Story Timeline: Mid-August 2013 Roughly a week and a half after Demons of the Mind
Author's Notes
Natasha and Ainsley visit Hawkeye's old trainer in the search for information about Barney Barton. What they discover is an unwelcome surprise.
Steve provides tea and sympathy for a distressed Clint.
Ainsley proves himself a match for Director Fury while Director Fury may know more about the psychologist's background than he does.
He could never be sure of much these days, but one thing he was certain about; Mr and Mrs Jarman from New York weren't who they said they were. They were nice, sure enough, had brought him a bottle of real good Scotch whiskey. Mrs Jarman had given him a DVD with footage of his appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1970. Where she'd found that the Good Lord only knew.
Mr Jarman used a lot of fancy words but the long and the short of it was that the couple had some big thing about the old-style circuses and carnival sideshows. Some long-winded shit about 'an authentic American cultural phenomenon'
Nice, maybe, but that meant they wanted something and the old carney wasn't sure what. Still, outside visitors were few and far between and he hadn't got anything planned this afternoon; or any time of day or night for that matter, other than not-so-slowly dying in this nursing home that smelled of piss and wet dough.
He'd spent a lifetime reading marks and these were the smart sort you played careful for the long con or left well enough alone.
Rich in the understated way that said Wealth rather than shouted Money. The man was small, slight and wiry, in a well-cut linen suit and open necked shirt. Italian shoes too, hand stitched; a watch that was probably ten times more expensive than it looked and round-rimmed glasses with thin gold frames. A Brit with a fruity voice, probably a homo but difficult to tell for sure.
The woman was what they used to call 'petite', not much more than 5'4" or 5" but fit and toned. Red haired and 1940's chic in a tailored summer pantsuit; silk, like her blouse. Looked like real diamonds set in an arrow shaped broach. He liked that, wondered if she'd picked it out special for this visit. Came across a bit like a young Katherine Hepburn. European but been in the States long enough that he couldn't place her accent. If they were married he'd bet good money it was one of those fancy 'arrangements' that allowed them to have their own fun when and with who they wanted.
They both looked like they could have stepped straight out of some old black and white movie.
And the moment they first appeared on screen, I'd think 'Spies'
He took as deep a lungful from the oxygen tank as he could manage
"So, why're a coupla rich New York folks like you out here in the asshole of nowhere visiting an old wreck like me?"
Mr Jarman smiled and poured him some more whiskey. The guy poured a good measure, that was a point in his favour.
"Mr Chisholm, you had such an unusual act. Trick archery on its own is uncommon in the circus. Combined with acrobatics and high wire work its unheard of and almost entirely undocumented. That one where you hit a bullseye with a flaming arrow while in mid-air is unique. If I hadn't seen the photographs in Carnaki's "History of the American Big Top" and the Ed Sullivan footage I would never have believed it possible."
The old man started to laugh but ended up coughing with a coarse, wet wheezing noise. He took another lungful of oxygen and a mouthful of whiskey. Hell, he didn't trust these two further than he could walk without passing out, but the fruity Brit sounded genuinely appreciative and it was kinda good to think there might still be someone out there who remembered the old Trickshot magic.
"Well if it's memories you want I got a coupla albums full sitting under the bed. If you got another bottle of this stuff in your car they're yours. Not much good to me and there's no-one I got to give them to"
Mr Jarman smiled warmly
"Mr Chisholm, for that I'll have a whole case sent down to you."
Mrs Jarman spoke, she'd been pretty quiet so far, kept glancing at the picture on top of the TV when she thought he wasn't looking.
"Did you never think of taking an apprentice? I understood that used to be quite usual, especially with a one-off act like yours."
Chisolm cleared his throat and spat into a bucket beside his chair
"'scuse me. Ain't polite in front of a lady I know, but I don't swallow too good these days" She made a graceful 'don't worry' gesture. "Did take one some years back, never worked out. That's him in the photo with me on the TV. The one you can't take your eyes off."
Hah, that surprised her
"Bring it over if you want."
She got up and fetched it for him. It was damn fine watching her move, dance training for sure but something else as well, like one of them black panthers you saw prowling in their cages.
She's dangerous
There were two people in the photo. Chisholm, dark haired and handsome in his late 40's, and a brown haired teenage boy with blue-grey eyes and a lop-sided grin. They were both in some sort of Robin Hood costumes with quivers on their backs and bows on their shoulders.
"Yeah, that's me back when I was Trickshot" He winked at them "Not bad huh? Still had the ladies lining up. That's the boy I was training. Was going to be a double act, Trickshot and Hawk. Just Hawk eventually I suppose but then he ran off…"
The old man's voice tailed off, full of regret. He was surprised to see the man pull out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes. The handkerchief was monogrammed. AWK.
Mr Jarman, my ass!
The woman was still looking intently at the photograph and Chisholm realised
"You're here about Clint, aren't you?"
Another bout of coughing caught him and 'Mr Jarman' refilled his glass and sat, waiting for the old man to settle down.
"He in some kinda trouble?"
These guys weren't cops or feds, not with those clothes. Too well-mannered to be mobsters, leastwise regular ones, unless the mob in New York or wherever they were from was being run by uptown Euro types these days. Maybe Clint had fixed up with these folks and done them out of something or robbed them, but people with the type of money they had didn't do their own dirty work. Something else was going on here
"It's about his brother, Barney" the woman admitted "we think he might be trying to hurt Clint and we want to stop him"
"That little shit?" The old man spat, contemptuously this time. "Wouldn't surprise me much. I always thought him and that Frenchie sword-swallower were up to no good."
"They said Clint had run away." Something in the way 'Mr Jarman' said it registered with Chisholm. He was being told, rather than asked.
"Yeah, how did you know?"
The woman uncrossed her ankles and sat forward
"Clint found out that Jacques Duquesne was stealing from the circus. He told Barney and was going to tell you, but Duquesne got to him first and beat him almost to death. Then he and Barney dumped him in ditch somewhere."
He tried to say something that might have been "Those Fucker's!" but it collapsed into a prolonged bout of coughing. He gestured to the table beside the couch and 'Mr Jarman' handed him his pills and a glass of water. The couple waited for the fit to subside.
"I knew I shouldn't've trusted a word they said, but I was too broke up by Clint going off to think straight for a while. Jacques was as twisted as a corkscrew and Barney was just plain bad. Something wrong about that kid"
He straightened up in his seat.
"Right. Why don't you folks tell me who you really are and what Clint is to you before I say another word."
Ainsley glanced at Tasha. The man was sharp despite his illness and they were prepared for this moment. They'd discussed this between themselves and Clint once they'd found out that Chisholm was still alive. It was a risk but Clint wanted to take it.
She opened her bag. Chisholm though for a moment she was taking out a gun but instead she placed a small plastic action figure on the table. It was one of these toys he kept seeing advertised on daytime TV; 'Avengers of New York' or some shit like that. With no grandkids to pester him for them he'd never paid much attention.
This one was a brown-haired man with a bow and wraparound shades, in a low crouching stance poised to release an arrow; one leg bent to the side, the other stretched out in front. The whole body a taut, elegant curve. He recognized the stance, with one easy move you could go into a flying somersault and land ready to shoot again. It was one of his. He'd only ever taught it to one person. He picked it up and looked at it for a long time, then he looked at Tasha. One of them toys had been a woman, he remembered, with red hair.
There were photographs as well; a tall, lean, brown haired man with blue-grey eyes and a lopsided grin. The man and woman were in some of them. The brown-haired man and a big blond dude fooling about by a pool with water pistols. They all looked relaxed and happy, like old and trusting friends.
"Is that my Clint?" He managed to ask at last.
"He calls himself Hawkeye; you taught him well, Mr Chisholm" Ainsley said, taking out his business card and handing it to Chisholm "My name's Ainsley Kerr, I work closely with Clint and the others. He's a very dear friend of mine and he would very much like to see you again if you're willing."
"Course I'm willing!" the old man choked, then he looked up at Ainsley with the wicked Trickshot glint the doctor recognized from the photos "He's banging one of you, or both of you, ain't he?"
Ainsley smiled, giving a slight shrug
"We have what you might call a very modern friendship."
Chisholm cleared his throat again and chuckled.
"Hell, I was never that bothered myself back in the day. A nice ass is a nice ass. So, what do you think I can tell you? Not seen Barney for about 10 years. Jacques left the circus when he started to get sick and went to Florida. Barney took off a couple of years after with Tina, the card reader's daughter…."
He stopped in mid-sentence and stared at them both
"Aww Fuck! He won't know about the kid, will he?"
Natasha and Ainsley looked at each other in shock and then back at Chisholm
"Are you telling us that Clint has a child?" Natasha was stunned. This was a complication no-one had anticipated. The old man nodded
"We all thought that's why he left. Tina was only 16 and Noreen kept her on a tight lead but Clint had been sniffing round her like lovesick puppy-dog, giving her presents and such. When she started showing not long after he disappeared it seemed obvious. Barney hooked up with her just before the kid was born, said he was going to be the man his brother wasn't if you can believe that crap. If you ask me, Barney wanted her for himself all along, maybe that's why he was so happy to be rid of him"
Chisholm saw the unasked question in the doctor's eyes
"It was a boy. Her Ma tried to get her to get rid of it but Tina wasn't having none of that. Insisted on keeping him. Called him Clint to spite her I think, Barney sure as hell didn't like that either. He'd just turned 7 when they left. Said they were going to Nevada, that Barney had some kinda kin there. Whether they did or not I can't rightly tell you."
There was a knock on the door. It was the care assistant who had shown them to Chisholm's room.
"Excuse me, visiting hours are just about over"
Ainsley nodded
"Thank you, we're almost ready to leave"
And I'm just about ready to have a panic attack
"So, you gonna tell him?" Chisholm asked once the nurse left. Tasha nodded
"We have to, he has a right to know" The old man thought for a moment then gestured to Ainsley
"Get the big red album out from under the bed willya?"
Ainsley handed it to him and he leafed through it, finally pulling out what he was looking for. A polaroid photograph of a pretty, red haired girl in jeans and a Mexican blouse, holding a plump baby in a bright blue romper suit.
"That's the only one I've got of Tina and the kid; figure he should have it." He looked at them both "I still got some contacts in the carney world. They can find out stuff that an outsider wouldn't get near to. I'll put out some feelers if you do one thing for me."
"What's that?" asked Natasha. Trickshot winked at her
"Give an old man a kiss from the Lady Avenger?" She bent over him and kissed him like they'd been lovers for years.
They said goodbye to the old man, promising to come back with Clint as soon as possible. Neither of them spoke as they left the nursing home and walked to Natasha's car
Ainsley enjoyed a much-needed cigarette in the afternoon sun while she sat in the car and screamed her frustration out. It would be a long drive back to New York.
He called Tony before they left, Tasha hated distractions of any sort when she was driving, arranging for Jarvis to run a search of county medical and school records to try and verify the old man's story and see what trace of the boy could be found in the systems.
If he was still alive he would be 17 now. Red hair was a recessive gene so in colouring he would probably take after the father's side. He wondered what sort of a father Clint would have been
Highly dysfunctional but there when it counted
His phone pinged as they passed Newark. It was already getting towards late evening. A boy, Clint Abel, had been born to Tina Walsh in Louisville on 8th January 1996; the place and time Chisholm had told them. No father's name listed. There were intermittent records of vaccinations and routine childhood medical treatments across the Midwest and the eastern seaboard. It would be relatively easy to correlate those with the movements of the circus.
At least someone was making sure the boy got basic medical care. Abel! Whose idea was that?
The trail went cold from the point when Chisholm said the couple had moved to Nevada. There was no record of a Clint Abel Walsh in the Nevada school or welfare system. They didn't have a surname for Clint's Aunt Adie and Tony had obviously thought better than to try and get those details from the archer just yet. No records of a Tina Walsh or a Tina Barton either; that gave Ainsley a cold chill. He hoped they had just never gone to Nevada or not stayed there long, perhaps changed their names, but the darker possibilities refused to be banished from his mind.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi…
"Are you asking for mercy or peace, Ainsley?" He must have been thinking aloud again
"We could do with a little of both I think" He lapsed back into thoughtful silence and Natasha returned her attention to the road.
###
Clint breathed hard and fast through his nose, staring at the photograph in his hands. He'd been anxious all day, worse after the phone call from Doc that Stark had taken in private. He'd known who it was from the ringtone; Tony had a different one for each of them, Ainsley's was 'Rule Britannia'. For the rest of the afternoon the billionaire's bonhomie had been forced, manic, the way it always was when he tried to pretend that bad shit hadn't just happened.
All he could think was that Trick was sicker than they'd said, that maybe he hadn't wanted to see them or didn't want to see him. Doc and Tash had got home just after 11 looking exhausted and strained. Tash asked to speak to him downstairs in his apartment, that meant it had to be bad. He could see the pain in Doc's eyes and the look that passed between him and Tony.
He remembered the Mexican blouse. Josefina the contortionist had given it to Tina as a birthday present and she thought it was the nicest thing she had, wore it for all the special occasions. She always looked real pretty in it, with her hair up and that necklace with the green stones he'd told her were emeralds. He knew the kid was his. He'd been her first and only, like she was his, and she'd told him she was late not long before he got his appointment with Duquesne and the baseball bat. He'd always thought her evil old bitch of a mother would have stuck her in a hot bath with a bottle of gin.
She'd called him Clint. Maybe deep down she knew he never woulda run out on her, that something bad had happened she could never prove. He'd been like a wounded animal after getting dragged out the ditch by those hunters, too full of hurt to do anything other than lick his wounds and bite at anyone that came near. By the time that Coulson and SHIELD had turned him into the sort of man who could go back to look they would already be gone.
Sitting there in his hands was the family that had been stolen from him.
Tash had left him to himself a little while ago. He'd promised her he'd still be there in the morning; wouldn't do anything stupid. She'd made him pinky-swear. You didn't break a pinky-swear with Tash or the docs would need to do rectal surgery to retrieve your hands before they could sew them back on.
He packed his fletching equipment in its case and put it outside the door, along with his bow-cases, quivers, laptop and, as an afterthought, the Hawkeye plushie that Thor had bought to say thanks for being there for him the night Ainsley got hurt. He placed the photo on top of the pile then closed the door. Clint walked over to the sideboard and picked up that big-ass green glass vase he really hated. He carefully tested it for weight and balance then hurled it at the mirror, screaming with the full force of his lungs.
###
Steve sat outside Clint's room, reading. He'd volunteered to keep watch and let the others get some sleep, although he doubted any of them would be having an easy night. Thor had offered to keep him company, of course, but he'd pretty much ordered him to go to bed. The big warrior had enough stuff of his own to deal with right now.
The screaming and breaking noises had stopped a while ago. Part of him wished they hadn't, they were easier to deal with than the painful sobbing that followed. Eventually that faded away too. He marked his place with a bookmark and laid the book square on the seat of the chair so it wouldn't get damaged or dirty. It was a collection of modern short stories that Dr Kerr had loaned him. Mama had taught him always to be extra careful with other people's things.
He knocked on the door. A hoarse voice from inside replied
"Watch your step. There's a bit of a mess."
Steve pushed the door open, hearing it crunch against bits of glass, plastic and wood. Clint sat in the far corner with his back to the wall. Anything in the apartment that could be broken, torn, ripped or smashed had been. He looked up as the soldier entered, eyes red-rimmed, forcing a grin.
"Hey Cap! Can I crash at yours tonight? I kinda broke my bed."
They walked together in silence down the corridor to Steve's place. Clint hadn't been in Steve's apartment for a while and it was different from how he remembered. While the soldier made them both tea he sat on the couch and looked around. The antiseptic hotel art had been cleared out, replaced by framed 1930's and 40's movie posters together with a few good quality art-prints, M C Esher mainly. He remembered there'd been an exhibition a few weeks ago, that Ainsley and Pepper had taken Cap along to. What he hadn't expected were the airplane models, a dozen or more hanging from the ceiling or sitting on display stands. There was a half completed one of a Quinjet on the table, plastic parts, brushes and paints neatly arranged beside it.
He took the tea Steve offered. Chamomile; that must be something Pepper had got him into. She was big on herbal teas and all that stuff.
"You do all these yourself, Cap?" He was impressed, the work was precise and skilful, not a brushstroke out of place.
"It's been my hobby since I was a kid." Steve arranged a couple of coasters on the table "Used to save every spare cent I had to buy one of the kits; never managed to afford more than one good one a year but Mama would always buy me one for Christmas as well. There's a couple of them up there."
On one of the shelves, two faded models of 1930s aircraft sat beside a framed photograph of a small, thin woman in a floral dress.
"Mama left everything to the museum when she died back in '68. Agent Hill helped me track down a few pieces after I moved in here." He took the photo off the shelf and handed it to Clint. The woman in the picture had the look of someone who had worked hard all her life for nothing very much but her smile was kind and there was a warmth in her eyes. He gave it back to Steve
"She looks real nice" She must have looked much like that the last time Cap saw her. For him that was not much more than 3 years ago, although she'd been dead for over 40.
The bigger man nodded, carefully wiping a few specs of dust from the glass with the sleeve of his shirt. Clint could see his chin tremble slightly
"I miss her."
Clint felt something resolve itself inside him. They'd all had the families and lives they should have had destroyed or torn away from them one way or another. He could drive himself mad chasing the ghosts of what might have been or he could accept that these broken basket cases he lived with were the only real family he'd got. He looked up at the soldier as he placed his Mama's picture back on its spot.
"I'm with you guys, Cap" Steve came out of his reverie and turned to face him "If you want to go after Barney and the boy I'll be there 100% but if you want to leave if to the field team I'm not going to go off on my own. I've had one family stolen from me, I'm not going to lose another because of that bastard."
Steve sat down beside the archer and put an arm around his shoulders. It was what he'd been hoping to hear and was glad it had come unprompted.
"We'll find your son, one way or another. I don't know what'll come after that but I promise you we'll find him for you."
Clint nodded his thanks. Steve seemed to be thinking about something.
"You off those antibiotics?"
"Yeah, for about a week" replied the archer. "Why?"
The soldier patted him on the back
"Because tomorrow night; you, me and Thor are going to take Stark up on his challenge to drink the cellar dry."
###
Ainsley deeply disliked the New York Field Office. It occupied the top three floors of a nondescript office block and had a harsh, unpleasant air to it; like the offices of a disreputable insurance company or cut-price call centre. It smelled stale and the coffee was bad. Fury asking to see him here, rather than coming to the Penthouse was intended as a clear sign of displeasure. He could sense the hostile glares some of the agents gave him.
The SHIELD Director received him in the Senior Field Agents office, Agent Hill was with him which the doctor found interesting. Normally Fury preferred to deliver his rebukes in private.
The Director stood, facing out the window although the view was far less appealing than the one from his office at the Triskelion. Ainsley sat as comfortably as he could in a metal and plastic chair on the far side of the desk.
"I take it, Dr Kerr, that you're aware of how serious an offence you've committed by possessing and disseminating highly classified information?"
Ainsley was determined to remain unfazed. Tony had told him about the Director's phone call when they got back yesterday evening. He'd been expecting it before now to be honest, although in retrospect the timing was perfect.
"Absolutely, Director Fury. As I imagine you were when you arranged for me to be provided with that information."
He noted the slight change in the Director's posture. The man was still facing out of the window but the doctor was sure he was smiling. He glanced over at Agent Hill. The woman had a good poker face but he detected a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"That's quite an assumption you're making, Doctor" Fury's voice remained resolutely unamused. Ainsley decided to go for the throat
"Nick, we both know at that level access is by need-to-know only. The one person to have unrestricted access to that file would be the Field Officer in charge of the case. As the situation involves not only the Avengers Team but also the close relative of an agent and contraband technology you would have put one of your most trusted people in charge."
He winked at Maria Hill who was now biting her lip trying not to laugh. Only Dr Kerr would have the audacity to address the SHIELD Director by his first name. She had met the doctor on just a few occasions, mainly at the Academy or the Triskelion. A lot of the senior agents mistrusted him, seeing him as frivolous, tainted by his connection to Barton, but she had taken an immediate liking to the young psychologist; sensing the strength of will that lay underneath the deceptively prissy exterior and appreciating his incisive wit. Watching him square off against Fury was like seeing a pedigree puppy challenging a junkyard dog and getting away with it.
"Continue" was all Fury said
Got you
"Either one of your senior agents is not to be trusted or he had your approval for his actions, whether explicit or implicit is really no matter. I trust your judgement enough to prefer the latter option."
He cocked his head slightly
"This was my 'defining moment' wasn't it? You wanted to see if I was willing to plunge into the heart of darkness or remain content on the outside. I suspect you also wanted to determine if my loyalties lay with SHIELD or the Avengers?"
Fury's shoulders dropped slightly and he turned around. Pulling out his wallet he removed a $50-dollar bill and handed it to the other agent.
"Your suspicion is quite correct, Dr Kerr, and you have proven your willingness and your loyalties quite clearly, as well as your abilities. We had assumed you would follow up the Jacques Duquesne lead; heading off in the direction of Buck Chisholm was an unexpected tangent. That gentleman had not figured significantly in our equations to date."
Ainsley gave the Director a withering look.
"Travelling to Florida would have attracted too much attention; besides Duquesne has developed severe dementia so his usefulness would be limited even if he were inclined to be helpful. Once we had established our bona-fides with Mr Chisholm, however, he provided some very valuable information which could have come to light earlier if he had figured in your 'equations'"
"Such as?" The acid tone of annoyance in the doctor's voice was clear to them both.
"Clint's son."
It wasn't often you got to surprise the SHIELD Director. Ainsley was going to cherish this moment. Agent Hill spoke up while her boss processed this information
"There's nothing about that in the intelligence"
The doctor shrugged
"Clint didn't know about it himself until yesterday evening. It's safe to say he took it as well as you can imagine under the circumstances."
Fury looked up from his thoughts and held out his hand to Agent Hill who passed him a tablet.
"How old would the boy be now?"
Ainsley gave the Director a questioning look
"About 17 and a half, if he's still alive. Why?"
Fury passed him the tablet.
"These pictures were sent through by a field agent in West Virginia shortly before we lost contact with him"
The pictures had been taken at a gas station by a wooded road. They showed a broad-built hard-faced man in a woollen jacket with a skinny, stern-looking, teenage boy. The boy's hair was brown but with a reddish tinge and the eyes looked bluish-grey.
The conversation continued for some time, Ainsley providing them with all the information they had gathered to date and a few other possible leads they had uncovered; advising the Director that the team needed to be assigned to some form of active duty as soon as possible, preferably one that put some physical distance between them and the case.
They'd discussed the matter at length over breakfast. It was plain that the case had become so personal and close to home they would have to defer to Fury otherwise their own lack of objectivity risked damaging the bigger investigation, even Tony had agreed eventually. Clint had been silent mostly, willing to abide by whatever the others decided. It wasn't exactly a 'fix everything with a group hug' scenario, but they had all left the table with a sense of unanimity they'd been missing for a while.
Agent Hill escorted Ainsley out and re-joined her boss as he packed up his briefcase.
"He does have a remarkable talent" she observed
Fury gave one of his rare smiles
"His grandmother was the same apparently, seems to run in the family. Professor Feldermann told me back in the '40s they nicknamed her 'The Witch'."