An Accidental Hero

Part II

Clint has the routine memorized. His mark is more predictable than most, and he's grateful for that, especially considering that he was only given three days to work with and he's rapidly approaching his deadline. He doesn't even need to spare a glance at his watch to know that it's approximately 2030, which means that his mark will head upstairs for his nightly shower in 30 minutes.

Because he knows that he has time—his mark is right in the middle of watching some crappy reality show and is clearly hooked—Clint digs in his pocket and retrieves the picture. He can barely make out his family's faces in the inky blackness that envelopes his perch, but that doesn't matter. He doesn't need to; he sees them in his mind. Sucking in a deep breath, he wonders what they're doing now; did they treat themselves to Steak 'N Shake for lunch? Are they on their way to one of Cooper's t-ball games? Did Laura ever finish that painting she was working on when he left on his last mission?

Do they really miss him?

You know they do, Clint thinks bitterly, shifting his weight because his right arm is starting to go numb. But they understand why you can't go home, and they're probably better off without you anyway. After stuffing the picture back into his pocket, Clint returns his undivided attention back to his mark. It begins to rain, and he ignores it. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but he doesn't pay it any mind. The clock starts ticking the moment the reality show's credits start rolling.

Clint watches as his mark gets up, turns off the television and disappears from sight, and he moves his finger onto the trigger and waits for him to reemerge in his bedroom window. Right when the mark does, the sky lights up with a flash of lightning, momentarily blinding him because he was so accustomed to the darkness. Instinctually flattening himself against the rooftop to stay in the shadows, Clint mutters a curse and blinks to clear the spots from his vision. Fortunately, his mark is still framed in the window, and his finger curls around the trigger and…

The bedroom door flies open and a boy, who can't be even five years old, rushes in, clearly terrified of the storm based on the tears in his eyes. A lump forms in Clint's throat as he watches his mark kneel to the ground and lift the boy into his arms. He holds him close for a few seconds and then whispers something in his ear, which makes the boy laugh through his tears. Finally, he deposits the boy on his bed and flips on the television to a cartoon channel.

Blinking against the suddenly driving rain, Clint lets his hand fall away from the trigger and takes a faltering breath. He can't do it. Not now. There was a reason he wanted to wait until nighttime, even though doing so put him at greater risk of missing his evac; he had to make sure his mark's son was nowhere nearby. So Clint waits for his mark to send his son back to his room. He waits even after the clock hits 2215, the time he was supposed to get to his evac point. He waits even though he's soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. He waits, but it never happens.

At 2300, the storm subsides. But the boy remains curled up against his father as a cartoon flickers on the television, watched only by the sniper on the rooftop across the street. Eventually, Clint heaves a sigh and pulls the picture back out of his pocket. It only makes him feel further away from his family than he did before.

"Damn it, Barton, you better have a good explanation for this," his latest handler—Copperton, almost like the sunscreen, if he remembers correctly—barks as soon as he calls him from the burner phone he purchased at a sketchy local electronics store as soon as it opened. "This is the third time you've missed your evac and…"

"For the record, I missed the second one by three minutes," Clint cuts in, resentfully. "And you haven't even heard me out yet."

Copperton sighs a little too dramatically for Clint's liking. And then he stabs him right in the back. "Quite honestly, Barton, I don't think anybody cares to hear your opinion these days."

"Oh yeah?" Clint snaps as a blind panic starts to overtake him because he knows where this conversation is going. "Well, you're responsible for me. And, let me tell ya something, if you fuck this up because you refuse to listen to me, Fury'll have your head. Ya know that?"

Copperton snickers. In no time at all, his snicker morphs into hysterical laughter, the son of a bitch, like all of this is somehow funny when it's not. "What's so funny?" Clint demands, hardly aware that he's clenching his right fist so hard his nails are digging into his palm.

The bastard manages to compose himself enough to say: "You honestly think Fury cares about you? He's just trying to get a few more missions out of you before…"

Copperton doesn't get to finish that thought—somebody starts yelling at him in the background, her voice too muffled for Clint to make out—but he doesn't have to. Clint knows what he was about to say, and he sags under the weight of it. Slumping against the dishwasher in the safe house's kitchen that he's been pacing, he lets his chin fall to his chest and focuses on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He has to calm down. He can't do this right now. But, in the back of his mind, he hears the god taunting him, confirming every single one of his deepest insecurities, and he's about to scream when the phone crackles to life and he hears Hill order, "Barton, tell me what's happening."

After taking a deep breath, he does just that. Hill doesn't interrupt him, and that's almost worse somehow. Her silence is downright oppressive, and he's already weighed down enough as it is. By the end, Clint feels a powerful urge to apologize so he does without even stopping to think about what he's saying: "I'm…I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for this to happen. Any of it. I… I just couldn't do it, okay? And don't make me your priority 'cause I'll be…I'll be fine; I'll get it done and hide out for…"

"Clint," Hill finally interrupts, and Clint's relieved, though he's a little off put by her use of his first name, "it isn't your fault. None of what happened is your fault, you hear me? And you can't let assholes like Copperton get you down. That's an order, Barton."

Clint knows that Hill isn't talking about this botched mission. "Yes, ma'am," he mumbles, directing his gaze to the floor even though Hill isn't there to look in his eyes and see that he doesn't mean it.

Apparently, she picked up on it anyway. "Barton, let me ask you something. Would Fury have let you back into the field if he didn't trust you?"

Maybe, Clint almost says, Copperton's words now ringing in his ears like the god's did moments ago, but he bites his lip and answers, "No, ma'am."

"Right, he wouldn't." Based on her forcefulness, Hill sensed his uncertainty. "We trust you. We know it wasn't your fault. It's not like we trained you for gods and magic. And, Barton, I know you resisted. You want me to believe the world's greatest marksman would send a bullet right into a bulletproof vest?"

"I'm not at my best with a gun," Clint inadvertently whispers what he told the god when he challenged him about that incident, his vision blurring with the tears that he's never let fall. He fights them back because he doesn't plan to start now.

"Is that what you think happened?" Hill asks quietly, and Clint only silently curses himself. Clearly taking his lack of response as a yes, she continues, "Clint, you have to stop doing this to yourself. You need to focus on all the people who trust you, who care about you, and ask yourself what they think of you. And you want to know what I think? You didn't miss when you shot Fury in the chest. You didn't miss when you just grazed me before you stole the truck. You didn't miss. And Loki…he punished you for it, didn't he?"

Clint's voice is rough when he replies, "I plan on finishing the job tonight. Don't worry about sending an evac right away. I can take care of myself."

To her credit, Hill simply says, the concern in her voice almost completely masked, "Don't doubt it, but I'll push to get you an evac tonight. Same time as last night, alright?"

"Yes, ma'am," Clint mutters, and he hangs up before she can say anything else. He needs to get some sleep before tonight, if he can.

The world stops spinning but is still glazed in sickening blue. Clint remains on his knees, panting, paralyzed, at his master's mercy. The animal part of him wants to clutch his head and howl in pain, but his master demands that he be silent now. Earlier, he knows, the god had wanted him to scream, but he had not given him that satisfaction.

"You have heart," the god reflects to himself as the scepter flares again. On cue, the world turns sideways. Clint manages to momentarily squeeze his eyes shut against the pain, but the god pries them open up again. "You will look at me when I am speaking to you."

"Yes, sir," Clint replies, but his gaze stays directed at the floor because he knows that the god does not truly mean what he says. He wants him to look at the floor, as he will never deserve to look his master in the eyes. He is nothing—a failed circus archer, a reluctant but capable criminal, a soulless sniper—and he was born only to kneel. He has always kneeled, first for his father, then for the swordsman and the archer, finally for Fury. And he always will kneel, of that the god is certain.

"Yes, you have heart," the god continues his monologue, circling Clint, the scepter glowing ominously. "That is why I chose you, little hawk. Because I demand loyalty and only those with heart can give this gift so freely, with so little regard for themselves. Yet, you have defied me. You share your loyalty with others, even after I have enlightened you. So, I will ask you one last time. Where does the hawk keep its nest, and how many call it home?"

Clint shudders, and the world sways violently without the scepter flaring. His mouth begins to form their names (Laura, Cooper, Lila) and their location (outskirts of Iowa City, on a farm), but the words die before they reach his lips. He manages to bite his tongue, flooding his mouth with blood, and that gives him enough clarity to respond, "That's classified, sir."

The scepter is now against his chest, and Clint knows what his master intends. A servant who does not obey is of no use, no value. Finally, the god shakes his head and heaves a sigh. "Well, it looks as if I have no use for you know, little hawk. It is a shame. You could have been of such help to me."

Clint's mouth starts to say their names and…

Clint wakes screaming, his head cradled in his arms. Panicked, he pulls his knife and hurls it into the shadows, where the god must be lurking even now. It takes him a minute to remember where he is (safe house, just outside of Kiel) and what he's doing there (mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., take out an arms dealer connected to Hydra, reach evac point by 2215). When he's come to that realization, he hauls himself to his feet and sweeps the house, stopping only to pull the knife from the living room wall. Even though he knows that the house is clear, he can't stay there. The walls are closing in on him, and he can't breathe. He slept in his clothes so he's ready to go; nobody will even know that he was there (except for the slit in the wall, but who will check?).

Without a second thought, he grabs the bag containing his rifle and starts on his way to his perch. A glance at his watch tells him that he was asleep for less two hours. It hasn't stopped him yet and won't this time.

Hope you enjoyed the latest installment! Just a reminder that this story can be viewed as a stand alone or as a prequel to "Hide & Seek." I won't be finishing "Hide & Seek" until I complete this story, and one more I have planned on Clint's origin story, because they will give clues as to who the intruder was.

Anyway, I'd really love to hear your thoughts. And don't worry, the next chapter will be action-packed. Until next time. ~Moore12