Hey, all! Thanks for reading the first chapter and coming back for the second!
I'm going to preface the rest of this story with a few things. Almost every Hawkeye origin story fanfic that I've run into has had Clint spend time as a contract killer. It's so common that I think the fanbase has just accepted it as canon even though there has been nothing in the MCU that I'm aware of that indicates it. There isn't even a comic book precedent of any kind of note for it, either. So I'm not doing it. Same old same old is just not how I roll and it just doesn't sound like Clint Barton to me. Every time he gets into trouble, in whatever universe he's in, he does so because he's a good guy with principles in a crappy world.
There is a piece of fanon that I am keeping, though, and that's Coulson being responsible for bringing Clint into SHIELD. Why? Because I love the guy, it's completely in character for him to take in a good, talented person who's in a lousy situation (see Skye), and the MCU needs more than the two scenes they have shared (seriously! Thor and the beginning of Avengers! That's it!).
So, anyway, if you want yet another fic about Coulson rescuing Clint from having to be a contract killer and redeeming him, you can go and read any of the other Hawkeye origin fics out there. Not to say that they're bad. There are several that are very, very good, in fact. But this is a different story.
Please enjoy and remember to leave a review! Or two! Or three!
Coulson watched his night go all to hell in just a few seconds. He, too, had trailed Lancaster to the football field. But Lancaster's contact pulling a knife and stabbing him wasn't anything the agent had been prepared for. His only option was to try to follow the dark figure in a black coat to try and find out who it was. Otherwise, Coulson had no leads to follow. He began to creep along the top most row of the grandstand to try and watch which direction the man went.
That plan was quickly interrupted, too, though, when the sound of a metal barrel rocking back and forth caused the dark figure to halt and look back. There, sprawled out on the ground, was Clint Barton, looking at the approaching man with horror. Sensibly, the kid bolted around the back of the grandstand, away from the man, but the dark figure gave chase. Quickly, Coulson poked his head over the back railing of the grandstand, getting ready to take action, lest the erstwhile teen become the figure's next victim. A scuffle began in the dark behind the grandstand as Coulson climbed over the railing. He was just about to jump down and join the fray when he saw Barton's head connect hard to a support bar of the grandstand. He crumpled to the ground, out cold, and the dark figure began to make his way toward the teen.
It was now or never, Coulson decided. Luckily, the grandstand wasn't very tall. Coulson let go and dropped on top of the dark figure, sending them both sprawling. Coulson reached for his gun a moment later, but the dark figure was on his feet first and kicked it away before he could take aim. Coulson couldn't see where it landed in the dark and didn't have time to look anyway as a fist was flying his way.
Managing to roll out of the way of the fist, Coulson sprang to his feet and took a wide stance as the dark figure came at him again. He caught the man's right upper cut on his arm and sent a right hook into his abdomen. The man took the hit, but only fell back a few steps. Coulson pressed, trying to drive the figure toward the woods, where the ground was more uneven. But the figure rolled out of the way of his attack and took off running at top speed. He was several yards away by the time Coulson had spun around to follow.
At the same moment, though, a pained moan came from behind him, near the grandstand. Barton was coming around. Coulson spared a moment to glance at Barton, then turned back to begin chasing the dark figure, but worry for the kid got the better of him.
"Dammit!" Coulson swore before turning back toward Barton to check on him, once again cursing his lack of a double.
Barton didn't look too good. He was shifting uncomfortably, but he had yet to open his eyes and didn't really seem to be aware of his surroundings. Coulson put a hand to one side of the kid's head and checked for a pulse. It was strong and steady, but there was a little bit of a trickle of blood coming from the back of the kid's head.
"Hey, you with me?" Coulson asked, softly. Barton gave a weak groan in reply. It sounded like he had tried to say something, but it came out all mush. "Hey, Barton, come on," Coulson pressed, holding the teen's head in both hands to keep him from flopping over.
Slowly, Barton's eyes flickered open, but seemed to have trouble focusing.
"M'head hurts," Barton slurred out, as if realizing it for the first time and Coulson wasn't sure if he had meant to say that out loud. His eyes began to drift shut again.
"Hey, hey, hey, no," Coulson said, giving him a bit of a shake, "don't do that, stay with me, kid."
"M'notta kid," Barton mumbled back in protest, but his eyes came open again and seemed to settle on Coulson. "Wha'happened?"
"Took a pretty hard hit to your head," Coulson replied, trying to gauge Barton's condition. He wanted to check for pupil dilation, but there just wasn't enough light. He couldn't help the kid here.
Decision made, Coulson shifted to Barton's side and pulled an arm over his shoulders. He carefully lifted him to his feet, holding him up by his waist. Barton seemed to try to get his feet under him, but he obviously wasn't going to stay there on his own. He didn't really seem to entirely understand what was happening.
"C'mon," Coulson said, "let's go get you some help."
"Yeah," Barton agreed, distantly.
It took almost ten minutes for Coulson to shuffle back across the street to the carnival with the kid in tow. Barton seemed to be doing his best to try and keep up, but Coulson was doing most of the work. The place had largely cleared out by the time they got there, but Coulson spotted a light in Marcella Carson's office trailer. Depositing Barton on the lowest stair before the doorway, he banged heavily on the door.
"Miss Carson, I need some help out here!" he called, still banging. He didn't stop banging on the door until it was jerked open and Carson appeared in the doorway, looking a little miffed. Her eyes caught sight of Barton a moment later, leaning against the railing and looking sick, and her demeanor instantly changed.
"Oh my god, Clint!" she exclaimed. "Agent Coulson, what happened?" She pushed her way past Coulson and placed herself on the stair next to Barton, her hands on his shoulders to try to steady him.
"He took a pretty hard hit to the head," Coulson said, lighting back on the gravel, in front of Barton. He took the kid's head in both hands again and checked his eyes. They wandered a little and he looked confused, but the pupils seemed to be dilating normally. "He may have a concussion. Miss Carson, I need you to call the paramedics."
She nodded and began to make her way back into the trailer, then paused and looked back at Coulson. "Agent Coulson, is Clint in any sort of trouble?"
"Ish," Coulson replied, and Marcella looked a little uncomfortable, "but he didn't do anything wrong. Please, the paramedics."
Still uncertain, Carson continued back into the trailer and a moment later, Coulson heard her speaking on the phone. He took the moment of privacy to turn his attention back to Barton.
"Hey, you with me?" he asked the kid. Barton's attention seemed to slowly settle back on him. "That was incredibly stupid. What the hell were you doing out there?"
There was a pause and Barton seemed to search for the words. "Simon," he replied finally, "had to see what he was up to. Carnies take care of their own."
Coulson gave a sigh. "Well, you just landed yourself in the middle of something crazy for your trouble," he said.
Suddenly, Barton turned away from him. Holding on to the railing for dear life, he pitched forward and lost the contents of his stomach in one, large heave. Coulson winced in sympathy as the kid continued to spit up bile for a couple heaves.
"Yeah," Coulson said, hearing the sound of sirens in the distance, "this is gonna be a rough night for you."
The sound and lights of the ambulance had brought out most of the rest of the carnies to gawk. Most of them seemed to be doing so with concern. Carson and Chisholm seemed to hover particularly close to Barton as the paramedics went through concussion protocol with the kid.
The local authorities had showed up not long after and Coulson had jumped in to identify himself. Flashing his SHIELD badge made the Sheriff and the deputy with him stand up a little straighter and shift uncomfortably. Briefly, Coulson filled them in on the situation and directed them to the high school field grandstand, advising them that they would find there the body of one Simon Lancaster.
The usual posturing of the LEOs ensued not long after. As was normally the case, they wanted to be in charge of the murder investigation. It took five minutes on a phone for the governor of Texas to be telling the Sheriff otherwise. Coulson wasn't disingenuous, though. He needed their help, after all, to process the scene. He agreed to let the Sheriff know of any findings, particularly if any of the townsfolk were in any sort of danger. The nature of what was suspected of being smuggled had to remain classified of course, but otherwise he was able to fill them in on most of the details.
Once he was certain that Barton was safe and being looked after, Coulson disappeared into Marcella Carson's office trailer to use the phone. Practically on muscle memory, he dialed into the SHIELD phone system.
"Agent Coulson, ID code X-ray-two-eight-nine-six," he said when a voice came on the line, "confirm the line is secure."
The standard crackle of noise over the line, then he was told the line was secure. He asked for Fury immediately.
"This better be good, Coulson," Fury's beleaguered voice came on the line a moment later, "it is one in the morning here and I was having a particularly good dream."
"Sorry, sir, but we've had some developments," Coulson replied, "Lancaster is dead. Murdered."
Fury gave an audible sigh. "Well isn't that just peachy," he grumbled, "our lead is gone."
"Yeah," Coulson said, "and I couldn't ID the murderer. Too dark. It looked like it was someone Lancaster knew. He had been waiting for him and they had a little chat before hand."
"The buyer?"
"I don't think so."
"Hmm," Fury said, "yeah, that jives with what Hill found."
"What's that, sir?"
"This smuggling thing with that carnival has been going on longer than we first thought," Fury replied, "once we were turned on to Lancaster's involvement, we looked a little deeper into records. The inconsistencies were better hidden, but there's evidence that contraband has been going through that carnival for a number of years before Lancaster even signed on with them."
"Meaning Lancaster wasn't the ringleader," Coulson realized, "he was just the idiot who screwed up and got our attention."
"Exactly," Fury replied, "someone else at that carnival is the person we're really after."
"And he's probably the murderer, too," Coulson agreed, "and the one who's really in contact with the buyer. I'll have to find a way to flush him out. This could get interesting."
"Coulson, why does that make it sound like there's more?" Fury's tone made it clear that he was bracing himself for the worst. Coulson gave a grimace.
"There's a complication, sir."
"What kind of complication?"
"Clint Barton, that kid I told you about before," Coulson replied, "he was following Lancaster, too. Saw the whole thing. The murderer went after him next and I had to stop him. He got a concussion, but I think he'll be all right. I have to assume that the murderer considers him a witness and wants to cover his tracks."
Fury gave a bit of a chuckle. "Well, now, who does that remind me of? You starting to see a bit of yourself in this carnie kid, Phil?"
"I'd be lying if I said no, sir. But I am concerned for his safety."
"Well," Fury said with a sigh, "do what you can, but Barton is not the priority. Finding the smuggler and recovering the gamma ore is."
"Copy that, sir," Coulson replied, trying to sound resolved, but his thoughts were still on the kid.
"Good," Fury said, "keep me informed."
The line disconnected a moment later. With a sigh, Coulson hung up the phone.
For the fourth time in the last hour, Clint was forced to look directly into the piercingly, painfully bright pen light of the paramedic named John.
"Ow," he complained, "seriously, this is torture, doc. Don't you guys take an oath or something?"
"Well, this will be the last time, Mister Barton," the paramedic assured him with a weak chuckle, "I promise."
"You said that fifteen minutes ago," Clint groused back at him.
"And the fact that you know that this time is a good sign." The thrice-be-damned pen light finally went away, leaving purple spots in Clint's vision and a throb in his head. "You'll probably have some light sensitivity for a while and maybe a few dizzy spells. But all in all, this looks like it was a pretty minor concussion."
"There, Clint, see?" Buck said as Clint's vision cleared. His mentor was sitting on the edge of the ambulance next to him. "Pays to have a hard head."
"Man, shut up," Clint responded, playfully pushing Buck away for a moment.
"Seriously, though, is he going to be all right?" Marcella asked from over the paramedic's shoulder. Clint spotted Coulson exiting the office trailer and making his way over to listen in.
"He should be," paramedic John replied to her, "he should get some rest and he'll probably need to sit out of your acts for at least a day or two. For the rest of the night, wake him up every hour and ask him some basic questions, just to make sure he doesn't deteriorate."
"Basic concussion protocol," Coulson said with a nod, then shifted his gaze back to Clint, "your sleep's gonna suck tonight. Sorry."
"I take it concussion protocol is a part of SHIELD training?" the paramedic asked the agent.
"It comes up disturbingly frequently," Coulson replied with a grimace.
Paramedic John gave a thoughtful nod. "Good," he said, "then if you're going to be sticking around, I recommend you be the one to check in on him."
"Now, Doc, I'm sure Agent Coulson has better things to do," Buck chimed in, "I can keep an eye on Clint."
"Actually, I have very little to do until I get the report from the Sheriff's office," Coulson replied, "which probably won't be until tomorrow. Besides, I need to talk to Clint about what he witnessed."
Buck was on his feet a moment later, stalking over to Coulson and getting right in his face. "Don't you think you've brought us enough trouble?" he said, accusingly. "Clint's one of ours and you come in and the next thing we know, we're calling an ambulance for him."
"Not to mention your colleague is dead," Coulson replied, barely a feather ruffled, "so unless you can point me in the direction of Simon Lancaster's killer, I'll be sticking around to see to it that Barton's kept safe."
"Yeah?" Buck snapped back. "Well, you've done a real bang-up job so far."
"It... really is for the best," paramedic John put in, tentatively, "someone familiar with concussion protocols is the best person to monitor Clint over night."
Buck whirled on the paramedic. "Whadaya know about it?" he snapped. "We're the ones who know Clint the best. We're the ones who can tell if he's actin' funny or rememberin' things wrong."
"Buck," Marcella put in, "I think this time around we-"
"Don't tell me you're gonna go along with this, Marcella!" Buck practically roared back at her. "They're complete strangers! Who are they to be tellin' us what ta do?"
Marcella straightened up and met Buck's gaze with one as biting as his own. "Well, Buck, he's a paramedic who knows about this stuff," she snapped back, indicating John, then she swept her hand to Coulson, "and he's a special agent with experience in investigations. So yeah, I am going to listen to their advice!"
"I can't be around you people right now," Buck said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He spun on his heel and stalked away toward the trailer town, muttering obscenities.
"I'm sorry about him," Marcella said with a sigh after he had left, "Buck just doesn't trust outsiders much. Never has. Especially when it comes to Clint, ever since Barney took off."
"Well, I think we can leave Clint in your hands," said John, scribbling some information on a piece of paper and handing it to Marcella, "here's the contact information for the local ER in case you run into any problems."
"Thank you," Marcella said taking it. She then made her way back over to Clint to give him a hand up. "C'mon, Hawk," she said, "why don't you spend the night in my trailer. That'll give Agent Coulson a place to go for the night, too."
"Kay," Clint replied, wobbling slightly as he came to his feet. He leaned on Marcella a little more than he would have cared to admit. "Always knew I needed a bigger trailer."
"Well! At least your snark's in tact!" Marcella replied as she led him toward her trailer. Coulson handed something to the paramedic and said something Clint couldn't hear, then followed.
Coulson's watch passed four in the morning and for the third time, he had roused Barton from sleep and asked him basic questions; his name, his age, where he was, whether he recognized Coulson. The poor kid was cranky and protested the repeated intrusions on his sleep, but put up with it none the less. This time, he had dropped back off to sleep in record time and Coulson couldn't help but pull the quilt up over his shoulders against the chill of the night.
Silently as he could, Coulson left the tiny bedroom area of the trailer and made his way back into the dimly lit living area. He was greeted by Carson handing him a hot cup of coffee.
"Any change?" she asked, still holding a cup of her own
"Nope," Coulson replied, taking the cup with a grateful nod, "he still got all the questions right and there's no delay in his answers. Some rest and he should be fine."
Carson gave a frustrated sigh and shook her head, lighting in the well-worn couch that dominated one of the trailer walls. "I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time believing that," she said, "he witnessed a murder, Agent Coulson. And the murderer is still out there. He's already killed one of my people and he's after another." She threw her free hand up and shook her head. "Clint's a tough kid, been through a lot, but this? I need to know. Just how much danger is he in? Not to mention the rest of my people."
"It's difficult to say," Coulson admitted, taking a chair next to the small kitchen table across from her, "but it is substantial. We have reason to believe the murderer has been traveling with the carnival."
Carson took a deep, unsteady breath and looked toward the ceiling, her eyes closed as she tried to get a hold of herself after that revelation.
"Agent Coulson," Marcella began, but he held up a hand.
"I think we're past that," he said, "we're watching over a sick teenager together. You've even given me coffee. I think you can call me Phil."
Marcella gave a weak smile as she got a hold of herself. "Phil," she corrected, "you have to understand, this carnival is like a family. It's a family of people who have chosen each other. Sure we have our black sheep, but we've still got each other and we don't give up on each other. The idea that one of us could kill another... it just doesn't make sense to me. I don't know how else to explain it."
"This may sound surprising, but I do understand," said Phil, "I joined SHIELD when I was nineteen. There are people there who I would trust before my own blood relatives. But you don't just have a black sheep, Marcella. There's a wolf hiding here and I need to find him. You need me to find him. Before that boy in that bed back there pays the price. Or someone else does."
Marcella didn't answer, gazing into her rapidly cooling coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup.
"How long has Clint been with the carnival?" Phil asked.
"More than seven years," she answered, her gaze shifting to the sleeping teen, "my dad was still running the place then. He and his brother appeared out of a cornfield in Iowa one night in October, shivering and alone. Barney begged us to let them go with us. And they earned their place among us, too. By all rights, dad should have called child services to come pick them up, but none of us had the heart to after we heard their story."
"What had happened?"
"When Clint was five and Barney was eight, their parents were killed in a car accident. They never talked about it much, but I could read between the lines. Their father was a real piece of work, I guess. After that, the two of them spent five years bouncing around the foster system and got nothing but grief for it. The night they came to the carnival, they had run away from their foster-father after some kind of big fight. Barney had a black eye, Clint had a bruise on his jaw. It had to be something pretty terrible for them to have run like that. My dad couldn't send them back to that, so they came with us and they were family after that and that was that."
"So what happened to Barney?" Phil asked. "Why isn't he around?"
Marcella bit her lower lip, the memory clearly making her angry. "Barney... chose not to be family any more," she said, finally, "not ours and not Clint's. He walked out on all of us after the worst night in the carnival's history." She paused, clearly having bitter thoughts. "Until tonight, anyway."
"Marcella, I understand this is hard," Phil said, "maybe dredging up stuff you don't care to think about. But do you ever remember seeing anything... different about Clint? Or his brother? Any kind of special abilities beyond... normal?"
Marcella gave him a look like he had just grown horns and shook her head. "Well, Clint's about the best archer I've ever seen," she said in confusion, "don't tell either one of them this, but I think he's surpassed Buck. But that's only because he's practiced for about eight hours a day, every day since he picked up a bow for the first time." She shook her head again. "What are you driving at?"
"It's probably nothing," Coulson said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair, "guess I just wanted to know how he got so good. SHIELD is always hearing rumors of would-be super soldiers and people with special talents. Just being thorough."
Marcella gave a laugh. "What, like he's the next Captain America or something?"
Coulson shrugged. "Well, ever since Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice in World War II, super soldiers have been the holy grail of lost science. And really, it's not like a disadvantaged orphan kid suddenly gaining special abilities and becoming something great is completely unprecedented."
"True that," Marcella agreed with a small smile, "but trust me, Clint comes by his abilities honestly. But now it's your turn, Phil. I've talked about my people and what they're like. Now I want to know just why SHIELD is hunting the wolf among my sheep."
"Fair enough," said Phil, setting aside his coffee cup on the table and resting his elbows on his knees, "I'll fill you in on what I can."
"So, just what brought you to our door in the first place? This murder only happened after you showed up."
"SHIELD has been tracking some contraband material," Phil replied, "chatter kept pointing to Simon Lancaster being a point man for the smuggling op that kept eluding us. And the communications kept coming from towns where the carnival was passing through."
"What sort of contraband?"
"The dangerous sort. And before you ask, specifics are classified, so I can't go into any detail other than that."
"So, Simon fell in with a bad crowd, smuggling something that he really shouldn't have around my people," said Marcella, "so, what's to say that the guy that killed him wasn't the contact he was trying to meet here in Mason?"
"Let's just say it's not the suspected buyer's usual MO," Phil replied, "it draws a lot less attention to proceed with the deal on the up-and-up, rather than kill the seller and steal the goods. They're not too keen on leaving a trail of bodies. Plus, we have evidence that suggests that the carnival was being used to smuggle contraband before Lancaster joined up. Lancaster's murderer is almost certainly the ringleader, but odds are good there are others involved."
Marcella gave a sigh, leaning back into the couch cushions heavily. "So basically, this is it," she mused, "one way or another Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders is probably giving its last few shows. And I thought the rise of the big, permanent circuses was bad for our business."
Phil gave a smile. "Don't have to tell me," he said, "I grew up in Wisconsin. Yearly class field trips to Baraboo through grade eight."
"Good old Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey," Marcella said with a smile, "we lost a family of acrobats to them a couple years back when we went through the region. Plus, there's one I've started hearing about up in Quebec... circle something-or-other. I hear they have some great clowns."
"You say that like it's a draw," Phil said with a snort.
"Don't like clowns, Phil?"
"I don't like clowns," Phil replied with a grimace and a shake of his head.
Marcella gave a laugh, then sobered and leaned forward on her knees, still holding her cup of coffee. She gave a sigh and pondered its contents for a moment. "So... I can either cooperate with you, let some horrible criminal activity come out and ruin us right now. Or I can do everything I can to shoo you off, pretend like nothing's wrong, and keep on going with an enterprise that's probably doomed already, running the risk of my chosen family getting hurt in the process."
"Sounds like a pretty bleak choice, when you put it that way," Phil admitted.
"Yeah, but it's not really a choice at all, is it?" Marcella said, casting her gaze back toward the sleeping Clint for a moment. "I have to protect my family." She looked back to Phil, meeting his eyes and giving a nod. "You have my cooperation."
"Barton, hey, Barton, wake up."
The voice was back again, bothering him. All he wanted to do was sleep. Why couldn't the guy leave him alone? He gave a groan of protest, still holding the covers under his chin, and turned away from the voice.
"C'mon, Barton, I mean it," Coulson pressed, shaking his shoulder, "rise and shine."
"Clint Barton. Seventeen. I'm with Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders in Mason, Texas. You're very, very Special Agent Coulson. And it's been an hour. I'm going back to sleep."
"You're right on all counts except the last," Coulson replied, "which you would probably have gotten right if you had bothered to open your eyes and see the sun is up. C'mon, it's almost nine."
"Huh?" Clint mumbled, prying his eyes open to sunlight filtering through the thin drapes on the windows of Marcella's trailer. He squinted and rubbing his eyes against the stab of pain it brought. "Thought you were supposed to wake me up every hour. It was four AM last time."
"I did," Coulson replied, "you're fine. Decided to let you get some actual sleep for a few hours. How's your head?"
"Futzing hurts," Clint said, pushing back the covers and levering himself into a sitting position.
"Figured as much," said Coulson, handing Clint an unmarked bottle that rattled and a glass of water, "take two of these every four hours or so until the headache's gone."
Clint eyed the bottle suspiciously. "This gonna wipe my memory or somethin', secret agent man?"
Coulson wrinkled his brow, giving Clint an incredulous look. "What? Hell no! I need your memory in tact. It's acetaminophen with caffeine, for migraines. Besides, if SHIELD could do that, you probably wouldn't know we exist. We'd probably be fronting as a phone company or something."
Clint allowed as much and gave a nod in agreement, twisting the bottle open and downing two of the capsules with a swallow of water.
"While those kick in," Coulson went on, "I need to ask you some questions?"
"Thought I already answered 'em," Clint replied back, the corner of his mouth turning up a little.
"You really are snarky," Coulson replied, with a raised eyebrow, "I need to know about last night. Starting with why you were there in the first place."
Clint gave a sigh. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?" he asked.
"Yeah," Coulson replied, flatly, "someone tried to kill you last night. I'm thinking it's about the worst kind of trouble you can be in."
Clint gave a derisive snort. "Wouldn't be the first time," he mumbled to himself, bitterly, looking away.
"What'd you say?" Coulson asked.
"Nothin', never mind," Clint replied, looking back to the agent and giving another sigh. "I just wanted to see what Simon was into, all right? I saw you wanderin' around with the Geiger counter yesterday and I was worried it was something dangerous. Guess I got my answer. So, all right, fine, I'll keep my hands off, I'm out."
Coulson shook his head with a grimace. "I don't think so," he said, "you saw the whole thing. That makes you the next one on the murderer's list."
"But I didn't see anything," Clint protested.
"He doesn't know that," Coulson countered, "and murderers don't usually like to take chances, especially when organized crime is involved."
"Great," Clint carped, flopping back onto his pillow so he was looking up at the ceiling, "now I'm wanted by the mob. That's just peachy."
"Run through what you saw for me."
"Simon, creepy guy, murder, a lot of dark, and then lots of nice, bright stars when he hit me."
"All right, look," Coulson said, sternly, "maybe you don't care that your life is in danger, but there are plenty of people who do."
"Like who?" Clint shot back, bitterly.
"Like Marcella Carson, for one," Coulson replied, "and your friend, Buck. And if that's still not enough for you to take this seriously, then think about the danger they're in. Because if the murderer is willing to kill you, he'll be willing to kill anyone who stumbles into this."
Clint rolled a sidelong glance at Coulson. "Plus there's the radiation thing, too."
"You really shouldn't know that, but that's on me," Coulson admitted, "you're sneakier than I took you for. I didn't even know you were at the football field until you knocked into that trash can. Takes some doing."
There was a long pause and Clint didn't say anything. He weighed his options for a moment. Just exactly how much deeper did he want to get in with Special Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD?
"I didn't see his face," he said finally, sitting up again, "it's was too dark. But he was taller than me, by about six or seven inches, maybe. And built like a brick wall, hit like a mule."
"Yeah," Coulson agreed, "that part I got. Did you hear him say anything to Lancaster before he killed him?"
Clint shook his head. "Naw," he said, "I could hear that he was whispering, but I couldn't make out anything. From how freaked out Simon sounded, it seemed like they were arguing."
"Any idea what they were arguing about?"
"Whether or not to off you," Clint said without missing a beat and then watched Coulson for a reaction. The agent's face didn't give any sort of indication that this was a surprise. "What? Nothing?"
"Job hazard," Coulson said, off-handedly, "so the murderer wanted Lancaster to kill me, then."
"No, it was the other way. Simon wanted to and the guy was talking him out of... wait...why would he want to kill me for stumbling into it and not you for investigating it?"
For a moment, Coulson looked surprised at that question, both his eyebrows raising just a fraction before he could police his face back into a normal, neutral expression. Clint might not have spotted it if he wasn't already trying to guess at the agent's motivations and thoughts.
"At a guess," Coulson said, "because of the notice it would bring. Take you out, he's just gotten rid of a witness. Take me out, I don't report in to SHIELD, the director sends a whole team to start looking around. That's the last thing he needs."
"Not feelin' the love, here," Clint groused.
"Not my job," Coulson replied, "and you asked."
"Fair point," Clint said with a roll of his eyes. "So what do we do now?"
"We don't do anything," Coulson said, standing up, "I continue the investigation and you keep me advised of your whereabouts. Check in with me every hour and I'll do what I can to keep you safe." He turned toward the door of the trailer and made to leave.
"Wait, wait," Clint said, shooting to his feet, "you can't just cut me out of this. I'm involved now."
"Exactly," Coulson replied turning back to him for a moment, "way more involved than you should be. The best way to keep you safe is to convince the killer that you're not a threat to him. And the best way to do that is if you don't learn any more."
"So, what? I just go about my day, knowing that one of the other carnies is a murderer?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Coulson said with a rather smug-looking tilt of his head. He opened the door of the trailer and disappeared outside. Clint followed him and watched as the agent continued to calmly walk from the trailer.
No way, Clint decided. There was no way he was going to just go about his business. Someone wanted him dead and that was just not okay by him. He wasn't going to leave his safety in the hands of some complete stranger in a suit, tie, and dorky aviator sunglasses. No, he was going to do whatever he could to find out what was going on and who was behind it.
It was just that he didn't have any idea how.