Chapter 14
The first time Clint leaves an arrow behind, it isn’t planned.
It’s instinct. A whim. A subconscious decision, maybe.
He doesn’t know why he does it — maybe part of him wants people to know. Wants them to recognize that there’s someone out there who never misses. A ghost in the shadows, a name whispered in the underworld.
Or maybe it’s just because, despite the gun in his hands, despite how easy it is to pull the trigger and walk away, the bow is still the weapon that feels most like him.
The job is simple. A businessman — crooked with dirty money, but not the worst Clint has been asked to take out. He doesn’t ask why the guy’s on the hit list. Doesn’t need to know. He’s just here to do what he’s paid for.
The shot is clean. Precise. Quick.
But something in Clint hesitates before he leaves.
He pulls an arrow from his quiver, flips it between his fingers, then plants it deep into the man’s chest.
He thinks of Ramirez, the way he’d said it like a warning: You don’t move like a soldier, you move like a predator.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe Clint is exactly what Ramirez thought he was.
The next morning, the newspapers don’t just talk about another hit. They talk about the arrow. It doesn’t go past Clint’s mind that Buck may be witnessing the same news, too. Hell, maybe even Barney and Duquesne, wherever they are.
But Clint doesn’t care. Hasn’t, for a long time. Clint Barton is a face fading in people’s memories; Hawkeye is a name branding itself into people’s fears.
And with that, the name Hawkeye spreads like wildfire.
It only gets easier after that.
Not the guilt. Not the part where he forces himself to look at his reflection and pretend he doesn’t recognize the person staring back. But the rest of it? The mechanics of killing? That’s easy.
The first few jobs had been tough — not in skill, not in execution, but in how Clint felt afterward. The guilt, the sick twisting in his stomach when the targets weren’t scum, just people caught in the crossfire of something bigger than them. But Clint learned to shut it out, to convince himself that he had no other choice.
Because he doesn’t.
He can’t go back to the circus. Can’t go back to Buck. And the army sure as hell isn’t an option.
This? This is survival.
The money is good. Too good. He moves between “safehouses,” switches burner phones like second nature, never stays in one place for too long, never leaves a mark. The clients get richer, the stakes get higher. He stops wondering where the money comes from, who’s really calling the shots. He’s just a weapon now. A hired gun, a sharp arrow flying toward whoever they aim him at. Just another bullet in the barrel.
And through it all, the arrows stay.
A message. A warning. A sign.
At first, no one takes him seriously. He’s too young, too fresh. The underworld isn’t a kind place, and it sure as hell doesn’t trust rookies.
But Clint’s never been just a rookie.
And they learn that fast.
A sniper takes a shot at him once — some asshole hired to test his skill, see if this Hawkeye kid really is as good as the rumors say. The guy never gets a second chance. Clint puts an arrow through his throat before the bullet even grazes him.
After that, the doubts fade.
Hawkeye becomes a name people fear. The man from nowhere. The hitman who never misses. The ghost who leaves his mark in the form of a single arrow, buried deep in the bodies of the dead.
But there are nights when Clint lies awake, the scar on his left rib cage burning and screaming, staring at the ceiling, and all he sees are faces.
Every single one of them.
The woman in Vienna, the politician’s son in Rome, the private security guard in Istanbul — he remembers them all. Names, faces, expressions frozen in their final moments. The way their mouths parted in shock, in pain, in the last breath before silence.
Collateral damage or not, he sees them. Hears them. Every shot taken, every slit of the knife, he remembers them. How their eyes flashed pain, anger, and regret, how their blood seemed to soak into his skin, into his veins and arteries, replacing his once pure, red blood with tainted, crimson blood.
He never forgets. Can’t forget — won’t.
It’s the curse of having a memory that doesn’t fade. That doesn’t let him move on, even when he tries.
He can recall every detail. The way their clothes looked. The way their eyes went wide. The way the air smelled around them. He even remembers the sound of their voices — little snippets of their final words, things he never should have heard, things he shouldn’t remember but does.
It’s why he never looks them in the eyes anymore.
It’s why he shoots fast, leaves before the body hits the ground.
Because every time he lets his gaze linger, another ghost gets burned into his brain. Another weight added to the ones already crushing his chest.
He should stop. He wants to stop. But there’s no way out.
The underworld doesn’t let people walk away — not alive, at least — and he doesn’t have anywhere to go.
So he keeps killing.
And with every arrow he leaves behind, he wonders if there will ever be a day when he finally misses.
Because maybe, deep down, he’s hoping for that day to come.
Clint wipes the blood trickling into his line of vision, wincing as his hand brushes against a cut near his eyebrow — too small for him to have felt when he’d first gotten it, but sharp enough to sting now.
He’s eighteen, been a contract killer for a year and a half now, and despite the fortune he’s racked up, the desire to leave the game has never faded. If anything, it’s only grown stronger with every job, every backstab, every reminder that he’s in too deep.
Fucking Philip James and his fucked up intel — Clint had barely finished the job before realizing the bastard had planted extra mercs in the field, all gunning for his head. He’s already taken out all three of them, though the last one had put up a dirty fight before Clint jammed an arrow into his eye, leaving Clint drenched in blood as he catches his breath behind a dumpster.
The scar on his ribcage throbs, a sharp, ugly pulse. Clint hangs his head low, forcing himself to breathe through it.
Jesus, Barney — his brother, that absolute bastard — stabbed him four years ago. And that same scar had led Clint through both the highest and lowest points of his life. Enlisting in the military, albeit, under a fake age, had been his greatest pride. Getting thrown into military prison after someone snitched? The start of the shitshow he’s living now. He’d escaped, obviously, and for the past year, he’s been making a shit ton of money, enough to buy back his old Iowa farm and home, enough to track down the people from his past.
Not that he’s done anything with that information… yet.
If he had a choice, he would leave this life in a heartbeat. But every rope of hope he’s grabbed onto has been rotten, every lifeline snapped before he could climb out. At this point, if some random stranger offered him a way out, he’d take it—
“Clint Barton.”
His entire body snaps to attention, his gun up in an instant, aimed directly at the voice. A pair of brown eyes meet his, unreadable.
“Hvem er du?” Who are you? Clint’s Danish is rusty, his American accent thick on his tongue. Fuck, he hasn’t had enough time to master the language before taking James’s job in Copenhagen.
The man raises both hands in surrender, a thinly veiled smile curling his lips.
“Phil Coulson. Agent of SHIELD. I want to ask you to come with me, Clint Barton.”
Clint doesn’t lower the gun. Coulson’s too unreadable, and Clint’s made a career out of reading people.
“Jeg ved ikke hvem du taler om,” I don’t know who you’re talking about, Clint says carefully, schooling his face into a blank expression.
“Er du sikker?” Are you sure? The words come fast and sharp, the accent just as American as Clint’s. “Come on, Barton, we both know you’re an all-American, born-in-America, raised-in-America type of guy. Idaho, is it?”
Clint barely stops himself from scowling. “It’s Iowa—” Fuck.
Coulson smiles, fully now, his eyes still unreadable. “Now we’re talking.”
Clint grits his teeth. “What do you want? How do you know my name?”
For the past year, he’s gone by Hawkeye. Only Hawkeye. For Phil Coulson to know his real name means he has access to a hell of a lot more information than Clint’s comfortable with.
“Like I said, I want you to come with me. Join SHIELD.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
Coulson tilts his head slightly, appraising him. “I think it’s obvious this merc life isn’t for you. And escaping military prison? That must’ve been easy for you, wasn’t it? I mean, you did enlist under a fake age, after all.” Coulson’s tone is light, conversational, like he isn’t casually laying out Clint’s entire past in a single breath. “Damn shame someone snitched you out — you would’ve gotten a job offer from us in a much more civil manner. Y’know, if you hadn’t ended up in military prison and all.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but life’s not always full of clean slates,” Clint rolls his eyes. “But more importantly, first of all, don’t call me kid unless you’re fine with me calling you old man. Second — how do you know all this? What if what you’re offering is just another rotten rope?”
Coulson’s lips twitch, amusement barely concealed.
“Hey, you good, kid? Looks like you took a nasty hit there.” The shift in tone is sudden — concerned, almost. Clint absolutely hates it.
“I said don’t call me kid—” He clenches his jaw as he presses a hand to his side, feeling the heat of the wound under his fingers. Right. That last merc had gotten a lucky shot in. Not fatal, but close enough to Barney’s scar that it makes his skin crawl.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re bleeding out,” Coulson says flatly. “I’ve got an ace bandage on me, let me see it.” He steps forward, and Clint immediately raises the gun again, making him stop.
“I said I’m fine.”
Coulson eyes him warily but backs off. “Suit yourself.”
“Now — this SHIELD thing. What is it and what’s in it for me?”
“SHIELD stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, and I recruit people like you. As for what you can get out of this, for starters, you won’t have to kill people just to survive.” Coulson clasps his hands in front of him. “We can offer you protection. Resources. A second chance. And let’s be honest, Barton — you need it more than you want it. All we ask for are your skills and loyalty.”
Clint says nothing. The gun doesn’t waver. Coulson doesn’t flinch.
The offer is tempting, Clint won’t lie. And yeah, he needs out. The longer he stays in this life, the more he feels like he’s heading toward the tainted, blood-drenched ending he’s feared since the beginning.
But still. He’s not just going to blindly trust some stranger in a suit. If there’s one thing his absent parents and bastard of a brother taught him, it’s that his trust isn’t meant to be just thrown around like it’s free.
“Look, old man, I see what you’re offering, alright? But I’m in too deep. I need time to think.”
Coulson exhales sharply, nodding, though hesitant. “I’m leaving at 0600. If you decide, you’ll know where to find me.”
Clint lowers the gun. He already has an idea of what he’s going to do, but taking the extra time to finalize his choice can’t hurt.
As Coulson walks away, Clint watches him go, half convinced the whole conversation was a fever dream. But he doesn’t linger. He needs to move. The bullet wound below Barney’s scar is still bleeding, and he has to make it back to his safehouse before it slows him down.
The jet is impossible to miss, gleaming silver against the surrounding greenery.
“Coulson!” Clint shouts over the roar of the engine. A weary, familiar face immediately pops out at the jet’s entrance.
“Kid, you came.” Coulson steps forward, smiling like he knew Clint would.
Clint scowls but doesn’t bother correcting him this time. Instead, he cuts to the chase. “The pay better be damn good. Better than my contract kills, old man.” He hoists up the briefcase from the Philip James job as proof.
Coulson smirks, confident. “I think we can negotiate that.” He extends a hand. “Welcome to SHIELD, kid.”
Clint exhales sharply. Then, finally, he shakes Coulson’s hand.
He knows this isn’t a perfect solution, nor is it redemption. Still, it’s something; a step towards something better. Maybe even a chance to stop running, like Buck’s wishes. Whatever it is, readjusting his sniper case on his shoulder, Clint boards the jet.
And for the first time in a while, for once, Clint feels the weight on his shoulder become just a bit lighter.