Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)

Lost and Found

Chapter 2—The Resiliency of Children

His new shoes cracked on the gravelly pavement, the sound echoing through the cordoned off alleyway. He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused palm, and then dragged his hand over his tired face and eyes. God, he needed a shave. A small crowd gathered outside the garish yellow tape, rumors and speculations flowing from mouths stained with cigarette smoke and alcohol. He straightened his tie and stalked towards the scene, towards the cluster of police officers in blue, anticipating and dreading the inescapable territorial pissing match he was about to step in. He assumed the mask of the cold and indifferent federal agent, adopting the mannerisms he had been so ardently drilled in. The lead detective noticed him first, an expression of suspicion and thinly veiled disdain plastered on his face. His posture changed entirely, chest suddenly puffed out to capacity, arms folded, and head gesturing for the sergeant to turn.

"Christ fuckin' almighty," the older gentleman with a rather magnificent mustache began. "This is our fuckin' case Fed. He got here hours ago. You think ya can just walk in here and push us out of our own jurisdiction?" The sergeant's mustache quivered in anger.

"No," the man began quietly before pulling a shiny badge from his suit pocket, flipping it open. "But this does. Now gentlemen are we going to have a problem?" he asked evenly.

"Fuck yeah we're gonna have a problem!" the detective exploded. "This is our turf. We answered this call! We did all the work and you come in here and expect us to just hand everything over to you?" The suit pretended to think over the outburst. God, he felt like such a tool."

"Yes." He stated simply and it was obvious neither of the officers were expecting such an undiplomatic answer.

"Well—" the mustached sergeant began before he was cut off.

"Gentlemen, let me explain how this works. You may have jurisdiction over your beat. You may hold control over this block and the next. But the federal government holds control over every single city in the country, this shithole included. See, when we decide to give a shit about your little neighborhood, well, it becomes our jurisdiction. So quite frankly, each and every one of you works for me. If I wanted to, I could ask Shirley Temple here," he clapped the detective on the shoulder. "To go skip down to the local coffee shop to fetch me a cup and there's not a damn thing either of you could do about it. Now, I so hoped we could all get along, sing Kumbaya, exchange phone numbers and get together for a book club on Sundays, but you have managed to piss me off by just standing here, so I'm afraid that's just not gonna happen. Now, you all can have the scene back once I'm finished vetting it. Tell you what; I'll even let you keep investigating! Not just because I'm a nice guy—I'm a nice guy right?—but because I have so much faith in your incompetence that I know nothing you uncover will ever be a threat to national security. Now, have a nice day gentlemen. I'll let you know when you can have the scene back." The sergeant's face was filled with an unfathomable rage.

"What's your fucking name, I'll fucking have you reported!"

The suit smirked behind his sunglasses. He stalked past the men and, without turning tossed over his shoulder: "Name's Coulson. Special Agent Phil Coulson. Good luck contacting SHEILD. Our secretaries suck."

—Break—Break—Break—

Clint was shaking when he burst into his apartment building. The panic that had risen in his chest as he stood over Richard Taylor had not been quelled. Blood and splinters clung to the skin of his hands.

"Stupid," he whispered to himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

His hands fumbled with his keys. His door swung open and Clint melted into the doorway, disappearing into his sanctuary. Tripping over his apartment grade carpet, he fell against the kitchen counter, pulling himself to the sink. It had been less than an hour—if his panic-addled mind didn't fool him—but the blood and brain matter trapped in the cotton of his sleeve had dried. The sink was suddenly on and his hands were thrust under the stream. Pinkish water flowed down the drain. With a strangled cry, Clint tore off the black long sleeved shirt and slid down to the linoleum floor; sink still on and the cabinets catching on the knotted scar of the small of his back on the way down.

You little shit!

I'm sorry Daddy, I'm sorry!

Shut up!

Run Clint, run! Go to the barn!

Memories barraged the man. His breathing grew sporadic. With trembling hands, he clutched the sides of his head, covering his ears. Soft sobs bubbled from his lips as he rocked back and forth.

When Barney came softly into the barn, Clint almost didn't recognize him through the bruises on his face.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid."

Give me a hand up Clint? You're a real good climber, you know?

I'm sorry Barney, I didn't mean to.

Hey, quit cryin'. Just makes him mad, you know? C'mere. Don't be sorry. It's my job to protect you. You're my little bro.

I'm scared Barney.

Clint forced himself to his feet. Staggering down the hall, he approached the bathroom, weaving unsteadily. Without bothering to remove his jeans, he pushed through the curtains into the shower and pulled the faucet on. Cold water struck him with a fervor that again pulled his breath into a gasp.

Clint when you get scared, go up high. You're a real good climber, remember? No one can get you up here. Climb high and don't look down. There ain't nothing for you down below, you know? Never go down.

Clint couldn't remember how long he sat in the porcelain tub, legs outstretched, head tipped back. The water collected in his hair and in the hollows of his eye sockets. His breathing had long since evened out, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Then he sighed, droplets of water spraying from his exhaled breath. He reached up over his head and turned the shower off. For a moment, he sat in the slowly draining puddle of water before he rose silently. Grabbing a towel from the cabinet at the door, Clint dried off his dark blond hair. Numbly, he changed into dry clothes and dragged himself to the mattress that lay on the floor. His eyelids fluttered shut against the soft glow of his bedside lamp. He slept.

They were driving to church when it happened. Even at eight, Clint couldn't understand why his father felt so compelled to go to church when he never put any of it into practice. Clint and Barney sat side-by-side in the back of the small car, hands folded on their laps, not daring to fidget. Edith Barton sat stiffly in the passenger seat, pocketbook clutched in her gloved hands. She was wearing the yellow dress that Clint loved. Clint loved to believe that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Barney would then sullenly point out the bruises concealed by layers of caked on make-up.

The catalyst was something so simple. A too-heavy foot on the brakes. Clint was too busy trying to stay perfectly still that the sudden deceleration jerked him forward in his seat. His sneakered foot connected solidly with the driver's seat. A red face spun around. A meaty hand reached around an pulled the child forward in the empty divide between the driver and passenger seats. The car was too old for seatbelts. Edith was too afraid to move.

You little shit! An open palm slashed across Clint's cheek, drawing beads of blood from his lip. He was then tossed back in the seat and the car moved forward.

The car was too old for seatbelts. Clint was too afraid to cry. Edith was too afraid to move. Barney wasn't afraid anymore.

It happened so fast. Barney pulled a garden rock from underneath the seat in front of him. With all the strength he could muster, the twelve year old slammed the piece of garden stone across his father's temple. It was enough, but the stone connected twice more. Clint's and Edith's screams mingled in the air as the deadweight pressed into the gas pedal, sending the car careening forward. Edith leaned into her husband's lap and pulled on the steering wheel, desperately trying to control the weaving automobile. Barney pulled Clint onto the floor, pressing himself on top of the boy, tucking the little blond head into his chest. Clint could feel the older boy trembling.

The car smashed into the traffic post at top speed and skidded round in circles despite Edith's best attempts. Clint and Barney were tossed about. Barney was thrown out through the opposite side rear door from the impact, leaving Clint exposed. With the car's last jerk and splinter, his back erupted into a flash of white hot pain. He cried out but no one heard. After a moment of stillness, the little boy reached back and touched the small of his back. Blood welled around the shard of glass embedded in the young flesh. Black clouded his vision as he crawled into the relatively undamaged backseat.

Harold Barton lay dead upon the steering wheel, face an unrecognizable bloody mess. The coroner never thought to examine the abrasions on the man's face, automatically attributing them to a simple automobile collision. He would be remembered as an upstanding citizen in the Waverly Herald.

The last sight Clint caught before sinking into unconsciousness was bloodstained blond hair on the dashboard. His beautiful mother. Her sightless blue eyes looked back at him a she lay atop the hood of the car, thrown through the windshield with such a force that her neck was broken on impact. The grotesque hand of fate snagged her yellow dress on the jagged glass, preventing the body from rolling off the crumpled hood. The only time the pastor was correct by the Barton family was when he proclaimed Edith Barton's soul free in death.

The headlines would read: Orphans Survive Deadly Waverly Crash.

Clint would read: You can never tell, you know?

—Break—Break—Break—

Phil hadn't looked at the body for more than sixty seconds before he realized he wouldn't find any trace of the assassin on the body. He clicked his tongue in annoyance as he realized he was dealing with a professional. He rose to his feet and approached the wide-eyed CSIs. Lab rats he thought to himself as they watched him warily.

"Body's yours," he proclaimed. "Let me talk to the boy."

Tanner Taylor was the only irregularity in the profile, based solely off the fact that he was alive. The cynic in him wondered why the assassin didn't merely kill the only witness. The optimist in him hoped this meant the killer had a conscious. It was always easier to trace good intentions

Tanner was magnificently small with a pale face and a darkening bruise. Phil felt his heart clench. The boy was seated in a couch next to a female detective. She spoke to him in low tones and held his little hand. Noticing Phil's gaze, she squeezed the boy's fingers softly and rose to meet the agent. Intelligence held in her eyes exceeded that of her colleagues outside. Phil decided he would be civil. He extended a hand.

"Special Agent Phil Coulson."

"Detective Maria Hill." Her voice was dry and her handshake firm.

"Can I talk to the boy?" Maria crossed her arms over her chest, fixing Phil with a look sorely reminiscent of his mother when she caught him playing ball in the house.

"He's pretty severely traumatized Coulson."

"I'll be gentle."

"And I'll be watching." Phil inclined his head and conceded. Both adults approached the sniffling boy who looked up at them. Maria reclaimed her place beside the child on the couch. "Tanner, this is Phil. He wants to ask you some questions. You up to that?" To the surprise of both adults, the boy nodded. Phil shot the detective a look. The resiliency of children.

"Did you see the man who did this buddy?"

"Yes," came the small reply.

"What can you tell me about him?" Tanner wasn't crying anymore and that thought wrenched Phil's heart.

"He had hair like mine only longer. His eyes were blue." Phil waited. "He shot Daddy with a—with an arrow." Phil blinked but refused to let the surprise show on his face. "He was sad." Maria frowned.

"What do you mean Tanner?"

"He cried when he looked at me." Phil was about to ask a question when the apartment door was pushed open, inducing a henhouse-like commotion as the officers converged on the intruder. A man in an expensive suit stood in the doorway, an unassuming and normal figure, yet imposing all the same. Phil rose, eliminating the line of sight between Tanner and the man, but the suit didn't even seem to acknowledge the child at all.

"Who's the Fed?" His voice was gravelly and Phil didn't like it one bit.

"I'm sorry to say you're not really my type." A greasy smile crossed the man's face and with a jolt, Phil realized who he was facing.

"Richard was an associate of mine. I will be handling the investigation. Your services will no longer be needed." Phil raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"Now why do you possibly believe you can intimidate me, Mr…?" Both men knew the trailing question was merely a formality.

"Not intimidate. Just persuade."

"I'm afraid I'm not an exceptionally persuadable man. You may as well just turnaround and walk out the door now."

"All in due time Special Agent Coulson."

"You know my name. How sweet." There was a very long silence, thick and knotted. The two men stood toe to toe, both completely expressionless and perhaps the man knew he had found his match in Special Agent Phil Coulson.

"Your sarcasm is biting," he said finally, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "And it seems I am out of time. I do hope we will meet again Agent Coulson. And I do hope you'll leave me and my associates to rouse this criminal from his nest." Phil's eyes narrowed.

"Like hell." The man chuckled and turned towards the door. As he reached the entrance, he turned and locked his green eyes on Phil's blue. They were cold.

"It's a shame you couldn't find the murder weapon." Then the door was shut. A beat of silence rushed through the room as the universe caught its breath. Maria broke it.

"Who the hell was that?"

"The Boss." Without further explanation, Phil pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket and made for the door.

"Phil?" The voice was small. Phil turned back to Tanner, a question in his face. "He had a necklace." Phil silently raised an eyebrow. "Like the ones soldiers wear, you know?" A pang echoed in the agent's chest. He nodded and slipped out the door past the freshly widowed mother bursting into the apartment. He flipped open his cell phone and made a gut decision.

"Nick? It's Phil. We have a problem."

"And antagonizing the police sergeant isn't one? Goddammit Phil—"

"It wasn't random. Professional hit, Nick. It's a soldier and the Boss is looking for him." A pause. "I think we can use him, Director. Didn't kill the kid."

"Well, you'll just have to find him first."