This is my first fanfiction story, so I hope you guys out there will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you're reading this, then it means that I have managed to successfully upload my story without damaging the internet, or everybody's computers. And that's a good thing! For this story, Hawkeye is basically the only non-original character I'm using, so don't be expecting his actual, for reals back story. If any of my characters resembles somebody else's characters, it's pure coincidence, and I apologize.

I do not own Marvel or any of it's characters. On with the show!

I gripped the bow tighter in my hand. Closing one eye, I took aim at my target. I pulled the string back until it was taut. Taking a deep breath, I centered myself. Now or never, I thought to myself, and get go of the string.

"Clint."

Startled, I turned the bow. The arrow flew harmlessly through the air, lodging itself five inches above the crudely painted-on target. A dozen other arrows were scattered along the wall with it. Only one arrow had managed to reach the red and white target, but it was barely grazing the outer most of the circles. My shoulders sagged; I'd been practicing for weeks with no progress to show for it. Wiping the disappointment from my face, I turned to see my father standing in front of the elevator doorway. His face was grimly set and his brown eyes looked from the mess around the target back to me before he spoke.

"It's getting late. You should start putting your things away and get ready for bed." He started to turn back towards to door before adding, "You shouldn't spend so much time with archery. Some people just don't know their way with a bow." He walked through the doors and the elevator closed, descending back into the building.

I threw my bow down to the ground in frustration. It landed on the cement floor with a satisfying clatter. I ignored it and walked to the low wall of the building's stairwell. The soft plaster meant that I could practice without wrecking the arrows… if you called this practice. I pulled out the arrows one at a time, while muttering under my breath. It was my father's idea to get me started in archery. He was the one who gave me this set for Christmas. I never even wanted the damn thing, and now he had the nerve to insult me? Did he actually want me to quit?

Crack. I looked down and realized that, while removing it from the wall, I had snapped one of the arrows in half. I dropped the rest of the arrows that I was carrying to the ground where they rolled and scattered like startled animals. Holding the broken arrow in my hand, I walked over to the edge of the building. Down below, the lights of the city were flashing. The streets were packed, but from the top of the apartment complex, the sound of the traffic was completely muffled.

Standing at the edge, I threw the two halves of the arrow down into the chaos below. I sighed, looking out at the city skyline in front of me. The roof was my sanctuary. It was the one place where I could get away from the stress of life, my parent's separation, everything. When I first moved into this building, I came up to the roof to hide when my parents began fighting, and had spent time here ever since. Nobody else ever came up here, especially not in the frigid February weather. I decided that it was a safe bet that no one would bother me up here, so right after Christmas I brought my archery equipment to the roof. I even painted one of those old-fashioned bull's eyes on the wall. It was fun at first, but after a few weeks with nothing to show for it, I was starting to get on edge.

Seeing that arrow disappear as it fell to the ground made me feel guilty. As much as I'd hate to admit it, I actually did like archery. I couldn't bring myself to purposefully destroy my gear. My father really did have good intentions; he knew I would love to shoot arrows and pretend I was a hero. It's just that I wasn't a natural at it.

I walked back over to the stairwell and picked up the rest of my arrows. I sat down and took the quiver off of my back. Sliding the arrows one by one back into the quiver, I couldn't help but smile a little. Next time I would try harder, get better. I could still improve my shot. I grabbed the quiver by its strap, and carefully tossed it back into its old hiding spot-right above the building's heating duct.

I remembered that I had thrown my bow over by the elevator doors, so I ran over to go pick it up. I gently lifted the bow from the ground, and what I saw made my stomach churn.

I didn't need to bother being careful, but I still held it like a baby bird. The bow had a large crack that almost went through the entire wooden structure. It was almost snapped in half. I traced the fissure with my fingers. I couldn't believe what I was seeing; I had broken my father's hand-me-down bow. I felt empty. I was numb. I bit my lip; I knew that if I stayed outside much longer, my father would come and find me. There was only one thing I could do.

I gingerly put the bow down with the quiver and arrows, and walked back to the elevator. I pressed the cracked, red button and the doors opened. Stepping inside, I took one last glance at my sanctuary, and hit floor 17. First of all, I had to go to bed and get some sleep. Then, I could just come up with a plan later. I would have to find out how to either fix that bow, or get a new one...before my father found out. And I really, really hoped he wouldn't find out.

I was so worried about what I was going to do to fix everything that I didn't notice the elevator slowing down. I looked up at the keypad to see that one of the buttons was flashing. I guess I was in for another stop before I got home. I checked my watch. 10:20pm. I had another ten minutes before curfew, so it wasn't like I was going to be late or anything. The elevator doors slid open, revealing a tall man in standing in the doorway. He stormed inside without looking up, and started swearing under his breath.

He had very broad shoulders, making him look like a brick wall. His grey trench coat was covered with stains, and the bottom was torn, as if he was attacked by some wild animal. Short black hair was barely visible under the rim of his beige fedora hat. He looked frightening.

As the doors slid shut, and the elevator started to descend, the man turned around. He looked shocked to find another passenger in the ride; I guess he was expecting to be alone for the trip. He looked like he had just been in a bar fight, and the smell of alcohol drifting off of him didn't do much for the illusion either. The guy had a strong looking face, with a pronounced jaw line. He had a band-aid over the bridge of his nose, and a splotch of dried blood right over his lip. To wrap the whole picture together, the guy's whole face looked like one giant bruise. His grey eyes stared at me for a few more seconds, then he turned to face the door.

"It's not safe for kids like you to be out this late in a place like this, you know." His voice was gravely, but he sounded like he was actually being pretty sincere. If you didn't count the fact that it sounded like a big threat.

"Kids like me wouldn't give a crap one way or the other in a place like this," I said coolly, trying to look more confident than I felt.

The guy turned his head to look at me. At that moment, I was totally prepared for a fight to break down, which would probably end up with me in the hospital. I gave him steely glare. I thought that the guy was going to slug me, but instead he just barked out a raspy laugh. "The name's Spade," he said, then paused for a response.

I cringed internally. I didn't want some creep knowing my name, it would go against everything I was taught as a kid. On the other hand, the guy was being quite civil, and I was afraid of what would happen to me if I didn't say anything. "Barton," I said, deciding to only give him my surname.

The elevator slowed to a stop, and I checked the keypad. Floor 17-my stop. I walked to the doors before they even started opening. I had spent enough time with Spade, and would rather just be in my own apartment. I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, and was spun around by my new acquaintance. Spade was staring at me determinedly; his grey eyes seemed a bit frantic. "Be careful out there Barton," he said coldly. "These are mean streets." He looked at me for another second, then let go of me.

I practically ran out of the elevator, the time for being polite was over. I only stopped long enough to make sure that Spade stayed on the elevator as the doors closed. I hurried past the familiar hallway that I knew so well. I didn't even need to look at the numbers on the doors anymore. Eleventh door on the left. I stopped in front of my door to regain my composure. If my father knew that I was meeting up with strangers during my free time, I'd never be allowed to leave my room again.

Reaching up to my neck, I unfastened the clasp that held my silver necklace together. I held it carefully in my hands, and took the small silver key from where it rested on the chain. If I wasn't home by curfew, my father would confiscate it for a week. I sighed, so many rules for one person. Then I remembered the fact that I would only have to follow those rules for two more years, and the thought made me smile.

I put the key in the lock, and turned the doorknob. The apartment was small, but it was only for me and my father, so it was functional. I looked over at the kitchen, and to the "living room", which only had a couch and a TV. I took off my leather jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the couch. I never had to bother with picking up after myself this late at night, my father didn't really care how clean the place was. I kicked off my shoes while walking to my room. I closed the door behind me, and laying down on top of the bed. I had to run all of the days events through my head to come up with an idea. I would figure everything out tomorrow. Yeah, that was a good plan. I didn't realize just how tired I was, until I fell asleep right there while thinking.

It's so exciting to see my story on this site! Of course, it wouldn't have happened without the help of my best freind and editor Patricia Sage. She added important details here and there, stopped my comma overload, and kept me in the past. Tense, that is. Because it would be very confusing to be switching from past, to present, to past again, all in the same paragraph.

I'l be writing the next chapter, and try to get it online as soon as I can. If you liked this story, hated it, or even have some useful constructive critisisms to give me, I'd be happy to hear from you!

-Alex