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Grab your gun, time to go to hell

I'm no hero guilty as charged

Search and Destroy

The flames ate away at the file he threw in the barrel. The burning brown folder contained what was left of Clint's life at SHIELD, well, what hadn't been dumped on the internet by a certain redhead that is. Clint wasn't ashamed to say he took some very highly classified missions, and had worked with people who had to resort to SHIELD to protect them. Just like Natasha told him, it was best to destroy the files - that only the two of them possessed - if the people they saved all those years back were going to live.

He didn't let the memories get to his head as he poked the fire and watched the flames lick the side of the barrel as the last pages disintegrated. When Clint finally raised his head, the sky showed the hints of dawn. A pale yellow lit up the horizon lined with the many buildings of Manhattan.

If he was being honest, he didn't know why he stayed in New York after the battle. Even after Stark's invite to stay at the tower, all Clint wanted to do was get out of the wrecked city and find a place in some backwater state. He was actually packing his scarce belongings on the helicarrier when Stark decided to give his address to a terrorist and, well everyone knows what happened there. While Clint stayed out of the way, he still felt obliged to follow the billionaire to Tennessee and make sure he didn't do anything too stupid. He was still an Avenger after all.

So when Stark returned to New York, so did Clint. The three-room apartment wasn't much, but it was all he needed. Clint filled his ''Holiday'' with trying to organize his clusterfuck of a life SHIELD had given him.

He'd actually been doing well when SHIELD went to hell. Fury had given him a call just before they blew up the Triskelion, a few minutes to order him to stay low and say that Natasha and Captain tight-pants were handling the situation. A call that had riled him up more than it calmed him down.

That was a week ago. Last night he walked into his apartment to find his partner watching a Friends rerun and drinking his last beer. Even though he knew she wanted to stay, they both knew better. They were two assassins who worked with a secret organization that just had all it's secrets spilled, going dark was the only logical action.

Clint remembered her swift departure from the apartment, her hair - which she had left unstraightened - swirling behind her as she took the stairs two at a time.

With a sigh he put out the dying embers and shouldered his bag, turning to take the stairs back to the third floor.

*Ding*

Clint's mentally thanked his hearing aids as the sound hit his ears and the small metal pendant caught his sight. With a sad smile he picked it up by it's leather strap, and folded his fingers around the silver disc.

The pendant itself was about the size of a quarter and the thin leather strung through a hole at the top was just long enough to go around his neck, but it what was engraved in the metal that mattered to Clint. While the red paint had long ago worn off, the dainty shape of a spider still remained, eternally etched in the smooth silver.

Clint let his smile fall as his mind trailed to his absent partner.

She'll be okay, Clint. He reminded himself. She knows what shes doing.

The next wave of distress had nothing to do with the necklace as he shoved it in his pocket and entered the stairwell that led to his apartment, swiftly unlocking and locking his door in under a minute.

Clint was an expertly trained marksman, assassin, and agent. He knew when he was being watched.

Less than a block away from Clint's apartment, curious eyes watched the archer retreat indoors and out of sight.

He was SHIELD. He knows her. He knows the captain.

He let his eyes fall shut, blocking out the glare of the morning sun.

But does he know who I am? He thought as he clenched the window sill with his left hand, the old wooden frame giving way to the metal of his cursed arm.

Clint woke to an overly cheerful radio presenter greeting him through his alarm clock radio. With a groggy moan he rolled over and hit the snooze, cursing the unforgiving mattress as his back tweaked with the movement. Clint ungracefully stood and did a quick analysis of his surroundings. The handgun he stuffed under his pillow earlier was still there, all it's bullets in place. Whoever had been watching him on the rooftop had clearly not made a move in the last few hours. Still, he felt calmer once he tucked a small knife into the waistband of his pants.

After a scalding coffee and leftover pizza, Clint decided against a morning run and grabbed his bow and quiver instead.

Taking the stairs back up to the rooftop, he ran through what he knew. They must have known he lived in the building, but the roof was the only time he left his home in the last week as he had abandoned his usual morning runs following SHIELD's fallout. So that meant whoever it was had likely read some classified info on his whereabouts, which narrowed it down to about...7 billion people thanks to Natasha. Clint assumed that it was someone who he had a problem with, whether it be Hydra, SHIELD, or someone from his contract days. He sighed as that didn't narrow it down as much as he'd liked. The door to the rooftop creaked open and Clint appreciated the waft of cool air that met him.

With a deep breath Clint strapped on his quiver and hooked his bow over his head. He knew he needed to check out the near by buildings - the only way anyone could have seen him from the rooftop. Ruling out the ones two-stories or below, Clint started his round by leaping to the wall of the hotel across from him.

His days in the circus had given him his ability to scale buildings, and SHIELD had refined those skills to the point where he was climbing around the block with ease while still keeping watch. Fifteen minutes of jumping, climbing, and a couple of near-death experiences left Clint with just one building left. It was an abandoned apartment block that had mostly housed pigeons and the homeless for the last few years. He was actually about to disregard it when he realized it had a perfect vantage point on the north side of the fourth floor. A few broken windows faced Clint's apartment almost directly, and would have given whoever stood there a view of both the rooftop and a window in his room.

It took him a few minutes to reach the roof of the abandoned building, and he landed on the weathered concrete with a forward roll to deal with the force. The only access to the inside was a rusting iron door with a faded trespassing warning sign. With ease Clint pushed open the door (he clearly wasn't the only one to ignore the sign) and stepped into the building's main stairwell.

As the door shut, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he made his way down.. Each step felt like the rotting wood could have given way to his weight, but Clint made it to the fourth floor with little trouble. A flock of pigeons took flight as he approached the north end of the hallway, bow in hand. The hallway opened up to an empty and unfinished room, with wooden frames where walls were once to go and the glass scattering the floorboards from years of weather taking out the windows.

Clint stepped towards the window he saw from outside, and found out he was right. The frame held a view of Clint's building so well he could see his neighbor in her kitchen. He was sure that whoever was watching him stood here, as he noted the scuff marks on the floor where a thick layer of dust once lay. Absentmindedly, he reached for the window sill. His gaze dropped when he touched a patch of splintered wood. The wood could have given way to anything, but as Clint covered the patch with his hand, he found a series of holes where his fingers touched the frame. They were here alright, Clint concluded. But how did they crush the wood like that?

His thoughts halted as he felt the familiar wave of anxiety wash over him.

They're still here.

As he turned his head behind him, his fingers reached for an arrow from his quiver. He drew the arrow's shaft back to his cheek when a pair of pigeons took off down the hall. The sound of flapping wings was followed by a series of footsteps. Lowering his bow by an inch, Clint stepped back out into the hallway as his training kicked in. He let his eyes examine the scene as he took a few slow steps forward. Anyone else would have missed the shadow move across the far wall - but Clint wasn't just anyone. He raised his bow again and made his way past the staircase, stopping just short of the corner.

Now Clint could hear the quick, quiet breaths of his stalker just around the corner. He was about to make a move when a strained voice broke the air.

"Leave now, and there won't be any trouble." The voice confused Clint for a moment. There was a clear American accent, but he heard a hint of …. Russian? The moment passed and Clint took his chance, Stepping out in front of the man.

"Not too sure about that. You see, I'm a sucker for trouble, sweetheart." He barely got a look at the man before a force like a truck hit him and threw his body back into the wall, his bow flying uselessly to the side.

''Ow.. fuck...'' Clint took a moment to recover from the sudden attack to think. The glimpse he got at his face wasn't much, but it was all he needed. Although it was hard to tell with the beard, Clint didn't need his SHIELD training to recognize that face. After all, Natasha had just shown him his file less than twelve hours ago. The file she was going to give to Steve.

Clint didn't let the shock of meeting the Winter Soldier get to him as he ran after the man up the stairs.