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 4—Choices
He woke to the sound of soft footsteps padding across the worn hardwood floor. The gloom of dusk had long since crept into the abandoned building. Clint blinked furiously against it, raking his hard grey eyes across the expanse of the room. The slight disturbance in the shadows betrayed his quarry. Both figures were still for a moment, as if gauging whether or not the other could see. With a painful slowness, Clint pulled his uninjured left arm from the gun holster on his side and raised his empty hand.
"Hey."
The hoarseness in his voice startled even him. The figure didn't even move. With a profound groan, Clint rose to his feet, raising his hands higher as the shaking barrel of a gun leveled itself at his chest.
"How's it goin'? Silence met his cautious tone as strange green eyes penetrated through Clint's developing night vision. "C'mon," he said softly. "Put that down and come where I can see ya." A snort came from the corner. An unwavering voice floated on the dusty air.
"You're not going to promise me that you won't hurt me?" A mocking, almost dangerous quality laced the words. Clint grinned wanly.
"Nah. I wouldn't want to insult the infamous Black Widow." Her gloved fingers tightened on the gun and her trembling frame straightened instantly and Clint knew she'd been faking. "Even if she's just a skinny little teenager with a bullet hole to the stomach."
The green eyes widened at his insolence. Slowly and deliberately, she stalked into the small patch of moonlight that trickled in from the window.
"Nobody speaks to me like that," she stated simply, without anger and Clint's grin grew. He lowered his hands and sunk back along the wall with a groan before gazing back at the most beautiful and most dangerous woman he'd ever seen, watching in amusement as her meek and frightened mannerisms gave way to her domineering personality. Hand still pressed to the bloody rag held to her stomach, she walked towards him with her pistol still clutched in her hand. Her hips swayed purposefully as she approached. "Tell me, little Hawk," she droned in her pleasantly raspy voice. "Why I shouldn't just shoot you now." Clint grinned.
"Now I feel important. The Black Widow knows little old me. Regardless, I have a medical kit," he gestured with his head to the black duffel in the corner. "And you won't shoot me."
"No?" Her left eyebrow rose. He thought he could pick up the faint traces of her disguised Russian accent.
"No," he said leaning back, hands behind his head. "You didn't shoot me for the ten minutes you thought I was asleep." The girl's green eyes grew wide and confused. The gun lowered to the floor. She didn't speak for the rest of the night. "The gauze is there. You'll be safe."
He then rolled onto his uninjured side and slowly drifted out into unconsciousness. When he woke, she was gone.
—Break—Break—Break—
Phil slid once more from the driver's seat of the black SUV, slamming the door with a new vigor as he strode into the NYPD building, ignoring completely the pudgy deputy at the reception desk. Through some stroke of cosmic luck, Maria pushed her way through the doors at the end of the hall, into the bullpen.
"Det. Hill," Phil called. The woman acknowledged him with a sharp nod and gestured for him to follow as she strode through another door on the opposite end of the room. Phil briskly followed.
"They found him yesterday in an alley, middle of the day. Crowds. Rush hour. I have no clue how it happened, Coulson," Maria sounded tired as she poured a cup of break room coffee into a plain white mug, chipped at the handle. "This guy is like a ghost." She slumped into a chair at a circular table.
"Not sure he's all bad though, Maria." She picked up her head and gave him an incredulous look as he sank into another plastic chair. "Think about it. Richard Taylor. Drug dealer, career felon. And I'm pretty sure he beat the kid and his wife too. The Boss. Drug lord, pimp, embezzler, and who knows what else. But the kid? The one guaranteed kill that couldn't put up a fight? Untouched." Maria sighed then frowned.
"Why are you on this case, Phil? Why are you here, why do you know so much about these guys? They're local. Better yet, why are you still here? Not to sound rude or anything…" she tacked on as an afterthought. Phil sighed and leaned forward, elbows propped on the small round table between them. He chanced on the truth.
"Because Richard Taylor worked for us."
"Undercover?" Maria fired back, seemingly unfazed by the revelation.
"No, just on SHIELD's payroll. We needed a mole in the Boss' ranks and Taylor just drew the lucky number." He looked up at the woman before him. "The Boss was involved in more than you know, Hill. He was a supplier for very bad people. People that the majority of the American population doesn't even know exist. I can't even tell you what he sent to them—just understand that it doesn't bode well for the Boss' assassin now that they're down a supplier because of him."
"So now you're looking to save this mercenary?" Her eyebrows were raised, lips tightly pressed in a firm line.
"He's just a kid, Maria," Phil said tiredly. "A 19 year old kid who's had shit luck and a horrible, awful talent that has been exploited for years. He's just as much a victim as the boy."
Maria was silent for a moment, lips pulled together in a tight line and Phil knew enough about women to recognize the cold look of fury trapped in her eyes.
"You don't care about this "victim", Agent Coulson," she spat. "You're just like every other Fed out there. You just want to use him to suit your own purpose—make your goddamn quota—and you're willing to throw Tanner Taylor away to get that. So go ahead," Maria snapped, rising and gathering loose papers. "Expunge his record. Help him. I'll just bide my time and take comfort in the fact that I'll see his face in the paper soon, after the Feds take him out when he goes rogue."
Phil watched with a defeated gaze as the most competent detective he'd ever worked with pushed through the door and off the case.
—Break—Break—Break—
Radiocomms chattered infrequently through the night as Clint lay prone on his stomach, scope pressed lightly around his eye, rifle propped up against the flat palm of his outstretched left arm. He was still as the wind kicked up a light film of dust and sprinkled it gently atop the Afghani camp below. Through the scope, Clint watched as perimeter guards stalked the grounds, the dull sheen of assault weapons catching the moonlight. He counted seventeen men, another unknown number inhabiting the crumbling building at the center of the plaza.
"Chisholm," his earpiece crackled. "Return to base."
"Yessir," he muttered before slowly inching off the ridge, traveling at a painfully slow crawl until he reached the rock wall behind, 300 yards from his vantage point. Twinges of frustration laced through his concentration—he'd never been pulled off a target before. Twenty-three goddamn targets in a record 11 months and he'd never been pulled. Silently he slipped through the crags in the rocks until he finally came upon the waiting transport on a narrow back road. The door opened and a young face leaned out. A tired grin pulled itself across his face.
"Manny," he called out, flipping on the safety and slinging his rifle across his back. "What's goin' on brother?" The Latino man grinned haphazardly and firmly shook Clint's hand.
"Nothin' much Bucky-man," Manny drawled. "Just pissed off that I gotta come pick up your dumb ass in the middle of the fuckin' night. What's up with that, man?"
"You think I got a fuckin' clue?" Clint shot back, jerking back in the seat as Manny slammed his foot down on the gas. "Welcome to the Army."
"Yeah," Manny chuckled. "Welcome to the goddamn Army."
The road sporadically gave way to craters and ditches; pockmarked earth marred by detonated IEDs and mines. The men rode in silence through these zones.
"I don't know how you do it, man," Clint flicked his grey eyes to meet the side of his friend's face.
"What you mean?"
"Just sitting out there, all alone, waiting for the go ahead to kill someone just like that." Manny shook his head.
"Well I wouldn't be able to do it up close, I think," Clint said slowly. Manny glanced sharply at him. Clint laughed softly to himself. "I've never even gone hunting before I came. Never even fired a gun.
"You mean to tell me this Army's best sniper never shot a gun before?"
"Nah," Clint said softly. "Just a bow." Before Manny could reply, the outpost came into view. The CO, 1st Lt. Eastman, was waiting. Manny let out a low whistle.
"The fuck you do man?" Clint shrugged and stepped out of the vehicle.
"Chisholm," Eastman called out in greeting. Clint snapped a salute.
"Lieutenant." Clint followed the man into a makeshift tent, lit with a gas lantern. When the Lieutenant turned around, a grim look was plastered across his face.
"You're seventeen." Clint's mind stopped along with his heart. Silence filled the tent before Clint remembered to stammer out:
"I—I'm eighteen." The older man raised an eyebrow.
"As of two weeks ago." There was another beat of silence before he added as an afterthought: "Clint Barton." Clint ran a hand through his short hair. To that, there was no smartass answer.
"You've been a huge asset to this unit." The man began. "Many of these men owe you their lives, but that doesn't erase the fact that you lied on a federal document." Eastman broke brace for a moment. "Goddamn it kid, what were you thinking? You should be in high school, not the fucking military."
"I had nowhere else to go," Clint said numbly and the truth behind that statement shook him to his core.
"You know I have no choice. The MPs will be here in the morning." The Lieutenant looked up at Clint's face. Barton wasn't even looking at him; his head was cocked to the side, ear turned to the outside.
"You hear me son?" Clint shut his eyes and held up a hand to silence the older man. All was quiet. Then Clint's eyes snapped open.
"Get DOWN!" And an RPG screamed through the tent, slamming through the canvas, and into the rock wall behind, sending a shockwave of fire and shrapnel through the camp. Clint's ears rang as he rose onto his forearms. His CO was suddenly there, pulling him up and dragging him from the burning tent. Shouts and the POP-POP-POPPING of gunfire finally came through as Clint shook off the disorientation. The Lieutenant grabbed his shoulders.
"Get high Barton. Cover us," and with that, Clint was gone. High on a rock ledge, he peered through a night vision scope and methodically picked off the ambushers one by one. Bullets slowly shifted his way, sailing into the cliff face. Clint remained motionless but for his trigger finger. A flash of pain laced through his shoulder as a bullet fragment ricocheted from the rock behind him. He stifled a yell, clenching his jaw before refocusing. He glanced through the scope in time to see an RPG hovering above. He dove from the cliff as the world exploded around him.
—Break—Break—Break—
Phil stood at the base or the Taylor's apartment building, hands loosely held at his sides. This was where it all began between the two men who'd never before met. This was the place it would all end.
"Why the fuck were you so close?" Phil muttered to himself. "You're a goddamn sniper."
"He saw something he didn't like." Phil spun around. Maria was leaning against the hood of Phil's SUV, parked crookedly against the sidewalk.
"I thought you were done with the case."
"So did I." The detective pushed herself of the vehicle and approached Phil. "I wasn't done thinking it through. Still curious I guess."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you the whole story before," Phil said softly. Maria offered him a small smile before turning back to the tall building. The sounds of midday traffic and children playing in the side streets and the bitter arguments and screams characteristic of the neighborhood enveloped the two—so out of place and unwelcomed.
"We found where he lives." Phil visibly jumped. Maria shot him a sidelong glance. "The video from the Chinese place through the alleyway behind this wreck caught his face three minutes after Taylor was shot and I followed his path on ATM footage and street cameras. I ran the recognition software myself. No one at the precinct knows." She pulled a picture out of her coat. "This is why I came back."
Phil shook it gently before glancing at the face. He was struck yet again by how young the boy was, but it was his expression that caught Phil's breath in his chest. It was a face that bespoke of torment and desperation and fear and heartbreaking loss. Thin scars around his face were barely perceptible through the grainy image, indicative of the harsh life that Phil knew he'd led. His eyes were blue and grey. Tear tracks lined the boy's face, no matter how hard it seemed he'd tucked his chin into his chest to hide them.
"He's just a kid," Phil croaked. "He's a kid." Maria nodded softly and remained silent as Phil clutched the photo. "I have to find him Maria."
"He's not your brother Phil." Instead of the rage he'd thought he'd feel Phil felt nothing.
"How did you know?"
"I do my research," Maria said sadly. "Phil Coulson, age 13 survives gang related shooting," She said, reciting the newspaper article from memory. "Your older brother wasn't so lucky."
"Danny was 19. Same as…" Phil gestured with the picture. "My mother tried to keep him from that life. But working three jobs a day, night shifts every other didn't help. Danny wasn't—wasn't the best son," Phil said clearing his throat thickly. "But he was the best brother." Maria placed her hand on his shoulder. "He looked out for me, so now I feel like I have to do the same for this kid. I doubt he's ever had anyone do that for him." Both allowed the silence to fall down upon them once more.
"The building he lived in was destroyed, Phil. The foundation collapsed one day. The investigators found the burned remains of a kid."
"Take me to the building now," Phil said, heart sinking. Maria, to her credit, said nothing as she opened the door to Phil's SUV, taking the keys from his hand, and leaving her own squad car on the pavement before driving off, flicking on the Federal issued blue lights, and weaving into the traffic.
—Break—Break—Break—
He woke with dirt in his mouth and dead men around him. Everything was eerily quiet. He carefully pushed himself from the earth and rose gingerly to his feet. It was dawn.
"Hello," he whispered, fear blossoming in his chest. A racking cough echoed from his right. Clint spun on his heel. Manny lay crumpled at the base of a destroyed Humvee, blood pouring from a gaping hole in his chest cavity. His ribcage was whiter than Clint would have thought. He sank down next to the wounded man and began tearing into his med kit.
"So…" the man wheezed. "Here we are." Clint propped Manny's head on his own outstretched thigh.
"Shut the hell up Rodriguez." Clint's hands shook as he pulled out a battle dressing and pressed it against the wound before pulling out another and tying it around his torso.
"Y'know," the man began, licking dry lips. "Clint's a fuckin' stupid name."
"You heard, huh?"Manny shrugged before coughing wetly.
"I need you to do something for me, man," Manny wheezed. "I…You gotta tell my wife I died, okay? I don't want nobody I don't know telling her."
"You're not gonna die man, Imma take care of you, okay? I'm gonna go call HQ now and they'll send a bird out, okay?" Clint grasped the man's outstretched hand.
"I can't let you do that man. You'll be arrested. They'll find you." Clint smirked and slapped the man on his shoulder.
"I won't. Never have been."Clint turned and, using the radio he pulled off the stiffening corpse of Cpl. Simmons (his name was Lee and he was 23 with a 7 month old baby girl), made contact with HQ, then signed off with the promise of a MEDEVAC in less than two hours. By the time an hour hit, Manny was unconscious and Clint was deep in thought. At 90 minutes, Clint thought he heard something outside the perimeter. At Minute 93, Clint was dragging Manny behind a mound of destroyed canvas. At Minute 99.5, after disappearing in the dark for a moment, Clint whispered to Manny "They're gonna take me man. They're gonna take me and kill me. Don't let them know who I am. Let them write Buck on my grave and you go back to your wife Manny. I'll keep them away." and Manny heard the harsh mountain language too. Gunfire peppered the earth and Manny watched as Clint raised his arms and walked out into the open. At Minute 104, Manny watched—through a slit in his cover—hostiles force Clint to his knees and a sack over his head. At Minute 108, Manny fell unconscious for 72 seconds. At Minute 108 Manny watched as Clint was hustled into a caravan of shouting men and led down the mountainside. Help came in the form of an armored Black Hawk at Minute 117.
—Break—Break—Break—
When the SUV stopped beside the roped-off remains of an apartment building, something felt distinctly wrong. Phil opened the passenger side door with a slight frown on his face and stepped out. The sun of late afternoon beat down on the pavement. Phil and Maria both approached the partition and stopped, forearms resting on the orange plastic..
"My gut's telling me something's off about this, Hill." Maria nodded.
"Me too. You know…the Boss was killed less than five blocks away," her eyes widened. "Before this building collapsed." Phil smiled slightly.
"So he's alive." Phil's eyes narrowed as he glanced from side to side until his gaze came to rest on a boarded up structure along the south side of the gaping hole. His flicked his eyes up along the face of the building. There. The boards were missing from a window on the seventh story. "And I know where."
—Break—Break—Break—
Clint swore slightly as the signs of infection finally began to manifest obviously enough for his fever ridden brain. The wound on his shoulder had begun to leak thick tears of yellow pus down his arm and chest. Red, angry streaks pulled themselves through his skin around the jagged tear. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and his legs refused to move. Weakness set in quickly. Complacency too. It was so easy to drift off and so easy to hate himself for it.
"Get up," he would whisper to himself sporadically, knowing full well that nothing would come of it. Darkness would take him unannounced and the time would spin past before he could claw through it. It was dark.
—Break—Break—Break—
It was dark. His captors always took the lantern with them when they left him bleeding, beaten, and broken. He spat out a thick glob of blood, choking on the weblike strands that dangled from his throat, reaching the stone floor below him.
"What do you want with me?" he'd push between gritted teeth, in between beatings and stabbings. "The US doesn't negotiate with terrorists." But there would be no response.
There was never a response.
"Just kill me," he began to beg. "I don't fucking care. Just kill me." But no one ever paid him any attention. They just dealt the next mound of pain.
The metal of the chair beneath him was cold. It was the cold that woke him from his unconscious stupor. A man in a suit was standing before him.
—Break—Break—Break—
A man in a suit was standing before him. Clint leapt up from the crumbled heap he'd found himself. With a jerk, he pulled out his jagged, military issued combat knife—the only weapon he could wield at that point. He dropped into a defensive crouch, knife held before him in shaking hands. The room was dark and Clint's vision was dark and the man slowly stepped into the room, hands raised in a placating gesture.
"Easy there," a voice seemed to float across the expanse of the room. "I'm not gonna hurt you." Clint snorted.
"Y'know—" he paused briefly, breathing harshly. "I could probably kill you from here…with this knife. Even…even like this."
"I don't doubt that," the voice continued, a smirk hidden in the words. "But you don't have to. Cause I'm not here to arrest you or kill you. I'm here about a job."
—Break—Break—Break—
"I'm here about a job."
Clint's weary head rose slowly, an incredulous look painted across his visage.
"A what?"
"You heard me, son. I've been following you since your escapades in Waverly. You certainly have a talent." Clint bared his teeth at the man.
"Back off. I don't want anything to do with you. Just kill me and get it over with." The man before him laughed deeply and the sound made Clint's skin crawl.
"Clinton Barton, I wouldn't dream of harming you, just as you wouldn't dream of harming the real Buck Chisholm. Or the Infamous Mr. Carson. Or even Barney Barton who left you bleeding in that tent years ago." Clint let out a harsh yell and struggled against the bonds.
"How the fuck do you know that? Who the fuck are you?" The man laughed again.
"Why, I'm your Boss young man. You work for me now. You kill for me now." Clint was silent. "What, it's not as if you're worth anything to anyone else for any other purpose Clinton. You are a killer and always have been. You have no redeeming qualities. You lied your way into the army to kill. You learned how to kill at the age of eight as you watched your brother kill your parents, oh yes I know about that too." Spittle flew from the man's mouth onto Clint's face. "You will kill for me Barton, because that is all you know how to do and you don't really want to die. You want to go on firing arrows into beating hearts and playing God from above, snuffing out whatever life suits your fancy. You will kill for me Barton, and you don't have a choice."
—Break—Break—Break—
"You have a choice, you know." The soft voice made Clint jump and clutch the knife tighter. "You don't have to life this life. You don't have to kill like this."
"I don't know how to do anything else," Clint said roughly. "It's all I've ever been good at."
"I don't think that's true."
"What do you know about anything?" Clint snapped, fury sparking deep in his chest.
"You didn't kill the boy." Clint fell silent before lowering the knife and turning to face the window.
"I'm too far gone."
"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."
—Break—Break—Break—
AN: Hey! Sorry for the late update. Like the EXTREMELY late update. Let me know what you think!