AN: (22.9.14) This was prompted months ago from feraghe on Tumblr, and I don't know what happened but I just could not get it out - until now, when I re-wrote the plot and maybe rushed the ending a little, but I felt bad about taking so long over it and then Winterhawk Week started and it fit the category for Day 1 - First Meeting, so... Yeah. I'll shut up now.

Winterhawk Week has begun, whooo!

The Mystery and The Fool

He's not at his best when using a gun, but even Clint can't deny that there are some advantages to rifles. Speed, for one – he doubts he'd be able to pick these bogeys off as fast as he is now if he'd been using a bow. The last blue-white figure goes down in his sights, and his world goes still. Then there's a lot of noise over both comms and the bug feed, sounds of the ground agents moving in to clean up the unexpected enemies, and when he gets the order to pack up and regroup Clint moves quickly, eager to be part of the flurry.

Really, he's still pinching himself. It's his tenth mission with S.H.I.E.L.D, and it's baffling how quick the higher-ups are to put him on team rosters. Clint supposes it means his handler, Agent Wu, is putting in good words on his behalf – he hasn't missed a shot yet – but this is the biggest operation he's been part of yet, and he wants his performance to be flawless. He thought he dealt with the surprise intrusion well for a rookie; maybe more challenging jobs would start opening up to him now.

Arriving on scene, he pinpoints Wu among a gaggle of other agents, demanding answers and grilling them on the bogeys being bagged up around them. He quietly attaches himself to the edge of the circle.

"Do we know their nationality?" Wu asks sharply.

"Russian, sir," Agent Cartwright answers. She'd been first in when things went pear-shaped. "Potentially KGB, though there's nothing immediate to confirm that."

"How did they get in? Abner?"

Abner blinks, clearing his throat. "We think they might already have been inside –"

"You 'think'?"

"Yes sir. Security footage is still being reviewed."

"But it's possible they disabled it," Agent Monahan adds. He gestures to the doors. "There was an alarm attached to the entrance they used. We left it un-tampered with on purpose, but it didn't make a sound when the bogeys opened it. If they disabled that alarm –"

"Then they could have disabled other alarms and security cameras," Wu finishes. "How many cameras did we have track of?"

"All of them sir."

He points at Agent Abner. "Get that review in ASAP. Nine men coming from the bottom up shouldn't be hard to spot, and we'll know if the feed was messed with."

"Nine, sir?"

"Yes, Agent Holland, nine. You reported nine bogeys appearing on site, did you not?"

Holland frowns. "I did, sir," she says slowly, "but there are only nine bodies here."

"And?"

"And one of them was the catch, sir."

Wu works out what she's saying, then his eyes dart to Clint. "Barton – how many shots did you fire?"

"Nine, sir."

"How many hits?"

"All of them."

"All kill shots?"

Clint thinks back to what he saw. "One of them got his arm up," he says. "Might just have been wounded but I aimed to –"

Gunshots rip out over everyone's comms, and Agent Routledge's panicked voice accompanies them. "Sir! We've got a runner by entrance four!"

Wu reacts immediately; "Do not kill him, Routledge, I repeat: do not kill him. Slow him down, stop him, but leave him alive – understood?"

"Yes sir," he replies, "but he's enga-"

"Routledge?" There's silence. "Agent Routledge?" The gunfire has also stopped. "Ground Team, roll call." Everyone waits, breath held in. "Ground Team this is Agent Wu – I repeat, give me a roll call, stat." Thirty seconds tick quietly by, and Wu lowers his hand. "I want them found," he says quietly, "and I want that footage review. Your reports are all due on my desk in forty-eight hours. Get to it." There are a few mumbled responses and the circle disperses, a group of people with their heads bowed and expressions grim. "Barton." Wu beckons Clint over to the window. He stares out of it a moment, then sighs softly and drags a hand down his face. "You didn't get anything on this guy?" he asks. "No discernable features, rank, how badly he was injured?"

It's with regret that Clint shakes his head. "Features are non-identifiable through the scope, sir," he explains dully. He refrains from pointing out that if he'd had a bow, he might be giving a different answer right now.

As it is, Wu just nods, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You did good," he says. "Never seen a sniper react that quickly before, nor with that efficiency."

Clint blinks, the weight of the situation suddenly weighing in. "But I didn't…"

"Barton."

"If I'd've hit that guy –"

"Agent Barton." Wu's tone is sharp, and Clint automatically clamps his mouth shut. The hand on his shoulder squeezes. "You did your job, and you did it well. Hey, look at me – I understand this is the first time things have gone wrong for you. But you're just a Level Two agent; you're young, you're allowed to fail from time to time – it's a harsh lesson but it's also a good one, and the important thing to remember here is that you are not to blame. You had your shot, you took it, you made a hit. This time the other guy's reflexes came up trumps. There are maybe hundreds of variables that could have affected what happened to Ground Team, but your actions are not at fault. Is that clear?"

Swallowing thickly, Clint nods. "Yes sir."

"Good." Wu removes his hand, looking over to where the man they'd intended to bring into S.H.I.E.L.D was being lifted into the last body-bag. "Get yourself back to HQ, Barton," he orders wearily. "You've got a report to write after you get some rest."

'Rest', Wu had said, Clint thinks a few hours later. Try to relax, get over that cock-up of a mission, write the stupid report, etcetera, etcetera. But no – as if he hadn't been thrown enough curveballs this evening, Clint had to come home to find that someone was in the late Mrs Daley's flat, and that they weren't… well. Let's just say that Clint had hoped to wait until he had a higher clearance level before having to use his bullet wound first aid knowledge.

The man had passed out as soon as Clint entered Mrs Daley's, their eyes locking for a fraction of a second before his legs gave out beneath him. Clint had struggled to drag him back into his own flat – for someone so lean, this guy weighed a tonne – but now he was lying on Clint's couch, still out cold and bandaged in three places, breathing, pale, alive. And Clint knows he should probably tell someone, because it's a bit of a coincidence (if it that's what it really is), but something keeps him away from the phone and seated at his tiny table, coffee in hand, waiting for his guest to wake up – hoping that he will. He has time to plan for that eventuality though, so when the stranger sharply opens his eyes in a full-body jerk, gasping, grimacing at the pain, Clint's there with an unopened bottle of water and a box of painkillers.

"You've been shot three times," he tells the man quietly, fleetingly proud of how steady his voice is. "I found you passed out next door, so I took you home and patched you up as best I could. I haven't reported this to anyone, but make a wrong move and I will."

Though he listens, the man looks ready to bolt at any second. His eyes dart to the pills and water, and Clint makes a gesture for him to help himself. He struggles to reach for them, but the young agent knows better than to try and assist; just as he also knows that there's a good chance this black-clad man was involved in his colleagues' deaths just hours ago. When he's through with the bottle, his impromptu guest eyes him warily and asks, in a voice that sounds shockingly underused, "Who are you?"

"I'm Clint. Who are –"

"Who do you work for?"

"Who do you work for?" he retorts, and the man's eyebrow twitches. "Like I already said, I haven't reported you yet. I should've, 'cause I'm pretty sure you're the guy who just shot a lot of good men and women in cold blood, but right now my priority is making sure you don't bleed to death on me."

He looks disbelieving. "You're S.H.I.E.L.D?"

Clint swallows. "I didn't say that," he says, but it's fairly pointless. He slipped up in his anger, gave this – mercenary? – a piece of information he shouldn't have, but adrenaline makes him blunder on with his own 'interrogation'. "So come on; who are you? I've told you my name, think it's only fair I know yours."

The guy shakes his head. He tries to adjust his position on the couch, grimacing even as he moves an inch to the right. As he slumps down, Clint takes a moment to study him. He doesn't look particularly old – maybe late twenties, early thirties – and has jaw-length brown hair that contrasts light blue eyes. Stubble shadows his jaw, made darker by the pale tone of his skin. His clothes are entirely black, from his jacket to his boots, and close-fitting where Clint hadn't cut them away to get at the wounds. Whilst treating the one at his ribs a few small scars had shown themselves over a well-muscled torso, and Clint had to forcibly make himself stop speculating about (and admiring) them. It wasn't that he found the man particularly attractive – hell, the guy was probably twice his age, never mind the fact that he was murderer – but tall, dark, and mysterious he was. He also looked like he was trying to find a way out.

"Alright, fine, don't tell me," Clint says, bringing the man's wondering attention back to him. "But don't get the idea that you're leaving before you're healed."

"And let you turn me in?" he snarls.

"I'm not going to turn you in. Not unless you try to kill me." The assassin looks unconvinced, and with a sigh Clint runs his hand through his hair, trying a different tactic. "Look, I'm not a medic or anything, but I know enough about getting shot to know that you need to rest fully to let the wounds heal properly. I'm offering you a safe place to stay and let that happen. It'll take a while, but my pay's good enough that I'll be able to look after us both, and if something goes wrong I can get you to a hospital I think –"

"No hospitals."

Clint gawps for a moment, then laughs. "You hate them too?"

The guy looks at him strangely. "Hospitals are too public. Going to one would compromise me further. Doctors and nurses ask too many questions, and the local authorities could become involved."

It was that moment that Clint was reminded just how in over his head he was; this guy wasn't a good guy. He was the enemy. He was experienced. He could probably kill Clint before he knew what was happening. But the fact was, Clint didn't have it in him to let a man die on his watch. S.H.I.E.L.D had instilled in him the belief that, until proven otherwise, everybody had the potential to be good. Sometimes they just needed some goodness shown to them. Giving up on arguing with his guest, he stuck the television on and settled down to watch it, keeping an eye on him until he was sure the man was asleep.

Being woken up at some ungodly hour by the sound of screaming coming from his own front room was, to say the least, alarming. It took Clint all of twenty seconds to remember what happened the previous evening, and in a sudden rush of panic he thought the man in his care was being kidnapped or tortured by S.H.I.E.L.D. In nothing but his boxers, he leapt out of bed and into his living room, bow minus arrows in hand, and was surprised to find that there was absolutely nobody to be seen. Well, nobody except the screaming assassin on his couch.

"Hey!" He's crouched by the guy's side in an instant, bow lowered but not abandoned. "Hey, man, come on – wake up." Despite being familiar with nightmares from childhood, Clint's never really had to help someone else through one before (nor had anyone help him), so he finds himself at a loss in regards to what he should do. The man's thrashing about, choking out words in both Russian and English, and when Clint catches a glimpse of bright red on his bandages he decides he has to wake him up sooner rather than later. "Hey," he tries again, "wake up!", and reaches out to touch a black-clad leg.

The reaction is instantaneous - and painful. Clint stares at the hand wrapped around his wrist, genuinely worried that his bones are about to break. He looks back at the assassin, who in turn is staring at him like he's grown a second head, swallows down his pain, and quietly says, "Please don't break my wrist. I have to go to work in the next few days, and if my SO sees it he'll ask questions."

That seems to get through to the guy, and he releases Clint with what seems like a mechanical whir. "What are you doing?" he asks roughly.

Cradling his wrist, Clint nods at his torso. "You pulled your stitches," he says, deciding not to bring up the nightmares for now.

He looked at his bandages, seeing the red stain for the first time, then warily back to Clint. "And?"

"And I was going to offer to fix them."

"Oh." Mulling over this, he slowly nods, shifting so Clint can get at the coverings. The tension and wariness never seems to leave him.

"How are you feeling?" Clint asks as he works. Not immediately receiving an answer, he glances up and meets a confused expression. "I mean, how badly do these hurt? You need more painkillers or something?"

"The pain is manageable."

"So, you are in pain?"

"... Yes, but -"

"I'll get you some more painkillers after this then."

"Why?"

Clint blinks, wondering if anyone's ever responded to the promise of pain relief in such a way. "Because you're in pain, and they'll ease that up a bit."

"But the pain isn't interfering with my basic functioning."

That makes no sense to Clint whatsoever. "I'm being kind, man." That, at least, seems to hold some merit. He finishes re-stitching the wounds in silence, then, as promised, brings over a glass of water and two pills. "Here. They should last until you fall asleep again at least, and you can have some more in the morning if you want."

He takes them hesitantly, licking his lips and frowning before mumbling, "Thank you."

"No problem." Watching him swallow the meds, Clint noticed something else. "How come you're still wearing gloves?"

The assassin clenches his hands fractionally, and he puts the glass on the table very carefully. "To keep my hands hidden," he says after a while.

"Hidden?" His wrist still hurts from where it had been gripped very, very tightly. Almost inhumanly so. "Why do they need to be hidden?"

"That's classified."

Sighing, Clint gives up. "Okay, fine. But if you have another nightmare, I'm gonna poke you with an arrow until you wake up, so don't freak out on my bow if that happens."

"Nightmare?"

Already moving towards his room, Clint pauses. "Yeah. You were having one earlier, it's why I came out." He tips his head. "Don't you remember it?"

A strange look passes over the man's face. Eyes wide and unseeing, he shakes his head and whispers, "No."

Too tired to deal with him anymore, Clint wishes him more pleasant dreams and goes back to bed. The assassin in his living room plagues his thoughts, though; what's his background? Where did he come from? Who does he work for and why? And, most importantly, why doesn't he seem to understand basic hospitality? Clint doesn't know the first thing about this guy - not even his name or age - but already he's overly curious. He wants to know what's so special about that left hand, why the guy seems so unwilling to be helped, what his nightmare was about and why he didn't seem to remember it. It has nothing to do with the fact that Clint finds him handsome in a scruffy rebel kind of way. Absolutely not. But, all in all, it's hard to remember that the same man just killed a group of Clint's colleagues in cold blood, not to mention their catch.

These thoughts plague him through the night, making him toss and turn in a battle of concern, curiosity and anger. When the sun rises, Clint's exhausted, but he's resolved to spend as much time with his guest as he can, getting to know him, showing him the kindness he's clearly missing out on in life. Maybe he could even be persuaded to join S.H.I.E.L.D. When he finally steps through to the living room, however, the couch is deserted and his first aid kit gone. There's no sign of anyone having ever been on his furniture at all. Not even a 'thank you' note. Clint tries to ignore the hurt in his chest, and finally turns his attention to the report for Agent Wu.

It's another three years before Clint, now a Level Four agent, has a run-in with the mysterious man whose life he saved. He's chasing the target, almost able to apprehend him when he hears shots being fired from around the corner. He skids to a halt, taking in the sight of a black-clad man standing before Clint's target on the floor, the faintly smoking gun, the blood, and the left arm that shines in the sunbeam cutting through the window. The assassin raises his head, and Clint's wrist throbs.

"Hey," he says.

The killer takes off.

"Wait!"

In his second chase of the day, Clint runs until he can't find any trace of the man at all - no sound of running, no shadowy figure darting just out of sight in his peripherals, not even a disturbance in the sunlit dust. He goes back to his new SO expecting to be reprimanded, but the man seems surprisingly unbothered.

"You knew this assassin?"

"I met him before a few years ago," Clint admits. "We didn't speak much - he was wounded, and I helped him out, but he was... reluctant to talk. I had a feeling he played for the other team, but..." The confirmation was a heavy disappointment nonetheless.

"Tell us what you can about him," his SO says. "I'll take the flack for the target's death."

"But sir -"

"I trust your judgement, Agent Barton. You did everything you were told, and as far as I'm concerned you went after that assassin because you thought it was in S.H.I.E.L.D's best interest to have him alive."

Clint knows a favour when he sees one, and it softens the blow that he let the guy get away again. "Thank you, sir. And I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise. As long as you don't get anyone killed, I have no problem with you taking some liberties on a mission. But I still need a report." Clint hadn't believed the rumours about Agent Coulson up until now. He might have dwelt on his new SO some more had thoughts of the mystery assassin once again taken over his thoughts.

Staring at Bucky was probably not the nicest thing Clint could be doing to the guy, but he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. The metal arm alone was proof enough, but the voice, the face, and especially the eyes all came together to make the man from one of Clint's first missions, wounded and mistrustful, who didn't know what kindness once; and knowing what he knew now, Clint couldn't quite believe who he'd been so obliviously helping.

"It's not a big deal," he assured Bucky when the guy apologised for not remembering him. "I mean, after what happened, I get it. And there's no pressure, by the way, I was just... curious."

Bucky frowned at him. "You remembered, though," he said. "Even after all this time, you recognised me..."

Smirking, Clint shrugged. "Guess I was a little impressionable back then. I mean, you were this mysterious, intriguing, kind of handsome mercenary who didn't understand why I was offering him painkillers. Guy like that sticks in the mind."

"Painkillers?"

"You'd been shot. Broke into my neighbour's flat and would've bled out in there if I hadn't found you."

"Right..." Slowly, Bucky gives him a sheepish smile. "Don't suppose I ever said thanks, did I?"

Clint shrugs. "Not really."

"Would I be able to make it up to you sometime?" He looks nervous, adorably so, and Clint holds off on assuring him he doesn't have to do a thing.

"How about you buy me a coffee, play with me on the range for a bit and we'll call it even? Unless our scores say otherwise, of course."

Bucky blinks in surprise, but when Clint waits patiently for an answer he mumbles "Uh, sure. What - what time?" Clint grins, unable to believe he's finally going to find out just what his mystery assassin is like.