I'm letting go of what I once believed (so goodbye agony)

I'm letting of what I once believed (so goodbye agony)

Clint Barton was seventeen years old when he's picked up by SHIELD. Though, in his defense, he never realized that a top-secret government agency was on his ass. Clint had told Ringmaster to be more careful, but no, no one listened to the kid. Clint didn't even want to join the circus, desperate as he was. Even living on the streets after his brother Barney was taken from him (by a freakin' car accident no less), he still had some semblance of a conscience.

Sure, there was stealing food and water, but never from the same place in a week. Clint knows the saying "no honor among thieves", but most thieves do it because, a. they want to, or b. because they had to or die. And he still remembers his promise to Barney. But that doesn't mean he enjoys it. He wants to emphasize that point and make it as clear as day. Clint may be a bullshitter at times (most of the time), but he knows who he is. What he didn't expect was that who he was would attract anyone's attention than as part of the freak show.

Yet he's still surprised when he's pulled away from the others by a man in a suit. He has light brown hair (perfectly combed) and is wearing sunglasses (since its dusk, probably to hide his eyes). "Come with me," the man says, his voice soothing Clint in a way he hadn't ever had since his mother. It bothers Clint that a total stranger has that effect in him so quickly. He's ushered into the back of a black van, Mr. Suit and Tie removing his glasses as soon as they were seated across from each other. Definitely another government chronie, Clint thought as he assessed the man sitting across from him: cheap suit, tie perfect, nails manicured, eyes blank—

Wait. Not blank, but warm, grey eyes stared at him. Not at him, Clint realized with a nervous gulp, but through him. Unfortunately for him, his body thought it would be a perfect time to blush like a schoolgirl, which made him blush even more. S&T smiled a little at Clint, probably in order to relax him. "My name is Phil Coulson. I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We've been keeping tabs on you for a while, Mr. Barton."

Clint snorts. "I hope you guys are planning on shortening that, 'cause that's quite a mouthful."

Coulson continues to smile lightly. "We're working on it," he reassures Clint, who realizes that, under all that professionalism, there's some humor there. Wonder what it'll take to get the stick out of his ass, Clint thought, Maybe I could— "Mr. Barton?"

Clint blinks himself out of his musings before shoving the thought away. He couldn't afford to think like that. Thinking like that would only get him killed. "Sorry, what was that?"

Coulson gave him a look that clearly said he didn't believe him, but fortunately let it slide, repeating himself. "I said, I was hoping that if you're looking for a fresh start, you would find it with us."

With me, Clint's brain replaces unhelpfully. He raises an eyebrow at Coulson. "Really? Strategic Homegame wants someone like me in its ranks?"

Coulson stares at Clint. "Strategic Homeland, Mr. Barton. Your archery skills are the best that anyone has seen in a very long time. Our... organization would like to use you—"

"—as a weapon," Clint finishes smoothly. "Look, as kind as that offer is, I don't need any affiliation with Uncle Sam coming back to bite me in the ass later."

"I can assure you, Mr. Barton, working with us will be more beneficial than harmful."

"How so?" Clint counters spitefully. "I could get killed because of you people. How is that any better than starving on the streets, watching the only family you have left die in front of you?! How the hell is that any better?!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Clint wanted to take them back. But his words seemed to have some affect on Coulson, who blinked at him in surprise. Clint snorted internally. Guess you weren't expecting that, tough guy. What Clint wasn't expecting, though, was for him to come and sit next to Clint and offer him a consoling pat on the back. "I'm sorry for your loss, Clint," he said, sincerity bleeding from every word. Clint was surprised at his reaction to the touch. He'd never let anyone touch him except Mom and Barney. And yet, here he was, letting himself come into contact with a stranger. Clint sighed, knowing he'd someday regret this decision.