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"I got one headed west!" Clint shouted into his comm, taking off after the masked thief over the rooftops. "He has a backpack--looks filled to the brim."
"Copy," Steve replied, slightly breathless, and then grunted. Clint chuckled; whoever just punched Cap was so out of their league. "Widow and Ironman just went after the third, heading south. I've got this one under control."
Clint had no doubt; they'd only been working as a team for about eight months, after the clusterfuck that was the Battle of Manhattan, but that had definitely been enough time for Clint to see all that his teammates had to offer and to know that when one of them said I've got this, they meant it. Besides, it was Captain America--the thief didn't stand a chance.
Since he didn't have to worry about Steve, and definitely not about Natasha, Clint focused on the man he was following. He was fast, Clint could give him that, and the archer couldn't help be curious about the bow strapped to the man's back. He hadn't used it once during the fight, but it was quite the odd thing to carry around if it was just a prop.
Clint jumped, soaring onto the next roof, and the thief glanced back at him before picking up speed. It was a mistake though; in the split second he'd looked at Clint, he'd been unaware of a small pipe running across the length of the roof, and he tripped on it, tumbling to the ground. Clint smirked, and immediately caught up to the man.
The punch the thief threw was wild, more a shot to get Clint to back up so he could get to his feet, but Clint was expecting it and darted under the blow, his own fist darting forward and connecting with the thief's nose. His head jerked back and he made a sound of pain before he pushed himself back, hoping to get enough space to get to his feet. Clint refused to let that happen, pressing his advantage, and before the thief knew it, Clint was slapping a pair of handcuffs on him, locking him to the very pipe that caused his failure.
"Ok, mine's taken care of," Clint said into his comm, looking down at the thief with satisfaction. He stepped forward and yanked on the backpack, disconnecting the straps and peering inside. The thief jerked away from him, growling. "I've got the tech, too; it was in his bag."
"This one had some too," Natasha replied, sounding just as pleased as Clint felt. "Two down. Cap?"
"Three down," Steve replied, chuckling, "and a bit more tech shoved into his pockets. Good job, guys. Let's regroup at the quinjet, a SHIELD team should be arriving soon to transport the prisoners."
Clint nodded, even though his teammates couldn't see him, and reached around to the bottom of his quiver to grab one of the small sedative darts he kept; no need to transport this guy conscious and give him a chance to escape.
"Don't got the guts to put a bullet in me, boy?" the thief said, his voice so very familiar, and Clint went rigid. "Shouldn't be surprised; you never had the guts."
No, there was no way. He was hearing things, or making connections that weren't really there, or maybe the thief knew something and was trying to unsettle him, but there was absolutely no way--
Clint jerked forward and ripped off the black mask, revealing brown hair, tan skin, brown eyes, and a far too familiar smirk. Clint stared down at the man with wide eyes, his lungs going tight in his chest.
The man opened his mouth to say something else and Clint tossed the dart forward instinctively, hitting right on the carotid artery. The thief was unconscious in two seconds. Clint stared for another minute.
"Hey, birdbrain, you making your way to us any time soon?" Tony's voice came through the comms, jolting Clint from his frozen state, and the archer yanked the thief's mask back on and in place, taking a deep breath to calm himself.
"I'm comin, I'm comin," Clint grumbled back, trying to sound normal. He heaved the thief onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and ignored the pounding of his heart. "This dude is fucking big, is all."
He made it back to his team a minute later and dumped the unconscious man in his arms with the waiting group of SHIELD agents, the other two thieves already in the back of the armored jet. Clint stared at them, at their anonymous masks, and wondered if they were who he thought they were. They stared back, and said nothing.
Clint was silent on the quinjet ride back to the base, his hands fidgeting, his feet tapping restlessly. He pretended not to see Natasha's questioning look and brushed off Tony's snarky comment about a cat having gotten the bird's tongue. All he could think about was the three criminals flying in a jet right behind his own, and what they would say when Fury questioned them.
When the SHIELD agents were unloading the prisoners, the thief Clint had knocked out was coming to his senses, moving sluggishly but still keeping himself on his feet. Clint watched them go passed, his fingers tapping against his side, and then followed to the interrogation room, planning on watching through the two-way mirror and video feeds.
The three men were all placed into separate cells, and their masks removed. Clint managed to keep his breathing even because he'd known what the reveal would show him, but it didn't stop his chest from tightening, didn't stop his mouth from going dry.
Simultaneously, Coulson, Hill, and Fury all entered the interrogation cells, each going to talk to a different one of the thieves. Hill was with the youngest of the group, Coulson with the one Natasha and Tony had tracked down, and Fury with the one Clint knocked out.
Steve and Natasha slipped into the room with Clint, glancing over the monitors that showed them each of the rooms. Natasha turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright, Clint?"
Immediately, Clint nodded, not taking his eyes off the screens. "Of course. Just curious."
Natasha didn't try to say anything else, and Steve didn't either--despite sending him a concerned frown--which allowed them to focus on the interrogations.
The one with Coulson didn't say anything, just stared at the camera in the corner of the ceiling with a vague smile on his face, not reacting to anything the agent was saying. The youngest one with Hill wouldn't stop talking, rambling on about random shit and completely ignoring her questions. The third, though, looked at Fury with a pleasant smile, and said, "Hello."
"What's your name?" Fury asked in response.
The thief waved a hand dismissively--as far as the chain connecting him to the table would let him--and didn't drop his smile. "Not important, really, in the grand scheme of things. Besides, that's not what you really want to know."
Fury rose an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Ok, what is it that I really want to know then?"
"Who hired us," the thief replied, shrugging a shoulder like it was no big deal. "And how we knew where the alien shit was in the first place. And how we managed to get into the lab without any sensors going off."
Letting out a soft, slightly annoyed breath, Fury leaned back in his seat. "And what do you want in exchange for that information?"
"Oh, I'll tell you for free," the thief said, his smile widening. Normally, the expression would be considered charming. "I don't much like the guys who hired us, and I don't really care if you know about the hole in your system which would fuck up future attempts for other criminals. None of that matters to me."
The cell fell silent, then, both men staring at each other. Fury's eye twitched in irritation. "Well, go on. If you're going to tell us all this for free, get talking."
The thief laughed lightly. "Of course, of course. But I do have one tiny stipulation. I'll only tell it to Clint Barton." He shrugged in a What-can-you-do fashion.
Clint's hands curled into fists, his breath stuttering briefly before evening. Natasha glanced at him, her eyes flicking over his posture, and Steve wasn't subtle in his worried staring, but Clint kept his eyes fixed on the screen.
The thief glanced at the camera and winked before turning his attention back to Fury.
"That's not how this works," Fury replied evenly, unbothered.
The thief chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, it is. Because you really need this information, and you know it. And I'm willing to give you everything you want, free of charge! The only teeny-tiny thing is that I say it to Clinton Francis Barton, Hawkeye, or I don't say it at all."
Fury stayed where he was, examining the thief, and then got to his feet and headed for the door. Clint sighed and relaxed his body, knowing what came next.
"What the hell, Barton?" Fury snapped, entering the monitoring room. Coulson and Hill were soon after him, watching the interaction warily. "Why is this shithead demanding to talk to you, and only you?"
"Maybe he's pissed I beat him and shot him with a tranq dart," Clint muttered, still watching the feed. He turned to look at the director, keeping his expression calm. "Arrogant SOBs like him don't tend to take kindly to shit like that."
Everyone still looked vaguely wary and suspicious, but Fury scowled and said, "Get in there, then, and get the information."
Clint nodded sharply. "Yes, sir." He moved quickly from the room, ignoring how Natasha fell into step with him. His fingers were tingling numbly.
"Clint," Natasha said when they reached the door. The archer paused, not quite looking at her. After a moment, she let out a soft breath and shook her head. "I'm always here," she eventually settled on, and then headed back to the monitoring room.
After a brief moment to breathe and control himself (he had to be perfect in there, had to be completely in control) Clint entered, making sure the door locked behind him, and took a seat.
"Who hired you?" he said immediately, folding his hands in his lap.
The thief smiled at him. "Look how big you've gotten. All grown up, an agent of SHIELD, an Avenger--you've gone far. Good job."
Clint ignored the comments. "How did you know where SHIELD was keeping the alien technology that you attempted to steal?"
"Have you said hi to the other guys, yet? I'm sure they'd love to have a word."
Oh, I'm sure they would, Clint thought bitterly. "How did you get into the lab without setting off any of the various alarms?"
"How much do the folks behind the cameras know, by the way? You could've told them my name, but apparently you didn't."
Fuck, Clint cursed internally, knowing that everyone was watching and heard that comment. "Look, the only reason I'm here is because you told Director Fury that you'd tell only me the answers to these questions, so start talking before I leave you to stew here for a couple days before coming back. I'll be sure to leave it nice and pitch black in here, no food, no water..."
The thief grinned, his eyes sparkling. "You've got some bite! That's good, kid, that's good. You were always so soft, especially when compared to Barney. Then again, you always had twice his talent, so that tended to make up for it."
"Answer the goddamn questions, Buck," Clint snapped.
"Do they keep a firm hand with you?" the thief asked curiously, tilting his head. "You always needed it, as a kid. Always breaking the rules...I can't imagine that's changed. I should give your bosses some pointers." He grinned again, this time far sharper, his eyes darkening. "The Best Ways to Keep Clint Barton in Line. I could write a book!"
Clint's hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening. He hated this man so much, and he'd honestly thought he'd never have to see him again. Never thought he'd have to see any of them again. It was a foolish, childish hope.
"I'm very different now, Buck," Clint said, attempting to keep his voice even. "And unlike back then, when you were three times my size, I have no problem fighting back now. So answer the fucking questions, like you just said you'd do."
"Do you remember what I used to have you do when you wanted something?" Buck asked, slouching back in his seat like he didn't have a care in the world. He smirked, his eyes flicking over Clint. "Why don't you give that a shot? I was always far more agreeable when you asked nicely."
Nausea turned Clint's stomach, and he tasted something sour. The very idea of doing that again, doing what Buck made him do as a kid...
Buck laughed, throwing his head back. "God, you were always so easy to mess with, boy. Do they know what you used to be? Have you told your little band of heroes the truth about who they have fighting at their side? My guess is that if they fully understood, you'd be thrown back onto the street like the trash you are."
Clint didn't say anything in response, because he knew all that; Buck wasn't saying anything Clint hadn't ruminated over a thousand times before.
"So," Buck said, smirking like he was king of the world, "why don't you get on your knees and ask me again, a bit more politely this time, hmm?"
Clint instantly stood up, rage in his eyes, fury scorching through his blood. When on the quinjet he'd removed his quiver and bow, but there were still two knives strapped to his thighs; his left hand rested on the hilt of one, desperate to pull it from its sheath.
The thief tilted his head back slightly to better meet Clint's gaze, not at all bothered by the new height difference. "I'm waiting," he taunted, and spread his legs.
That was just about enough. Clint's anger peaked and he darted forward, sliding across the table and drawing his blade before pressing it against Buck's throat. He drew some blood; not enough to cause danger of bleeding out, but enough to make the older man feel it.
Buck grinned at him, his breath hot against Clint's face. He didn't say anything, holding Clint's furious gaze steadily.
The door to the interrogation cell slammed open behind Clint, and he didn't need eyes in the back of his head to know it would be the director, and probably Natasha or Coulson.
"Agent Barton!" Fury snapped, "stand down!" Clint didn't move. Buck's smile widened, and he didn't break eye contact. "Now!"
"Best be going," Buck murmured, his eyes glinting. "If you'd disobeyed me this long, I'd have you on the ground bleeding."
Clint snarled and moved away, tucking the knife back into its sheath. Fury grabbed his arm and jerked him out the door, Coulson then closing it.
Everyone was silent for a moment, and Clint realized that it was, in fact, everyone. Coulson, Hill, Natasha, and Steve all stood around him, Fury directly in front. Clint didn't--couldn't--look at any of them.
"You want to tell me what that was about?" Fury growled, after he realized Clint wasn't going offer an explanation. "Because it seems like there's something you forgot to mention, Barton, such as the fact that you know who these people are!"
Clint clenched his jaw. How could he explain this? How could he let them know?
"Clint," Natasha said quietly, "he told you that if we knew about whatever connection you have, we'd throw you out, but he's wrong. So just tell us the truth. You met him when you were younger?"
The archer was silent for a moment more, his nails digging grooves into his palms. Then, "His name is Buck Chisholm, also goes by Trickshot. He was the one who taught me how to use a bow."
No one spoke, taking that in. After a few moments, Coulson asked, "And the other two?"
"The one you attempted to talk to, his name's Jacques Duquesne, aka Swordsman. He was another teacher of mine. And the third..." he licked his lips, wanting to be absolutely anywhere except right there. "The third one is Charles 'Barney' Barton, my brother."
"Your brother?" Steve parroted back, his eyebrows shooting up.
Clint nodded. Then, the urge to defend himself built until he couldn't keep it in. "I haven't seen any of them since I was fifteen, ok? I'm not...I'm not working with them, or anything, I didn't even know if they even still kicking, and the fact that they are doesn't make me happy, alright-"
"How old were you when you met them?" Hill interrupted.
Clint's palms were starting to throb. "Ten."
"They worked in the circus," Coulson put together. He didn't know a lot about Clint's past--no one did, and the archer liked to keep it that way--but the fact that he spent some years as a circus act was one of the fun little stories everyone seemed to know.
Heh. Fun. Not exactly how Clint looked at it. He nodded in confirmation anyway.
"Why didn't you say that from the beginning?" Fury demanded. "When you saw their faces, why didn't you tell us you knew them?" He paused, and then added, "Why didn't you tell me that I was about to send you into a room with someone who used to abuse you?"
Clint's eyes snapped over to look at Fury, his mouth going dry. "I..."
"You heard what Chisholm said, and Clint didn't deny it," Natasha murmured. "He thought that if we knew what they used to do to him, we wouldn't want him around."
Well, it just sounded petty and childish when she put it like that. He fought the urge to cringe away.
"What kind of fucking bull-" Fury muttered, rubbing a tired hand down his face. "Ok, starting tomorrow, Barton, you're attending weekly therapy."
Clint straightened, feeling indignant and insulted. "Sir-!"
"I don't want to hear it," Fury snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at the archer. "Too many agents have unresolved childhood trauma and it's fucking ridiculous. I mean we already knew there was shit you weren't talking about but seeing as all that shit just happened, it's time for you to fucking deal."
Clint stared at him, gaping, and then narrowed his eyes and turned sharply on his heels, striding away.