A/N: So this is essentially just a gift for my friend; she's a huge Hawkeye fan, and requested (actually, demanded, rather; let's be honest here) that I write this for her. I've never tried an XReader before, so I guess I'll just give it my best shot and see where it goes! Don't hate me too terribly much if it turns out horrendous.

Takes place during the Winter Soldier. Also particularly AU. Will most likely be a slow-burn romance.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything associated with Marvel. Would be nice, though.

...

You jog along the track, puffing and steadying your breaths as you make your sixth lap. Sweat peppers the back of your neck and forehead, and you're more than a little winded, but you persevere regardless. Your sneakers thud hard against the concrete with each step, your muscles and shoulders aching from the effort. But you have your reasons for running this particular track today...

Steve Rogers (aka, "Captain America") has arrived at Washington, D.C. recently, according to your co-workers from SHIELD. You were assigned to greet him and help him adjust to present-day life, shortly after he emerged from the ice. Though you only spent a month or so together, you had grown fond of the Captain, training with him daily, eating meals together, and watching modern movies (it was more than a little amusing, trying to explain Harry Potter to him).

It became a sad departure for you when Director Fury assigned you to the Avengers, and you were left behind at SHIELD's headquarters, unable to even join him on the helicarrier. You could only watch, in dismay, as news reports covered the destruction in New York, feeling helpless.

But you knew Fury's reasons, of course; you had to stay behind to train new recruits, and only a select few were allowed on-board the ship. You were one of the higher-ranking agents, yes, but not anywhere near as respected as Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton. So, despite your protests and back-and-forth, heated arguments with Fury, you grudgingly remained back at SHIELD.

Today, though (if the rumors were true), the Super-Soldier himself would be running this particular track, as he had apparently done so for the past few days. You hope to run into him, but your energy is depleting fast, and you wonder whether it's worth it.

Just as you begin to slow to a light jog, debating giving up, a tall, well-built black man jogs past you, breathing hard, his jaw set with determination, sweat beading on the back of his dark neck. You barely so much as blink before a flash of grey shoots past, rocketing in front of both you and the other male up ahead. As the grey blur passes, he announces, "On your left."

It takes you a moment to register the voice in and massive, muscular physique in your head. Then your face splits into a grin. Ah, there he is...

"Hey, old man!" you holler.

Steve Rogers turns his head a degree, but only flashes you a smile before carrying on. You can hear the other man ahead of you muttering irritably to himself under his breath.

It isn't long, however, until he catches up again. You hear his fast and heavy footfalls behind you, and a split-second later, he runs up beside you, saying, "On your right."

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you watch the blonde idiot antagonize the other man again. For the self-righteous, all-morals guy that he is, he sure is cocky.

After one more lap, you skid to a halt beneath a tree, sinking to your knees, panting. A minute or two later, the man from before joins you, catching his breath. You peer up at him, taking a long swig from your green-tinted water bottle.

"Fun, isn't he?" you remark.

He chuckles, collapsing beside you. You offer him your water bottle and he takes a grateful gulp from it. "That's one word for it, I suppose."

Still smiling, you offer him your hand. "I'm Agent (L/n). You can call me (F/n)."

"Sam Wilson," he replies, shaking your hand with a firm grip. "You know that guy?"

"Uh-huh. I helped integrate him back into the world, so to speak...He's Captain—" you begin to add.

"U.S.A.? Yeah, I figured," Sam intervenes, rolling his eyes. "What with the whole The Flash thing he's got going on..."

Speak of the devil, Steve finally slows to a jog and joins the two of you. He appears to have barely broken a sweat.

"Need a medic?" he teases.

Sam laughs, folding his arms over his chest. "I need a new set of lungs. Dude, you just ran like thirteen miles in thirty minutes."

"Huh...I guess I got a late start."

"Oh, really? You should be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap." He pauses. "Did you just take it? I assume you just took it."

Smirking, Steve shields his eyes from the sun and nods to you. "Hey, (Name). Long time no see."

"Already back to showing off? Didn't you get enough of that in New York?" you shoot back, (e/c) eyes gleaming impishly.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, one side of his lips still curved upward. "Guess not. What unit are you with?" he adds to Sam.

"Fifty-eighth, Para-rescue. But now I'm working down at the VA. Sam Wilson."

Steve offers his hand to each of you in turn, helping you to your feet. You dust grass off your knees.

"Steve Rogers."

Sam shoots you a side-long glance. "Yeah, I put that together. Must have freaked you out, coming home after the whole defrosting thing."

"It takes some getting used to."

"Have you been doing your homework?" you chime in teasingly.

"Somewhat," Steve admits sheepishly, pulling out a small notebook and ink pen. "I've finished the Star Wars franchise...But not Star Trek."

"How about The Breakfast Club?" you press. "You promised you'd get to that one after the whole Avengers deal."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it soon enough...I still have..." he glances down at the notebook, "I Love Lucy to get to, and I need to try Thai food. Everything's just taking a while for me to adjust."

"Yeah, I'd imagine."

"It's your bed, right?" Sam interjects.

Steve quirks a brow. "What's that?"

"Your bed, it's too soft. When I was over there, I'd sleep on the ground and used rocks for pillows, like a caveman. Now I'm home, lying on my bed, and it's like..."

"Lying on a marshmallow," Steve finishes, and Sam nods agreeably. "I feel like I'm gonna sink right to the floor."

"Missing the old days?" you suggest.

Steve shrugs, cocking his head to the left, considering. "Well, things aren't so bad. Food's a lot better, we used to boil everything...No polio is good. Internet? So helpful! I've been reading that a lot, trying to catch up."

"Marvin Gay, 1972," Sam offers. "'Trouble Man' soundtrack. Everything you've missed jammed into one album."

Steve clicks his pen and sets it to the notebook paper. "I'll put it on the list."

A little blip sounds a second later from Steve's phone and he checks it, frowning. "All right, duty calls. Thanks for the run...if that's what you wanna call running."

You muffle a snicker and Sam scoffs, feigning a wounded expression. "Oh, that's how it is?"

"That's how it us."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Okay. Any time you wanna stop by the VA, make me look awesome in front of the girl at the front desk, just let me know."

"I'll keep it in mind," Steve acknowledges.

You move to pat Steve on the back, preparing to head back home to shower and change out of your workout clothes, when a dark Corvett Stingray pulls up the the curb, screeching to a halt directly beside your trio. The window rolls down, revealing none other than Agent Romanoff. You can only gape at her, astonished. You've never seen Natasha in person before, only heard remarkable stories of her in gossip around SHIELD. She's basically a legend to newer recruits.

"Hey, fellas. Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is?" she asks teasingly, grinning at Steve. "I'm here to pick up a fossil."

Steve half-smiles, shaking his head as he approaches the car. "Hilarious."

Although still somewhat starstruck from the Black Widow's sudden appearance here, you figure it's probably best to head out (asking for an autograph seems like a bit too much). You kneel to pick up your discarded gym bag, prepping to leave, when Agent Romanoff calls out your name, stopping you mid-step.

"Agent (L/n)! Fury wants you in on this, too."

You turn on your heel to face her again, not even bothering to cover the blatant surprise etched into your face. "Me?"

"Yes, you." Agent Romanoff smiles, amused by your reaction. "Now that this old guy is back at SHIELD, Fury wants to keep you guys together, since you're already acquainted. He seems to think it might help."

Stunned, but more than a little excited, you hurry to retrieve up your bag and stand, trying your best (and fail) to not seem like an over-eager puppy just offered a treat. Steve slides into the front seat with Sam on his heels, eyeing Natasha with poorly-disguised interest. "How you doing?" he ventures.

"Hey," is Agent Romanoff's only reply, but her smile remains.

Steve settles in shotgun, flashing Sam a crooked grin. "You can't run everywhere."

Sam chuckles, shrugging as he steps away from the vehicle. "No, you can't."

You tug open the back door and toss your gym bag and water bottle in, hopping inside after them. Only as you climb up to your seat do you realize, to your absolute horror, that there is someone actually occupying the opposite window seat, where you just carelessly threw your stuff. Worse even?

It's Agent Barton.

Shell-shocked at not only meeting another Avenger, but at having just smacked them in the head with a plastic water bottle and duffle bag, you struggle to find your voice. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't—you weren't—" you splutter. You can feel the intense heat rushing to your cheeks.

But Barton only cocks an eyebrow and laughs, his cerulean eyes lighting up with amusement. You blink, again at a loss for words, as he motions for you to shut the door and buckle in. He picks up your fallen water bottle and hands it to you, still smirking. "Do you use these as weapons during combat? If so, kudos. That hurt." He rubs a small bruise forming on his temple demonstratively.

You feel faint, busying yourself with your belt buckle to avoid making eye contact with him. "Oh God, I'm so sorry—I just, um—I didn't see you there, Agent. Sorry." He's not bleeding, but you unzip your bag and scramble through it, searching for a bandage.

Agent Barton waves away your apologies and folds his hands behind his neck, shrugging. "No biggie, Agent (L/n)."

"Y-you can just call me (F/n). Again, Barton, I'm so sorry—"

Clint takes your water bottle back from you and lightly taps it against your forehead, cutting you off mid-sentence. "There. Now we're even, (Name). Calm down before you wet yourself." He sets it back down in the car's cup holder, his smile never once fading as he watches your reactions, clearly amused. "And you can call me Clint, then, seeing as we're apparently going on a first-name basis."

You are more than blushing (if possible) now as you turn to face the window, hiding your face from him. This is your first time coming face-to-face with Clint, too-and wow, what an impression you've made. In all of the stories told about his missions, no one ever mentioned how attractive Clint was. You're suddenly quite aware of your disheveled appearance—your messy (h/c) hair tied in a loose ponytail, your sweat, stained clothing...You must look a mess to him.

Clearing your throat, you lean forward. "So, where exactly are we going?"

Agent Romanoff glances at you in the rear-view mirror, a crimson brow raised. "Technically, Agent? The Indian Ocean."

...

So yeah, this chapter was really short, but here's what I've got so far. More Barton stuff to come in the next chapter, whenever I can get my unmotivated ass to work on it.