[fic] living for tomorrow [1/1]
I don't quite know why some fics seem to write themselves, while I struggle with others. It's a really strange thing, and this one fic was in my head for the whole day.
And why is it that two of my back-to-back fics have tomorrow in the title?
Title: Living for Tomorrow
Fandom: S.W.A.T. (2003), Avengers (2012)
Pairing: -
Summary: Old Saint Nick just gave Brian Gamble a second chance, also known as 'How Clint Barton came to join SHIELD'.
“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.”
- Maria Robinson
"How many meters was that shot, kid?"
The eye-patched man sitting in the chair just across the room looks too familiar, making Brian bare his teeth in a snarl. Of course, he's still a little disorientated from suddenly waking up in a clinically white room, an IV in his arm and bandages on his chest, but that doesn't mean he'll be trading distance measure with any one of Street's cop buddies any time soon.
"Fuck you," Brian manages, though the effect is lost since he's slumped down against comfortable pillows and looking far too pale to be healthy.
"You've got quite the record, young man." It's almost as if the man is unfazed by Brian's outburst, calmly flipping through a file on his lap. "Says here, excellent tactical planning and skill with firearms. Also says here, problem with authority, disobeying of orders, shooting of a civilian in a bank holdup, and more recently, a couple of murder charges. Now just look at that!"
The folder snaps shut in the man's hand, as he looks up to meet Brian's eyes directly. It makes him shudder just a little, that one-eyed gaze seems to almost look into his soul., and he hasn't felt so scrutinized since he was a boy. Gamble growls, tearing his gaze away and dropping it to his lap, where he notes his distinct lack of handcuffs or other restraints, almost as if he's trusted not to attempt anything overly stupid.
"You've been real busy, haven't you, Clint Barton?"
Gamble's head snaps up, eyes alight with a fire that hadn't been there before. His hands have curled into fists, gripping the sheets tightly.
"How do you know that name?"
His voice is hoarse, and it takes everything Clint has to calm his nerves and school his face into the cocky mask he keeps on. No-one has called him that since he'd left the circus, and this man must be extremely well connected if he could even find that out, since the only few who knows that name are either dead or missing.
Across the room, the man grins, shark-like, as he stands, file discarded on the chair he'd been sitting on. Clint suspects he won't be getting an answer any time soon, and that the file on him will only get thicker over time.
"I know a lot about you, Mr. Barton. I know about your brother, and the carnie act you had going. I know that you've never missed a target you set out to hit, and that no-one else could do what you did with the helicopter there in L.A."
Surprisingly, Clint doesn't dislike the man, instead in its place is a quiet somewhat-there sort of grudging respect. Not that he will ever admit it openly.
"What do you want, One-Eye?"
If it were even possible, the man's grin grows wider.
"SHIELD could use a man of your talents, Mr. Barton." Clint's eyes narrow just a fraction, tensing up in the bed, and the man laughs at his reaction. "I'm here to offer you a job."