chapter three {edited}

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sunday, november 9
third person pov

Clint set the arrow to the bow and breathed, drawing the bowstring to his cheek. Cloth covered his eyes, but he saw all the same where his arrows would fly true. It was memory, practice, and skill all melded into one. He exhaled and as the soft thud of the arrow hitting home came, Clint was already nocking the next arrow to his bow, speed coming with the fluid motion as he went through the exercise.

Clapping echoed from the doorway and without thinking Clint pivoted, releasing another arrow at the intruder.

"Someone's paranoid."

Discarding the blindfold, he eyed the redhead leaning in the doorway, his arrow in her hand. "It's my job," he grumbled, "yours too."

Natasha shrugged, "Fair enough. Though you should be careful with those arrows, don't want to accidentally shoot the new guy."

Clint frowned, "New guy."

She nodded, "Coulson's nephew, apparently."

"He's here? I thought he was living in that town, Reacon Kills or something."

Nat rolled her eyes, correcting him, "Beacon Hills."

"So where's the kid?"

"Debriefing with Fury." Natasha took his arrow and shoved it into the outer ring of the nearest target, "They should be here soon."

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Fury stepped through the glass doors, arms clasped behind his back, a lanky teen and Coulson following close behind.

"This, Mr. Stilinski, is where you'll be spending most of your time. These are the agents that will be training you," Clint balked but Nat elbowed him and glared at him in a suggestion that he shut up, "Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff, meet Mr.Stilinski."

Without any further explanation, Fury left, though Coulson lingered momentarily to ruffle the kid's hair and tell him, "Have fun, Mischief."

Nat raised an eyebrow, "Mischief?"

He smiled sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck, "Old nickname?"

"I'm sure it's well earned," she stepped forward, "Natasha, and if I like you, I'll let you call me Nat."

"I'm Clint," the agent offered a calloused hand, bo's slung over his back.

The kid grinned, "No nicknames?"

Clint shook his head, deciding that maybe training this kid wouldn't be so bad when he had a goofy grin and a sense of humor.

"I'm Stiles."

"Who would name their kid Stiles?"

Stiles laughed, "The people who named their kid something unpronounceable in the first place. Stiles is just what I go by."

"What's your first name?"

"You don't wanna know. Even my best fr—" he stopped speaking, realizing a mistake, "Even my ex-friends couldn't say it."

"Is that why you're here, friends?"

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