Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"


This is the earliest I can get it up, so here you go! It would have been earlier, but when my baby woke up and I got him, he fell back asleep on me and then I fell back asleep lol. But you're reviews are awesome and you all are so great! For those of you who were afraid Boomer would be the one he fought in the ring - you're even more evil than I am! lol but when you think about it - Boomer probably isn't a match for Clint and Ruiz was looking to do Clint physical damage. Also, Boomer hasn't done anything wrong! :D

The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!

Shout out to those who guessed the song last chapter: Guest, StormingMyCastle, the blibbering humdinger

Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 6: Kylen, awkward hawk, Amy, ponyperson, faithfreedom, Del18, isi7140, Invisible Observer 813, Jewls58, Batghost, Viviannafox, wardog85, Sandy-wmd, ladybug114, Reteka Hyuuga, beverlie4055, Eringo94, Eva7673, weemcg33, Guest, tpt player 5701, CyanB, penguincrazy, Jaden Grace1, Qweb, WitBeyondMeasure23, dcrembecki7, Rangersan, StormingMyCastle, Emiliana Keladry, R1dDL3M37h15, AustralianRanger012, TheNightFury, writtergirl15, Rose, GremlinX, jaguarspot, Lillehafrue, Guest, AddictedLauren, Melissa, Lollypops101, Silfrvarg, truefairytales, Ms. Hawkeye, tarynasaurusrex, Coryn, thababes, LovelyMysteryFan, PPie, bookworm1517, Aurora Abbot, Guest, sasukedear, LostHawk, Kirstiej104, Guest, BatmanOtaku

To Amy: I didn't first listen to Wayward Son on Supernatural - I've loved the song for a long time as my Dad is a major classic rock fan (though not so 'classic' to him XD) But Supernatural uses the song so well and I can't help but rewind the opening sequence of their finales just to hear it again lol I have listened to some other Kansas songs! What are your favorites? And I think I used to do "last time" snippets...but somewhere along the way stopped/forgot :( I should start doing that again though...good idea

To Viviannafox: I'm not gonna tell you whats coming for Boomer! lol that would spoil the story!

To Sandy-wmd: no, we went to Fort William Henry, but Fort Ticonderoga is next on our list!

To ladybug114: you'll just have to see, now won't you :)

To Reteka Hyuuga: Yes, Andy was in the car with him and is now dead, but when SHIELD got eyes on the car *after* the news cameras had gotten there, there was ANOTHER body where Clint had been sitting. The source of that body remains to be seen. ;)

To Jaden Grace1: You nailed the song choice! It's the same song for the whole story :)

To sasukedear: this time okay? It's probably the best I'll be able to do :)

To BatmanOtaku: It's a normal name, nothing crazy like some people come up with these days.

To EVERYONE: AustralianRanger012 is in the market for a beta reader! Any takers? Send a PM to them if you're interested!

Special thanks to Kylen for acting as a beta and for giving me Dan's lines for this :) She knows how the man talks better than I do these days ;)

Also thanks to JRBarton for acting as second-beta and for keeping me on track with the timeline of this story!

So let's get going…here's Chapter 7!


Pain is your friend; it is your ally. Pain reminds you to finish the job and get the hell home. Pain tells you when you have been seriously wounded. And you know what the best thing about pain is? It tells you you're not dead yet!

Unknown


Dan Wilson was used to controlled chaos. He was a goddamned doctor. He'd worked in a war zone for fuck's sake. And now he worked in the infirmary for a covert spy organization. Controlled chaos was practically the status quo as far as he was concerned.

But there was something different about sitting in Operational Command watching things happen that were completely and totally beyond his control. At least when he was working in the middle of it all he could help. He could do something to ease the suffering of those around him.

But as he sat next to Todd and watched the fallout of the car bomb unfold on the screens, he was helpless. He was obsolete. He was useless to the entire situation. It wasn't a feeling he liked or one he would ever get used to.

To put it simply, it sucked.

There were burn victims, caught in the initial flash up from the blast. There were shrapnel victims, some of them bleeding so seriously that Dan could tell by looking at them that they wouldn't survive. Then there were the poor souls that had been walking right next to the car and were nothing but charred bodies that matched the charred bodies that the coroner had already removed from the car.

It was chaos, but it was controlled. The responders were moving around triaging the victims and doing exactly what Dan would be doing if he were there. It was familiar in a terrifyingly real way. He'd seen the fallout of car bombs first hand when he was in Croatia. He'd treated victims just like those he saw on the screens now.

If he closed his eyes and thought about it too long, it was like he was back there. Like there was gunfire echoing around him. Like the smell of blood and burned flesh was still filling his nostrils. Like the screams of the victims were still blending in with all of the other noises of war.

An elbow hit his side suddenly and Dan snapped his eyes open, turning his glare onto Todd.

But the trainer wasn't looking at him, had his eyes pinned on Fury and the two techs across the room. Dan followed his gaze and frowned. Something was happening.

"Something's happening." Todd echoed his thoughts out loud.

"No shit." Dan muttered, sitting back in his chair with a huff and crossing his arms over his chest.

Todd shot him an annoyed look and sat back as well when all Fury did was lean closer over the techs' shoulders and stare harder at their screens.

"Why can't they just send agents in and snatch the body? It'd be a hell of a lot faster than waiting for the coroner's report." Dan grumbled crossly as he watched the other various agents in the room move around in their own form of controlled chaos, some of them on the phone, others analyzing footage of the blast zone, a few analyzing Barton's last comm report.

"SHIELD is a covert agency, Dan. Body snatching, especially when it's involved in something this high profile, is the opposite of subtle. It would draw too much attention."

"But isn't that exactly what Phil's going to do if it is Barton?" Dan challenged.

Todd shot him a patronizing glance.

"But we don't know that it is Barton. You suggesting we just steal the body and if it doesn't belong to us we just give it back and say 'my bad?'"

Dan scowled.

"Fuck you, Todd. I'm a doctor, not a field agent."

Todd's eyebrow quirked, unruffled by Dan's rising irritation.

Dan sighed and looked back at the screens.

"That's what I understand." Dan nodded his chin towards the screens. "I understand action, helping people in the moment, when they need it. All this other shit? Writing off one of our own like he never existed? Leaving him there to be labeled a John Doe, because you damn well know if it was anybody but Barton, nobody would be going to get him? That's all the shit I don't get."

Todd sighed and glanced again at Fury, as if he could glean information on the situation just by staring. After a moment, when Fury still didn't stand from his hunch over the techs, he turned his attention back to Dan.

"I know it doesn't make sense to you – that a lot of those field protocols have never really made sense to you – but they're there for a reason. Most of the time it sucks, but it also saves lives."

Dan scoffed and looked at his friend.

"Can you honestly tell me that you're worried about anybody's life but Barton's right now? I've known you for years, Todd. I know that look in your eyes. I see the way you keep watching Fury. Are you telling me that you don't wish they'd just break in there and get the body so we can know for sure? What if he's out there? What if he needs help and nobody knows because we're all getting bogged down by the goddamned protocols!"

Todd swallowed thickly and shook his head, worry for their young friend shining brightly in his eyes.

"I can't think like that, man. If I think like that, I'm going to go crazy."

Dan deflated a little and looked back at the screens once more. He understood where Todd was coming from. Hell, the man had been directly involved with Barton's training from the beginning. He knew the kid better than Dan did, probably cared about him more than Dan had started to. Dan cared about Barton, he did. He hoped to God that the kid was alive somewhere, relatively unharmed and doing what he did best – surviving. But where Dan's worry was leaning, where his focus kept going back to, was Phil. Because Barton had somehow become everything to Phil. And if that kid was gone for good, Phil would be too. And there wasn't a damn thing Dan could do but sit here and feel useless.

"You know I never thought the day would come that I'd wish that kid was being held somewhere. Hell, I'd even be happy if he was being put through the ringer. I just want him to be alive." Todd's eyes were on Fury again as he spoke and his tone was pitched so low it was barely even loud enough to qualify as a whisper.

Dan nodded.

"Beats the hell out of the alternative."

For several minutes they sat quietly and then Fury abruptly straightened. Todd's back went rigid and he barely seemed to resist the urge to stand and meet the director as he approached them.

Fury stopped in front of them, met both their eyes and then spoke.

"There's something you both need to see."

Todd shot up from his chair and beat both of them back to the techs. Dan followed more slowly, knowing by some instinct that whatever he was about to see was either going to make or break one of his best friends. Whatever was on that screen was going to determine more than Barton's fate.

It was going to determine Phil's.

The techs moved aside when they got there and left the screens open for them to see. Dan stood with Todd and looked down at the screen. A few moments later, Todd raised one fist to press against his mouth and reached for the back of the tech's chair with his other hand. Then he closed his eyes tightly and backed away from the screen, turning his back to it.

Dan stood rigid next to him, suddenly feeling numb.

"We gotta…" Todd fumbled with something in his pocket. "Phil…"

Dan reached out and stopped Todd from doing anything further with the phone he pulled out.

"Wait. Are there any pictures?"

The techs shared a startled glance and then one of them replied.

"It's just the preliminary report, so there're just some basic shots, nothing we can analyze yet…"

"Show me."

"Jesus, Dan, what the hell are you trying to prove?" Todd snapped as he turned back around.

"I need to see them, just pull them up."

The techs shared another glance and then both looked to Fury. The director watched Dan carefully for a moment and then nodded once.

The tech reached for the computer and started clicking.

A moment later a series of pictures filled the screen.

"Jesus…" Todd turned away again, fist going back to his mouth.

Dan leaned closer to the screen, running his eyes over the photo, analyzing whatever details he could. When he'd seen everything he could on the first he went to the next, then the next, but it was the last picture that had him closing his eyes and stepping back from the screens.

Todd didn't turn to face him, but spoke over his shoulder instead.

"Satisfied?" his tone was bitter and a shade judgmental. Dan wasn't surprised. He'd been judgmental about the field agent crap. Todd could be judgmental about the doctor crap.

He nodded slowly and stepped farther back from the screen, so he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Todd, both of them facing opposite directions.

"We need to call Phil." Todd announced shakily, his eyes going down to the phone still in his hand.

Dan reached to push Todd's hand down gently.

"I'll do it."

Todd nodded gratefully and moved farther away from the screens, sinking down into a chair and dropping his head into his hands.

Dan blew out a breath and fished his own phone out of his pocket.

He dialed and waited as it rang.

"Hello?"

"Phil…it's Dan."


Phil was halfway into his flight, had spent the last five hours alternately staring out the window and down at his phone. When it had finally rung, he almost hadn't reacted. But then the sound reverberating through the jet processed in his brain and he lurched forward, answering the call on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Phil…it's Dan."

News. A call meant there was news. It meant that may finally be able to turn this into a rescue mission, what it should have been from the start.

"What've you got?"

If they had a location, Phil could start planning. He could start figuring out how to get Clint back…

"We've got the preliminary coroner's report here." Even through the phone line, Dan's voice sounded off…flat.

Phil felt a fissure of fear slice into him, but he stubbornly pushed it away. Clint wasn't dead. He was out there – waiting for Phil to come for him.

"And?" He asked, unable to keep that burgeoning hope out of his tone. He knew it wasn't Clint, that it couldn't be. The coroner's report had to have proven that – proven what he'd felt in his gut all along.

"And…" Dan's voice tightened and caught and Phil felt that hope start to fall suddenly and abruptly. "Damnitall, Phil, do I need to actually say it?"

Phil felt his heart start pounding, his hands grow cold and his breathing start to speed up. He clung stubbornly to his hope and clawed at it to keep it close.

"Yes, Dan – fucking say it."

He wouldn't believe it otherwise, wouldn't believe anything unless proof was staring him in the face. He may not even be able to believe it then.

"It's him." Two words and Phil's world crumbled. It was all he could do to keep listening. "It's got to be. They…they found a fake tooth, broken in half. With a communicator inside. All the other physical markers match, right down to the damn scar on his shoulder neither of you will tell me how he got."

In some distant part of his mind, Phil could hear the gentleness in Dan's tone, a warm kindness that was rich with the history of their friendship. But all Phil could focus on was two words…

'It's him.'

It's him.

No. NO.

"I'm sorry. I just…" Dan was talking again but Phil barely heard him. "I don't think there's any way, Phil. Not even for Barton…damn, I'm so sorry."

Phil opened his mouth to challenge him. To tell Dan he was wrong, that the report was wrong, that it was all wrong…but the words died before they ever left his mouth. Instead all he could manage was a strangled groan of denial.

"Phil?" Dan sounded worried now. "Talk to me."

Phil pulled hard at his control, wrapping it around himself as firmly as he could.

"It can't…" the control slipped just as quickly as he'd gathered it. "He can't…" Ah, God, please. Phil drew in a shaky, ragged breath and forced himself to go on. "He can't just be gone."

Dan's reply was quick.

"You think I want to believe it? Dammit, I'm looking at a picture of the damn tooth and comm right now, Phil."

"Jesus..." Phil breathed as he clamped his hand over his mouth and tried to keep the emotions that were suddenly swelling within him from overwhelming him.

There was a moment of silence before Dan spoke again.

"Put the jet on autopilot, Phil, if you haven't already. That's an order from Fury."

"It's on."

Phil had put the damn thing on autopilot five minutes into the flight, knowing he wouldn't be in any state of mind to fly the jet for any length of time until he knew Clint was okay.

But Clint wasn't okay. Clint was never going to be okay.

Clint was dead.

Something in his chest tightened so painfully that he had to draw in a sharp breath.

"Okay." Phil heard Dan say something, muffled, like he had covered the phone. Then there was a rustle and then Dan was back. "What do you need, Phil? I'd ask if you were okay, but I know the answer."

"I need…" What did he need? He needed Clint alive and well. He wasn't going to get what he needed. So he'd have to settle for what he could get. "I need to bring him home."

He wasn't going to leave Clint alone in some Egyptian morgue to be written off as some John Doe never to be claimed or cared about. He was coming home. Phil would bring him home.

"Do you want us there? Todd and I'll be on the next flight out if you say the word."

There was another rustle, and this time, Phil heard a louder answer with a tone of sharp annoyance. And a muffled response that sounded like 'try and stop me.' Then Dan came back on the line.

"No matter what fucking protocol says."

Phil shook his head even as he answered.

"No…I need…" he forced himself to take a breath, "I need to do this on my own. I'll handle it."

Dan muttered something softly, almost under his breath.

Phil frowned in confusion.

"What was that?"

Dan sighed.

"I said, 'Sure you can handle it.' And you'll handle it alone because that's what you do." There was no anger in Dan's tone, just an odd resignation. "Just…bring him back here, Phil. Don't…well, you know what I'm saying."

Phil did know, but right now he couldn't think about anything beyond just getting Clint out of that morgue. Clint deserved to go home...but where was home for him? The only one the kid had ever really had was the one he'd had as a child, one he hadn't seen in years, one that was cloaked in sadness and heartache.

"Don't make me promise anything, Dan...I just...I can't think about that right now..."

There was silence for a long, long moment. Then Dan finally spoke.

"Remember you have family here. That's all I ask."

"I know, Dan…I know." He just didn't know if that would be enough to make him stay…not right now at least. Maybe not for a long time. "Look…I need to go…I need to just…" Deal with this. Or try to, somehow. As if he would ever be able to.

"You need to deal. Call if you need to. Be safe, Phil."

"Yeah," was all Phil managed before he disconnected the call.

Then he just stared down at his phone for several long, heavy moments.

'It's him.'

The words whispered through his mind and had him clenching his hand around the device.

Clint was gone.

With that painful, heartbreaking thought reverberating through every part of his body, Phil finally allowed himself a reaction, an outlet for the sudden and overwhelming pain that was consuming him. He launched his phone across the cockpit with a strangled shout and watched with undue satisfaction as it slammed into the metal wall and sent shards of plastic scattering across the floor.

He made no move to retrieve the phone, instead left it on the floor as he hunched over his knees. He dropped his head into his hands and dug his fingers into his scalp. It was over. What he had wholly believed to be a rescue mission just minutes ago, was now something else entirely. It was a recovery mission to retrieve a body – Clint's body. Because no matter how much he wanted to deny it, to rage against it, he couldn't…not anymore.

Clint was dead.


Clint pulled his gaze away from Boomer and refocused his attention on his opponent just as Cohen rang the bell to start the fight. The other man – Clint had seen him in passing only once and didn't know his name – started towards him immediately, giving Clint only a few seconds to form a battle plan that wouldn't end with him dead on the dirt.

His opponent was big, but not in the type of way that was going to slow him down. He stood just over six feet and looked to be made of nothing but solid, lean muscle. He moved with the same kind of lethal grace and confidence that Clint attributed to intense and thorough combat training with just the right mix of natural instinct.

He would know after all. He knew he moved in the exact same way.

There were only two reasons Clint could think of that he hadn't seen this guy fight since he'd been here. Either nobody challenged him because he was unbeatable – though that had never seemed to stop people from challenging him – or he was banned.

As far as Clint knew, only the guys that couldn't seem to avoid killing their opponents got banned from The Ring.

Either way, he needed to end this as quickly as possible. His already abused body just wasn't going to be up for any sort of knock down drag out battle at the moment.

So Clint blew out a breath, pushed whatever remnants of pain that were still filtering through his body out of his mind, and braced himself. He was going to have to play this perfectly if he wanted to walk away from it. That meant doing what Phil had taught him. Defense. And when he got his opening, he'd put the other man down so hard that he wouldn't get up.

His opponent's lips stretched into a malicious and ugly smile as he closed in. He was obviously planning on enjoying this.

Clint kept his expression set in stone. Now wasn't the time for sarcasm or cocky smirks. It was time to be the scary-ass fucker who made the worst of the criminal world step back and avert their eyes. It was time to be Hawkeye.

The other man swung out with a tight, lightning-fast right cross. It was a test – a way for the man to gauge what he was dealing with. It was a way to see how fast Clint was. It was smart – given Clint's current state – and it was a good way to set the tone for the fight. If he landed the hit, Clint would probably be floored. If Clint dodged, the man would know he had a fight on his hands without ever leaving a hole in his defenses.

But Clint wasn't going to wait for a hole. He was going to make one.

He leaned to the left and wrapped his right hand around his opponent's right forearm as it split the air next to his head. It was an action almost too fast to follow – a move only a man with nearly inhuman reflexes and speed could have pulled off. He saw the other man's eyes widen in surprise even as Clint threw all of his weight into a hard, sharp uppercut with his left hand – right into the other man's short ribs.

The hit landed so hard, the snap of bones breaking could be heard clearly throughout the suddenly quiet arena.

Before the resulting gasp of breath even left the other man's mouth, Clint had quick stepped backwards, out of reach.

The man – fighting instincts obviously as ingrained in him as they were in Clint – barely let the sudden strike phase him. His expression darkened and he met Clint's gaze across the short distance between them. Clint knew then that he wouldn't take the other man by surprise again.

His opponent had made the same key mistake so many tended to when dealing with Clint. He'd underestimated him. He'd thought a beating, getting blown into a wall, and getting tortured with a taser would slow Clint down. He'd thought he was going up against a weakened opponent.

But injuries only slowed you down if you let yourself feel them.

And Hawkeye didn't feel a damn thing.

A sudden shout cut through the eerie silence in the arena.

"Kill the little shit, Reed!"

The crowd around the Ring erupted in shouts and 'Reed' moved at him again.

Clint's eyes narrowed as his opponent came in close again – too close for a guy that had just gotten a rib broken for a similar move. Even as he scanned the man's body, looking for whatever he was trying to hide from the eyes around him with his proximity, he ducked under a well-delivered left hook and was immediately forced to dodge a following right jab.

It was the fact that his eyes never stopped moving over Reed's body that saved him. He saw Reed's left hand slide down to his belt even as the man was jabbing with his right. He saw the fingers of his left hand wrap around the buckle and saw the flash of the hidden blade in just enough time to step back and get a hand up in defense.

The blade opened his right palm from his wrist bone to his index finger and the force of the strike sent him spinning a half turn to the left. A boot cracked into the back of his knee and then the blade flayed open his back from left hip to right shoulder. It was a shallow cut, nothing more than an annoyance really, but it still hurt like hell.

Clint threw himself down, forcing his weight over his right shoulder and ignoring the flare of white hot pain that ignited around his broken collarbone. He heard Reed pursuing him even over the sudden shouts from the crowd – a mixture of glee and protest.

Clint rolled to his feet and spun immediately, bringing his foot up in a round house.

His bare ankle hit Reed's wrist – knocking it away – but it didn't dislodge the blade. It did give Clint the room he needed to let his instincts completely take over. Everything around him faded away. His only focus was on Reed and that blade.

The knife was Clint's now. Reed just didn't know it yet.

Reed must have seen something shift in Clint's eyes because he hesitated a moment before he attacked again. And when he attacked it was with vicious ferocity, like he knew every move had to count.

He swung the blade from right to left, hoping to either catch Clint's throat or force him back and off balance.

Clint latched onto the hand with the blade – Reed's left – and moved, circling wide around the blade and forcing Reed's arm straight. Then he spun, twisting until his back was against the back of Reed's now-forcefully extended arm. Keeping his right hand firmly wrapped around Reed's left – and subsequently the knife grasped in it – Clint reached back with his left arm, hooking it around the front of Reed's neck.

He tightened that arm for leverage and yanked hard on the hand with the knife, forcing Reed's elbow against his back at the wrong angle. The force of the blow dislocated the other man's joint with a snap and Clint stripped the knife from the hand as it went lax. Then he kicked back with his bare foot – forcing Reed's knee to give way – and threw his weight forward, pulling Reed down hard onto his back with the arm he had around his neck.

Even as he hit the ground, Reed was reacting. His leg scissored up and hooked around Clint's chest, slamming him back hard onto the ground. Reed rolled up, following Clint's descent and slammed a closed fist into Clint's cheek.

It took everything Clint had to ignore the sudden burst of light that exploded in his vision and keep a firm hold on the knife. It was a task made harder by the blood coating his palm from the still-bleeding cut and harder still by the sudden vice-like grip Reed wrapped around his wrist.

And of course it was his right hand, the one connected to his broken right collarbone.

Reed's weight bore down on him as the larger man straddled Clint's waist. Then Reed's other hand locked down around his throat and all at once "breathing" just wasn't something that was happening for him.

And then everything sharpened into intense, terrifyingly clear focus.

He saw the path – the string of moves he needed to make to put that knife through Reed's neck.

And in the back of his mind, he was counting. Because there was one thing about Clint that Reed wouldn't be counting on.

6 minutes and 26 seconds.

He just had to hope that Reed ended up wanting to savor the moment instead of just crushing his windpipe.

When he made it past a minute and the grip on his throat was just bruising – hurt like hell but just bruising – Clint knew his plan was going to work.

Clint made it to three and a half minutes before he pretended to pass out.

Thirty seconds later Reed's hand loosened fractionally, but Clint didn't dare draw in a breath.

His first move was made blindly, made effective by instinct alone.

He slid his left hand up and around the back of Reed's neck and jerked his head down at the same time Clint pulled himself up. His forehead cracked into Reed's nose with a sickening crunch and the other man's blood was suddenly covering both of them.

Reed was only able to draw in a shocked gasp before Clint was bringing his knees up hard into Reed's back, knocking the other man forward and dislodging his weight on Clint's waist. While the man was off balance, Clint was able to twist his lower body free of Reed's weight and curl up – ignoring broken ribs and the rough ground digging into the wound on his back. He contorted and twisted, locking his knees around Reed's head from the side and then twisted him forcefully down to the ground. He used the momentum of the move to help him pull his upper body off the ground and a second later he was the one straddling Reed with his hand around Reed's throat.

He slid the knife in above his hand, pressing the edge of the blade up under the man's chin.

One of Reed's hand's scratched at the hand with the knife. The other reached to claw at Clint's throat again, squeezing hard and ruthlessly.

But Clint didn't feel it.

He didn't hear the shouts and jeers of the crowd.

He didn't see the suddenly frantic widening of Reed's eyes as the blade cut into the tender flesh of his throat.

All he saw was the blood suddenly spilling slowly over the blade.

And all he wanted, more than anything, was to push the blade deeper until Reed was nothing but a bad memory. He wanted to end this. To survive and to finally be done with Ares and everyone in it. And why shouldn't he? It was kill or be killed. Besides, this was what he was...who he was. He was a killer and it was way past time he started to live up to that title again. It was time to remind the world – and men like Ruiz – why Hawkeye was to be fucking feared.

But then he heard a voice. A voice he knew better than any other voice in the world. A voice that belonged to a man that knew him better than anyone else in the world.

"You're stronger now…you won't lose yourself."

Clint stopped pressing the blade down, but didn't remove it.

"I know you, Clint. I know who you are, better than you do sometimes."

He felt a tremor run through the hand holding the knife.

"That's the difference – it's why you aren't and never were anything like them."

That voice.

"You're not losing it."

He blinked and Reed's face swam in and out of focus.

"You are Clint fucking Barton. Your future is defined by what you do now, not what you've done in the past."

Phil.

Phil who believed Clint was better than he was. More than he was. Stronger than he was.

Phil who always believed – believed in something Clint never could – believed in him.

Clint jerked the knife away from Reed's neck and slammed the hilt into his temple instead.

The hand around Clint's throat dropped away like it was made of stone and Clint scrambled back, letting the knife fall into the dirt as he pushed himself away from the unconscious man and collapsed wearily on his back.

He stared up at the dark sky and barely noticed that the entire crowd had fallen silent.

This was it. It was over now, one way or another. He'd made his choice. And even though he knew Ruiz was probably making his way into The Ring to put a bullet through his head, he knew that for once in his pathetic excuse for a life, he'd made the right choice. The choice a good man would make. A choice that Phil would be proud of.

Even if it felt foreign, like it didn't fit him. Even if it went against every instinct and every desire. He'd made it and there was no going back.

It was only when he realized he could hear footsteps drawing closer that he really realized the crowd was deathly silent. Whether it was shock or disappointment at the turn of events, Clint wasn't sure.

Before he could contemplate it for very long, Ruiz appeared above him. Clint didn't bother trying to rise or even move before speaking.

"You can do whatever the hell you want to me. I'm not gonna kill for you."

Because Ruiz had gotten it wrong. Hawkeye was a killer, a murderer. But he would never be owned or controlled, not by a man like Ruiz. Even when he was at his worst, Hawkeye had killed because he chose to, not because he was forced or told to.

Whether that made him a worse man or better, Clint didn't know. All he knew was that he had made his choice – a choice not to be controlled. Phil, without even being here, had given him the strength to make it.

Ruiz's lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he looked down at him.

"Get him up."

Hands came out of nowhere to grip his biceps and haul him off the ground. Once he was vertical – unfortunately probably only staying that way because of the two goons holding him up – Ruiz stepped closer meeting his eyes coldly. Clint just stared back and waited. Making a move right now would be suicide. He had to bide his time and wait for an opening…if one ever came.

"Looks like I was right about you."

Clint held Ruiz's gaze and felt a weary smirk turn up the corner of his mouth.

"No…you just don't know me like you thought you did. Fact is, you don't know a damn thing."

Ruiz hummed patronizingly and gave Clint one last scathing look.

"Get him out of here. I'll follow shortly." A dark glint lit Ruiz's eyes as his lips spread into a cruel smirk. "While you wait for me, show our 'friend' how we deal with traitors."

If the roughness with which Clint was escorted out of the arena was anything to go by, Clint knew he wasn't going to enjoy what came next.


Phil stared blankly out the front window of the jet, seeing the sky, but not seeing it. No matter how many times he told himself to just think about something else, anything else, he couldn't. He couldn't get his mind to focus on anything else…anything but his smart-ass, sarcastic, anti-social, self-loathing, tough-as-nails, smart-as-shit agent.

And it wasn't the bad times either. If he could just remember the bad times, it would be easier. It would be easier if all he could think about were the near-death experiences and the angry arguments. But no – no, when he needed those memories the most to temper the devastation, they were nowhere to be found.

Instead, all his damn memory could come up with were the good times. The ones that made the loss he felt suddenly feel like it was consuming him completely.


He stepped into the mouth of the alley and observed the young man before him. The boy appeared to be standing by pure will alone at the moment, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the dumpster beside him in an effort to stay vertical.

Before Phil had a chance to announce himself, the young man spoke – more growled – harshly at him without facing him.

"Verschwinde!" (Walk away!)

It was the first time he'd heard Clint Barton's voice, and damn it if the kid didn't sound like he was all he was rumored to be and more. There was strength, power, threat, and intelligence all wrapped up in the tone of that one snapped command.

Phil stepped closer, confident this young man could be the future of SHIELD.

"Clint Barton."

He saw no noticeable reaction to the use of his given name except for the young assassin taking a measured step backwards.

"Du hast den Falschen." (You've got the wrong man.)

Phil resisted the urge to smirk as he continued to approach.

"We both know that's not true, Barton. Even if you haven't gone by that name in a year."

Phil stopped his approach when the young man brought his gun up, a silent warning to stop advancing. Phil put a hand up placating. The last thing he wanted was to spook the kid into doing something rash.

"You don't want to do that."

"Oh no?" Barton huffed a laugh tinged with pain. Phil took the moment to scan him for obvious injuries, but it was too dark in the alley to see anything but the blood on the young man's face.

"No." Phil put his eyes back on Barton's. "For one, I'm wearing Kevlar."

Barton's response was quick and sharp.

"Won't matter if I shoot for the head."

Phil couldn't help but smirk. He had absolutely no doubt that if pushed, Barton would do just that. And if Phil knew anything about the young assassin, he knew he wouldn't miss. His smirk only seemed to annoy the archer and his eyes narrowed to reflect the sentiment.

"You won't do that." Phil said.

"Why the hell not?" It came out as a challenge, one Barton sounded like he was preparing to meet.

Time to play his trump card.

"Because you're still trying to figure out who I am and why I'm here and most importantly," he cocked his head slightly as he took in Barton's reaction, "if anyone stateside knows where you are."

The kid actually flinched, though it could have had more to do with his back hitting the alley wall than Phil's words. Either way, showing that visible reaction seemed to push the assassin over the edge.

"Maybe I don't care."

He thumbed back the hammer on his gun.

"Barton…" Phil shook his head in exasperation.

Apparently this kid just wasn't going to do this the easy way.

Blood dripped into Barton's eyes and he blinked. In that moment, Phil moved. He had the young man's gun a moment later and everything in the archer's countenance darkened dangerously. Wanting to de-escalate the situation, Phil pointed the gun at the ground.

"We don't have to do it this way." He tried.

"Where'd be the fun in that?" A smirk lit the assassin's lips and Phil was struck for a moment at how natural the expression seemed on the young man's face. It seemed so much more natural than the dark anger that had been there a moment ago. His moment of distraction cost him the gun – lost due to a well-executed kick. They engaged quickly after that, but it wasn't until the kid ran up the wall and back flipped over Phil's head that Phil tried to talk him down again. It was too impressive of a move to just ignore.

"Very impressive. You're as good as I've heard."

Arrogance lit the young man's expression as he snapped back a taunting reply.

"You don't know the half of it."

Phil watched him eye the alley opening.

"I just want to talk, kid. We don't have to do this."

"I don't like talking."

Phil wasn't sure that was entirely true, given the amount of sarcasm the kid had sent his way. But they fought again just the same. And when Barton started gearing up to attack again even after Phil had thoroughly gained the upper hand, he couldn't shake his admiration.

"You are persistent."

The kid attacked again anyway and Phil decided it was time to stop messing around before the teen well and truly hurt himself. He maneuvered him into a choke hold and tightened his arms just enough to make his point.

"All I'd have to do is squeeze." He pat his hand against the back of the kid's head sarcastically. "And you'd be dead."

"No shit."

Even facing possible death, the kid was spitting sarcasm. He certainly was something else.

"Instead, I'm going to let you go. Don't do anything stupid."

Phil pushed him away and watched the archer subtly pull a knife from his boot as he stumbled. But he didn't throw it, didn't try to use it. That's when Phil knew he had him.

"Who the hell are you?" The kid's voice sounded terrible and Phil wondered if he'd squeezed too hard a moment ago. But there would be time for treating injuries later.

"Clint Barton," he started once again, "My name is Agent Phil Coulson."


Phil blinked away the memory. Their first meeting hadn't exactly been full of laughter and rainbows, but it had been the beginning. He'd learned so much about Clint in that short exchange. It was the first time he'd seen the kid's inherent stubbornness and strength. It was the first time he'd been exposed to his chronic sarcasm. And it had been the first time he'd been absolutely certain Clint Barton could not only be saved, but was worth saving. And he'd known, even back then, that Clint was going to change the way SHIELD did covert operations.

He just hadn't realized at the time that the damn kid was going to change Phil's life while he was at it. Phil thought he'd known what fear was. He thought he'd known what it meant to feel protective over something, over someone. He'd thought he'd known what it meant to feel responsible for someone.

He thought he'd known a lot of things…


Phil moved silently around to Barton's usual place on the rooftop, fully expecting to see the kid sitting and staring listlessly out into the night. That was Barton's usual M.O. in the night time hours when most everyone else in the New York SHIELD base was sleeping.

Most 18 year olds Phil had ever heard of loved sleeping, but not Barton. He seemed to do whatever he could to avoid it for as long as he could. It led to the archer operating in a state of near-constant exhaustion. Though, Phil had to give him credit – Barton never seemed to lose a step, no matter how tired he was.

On the nights Phil ventured up to the roof to keep silent companionship with his young charge, Barton always knew he was there long before Phil had a chance to announce himself. That being so, Phil had given up attempts at any stealth beyond that which came to him naturally.

So when he rounded the corner to see Barton sprawled on his back with his legs still dangling over the edge of the roof top and his head pillowed on his folded arm, Phil was surprised. He was usually lucky to get a peripheral glance on a good day. Barton allowing himself to appear so open, was nothing short of shocking.

But what really knocked Phil back on his heels, was that the archer was sleeping – deeply sleeping.

In the three and a half months since Barton had come to SHIELD, Phil had only seen him sleeping twice. Once when the young assassin had worked himself into such a state of exhaustion that he fell asleep during a study session. And then there was the time when Phil had discovered Barton slept in air vents.

Twice in three and a half months.

Now three times.

He expected Barton to wake up, to sense his presence. But instead, the kid just kept breathing evenly and sleeping peacefully.

Phil almost backed away and left him be. The boy so rarely slept as it was, Phil didn't want to risk waking him by staying. But something pulled at him. Something deep in his gut urged him to stay, to just wait.

Phil didn't know what it was, what instinct was calling to him, but he listened to it.

He drifted closer, eyes pinned on Barton's face, and ears tuned to his soft breaths.

Nothing seemed wrong.

Until suddenly everything did.

The change was so sudden that Phil almost stepped back.

What had been soft, even breaths suddenly grew stilted and harsh. Barton's lax and smooth features suddenly twisted in pain and fear. Every muscle in the archer's body seemed to tense as he curled slightly away from Phil, turning his face into the crook of his elbow.

"Barton?" The call was out before Phil could stop it. He was moving forward before he could think about it. He was reaching for Barton's shoulder before he could realize that was a very bad idea.

All he'd been able to think about was stopping that look of pain, of dispelling that fear. He wanted to comfort him and calm him.

It was only after he locked his hand around Barton's shoulder and the archer's posture shifted abruptly from one of fear to one of aggression, that Phil realized his mistake. He threw himself backwards and only barely avoided the blade of Barton's knife as the kid twisted and swung it in a lethal arc.

Phil's hands dug hard into the rough rooftop as he flung them back to break his fall and he watched through wide eyes as Barton shifted away and into a defensive crouch in the amount of time it took Phil to draw in a breath.

"Barton." Phil stated firmly, raising a sore hand in front of himself soothingly. "It's Coulson."

Barton's breaths were coming in harsh, sharp pants as he stared across the small distance between them, knife still held out defensively. Phil could barely see his eyes in the darkness, but he knew anyway that Barton wasn't really seeing him yet.

"Barton." He said it again, calmly and soothingly.

The archer shifted, head titling very slightly. Then all at once, the archer almost sagged, dropping back onto his butt and bracing his arms wearily on his bent knees.

"What the hell, Coulson?" It came out as more of an accusation than a question, but Phil didn't let the tone bother him. Instead he explained himself, wanting to dispel the last of the tension in Barton's shoulders.

"I came to check on you. You were asleep."

"So you decided to give me a heart attack?" The sarcasm was a defense mechanism and it was betrayed by the white-knuckled grip Barton still had on his knife. He was still spooked by the nightmare and the abrupt awakening.

For some reason Phil's heart suddenly ached. This kid was 18 years old. He shouldn't sleep like a soldier in the trenches, with a knife in his hand. A touch on the shoulder shouldn't produce an instinct of aggressive defense. He wondered, not for the first time, what kind of life Clint Barton had led before Phil found him. He knew the basics, the broad pieces. He knew what profession Barton had chosen. He knew an outline of his life before the Army. But he didn't know the details. He didn't know what had made him run away and join the circus. He didn't know what had ultimately made him leave the same circus five years later. He didn't know why, after getting outed as under-aged and booted from the Army, he chose to become a contract assassin.

He just didn't know, because Barton wasn't talking.

But not knowing didn't keep Phil from wanting to fix it. From wanting to help Barton clear the shadows from his eyes.

"You were dreaming and it…seemed bad. So I tried to wake you up."

Barton scoffed.

"You kidding? I was skipping through a field of cotton candy with rainbows shooting out of my ass."

Phil huffed a chuckle and carefully shifted to sit in his usual place on the roof's ledge.

"I'm sure."

Barton watched him for a moment before sheathing his knife and moving to sit in his usual spot a few feet to Phil's left. He didn't say anything and neither did Phil. But a few minutes later the tension started to drain from the archer's shoulders and Phil let himself believe he'd somehow helped with that.


Phil sighed. Had that really been over a year ago? Had Clint really come so far since then? It was hard to believe sometimes, that so much time had passed when it felt like just yesterday he was walking into that alley and meeting the smart-mouthed trouble maker for the first time.

And now, Phil would give anything just to hear another unsolicited smart ass comment. To be left to cover Clint's butt in the wake of another well-executed, though ill-mannered, prank.

He would give anything to just have more time.


The shove to his back sent Clint stumbling into his 'cell' – which was, in fact, just an emptied-out storage room with a padlock on the outside. He righted his balance quickly enough, but the effort was wasted when he turned right into a blinding right hook that sent him spinning to the ground.

He wanted to pound his hands against the floor and yell about how un-fucking-funny this all had become. Whatever amusement he'd gotten out of the irony of his current mission's eerie parallel to what had happened, was gone now. Now he was just pissed. And he was hurting.

Bryan had once likened him to a wounded animal when injured. Told him he was dangerous and unpredictable and therefore unwelcome on the general training grounds when he was in such a mood.

The man hadn't been wrong.

Clint pushed himself off the floor and dove at the nearest of his escorts. His shoulder – and he was very careful to make sure it was his left instead of his right – slammed into the man's gut and set him crashing back against the wall. Clint sharply drew his knee up into the man's groin even as he pushed away. A sharp twist of his torso and his elbow cracked into the man's jaw and set him down to his knees.

Clint nearly growled when arms locked around him from behind and pulled him back.

Instead, he used it. He braced his back against the chest behind him and kicked out with both of his feet at the man who was still trying to push himself up from the ground. Clint's bare heels slammed into his teeth and sent his head snapping back. He dropped like a stone, but Clint didn't watch him fall.

He drew his chin down to his chest and then sharply threw his head back.

Bones crunched as he connected with the nose of the man holding onto him. The arms around his torso loosened and Clint used the opportunity to plant his feet and throw all the weight he could into a hard swing of his elbow back into the man's gut. As his opponent coughed out the air in his lungs, Clint turned, using the momentum of the spin to add force to the closed fist he threw into the man's temple.

Clint turned to the door even as his opponent dropped and was met with the sight of two taser darts flying towards his chest. He didn't even have time to curse before they hit, digging into his already-bruised flesh.

The surge of electricity locked up every one of his muscles and sent him to the ground as heavily as a falling sack of bricks. Even when the current ended, Clint could only lay there for a moment and try to breathe.

He finally got the room to stop spinning in time to see Damon Ruiz himself lean down and wrap his considerably-sized hand around Clint's throat. He had no choice but to scramble to his feet as Ruiz started pulling him up. He wrapped one of his hands around Ruiz's wrist and clawed at the man's neck with his other.

Clint coughed out what little air was left in his lungs when Ruiz backed him roughly into the wall and cursed in every language that he knew when Ruiz batted away his attacking hand as if it were no more of a nuisance than a fly. But that didn't stop Clint from continuing to fight.

He kicked out and bucked against the wall, but Ruiz held firm. He slowly tightened his grip on Clint's already abused throat until Clint had to go still in order to continue to breathe.

"Fighting is useless. It's over."

"Fuck you."

Ruiz smiled at him and then chuckled mockingly.

"So much fire. You'd have been so useful within my organization."

Clint just scowled at him and mentally ran through various plans to break Ruiz's hold, kill him, and try to escape. All of the plans ended badly.

"I can see you scheming. It's no use. Whoever you were working for, they think you're dead. Whatever hopes you have of holding out until a rescue are wasted."

Clint frowned and blinked at him in vague confusion. He was sure Phil had heard about the explosion, but there would be no reason to believe Clint had been killed in it. Sure his quiver and bow were in the car, but the distinct lack of a body should have sent up some red flags.

"Don't hurt yourself trying to figure it out, my friend. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get things done for the right price. A few hundred dollars was all it took to get me the body of an unfortunate man who'd been walking by the car put in your seat."

Clint still wasn't convinced. Phil wouldn't take a body at face value. He'd want confirmation.

"And do you remember that stretch of unconsciousness you had after we left the blast site? During that time I had our doctor give you a thorough look-over. He catalogued every scar, every old broken bone, even the device in your tooth. A few hundred more dollars bought me a falsified autopsy report. Of course it won't hold up if someone actually comes to claim the body, but you'll really be dead by that point."

Clint didn't know what to say, or do for that matter. No one was coming, they'd have no reason to. He knew the protocol for this type of situation. He was a John Doe in a foreign morgue and that would be how Clint Barton died.

Unless of course, he found a way to escape before his untimely demise became a reality.

"And you can forget any ideas you have of escape. You won't be alive long enough."

Clint pulled weakly at the hand holding his throat captive. Gray was starting to creep in on his vision and he'd really like to avoid passing out. He hadn't even been counting. He should have been counting.

Something over Ruiz's shoulder drew both their attention.

Cohen was saying something, but Clint couldn't quite decipher the words.

"Can't you handle it?" Ruiz snapped. Cohen said something else and suddenly Ruiz's attention was back on Clint. "I'll be back to finish this later. You can spend your last hours contemplating how grave a mistake it was to fuck with me."

With that Clint was released and left to fall to the floor in an ungraceful, wheezing heap.

His determination not to pass out fled as he realized how comfortable a hard floor could be if you were beat to hell and getting up wasn't really a viable option.


He didn't remember actually passing out. He didn't realize he'd even lost time until a loud thump outside his now closed 'cell' door startled him awake. He glanced around the room, searching for a way to determine how much time had passed. Finding none, he turned his attention back to the door even as he pushed himself to his feet.

He wasn't going to go quietly or passively. If he was going to go down, he was going to find a way to take Ruiz with him. A key scratched in the padlock and then the lock was pulled away.

Clint drew in a breath to fortify himself.

The door slowly swung open.

And it wasn't Ruiz.

It was Boomer.

"Ready to make a jail break?"


End of Chapter 7

Bam! Surprise! Boomer to the rescue! Are you as surprised as Clint? Some of you aren't, because you made a prediction for something similar. Thoughts? Feelings? Share! Please, I'm a review addict and I need my fix!

Here's you're preview for tomorrow!


A third, and then a fourth bang had him skulking over to the bunkroom door and the sound of wood giving way had him chambering a round in his gun.

Somebody had actually managed to break into the safe house. If it didn't piss him off so much, he might actually be impressed. As it stood, he didn't have time for this shit.

There was a louder, rolling thud echoed immediately by a muffled, raspy curse.

It was all the incentive Phil needed to toe the door open and silently move into the main room. There was a barefoot, darkly dressed figure slowly pushing himself up from the ground. The black hood from the intruder's sweatshirt was pulled so low over his eyes, that it would have been impossible to see his face even if he had been facing him. As it was, he was facing the window he'd apparently just fallen through.

Phil calmly stepped forward and brought his gun up, sighting the back of the hood.

"Don't move."