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The thing about Clint Barton is that there is a reason he is a really exceptional archer, and it might not be the thing that everyone thinks it is. I mean, there is something to be said about his prior service in the circus and how it might have taught him all the skills he would need to have perfect aim at a young age, but there is another thing that Clint learned during his apprenticeship.
Circuses are known for their death-defying acts, and, yes, Clint had learned his share of tricks regarding those, but this isn’t talking about those things. Those things, in and of themselves, are largely only tricks of the light and sleight of hand (and sometimes foot). The thing that no one seems to know about Clint – except maybe for his brother Barney, but he ain’t tellin’ so what does it matter anyway – is that he was also exposed to a lot of con men with uncanny mathematical skills. The men who would work on the fairway offering to guess your weight and, if they guessed wrong, would give you a prize. The men who, when someone was walking by, could tell the likelihood of being taken for a ride on some scheme or another. The men, who Clint Barton would inadvertently, take more than a few non-verbal cues from once he was older.
So, Clint would do the calculations in his head. He would aim his arrow and then take a moment. A moment that most people assumed was him lining up for the perfect shot. But that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes he was just thinking as he looked down the shaft of the cylindrical metal. Thought like “what is the probability that, instead of sinking this into that apple over there on that fence post, that, instead, a rogue squirrel will choose to commit himself to a life of petty theft and attempt to take that apple for himself? And, if he does, what are the chances of me taking said squirrel out rather than simply knocking the apple down?”
Thoughts very like that had been in Clint’s mind from the very moment he had seen how the men down on the fairway had conducted their business. It was easy enough to catch on to just how they were doing their “job” once you saw it being done for a solid week straight, so, you can imagine, with Clint’s experience, how it had quickly become second nature.
In fact, for a while, he had tested his abilities by tricking Barney into helping him herd some of the more gullible marks right down the path that would be their ultimate downfall. And when one of the regular guys had realized what Clint was doing for him, he had cut him in for a while.
So now, whenever he felt lost or bored, or just needed to ground himself, Clint would run numbers in his head.
Today, for example, had been a particularly boring and, yet, lonely day. Everyone was sitting in the common room just doing their own thing. Clint appeared to be doing a crossword puzzle, but he was using his peripheral vision too pinpoint his targets.
Tony. Tony was sipping on coffee and reading some science magazine. He was sitting approximately 2 yards away from Clint on a high stool at the bar counter. Clint wondered about the probability of him getting his pencil into Tony’s mug from where he sat now. It took only a moment before he had his answer. “87.49% chance,” he muttered, doodling in the margin of the paper.
“What?” Tony asked, looking up.
Clint looked back at him. “Four letter word for Cheese.”
Tony frowned. “Try Brie. Or Edam.”
“Thanks.” Clint looked back at the puzzle, but slightly to the left, seeing Natasha curled up on the couch, Bucky at the other end. They appeared to be talking about some show they had been watching. A show that, it appeared, they disagreed on the quality of.
Both Bucky’s and Natasha’s voices were starting to take the pitch that, had Steve not been sitting further away than him and sketching, would have alerted the Captain that intervention was imminent.
What were the chances that they were going to come to the conclusion that they were both right and concede to one another by just hugging it out? I mean, wasn’t that what everyone wanted to see anyway in some weird way? “15.876% chance,” he laughed a bit to himself.
“Hey, Francis! You got something you want to add?” Natasha’s head swiveled around quickly, ignoring whatever words Bucky was saying to her.
Clint didn’t miss a beat. “Seven letter word for ‘love’?”
Natasha knit her eyebrows together in thought and was about to answer when Bucky’s voice cut through her thought.
“Cherish.”
“Odds just went up 8 per cent,” Clint mumbled, drawing a series of hearts by the abstract squares he had just drawn.
Noticeably absent, even with the quick scan that Clint did as he was looking for his next target, from this scene was Bruce. He guessed that the best he could do was guess the chances that, rather than moping around in his lab that Dr. Banner was trying, yet again, to find a way to make the Big Guy a little less big of a force. “98.569%,” Clint guessed, though that was really a non-brainer. There really wasn’t many times that he’d been talking to Bruce lately that the subject of how helpful the Other Guy was in relation to how helpful Bruce Banner himself was. Not that Bruce wasn’t a great guy, oh no, but there was just something that always kept the fear in him of losing the one thing he thought made him helpful to the group – otherwise it would have been a full 100 percent.
Sam was sitting across from Steve, eating what looked like a cheese stick and Clint pulled out his phone. He thoughtfully glanced at it before sending a quick text to his friend asking him what he thought the odds would be if Steve would notice the whole room staring at him and if Sam was willing to put money on a time limit before they were found out.
Within seconds, Clint had his reply. He was happy to see that his assumption that Sam was at least 89% a betting man was exactly right. He looked up at Clint for a moment, quickly, without moving his head from its downward reading position before shooting the archer another text.
I bet 20 dollars it takes him less than fifteen to notice. You in?
Clint felt his phone vibrate. I’ll take it. You want to cut the others in?
We’re going to have to. They won’t help if not.
Great. I’ll ask Natasha and Bucky. You ask Tony.
The two men tapped on their screens for a moment before sending one another texts.
Tony says he’s in for $50 for 20 seconds.
Good, Natasha says $20 for ten and Bucky is 20 for five.
And you?
I’ll throw in 60 bucks for 30 whole seconds.
Fool’s bet. You’re on.
Texts were sent and, soon, everyone was looking around at one another, waiting for the signal from Clint. When he was sure the time was right, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Slowly, everyone started to stare at Steve, who was still quite engrossed in whatever it was he was drawing.
Five seconds passed and Bucky frowned, but didn’t stop staring at his best friend. Ten seconds passed and Natasha wormed her foot under Bucky’s thigh in protest, but didn’t stop staring. Fifteen seconds passed and Sam raised a rude finger in Clint’s direction. Twenty seconds had Tony scowling at Steve. Twenty-five and it looked like Bucky was going to say something, but Natasha huffed just loud enough to stop him.
Twenty-six.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine, and the whole room waited with anxious breaths held.
Thirty and Steve looked up before looking around in concern at everyone.
“What the hell? When did you all turn into the live-action cast of Night of the Living Dead? Stop. You’re creeping me out!”
Everyone turned in unison to glare at Clint.
A sly smirk grew from the corner of his mouth. “Thirty seconds, 99.99 percent.”