Coulson woke with a shock when a bucket of cold water splashed over his head. Reflex made him jump and try to put his hands up, but he found that he could not move them. His legs seemed to be stuck, too. Shaking the water out of his eyes, he opened them to find that he was tied to a chair in the feed storage tent. He tested the ropes for a moment and found they were tight, the knots no where in reach. There was a knife hidden in his belt buckle, but reaching that was a pipe-dream, too.
"I guess the cat's out of the bag," Chisholm's voice said from over his shoulder. Several others were present, too, circled around him, most of them holding various blunt objects; a crowbar here, a baseball bat there. A couple actually had guns in hand of disparate makes and models. One of them appeared to be Coulson's own.
Chisholm circled around and tossed the empty bucket that had clearly been holding the cold water to Coulson's feet.
"I was hopin' we could complete our little business venture before ya' found it," the archer continued, "but guess that's not ta be. So that makes me wonder; what do we do with the nosy SHIELD agent?"
"If you want my advice," Coulson said evenly, "untie me and turn yourselves in. It's really your best option."
There were a few chuckles from the assembled group.
"One ah you, all of us," Chisholm said, "I think we'll take your chances, funny man."
"What about all of SHIELD?" Coulson countered. "Because they're on their way."
"Oh yeah? How long?"
"Well, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise," Coulson replied, blithely.
Chisholm's response was to throw a vicious fist across Coulson's face. The agent felt his lip split and tasted blood in his mouth. He even saw stars for a moment. As he recovered his senses, he spit blood on the ground.
"That's it?" Coulson asked with sarcasm. "Didn't even loosen a tooth."
This earned him another blow.
"That was a little better," Coulson allowed, then spit out a tooth, "that one was fake anyway. Listen, we can sit here and go back and forth, but you should know that I've got experience with anti-interrogation. I've been through practice sessions that would already have you guys crying. And I'm betting that probably already hurt your hand."
Chisholm drove a fist into Coulson's stomach. Coulson curled in around it. Chisholm pulled his head back up so that they were looking at each other, mere inches away. "I hear talkin', but I don't hear nothin' I care about."
"Really?" Coulson asked. "A double negative? Aren't you hitting the cliches a little too hard?"
That earned him another gut shot.
"He's stallin', Buck," said one of the goons in the room, "we gotta get movin'."
Ah, so there was someone with brains in the outfit. Stalling was, in fact, what Coulson was trying to do. The longer they were dealing with him, the less time they had to get the ore to the buyer before May showed up.
Buck gave a nod, still directing a glare at Coulson. "Yeah, yer right, Frankie," he agreed, "it wasn't my first choice, since it'll bring the rest of SHIELD down on us. But he ain't gonna give us any info and we can't leave him here. We got one other thing he can be used for, though. Hey, kiddo! Get in here!"
The tent flap pulled back and another figure entered the room. "After tonight, you're gonna stop calling me that."
Coulson recognized the voice. Barton.
"Clint, you come through this with us, you'll earn that," Chisholm replied as Barton stepped up next to him. He had his bow in hand and his full quiver slung over his shoulder. "But listen, kid," Chisholm continued, "you came ta me and said you were with us, but that ain't the same as showin' it. You know that I believe you, but the rest of the guys need some proof before they agree ta divvy up another cut."
Coulson had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going. He gave a pained sigh and shook his head. "Aw, Barton," he said, with genuine regret, "thought you were better than this."
Barton gave a scoff and rolled his eyes. "What do you know about me? We met yesterday."
"I know you've had it hard," Coulson responded, "but that doesn't need to make you hard."
"Oh, god!" Barton exclaimed. "You gonna go all heart-to-heart on me, now?"
"I know you've been looking for family since your brother walked out on you," Coulson pressed, "this carnival is-"
Barton lunged forward and put one hand around Coulson's throat, pushing his head back, his other hand leaning against one of Coulson's bound ones on the armrest of the chair. "You have no right to talk about my brother!" Barton roared at him. "What the hell do you even know about it!"
Coulson was so shocked by the outburst that it took a moment to realize that something hard was being slipped into the palm of his hand, triangular and with sharp edges. An arrow head?
Baron's eyes locked onto Coulson's for a long moment. The look in the kid's eyes was intense, filled with willpower and just a hint of a clever gleam. Coulson was hard-pressed not to show any sign that he understood as he shifted the arrow head in his hand and began to nibble away at the section of rope he could reach with it, discretely.
Barton pushed on him and backed off, causing the chair to skid on the ground and rock a little bit. The extra movement gave Coulson a chance to bite into the rope a little deeper without the motion being seen. He was already half way through.
"So what do you want me to do with him, Buck?" he asked his teacher.
"Well," Buck said, "it don't make me happy to say this, what with Simon and all. But we gotta end him. Can't leave him to tell SHIELD who we are."
"What makes you think I haven't already?" Coulson asked.
Chisholm scoffed. "Ain't no way you told them everyone who's involved, already," he said, "way I see it, most of us will be able to just disappear. C'mon, Clint, pick an arrow."
"Sure," Coulson said in kind, "go ahead, Barton, do his dirty work. Someone will ID your arrow, I'm sure."
"So what?" Barton said, pulling an arrow out of his quiver and setting it to the string of his bow.
"Well, it's your choice," Coulson replied, "but you're giving up the only family you got. You can still walk away. No way I can talk you out of this?"
"Nope," Barton said, pulling back and aiming at Coulson's head. It looked for all the world like the arrow was going to go directly into his left eye.
Coulson made a show of taking a shaking, deep breath. That last amount of movement was just enough. He felt the rope on his hand snap and go slack. "Then do it," he told Barton, "I'm ready."
Barton paused for a long moment. No one in the tent moved or even seemed to breathe. The fingers on Barton's drawing hand tensed and for just an instant Coulson could see a flash of horrible, soul-drowning pain in Barton's eyes.
The arrow loosed. A sharp slash blossomed across Coulson's left cheek, like a paper cut. There was a thump and a scream from somewhere behind him, one of the other goons. In one smooth movement, Coulson pulled his hand free of the rope and felt the other bindings fall away. His other hand came free last and as it did, Coulson rolled to his feet and swung the chair around into the nearest goon.
Chaos exploded in the tent. The goon that Coulson had hit careened into one of the feed crates and then was still. The goon that Barton had shot was screaming, desperately trying to pull the arrow out of his shoulder. Chisholm and the rest of the goons made for Coulson and Barton, brandishing their various weapons.
Coulson grabbed onto the guy with the baseball bat, planting his knee just next to the goon's. He weaved aside of the swinging baseball bat and pulled on the guy's shoulder, sending him tumbling headfirst into one of the crates of ore. The agent ducked another fist that was flying at him and retrieved the baseball bat. The next guy who took a swing at him found the bat jammed in under his arm and suddenly pushing him forward. With a crack, the goon's arm was dislocated and he was deposited on the floor.
"Go!" Coulson shouted to Barton.
Barton gave a wild-eyed nod and then ran past Coulson and out the tent flap.
"You little bastard!" Chisholm shouted. From the top of one of the crates, he grabbed his own bow and arrows and took off after Barton. Coulson was too busy with the three remaining goons to do anything to stop him.
Clint heard Buck's feet pounding on the ground after him. He didn't dare look back. He didn't want to see the look in Buck's eyes; no doubt one of betrayal and rage.
As fast as he could manage, Clint made for the games section of the carnival. He pushed past several people, maybe even knocked one or two over. The crowd began to swirl in a bit of confused panic.
"Clint!" Buck's voice roared over the crowd. Then the crowd began to scream and were scattering for cover. Clint did the same, ducking behind one of the booths just before hearing a thunk in another a little ways beyond.
Clint's heart pounded in his chest as he ducked between the game booths, still hearing the enraged Buck on his tail. He couldn't believe he was doing this again. A friend, a mentor, was chasing him and trying to kill him, again! And this time, no one would care if he wound up in the hospital. No one would give one damn.
For a moment, Clint thought about just stopping, letting Buck find him and letting Buck's arrow find its mark.
Instinct had other plans, fortunately. A twang and a whistle triggered a reflex and Clint ducked through the nearest tent flap, Buck's arrow finding only air.
It was one of the back entrances to the carnival's fun house. Clint found himself face to face with his own reflection. He turned and found it in several other places; the mirror maze.
Hearing footsteps outside the tent, Clint took off through the maze in the direction he figured would give him the most options. Turning a corner, he found himself looking at his own reflection again. And then an arrow landed in his reflection's forehead, shattering the mirror.
"I'm gonna kill you, ya little traitor!" Buck roared, his voice echoing off the mirrored walls.
Clint was in motion again, ducking behind the walls desperately. He skidded to a halt when he came face-to-face with Buck and he lashed out with his bow to hit him in the face only to find a sudden hail of shattering glass. He rolled to the side just as an arrow landed in the wall where the mirror had been. Weaving through the maze, he saw flashes of himself and flashes of Buck at several turns. Desperately, he loosed arrows at several of the reflections, causing a new hail of glass all around.
And then he found his own reflection was distorted, fat and short in one mirror, tall and thin in another. He turned looking for a pathway and suddenly saw his father. Terror seized him and he found himself loosing an arrow only to have it shatter more glass. Horrified, Clint found he had shot his own distorted reflection.
He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't find the way through and he couldn't find the way out.
Suddenly, hands seized him from behind, pulling him away from the jumbled images. One hand was around his chest and the other covering his mouth. All thought and reason fled and he lashed out, trying to free himself from the grip, only to find it tighter.
"Shhh!" someone hissed in his ear. "You're all right! You're fine! It's Agent Coulson! You need to stop, you're giving away your position!"
Clint went slack and Coulson continued to whisper in his ear, somehow breaking through the haze, calming.
"All right, I'm going to let you go, but I need you to stay quiet. Understand?"
Clint gave a shaking nod and Coulson's hands loosened and released him. Clint's knees nearly gave way, but he managed to stay up and turned to look at Coulson. The agent then pulled him down into a crouch, one hand on his shoulder, demanding Clint's full focus.
"Okay, listen to me, you need to focus," Coulson said, "you're wasting ammo and leaving a trail for him to follow you. Never fire unless you're sure."
Still trying to get his breathing under control, Clint nodded.
"Where are ya, Clint?!" Buck's voice called out from somewhere a few walls away. "I'm gonna stick ya like a pig!"
Clint's head whipped around to find Buck, but Coulson moved his hand from Clint's shoulder to his head, forcing him to look back at the agent.
"Hey, hey! Eyes on me!" Coulson ordered. "Focus! Don't let him get to you. Stay quiet and stay close, and we'll get out of here, got it?"
Clint nodded again, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"All right, c'mon," Coulson said, turning toward the nearest pathway and pulling his gun from his shoulder holster. Clint followed him, keeping only a foot or so away from the agent as they moved.
They wound through the maze for a few minutes, Coulson leading the way and moving slowly. Every time Clint caught the merest glimmer of an image of Buck, Coulson's arm was already popping out, moving him back and out of the way until it was safe to move again.
"Gone to ground, huh?" Buck's voice called out. "Hiding like a little coward, now? Thought I taught you better'n that! Not gonna do you a lick ah good!"
An instant later, there was a thunk and a loud pop, like a firecracker on steroids. Clint felt the pressure from a shock wave move through the maze and a few mirrors nearby cracked.
"The hell was that?" Coulson whispered.
"He's got his trick arrows with him," Clint whispered back, "must have been one of his pyrotechnics."
"Yeah, that's probably a fair bet," Coulson said, motioning with his head toward a faint glow that was building in the direction from which the explosion had come. He led the way onward as the tent began to fill with the smell of smoke. A moment later, there was another whump that vibrated the air and cracked some more glass around them.
"God! He's gonna burn the place down!" Clint exclaimed as they continued moving. It was starting to get warm and more light was growing around them. From somewhere above, Clint saw a sudden flare. Looking toward it, he saw just above the top of a nearby mirror one of the tent's tension ropes catching fire. "Uh, Coulson..."
Coulson's head snapped around to look and saw the flame just as the rope snapped. A support stanchion began to tilt toward them and fell into one of the maze walls, sending it toppling.
"Move!" Coulson shouted, tackling Clint to the side of the wall and its looking-glass burden. Like dominoes, several more maze walls were taken down with it, fanning the flames and sending glass spraying in several directions.
An arrow stuck itself into the ground between two of Clint's fingers, just giving a sting to the little web of skin there. Clint yelped and found Coulson dragging him back to his feet. A moment later and there was a report from Coulson's weapon.
"Go! Go! Go!" the agent shouted, pushing Clint along and firing off a couple more shots from his gun.
Somewhere on the other side of the tent, another stanchion gave way and toppled more of the maze walls. Clint was a few yards in front of Coulson now as the canvas of the tent began to flutter down toward them and catch fire. As he was dodging flaming tongues of falling rope and flying shards of glass, something fell on to him from the side, knocking him to the ground and pinning him beneath it. He saw stars for a moment and coughed in the thickening smoke, trying to find a way out from under the maze wall that was now holding him.
"No more running, Clint," Buck's voice came from only a stone's throw away. He looked up and saw Buck standing amid the flames and broken glass, drawing a bead with his bow.
Footsteps charged toward him, accompanied by the sound of more gunfire. Coulson materialized near Clint and Buck ducked away and went back in motion to avoid the sudden bullets.
And then, none of that mattered. The entire situation changed in an instant.
Out of the swirling smoke and scorching flames, a woman dressed in black faded into existence behind Buck. For an instant, Clint thought the woman's head was on fire and then he realized that it was her flame-red hair. She grabbed Buck around the chest and pressed a fist to his neck. There was a blue-white spark and then Buck went limp. A moment later and both of them disappeared into the smoke. It had all happened within a single breath.
Before either Clint or Coulson could react, another tent stanchion gave way, sending the tent falling down into the space where Buck had been. It immediately kindled and burst into flames. There would be no following.
Not that he would have been able to, anyway. Clint was still pinned under the maze wall. Coulson was above him, doing what he could to keep cinders from falling into his face. Clint pushed on the maze wall, but it would not move.
"It won't come off!" he shouted around a cough. The smoke was beginning to choke them both.
"There are more on top of this one!" Coulson replied in kind, pulling a handkerchief out of a pocket and pressing it over Clint's nose and mouth. "Don't move!"
"Funny guy!" Clint bit back, sarcastically.
Coulson disappeared out of Clint's sight. The general din of rapidly disintegrating tent drowned out any sign of Coulson's efforts. Clint coughed into the handkerchief as the smoke thickened further and the temperature climbed. Breathing was difficult and the world began to swirl a little. Clint thought about just letting his eyes drift closed. He was just about to when something thick and metal slipped under the edge of the maze wall, next to him.
Coulson had returned and had the long pipe of one of the fallen tent support beams in hand. Clint could feel heat coming off of it and Coulson was holding on to the other end, his tie wrapped around one hand and another handkerchief wrapped around the other. Using the end of the pipe that was under the maze wall as a fulcrum, Coulson pushed up on the pipe and Clint felt part of the weight of the maze wall ease off of him.
"C'mon, push!" Coulson encouraged him.
Clint slammed his palms into the edge of the maze wall and pushed upward on it, lending just a little more strength to Coulson's effort. As soon as Clint felt the weight come off him enough, he wriggled out, tiny shards of glass scraping him as he went.
As soon as he was clear, Coulson released the pipe, letting the wall crash back to the ground. He grabbed Clint by the arm and hauled him up, pushing the handkerchief back over his face. Blindly, they stumbled together in the direction of an air current, hoping that it meant a way out of the inferno. Finally, after dodging scalding bits of burning canvas and crackling wood, they found their way to cool, fresh air.
The carnival was a scene of utter chaos. Several of the carnies were trying to throw water on the flames and get the carnival's animals to safety. Somewhere in the distance, in town, sirens could be heard. Someone came forward to guide Clint and Coulson away from the burning remains of the fun house tent. Clint found himself deposited on a bench in the food cart area, still coughing smoke out of his lungs and greedily sucking in gulps of air. He saw Coulson push assistance away and then he disappeared into the milling crowd.
Clint was alone again. And once again, he was watching what remained of his world burning down around him.
Coulson made his way back to the feed storage tent, hoping that fire had not spread that far yet. He had seen Chisholm's buyer amid the fire, watched her whisk him away. He could only hope against all hope that she had not also whisked away the gamma ore. If it wasn't still there, Fury was going to have him stuffed and mounted as a reminder to all other SHIELD agents that they had better follow orders and secure the top priority. Even if the ore was there, once Coulson filed his report, Fury was probably going to yell at him for leaving it and running off to save the kid.
Let him, Coulson decided, it was the right call, either way.
He skidded in the gravel around the last corner and into the tent. The goons he had taken out were still there, unconscious, sprawled out on the ground and over crates and among piles of spilled feed.
To his utter relief, the crates of ore were still right where he had left them. He popped them open and found the shielded metal boxes still inside. With a relieved sigh, he closed the crate again and sagged against it in exhaustion. He looked at his watch. May would be there in another hour or so. Then he could deal with all this. Until then, he decided, he was just going to stay sitting right there.
The next day, Carson's Carnival was closed.
The carnies were all licking their wounds and wondering what was going to happen next. It was apparent to just about everyone that the Carnival was likely finished. Between the damage done by the fire and revelation that so many of the carnies had been involved with Chisholm's little side business, they didn't have very much to make a show out of any more.
Coulson wandered through the carnival's ruin, seeing so many of the remaining carnies - the ones that were not under arrest or being held by the newly arrived SHIELD team - drifting about like zombies and trying to clean up what could be salvaged. Some of the volunteer firefighters from the town of Mason were still on hand to put out the last few hot spots make sure the area was safe.
He had already sent May on her way back to the Triskelion with the gamma ore. He didn't want it out in the field any longer than absolutely necessary. Fury had agreed with that assessment and had expedited a flight to come and pick it up. Coulson remained behind to give instructions to the team on site and transfer the rest of the investigation to them.
He had one other piece of business to attend to. Armed with a folder of records that resembled more of a scrapbook than an actual file, Coulson went seeking Clint Barton. But the kid was no where in sight. After a while, he came across an exhausted-looking Marcella Carson, sitting on the bottom stair of her office trailer with a long-cold cup of coffee. He wandered over to her and sat down next to her.
"I'm sorry about what happened," he said, sincerely.
Marcella shook her head, not meeting his gaze. "I was an idiot," she said, "I had no idea what was taking place right under my nose, this whole time. I thought we were a family. Turns out I was just getting used."
"Only by some," Coulson said, "and they've been rooted out, now. The rest, the ones who choose to stay and rebuild, they're your family."
Marcella gave a bitter laugh. "Can any of us stay, after this? Half our equipment needs to be replaced after the fire. It was a miracle that the big top didn't catch and we lost a couple of animals. With everything we have to replace, we won't be able to afford travel to our next venue."
"Maybe it's time to think about a change in format," Coulson suggested, "maybe Carson's Carnival should find a place to settle down, become one of those permanent ones you were talking about. That stability. It might attract some new blood, replace the bad blood. And you could be one of the places where individual traveling acts could come to year after year, be someone's home away from home."
"That does have a certain appeal," Marcella admitted with a sigh, "just not sure how to go about it."
Coulson pulled a piece of paper from out of the folder he was carrying. "I thought you could use a hand," he said, handing it to her, "I made some calls back home. Got some names of circus-friendly realtors and renters that the Ringling Brothers' Circus had heard from, wondering if they were going to expand out of Baraboo. One of them might have something for you."
"This the sort of thing SHIELD normally looks into?" Marcella asked, taking the paper and skimming over the information there.
"Nah," said Coulson, "just thought it would be a decent gesture. I kinda feel like I plowed your carnival under."
"No, Phil, you didn't cause this," Marcella said with a sigh, "this has been coming for a long time. Jacques was a warning shot. Buck was just the killing blow. This would have gone out of control one way or another, whether you came here or not. Did your people ever find Buck?"
"No," Coulson replied with a grim sigh, "his buyer seems to have taken an interest in keeping him in their pocket. Truth be told, I'm not sure if any punishment we could give him would be any worse. But he'll be on SHIELD's watch list from now on."
"Hmmph, he made his own bed," Marcella ground out, "he shows up at my carnival again, I'll have him strung up by his toes until I can get the cops to come. I might even let some of the others use him as a pinata for a while."
"No candy coming out of there."
"No, but it would be really satisfying." She shook her head, looking back down at her cold coffee. "Poor Clint. How that kid keeps going on in spite of everything that's happened to him, everything that keeps happening to him, I'll never know."
"Actually, I'm looking for him," Coulson said, "something I wanted to talk to him about."
"You gonna take him with you when you go?" she asked.
"I'm going to offer, yes," Coulson replied.
"Good," Marcella affirmed, "he's better than any of us. The crap he's gone through in life... it's been getting him ready for greater things. The kinda stuff normal people can't do. Just make sure you look out for him."
"It's a promise," Coulson replied.
With a faint smile, Marcella nodded her thanks. "I think I saw him headed toward the big top earlier. He likes to unwind on the trapeze when the place is empty."
"Thank you," Coulson said, getting back to his feet.
"And thank you too, Phil," Marcella said, "for looking out for my family."
Coulson gave a small smile and a nod, and then turned and made his way to the big top.
Pushing back the tent flap, he looked inside and at first blush, it looked like the tent was empty. But Coulson knew better. He looked upward and found his mark, sitting on one of the trapeze swings and staring off into space. Coulson gave a sad smile, recognizing the expression; hopelessness, uselessness. Clint Barton was reaching the end of his rope.
Coulson made his way over to the ladder and went up, sitting on the trapeze platform directly in front of Clint. The kid hadn't even moved or looked up as Coulson had made his way up.
"Nice view of the crowds up here," he said, casually.
"Yeah," Clint said with a sigh, "it was. Won't be again, though."
"So I hear," Coulson replied. There was another long pause and Coulson chose to fill it. "Found out it's your birthday, by the way. So, you know... happy eighteenth."
"It sucks," Clint said, "just like the other seventeen."
"So I've been reading," Coulson replied, holding up his folder, "you've been dealt a long string of bad hands. Father was a drunk bastard with a history of hitting his wife and got both of them killed drunk driving. Foster system treated you and your brother like garbage until you both ran away. Given what was uncovered about the child-beating bastard later, it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. Your first mentor turned out to be a thief and tried to kill you and your brother walked out on you at the same time. And now... this."
Clint gave a sigh and finally looked up to Coulson with a glare. "There a point to this, Very Special Agent Coulson? Or are you just trying to remind me that I am and always have been screwed?"
Coulson shrugged. "Just wondering what your plan is," he said.
Clint gave a disgusted chuckle, rolling his eyes skyward and then looking down. "As if I've got one."
There was another long silence between then. Coulson followed Clint's gaze all the way to the ground, then looked back up to study him for a moment.
"Wishing that net wasn't there?" Coulson asked.
Clint shook his head slowly, still not looking up. "No," he said, "glad it is. If it wasn't, I just might do it."
"Well, I'm glad that's not your plan, anyway," Coulson replied.
Clint gave a sigh and leaned back, wrapping his feet around the wires holding up the trapeze bar. He hung upside down, letting his arms dangle, his back now turned to Coulson. "Not that it's any of your damned business," he said.
"And what if I made it my business?" Coulson asked.
"I'd tell you to go to hell."
"Well, I'm making it my business."
"Then go to hell."
"I've already been," said Coulson, "it's called Ethiopia." Clint didn't respond to that at all. "I'm serious, Barton. I'm here to offer you a better hand. Maybe even a plan. Certainly, something better than swinging from a trapeze, moping, and being glad there's a net."
"I'm not moping," Clint countered.
"Yeah? What would you call it?"
"Pondering."
"Fine," said Coulson, "then ponder this. SHIELD could use you. You're fast and agile and a fantastic acrobat. Your stealth isn't bad either. And you're the best marksman I've ever seen. And you can bank on that because I've seen a lot of people who do not suck. Hell, my score is one of SHIELD's highest and you'd blow me out of the water with your eyes closed."
"I'm no one's charity case."
"I'm not offering that," Coulson replied, "SHIELD would work you, hard. We don't keep people we can't use. A little time and training, you could be one of the best we've ever seen."
Clint swung his arms, setting the trapeze in motion. When it reached the highest point of its swing, he let go with his feet and flipped, grabbing the bar with his hands and easily slipped back onto the bar like it was the seat of a swing. His eyes rested on Coulson as the trapeze began to lose momentum, its swing decreasing with each pass.
"And just what the hell makes you think I'm worth all that?" Clint asked. "I'm really supposed to believe that you see the garbage that everyone else has dumped is some kinda diamond in the rough? You are out of your futzing mind, Coulson!"
"You saved my ass last night," Coulson replied, "and it would have been a lot easier for you to put an arrow in my head right along side Chisholm and then continued on with the status quo, here."
Clint scoffed at this. "So I choose not to be a murderer and suddenly I'm a saint? I don't think so."
"No, more than that," Coulson continued, holding up his folder again, "it's how you've reacted to all of this, all the bad hands you've been dealt. Any other man might have given in, turned thief or killer or smuggler. But not you. Every single time, you've chosen to be a better man. All this bullshit around you and somehow, you've come through it all still trying to do the right thing, still hanging on by your fingernails to do it. No matter how many punches life throws at you, you still choose to do the right thing. That says a lot about a man. And that's the kind of person SHIELD needs."
Clint looked upward again, another scoff on his lips. But there was something thoughtful in his eyes. Coulson was getting through to him. "You realize that everyone I've ever supposed to have been able to count on has beat me up, tossed me aside, walked away, or tried to kill me! I'm supposed to believe that SHIELD is different? I'm supposed to believe that you're different?"
"Yeah."
"Why should I?"
Coulson shook his head with a grimace. "I don't have any ulterior motives," he said after a pause, "you say no, then that's that. It's no skin off my nose and life goes on for me and for SHIELD the same as it always has. But, you say yes, SHIELD gets one hell of a good asset. And I get to work with one of the most gifted people I've met in a long time. It's just icing on the cake that you're actually one of the good guys."
Clint looked away again, leaning his head against one of the wires holding up the bar. He didn't seem to have anything to say, so Coulson pressed on the last thing he realized must have been bothering the kid.
"And you are one of the good guys, Clint," he continued, "no matter what anyone ever says to you or does to you, no matter how many times they drag you through the mud, they can't take that. You come with me, you can make something of that. It won't be easy. And it sure as hell won't be fun. But I'm offering you a chance to take control of your life and become a... a part of something greater."
Clint still didn't look back to him. The trapeze was just barely swinging now, coming to a rest. There was another long, slow moment of silence and Coulson could swear he heard a barely suppressed sob from Clint. Coulson stood up on the platform, holding on to the ladder with one hand and holding out his other toward Clint.
"All you gotta do right now is come with me. Just give the rest of the world one more chance and I promise, you won't regret it."
There was still no movement from Clint. He seemed to be shaking, just a little. Coulson would have missed it if he hadn't been trained to read body language. The kid was terrified; of what would happen if he accepted and what would happen if he didn't.
With a sigh, Coulson dropped the hand that he was holding out. "Well," he said, beginning to climb back down the ladder, "I've got a few more things to wrap up here. I leave in an hour or so. Just think about it for a bit." He reached the ground and still Clint had not moved. "But not too long," he said as he began to make his way to the tent entrance. He was just reaching for the flap when Clint's voice floated to him out of the air.
"Coulson," the kid called, still sounding shaky. The agent turned back to look up at him and found that he still hadn't moved. "You really think I can do it? Be a part of something that isn't a shit-hole nightmare?"
"Without reservation," Coulson replied.
Yet another agonizing silence followed. Then, Clint sighed, sitting up again and looking up to the top of the tent. Then, he leaned back, his arms all the way extended.
And then, Clint let go and fell spread-eagle to the net below. He bounced up into a flip and landed on his feet to tumble toward the edge of the net. He flipped off the edge and landed on the ground perfectly on his feet.
"I'll be a pain in the ass every step of the way," Clint warned, walking toward Coulson.
"Dealt with worse," Coulson said with a shrug.
"And don't expect gratitude, because you asked for me."
Coulson scoffed. "You kidding? I'm going to work your ass. You don't call me a bastard six times a day and I won't be doing my job."
Was that actually a smile Clint was trying to hide? Coulson couldn't help it; he grinned.
"I don't know how, Coulson," Clint said, "but somehow... I got just enough left in me to give it a shot."
"Then we'll work with that," Coulson replied, still grinning, "go pack your bag. One hour, I'll be at your trailer. You're not ready, it's up to you to catch up."
Clint gave a nod and Coulson turned and left the tent. He lingered outside the flap for a moment, just long enough to hear Clint's quick, running footsteps on the gravel within as he made for the backstage entrance and the shortest path to his trailer.