Run Through the Jungle
Title: Run Through the Jungle
Universe: the Marvel Universe, specifically the movie 'verse
Pairing: Agent Phil Coulson/Clint Barton
Rating: mature. some language and violence.
Word Count: 6,411
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this so please don't sue me.
Summary: A mission gone awry leads to Clint being offered a job with S.H.I.E.L.D.
Author's Note: this fic is written for my Big Damn Table, which i got from avengers_tables the prompt for this story was hiding. (this is what i came up with for how Clint ended up being recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. because my brain is weird like that.)
this is part of that 'verse i mentioned creating. no name yet. but when there is, i'll let you know.
Darkness was slowly swallowing up the land, leaving only pin pricks of yellow light floating in the shadows to mark where the tiny village was. Maybe when it was full dark, when everyone had climbed into their beds for the night, he could venture out of his hiding place and seek out anything he could use to deal with the seeping wound that ran down his side. He'd already checked for any dogs within the village that could make things difficult for him, but he'd seen no sign of man's best friend. Given where he was and the fact that many of the people who lived in these small, outer villages were dirt poor, he wasn't really surprised that there were no dogs prowling the grounds.
The leaves over his head rustled as a wind blew through the trees, shaking off the last remaining droplets of water clinging to them from the rain that had fallen not more than an hour ago. A few cold drops landed on his face, sliding down his nose and following the curve of his cheek to his chin before dropping to the ground. Then there was a pattering sound and, seconds later, the sky opened up and dumped a deluge on him. He quickly found himself soaked to the skin. Again.
Fucking North Korea. In fucking summer. It was hot and humid, every single piece of gear clinging to him as if it was his own skin. Sweat and rain kept his hair plastered to his head. The ground under him was soggy, making him shift on occasion to keep from sinking too far into the moist soil. And, sadly, the rain was the only good thing going for him.
It was supposed to have been an easy mission. It was supposed to have been in and out. He and his team were supposed to have gone in, hit their target, and gotten the hell out of Dodge before the shit had finished hitting the fan. Only it hadn't quite worked out that way. Thinking back on the clusterfuck the mission had been, there had to have been a leak somewhere. Because they'd been met at their target by more than a hundred North Korean soldiers. It had been a slaughter and, as far as he knew, he was the only one who'd managed to get away.
He still hadn't decided if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
It had been a week since he'd fought his way out of certain death, shooting anything that even looked like it was going to open fire on him. A week since he'd watched every member of his team die before his eyes. A week since he'd become the biggest fugitive in North Korean history. He still wasn't sure how many men he'd gunned down. And given that all of it had happened in a village that edged the forest, there had been only one escape route for him. The trees had offered him shelter and had kept him hidden from the men trying to track him. A pain twinged through him, a reminder of an encounter he'd had only a few days ago. Okay. So mostly hidden.
Just thinking of that encounter had his blood running cold. He didn't even know the name of the little village where they'd come ashore. All he'd known at that moment, with bullets flying over his head, was that he had to get the hell out of there, head north and east until he hit the Soviet border. While the American government wasn't on terribly friendly terms with the Soviets, the Russians were still friendlier than the North Koreans. He knew there was a village or town on the other side of the border, Khasan, where he might be able to find some help getting home.
Japan was only about five hundred miles or so across the Sea of Japan. His hope was to reach Khasan and radio out. And pray like mad an American military base or ship in the area received his S.O.S. He could arrange for pick up from Pos'yet or, at the least, he could try to bribe someone to take him far enough out to get picked up. He knew it was a huge gamble, but it was the only option he had open to him. But that plan only worked if he could make it to Khasan.
As far as he knew, he was somewhere between Najin and Sǒnbong-ǔp. That put him at least twenty miles from the border. And going was slow because every move made his side ache like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention the hole in his calf. He wasn't sure how he was going to make it all that way when he was hobbling with pain and losing blood faster than he was comfortable with.
Getting to Khasan and trying to make a call for help was his only hope. Every member of his team had been wearing GPS so that their movements could be tracked. He'd lost his somewhere along the way as he'd been trekking through trees and streams and fucking everything under the fucking sun. There'd only been one sat phone in the group and that was back in that shithole village where his friends and companions had all died. There'd been absolutely no chance to retrieve it before heading off into the trees and relative safety. So until he called in and gave his position, it was a given that his superiors would believe he'd died with the rest of his team.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden silence. The rain had stopped, a few drops of water splattering softly against the leaves covering him. The darkness was absolute now, with only a few small points of light shining out of the black to mark where the huts were located. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. Night vision kicked in and allowed him to make out the looming shapes of walls and thatched roofs. He strained his hearing in an attempt to catch any stray sounds. But there was nothing to hear, telling him that it was time to get a move on.
Fatigue beat at him as he pulled himself from his hiding place. The mud sucked at his clothes, trying to keep him from getting up. Each time he did this, it was harder to make himself stand. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually slept more than five minutes. The lack of sleep was starting to take its toll. Every day spent fighting his way through the jungle saw his chances of getting out alive dwindling down. The longer it took, the smaller his chances got. He was running out of time.
As he crept through the darkness toward the darkened huts, he ran his mind across his plans once again. Reach the Soviet border. Attempt to borrow a sat phone or a radio. Contact American military stationed in Japan. Get the fuck out of this place. Get fixed up, go home, sit in front of the television and drink beer. He definitely did not think about how loudly his stomach protested not having had any food in days. He didn't think about how tired he was. He didn't dwell on the weakness in his limbs that had been brought about by lack of food, lack of sleep, and blood loss. He couldn't think about those things because if he did, he'd give up and die. He was a soldier. That wasn't what soldiers did.
That wasn't what he'd been taught to do.
Because of his injuries, his movements were slow. Despite his injury, his movements were stealthy. He had a combat knife in one hand and a nine millimeter Beretta in the other. Given he was in a small village, the knife was the preferred weapon. Besides, he was nearly out of ammunition for the gun and he was saving that for an emergency situation. Still, most villagers would freeze and go silent at the sight of a gun.
There was little left outside the huts that he could use. He found some clean, dry clothes under the overhang of one place that he planned on using for bandaging. At another hut, he found a few strips of meat hung off a peg on the wall and left to dry. Logic told him to take all of it because there was no guarantee he'd find more food. Even if he did, there was no telling how long it would take. But these were poor people and there was no way he was going to take all of their food. So he sliced off a few small pieces, enough to give him a little boost, and tucked them into one of his many pockets before moving on.
Ten minutes later, he was back in the safety of the trees with his pilfered prizes. The meat was dried into some kind of jerky and he couldn't place the flavor. Logic told him that he didn't want to know where it had come from. So he gnawed at the jerky and pretended it was beef and tried really hard not to think about anything else. The meat was washed down with a swig of water from his canteen, filled from a crystal clear stream he'd found tumbling aimlessly along among the trees.
Hunger and thirst dealt with, he turned his attention to the remaining, pressing problem. The black, government issue vest came open with the familiar, loud tearing sound of Velcro giving up its hold. He didn't pull the vest off, simply reached under it and tugged the blood-soaked rag that he'd stuck under it earlier. There were parts of the cloth that were stuck to his skin, gripping tight like they'd been glued on. That forced him to pull harder than he wanted. Pain went spiraling up and down his body in a flash of burning heat while brilliant crimson temporarily washed over his vision.
The fresh, dry material of the stolen shirt was shoved up against the wound with brutal efficiency. He had to bite his lip to hold back the cry that came when he pulled the vest closed and brought the Velcro closures together. The garment was tight enough to hold the make-shift bandage in place. Hopefully it would be enough to keep him alive and on his feet until he could find medical assistance.
The night wore on long and slow, the utter darkness wrapping itself around him to leave him feeling completely isolated from the rest of the world. He slept in fits, a minute or two here or five minutes there, always snapping awake at the slightest sound. His hand remained on his Beretta, fingers flexing each time he was startled into consciousness and relaxing only when he realized that it wasn't some North Korean death squad come to finish him off.
By the time the sun started to climb up over the rim of the world, he was cold and so tired that moving seemed to be nearly impossible. It had rained during the night, so he was still soaked to the skin and utterly miserable. But there was no way he could keep hiding out in the jungle. The villagers would begin to suspect something soon if he didn't move on. It took every ounce of energy to force himself to his feet and, with carefully measured steps, start once more in the direction of the border.
He kept to the trees, using undergrowth and leaves and shrubs to hide his passing. He was careful to ensure that branches weren't disturbed by his passing. He couldn't help footsteps in the mucky ground or the occasional broken brush, but most of that could be explained by wild animals or possibly even remote villagers hunting game in the jungle. If any soldiers were looking for him, they were likely going to seek out signs of a man's passing. Which meant at least five feet off the ground. He had some skills he could fall back on to make tracking him harder. But unless he suddenly learned how to fucking fly, it wouldn't be impossible for an experienced tracker.
Sweat built up, brought on by the close quarters of the forest and the oppressive humidity. Beads of salty moisture slid down his face, rolled down his arms, soaked his shirt under the vest. Plastered his hair to his head. The only time he didn't sweat was when it rained on him. He was starting to wonder if he was ever going to be dry again.
By the time night was starting to fall, he was growing light-headed. He wasn't sure if that was due to one thing or a combination of things. Not that it mattered why he was dizzy and tripping over his own feet. All that mattered was it was a bad sign. He didn't know how much longer he could keep going and he was sure he still had plenty of miles to go before he was anywhere near the Soviet border. He was going to have to stop and actually sleep. Try to get dry. Take some time to rest up.
He'd never make it home if he didn't.
Lady Luck must have been smiling down on him because it was nearly dark when he stumbled, quite literally, into a small clearing with a single hut sitting in the center of it. There was no light from a candle in the window, letting him know that the owners were either already asleep or gone. The gun was heavy in his hand, his grip weak, when he shoved the door open and burst inside.
The one room hut was empty, the air old and close. It had been empty for a long time. He memorized the location of everything before pushing the door closed and moving toward the cot against the far wall. The thing creaked ominously as he lowered himself into it, but it held his weight. Safety on, he tucked the Beretta under the pillow. Kept his hand on it as he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
~*~
Consciousness came in the blink of an eye, his body moving before his mind had time to process what it was that had woken him. The door creaked open to allow a man in a North Korean uniform into the hut. Instinct saw his finger squeezing down on the trigger. The resulting explosion was loud in the silence of the hut. The shot took him dead center of the man's head, a third eye opening up right above his nose. His body tumbled backward and brought forth a litany of Korean from several locations. Damn it. The hut was surrounded!
How the fuck had they found him?
He rolled off the cot, dropping to the floor without making a sound. There was no telling how many men there were surrounding the hut. Damn it. There was no way out other than the one door. There were a few windows, but those would be of no help. Maybe if he could get a hand on the semi-automatic rifle one of the soldiers was carrying, he could fight his way out and back into the trees. But there was no guarantee that he could manage to do either one of those things. Picking up a rifle meant he was going to have to step outside to do it since he was sure, after firing on the man at the door, no one was going to risk sticking their head through the door or one of the windows. And stepping outside meant getting shot. He was so fucking screwed.
The faint snapping of a twig just behind the wall he had his back to caught his attention, letting him know someone was coming up on the hut. Hmmm. Maybe he wasn't so fucking screwed after all. He shifted on silent feet, moving to put his back against the thin wall of the hut so that the window was above him. There was no glass in the window, so it was easy for the approaching enemy to lean into the hut to look for him, the rifle held before him.
He didn't think, merely acted. The ammunition loaded into his Beretta went through the hut's thin walls and found a target in the enemy soldier's body. He heard the man give a gasping cry of pain even as his free hand was jerking the rifle out of limp hands. Instinct took over as another face showed itself in one of the other windows. This time, his shot took the man through the center of his forehead and the rifle he'd held out before him tumbled into the hut.
This was why he was on this mission, why he'd been taken in by one of the country's most elite military organizations. Because he was fucking perfect, each and every time he fired. It didn't matter if he had a gun in his hand or if he was using something a little more esoteric. They'd found out he was just as deadly with a bow and arrow as he was with a handgun or a rifle. Every round he fired was a lethal hit. He. Never. Missed.
Everything slid away from him as he fell into the zone. The zone was that spot where his mind went when he was in the middle of a life or death situation and all he had to rely on was his wits and his aim. The weight of the gun in his hand put him there, left him oblivious to everything but point and shoot. The faces blurred before his eyes as he fired the Beretta until it was empty, then took up the rifle and used it in the handgun's stead.
The fire fight could have lasted five minutes or it could have lasted five hours. He wasn't sure how long it had gone on. Time was a concept that didn't exist in the zone. Neither did things like pain and being shot. It wasn't until the sounds of gunfire died, leaving only the groans and grunts of the dying hanging on the air with the smell of blood and piss and shit and cordite, that he realized he'd been shot at some point.
Blood soaked the material of fatigues, dark red mixing with the mottled greens to make strange patterns across his thigh. It wasn't a serious wound. Assuming it was dealt with in a timely manner. But he was in the middle of the fucking jungle without any first aid at all. All it had to do was get infected and he was fucking done for. What a shitty way to go. Because there was no way he was going to make it to the border now. Not with his leg leaking the way it was.
There was nothing for it but to sit back and wait for the end. Well, he could get up and keep going. Make his leg bleed more. Die faster. Then again, with the excitement of the gun battle over, the dizziness was starting to creep back in. It was definitely blood loss related. And it pretty much meant he wouldn't make it far if he even attempted to head for the border. He might be arrogant and mule-headed, but he knew his limits. There was no way he could make it to the border the way he was.
Sitting around, bleeding his life away in this shithole, was not the way he wanted to go out.
To keep his mind from lingering too much on the growing possibility of impending death, he set about binding the wound in his leg. It would keep his hands and his thoughts busy, if only for a little while. After that... Hell, after that, he'd just have to fucking deal, wouldn't he?
The bedding off the cot was ripped into strips that he used to bandage and bind his leg. His fingers were slow and clumsy in tearing the bedding apart and wrapping his wound. He left two pieces of cloth that were large enough to fold up into square pads which he tied in place with the strips of shredded bedding. It would only delay the inevitable, he knew, but it was something that came to him as naturally as breathing or shooting. It was something that had been instilled in him from almost the beginning, back when he'd been nothing more than a faceless grunt to a sadistic bastard of a drill sergeant.
Hell, he could hear the man's voice in his head. "Patch the wounds up, ignore the aches and pains, and keep right the fuck going."
Even though he knew that he wasn't going to make it far and he knew that there was no way he'd get out of this alive, his over developed sense of self-preservation reared its ugly head and saw him pushing unsteadily to his feet. He staggered toward the door, one hand on the thin wall to help keep him on his feet. His head spun with every step, leg and side throbbing in time as his heart pounded and pain spiked through him.
The door opened easily with his push, the panel hitting the wall with a slapping sound as he staggered out into the clearing around the hut. Sunlight poured down on the area and temporarily blinded him. But his ears worked just fine and they picked up the sound of something moving toward him through the jungle's growth. Instincts kicked in, saw him heading off toward the trees in the hopes that he could hide himself away.
It was a dim hope and he knew it. Chances were good any enemy soldier would search the hut's immediate surroundings. And even if they didn't, it was possible he was leaving a trail for them to follow. Getting up and moving got the blood flowing, which meant he'd bleed out faster. He could feel his life's blood slipping away, a hot and tacky trail of it dribbling down his leg as he walked. That meant his not really bandages hadn't done a damned thing they were supposed to.
The low growl of an internal combustion engine filled the clearing. He wondered for just a moment how the hell someone had gotten a vehicle of any kind through the trees, but that thought was shoved aside when he realized that he had more pressing matters to deal with. Like the fact that his legs had gone out from under him and that the ground was rushing up to meet him rather rapidly. There wasn't even any time to put his hands out to break his fall. But the forest floor was covered with all kinds of soft plants and they mostly cushioned the blow.
A door opened and closed, followed by a second. He frowned and dragged himself on his elbows into the underbrush, hoping that it would hide his presence from anyone who might come looking. He couldn't see the hut from his position, but he could still hear things. Only there wasn't much to hear. Whoever was there was moving with absolute stealth and silence.
It was hard to lay there and strain to catch a sound. His body screamed that he should be doing something, that he should try and put a bullet through someone so that he could take the truck and just go. But he could barely move as it was and his eyelids felt like they were made of lead. He honestly wanted nothing more than to sink into the encroaching darkness and let it take him where it would. Maybe it would take him home because that's where he wanted to go.
His eyes must have fallen closed when he wasn't looking because everything was suddenly dark and a buzz of sound came creeping out of the black. It sounded like voices, soft and careful as they spoke back and forth to one another. He listened carefully, trying to make out what they were saying. He had some basic language skills, picked up on various missions. Just enough to get by when he had to ask a question or order food.
He had to be hallucinating because the voices he heard sounded like they were speaking Russian.
The voices faded into nothing, the faint rustle of leaves around him the only thing he heard. The hallucination must have played itself out. That left him alone with his thoughts and the thick, wet, oppressive heat that invaded the jungle. Sweat beaded up under his clothes, trickled down his face, flattened his hair against his skull. Which was damned odd because he felt just the slightest bit cold. Which was really not good.
"I've found something. Over here." The man's voice came out of the shadows and it sounded as if the speaker was close to his location. For a moment, he felt hope swell in his chest, but then he realized that the owner of the voice was using English. He had to be hallucinating again because it wasn't possible that anyone this far north in North Korea knew English. American English.
"We don't have much time. We need to move." A woman's voice, in English and lightly accented. A sexy purr of a voice. Now he knew he was hallucinating because there was no way that such a throaty, velvety voice belonged to anything other than a fabrication of his mind. He was distracted from the super sexy voice by the sound of leaves and plants rustling loudly. He needed to figure out what was going on, so he forced his eyes open.
And found himself staring up into the face of a man he'd never seen before. It was a serious face, topped by shortly cut brown hair and intense blue eyes over lips that had been pressed flat in concern or something. All in all, a very serious face. Or maybe he was just hallucinating that face. He wasn't really sure.
"Is this your man?" the sexy voice asked. He glanced past the serious face to find another serious face. This time, it was haloed by fiery red hair.
"It is. Let's get him to the truck." The two serious faces leaned closer and hands came out of nowhere at him. He wanted to tell them that they were damned impressive hallucinations, but the words wouldn't come because his tongue felt thick and clumsy. Then the hands were pulling him up into a standing position, righting him and bringing back the dizziness, which officially made it the worst hallucination ever. Couldn't his brain leave him to die in peace? Did he have to suffer through the indignity of hoping he'd make it home after all?
He was vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged toward a truck idling in the middle of the clearing between trees and hut. "We'll put him in the back. I'll drive." This from the sexy hallucination. It prompted him to turn to look at her, only he didn't really have the strength so his head kind of rolled to the side so he could catch sight of her. She stared straight ahead, her face set in those same serious lines, and didn't even flick her gaze to the side to acknowledge his presence.
The two hallucinations somehow managed to haul him up into the back of a covered truck bed and lay him out on the hard floor. Then the redhead was gone and he was left alone with the serious faced man.
Great. Just how he fucking wanted to die.
~*~
"Specialist Barton? My name is Agent Phil Coulson." The voice dragged him away from the tempting edges of slumber and he opened his eyes to find the serious faced hallucination standing beside his hospital bed. Okay. So it turned out he hadn't been hallucinating. Someone had really driven into the North Korean jungle just to pull his ass out of the fire. And ever since he'd woken up in a hospital bed in Hawaii, he'd been wondering just why the hell anyone would have wanted to do something like that. "I'm with Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"Wow. That's a mouthful," he replied with a tired smirk. And maybe a hint of innuendo. Because that's how he dealt with strange situations like this. Which fell flat, because Agent Phil Coulson of the organization with the mile long name that likely no one had ever fucking heard of didn't even twitch a smile at him. Fine. If that was the way he was going to be... "Look, you're cutting into lime jello time. And my sponge bath, given by the gentle hands of a nurse who must have once worked in a meat processing factory breaking the necks of chickens and cows. So say what you came here to say and then leave me to my fate."
For some reason, that got him a twitch. Though, to be fair, the drugs they had him on could have him hallucinating. The good ones always did shit like that. And he knew he was on the good ones because he couldn't feel a damn thing. "Specialist Barton--"
He interrupted the man with a snort. "My name is Clint. I'd prefer that or even just Barton over Specialist Barton. My entire team was executed in that clusterfuck of a mission."
"Your team was handed poor intelligence. You all walked into a set up. By the time your superiors found out that it was a set up, you were already in the middle of everything. It isn't your fault that you weren't able to save them," Phil Coulson told him and, even though there really wasn't any inflection in his voice, it almost sounded as if the man was disgusted on Clint's behalf. That was... odd. "You have more than earned the title of Specialist Barton."
He stared at the guy for a few seconds, curiosity finally prompting him to say something that would earn him answers to the questions running around his head. "You don't know anything about me."
"In point of fact, Specialist Barton, I know quite a bit about you. I requested your file from the military. It was a very interesting read," the man told him. He almost sounded impressed when he said it. "That file is the reason I went into North Korean territory to find you. The military had given you up for dead. Fortunately for you, I was in possession of intelligence that said otherwise. And I couldn't see leaving you there to die."
Clint stare at him for a few moments, debating just how to respond to that shocking information. "Thanks?"
Agent Phil Coulson cocked a brow at that and stared him straight in the eye as if he was gauging the man before him against the man in those lifeless, emotionless files. "You do realize that you killed nearly a dozen North Koreans at that shack in the jungle."
"I wasn't keeping track. And, to be perfectly honest here, I don't really remember much of my time in that shack."
"Of course you don't. You were suffering from blood loss and lack of sleep, as well as a fever brought on by a nasty infection. Its amazing you managed to survive for as long as you did. You're going to be wearing the memories of your time in North Korea for the rest of your life." One hand motioned toward Clint's thigh. His side.
"Yay for me." Clint sighed and made a rolling motion with one hand. "Can we get on with this? I'm on the really good drugs and I don't want to waste them by remaining conscious for any length of time."
The other man stared at him for a few long seconds, then nodded his head. Clint hadn't thought it was possible, but the man put on a much more serious and professional demeanor. "Very well, Specialist Barton. After reading over your file and seeing for myself what you're capable of, I've come here to offer you a job."
One brow went up at that. "You want to offer me a job based on my service record and the bodies of a few enemy soldiers? It doesn't make sense that you'd come looking for me unless you'd already read my file and decided I was worth the effort. And you told me just now that I was presumed dead with the rest of my team. So exactly when did you request my file?"
Agent Phil Coulson of... whatever it was called eyed him for a minute before taking a seat in the chair beside Clint's bed. He was dressed in a finely tailored black suit with thin grey pinstripes. The shirt he wore with it was a crisp white field upon which the red of his tie was a bloody splash. His shoes were perfectly shined. He gave the appearance of being a completely competent and capable government paper pusher. It seemed an odd image for a man who'd risked his neck in the jungles of North Korea to rescue a lowly sniper's sorry ass.
"You came to the attention of my superiors after a certain mission to South America in which you ignored every order you were given so that you could keep your team alive and bring down your target. After reading the particulars of that mission, I requested access to your file." The man sat back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, and stared intently at Clint. "You have occasional trouble with authority and have a tendency to do things your way. You're loud and brash, and you often times leap before you look. Mission reports from your former team members say much the same thing, but with the added notation that, without your presence on the mission, it would never have succeeded."
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or upset," Clint said, tossing a hint of amusement into his tone. It bounced right off the man's hard outer shell. "Man. Tough crowd. So... You read my file, saw that I'm an arrogant shit who never listens and thought 'We need that on our team!'? Are you stoned?"
"To put it simply, Specialist Barton, you are the best marskman on the planet. Trust me. I know. I've looked. The contents of your file only go to prove this statement. As such, my superiors weren't about to allow such an asset to slip through our hands. They tasked me with finding you and bringing you home."
"And getting me to join up, right?"
"Of course," Coulson replied. "The organization I represent is always on the look out for talent. And people with a specific skill set are important assets not to be over looked. Or left to waste away with organizations that have no clue just what kind of assets they hold."
"So I'm nothing more than an asset to this mysterious and unknown organization you work for?"
The question didn't ruffle Coulson's feathers at all. The man simply regarded him with that same bland expression he'd been wearing since Clint had first opened his eyes a few minutes ago. It would appear that Agent Phil Coulson of Strategic fucking whatever Division wasn't going to hold Clint's hand or coddle him or babysit his feelings or even break shit to him gently. Much as he hated the idea of being nothing more than an asset to some super secret government organization with a super secret handshake and a crappy sense of humor, he did kind of like the fact that the man was going to give it to him straight.
"You know, as far as I know, I'm still in the military. This could prove a conflict of interests between your superiors and my own."
The man reached into his suit coat and, seconds later, produced a thick envelope from an interior pocket. He handed it over without a word and allowed Clint to tug the contents free. Official documents stamped and signed and legitimate. He glanced over each one, skimming the contents of the letters that had been folded in with his discharge papers. Turning to look at the other man, he lifted a brow and carefully folded the papers back up. Tucked them into the envelope. Waited.
"As you can see, you are no longer in the military."
"Is this discharge dependent upon my acceptance of your job offer?" When Coulson only regarded him with a knowing look, just the faintest hint of a smirk on his face, Clint decided to give him a sample of what he was asking for. What the hell? What was the worst thing the man could do? Take him back to North Korea and dump him in the middle of the jungle? "Who did you have to blow to get my release papers?"
"You and I are scheduled to fly back to New York City by private jet tomorrow morning. Our flight leaves at ten. I've already spoken to your physician and he'll have you ready to go by eight. Once you've recovered sufficiently from your wounds, you'll be put through a battery of tests. I suggest you get as much rest as you possible can between now and then. Its going to be hell."
Coulson rose from his seat and headed for the door without uttering another word. Clint's statement brought him up short before he put his hand on the door's knob, though. "You're pretty damned cock sure. I haven't accepted your job offer yet."
Agent Phil Coulson looked back at him with what Clint felt was a smug expression on his face. Hard to tell when his features really didn't move. "No, Specialist Barton. You haven't. But I can tell you're a man who likes to be in the middle of the action. And Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division can offer you that action. My superiors admire your abilities." The door opened and Coulson stepped out into the hall. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at eight sharp."
The door swung shut on Coulson's disappearing figure. Clint sighed and relaxed back into the bed. Coulson really was one cock sure mother fucker. But he was right about one thing. Something about the action called to him like nothing else.
"See you in the morning, Agent Coulson."
Universe: the Marvel Universe, specifically the movie 'verse
Pairing: Agent Phil Coulson/Clint Barton
Rating: mature. some language and violence.
Word Count: 6,411
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this so please don't sue me.
Summary: A mission gone awry leads to Clint being offered a job with S.H.I.E.L.D.
Author's Note: this fic is written for my Big Damn Table, which i got from avengers_tables the prompt for this story was hiding. (this is what i came up with for how Clint ended up being recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. because my brain is weird like that.)
this is part of that 'verse i mentioned creating. no name yet. but when there is, i'll let you know.
Darkness was slowly swallowing up the land, leaving only pin pricks of yellow light floating in the shadows to mark where the tiny village was. Maybe when it was full dark, when everyone had climbed into their beds for the night, he could venture out of his hiding place and seek out anything he could use to deal with the seeping wound that ran down his side. He'd already checked for any dogs within the village that could make things difficult for him, but he'd seen no sign of man's best friend. Given where he was and the fact that many of the people who lived in these small, outer villages were dirt poor, he wasn't really surprised that there were no dogs prowling the grounds.
The leaves over his head rustled as a wind blew through the trees, shaking off the last remaining droplets of water clinging to them from the rain that had fallen not more than an hour ago. A few cold drops landed on his face, sliding down his nose and following the curve of his cheek to his chin before dropping to the ground. Then there was a pattering sound and, seconds later, the sky opened up and dumped a deluge on him. He quickly found himself soaked to the skin. Again.
Fucking North Korea. In fucking summer. It was hot and humid, every single piece of gear clinging to him as if it was his own skin. Sweat and rain kept his hair plastered to his head. The ground under him was soggy, making him shift on occasion to keep from sinking too far into the moist soil. And, sadly, the rain was the only good thing going for him.
It was supposed to have been an easy mission. It was supposed to have been in and out. He and his team were supposed to have gone in, hit their target, and gotten the hell out of Dodge before the shit had finished hitting the fan. Only it hadn't quite worked out that way. Thinking back on the clusterfuck the mission had been, there had to have been a leak somewhere. Because they'd been met at their target by more than a hundred North Korean soldiers. It had been a slaughter and, as far as he knew, he was the only one who'd managed to get away.
He still hadn't decided if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
It had been a week since he'd fought his way out of certain death, shooting anything that even looked like it was going to open fire on him. A week since he'd watched every member of his team die before his eyes. A week since he'd become the biggest fugitive in North Korean history. He still wasn't sure how many men he'd gunned down. And given that all of it had happened in a village that edged the forest, there had been only one escape route for him. The trees had offered him shelter and had kept him hidden from the men trying to track him. A pain twinged through him, a reminder of an encounter he'd had only a few days ago. Okay. So mostly hidden.
Just thinking of that encounter had his blood running cold. He didn't even know the name of the little village where they'd come ashore. All he'd known at that moment, with bullets flying over his head, was that he had to get the hell out of there, head north and east until he hit the Soviet border. While the American government wasn't on terribly friendly terms with the Soviets, the Russians were still friendlier than the North Koreans. He knew there was a village or town on the other side of the border, Khasan, where he might be able to find some help getting home.
Japan was only about five hundred miles or so across the Sea of Japan. His hope was to reach Khasan and radio out. And pray like mad an American military base or ship in the area received his S.O.S. He could arrange for pick up from Pos'yet or, at the least, he could try to bribe someone to take him far enough out to get picked up. He knew it was a huge gamble, but it was the only option he had open to him. But that plan only worked if he could make it to Khasan.
As far as he knew, he was somewhere between Najin and Sǒnbong-ǔp. That put him at least twenty miles from the border. And going was slow because every move made his side ache like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention the hole in his calf. He wasn't sure how he was going to make it all that way when he was hobbling with pain and losing blood faster than he was comfortable with.
Getting to Khasan and trying to make a call for help was his only hope. Every member of his team had been wearing GPS so that their movements could be tracked. He'd lost his somewhere along the way as he'd been trekking through trees and streams and fucking everything under the fucking sun. There'd only been one sat phone in the group and that was back in that shithole village where his friends and companions had all died. There'd been absolutely no chance to retrieve it before heading off into the trees and relative safety. So until he called in and gave his position, it was a given that his superiors would believe he'd died with the rest of his team.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden silence. The rain had stopped, a few drops of water splattering softly against the leaves covering him. The darkness was absolute now, with only a few small points of light shining out of the black to mark where the huts were located. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. Night vision kicked in and allowed him to make out the looming shapes of walls and thatched roofs. He strained his hearing in an attempt to catch any stray sounds. But there was nothing to hear, telling him that it was time to get a move on.
Fatigue beat at him as he pulled himself from his hiding place. The mud sucked at his clothes, trying to keep him from getting up. Each time he did this, it was harder to make himself stand. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually slept more than five minutes. The lack of sleep was starting to take its toll. Every day spent fighting his way through the jungle saw his chances of getting out alive dwindling down. The longer it took, the smaller his chances got. He was running out of time.
As he crept through the darkness toward the darkened huts, he ran his mind across his plans once again. Reach the Soviet border. Attempt to borrow a sat phone or a radio. Contact American military stationed in Japan. Get the fuck out of this place. Get fixed up, go home, sit in front of the television and drink beer. He definitely did not think about how loudly his stomach protested not having had any food in days. He didn't think about how tired he was. He didn't dwell on the weakness in his limbs that had been brought about by lack of food, lack of sleep, and blood loss. He couldn't think about those things because if he did, he'd give up and die. He was a soldier. That wasn't what soldiers did.
That wasn't what he'd been taught to do.
Because of his injuries, his movements were slow. Despite his injury, his movements were stealthy. He had a combat knife in one hand and a nine millimeter Beretta in the other. Given he was in a small village, the knife was the preferred weapon. Besides, he was nearly out of ammunition for the gun and he was saving that for an emergency situation. Still, most villagers would freeze and go silent at the sight of a gun.
There was little left outside the huts that he could use. He found some clean, dry clothes under the overhang of one place that he planned on using for bandaging. At another hut, he found a few strips of meat hung off a peg on the wall and left to dry. Logic told him to take all of it because there was no guarantee he'd find more food. Even if he did, there was no telling how long it would take. But these were poor people and there was no way he was going to take all of their food. So he sliced off a few small pieces, enough to give him a little boost, and tucked them into one of his many pockets before moving on.
Ten minutes later, he was back in the safety of the trees with his pilfered prizes. The meat was dried into some kind of jerky and he couldn't place the flavor. Logic told him that he didn't want to know where it had come from. So he gnawed at the jerky and pretended it was beef and tried really hard not to think about anything else. The meat was washed down with a swig of water from his canteen, filled from a crystal clear stream he'd found tumbling aimlessly along among the trees.
Hunger and thirst dealt with, he turned his attention to the remaining, pressing problem. The black, government issue vest came open with the familiar, loud tearing sound of Velcro giving up its hold. He didn't pull the vest off, simply reached under it and tugged the blood-soaked rag that he'd stuck under it earlier. There were parts of the cloth that were stuck to his skin, gripping tight like they'd been glued on. That forced him to pull harder than he wanted. Pain went spiraling up and down his body in a flash of burning heat while brilliant crimson temporarily washed over his vision.
The fresh, dry material of the stolen shirt was shoved up against the wound with brutal efficiency. He had to bite his lip to hold back the cry that came when he pulled the vest closed and brought the Velcro closures together. The garment was tight enough to hold the make-shift bandage in place. Hopefully it would be enough to keep him alive and on his feet until he could find medical assistance.
The night wore on long and slow, the utter darkness wrapping itself around him to leave him feeling completely isolated from the rest of the world. He slept in fits, a minute or two here or five minutes there, always snapping awake at the slightest sound. His hand remained on his Beretta, fingers flexing each time he was startled into consciousness and relaxing only when he realized that it wasn't some North Korean death squad come to finish him off.
By the time the sun started to climb up over the rim of the world, he was cold and so tired that moving seemed to be nearly impossible. It had rained during the night, so he was still soaked to the skin and utterly miserable. But there was no way he could keep hiding out in the jungle. The villagers would begin to suspect something soon if he didn't move on. It took every ounce of energy to force himself to his feet and, with carefully measured steps, start once more in the direction of the border.
He kept to the trees, using undergrowth and leaves and shrubs to hide his passing. He was careful to ensure that branches weren't disturbed by his passing. He couldn't help footsteps in the mucky ground or the occasional broken brush, but most of that could be explained by wild animals or possibly even remote villagers hunting game in the jungle. If any soldiers were looking for him, they were likely going to seek out signs of a man's passing. Which meant at least five feet off the ground. He had some skills he could fall back on to make tracking him harder. But unless he suddenly learned how to fucking fly, it wouldn't be impossible for an experienced tracker.
Sweat built up, brought on by the close quarters of the forest and the oppressive humidity. Beads of salty moisture slid down his face, rolled down his arms, soaked his shirt under the vest. Plastered his hair to his head. The only time he didn't sweat was when it rained on him. He was starting to wonder if he was ever going to be dry again.
By the time night was starting to fall, he was growing light-headed. He wasn't sure if that was due to one thing or a combination of things. Not that it mattered why he was dizzy and tripping over his own feet. All that mattered was it was a bad sign. He didn't know how much longer he could keep going and he was sure he still had plenty of miles to go before he was anywhere near the Soviet border. He was going to have to stop and actually sleep. Try to get dry. Take some time to rest up.
He'd never make it home if he didn't.
Lady Luck must have been smiling down on him because it was nearly dark when he stumbled, quite literally, into a small clearing with a single hut sitting in the center of it. There was no light from a candle in the window, letting him know that the owners were either already asleep or gone. The gun was heavy in his hand, his grip weak, when he shoved the door open and burst inside.
The one room hut was empty, the air old and close. It had been empty for a long time. He memorized the location of everything before pushing the door closed and moving toward the cot against the far wall. The thing creaked ominously as he lowered himself into it, but it held his weight. Safety on, he tucked the Beretta under the pillow. Kept his hand on it as he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
~*~
Consciousness came in the blink of an eye, his body moving before his mind had time to process what it was that had woken him. The door creaked open to allow a man in a North Korean uniform into the hut. Instinct saw his finger squeezing down on the trigger. The resulting explosion was loud in the silence of the hut. The shot took him dead center of the man's head, a third eye opening up right above his nose. His body tumbled backward and brought forth a litany of Korean from several locations. Damn it. The hut was surrounded!
How the fuck had they found him?
He rolled off the cot, dropping to the floor without making a sound. There was no telling how many men there were surrounding the hut. Damn it. There was no way out other than the one door. There were a few windows, but those would be of no help. Maybe if he could get a hand on the semi-automatic rifle one of the soldiers was carrying, he could fight his way out and back into the trees. But there was no guarantee that he could manage to do either one of those things. Picking up a rifle meant he was going to have to step outside to do it since he was sure, after firing on the man at the door, no one was going to risk sticking their head through the door or one of the windows. And stepping outside meant getting shot. He was so fucking screwed.
The faint snapping of a twig just behind the wall he had his back to caught his attention, letting him know someone was coming up on the hut. Hmmm. Maybe he wasn't so fucking screwed after all. He shifted on silent feet, moving to put his back against the thin wall of the hut so that the window was above him. There was no glass in the window, so it was easy for the approaching enemy to lean into the hut to look for him, the rifle held before him.
He didn't think, merely acted. The ammunition loaded into his Beretta went through the hut's thin walls and found a target in the enemy soldier's body. He heard the man give a gasping cry of pain even as his free hand was jerking the rifle out of limp hands. Instinct took over as another face showed itself in one of the other windows. This time, his shot took the man through the center of his forehead and the rifle he'd held out before him tumbled into the hut.
This was why he was on this mission, why he'd been taken in by one of the country's most elite military organizations. Because he was fucking perfect, each and every time he fired. It didn't matter if he had a gun in his hand or if he was using something a little more esoteric. They'd found out he was just as deadly with a bow and arrow as he was with a handgun or a rifle. Every round he fired was a lethal hit. He. Never. Missed.
Everything slid away from him as he fell into the zone. The zone was that spot where his mind went when he was in the middle of a life or death situation and all he had to rely on was his wits and his aim. The weight of the gun in his hand put him there, left him oblivious to everything but point and shoot. The faces blurred before his eyes as he fired the Beretta until it was empty, then took up the rifle and used it in the handgun's stead.
The fire fight could have lasted five minutes or it could have lasted five hours. He wasn't sure how long it had gone on. Time was a concept that didn't exist in the zone. Neither did things like pain and being shot. It wasn't until the sounds of gunfire died, leaving only the groans and grunts of the dying hanging on the air with the smell of blood and piss and shit and cordite, that he realized he'd been shot at some point.
Blood soaked the material of fatigues, dark red mixing with the mottled greens to make strange patterns across his thigh. It wasn't a serious wound. Assuming it was dealt with in a timely manner. But he was in the middle of the fucking jungle without any first aid at all. All it had to do was get infected and he was fucking done for. What a shitty way to go. Because there was no way he was going to make it to the border now. Not with his leg leaking the way it was.
There was nothing for it but to sit back and wait for the end. Well, he could get up and keep going. Make his leg bleed more. Die faster. Then again, with the excitement of the gun battle over, the dizziness was starting to creep back in. It was definitely blood loss related. And it pretty much meant he wouldn't make it far if he even attempted to head for the border. He might be arrogant and mule-headed, but he knew his limits. There was no way he could make it to the border the way he was.
Sitting around, bleeding his life away in this shithole, was not the way he wanted to go out.
To keep his mind from lingering too much on the growing possibility of impending death, he set about binding the wound in his leg. It would keep his hands and his thoughts busy, if only for a little while. After that... Hell, after that, he'd just have to fucking deal, wouldn't he?
The bedding off the cot was ripped into strips that he used to bandage and bind his leg. His fingers were slow and clumsy in tearing the bedding apart and wrapping his wound. He left two pieces of cloth that were large enough to fold up into square pads which he tied in place with the strips of shredded bedding. It would only delay the inevitable, he knew, but it was something that came to him as naturally as breathing or shooting. It was something that had been instilled in him from almost the beginning, back when he'd been nothing more than a faceless grunt to a sadistic bastard of a drill sergeant.
Hell, he could hear the man's voice in his head. "Patch the wounds up, ignore the aches and pains, and keep right the fuck going."
Even though he knew that he wasn't going to make it far and he knew that there was no way he'd get out of this alive, his over developed sense of self-preservation reared its ugly head and saw him pushing unsteadily to his feet. He staggered toward the door, one hand on the thin wall to help keep him on his feet. His head spun with every step, leg and side throbbing in time as his heart pounded and pain spiked through him.
The door opened easily with his push, the panel hitting the wall with a slapping sound as he staggered out into the clearing around the hut. Sunlight poured down on the area and temporarily blinded him. But his ears worked just fine and they picked up the sound of something moving toward him through the jungle's growth. Instincts kicked in, saw him heading off toward the trees in the hopes that he could hide himself away.
It was a dim hope and he knew it. Chances were good any enemy soldier would search the hut's immediate surroundings. And even if they didn't, it was possible he was leaving a trail for them to follow. Getting up and moving got the blood flowing, which meant he'd bleed out faster. He could feel his life's blood slipping away, a hot and tacky trail of it dribbling down his leg as he walked. That meant his not really bandages hadn't done a damned thing they were supposed to.
The low growl of an internal combustion engine filled the clearing. He wondered for just a moment how the hell someone had gotten a vehicle of any kind through the trees, but that thought was shoved aside when he realized that he had more pressing matters to deal with. Like the fact that his legs had gone out from under him and that the ground was rushing up to meet him rather rapidly. There wasn't even any time to put his hands out to break his fall. But the forest floor was covered with all kinds of soft plants and they mostly cushioned the blow.
A door opened and closed, followed by a second. He frowned and dragged himself on his elbows into the underbrush, hoping that it would hide his presence from anyone who might come looking. He couldn't see the hut from his position, but he could still hear things. Only there wasn't much to hear. Whoever was there was moving with absolute stealth and silence.
It was hard to lay there and strain to catch a sound. His body screamed that he should be doing something, that he should try and put a bullet through someone so that he could take the truck and just go. But he could barely move as it was and his eyelids felt like they were made of lead. He honestly wanted nothing more than to sink into the encroaching darkness and let it take him where it would. Maybe it would take him home because that's where he wanted to go.
His eyes must have fallen closed when he wasn't looking because everything was suddenly dark and a buzz of sound came creeping out of the black. It sounded like voices, soft and careful as they spoke back and forth to one another. He listened carefully, trying to make out what they were saying. He had some basic language skills, picked up on various missions. Just enough to get by when he had to ask a question or order food.
He had to be hallucinating because the voices he heard sounded like they were speaking Russian.
The voices faded into nothing, the faint rustle of leaves around him the only thing he heard. The hallucination must have played itself out. That left him alone with his thoughts and the thick, wet, oppressive heat that invaded the jungle. Sweat beaded up under his clothes, trickled down his face, flattened his hair against his skull. Which was damned odd because he felt just the slightest bit cold. Which was really not good.
"I've found something. Over here." The man's voice came out of the shadows and it sounded as if the speaker was close to his location. For a moment, he felt hope swell in his chest, but then he realized that the owner of the voice was using English. He had to be hallucinating again because it wasn't possible that anyone this far north in North Korea knew English. American English.
"We don't have much time. We need to move." A woman's voice, in English and lightly accented. A sexy purr of a voice. Now he knew he was hallucinating because there was no way that such a throaty, velvety voice belonged to anything other than a fabrication of his mind. He was distracted from the super sexy voice by the sound of leaves and plants rustling loudly. He needed to figure out what was going on, so he forced his eyes open.
And found himself staring up into the face of a man he'd never seen before. It was a serious face, topped by shortly cut brown hair and intense blue eyes over lips that had been pressed flat in concern or something. All in all, a very serious face. Or maybe he was just hallucinating that face. He wasn't really sure.
"Is this your man?" the sexy voice asked. He glanced past the serious face to find another serious face. This time, it was haloed by fiery red hair.
"It is. Let's get him to the truck." The two serious faces leaned closer and hands came out of nowhere at him. He wanted to tell them that they were damned impressive hallucinations, but the words wouldn't come because his tongue felt thick and clumsy. Then the hands were pulling him up into a standing position, righting him and bringing back the dizziness, which officially made it the worst hallucination ever. Couldn't his brain leave him to die in peace? Did he have to suffer through the indignity of hoping he'd make it home after all?
He was vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged toward a truck idling in the middle of the clearing between trees and hut. "We'll put him in the back. I'll drive." This from the sexy hallucination. It prompted him to turn to look at her, only he didn't really have the strength so his head kind of rolled to the side so he could catch sight of her. She stared straight ahead, her face set in those same serious lines, and didn't even flick her gaze to the side to acknowledge his presence.
The two hallucinations somehow managed to haul him up into the back of a covered truck bed and lay him out on the hard floor. Then the redhead was gone and he was left alone with the serious faced man.
Great. Just how he fucking wanted to die.
~*~
"Specialist Barton? My name is Agent Phil Coulson." The voice dragged him away from the tempting edges of slumber and he opened his eyes to find the serious faced hallucination standing beside his hospital bed. Okay. So it turned out he hadn't been hallucinating. Someone had really driven into the North Korean jungle just to pull his ass out of the fire. And ever since he'd woken up in a hospital bed in Hawaii, he'd been wondering just why the hell anyone would have wanted to do something like that. "I'm with Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"Wow. That's a mouthful," he replied with a tired smirk. And maybe a hint of innuendo. Because that's how he dealt with strange situations like this. Which fell flat, because Agent Phil Coulson of the organization with the mile long name that likely no one had ever fucking heard of didn't even twitch a smile at him. Fine. If that was the way he was going to be... "Look, you're cutting into lime jello time. And my sponge bath, given by the gentle hands of a nurse who must have once worked in a meat processing factory breaking the necks of chickens and cows. So say what you came here to say and then leave me to my fate."
For some reason, that got him a twitch. Though, to be fair, the drugs they had him on could have him hallucinating. The good ones always did shit like that. And he knew he was on the good ones because he couldn't feel a damn thing. "Specialist Barton--"
He interrupted the man with a snort. "My name is Clint. I'd prefer that or even just Barton over Specialist Barton. My entire team was executed in that clusterfuck of a mission."
"Your team was handed poor intelligence. You all walked into a set up. By the time your superiors found out that it was a set up, you were already in the middle of everything. It isn't your fault that you weren't able to save them," Phil Coulson told him and, even though there really wasn't any inflection in his voice, it almost sounded as if the man was disgusted on Clint's behalf. That was... odd. "You have more than earned the title of Specialist Barton."
He stared at the guy for a few seconds, curiosity finally prompting him to say something that would earn him answers to the questions running around his head. "You don't know anything about me."
"In point of fact, Specialist Barton, I know quite a bit about you. I requested your file from the military. It was a very interesting read," the man told him. He almost sounded impressed when he said it. "That file is the reason I went into North Korean territory to find you. The military had given you up for dead. Fortunately for you, I was in possession of intelligence that said otherwise. And I couldn't see leaving you there to die."
Clint stare at him for a few moments, debating just how to respond to that shocking information. "Thanks?"
Agent Phil Coulson cocked a brow at that and stared him straight in the eye as if he was gauging the man before him against the man in those lifeless, emotionless files. "You do realize that you killed nearly a dozen North Koreans at that shack in the jungle."
"I wasn't keeping track. And, to be perfectly honest here, I don't really remember much of my time in that shack."
"Of course you don't. You were suffering from blood loss and lack of sleep, as well as a fever brought on by a nasty infection. Its amazing you managed to survive for as long as you did. You're going to be wearing the memories of your time in North Korea for the rest of your life." One hand motioned toward Clint's thigh. His side.
"Yay for me." Clint sighed and made a rolling motion with one hand. "Can we get on with this? I'm on the really good drugs and I don't want to waste them by remaining conscious for any length of time."
The other man stared at him for a few long seconds, then nodded his head. Clint hadn't thought it was possible, but the man put on a much more serious and professional demeanor. "Very well, Specialist Barton. After reading over your file and seeing for myself what you're capable of, I've come here to offer you a job."
One brow went up at that. "You want to offer me a job based on my service record and the bodies of a few enemy soldiers? It doesn't make sense that you'd come looking for me unless you'd already read my file and decided I was worth the effort. And you told me just now that I was presumed dead with the rest of my team. So exactly when did you request my file?"
Agent Phil Coulson of... whatever it was called eyed him for a minute before taking a seat in the chair beside Clint's bed. He was dressed in a finely tailored black suit with thin grey pinstripes. The shirt he wore with it was a crisp white field upon which the red of his tie was a bloody splash. His shoes were perfectly shined. He gave the appearance of being a completely competent and capable government paper pusher. It seemed an odd image for a man who'd risked his neck in the jungles of North Korea to rescue a lowly sniper's sorry ass.
"You came to the attention of my superiors after a certain mission to South America in which you ignored every order you were given so that you could keep your team alive and bring down your target. After reading the particulars of that mission, I requested access to your file." The man sat back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, and stared intently at Clint. "You have occasional trouble with authority and have a tendency to do things your way. You're loud and brash, and you often times leap before you look. Mission reports from your former team members say much the same thing, but with the added notation that, without your presence on the mission, it would never have succeeded."
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or upset," Clint said, tossing a hint of amusement into his tone. It bounced right off the man's hard outer shell. "Man. Tough crowd. So... You read my file, saw that I'm an arrogant shit who never listens and thought 'We need that on our team!'? Are you stoned?"
"To put it simply, Specialist Barton, you are the best marskman on the planet. Trust me. I know. I've looked. The contents of your file only go to prove this statement. As such, my superiors weren't about to allow such an asset to slip through our hands. They tasked me with finding you and bringing you home."
"And getting me to join up, right?"
"Of course," Coulson replied. "The organization I represent is always on the look out for talent. And people with a specific skill set are important assets not to be over looked. Or left to waste away with organizations that have no clue just what kind of assets they hold."
"So I'm nothing more than an asset to this mysterious and unknown organization you work for?"
The question didn't ruffle Coulson's feathers at all. The man simply regarded him with that same bland expression he'd been wearing since Clint had first opened his eyes a few minutes ago. It would appear that Agent Phil Coulson of Strategic fucking whatever Division wasn't going to hold Clint's hand or coddle him or babysit his feelings or even break shit to him gently. Much as he hated the idea of being nothing more than an asset to some super secret government organization with a super secret handshake and a crappy sense of humor, he did kind of like the fact that the man was going to give it to him straight.
"You know, as far as I know, I'm still in the military. This could prove a conflict of interests between your superiors and my own."
The man reached into his suit coat and, seconds later, produced a thick envelope from an interior pocket. He handed it over without a word and allowed Clint to tug the contents free. Official documents stamped and signed and legitimate. He glanced over each one, skimming the contents of the letters that had been folded in with his discharge papers. Turning to look at the other man, he lifted a brow and carefully folded the papers back up. Tucked them into the envelope. Waited.
"As you can see, you are no longer in the military."
"Is this discharge dependent upon my acceptance of your job offer?" When Coulson only regarded him with a knowing look, just the faintest hint of a smirk on his face, Clint decided to give him a sample of what he was asking for. What the hell? What was the worst thing the man could do? Take him back to North Korea and dump him in the middle of the jungle? "Who did you have to blow to get my release papers?"
"You and I are scheduled to fly back to New York City by private jet tomorrow morning. Our flight leaves at ten. I've already spoken to your physician and he'll have you ready to go by eight. Once you've recovered sufficiently from your wounds, you'll be put through a battery of tests. I suggest you get as much rest as you possible can between now and then. Its going to be hell."
Coulson rose from his seat and headed for the door without uttering another word. Clint's statement brought him up short before he put his hand on the door's knob, though. "You're pretty damned cock sure. I haven't accepted your job offer yet."
Agent Phil Coulson looked back at him with what Clint felt was a smug expression on his face. Hard to tell when his features really didn't move. "No, Specialist Barton. You haven't. But I can tell you're a man who likes to be in the middle of the action. And Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division can offer you that action. My superiors admire your abilities." The door opened and Coulson stepped out into the hall. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at eight sharp."
The door swung shut on Coulson's disappearing figure. Clint sighed and relaxed back into the bed. Coulson really was one cock sure mother fucker. But he was right about one thing. Something about the action called to him like nothing else.
"See you in the morning, Agent Coulson."