fall asleep at first, but that may have been because I was watching TV, then couldn't get back to sleep after a bunch of zombies tried to eat my brains. Fell asleep sitting in the mess hall, woke up, had dinner, was schooling Bill in the gym when Coulson showed up and dragged me here."

"'That one?' You have more than one? And 'the usual' suggests that you only have one other?"

Clint snorted. "Who doesn't have one that likes to stick around?"

"What is the other one about?" The doctor appeared unconcerned.

"Oh, you know, stuff. And I don't talk about it. Ever."

"You know, Agent Barton, sometimes talking things out helps."

"Hey!" Clint snapped. "You said, Coulson said, that this would be about the mission, not about fucking nightmares. I'm not talking about it, because it's in the past and won't happen again. You want to keep this on the mission?"

"Calm down, please. So you only had the one nightmare last night, nothing today? How about problems eating?"

"Wasn't too keen on the dinner options last night, bit too much tomato for my tastes, so I had a salad. Lovely breakfast this morning. I think, wasn't too awake for it. Helicarrier food is a hell of a lot better than the stuff that they offer in Manhattan, so I tried the chicken tonight. It was delicious. I even took an extra dessert."

The doctor sighed, looking at Clint. "Agent Barton, you've been here for six months, and you're acting like you've been here for six years. Do you have anybody to talk to here?"

"Coulson. I trust him." The "I don't trust you" was left hanging.

"Good. So here's the deal, Agent Barton. You talk to Agent Coulson, who may or may not talk to me if he feels that he's in over his head, and after missions you come in here and talk to me about the mission and only the mission. I will make a note to only ask about the mission, and I hope that maybe one day you will be willing to open up more to me, because I am a psychiatrist, and Agent Coulson is not, and I have the training to help people deal with mental traumas whereas he has the training to help create those mental traumas. In addition, if I feel like you're pulling something or just blowing smoke, I may or may not tell Agent Coulson, who will then be able to deal with you. Do we have a deal?"

"Sure." Clint shrugged. "And what the hell. Call me Clint."

"Clint. Thank you. So, Clint, how was it shooting those men?"

Clint suffered through the rest of the session, jumping up and bolting for the door when he heard a knock. "Thank you good bye doc!" He said, slamming it shut behind him. He stopped, staring at Coulson. "I hate you."

"That's nice. You didn't kill him, did you?"

"Didn't even put my feet on the furniture. Do I get my cookie?"

Coulson just looked at Clint, before opening the door. "Doctor, he behave himself?" Hearing the response, he nodded and shut the door. "Tomorrow. You have to write your report first. You can even use a computer, and I'll get you some examples."

Clint decided that he didn't like the mission reports, either, not after Coulson had sent it back three times with notes, corrections, and questions. The fourth attempt brought Coulson in person. "Barton, did you even look at the examples that I gave you?"

"Yeah." Clint grabbed at the paper, re-reading what he had written. "And that's all that I did. What else do you want? It's kinda hard for me to describe just exactly what I do. I see target, I shoot target. All those questions that you're asking, about distance and wind I don't even think about."

Coulson frowned slightly. "I see. I'll take this one, then, and see what the higher-ups say. You'll want to try and start thinking of that stuff, though, because people can get particular about the specifics."