A/N: Hi guys! So this is my first completed attempt at an Avengers fic, so please tell me if they seem OOC or anything. :) Also, if anyone can think of a better title, please PM me or leave a comment. The idea for this story is all mine, I have absolutely no idea how Clint actually came into SHIELD (It's probably nothing like this!). Reviews are welcome!

P.S. I don't own marvel or its characters. If I did, Hawkeye and Black Widow would have movies by now. Enjoy!

"So how did you end up working for SHIELD?" Tony asked, and all the others turned to look at him. Including Nat. Because of course she didn't know either. Because of course he was secretive, and this was one thing that he'd hoped would never come to light. He would never be seen in the same way again. They'd think he was incompetent. It was embarrassing. Clint swallowed nervously, his eyes flitting over the group.

"You really want to know?"

His mission was simple: get in, steal the stuff, get out. Easy right? But of course there was a slight complication as the stuff he was stealing was information on his employer that had been gathered by the world's most covert 'non-existent' agency.

Clint blinked once as he entered the compound. Just as he had known it was going to be, it was deserted. It was all too easy. He'd already stolen an ID card of a higher-up agent on a scouting trip. Clint swiped it and paused. Nothing suspicious happened, so he walked in.

The archer settled at a computer and began bringing up the relevant files, copying them across to his own handheld device.

Far too easy.

Job done, Clint logged out of the computer and left. No one challenged him. He focused on making his steps and breathing even as he walked away from the HQ.

There it was. The sound of running feet and suddenly, a voice. "Hey! Stop right there!" it yelled. It began running after him, screeching for backup. Knowing he was officially busted, Clint stopped. Once the man caught up to him, Clint effortlessly flipped him over his shoulder and smashed a booted foot into his face. Then he ran.

More agents were following him now. Clint sprinted to the end of the street. There was a lamppost. Clint flung his arm out and used the momentum from the spin to propel himself upwards onto the roof of the building next to the HQ. Once there, he quickly assembled his bow and fired off three arrows. They hit their targets – of course – and Clint used the time he'd earned to run across the rooftop.

He escaped unscathed with the information, but he knew he couldn't risk going straight back to his employer. SHIELD would be tracking him now. So he took a much-needed vacation, leaving the documents he'd stolen with his contact. He'd followed his orders, he wasn't to blame for anything that happened to that information now.

Four weeks and twenty-three attempts on his life later, Clint knew he was royally screwed if he didn't get help soon. They were determined bastards, Clint would give them that. So far he'd managed to fend off their attacks and relocate, but one of them had gotten in a lucky shot before he'd removed them from the equation. He was losing blood quite rapidly and already he could feel a burning in his side which meant the wound was infected.

Clint collapsed at the edge of a fairly deserted alleyway. He couldn't carry on. His head lolled slowly to the side...

The next time he was conscious, all Clint could focus on was water. He wanted water. He'd do anything to get it. His eyes flitted over the people walking past him. He was surprised to see a small pile of coins at his feet. Just as he was about to succumb to the blackness, he spotted exactly what he was looking for.

Across the street, on a mobile, was a tall man wearing a black leather trench coat. He had a black eye patch over one eye. Clint mustered what little strength he had left to pick up his folded bow and stagger across the street. The man dropped his phone in surprise as Clint practically fell onto him.

"You need a mercenary?" he slurred. "You look like you need a mercenary. 'M good but I need help." The man supported him with both arms.

"Scratch that, Coulson. Send an ambulance here." He whispered as the blackness claimed Clint.

He was in a warm bed, covered in warm sheets and there was no pain whatsoever. Clint forced his eyes open. There was something important, something he needed to do…

He couldn't remember. He was strapped down to the bed. Clint got the impression that he should be worried, but he couldn't bring himself to be. He didn't have a hold over his mind. Just then, a door opened and a doctor walked in.

"Ah, you're awake." They grinned. "Could you tell me your name please?" The question sent a wave of panic over Clint but he couldn't say why. He was worried even as he mumbled out:

"Clint Barton."

"Thanks Clint. Now, can you tell me if you have any aliases?"

"Hawkeye." Clint grinned slowly. The doctor looked slightly scared. The panic was clawing up his chest. There was something very wrong here.

"The mercenary Hawkeye?" Wow." The doctor paused. "So, you willing to pay us back for patching you up?"

That triggered a memory.

Oh.

"You're not the same guy." Clint muttered.

"No, but I work for him." The doctor replied.

Clint groaned. "Where's he?"

"He's listening." They answered smoothly. Clint's eyes widened slightly as he realised just exactly what was going on.

"Fuck. You drugged me." He accused.

The doctor smiled. "I gave you morphine for the pain. So maybe my finger slipped and I gave you a huge dose, but hey! People make mistakes."

Just as Clint was about to snarl a comments, the door opened again and the man he remembered from the street walked in.

"Clinton Francis Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye. A pleasure." He leaned forwards, as if to shake Clint's hand. Clint jerked viciously on the cuff. The morphine overdose effect seemed to be wearing off quickly.

"That's due to a drug called naloxone, which you'll learn about in training." Eye-patch man told him. Had he said that out loud?

"Training?" he ground out. Eye-patch man's lips twitched.

"Training. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to face the crimes you have admitted to in court. I'd strongly recommend that you don't do that. The sentence would be death, and you'd never leave that bed."

Clint snarled. "I don't need training."

"Training is mandatory, agent Barton. You work for SHIELD now, and I'm your boss, Director Nick Fury."

Clint scowled. "I don't-"

"What's your age? That's one secret you have managed to keep." Clint was cut off before he could complain. He set his jaw visibly. "Acts of insubordination will be punished, agent Barton." Clint stared for a moment before faltering. It would be nice to not give a predictable answer to this guy.

"Nineteen." He breathed. He met the director's eye in time to see the surprise. Everyone thought he was older.

"Thank you. Once you have received cochlear implants so that you will be able to hear us over the comms on your missions, we'll see about getting you in training."

Before Clint could protest, the man was gone.

"And here we are ten years later." Clint finished. There were five identical expressions of shock mingled with amusement facing him. "What?" he asked.

"You were nineteen when you started killing?" Thor asked. Sensitive, as always, Clint thought sarcastically as he winced.

"No, I was thirteen. I got caught when I was nineteen." Thor's eyes widened slightly.

"So, nineteen and being in pain led to you joining the super-secret boy band, huh?" Tony grinned.

"Dying, Tony, I was dying." Clint replied.

"Oh, so nineteen, melodramatic, and in pain…" He trailed into laughter as Clint scowled at him. Tony pulled him close and rumpled his hair and the rest of the team began to laugh.

Clint's life carried on, just with a few more jokes.

He could take that.