Agent Clint "Hawk" Barton [FBI]

He is the best of men and the worst. To be a leader you have to be a little bit of both.

He learns from the best that cannot be gainsaid. He learns from Zed, first bureau chief that Redemption has ever had. He learns from Fury, ex military mean and ornery and nasty as hell. The city grows with the waves and people come and build sandcastles.

Barton is quick. He's smart and quick and while he might be a little overbearing, a little hot headed that's what the city needs. Each night it drowns in a rising tide of alcohol, sea water, sex and sweat. His third (no, fourth) time out on a raid he chases a grim man across rooftops before aiming and firing. An impossible shot.

Impossible? (Fury says for the cameras.) Not for the Hawk.

The hawk. It sticks. The papers like it. He makes a name for himself and the families raise their fists. No bribes. they say What kind of a cop doesn't take bribes?

He buys into it. There's even a girl, a school teacher with a sharp tongue and sharper wit. They dance for awhile and still occasionally he'll show up at her door, fedora tucked under one arm.

What brings the hawk to my door.

Miss Morse, just coming to court a beautiful woman.

It's pretty much perfect.
---

One night on the sea. A raid gone bad near the shore. He's off chasing a man across the sand. The waves crash, the world thunders. It's so dramatic it could easily be a picture show.

"I've got you! You mother fucker!"

The man turns and draws and the hawk fires point blank. Impossible shot? Not for the Hawk. He falls. There's blood in the waves and when the police approach he's breathing hard and heavy, "You saw him shoot the patrolman?" Sad story. Wife, children. Blake was his name. Edward Blake. His little girl with earnest brown eyes staring up at the world.

Rogers's expression is dark and grim in the rain, "...You're a hero hawk." He reached down to close the man's eyes, "Bringing in a cop killer."

Sally Jupiter-Blake is holding his arms and the city is cheering cheering, his partner transfers up (it had been Rogers's raid in the first place) and he is partnered with a new guy, Kay. Moved up from kidnapping. Worked on the Lindbergh case.

"I've seen a lot of things." Kay's cigarette glows in the dim light, "Never seen someone so pleased to be a hero though."

"Can't give that little girl her father back." (Her father who beat her mother and her on a regular basis) "but we can give them Justice"

"...Which means getting your name in the papers."

"...Aw c'mon Kay. Good job deserves a reward." Rogers is as warm as the sunrise and just as welcoming, "Besides, one more mook off the streets."

"One more mook." He shrugged, "suppose that's not to be despised. To the hawk."

And all the men around the office raise their glasses, "To the hawk!" Coffee and smiles. He bows gracelessly.

You can bet that when he visited Miss Barbara Morse, High School Science, they discussed marriage.
---

"You wanted to see me Mr. Laufer-"

"That's all right." The speaker is a smiling man, "It's not my name, there's not a lot to be done for it. Swedish."

"Immigrant?"

"Oh yes. But not like you. Born and raised. A positive force. For the department." He doesn't like his smile, he doesn't like the way the man smiles at all or the delicate way his fingers trace across his desk. Kay is off in interrogation, what the hell is all of this.

"For the bureau."

"The brave Hawk, killing cop killers. I saw the paper."

"Well if you came for an autograph..."

"Oh no. No. You see, I'm something of a photography buff. It's why I read the papers. Fascinating topic. It's going places. I've been experimenting with inks and colors and I was taking a picture of something. I've just been so busy though I didn't have a chance to develop it."

He slid the picture across the table, "Until now."

Black and white evidence. The prosecutors would be interested in this. Clint picked up the photo and his heart began to pound. That was not the man who he shot. That was not Edward Blake's killer.

Outside a winter storm pounded the windows.

"...That's."

"Edward Blake's death." The speaker, Laufer-something folded his hands, "...I can't begin to imagine what a mix-up that must have been. Sure a hardened murderer, an enforcer might have been willing to shoot one of our oh so dedicated police, but an innocent man like...what was the name of the man you shot?"

His name was Phil Coulson. Coulson. Small time criminal, but with a wife and three kids who didn't believe it, who cursed your name. She was a musician for godsake. The photo fell, "It's a fake."

"Is it? Well that could be possible but throwing that much doubt onto the hawk?" He snorted, "...Gone are the accalades, the promotions. A man in your position, why...he'd want to settle. To get married. To perhaps run for office. You're everything that we prize in our dedicated public servants."

The foundations of his world are shaken. Clint Barton does not know what to say, "It's a lie."

"Can you really afford to take that risk? At the very least. You shot an innocent man. and I do not think that Widow Coulson will shed tears for the hawk. She will continue to weep, for her husband. Not his murderer.

Heroes are a dime a dozen in America. The land permeates with them. All I'm asking is you do what any other American hero would do. Save yourself."

"...What do.."

"What do I want you to do?"

It could be a plant, it could be a lie, it could be a fix. But Bobbi's smile, Heroes are a dime a dozen. His mouth was dry, "...Let's go somewhere and talk."

----

After, after he returns. After is a word here meaning post the rules, the lies. You go to anyone. You tell anyone. This photo goes to the papers. It goes to your pretty schoolteacher and maybe her head goes too. Goes to your partner, your pals at the bureau. Then maybe they go once they've nailed you on the cross.

Steven Rogers does not know what to make of this. Clint Barton has been curled over a waste basket for fifteen minutes, throwing up the contents of what he can only guess was a very extensive lunch.

"Bite off more then you can chew?"

Clint's eyes are glazed when he looks at him and he just laughs sadly. Kay comes up next and goes away with a frown on his face as Barton orders him out. How long do I have to be your dog?

Don't think of it as being a dog agent Barton. In ancient times, men used hawks to hunt birds. We're simply using you the same way.

What am I hunting?

Eagles Mr. Barton. Eagles.

-----

Fury is dead. Dead on information he gave them. More names pile up, good men. He starts smoking, less concerned about the men they bring in (why bother they're going to get off anyway) Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes they don't act that's on his advice. Better a dozen underlings then ruin any other major operations. Relax, Agent Barton. Indulge. You may as well enjoy the spoils.

He does. Sometimes. Other times he doesn't. It ends with Bobbi. He can't look her in the face, but he throws himself into his work and those raids they don't avoid he comes down like an avenging angel. No man has a reputation of being tougher on crime then the hawk.

Rogers appreciates his candor but his partner knows something's up. There are only so many times you can sit with a man in a squad car while coppers in their blue Keystone uniforms tromp into places before emerging with fire and sword to do justice. Did you have to kill him so hard Barton? Jesus there's brains everywhere.

Kay transfers with a nod and a deep thoughtful look. They never jived, his next partner will be better. "I'd watch your back." They smile at a rally, "Is that a threat?" Kay just shakes his head.

Rogers tries to interest him in life outside the bureau. Clint will have none of it. Work is all he has. He dreams of the sea. He wades into it and it floods his mouth and his nose and he is drowned.

"...Best person you can have to show you how we do things around here." The voice frowns, "Barton? Are you listening?"

Rogers is frowning at him and the younger man (he's younger then him, how did he get so old?) is looking hapless and a little embarrassed but not by much. Gazing about with a calm cool eye he has his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.

"Yes sir." Sorry sir, thinking sir. Tonight sir I have to deliver the time and date of our next raid and I was thinking about curling up in one of their speakeasies and fucking one of the flapper girls who want so desperately to be a man that they're willing to ruin their bodies to do it, "Sorry sir."

"Shake hands with your new partner man." He claps his shoulder, "He's a good guy. Hell of a reputation. What's the nickname they gave you?"

"Batman. It's actually a funny story-one for later. You all right Agent Barton?"

He manages a tired smile, "Call me the Hawk."