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Clint is good at many things. Naming dogs, entertaining kids, killing someone with two rubber bands and a paperclip. He can name you every kind of coca-cola lolly in the united states, and every assassination attempt on the current president. He should be on the FBI’s most wanted list. Should be in a dark cell for crimes no one even knows been committed. He’s not though. Still free. No one even thinks of him as a suspect. No one thinks of him at all.
Because he’s stupid, and he’s dumb, until he isn't. No one thinks twice about that dumb carnie in the corner, no one thinks twice about the mindless muscle guarding the door. He thought his cover was blown when he was assigned to the Avengers, (the ‘Avengers initiative, now doesn’t that sound fancy?) but if anything, it helped. Who’s an archer to a super solider? Who’s an archer to a God? Bloody useful, is the answer. Clint slips under the radar even better than before, just another dumb military goon that’s gonna die in the line of fire sooner rather than later (then, why haven’t I? Clint asks them, smug, poised, in his fever dreams. If I’m only alive because of luck, why am I still here? The unsmiling faces look back at him. They never answer.)
Nat knows. Figured it out. She thought he was dumb at first, smiling at her, joking, exposing his throat (didn’t he know spiders bite?). but she learnt, quickly, the façade he built around himself. He’s stupid, he’s dumb, until he’s not. And by then he has a knife in his hand and a smile on his face and an alibi in another state. His dad knew, he thinks, that fateful night in the rain. Maybe, at the end. Clint doesn’t believe in heaven, but he hopes his dad is watching. Hopes his dad knew, as that car started to speed down the hill, who to blame. He hopes. Coulson knew. Maybe. Sometimes he just turned around and left when Clint said something dumb, something stupid, a line and sinker to bait Coulson into a confrontation. He never answered the barbs, but there was something in his eyes, on occasion, that seemed to know. It’s too late now, Coulson’s six feet under.
Life goes on.
He doesn’t think the avengers know. Rolling their eyes when he offers to come down from his perch to offer ground support (do they not know you can be good at multiple things?) laughing at the coffee addiction (he’s memorized their sleep patterns, their walking gait, favorite food. There’s not much else to do when you sleep barely an hour every night) Side eyeing the clothes he hasn’t changed for a week (one part disguise and one part time efficiency).
He’s a specialist, a consultant, pretty words for ‘Expert with a bow and not much else”. His bow string snaps before a mission, and Steve orders him to stay behind. When he shows up half an hour later and saves their asses with a Browning high-power and fourteen bullets, they seem surprised. He’s killed more people than types of guns. He can count them all alphabetically and chronologically (guns and kills, respectively). Most people forget the kills. Most people forget the guns. Most people forget ten-year-old Clint, lying beneath his daddy’s car, covered in brake fluid, wire-cutters sliding in his small, slippery hands.
Sure, Natasha has red in her ledger. Clint has a dumb face and an excuse. (both are the same thing really)
“Let’s play one truth, two lies” he says, one quiet afternoon
“sure” they say, “why not”
He listens intently, every time. His turn, he opens his mouth, and three perfect lies drop out.
It’s not his fault, really. It’s a reflex now.
He’s stupid, he’s dumb. (Until he’s not)