When I woke up I had a pounding headache. It was like someone had implanted church bells in my forehead, and it rung out from my temples right to the hinge of my jaw. My eyelids felt leaden; and my eyeballs even heavier in their sockets - it was strenuous just peeling my eyes open.

When I did finally open them, the room was a bleary blur. Above me, offensively bright white right was glaring down on me and whitewashed walls were a strain for my eyes to process. In the corner of the room I was sure I could make out CCTV cameras; recording my every motion and utterance. I must've looked like shit.

Blinking to dry and clear the haze, I stretched the kinks out of my cramped body; my joints clicking as I flexed and wriggled in - what was that? - A wooden chair. My arms and legs didn't get far though; they were bit into by the jaws of the cuffs snapped on me and the metal loops rattled offensively.

I groaned, my eyes beginning to make sense of the splashes of colour and blurred outlines. The first thing that drew into focus was the smug face opposite me of Junior Field Agent Coulson.

If I hadn't braved far more horrific things in my life than waking up in an interrogation unit, I might be scared. But frankly, the concept irritated me more than anything; it hindered my crime-fighting goals.

"I know, the sleep serum is a bitch, isn't it?" He quipped, notepad on the table, fountain pen weilded in the other. He looked far too smug to be sincere and I snarled in outrage at him. "Sorry about that, our agency likes to remain shrouded in secrecy, and part of that means that you can't know the location of our headquarters. Well... Not right now, anyway. Future circumstances may arise where that isn't a problem but-"

I cut him off with an injured groan. "Do you ever shut up?" I replied, my voice a dozy dehydrated husk.

"My superiors tell me it's all part of my charm. I'm one of their best interrogators for that precise reason..." He drummed his pen on the notepad, denoting his prevalence and predicament. "Which brings me to my next point, Mister Barton-"

"Don't call me that. My father was Mister Barton..." I growled, not overly fond of being reminded of the scoundrel six feet under.

And at that, Coulson quirked an eyebrow and started scribbling away at his pad, scratching out notes in jagged illegible shorthand. His lips were pursed studiously and he wrote in a hurry like he was an eager student at a college seminar; not wanting to miss a trick.

"What? What's so goddamn interesting about that?" I sat forward on the chair trying to decipher his scrawl. "Hey!" I vied for his attention. "Hey, Stromberg!" That managed to snatch his attention and he looked up, partially offended, partially entertained. "What the hell are you writing?"

"If I'm Stromberg, does that make you Triple X?" He returned with a sly smile; his eyes were twinkling with hilarity.

My brow creased, I responded without a single ounce of thought. "No!" I scoffed, offended in my manner. "I'm obviously Roger Moore!" I slumped back in my chair, and I would've crossed my arms if I could; instead I thrashed cagily at the cuffs used to detain me. "I don't know what resemblance I have to a curvaceous blonde, and by no means am I a sidekick!" I snorted at his expense.

Coulson gave me a telling look, one I could describe only like the look a teacher gives you when you're caught doing something immature in class. Though the man was perhaps five years my senior, he exuded a sense of age far beyond his years and the officious sense of authority with it.

I hated it.

I'd had enough run ins with assholes who appealed to me as father figures and then fucked me over.

He continued his jotting, remarking on me between recording his thoughts in his irritatingly indecipherable prose.

And for the first time, it seemed that Coulson was struck speechless. I wasn't sure if it was because he had nothing to say, or if I had everything to say. Whatever it was, going by the look plastered to his face, he was very pleased about it.

"What of any value can you possibly glean from that?!" I spluttered, unnerved by how quickly the page was filling up with script, blatantly about me. "You aren't even interrogating me!" His manner was irritating me like a tick under my skin.

He stopped scribbling for a split second, only to give me a snarky look. "On the contrary, mister Barton-"

"It's Clint or Hawkeye, take your pick, prick," I interjected; and I must have given him a wealth of information from that sentence because he noted down a wealth of information from that one sentence. "Is it my words or my body language you're reading?" I gritted.

"You're catching on fast, Clint... You'd make a valuable interrogator yet," Coulson complimented, and it took the edge off of my foul mood that he'd inflicted; but his voice was still oozing condescension.

I cracked a smile; he'd done me the courtesy of using my preferred title, and he smiled back for a moment before he took to his pen again. I never understood the phrase: 'the pen is mightier than the sword' until the smug bastard in front of me waggled his pen at me, and scripted what I was sure was more invasive information about me.

"Really?!" I exploded. "I smile and you have something to write about it?" That's when behind Coulson, I clocked the one way mirror. Its very presence stirred unpleasant feelings within me and made my skin crawl - I was being observed like a bug under a microscope. And like a bug pinned by the gaze of a scientist, I squirmed. "Enjoying the show in there? Behind your reflective glass?" I shouted over Coulson's shoulder and gave my interrogator more to log down, jangling my bindings vehemently, abhorrence written across my face.

"They're probably enjoying the audience interaction even more, Clint," Coulson informed me, his eyes not leaving the pad crammed with information. "It's not often we get people with the audacity to yell at the overseers." Coulson felt smug. He'd gotten me to blurt things, got me emotional, manipulated me. But now he was betraying himself.

I thought I'd play him at his own game.

"So you interrogate a lot of people in here?" I returned fire, merely picking up on the small detail in his sentence. Coulson lapped up the sentence like a thirsty puppy... Oh god, I'd left Lucky with Kate.

"Plenty. Though most aren't like you..." Coulson's voice was consumed with dynamicism at his duty, and I played with that; unlike him, not letting my pride getting the better of me by smirking when I thought the cards were in my hands. If there was anything I'd gained from an abusive childhood, it was a steely poker face.

"I suppose vigilante archers aren't an everyday occurrence-" A dialogue was building between us, and I even managed to elicit a titter. "Tights, britches and masks..." Coulson's titter became a small chuckle and he was momentarily diverted from his writing. I built a rapport with my captor. "What kinda felons do you normally have in here? Anything intriguing?" I asked with deplorable childish gusto: Coulson already considering me inferior, and referring to me with terms of endearment like 'son' or 'kid', as well as laughing at my vigilante spree, I used that self-righteousness against him.

The Junior Agent's eyes lit up and he bashfully smiled, twiddling the pen craftily in his hand. "We have had a spate of interesting characters; but our agency deals with the unusual..." Coulson was flush with pride about his position, and I played it.

"I'm glad someone's dealing with all of the crime; because the NYPD was doing such a shoddy job that a kid like me with a stick and string from the Palaeolithic Era stepped in to fight crime," I joked, mocking my own masquerade. Again, Coulson laughed, this time unreservedly, unrestrained.

"It was an unusual call to get when I heard there was an archer saving civilians and knocking out well-known crime gangs already on our radar for a trove of offences, some imaginative ones, I assure you!" Coulson was unabashedly vomiting information about his job and his position, all with a smidge of flattery.

On his lapel, I noticed a small badge: round, three rings with a star in the middle. It glinted under the harsh light of the interrogation room: it was axiomatic; even a child could've told you what it was.

"Is that a Captain America pin?" I asked, drenching my voice with ebullience.

"Oh! Yeah!" Coulson's face lit up with zeal; a spirited smile stretched from ear to ear. That's when I knew I had finally, completely, derailed his interrogation. "Do you know him?" Patriotic, then. Loyal to his country - an ailment that afflicted a sufficient portion of Americans - or to whatever branch of government his service belonged to. I latched onto that fad.

"Know him?" I scoffed, nonchalance written all over my face. "I grew up reading my dad's Cap comics! I loved them!" Which, as a matter of fact, was true. My dad, an ex-army man who'd fought in Vietnam had been indoctrinated with those patriotic ideals when he was a kid - the comics he'd kept in mint condition from his childhood was the vestiges of that unhealthy obsession.

"I actually have a pack of trading cards-"

An inbuilt PA system screeched with feedback before an authoritative voice crackled in the room. Coulson flinched, but shrill as it was, it didn't do much damage to my blunt ears, "Agent Coulson!"  They sounded antagonised. "That is enough. Interrogation over."

Score one to Clint, nil to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Realising what he had done, Coulson winced. I'd even go as far as to say to he paled slightly, toying anxiously with his cufflinks; embossed, I noticed with a rudimentary eagle: a symbol of our nation and government. "But sir, I was just-"

"Now, Phil," the voice demanded in an unwavering tone.

There was a buzz and a beep and the vault-like reinforced door to my left swung open; electronically automated, I was sure. Collecting up his notebook and trusty pen, Coulson trailed out of the room looking like a slapped puppy. He'd been hoisted by his own petard. I even flapped him a lame wave where my wrist was cuffed to the seat as he departed, and he knew he'd been foiled by me.

He didn't even have it in him to scowl in return.

The door sealed shut behind him, and my ears popped as the room re-pressurised. Watertight. Airtight. I hated to think what would happen if the ventilation shaft - with the ribbons of black plastic flapping overhead - encountered a malfunction.

Perhaps that's what the room was really for - though, I couldn't agonise myself with thoughts like that.

After five minutes sitting in maddening silence, remarking on all of the unremarkable features of the bland room, the door hissed and whirred and opened again to reveal a new character.

Military combat boots, pressed black trousers, a black t-shirt and a black knee length leather coat. Working floor to ceiling, I finally met the eyes of a dark-skinned, bald-headed, middle-aged man, with two beady brown eyes trained on me. It was like being under the scope of a sniper rifle, being in his presence alone. He stared at me silently; measuring me up with those eyes.

"This is where you say; 'Mister Barton, I've been expecting you'," I prompted with a villainous Russian accent as he stared silently on. I was amused, I flashed him a grin, but he, most clearly, was not.

The man hummed, nearly mirthful; but then he scowled. "As tempting as playing James Bond is, I'm not going to. Not just because this isn't a Hollywood movie, but because - and you may find this hard to believe - we're not the bad guys."

The man in the black leather coat took the seat opposite me and produced the notepad that Coulson had filled with his writing. He scraped the seat back, flopped in it - the tail of his coat flapping around him, and propped his heavy duty boots up on the desk. He was far more reticent and focused than his employee and his silence was unnerving.

"If you're not that bad guys-" Those eyes like the barrels of two small guns locked onto me. "Then why the imposing getup? Who are you?"

That made the man smile, a menacing smile though it was. "To impose upon people," was his plain and simple reply. He flipped through the notebook with amusement; smirking and then he chuckled to himself. "Who am I?" He raised an eyebrow. "To explain myself in no uncertain terms, I'm the equivalent of M around here..." He ran with my metaphor.

I opened my mouth to make a witty retort, but I was cut off as he finally spoke at length.

"Says here you've been up to no good, Clint. A healthy disregard for authority, paranoid, toxic masculinity, self-righteous, self-deprecating, obstinate..." He tilted his head down and peered at me. "Daddy issues..."

"Hey! That's not fair-"

"I'm not done yet, Clint," he said sternly, and something about his manner managed to shut me up like a pair of hands around my throat. "Observant in the extreme, quick thinker, silver-tongued and a marksman to rival legends..." He chuckled guilefully, which jarred on my perception of him. "Clint, I'm here to make you an offer..."

A/N - I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Where a step closer to 'Budapest' with every chapter! Clint is on his way to being enrolled in S.H.I.E.L.D. And so begin his secret agent career! Perhaps S.H.I.E.L.D. Training will straighten him out? *snorting*

Dedication when I can find the time! X