Budapest

Clint - Second Chances

CLINT

"Come again?" Clint said.

"I'm here to recruit you," Coulson repeated.

"Yeah, that's what I thought I heard." Clint's gaze flicked down to where his hands were buried in a tangle of wires. He'd been caught stealing someone else's car and the government wanted to recruit him? Yeah. Right. Like he was stupid enough to fall for that trick.

"And by 'recruit' you really mean arrest, is that it?"

Coulson chuckled. "I'll admit the situation looks less than stellar on your part but that's not what we're interested in. We know about your history, Mr. Barton and we're willing to extend a blanket pardon. No matter what you've done in the past, we don't care. We'll make it all go away."

Now that sure as hell sounded way too good to be true. In Clint's experience, when an offer dripping with honey like this was placed on the table it only meant there were some nasty little barbs lurking beneath the surface somewhere - usually the fine print - ready to sink deep into his skin, hook him good and yank him under.

"And if I say no thanks?" Clint said. "Because face it, that offer is too damn good."

"Well," Coulson said, drawing the word out and nodding slowly. "I hate to say it but if you refuse, we can't help you. Your record remains and those men over there..." Coulson gestured to Jacques and a few other performers standing around one of the trucks parked next to the gas station. "Those men will receive an anonymous tip concerning your whereabouts that I'm sure they'll be very eager to hear."

"That's not much of a choice," Clint said. As he spoke, his hand automatically strayed to his bow and arrows on the seat next to him, making sure to keep his movements subtle so Coulson wouldn't get tipped off.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Barton," Coulson said, his expression never changing from a polite, genial smile.

"Do what exactly?"

A bright red spot appeared on his chest in answer to his question, dancing around until it settled firmly dead center on his heart. Not a waver or a tremble. Solid.

"There's another one on the back of your head," Coulson said. "Though I'd rather not employ them."

"You're very persuasive," Clint said.

Coulson beamed. "Thank you."

"Okay so what happens now?" Clint asked. "Obviously I'm not going to refuse your offer, no matter how much I might want to."

Coulson stepped forward and tossed a black scrap of cloth into Clint's lap. "For starters, I'd greatly appreciate it if you wore this."

Clint picked up the fabric and gave it a shake only to find out it was a hood. This was going south real fast...

"You're kidding," he said, his voice and expression deadpan with disbelief.

"For safety purposes," Coulson replied. "You understand."

"I can't decide if my day just got better or worse," Clint sighed.

"There's still time to change your mind," Coulson put in with a much too chipper tone. "Your carnie friends would be thrilled to see you again, I'm sure."

Clint groaned as he pulled the hood over his head. "All right, all right, I get the picture."

The tight weave of the fabric didn't allow much more than the occasional pinprick of light to seep in. But the smell made his stomach roil, as if the tangy overpowering lemon scented soap could mask the stench of human sweat and fear.