Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Avengers, Marvel, or their wonderful characters. I'm just playing in their sandbox for a while. I do, however, own any of the OCs.

Author's Note: So, when I finished writing the prequel to this story, New York State of Mind, I never really thought I would get on this one right away. But, here it is. It is completely written, with the final three chapters awaiting beta-work. So there should be no delay in posting new chapters on Mondays and Fridays. Chapters are quite a bit longer than in New York State of Mind and get longer as the story progresses.

However, I wanted to address a couple things right here. First of all, some parts of this could seem a bit dark. This story is a meant to be a character study of Clint Barton and what makes him tick. He did not have a happy childhood or history. So, be warned now that there might be. . .I guess, "triggers" is the latest term for it. I've kept it as light as possible, but there's your warning.

Also, there is a lot of comic book canon in this story. I've done a bit of research, reading and re-reading websites. I basically took what of comic book canon fit into my idea of the character from the movie and then didn't use what I wanted. As comic book readers know, the history and canon is somewhat convoluted anyway. So, here's my version. Just please keep in mind I'm a fan of the movie and not the comic books. Some of the characters seen in the comics will be very OOC for the comics, but they fit well in this story. Also, some names have been changed from what they were in the comics, most notable of them being Clint's parents.

Finally, I've placed Clint as being older than most fanfic writers do. The actor himself is 41, and I personally place Clint around 35. If you're wondering about my reasons for it, drop me a line via PM and I'll explain.

All that said, I hope you enjoy this story!

oOo

I've been takin' it all for granted,
Everything that I have been given.
Now it is a day to start my mission.
It's been a long time comin'.

There are many searchin' for answers.
Tell me, who am I to keep it to myself?
I've grown weary of my own fears, yeah,
It's been a long time comin'.

I've been runnin' just like an outlaw,
And I am willin' and I am able
To give you somethin' you can believe on.
It's been a long time comin'.

True believers have been starin'
Lookin' to the sky, waitin' for Your return.
And I know that clouds will roll down.
It's been a long time comin'.

~Mac Powell~

oOo

Waverly, Iowa, hadn't changed all that much since the last time Clint saw it. And, yet, it had. Everything looked smaller, not so intimidating as he remembered, and rather spread out. Clint stood at the Greyhound depot, just breathing the farm air deeply and getting his bearings. The bus had pulled away some time ago, leaving him a lone figure dressed in dark blue with a black duffel bag over his shoulder and the case holding his bow and quiver in his hand.

He had put off coming back here for so long, and, now that he was here, he wondered what he had feared. Was it the memories that were barely more than shadows in his mind? He had been too young when life changed and took him down a fantastic and horrifying route. Was it that he might become like his father? While he'd had his moments of getting drunk and reacting poorly, he always sought to change what he'd been shown as a child. Or was it simply that he didn't want to think of this portion of his life because it had started him down a path that led to the present? Clint wasn't sure, but the sudden rush of nerves struck him as unprofessional and completely out of character.

Of course, this entire leave-of-absence and journey of self-discovery was out of character for him. During his time with SHIELD, he'd become known as the man who never buckled under pressure. Loki had changed that, and Clint suddenly needed to know who he was. Was he Hawkeye or a SHIELD agent at the core? Or was that who he had become out of necessity and a will to survive? Did he have it in him to be more than that? What, exactly, had Coulson seen in him when he recruited the young, cocky archer trained in the circus and working for the bad guys? All these questions demanded answers, and Clint hadn't been able to find them in New York City, where he'd taken almost everything for granted. Nor could he find them on SHIELD's helicarrier with the suspicious stares and mistrustful glances sent his way. He needed to do this alone, to face his own fears and learn who he was.

Finally stepping off the platform near the bus stop, Clint began walking down Bremer Avenue, following the map he'd snagged from inside the bus depot. A Comfort Inn sat on the outskirts of town, and he hoped to get a room overlooking the open fields. His mind told him the town had grown, sprawled, and become more metropolitan than the one in his memory, but he couldn't trust himself with that. He recalled Waverly from the mind of a child, someone who barely remembered what it was like to have a family before all except his brother was stripped from him. Blinking to push away those thoughts, he simply walked. Several people waved and greeted him, recognizing that he was a stranger, and he returned their greeting with a polite smile and nod. What would they say when they learned he'd once called their fair town home? How would they react if they knew he had become a trained, professional killer? Or would they really care? Most didn't acknowledge his presence, but he knew he stood out. This town boasted a population of less than ten thousand people. Getting "lost" here would take a lot more work than it did in New York City.

The Comfort Inn sat right in front of a Walmart Super Center, not Clint's first choice of location but something he could handle. It made purchasing supplies without a vehicle easier, and he suddenly began thinking about transportation. He couldn't rely on Greyhound to get him everywhere even if it had been a fitting way to leave New York behind. Natasha had certainly appreciated his dry humor even if she'd rolled her eyes at him. Now that he'd arrived, however, he began to seriously think over his plans for the next four months.

Comfort Inn happily accommodated him with a room that looked over the fields surrounding Waverly. Across the street opposite of Walmart, the golf course sprawled behind a machinery shop and tractor store. Clint smiled as he walked up to his room on the second floor and entered with the key card. His guard naturally went up the moment the door opened, and he briefly checked all the hiding spots in the room to make certain no one waited for him. Once the room had been secured, he dropped his duffel bag on the bed and brazenly opened the window. He had spent too much time keeping to shadows and hiding from what might be out there. While not breathtaking in the least, the view out the window calmed him. The wide-open fields gave him room to breathe and think.

Decision made to leave the windows open, Clint nodded and dug through his duffel bag. He'd spent the last two days on the Greyhound, and he needed a shower. The hot water felt great, and he ignored the wrinkles in his gray t-shirt. Tugging on a black leather jacket, black jeans, and his fingerless gloves, he stepped out of the door without his beloved bow and headed for the nearest restaurant for dinner.

He found a small waffle house and slipped inside. There was one family sitting next to the window, an elderly gentleman at the bar drinking coffee, and a waitress and short-order cook behind the counter. All in all, the place was quiet and nothing like Applebee's, which was close to his hotel. The waitress smiled and greeted him, telling him to make himself at home and that she'd be with him shortly. He nodded and turned toward the booth tucked in a back corner of the restaurant. The old-timer swiveled on his chair to glance at Clint and then stopped and frowned. "If it ain't one o' the Barton boys!"

Clint froze for just a moment before meeting the guy's gaze. The family had paused in their eating and were staring at him, wide-eyed. Clint frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You're Bill and Hannah's boy, aren't ya?" The guy waved a hand when Clint gave a hesitant nod. "Thought so. You look just like your mother."

Clint changed direction and instead chose a stool next to the guy. "You knew my parents?"

"And you, too, but I'm not surprised you don't remember. Been nigh on twenty years since you disappeared." He stuck out his hand. "Curtis Mitchell."

Clint grinned as he shook the guy's hand. "I do remember you."

"Thought you might." Curtis gave him a grin before motioning to the waitress. "Hey, put Clint's meal here on my tab. It's not every day a prodigal comes home."

Clint winced at that. "I was kind of hoping to get out of here without anyone noticing."

"No chance of that." Curtis paused while Clint gave the waitress his order. "You were all over the news a few weeks back, sayin' you were part of that alien invasion that hit New York."

Clint raised his chin slightly, debating what to tell Curtis. The family near the window also listened, and he hated the thought that they might think him responsible for nearly destroying the planet. "Don't believe everything you hear in the media, Curtis."

"You kidding?" Curtis frowned at him as the waitress set his chicken fried steak in front of him. "You're Hawkeye! Waverly's own superhero! Do you know what it did to the kids around here? Half of the boys are still runnin' around with bows and arrows, and the girls—particularly the teens—have this fantasy you'll show up and sweep 'em off their feet."

Clint felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck. "They do realize I'm old enough to be their father, right?"

Curtis just laughed mirthlessly with him. He sobered a moment later. "You know, you're not the only Barton to come back in recent days."

Clint, who had taken his first bite of food, froze for the second time inside of thirty minutes. "Barney's back?" Barney's alive? he asked silently.

"He visited. Didn't stay."

"Why?"

"Never said, though I'd say you two have more in common than you realize." Curtis sipped his coffee, shaking his head. "He had the same lost expression on his face you have."

"Did he say where he was headed?"

"Nope. Just visited the old Willoughby House and the grave, then left."

Clint ate a few more bites in silence, his appetite gone but the need to refuel his body keeping him going. The Willoughby House brought back memories Clint would rather have forgotten. He suddenly recalled plain white, institutional hallways, rooms filled with metal bunk beds and thin mattresses, and the smell of cigarettes. Finally, he spoke. "The Willoughby House? It still a home for boys?"

"Nah, it's a museum now." Curtis spoke softly. "Old Man Willoughby passed 'bout ten years back. Emphysema."

Clint chuckled, though laughter was the farthest thing from his mind. "Sounds about right." After a moment, he pushed aside his dinner. "What's the museum?"

"A tribute to the orphanage." Curtis narrowed his eyes. "I knew you left for a reason, but we never really figured it out."

Clint tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "Yeah, well, some things are better kept private, Curtis." He pushed to his feet. "Thanks for dinner."

Curtis reached out and stopped his departure. "Listen, I don't know what you're lookin' for, Clint, but I hope you find it."

Clint nodded. "Yeah, me, too."

He walked back to his hotel in a thoughtful mood, his hands shoved into his pockets and his mind whirling. The information that his brother had also visited their home town startled him, but it didn't change why he'd come back. He wasn't there to find Barney-if it even was Barney. He'd come to retrace his steps, to figure out who he was without The Amazing Hawkeye or Agent Barton to interfere. Being recognized hadn't figured into his plans at all.

Now that he had been recognized, however, he needed to be careful. All it took was the wrong person overhearing his identity to start the ball rolling on a very bad day for someone. Shaking his head at the thought, Clint let himself into his hotel room and closed the curtains. A short time later, he lay in bed and forced himself to relax. He was in his home town, and no one wanted him dead. At least, not that he knew.

oOo

"What did it show you, Agent Barton?" Loki asked.

"My next target," Clint replied without hesitation.

"Tell me what you need."

Clint walked over to a black case on a table, opening it and pulling out his collapsible bow. "I need a distraction." With one practiced move, his bow flipped open. "And an eyeball."

Loki grinned, but his face changed and became older, fatter, and with jowls that jiggled as the man spoke. He raised a cigarette to his lips, drawing on it and then puffing smoke into Clint's face. "Why didn't you say so, son?"

Clint sat up, knife in hand and ready to attack the intruder in his room. It took a moment to realize that he was alone in a hotel room in Waverly, that Loki was back on Asgard and under guard, and that Old Man Willoughby was dead. When he did get back to reality, he squeezed his eyes shut as he dropped his hand to his lap. He might have been on leave, but his enemies didn't care. He carried several knives with him wherever he went and slept with a gun and knife under his pillow. He must have subconsciously realized Willoughby was a dream and pulled the knife instead of putting several bullets through the wall.

A glance at the clock on the bedside table told him it was three in the morning, but Clint knew he wouldn't sleep again until that evening. He hadn't counted on Willoughby invading his dreams after so long. He hadn't even thought of the name until that day when Curtis mentioned it. Waverly had simply been a place to start his search, not a planned stop. But the very sound of that name still caused Clint to shudder. His life before the Willoughby House hadn't been easy. He'd been whipped long before Old Man Willoughby decided to lay a strap to his back, but he had never known the fear that he'd felt while at the Willoughby House.

Shoving the blankets aside, Clint dressed quickly and slipped out the door. He walked silently down the stairs, not wanting to draw the attention of the night clerk in the hotel. The Walmart parking lot was empty in spite of the store being open for twenty-four hours, and no one seemed to notice as he stretched in the shadows of the parking lot. A few moments later, he took off for a run down 240th Street and didn't stop until covered in sweat and ready to face the day. He returned to the hotel, walking the last mile as he watched the sunrise. The bright summer sun mocked the darkness in his mind as he worked to put his past behind him. Loki wasn't on Earth, and Old Man Willoughby had died ten years ago. Neither of them could hurt him again, and, if they had tried, he could have killed them without pausing in his run or shedding one tear.

In his room, Clint climbed into a shower and tried to wash the memory of his time as Loki's slave, as well as his history as Old Man Willoughby's whipping post, from his mind as easily as he washed the sweat from his body. When he failed on both counts, he settled for pushing them back into the realm of the ignored. He had too much to do that day to be distracted by memories of things he couldn't change. Somewhere along the route of his run, he'd decided to buy a vehicle and needed to make certain his checking account, something every SHIELD agent had in spite of the secrecy of their lives, had enough money in it. He didn't want fancy or noticeable, just something that would last him on his travels. He figured he'd track down Curtis and ask if anyone was selling something in his price range.

He also planned to visit the Willoughby House. That decision had followed the one to purchase a vehicle. Why the two connected wasn't clear in Clint's mind, but he wasn't going to argue. If this time was about reconnecting with Clint Barton, he needed to face that part of his past. Thankfully, his training as a SHIELD agent would allow him to escape the museum without showing his emotions, but it wouldn't be the easiest day of his life. And he needed to visit his parents' graves.

He took care of that last item on his list during his walk into the main portion of Waverly. His route took him right past the cemetery, and he wandered through the headstones while avoiding the Barton family plot. The memory of his mother's smile came back to him now, and he hated that his father's drunkenness had destroyed it. He had sworn to never become a drunk like his old man, which left Clint shocked that he'd turned to alcohol after learning of Coulson's death. He had hated his father for many years, never once realizing that he could succumb to the same weakness. Steve's visit in that bar had awakened him to his actions, and he'd spent a good amount of time berating himself until Banner more or less told him to make peace with his past.

Finally in front of his parents' graves, he read the headstones. William and Hannah Barton had died twenty-nine years ago when William wrapped their car around a tree. Clint and Barney had been at a friend's house, giving their parents a "date night," as it were. Clint knew now that those "date nights" often ended with his mother in tears and his father passed out on the couch. But, back then, he'd just been happy to escape the chaos for a bit while playing with friends.

He was six when his parents died. Several distant aunts and uncles came to the funeral, but Clint and Barney had been turned over to the Willoughby House rather than going to live with one of their cousins. At first, Clint had thought things would get better. Yes, the Willoughby House was an orphanage, but he would have friends, other boys to play with, and his brother nearby. Now, nearly thirty years later, Clint smirked mirthlessly. If anything, things had gotten worse at the Willoughby House.

Shaking those memories from his head, Clint knelt next to his mother's gravestone. Her name, birth and death dates, and a Bible verse had been carved on the beveled stone, but the area had a neglected feel to it. Clint brushed years of dirt from her name and pulled a few weeds away from it. Satisfied that it looked as good as he could make it right now and planning to return with flowers, he gave his father's headstone a sneer before turning away. Bill Barton had only ever given him one thing: genetics. If Curtis said he looked more like his mother, then Clint decided to take that as a compliment. He wanted nothing to do with his father.

After leaving the cemetery, Clint walked through town, browsing the car lots he passed as he did so. He found several small cars in his price range, though he didn't care for any of them. Around noon, he slipped into another restaurant for lunch, planning to sit in a back booth and peruse the classifieds while preparing for that afternoon's events. No one recognized him this time, and he was able to eat his burger and fries while skimming cars for sale. He found a 1995 Ford F150 that sounded good and memorized the phone number before paying for his meal. Outside, he tugged a rarely-used cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number. The guy on the other end happily set up a meeting for as quickly as Clint could walk there, and he found himself smiling as he turned toward the address he was given.

An hour later, he drove up to the Willoughby House in his used truck. The air conditioner worked, but it took a bit to get it cooled down. It didn't matter to Clint, who rarely drove anything that didn't have the SHIELD logo on its side. His exploration under the hood of this thing had shown it had a lot of life still left in spite of the age, and he'd happily find a place to park it in New York once he returned.

Now, he faced the monstrosity that was the Willoughby House. An old Victorian-style home, it had been purchased by Steve and Anna Willoughby forty years ago. The couple had turned the place into the Willoughby House for Boys, receiving orphaned boys from all over Iowa and neighboring states. On the surface, their entire place looked great, but Clint had lived through six years of beatings, mockery, and bullying. He knew differently, no matter what everyone else said. So did Barney, for that matter.

Steeling himself against the memories, Clint pushed through the front door and looked around. It appeared almost identical to his memories, with every piece of furniture right where Anna Willoughby had placed it. The museum curator approached him, giving him the option of strolling the "historical" house or taking a tour. Clint smiled as politely as possible, picked up a flyer just for something to hold, and declined her offer of a tour. She eyed him curiously as he made his way through the front parlor, as Old Man Willoughby had called it, and into the kitchen. Out of the entire house, he remembered this place as being filled with laughter and warmth. Why was it that he had the worst father figures in his life and the best mother figures?

Shoving the thought out of his head, he finally forced himself to brave the upper floors. The second floor was filled with dormitories while the third floor held the family's private quarters. The Willoughbys had had a son, Randall, who liked to remind all the other boys that he got to live "above-stairs" and wasn't one of them. Clint had coped with the mockery well, but Randall had seen something in six-year-old Clint that triggered his sadistic side. Randall took after his father in many ways. While Old Man Willoughby never laid a finger on his wife or son, he didn't hesitate to take his anger out on the orphans under his care. Clint had heard stories about what he did to others, but he thankfully never knew much more than Willoughby's anger. If Randall wasn't pushing Clint around and starting fights with him, Old Man Willoughby was taking a strap to his back for some perceived wrong. It had gone on for six long years before Clint had had enough.

Clint blinked, finding himself standing in the doorway of "his" room. The walls were white, as were the curtains. The metal bunk beds had thicker mattresses on them now, likely a concession to make the house more inviting. The curtains fluttered in a light breeze from the window, their eyelet border framing the pastoral vista outside. Clint forced himself to step into the room, brushing his fingers over the bunk he and his brother had shared. Barney had claimed the top bunk on their first night, leaving Clint with the bottom bed. To this day, he still fought anyone over the freedom to sleep on the top bunk. The bottom bunk represented weakness and vulnerability, and he refused to be either one of those.

Ten other boys had slept in this room with him and his brother, each one as concerned about Old Man Willoughby's anger as he had been. He wondered what had become of them. Had they survived their time here? Or had they followed his and Barney's lead in running away? While the Willoughby House was pristine and perfect on the surface, the secrets were like the emphysema that had killed Old Man Willoughby.

Footsteps in the hallway once again brought Clint to the present. He looked up in time to see the museum curator slip into the room. She was a tall woman, slender and wearing a denim skirt that reached her ankles. Her slip-on flats whispered over the hard wood as she smiled. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to close the place down. My mother's ill, and. . . ."

Clint smiled, stopping the explanation. "No problem." He glanced back to the bed he'd shared. "Just a quick question. Do any of the boys who lived here ever come back?"

Her face contorted into a frown. "I don't know. We don't get many visitors, but Old Man Willoughby left behind enough money to maintain this place, as his will wanted. I suppose some of them could have come back." She narrowed her eyes. "Did you know one of the boys?"

Clint's smile turned sad. "Yeah. Clint and Barney Barton."

She blinked rapidly, almost as if her mind were cycling through information. "Old Man Willoughby kept a lot of records. I could look them up, if you'd like."

"No, that's okay." He straightened and let out a deep breath, walking past her to leave the house.

She stopped him with a single question. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

Clint turned, surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"One of the boys." She shrugged. "You lived here."

Clint nodded, taking in the room that had pretended to be his home for six years. "Yeah. A long time ago."

A warm smile touched her face. "I thought so." She shook her head. "I had no fondness for my uncle, but I do often wonder about the boys who lived here. Where they went, who they became, what they accomplished. Some of them ran away, but some graduated from high school and moved on."

The wistfulness in her voice was genuine, and Clint met her eyes. "Some of us came out okay," he said softly, his voice gruff with emotion. "No matter what happens, know that some of us are doing something good with our lives."

She blinked in surprise and then nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

Clint left then, his heart surprisingly lighter than when he'd arrived. As he started his truck and drove back to his hotel, he sighed. The nightmares of his time at the Willoughby House would remain, but having revisited it made it seem somewhat smaller in his mind. He had taken it for granted that the house had not changed, that Old Man Willoughby still lived, and that he would never be able to overcome that portion of his life.

Maybe he was wrong.

~TBC