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This isn’t the first time Clint has had to go into hiding, build a new identity and leave his whole life behind, but this time it’s going to hurt so much more. He will miss the life he’s built for himself, his friends and the easy conversations he’d been missing for so long after he’d escaped the circus. And now he’s having to do it again, just because he can’t kill one little kid for some mob boss.
Faking his death is a little complicated because he needs to make sure the whole criminal underground is aware of it, but it’s easy to get new documents and start the process of building up a new person for him to be. A new haircut and a different hair color, new clothes and a new car — those are easier still, even if they don’t seem to fit just right. He’s been his old self for too long for this to be comfortable yet.
The worst part is constantly looking over his shoulder for people he knew in his now trashed life, because he still hasn’t left the city. He tries to tell himself it’s because the basics are easier to acquire there and he’ll move on soon, but deep down he knows it’s a lie. He’s still attached even though he tries to tell himself he’s not.
It comes to bite him in the ass, sort of — or maybe it’s a reward, he’s not really sure — one afternoon when he’s headed to his week-by-week rental, the last piece of his new identity in hand. Before he really even knows what’s happening, he’s in an alley surrounded by people in black suits with guns. He thinks at first it’s the mob boss come to collect damages for the job he bailed on, but the suits are too nice and the people are far too cleaned up to be thugs.
He stands there for several moments, not sure if he needs to fight his way out or try to flee, until a single man steps forward. He’s a big, frightening looking guy in an eye patch and a long black leather overcoat even though it’s the middle of summer on a muggy New York day.
“Clint Barton? Or should I say Francis Barney?” the guy asks, voice carefully neutral.
Clint tenses, preparing for a fight, but the guy raises his hand and the others lower their guns. “Yeah?” he says, still wary, but a little more comfortable now that there aren’t a dozen guns pointed at his chest.
“I’m from SHIELD,” the guy says, and Clint gapes a little because he never in a million years thought he’d get on their radar. “We have a job offer for you.”