Betting Debts   von Lollapie
                  (Clint Barton x Natasha Romanoff and more)
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                          Kapitel 4: First Impression
                          ---------------------------


“Remember where you came from, Barton”, Furys voice was loud in his ears,
painfully loud and plainly annoying. His index finger was only a couple of
inches in front of his face, because the director was leaning in so far over his
table, one could think he’d crawl over it any second.  Clint would bet his
face was dark red to purple, if he hadn’t been dark-skinned naturally.  “If
I want to, I can put you right out there again.” 
But that was the point, wasn’t it? 
Fury didn’t want to. 
Not really.
But he would, if he’d fuck up again. 
Today, right now, Clint could remember very well how he came to S.H.I.E.L.D. How
it happened, that he joined this very agency. It was Coulson who brought him in.
Coulson tends to do that. Bring in new ones. It seems he has an eye for talent
or however you might want to call people that are good at killing, spying,
manipulating… 
It was five years ago, when he first set foot in the headquarters. 
Before that, many things had gone wrong, and since then … well. Probably the
only difference was that he was insured and got paid well, since he joined up.
Because thing still went wrong.
Few months back his wife died. 
Couple weeks back, he broke a guy’s neck and he couldn’t even remember. Not
really. It was all kind of a blur. It just happened – and that was a poorest
excuse, but also the only excuse, he could come up with.
Since seventeen hours he was sitting in this room. His legs stretched out under
the table, his elbows leaning against the armrest, his fingers folded over his
stomach.  Clint couldn’t deny he was tired. He was very tired in fact, but he
didn’t have time to think of a bed, or sleep. Fury wouldn’t let him, not
until he was sure, that Barton would take orders again. Behave and follow like
he should. 
It’s not like Barton had much of a choice. 
Fury had him by his balls. 
And still Clint just couldn’t make himself care enough right now. 
His thoughts slipped back to the day he first entered S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters
in New York.  He’d worn old ragged jeans with a tear his left knee, caked with
dirt once blue high tops, a way to large former black tee. His hair had been
longer then too. 
Coulson had been at his side, showing him the place. 
Truth was Clint was at the end of a long, dark road at the time. So much
happened since then … 
As far as he could tell Coulson was the one who literally scraped him of the
ground a year ago at the time and got him to hospital to get fixed. It was his
brother who had left him there on the floor in an ally. To die, in a puddle of
his own blood. After all they’ve been through together. Losing their parents,
running off from the orphanage, joining the circus and there finally finding
something that came oh so close to a family… 
It almost took a year to heal. 
He often had broken his bones - by others, but also by himself. He wasn’t
clumsy, never was. But at times one would slip and fall. Falling off a high up
tied rope would break a bone and there would never be enough time for it to
heal. Always moving through the country, always performing, no matter what. Just
to stay alive. That’s what the circus was about. If they didn’t sell out,
they went hungry. They always had to do a great show. Be at their best. Nobody
cared if you’d pulled a muscle or sprained your ankle. They were concerned and
they would care, as long as it wouldn’t interfere with business. 
He remembered waking up after weeks of unconsciousness, after getting beat up by
his brother, to see a man at his side, smiling at him. It made him lift an
eyebrow then, and it still did now. 
Clint was only twenty-five back then.  Until today he wonders how old Coulson
might be. He never asked. He never cared enough to ask. But he didn’t seem to
age.  
When his eyes focused on the man with the blue eyes beside him and he had arched
an eyebrow Coulson addressed him directly: “Welcome back, Mr. Barton.” 
He had not said a word for so long; he could feel his mouth was all dry and
sticky from not talking for weeks, but it didn’t matter since the man just
carried on talking after a moment of silence. “You are wondering who I am and
what I am doing at your bedside.” 
In fact that was true. Clint had only given a small nod then. Feeling piercing
pain jolt through his body at that slight movement, making him inhale deeply,
trying not to wince in agony. “You shouldn’t move, Mr. Barton. You have
multiple fractures and tears. A quite bad concussion, too. Your inner organs
should be on the best way to be perfectly fine soon, though.” 
Clint had pulled up both eyebrows, totally bewildered by what the man was
telling him. Especially because he was still sympathetically smiling at him.
“To get back to what I wanted to tell you. I am Agent Phil Coulson. I’m here
on behalf of the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorat,
short S.H.I.E.L.D., to evince our interest in you.” 
Clint swallowed hard. “Am I in trouble?”, his voice sounded hoarse, his
throat burnt, but he didn’t sound afraid. Quite on the contrary… there was
still a glimmer of provocation in his eyes. 
Coulsons lips twitched with a grin. “No, Mr. Barton.” 
The agent got up and looked down at the young man. “We are interested in you
working for and with S.H.I.E.L.D.” 
That was his first encounter with Agent Phillip Coulson, one of many to follow.

He had explained everything to Clint. What the agency stood for, what they did,
why they did it. How they managed and organized things. Coulson answered just
about every question that Barton asked. 
The year went by. He leant how to walk again, how to work his arms, his fingers
and then he was standing in the headquarters lobby for the first time. 
Clint had agreed to join in. 
It was one of the most exciting things to ever have happened to him. 
He got trained. Not in archery, but in just about everything else. Combat,
spying, weaponry. Most of it came naturally to him. He got the hang of most
things pretty easily. It only took a few months until he had his first mission
and only five years to get him where he was today. 
Again. 
Now he was a level seven. 
Fury had told him on more than one occasion that he could have been more. Still
be more probably. He thought that his potential was higher, than this. But Clint
wouldn’t hear it. 
Instead he disobeyed direct orders, acting on his own behalf. Going with his
guts, most of the time. So he could never shake Fury. He’d always sit in his
neck. 
Until he got to know Barbara Morse. Things between Fury and him had changed
then.
Because of her. 
Because she could make them listen to each other, act on each other’s behalf,
without pissing at each other’s legs. 
With her death…, well he was back at square one. 
Fury had him at his balls for turning his back on S.H.I.E.L.D., for murdering an
innocent man out of pure rage. In the end Barton could be lucky to be back here
at all. If he weren’t as good as he is, he’d simply be in jail. Or somewhere
… keeping a very, very low profile. 
“Yes, sir.”, he finally replied. “I remember where I came from and I
don’t want to go back there.” 
And probably he had Coulson to thank for this second chance too.

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