Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)

Lost and Found

Chapter 5—Clean

Clint rested his chin on his knee, dangling his other leg over his concrete perch. The warm sun washed over his face, the breeze whistled in his ears. The world bustled beneath him, sounds of humanity, dirty and broken, flowing easily from the streets all the way to meet him on the rooftop ledge. A strange sense of longing panged in his chest. He stayed silent for a moment, then exhaled softly and spoke to the looming figure behind.

"Go home, Phil. Traffic looks crazy." A Phil-shaped shadow detached from the side of the building and came to rest his forearms on the ledge beside Clint. Clint smirked as Phil pointedly avoided looking down; rather locking his gaze on the horizon, obviously fighting the early stages of vertigo.

"You know the roof is off limits to recruits, Clint," Phil's warm tone began, but Clint knew he didn't mean the words. Nevertheless, he clicked his tongue in annoyance and tossed his head back with a youthful ease to give Phil his trademark sidelong gaze.

"Well, I'm not dumb enough or suicidal enough to take a dive, Phil. Training's not as stressful as people make it out to be." Phil snorted out a half-laugh.

"I know. That's why I ignored it the first few times you disabled the security feed." Clint smirked and went back to staring out at the city line from the perch of his knee. A dog barked as it wrested its leash from the owner's hand and frolicked through the grassy partition amidst a concrete forest.

"Shoulda known you noticed." Phil laughed at Clint's pointedly careless tone.

"Yeah, six months in should have taught you something about me, kid."

"Don't call me kid."

"Then quit lookin' like one." Clint allowed a grin to cross his face. An easy and not-so-easy silence covered the two men.

"Mind telling me what's going on with you?"

Clint sighed and found himself wondering when Phil of all people had become predictable. A pang of disappointment echoed through his chest and he could not place the reason. He settled on an easy grin—the one that fooled Katie from the cafeteria into slipping him a few extra blueberries with his oatmeal and the one that was captured in the Army unit picture he kept buried in a nest of socks.

"Nothin'. Hey, I'm gonna go study. Tactics test tomorrow." He moved to leave, but was stopped by a warm hand and a firm:

"Clint."

A bubble of anger rose in the teen's body. He tensed and stared defiantly at Phil's worn face. Abruptly, an alarm began to sound beneath their shoes, and a feeling of guilty triumph coursed through Clint. A muscle twitched in Phil's face and Clint watched as he seemed to argue within himself. Phil barked out an aggravated sigh and rolled his eyes skyward, shaking his head slightly.

"C'mon." Clint shot the older man a wary look as he hopped from the ledge to the rooftop.

"Huh?"

"You wanna come, or no?"

"Yes boss."

Phil could have sworn he saw Clint skipping as the two rushed through the roof access hatch and into the clean, white corridors of SHIELD.

—Break—Break—Break—

"He's not going." Clint hid his flinch as Fury's flat tone broke through the uncomfortable silence of the board room. His face flushed as Phil scoffed and leaned forward in his seat, placing fanned fingers on the glass of the table.

"He's progressed so fast his instructors can't keep pace. He's shattered every training record that ever existed. His tactical ability is off the charts. It's far superior than several Agents I know. C'mon Fury, you know he's ready for his trial."

"I wasn't aware you were privy to what I know and don't know, Mr. Coulson. Especially about high-risk recruits six months into a twelve month training period." Clint dipped his head as Fury's tone of warning punctuated the air.

"Phil, it's okay—" he began softly before the Agent rose from his seat sharply.

"He's probably the best asset we've ever brought in Nick. He can help. I don't see what the goddamn problem is!" Fury slammed his hand on the table and rose sharply.

"I don't trust mercenaries." The venom in his tone forced Clint's eyes to the floor. A burning embarrassment and sense of betrayal coursed through his face and settled at the tips of his ears.

"I trust him."

Clint's head shot up. His eyes met Phil's and the older man nodded slightly. "I trust you."

Fury sighed.

"Goddamn it, Phil."

—Break—Break—Break—

Clint adjusted his earpiece silently as Phil eased the quinjet through the hangar door. Phil glanced at the teen. His hands were steady as he leafed through the hastily compiled manila folder, detailing the kidnapping of a SHIELD-affiliated French Ambassador's daughter in Belgium. He could barely recognize the surly, sarcastic kid through this professional mask. He forgot, sometimes, that this was nothing new to Clint. He forgot that the 19 year old kid was a trained archer, a practiced mercenary, and a war hero. He was nothing like the recruits Phil was given to prep. Phil was used to the twitchy, trigger-happy recruits who stammered their way out of dangerous missions and the muscle-bound Hoorah's who just made a mess of any covert mission that was given. Clint was so different.

"What's her name?" Clint's voice crackled through the static of his microphone.

"You don't need to know that." Clint flinched as Chris' words floated to him on the air of Phil's words.

"What's her name Phil?" Phil sighed heavily and shook his head, not missing the tense tone that had crept into the recruit's voice. "She's not a target, Coulson."

"Don't want your head clouded. You need to be removed Clint." Clint barked out a laugh.

"I've spent my whole life removed. The trick is learning how to attach." Phil felt a chill run up his spine.

"Angeline." Clint exhaled and finally flipped to the only photo he had avoided. Phil felt another pang of unease as Clint thumbed the edge of the little girl's school photo. He found himself feeling exposed and wishing he'd brought along a medic just in case.

"Angeline."

"You know this is your trial run, right Barton?" Phil gave a sidelong glance to Clint as he eased the quinjet through the clouds.

"Yeah," His voice was calm. "I know."

"What's going on in your head?" Clint didn't answer. The teen stayed silent, bow held loosely across his palms as the wheels of the aircraft touched the French tarmac. Phil powered down the jet and turned to face his Agent. Clint's eyes were closed and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. In the six months Phil had known him, Clint had never looked more at peace. "Clint?" He asked softly. The grey eyes opened.

"I feel clean."

—Break—Break—Break—

The air hung frozen as Clint stalked through the Ardennes on the outskirts of Belgium. The snowcapped pines, once the background to the worst show of firepower and the worst conflict of WWII, stretched and twined together. Clint crept silently through overgrown trenches, careful to keep on the course that Phil's map pulled him along. His commlink beeped softly and Phil's voice crackled in his ear.

"Barton. Radiocheck."

"Roger, have you loud and clear. How me?"

"Same. ETA?" Their rough and improvised radio communication halted as Clint paused and cocked his ear to the sky. A stick cracked sharply and birds' wings fluttered above. His brows knitted together as he flattened himself to the ground, belly in the dirt, strongly reminiscent of his days crawling through the sands of the Middle East. He slowly tapped his earpiece and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Voices sounded down the path.

Clint placed the arrow between his teeth and folded his bow into the slot in his quiver. He looked up and considered the tree just above his position. Pines. No rustling leaves, no flakes of bark. He silently detached himself from the earth and reached up to the body of the pine. With the grace of an orangutan, he swung himself up along the length of the pine and, upon nestling into the boughs such that nothing obvious showed, clung to a single position. He waited. A pair of sentry guards was walking along the path from the north. The men were large with even larger assault rifles. He smiled dangerously.

They passed beneath him and he released his grip on the bark. His feet drove into one of the sentry's back and drove his face into the ground. An audible crack was heard as the man's head struck a protruding root. Clint directed his own momentum into a forward roll, springing to his feet, pulling the arrow from his mouth and the bow from his quiver in one fluid movement. The second sentry couldn't even raise his rifle.

The arrow rested on the flesh of his forehead. The bowstring was taut, and the SHIELD agent stared down his prey with an unreadable expression. The man felt his breath catch in his chest and the rifle shake from his hands. He heard himself stammer.

"P-pl-please…I'll do anything. Please don't kill me."

"Please…" The woman's voice shook. "Kill me instead. Let her live." Clint felt the heat of embarrassment rush to his face. "Please let my sister go." The middle-aged woman stood trembling between the steel arrow and the cowering 24-year old daughter of a man set to testify the next day. Clint squeezed his eyes shut as a terrified sob bubbled from the younger woman. This was his trial run.

Clint shook his head from the memories and fought to pull his head from his ocean of guilt. The man had fallen to his knees and had closed his eyes against tears. Words of prayer flowed from his mouth.

The young woman began to pray. Clint forced his eyes open and swallowed roughly. The elder sister looked at him with pleading eyes. "Please. Kill me." She didn't know the bounty had been laid on both of their heads.

With a sharp motion, Clint forced the arrow back into his quiver and struck the man across the face with his bow, rendering him unconscious. He breathed out a shaky sigh, closed his eyes, and fought for control. The months of training had made him soft where he had once grown stone. He pulled zip-ties from his pack and bound the two unconscious men swiftly. He pulled their limp bodies into the trenches and disassembled their rifles. He threw the pieces into the brush, gave Coulson the "all-okay" signal whistle and made his way down the path.

—Break—Break—Break—

Not for the first time, Clint thanked whatever god existed that the darkness of the evening and the shadows of the trees concealed his passage. He easily picked his way to the outer wall of the headquarters. His eyes darted along the expanse of the stone. Men and searchlights clamored along the forest paths and he knew time was up: the sentries had been found. He cursed under his breath, frowned crossly at his quickened heart rate, and willed it to slow. The time for thinking ended. With a decisive flurry of motion, he snapped his bow closed and pushed it into the slot in his quiver. With a nimble grace, he kicked off the stone wall, spun mid-air, and grabbed a low hanging branch. Using the momentum of his swing, he threw his body to the next branch, higher than the last and propelled his body spinning through the air.

—Break—Break—Break—

"The trapeze is all about balance, Clint, not strength." Even Magdalena's soft voice could not sooth his stinging knees and palms and his bruised ego. He swiped a forearm across his running nose and glared at his dirty toes. Buck's bellowing guffaw grated on Clint's ears, eliciting a bright red blush across his face.

"Shut the hell up, Buck," Magdalena snapped in her rare stern tone. "I don't recall YOU ever coming to learn acrobatics for your performance." Buck waved his hand flippantly and easily strode from the tent, wiping imaginary tears, still chuckling. The girl knelt beside Clint and tucked her legs beneath her; elephant print pants that always reminded Clint of Princess Jasmine billowing into a puddle on the soft grass. She was young—not quite as young as Clint, but still clearly not old enough to be a nomad with a travelling circus. Her brown eyes were flecked with hazels, blues, and greens, and Clint thought she was quite beautiful. But she was marked. A man who thought she was too young to say no but not too young to be touched left his mark in a long scar from the left corner of her lips to the line of her hair and in the way her voice hardened around pretty blonde men with big muscles. She laid a hand on his and turned his palm to look at the angry, red skin.

"Not so bad," she pressed her cool palm on his and turned her eyes to Clint's. A cheerful gleam was captured inside. "You can do it Clint. You just have to stop thinking so much." He grinned lopsidedly and pulled from her grasp as she tapped his head with her knuckles. She stood; hips and long brown braid swaying. A flower fell from her hair. Clint tucked it into his pocket and stood.

"I'm not scared, you know?" She glanced at him through her eyelashes in a sidelong glance. "I just can't do it."

She smiled and looked back up at the trapeze swings. "I know you're not afraid of heights, Clint. I think you're afraid of falling because that, to you, means failure."

"Isn't that what it means though?" Clint brushed his palms free of dirt and watched as Magdalena began to climb the trapeze tower. Clint mirrored her on the other side.

"No," she said simply, soft voice traveling the warm air. "It teaches you how to stand back up all on your own. It shows you that you have the control to decide for yourself if you want to let go and fly or to hold on and swing. Neither is bad, one's just safer." Clint understood.

"Why do you fly?" A smile from the girl's tanned and strained face lightened the whole world.

"Because I feel clean."

And then she disappeared into the abyss, leaving a laugh of joy for Clint to bask in.

—Break—Break—Break—

His hands gripped the ledge lining the rooftop with a firm grasp. He hung for a moment as his feet swung, searching for purchase against the wall. His toes caught in a niche and he pulled himself onto the roof. He stalked in the shadows to a small grate on the south ledge and disappeared into the ventilation system.

In a voice less than a whisper, he stated: "In." Phil's response floated in, followed by the radio silence signal. Clint tucked his limbs into his body and made himself small enough to orient his position in the vents. The blueprints from the manila folder traced his path through to the basements. Silently, Clint eased himself through the enclosed tubes. Cool air pulled itself across his face. He exhaled softly and continued down.

After a long while, he found the grate he was searching for. Peering through the slats, he saw two man standing before a metal door, arguing loudly. One was clearly an American, the other spoke with a pronounced accent.

"Is pointless!" The accented man grumbled. "Just kill 'er and get it over with." The American scoffed and leaned against the door.

"She's a child. Besides, we need her if the ambassador is to provide the packages safe passage. With his credentials, no one would dare stop them." Clint's eyes narrowed. Something seemed off.

"She is annoying. Always crying, never shut up."

"We just need to keep her for a few more weeks. Then we'll have everything we need."

"Yes, yes, very well." The two walked beyond Clint's sight and he listened as a door clamored shut down the hall. Silently, the archer removed the grate and lowered himself to the ground, crouching once his feet made contact with the earth. The surrounding hall was dark and dirty; a film of dust on the windowsill. He turned to face the door. Nothing more than a cheap padlock. He smirked and swiftly picked the lock. His heart fell as the door swung open.

—Break—Break—Break—

Phil had been an agent long enough to trust his gut. Today, his gut was telling him something wasn't right. He frowned and ran a hand through thinning brown hair. He set down his customary mission newspaper and strode to the information panel on the quinjet. He tapped the screen briefly until the face of Agent Clara Owens appeared on the screen. He smiled softly.

"Hey Clara." The small woman beamed back.

"Hey Phil, what can I do for you? Aren't you on a case? Isn't it that new recruit who hates everyone? Wasn't he a mercenary? Don't answer that. Is it—" Phil laughed and cut off the exuberant woman.

"Easy there Clara, mission's still going. Covert phase, you know? Bored out of my mind. Anyways, I just called for your mastery of all things intel." She cracked her fingers and looked at Phil.

"Tell me what you need."

"I need information on Evangeline Croix."

"Croix? As in Ambassador Croix's daughter?"

"The very same." Clara frowned and gave him a stern look.

"She's a minor, Phil, and isn't she the one you're rescuing anyway?"

"Something doesn't feel right. Please Clara?" She sighed and gave him a nod. After a few minutes of furiously typing, she twisted her lips to the side and gave Phil a negative shrug. "How about the mother?" She typed and then frowned.

"Here's something weird. There is no mother. There's no adoption papers, but there's also no mother. Her birth certificate was destroyed in a house fire two weeks ago and wasn't on the public files due to her father's position or something, so I don't have that for you either. Hold on." Phil felt his gut twist as Clara's face visibly fell. "Clint, the little girl died in that fire. She was identified four hours ago after they found her under her nanny's body. Somebody's playing you." Phil's eyes widened and he spun around in his chair, reaching for his commlink, recoiling as it crackled to life from the other end.

"JERICHO."

Phil jumped as the safe word for a failed cover hung in the air. "RTB Barton, RTB now!" He abruptly punched the intelligence console closed and powered up the quinjet. The engines whined as he slammed the stick forward and began careening through the air to the rendezvous point.

—Break—Break—Break—

Clint sprinted down the hall from the empty room, booted feet pursuing him from all connecting corridors. He ducked as the first bullet screamed into the wall beside his head, shattering into a cloud of stone and metal. Reaching back, he grabbed his bow and selected a custom arrowhead. As he rounded the corner to the staircase, he drew the bowstring back and fired an arrow, lodging it into the wall across the gap. Along with the steel head and carbon fiber shaft was a grappling hook that snapped tight. He dove into the gap, forcing his descent into a spiral as he kicked the weapon toting men from their respective stairs and balconies. His heart lodged in his throat as a well-placed bullet snapped the connection between his hook and the wall. His limbs flailed briefly as he began to fall through the air before he caught sight of a chandelier below. He grinned and thanked Magdalena fervently in his head. With a jerk, he caught the chandelier and rode out the momentum-driven swing as it pulled the wire through the plaster ceiling. He dove to the floor and rolled to his feet. He took a breath and instantly cursed himself for even that momentary pause.

A white-hot pain lanced through his side as a bullet tore through his abdomen. A cry pulled itself from his throat and he staggered to one knee. With another yell, he forced himself back up and turned to face the approaching men. He whipped another arrow from its quiver and fired. The explosive head embedded itself into the archway and blasted the ceiling down, burying the men below. He turned and sprinted through the main hall of the building as an adjacent corridor produced more enemies, led by the foreign man he'd seen before.

He growled angrily and redirected his sprint straight at a wall. With light feet, Clint sprinted up the side of the wall and around the corner. As he rounded the room, he drew and released his bow, firing until all had fallen besides the man he'd concluded to be Ukrainian. He skidded to a stop and faced the man, breath heavy, and eyes narrowed. His adversary laughed and drew a long hunting knife.

"Want to play, little man?"

Never breaking eye contact, Clint snapped his bow closed and pulled his own knife from its sheath. Defiantly, he dropped into a fighting stance. The big man gave a bellowing laugh and then abruptly charged at Clint, viciously slashing the knife through Clint's shirt. Had it not been for Clint's honed reflexes, his throat would have been slit. He threw himself into a backflip and jabbed at his adversary as the man charged again. The big man was skilled, strong, and fast, and yet Clint instantly could see his fatal flaw. He was impatient.

Clint switched to a defensive mode, dodging when he could, blocking when he had to. The Ukranian visibly grew more and more frustrated, slashing with less finesse and with more sloppiness until, as Clint tumbled once more and popped to his feet, he let out a rumbling yell. Clint's smile grew deadly and dangerous. A flurry of knife swings carved a gash from ribs to hip and a long slice down the back as he crouched in pain. Clint brought the hilt of his knife up and drove it into the back of the man's neck. A soft rush of air covered a sickening crack and the body hit the ground.

Clint turned on his heel and burst through the door. The heavy whine of the quinjet's engines met him. "Thank fucking God, Phil." The aircraft was on the grass and Phil was running towards him, gun drawn and firing. As Clint barreled down on Phil's position, his eye caught a glint of light in the shadows; a reflection of the moon off a polished surface. His mind went blank as he thrust himself between Phil and the bullet from the American's gun.

—Break—Break—Break—