The ship was moving quickly – headed to Cuba or something like that, and apparently on a deadline. Clint could see the waves that it left behind in the moonlight, swelling and then fading back into the water. There were motors somewhere down there. Some kind of huge propeller had to move the carrier along, right? That's how ships worked. Of course, this ship also flew, but that was beside the point.

Can you fly, Barton? Probably not. The logical answer was a straight 'no', but he had never actually tried. There had been times when he had been tempted – extremely tempted – to give it a shot and see what happened. It had almost always been Coulson that had strongly discouraged the idea, and it was always him still, since he'd figured out that the younger agent wouldn't listen to anyone else.

He had been an official agent for at least four years now and was unofficially the best marksman the organization had. To the other agents, he was the bizarre archer who would joke over the comms no matter what the job was, never took anything seriously, and always made his shots anyway. To his handler, he was a 'risk to himself', as the file had read – it was supposedly a closed file, but Clint had found it very easy to open after he had picked the lock to the cabinet – and was under observation until it could be determined whether or not a professional opinion was needed. No one else had seen the reasoning behind that statement. No one else needed to.

It had been about three years since he had completed his first real job – his first solo elimination. Before that it had been all spotting and watching other agents. Then the file had come in and Coulson had snatched it up. He hadseemed as eager as Clint to get the archer a chance to prove himself, and he'dhad no way of knowing why Clint had gone through the entire file without his usual confident grin. A simple takedown; that's all it was. One shot, one arrow, let the agents on the ground take care of the body. That's all it had been. Never mindhow the green eyes had turned in his direction right before he loosed that arrow, as if she knew he was there and knew she couldn't do a thing about it.

She left you, Barton. She deserted you, just like she promised she would. His own voice still echoed in his head sometimes, screaming the woman's name while being ushered out the door by at least six SHIELD agents. Natasha hadleft. Hehad known all along she would. He hadn't quite believed it until he was in the back of a black car with absolutely no sign that she would even bother looking into what happened. Besides, she was a risk to the agency that had given him a second shot at life. A risk to everyone that crossed her path. It had been fully justified. Technically, she wouldn't have even known who took the shot. One arrow through the temple. No time to wonder where it had come from. It had been the perfect shot, he had been told. An excellent job for his first one alone.

It had taken out the first person he'd trusted since he left the circus. It had proven that he could take out anyone, no matter what history there was with them. It had proven he was an excellent killer.

Coulson was the only person that knew what was happening to the archer. He didn't know the reason – hell, Clint didn't even know the reason – but he could see it. All the other agents saw was a guy who enjoyed disregarding rules and was sent to talk to Fury more often than some of his advisors. It would stay that way if Clint had anything to say about it. He had tried to keep Coulson out of it, too, but his handler was too perceptive for that sort of deception. The agent was the only one who actually knew about the majority of Clint's history – his father, the circus, Barney – and he was the one who had initially convinced Fury that a nineteen-year-old kid deserved a second chance.

It was quiet on the deck. Logical, considering it was almost two in the morning; the right timing found moments of peace and solitude, something desperately needed after spending hours training with a crowd in the gym. The water rushing along behind the ship looked pitch black, with ripples of moonlight swirled in, and he vaguely wondered how cold it was. Clint had never learned to swim – not well, anyway. He could tread water decently, but just inhaling the water once would make someone sink faster…

Clint turned his gaze to the moon for a while, squinting a little at the sudden bright light in his eyes. It had been years since he had killed Natasha. There had been countless jobs since then. There wasnever any shortage of nasty people in the world. Coulson always made sure his hits were ones on men that very obviously deserved of an arrow in the head. No women. No children. No one who had an iffy case. The rules had been established quickly and Coulson was good at sticking to them. He was the first person to actually care since Barney died. He remained the only one. He was a good handler, a good man…and extremely good at reading people.

"Barton, back up." Clint looked back down at the water. The toes of his boots were actually a few millimeters over the metal edge of the ship. The older agent was probably about forty feet back and not quite fast enough to close that distance in the time it took to make a decision. They both knew it. Coulson knew how far back he could stand; he had practice with it by now.

"Is that an order, sir?" It went silent and he considered the foaming ripples left in the ship's wake. It was probably cold. Probably seize right up immediately after submerging the first time. Might make it harder to take that first breath, but it was still doable…

"If that's what it takes, yes." It would be easy, really. A little too easy. He was the one that found the most difficult means of doing something and pulled it off anyway. That was probably why Coulson was the only one with reason to keep an eye on the archer; no one else would expect a guy like him to look for something easy.

You killed her, Barton.

It was a job. He had followed orders. That was all.

You killed her just because someone told you to.

The people he killed were dangerous. Natasha had been dangerous.

It's no better than what you did before. You think it's a second chance? They just want your skillset. That's all.

"Clint." He blinked once – seemed like the first time in a few minutes – and straightened a little. "Clint, back up." It seemed like half an eternity before the young man found his feet moving, turning back toward the center of the deck and toward the agent who stood with his usual suit even at two in the morning. His face was unreadable as always, but his eyes looked more resigned than usual. What would you do if I didn't back up, Phil? He felt a hand on his shoulder before he even realized he was close enough to reach. His handler fell in step beside him, using the shoulder to steer him toward the main door. Would you stop me if I didn't back up?

These days, he couldn't really tell if he wanted to be ordered back anymore.