I'm attempting to write, bear with me lads!

Thanks for letting me get through whatever was stopping me posting!

"That's different."

Clint glanced to the screen at Bucky's words. He kept his hand hidden still though, in case it was a trick by the man to see what cards he held. Nothing really, he was rapidly losing this poker game, but that didn't mean he couldn't try.

There was a car pulling up on the screen, just outside the doors to the compound. Clint remembers it. A black sedan, nothing special he thought. Just dropping off supplies. He marked it once before, but this was only the second time he's seen it.

He shrugged and looked back at his cards.

"That's in one of my reports." He said flippantly, throwing three cards down to pick up three new ones. Still nothing.

"What?" Clint looked up at Barnes' sharp words, frowning slightly. He was scowling at the monitors rather than Clint so he'd take that as a win. "I don't remember seeing anything on this."

Clint cocked his head slightly, looking back to the screen again. He was positive he did. He saw it pulling away one time; he was going to mark it. He would have in his report, but that was a messy day and - oh, yeah, Bucky's freak out night...

"I guess I forgot." He shrugged again, realising what happened. "Sorry man."

"Clint this is new, no one ever drives up there." From his peripheral Clint saw Bucky put down his cards and walk over to the monitors lining the wall. He decided to follow suit and do the same, crossing his arms over his chest to watch the action.

A gentleman got out of the drivers seat, dressed in a suit. Nothing special about him, Clint remarked, other than what looked like one hell of a comb over on the grainy footage.

The man went around to the side of the car that was blocked from view. Clint frowned slightly as he noticed the door of the warehouse open, two of the men they've had under surveillance standing there almost as if at attention.

"This is definitely different." Clint muttered more to himself than to Barnes, though he did notice the man beside him nod. More often than not whoever was going in would just enter, only met by someone if they needed a hand in with supplies.

Someone got out of the car – who Clint couldn't tell yet. While the cameras were good they were still pretty far away from any of the perimeter, they would have definitely been noticed if they did get too close. All Clint could make out was a tall man, some kind of bowler or flat cap on his head, a long coat on to ward away whatever bit of chill the night air held.

He walked the couple of steps to the warehouse door with a confidence Clint hasn't seen anyone carry in a long while. Shaking the other two men's hands, they all disappeared inside, leaving the driver of the car standing there waiting outside.

The new man - though important enough to be greeted at the door - turned just the slightest to close the door himself. Clint swore that the man looked directly into their closest camera.

One sight in that moment had Clint's breath leaving him. Before the door closed the light provided just enough definition to make out the man's face.

Or rather, something covering it. Something Clint hasn't seen in a long time.

"Jacques..." Clint whispered through the breath that was knocked out of him, feeling suddenly faint.

This was their guy.

Maybe not the head guy. Probably not the head guy, he couldn't be, he might be, Clint didn't know anymore.

Jacques was here...

Maybe - just maybe - after losing Carson's he took control of these guys to continue with his missions. Clint felt bile threaten to rise at the thought.

Jacques shouldn't be here...

Clint's mind couldn't comprehend anything right now other than the fact he really needed some fucking air and oh god why were his lungs burning so much? Breathe in and out, come on you remember how to do this right? Just simple, fill your lungs, nope that hurts. Brain is fuzzy. Images of his childhood springing forward, of all the times he saw that mask hovering over him after a beating, trying his best to be more than enough for the man behind him so that he could keep his life as it was, so he always had somewhere to stay, it was never enough... God how do you breathe again?

His mind was clear enough to know one thing.

With a lick of his dry lips, without realising what his own body was even doing anymore, Clint turned from the screens and grabbed his cowl from the desk.

Jacques was here. Jacques was trying to kill him. And he couldn't handle that.

Jacques Duquesne was the one demon Clint could never shake. He was the one who took him in, gained his trust, mentored him, raised him, fathered him, then left him for dead in the middle of nowhere for no good reason.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't defeat Jacques. The only thing to do was to turn tail and run, run far away somewhere. Chicago? He couldn't put his friends there at risk. Oh god you already put them at risk. What if he found them already? No, he thinks you're dead Clint.

"Clint!"

He ignored his name being called, coming back to himself just long enough to realise he was walking the stairs back to the living area. Where are you going again?

He thinks you're dead Clint, maybe that's good. Start somewhere new, change your name, change your look, leave the fucking country you idiot, he'll kill all of them if he finds out and-

"Clint! Stop for a minute!"

He only did because a solid hand wrapped around his wrist. How had Jacques got in here so quick!? It was a 15 minute walk from here to their base. Did he already have their cameras on a loop to trick them?

His breath still wasn't going into his lungs; at least it didn't feel like it. The living room around him was starting to spin as he figured this out. Jacques had his wrist, but Clint had his sword, and in an instant it was drawn from its housing. On the balls of his feet Clint turned and swung the blade, stopping just short of slicing his attacker's neck.

A different pair of eyes met him, not the ones that haunted him. No. Cool grey, calm and collected even in the face of danger. They stared into Clint's until his mind found the name he was looking for. James. Barnes. Bucky.

Slowly the pressure on Clint's trapped wrist let up, and he let his eyes waver from Barnes' just long enough to note his hands being raised in surrender. He didn't move his blade just yet, kept the pressure just enough to nick the skin of the assassin.

Assassin.

They were both out to get him.

"You called him, didn't you?" Clint growled between his teeth. Maybe he growled, maybe it was a breathless huff, he couldn't tell anymore. "You brought him to help finish me off!"

Bucky was good at giving nothing away. He was trained for this, right? Trained to make sure that a confused look crossed his eyes. Natasha was a master at it, at trapping her mark with body language, at hiding everything and showing something completely different in her features. Barnes was the Winter Soldier. Clint was beating himself up for forgetting that.

"Barton, take a breath and talk to me." He said carefully. Clint shook his head, taking a step closer to the man. Barnes didn't even flinch when the blade sliced a little more into his skin at the movement. "What's happening?"

"Don't." Clint said. He coked his head to the side a little to gauge any weakness in the man's mask. "They're controlling you, right? Jacques and the circus? Why else would you have brought me here?"

"Because I needed help." Bucky - the Soldier, not Bucky - replied. Clint narrowed his eyes. "I don't know who you're talking about Clint. But how about you put the weapon down and we'll figure it out."

"Put it down?" Clint scoffed. "So you can kill me?"

"If I wanted you dead you'd be dead long ago, you know that."

Clint didn't know what he's supposed to know anymore. He's supposed to be losing poker, he's supposed to be joking with this man, he's supposed to be in Chicago pouring some cocktails and singing, he's supposed to be in his apartment, he's supposed to be wrapped up in bed with Natasha after a long night of being fancy and nice, he's supposed to be fighting, he's supposed to be helping Loki, he's supposed to be on a mission.

He's supposed to be dead.

Everytime he thought he knew something another issue would present itself and make him question everything. Exactly like now.

What's he supposed to know anymore?

"You with me?" The soft words snapped him from his thoughts. His hand had lowered, the blade now pointing down toward the ground, and he wasn't sure that he had the strength anymore to raise it.

"We're on surveillance; we can't do anything without permission." He was still speaking soft, kind, something Clint didn't associate with assassins. "Talk to me; what's happening?"

Talk to him. Yeah, you can do that right?

He opened his mouth a couple of times but nothing came out, the only sound was some kind of vibration in his head that was getting louder and louder and -

It was burning, he was burning, this wasn't right. He couldn't get the breath into his lungs, it wasn't going around his body, the smoke was taking over and not letting any oxygen in, he was dead and no one would find him lying on the floor of this damn apartment building because who would be looking for him anyway? Who would give a shit that he was burned to a crisp and no longer part of the world?

"Hey." No one could be here, he was imaging that word, because there were still too many flames. Jacques had him blown up, he took Clint's life, this was it, he finally won and there was nothing left. From his position on the floor, knees stinging and hand still clutching his chest, he looked into the flames to see the outline of a face.

Impossible. Another attempt at a deep breath, instead of smoke he felt a bit of relieve rush through his entire body. His eyes cleared enough to see Bucky kneeling in front of him, hands gripping Clint's shoulders firmly.

Clint could safely say he had never seen the look of concern on Barnes' face before. It was unnerving, but he suddenly had no energy to care.

"Clint, you with me?" He asked softly.

Was he? Clint couldn't tell.

He looked around and sure enough he wasn't in the apartment building, he was in the damn living room of the damn compound he had been trapped in. Clint didn't know what the worst option right now was.

He wasn't sure when he sank to his knees, but he was there with his hands clutching his chest like a lifeline. He nodded to answer Bucky's question, locking on to the man's eyes. Panic attack is the word that suddenly flashed across his mind, and given the events of the past few months cooped up in here who could blame him?

His hands were still clutching his chest, he knew that much, but the burning was easing up. He couldn't let go yet, he needed to know it was all ok, that the flames were gone. He just stayed locked on with Bucky's eyes to keep himself grounded.

"Small breaths, ok?" Barnes went on, his grip tightening a little. He's been through this before, Clint realised. Knowing exactly what Clint would need to bring him back around. "Then we'll get you up, but I can't have you passing out on me."

"This is the part in stories where we'd kiss." He said at an attempt to joke, his mouth was dry which made it come out strained, but he hoped it worked. This panic, this fear, it came from such a deeply rooted childhood place that he felt ashamed to have it surface now. He was a grown ass adult years out from his shit stain childhood, this stuff shouldn't bother him like this.

"Too bad you aren't my type." Barnes replied, Clint wanted to believe there was somewhat of a chuckle in those words. He would ignore the relief that swept across the other man though. He stood and watched Clint, and he was grateful that he didn't just baby him by picking him up.

"Handsome isn't your type?" He went to stand up, taking his time because he knew he'd fall flat on his ass it he rushed it after an episode. Bucky laughed and shook his head, forced but Clint would take it.

"Idiots aren't my type."

"Rude." Clint muttered. He dusted off the knees of his suit, suddenly feeling way too constricted in it. Bucky's hand landed on his shoulder once more, squeezing gently.

"Go get changed, we're done for the day." He said sternly. "We'll have some tea before sorting all this out, ok?"

"Nat taught you this, huh?" Clint smiled a little, this technique of dealing with panic attacks and flashbacks feeling way too familiar.

Bucky shrugged with a small grin.

"You're not the only one who has attacks. We've all had to be pulled from them." Clint was shoved towards the hall way that leads to their rooms, almost tripping over his feet at the suddenness of it. He looked to Bucky with a confused frown. "Out of your gear, have a shower. We'll put your baking shit on Netflix."

"Netflix and chill? Bucky you charmer." Clint wasn't really feeling any better yet, but he was through the worst of it and he'd try joke if it would get Bucky to leave him alone. Barnes flipped him the bird and went towards the kitchen, so Clint took the man's advice and made his way to his room.

This was going to be a long night, and Clint didn't know if his mind was ready for it.

But a fucked up soldier helping out a fucked up archer seemed to be the best way to get through it all.

The mug was keeping his hands warm, that's about all it was good for he reckoned. He was never much of a tea drinker, coffee being his hot beverage of choice. Natasha tried get him into it a few times, mostly when he was sick. He could never put up a fight then.

Good for the nerves, she'd say. Antioxidants, good chemicals, some voodoo shit. Honestly; if he had any kinds of nerves it would be a very strong kind of oxidant he'd be reaching for instead.

Right now he'd murder a whiskey. But when the Winter Soldier sits your ass down on a sofa and hands you a mug of tea you drink the fucking tea and don't question anything - including why he seemed to have it so easily to hand.

He had lost all interest in what was on the TV. A side effect he always had after panic attacks - wanting nothing more than to curl up and block everything out from his system. Sensory overload he thinks it was called. He googled it late one night when there was no way for him to get out of the bed without waking Natasha. So instead he kept his eyes on the steam rising from the freshest cup of tea that Bucky had handed him a moment ago before taking his place on the other end of the sofa Clint was currently on.

2 hours and 27 minutes after he had come out of the bedroom in some lounge gear Bucky finally broached the question.

"What are we looking at?"

"Some baking show." Clint shrugged, voice quiet, eyes not leaving the mug. "Could put on some comedy if you want?"

"Not what I mean, Barton."

"I know." He sighed, leaning back so his back was pressed into the seat cushion. He took a sip of the tea, letting it sting his lip with a slight burn.

He knew exactly what Barnes meant but he just didn't want to acknowledge it was real yet.

"As far as I can see we're dealing with something serious," Barnes went on. Clint closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, because obviously Bucky wasn't good at taking hints so this was going to happen. "Takes a lot to make you panic like that."

"Not really." Clint muttered, shrugging one shoulder. "Once panicked because there was no coffee in the place after being awake for a few days straight."

"That's physical, there's a difference. This was an emotional panic." Clint felt movement and assumed that Barnes had moved to face him, though he wasn't about to open his eyes to check. "So who is this guy?"

"How much do you know about me?" Clint asked, Barnes didn't reply right away. Internally Clint rolled his eyes. "Come on man; if I've read everyone's file already then I'm sure a former assassin with trust issues has definitely read my file from back to front. Multiple times I'd bet too."

"Maybe." Bucky muttered. Clint chuckled and rolled his head to look Bucky's way, the latter sending a frown Clint's way before he sighed. "Ok, yes, I did. But it wasn't just yours."

"No judgement here." Clint waved his hand dismissively. He took another sip of his tea, waiting for Barnes to make the next move.

"I know enough." Bucky finally said, looking away from Clint. Sure his file mightn't have been as fucked up as the Winter Soldiers, but it was a bad read nonetheless.

"The circus I was with," Clint started, looking away from Bucky once more and to the TV. They were trying to make some kind of cookie on screen, even Clint could do that, how is that something to be on a show about? "One of the main guys who trained me was a guy called Jacques Duquesne. Swordsman. Dickbag who I could have done without seeing ever again really."

"That was him going into the compound?" Clint nodded to Bucky's question. "How are you so sure?"

"The mask." Clint sighed. He closed his eyes once more, but that same purple mask was just staring back at him from behind them. "He was never without it. None of us were allowed without or masks or costumes, rule of the circus. I'd bet that he has the same rule for these guys too."

"It's good news if you know who it is, Clint." Clint quickly shook his head at the comment. "Why not? Simple tactics here, Barton. We know how to plan to take them down then and-"

"Can't take him down." Clint muttered. He sat up on the edge of the sofa then, putting the mug of tea on the coffee table so he could lean over with is elbows on his knees. He didn't need to spiral again, he couldn't spiral again, he needed to be in planning mode for Barnes now. "Buck, this guy is the one guy I could never beat. He left me for dead for Christ sake. He doesn't care who he has to go through to get what he wants - he'll be merciless. For fucks sake I thought the man was dead, but he must be like a fucking cockroach. There's no way."

"Hang on." Barnes sighed next to him. Clint's eyes were on the floor but he felt the man move from the area. A rustling behind him in the kitchen area followed, and his head perked up when he heard the clang of some beer bottles. Sure enough a moment later Barnes was in front of him holding an opened bottle of some cheap own brand beer,

Better than nothing.

"What happened to tea being better for nerves?" Clint asked with a smile as he took the beer, instantly taking a solid chug of the liquid because damn he needed it.

"Sometimes demons need a little something stronger to be kicked out." Bucky replied as he sat down, taking a much smaller sip of his own beer. "From what I read you were out of the circus and all before you were even 18?"

"Yes..?" Clint said more a question than an affirmative. His mind was already trying to figure out where Bucky was going. The other man hummed, his flesh hand rubbing the beard on his face as he thought.

"Ronin stint was impressive... But then you joined SHIELD and they turned you into a master assassin - one of the most feared men in the world."

Clint raised an eyebrow Bucky's way. He just sipped from his beer and shrugged at Clint's unasked question.

"I'm just saying, Clint - he left some little undernourished, under trained, under skilled kid for dead. He didn't leave Hawkeye for dead."

"Bucky I-"

"No, don't pull a pity fucking party." Barnes frowned, glancing Clint's way then with a look Clint couldn't quite place. Disgust maybe? Not a Clint though, more at the situation. Clint could lie to himself about that anyway. "You're a god damn Avenger, Barton. You've fought aliens and supervillains. You've defeated robots hell bent on destruction without breaking a sweat. You've been instrumental in taking down one of the largest terrorists organisations in the history of the world. You think some old guy in a mask with a sword can beat you now?"

When he put it like that - no. There was no way, but...

"But this is different." Clint whispered, shaking his head. "This is-"

"Personal, I know." Bucky nodded, smiling then. "But if his go to move is blowing you up then running to hide well then I can't say I fancy his chances against the two of us."

Barnes had a point. Of course he did, Clint was being ridiculous. And maybe when he calms down enough to think back on this whole situation he'll realise that his rational mind was a complete dick bag for fucking off when he needs it the most.

For now though he just nodded, took another swig from his beer, and settled back into the sofa to watch the TV.

"What kind of fucking name is Swordsman anyway?" Barnes muttered, mimicking Clint's posture on the other side of the soda. "I'm changing my name for this op to Riflesman."

The day after the night before is a saying Clint used often in his life. Usually it meant a bad hangover - lying in bed with a bucket of some kind next to him because any movement would have his stomach coming up. A bruise the size of Texas occupying his back after getting on the wrong side of a thigh toss during sparring again. It was even used after a long - long - night that had him walking like a cowboy down to breakfast.

He can't say he's ever used it to describe two world renowned and feared assassins sitting at a kitchen table still in pyjamas with some tea in front of them. Yet, here they were.

After spilling everything last night they had decided to forget about life for a while and just be, mindlessly watching baking shows and comedians, drinkingthe last of the beer sitting int heir fridge and just being until his eyes wouldn't open anymore and tiredness stole him away.

Even after everything, it was one of the best sleeps Clint has had in a long time.

The morning saw them waking later than usual, screens off downstairs for the first time in their entire time here because now it was time to plan. Surveillance was done as far as both of them were concerned, but now it was time to convince the boss man about that.

After hashing out the makings of a plan, and arguing about if it was stupid or not for a good hour, they had Fury on speaker phone in the middle of the kitchen table with all the files they had gathered over the past few months surrounding him.

"A sting?"

"A sting."

"What kind of Sting?"

"I don't know, any kind that gets some answers instead of sitting here staring at a screen."

"What Clint means, sir, is we might have a plan that get us inside." Bucky elaborated. Clint held his hands up in surrender when a glare was sent his way. He'd calm down, just so he wouldn't get that glare again.

"I'm listening, Barnes." Fury said, calm as ever. That man was used to Clint's outburst after so many years. Honestly he was used to worse.

"There's a new player in the field." Bucky started. Clint looked down to the picture that way printed from the earlier surveillance tapes. The folder it was paper clipped to labelled 'the one' because both men were convinced that Jacques was their man. If not, the he was the one who could direct them there.

"He showed up approximately twenty hours ago. He was the only one who was greeted at the door; all the others would just walk in. I think he was visiting to check on things. We have no proof if he has left yet. Given the heist last week that took out that diamond reserve, we think they're escalating, sir."

"And you want to do what, exactly?"

"Upgrade, sir." Clint picked up. Barnes allowed it. This was Clint's fight, and they eventually agreed whatever happened it was his mission now to command and orchestrate. "From surveillance to recon."

A pause. Fury was thinking it over. If he was positive about a plan working then he'd say yes, if he was uncertain he'd say no. But he paused, Clint wasn't pleading his case right.

They knew who it was. There was no denying that, the photo of that arrogant son of a bitch was staring right at Clint from the table. But they couldn't tell Fury. If he knew then Clint would be pulled out straight away. The man knew Clint's history here, there was no way he was being told who their target was. So Barton knew he was trying to weigh up if one unknown man was enough to change a mission or not.

Their guts said it was, they hoped Fury's would too. Fury should know that regardless of his answer they were going in, that this call was just a formality for their paperwork, and it was either help them or let them do it the hard way.

Clint likes to think that his mind is exactly like Fury's, and a small smile crept onto his face when Fury sighed on the other end just as Clint had finished going through the rational of the idea in his own mind.

"Mission is upgraded. Recon from here on out. What do you need?"

"Not much, Sir." Barnes replied, throwing a pen at Clint who was pumping his arms in the air in celebration. He was finally getting to do something and that had him so damn happy. "We need a single strike team."

"You're sending my men in?" Fury asked carefully. No, not at all, this was Clint's fight.

"No sir." Clint picked up, leaning over so he could be heard a little better. They had gone over this plan for an hour before finally deciding to call Fury, because never let it be said that this team was unprepared. "I'm going in. We need the Strike team as a distraction."

"Give me a plan Barton, I don't care about anything else."

"Rude." Clint muttered, a growled 'Barton' from the phone had him stopping the next smart arse comment that was about to leave his mouth though. "We have a target in mind, sir. We call her 'Female two'. Smaller of the females we've seen go in and out and-"

"We both know size has nothing to do with skill, Barton."

"We know." Barnes jumped in. Clint's innuendo joke was just on the tip of his tongue and he didn't like that Barnes could read that so easily. "That's not the plan. We need Strike Team Echo to fake taking her out though."

"Fake." Fury tested the word then sighed. "These guys are some of the highest skilled agents in SHIELD and you want them to fake it?"

"Yes please." Clint nodded. "If the circus knows as much as you think they know then they'll know exactly how skilled these guys are. Tell them to put up a fight, but when I come in to save her then tell them to take the hits and go down. I need someone to trust me, and she's one of the ones who are in and out most frequently. She's my in, boss."

"And if she's skilled enough to take out the Strike team?"

"Then I'll hand her a recruitment form, sir."

"Don't even joke, Barton." Fury sighed, and Clint grinned. "Still living with the headache you gave me when you walked in with Widow."

"Point is, sir." Barnes cut in. Kill joy. "We just need this one thing then we can take it from there. If Ronin gains her trust then hopefully he'll have an in. If not, we'll figure it out. We'll keep them meeting until he does get the invite in. From there it will be full recon work inside."

"Sounds like a lot of if's, Barnes."

"At least we have a plan." Barton replied. "Be proud of me for that?"

"Message me a time and location you need them for, Barnes." Fury ignored Clint's comment. He wouldn't be sad about that, he knows Fury loves him. "If this doesn't work then you're back in surveillance mode until a proper lead comes up, understood?"

"Understood, sir." Barnes replied, and it was quickly followed by a click of a phone hanging up. Bucky looked to Clint with a frown. "Can you not act serious for five minutes? Really?"

"Nope!" Clint grinned. "Fury's used to it, Buck. If he really didn't like it then I'd be fired right now."

"I'm a good person…" Barnes muttered under his breath as he pushed away from the table and stood. Clint watched him with an eyebrow raised. "Must not kill the idiot."

"Funny." Barton deadpanned, going back to the files to clean them up as Barnes moved towards the stairs to the control room. "I know you love me, Buck! I know you watch me while I sleep!"

"Whatever gets you through those lonely nights, Barton!" Barnes called back from the stair case.

Clint's eyes lingered on the photo of the man they were about to take down, staring into the eyes that were looking straight into the camera.

Haunting, pulling on Clint's deepest memories and fears. A feeling different from what he expected though, he couldn't place his finger on it.

Before the thoughts could take over he slid the photo back into the files and stood to go get ready.

He had an operation to perform. Finally some action.