How many people saw Captain America 2? Pretty explosive, if I do say so myself.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers.

Chapter Three

This truth drives me into madness

I know I can stop the pain

If I will it all away

-Whisper

Clint got off the bus at the airport. He had switched buses three times since he had left New York, in hopes that it would throw his stalkers off the scent.

Clint checked both of his bags before walking into the airport. His baseball cap was pulled down low over his brow and he had put his sweatshirt on underneath the jacket and pulled up the hood over the hat, officially making him unrecognizable from a distance and like your average college-age student.

It was early in the morning, and most of the people there were either employees or businessmen who traveled regularly. A few tired-looking families waited at a baggage claim, presumably waiting for a loved one to arrive.

Clint restrained a yawn. He wasn't sure the last time he had slept. He hadn't let his guard down on the plane ride or the bus ride out of fear that he was being chased, and the night before that he had gotten only a couple of hours of sleep. It wasn't the longest he had ever gone without sleep, but the lack of rest was wearing down on his energy levels. Clint usually saved the Owl Nights (as he called them) for stakeouts where he was in the same position for hours, not running around a country trying to stay alive. It wasn't often that he was the hunted, but Clint had decided that he most definitely preferred being the hunter.

At least hunters got paid.

Clint meandered down a deserted hallway, not really heading anywhere in particular. He stopped in the bathroom, and one look in the mirror revealed a tired face and bloodshot eyes, accompanied by tousled hair and a cobweb or two mixed in from his adventures in the ceiling of the last airport. Clint threw some water onto his face, waking him up. Then he got an idea.

Clint quickly left the bathroom and stalked down the hallway, back to where the newsstands and bookstores were situated. There were a few more people in the airport, heading toward their flights. Clint slipped into a promising-looking newsstand that seemed to supply more than just the news.

On his way to the magazines, Clint passed a rack of makeup. Unnoticed by anybody else, he slipped a few select things into his bag as he walked past. Clint pretended to look for an interesting magazine while he surveyed the store. He grabbed a random magazine, and picked up a black Sharpie beofre making his way over to the music section. He snatched up a pair of headphones and headed to the checkout.

There was nobody waiting in line, so Clint quickly paid for the Sharpie, magazine, and headphones. He then went to a different area of the airport and found an empty bathroom.

Clint pulled down the baby changing station, covered it in paper towels, and dumped out everything he had just purchased/stolen.

The circus had taught Clint a lot of things. It taught him how to lie, steal, cheat, walk on wires, and to not trust your own family. It also taught him how to apply makeup.

With a steady hand, Clint traced his eyes with thick black eyeliner, smudging it a little, just as he had watched the girls in the circus do before performances.

Knowing he had a limited amount of time, Clint skipped the alcohol wipes and just applied the Sharpie directly onto his forearm. With a few lines here and some shading there, a black rose slowly come to life on his skin. He let it dry and then drew a small swirly design on his neck, close to the collarbone.

The last change he made to his appearance was swiping a thin coat of black nail polish onto his finger nails, letting it dry for ten minutes before moving on. He took the headphones out of the packaging and slipped them on his head, shoving the cord into his jacket. They weren't connected to anything but to the average person, it appeared that he was listening to music, lost in his own world. Having his ears covered wasn't exactly reassuring to Clint, but he told himself that if necessary, he could read lips. Yet another thing that the circus taught him.

Clint removed any evidence of his presence and walked out of the bathroom a new person. People gave him strange looks, some of disgust, almost like they knew of the sins he had committed. Although he had to admit that he kind of enjoyed the five-foot radius people gave him. He found an information desk and—very politely—asked the lady when the next flight to Mexico was. She told him that it was in four hours and thirty-eight minutes, and that he needed to check in two hours early if it was an international flight, did he have a ticket?

Ten minutes later, Clint had a ticket to Oaxaca and directions to his terminal. He sat down at his gate and prepared to wait for the next four hours.

They were getting better. Clint had to give them that. They had managed to find him after an hour.

They came in the form of three airport security guards. Or, three agents in security guard clothing. They surrounded Clint's seat, looking imposing, oblivious to the curious looks of other travelers.

"Sir, we are going to have to ask you to come with us."

Clint looked up from his magazine and pulled off his headphones. "Sorry?"

"You need to come with us."

Clint pretended to look confused. "Is there a problem?"

"Not if you come with us," the second guard said.

"Oh, sure." Clint made a show of putting his things away and picking up his bags. He started walking and was immediately flanked by the three guards. Clint noticed that their hands seemed to conveniently stray to their gun holsters.

"So what's your excuse for chasing me this time?" he asked conversationally when they were halfway down the terminal. "I know ceilings aren't really your typical exit but you know what they say about desperate times." His cover was blown anyway, s Clint figured he could afford to try to get some information out of these creepers.

None of the guards said anything. Different moves ran through Clint's mind as he began to visualize an escape plan, but before he could actually act on any of them, he felt a sharp sting in his forearm. Almost immediately, Clint began to lose consciousness.

In a light attempt to fight, Clint kicked the legs out from under the guard to his right and slammed his head back into the face of the man to his left. The third guard caught him under his arms as he stumbled.

"Just take it easy," was the last thing Clint heard before the world fell away.

Clint woke up to a nondescript room. He was handcuffed to a metal chair and in front of him was a metal table. A security camera was situated in a high corner of the room. It looked like your typical interrogation room.

It was a depressing thought that a teenager had been in enough interrogation rooms to be able to recognize one.

The door opened to reveal a man—none other than Phil Coulson. He was carrying a few files that he slapped onto the table as he took a seat on the opposite end of the table. He fixed Clint with a steady stare.

"You look different," he said calmly, referring to Clint's patchy disguise. Clint remained silent.

And so the waiting game began.

He hadn't spoken in two hours. In fact, Phil Coulson wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Barton speak. But aside from that, Barton seemed to be content with simply glaring. What had started out as a simple observation of the man had become a staring match of wills.

Finally, Coulson decided to break the silence.

"You're a very interesting man, Hawkeye," he said, leaning back into his chair. Barton simply glared at him. "A very accomplished assassin, I understand." He opened one of the files in front of him. "Twenty-six kills in the last four months. That's quite a number." Phil had no doubt that the number was actually higher. The Strategic Homeland Division just couldn't prove it.

For once, Phil actually got a reaction. Barton raised an eyebrow. "Your point?" he asked dully.

Considering this a huge amount of progress, Phil pushed forward. "The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division is in need of your skills. This man, Carlos Hidalgo, has been on our watch list for over a year."

"What do you want me to do, ask him out on a date?" Barton sneered.

Coulson paused for a minute to give the teenager a dry look, then continued. "He's been smuggling drugs into the U.S. For years. We need him gone. I trust you understand what I mean."

Barton snorted. "I find it hard to believe that you've been chasing me for weeks to get this job done. You certainly have the resources to do it yourself."

"We do," Coulson conceded, "but as a government agency we need to have physical proof of his crimes. Unfortunately, our resources aren't that good. But if he were to accidentally, I don't know, get shot in the head, well, that's a different matter." He slid the folder across the table. "That includes all that we know about Hidalgo, where he is, what type of security he had, etc."

Barton didn't make a move to grab the folder. Instead, he looked evenly at Coulson. "I think you're forgetting something."

"Payment," Coulson replied instantly. "Name your price."

Barton didn't answer immediately. He opened the folder and scanned through the information, mentally calculating costs, potential obstacles, and the dangerous nature of the mission. Barton dropped the folder on the table and leaned back. "Forty,"

There was a slight staring contest following the number. "Very well," Coulson said in a clipped tone. "Half before, half after. Twenty thousand will be deposited in your account before tomorrow. Twenty thousand after you complete the job."

"Any time restraints?"

"As soon as possible, just as long as you do the job well and you don't get caught."

"It'll be done." Barton stood up and left the room. He grabbed his two bags that had been left by the door, untouched. His mind was reeling, but not about the job. About the fact that Coulson had seemed completely unperturbed that Barton had unlocked the handcuffs in two minutes flat.

The first thing Clint did when he found a suitable motel was get rid of the makeup and tattoos. He then went through his bag of weapons. Sure enough, they were all untouched, just as Clint had suspected. In a way, that was more worrying than the thought of having someone else touch his stuff.

Then he promptly fell asleep.

Clint estimated that he got about two solid hours of sleep before the nightmares started. Two hours of pure bliss before the screaming started.

It was the screaming that scared Clint the most. Yes, the nightmares were disturbing, but the screaming controlled him. Sometimes the victims in his dreams were screaming. Sometimes he'd wake up to the sound of his own voice and his body covered in a sheen of sweat. Sometimes he heard it and knew he was the one screaming, but when he woke up there was no sound. He would wake up with his mouth open, hand clutching at the pain in his chest, body arched in the way that only those in pain can find comforting. His body wanted to scream, needed to cry out for salvation, but his voice just wouldn't work.

But after he woke up, it didn't stop. The sounds of pain lingered in his head, resonating echoes that reached into the darkest corners of his mind. They were as difficult to deal with as a migraine, and lasted anywhere from minutes to hours.

Once, Clint had given in. He had locked the doors to his room, closed the curtains, and turned off the lights. Then he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds.

Fifty-two minutes later had found him crouching in the corner of his room, hands gripping his hair as if to ground himself. He had been dimly aware of a dull pounding in his head. A quick glance in the mirror revealed various scratches, some of which had already scabbed over. He had had no idea how they'd happened.

After that incident, Clint made sure to not let his personal demons control him. He rarely slept while on the job. He didn't stay in the same place for so long (though that was also for safety purposes). He made sure that any weapons, save for his gun, were locked in a different room before he went to bed. And when the inevitable happened, he learned to ignore the inferno inside his head. He wore sunglasses in public to hide the occasional squeezes of pain and dark circles under his eyes.

Although he had to admit, wearing shades made him feel pretty cool.

Fortunately, the torture didn't last long this time. It started with an aerial view of a mountainous range.

People were talking behind him, but Clint couldn't figure out what they were saying. He wanted to turn around and identify the speakers, but something stopped him. They got closer to the mountains.

The voices got louder and more distressed, but Clint still couldn't decipher what they were saying. He knew they were speaking English, but it was like his mind just wouldn't process anything.

"BARTON!"

THAT he could decipher. Then he realized what was happening. His hands were suddenly on the airplane controls, as the mountain loomed dangerously in front of them.

"Relax," he heard himself saying. "You don't trust me?"

Clint knew they were headed straight for the mountain, but he couldn't do anything. There were a few shouts from his teammates, and then the world exploded. The plane crashed into the hard mountain rock, instantly crumpling. The people in the plane screamed in pain and agony as their bodies broke. For some reason, fire came out of nowhere, adding to the pain. Clint felt himself falling down the side of the mountain, but before he made impact on the hard ground, he woke up to his own screams.

Clint gasped for breath. His hands clutched at the sheets, as if they were the controllers of the airplane he had just crashed. As if he could change the fate of his dead comrades.

But no, that was wrong, Clint thought. That wasn't how they died. They didn't crash into a mountain. Otherwise Clint wouldn't be having these thoughts. There had been an explosion. And there were no screams. It was an instant death for those who had had the privilege to die. For those who hadn't, it was a personal hell filled with third degree burns, scorching heat, and exhaustion. It still didn't change the fact that it was Clint's fault five honorable soldiers died.

Clint ignored the screams in his head and rolled out of bed. He stumbled to the bathroom and stripped off his dirty and sweaty clothes.

Clint stepped into the shower and turned the water on. He cursed and danced a few steps as the shower head shot out icy cold water. He didn't let himself acclimate to the temperature, though, before he started washing off all the grime of the past couple of days. He mentally erased any memories of the last job he had completed. Clint learned early into his career that pretending something never happened was the best way to deal with it. By pushing it out of his mind, Clint avoided suffering through any more mental or emotional torturethan he already did.

Clint got out of the shower and dried himself off, avoiding looking in the mirror as he did so. He glanced at the clothes lying on the floor, not wanting to put them back on. Instead, he filled up the sink with water and dumped his clothes in, swishing them around a bit. Clint grabbed the bar of soap and attempted to wash his shirt and jeans.

When the water had turned into a very pale shad of gray, Clint deemed the clothes sufficiently clean and wring them out. Then pushed the shower curtain aside and hung them up. Clint returned to the bedroom and checked the time. It was nearly one in the afternoon.

Clint turned on the news and pulled out the file on Carlos Hidalgo. As he read over the information and listened to the news anchor babble, Clint held a mental debate with himself.

Why did he agree to kill Hidalgo?

Because of he hadn't, Coulson would have continued to chase him until he was completely and utterly exausted and couldn't fight back. Then they would probably take him to a super secret lair and torture him.

Unless they worked for the government.

If they worked for the government, then he was equally screwed. Because then the army would find out that Clint wasn't actually dead then he'd probably get Court Marshalled for deserting and probably convicted of killing his team.

So face torture or a lifetime in a maximum security prison?

Pretty much.

But what if they aren't bad guys or the government?

…...

Clint decided that he wasn't getting anywhere with his personal inquisition, so he pulled his clothes down and towel dried them. Then he got out the hair dryer that the motel provided in each room and started drying his clothes.

Three quarters of an hour later, Clint checked out of his motel room. He looked perfectly calm and collected on the outside. On the inside, he was a blank slate. Every ounce of his body was focused on the job on hand.

So there's that... I really liked this chapter actually. We get a glimpse in on Clint when he's alone.

I may not update until after school is out, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't review!

-Silver out.