A/N: I'm detouring from Bruce for this chapter. I want to flush out Clint's character before this story continues further. It's a little shorter than all the others but I hope you enjoy.

Also, I only have Wordpad to use to write this one so I don't have spell check or anything. All errors clearly are my own and I apologize for how many there are. I've re-read this story over from the beginning and was banging my head on the wall after each chapter. And since my computer crashed awhile ago, I've lost all my previous chapters so I can't update them and re-post. If anyone knows how I can edit past chapters that are no longer in Doc Manager through this site please let me know! It's frustrating not being able to fix all those errors.

At the Edge of a Precipice

Part 5, Ch. 1

Budapest, Hungary

This was too easy. He knew it was. The fact that they were able to hitch a ride from the doomsday town all the way to Budapest wasn't what made his muscles tense and his eyes sharp. That hadn't been the easy part. It was everything. Since that night being chased by S.H.I.E.L.D agents it was like they had suddenly faded into the background; no trace of them anywhere.

And he was not okay with that.

Nothing in life was this easy when you had an entire force of secret spooks on your tail. The doctor seemed to understand that as well as he tried to remain as invisible as possible as they traveled around the streets of Budapest. The man who'd given them a ride couldn't take them to their final destination, so had dropped them off nearly two miles away from the rented flat he'd purchased nearly a month ago under his fake identity.

It was still odd having the doctor around and not working him. He never had to abandon a mission. He had a hundred percent success rate going into this job and it irked him to think that this one was going to fail. Despite everything, despite knowing that he'd been lied to by General Ross and that this Doctor Banner wasn't a mad scientist turned terrorist, he was torn between finishing his mission or letting it fail.

It wasn't the money. He could live without the money. Money wasn't the biggest motivation for him; it was a means. The money supported his work since he was self-employed, and made it possible for him to have health care. All it was to him was a nice anchor and comfort that he'd never had his entire life.

He grew up poor and then abandoned by both his parents. His father had straight-up left while his mother stuck around for some years before having had enough of being a single parent and gave them up to the State. He didn't understand how parents could just leave their kids. It made no sense to him. Parents were supposed to sacrifice for their children; they were supposed to give it up to bring them up. His didn't. They cared more about themselves than they ever did for him and his brother.

His older brother had become like a father to him after that; teaching him how to live, how to survive, and how to be a man. His brother also taught him that the only person in this world he could rely on was his own self. No one was going to save him; no one was going to swoop in and pick him up and heal all his wounds. He was alone in the world. No matter the fact he had a brother, it was only him because anyone could turn on you at any time. Family, friends, it didn't matter. He trusted no one.

He remembered the doctor looking at his scars that first night in the hotel room. The one he'd been eying, the knife wound, hadn't been from war like he had told him. He let the doctor believe that because it was none of his business where his scars came from. They were his. Those scars marked key moments in his life that he wouldn't soon forget. They all had a history, a story, and that story was his to know and to tell when he saw fit.

Rubbing a hand against his side, over the scar on his ribcage, he remembered his brother's brutality. Most who had known him as a kid would think that it had been his father who'd done it and most of the time he would let them believe it. It would have made everything easier. A lot of kids had had asshole fathers who were drunks and abusive. Well, most of the kids where he came from. All the dads worked the same blue-collared jobs, went to the same dive bars, and then came home to the same troublesome kids and nagging wives.

Yet, his father may have been a drunk asshole who left, but he wasn't the one to beat him. He wasn't the one to make him cry at night and fear during the day. It had been his older brother, Barney. The one who'd stabbed a knife in his ribs was the one person who he'd looked up to and admired as a kid. After their dad left, and then mom, it had gotten worse. Barney had only been fourteen, he was ten, and life suddenly got scarier as the world got so much bigger.

They ended up briefly in a well-meaning foster home but that hadn't lasted long. As soon as the opportunity arisen, they had run. They ran and ran and eventually ended up, like in some movie or fairy tale, in a traveling circus. It'd been cool at first; he'd learned acrobatics and could balance himself on a high-rise beam the width of a pencil, but the best part was the archery. He was a bow man; the moment they put it in his hands and he notched and shoot his first arrow, he knew his passion.

To keep out of trouble, and because he'd always felt safer at a higher distance, he would stay in the rafters during performances until it was his time to hit the stage. It'd all been fun and great and nothing could've been better for a homeless kid who no one cared about. That was until it all went to Hell. Until he was left for dead, beaten and broken, and helpless and homeless once again.

The Army had saved his life. He'd been arrested for a misdemeanor and the court had given him an option: jail or military service. Not wanting to go to jail, he chose to serve. He traded in his bow for a rifle and immediately was assigned the duties of a sniper. Put him up high in a tower, on a rooftop, in a helicopter, or even on top of a moving train and he'd still hit his target every time.

Once out of the Army, he went back to the bow.

There was something said about a man who chose death as a profession. However, it wasn't something he enjoyed. He didn't get a thrill from killing. He wasn't a psychopath. It was like, quoting from one of his favorite James Bond novels, "He had never liked doing it and when he had to kill he did it as well as he knew how and forgot about it...It was his duty to be as cool about death as a surgeon. If it happened, it happened. Regret was unprofessional—worse, it was a death-watch beetle in the soul."

That was what he thought about what he did and how he did it. There could be no regrets. Not even if it meant completing his mission to hand over the doctor to General Ross. It was his job. It wasn't personal. That was where he and Doctor Banner differed; there was no telling Ross that he'd lost him. There was no turning and walking away. He gave his word and he'd been paid. Unless he gave the money back he couldn't rightfully dismiss this mission.

And that was why this was getting so damn hard. He was actually starting to like the doctor. The man was decent, he wasn't the bad guy in this situation, and he had a great sense of humor. Not to mention that he saved his life.

Normally he would meet his target and as he got to know them, disrespected them even more by the end of it. It was too easy to complete his mission by ending their lives. One arrow was all it ever took and once it was said and done there was no regret.

He was afraid that with Banner, if he gave him over to Ross and the military, that there would be regret. A deeply seated and troubling sense of remorse. So much so that it had him questioning his mission. It had him questioning what he was going to do. There was no middle ground; no gray area. It was either one or the other: succeed or fail.

As they continued to walk, he thought back to the night before as they had sat around a campfire after the rain gave way to muggy stale air and a clear night sky.

"Leó Szilárd?"

Banner glanced up at him and gave a brief nod before returning his eyes back to the crackling fire.

Staring over at him and waiting for the explanation that never came, he asked, "Who the hell is he and why is he your hero?"

Banner shrugged as he hesitantly said, like he was suddenly ashamed, "He's not necessarily a hero, but he's a man whose work I've admired my whole life. He was a nuclear physicist."

That made sense. Smirking a little, he gapped as he said in mock shock, "Oh, a science guy."

"Yeah, a science guy," he cockily shot back. "And ironically enough, he was born in Budapest," he said before looking up at him and asking, "Who's yours?"

"I don't have one," he said as he shifted on the blanket that was on top of the tarp that he'd had folded up in his bag. He'd planned for everything, including having to sleep outdoors.

Banner looked him over and shot back at his reluctance to answer, "You asked the question."

Giving a sigh, he rubbed his hand over his head as he said, "I don't know. I never had anyone, besides my brother, who I looked up to."

"What was it about him that you admired?"

This hadn't turned out to be a great idea. When he'd decided to strike up a conversation with the doctor, he hadn't known where to start. There wasn't too much he wanted to know about the man, if anything. It had only been a way to pass the time. Now he felt trapped in his own question.

After giving it some thought, he said, "He never seemed afraid of anything, you know. He made his own rules and did what he wanted. No one gave him shit and the ones who did quickly regretted it. I thought what he did, and how he did it, made him a man."

Banner sat quiet for a long moment; it was unnerving. The doctor seemed to be lost in his own head and it made the air between them thicker. Just as he wondered if he would ever have a response or let it go completely, he cleared his throat and asked, "Is that why you're doing this?" That question threw him and he wasn't sure how to answer when the doctor elaborated, "Does being an assassin, and deciding who to kill and who to spare...make you the man you've always wanted to be?"

When the doctor wanted to be, he could be very blunt. There was a look in his eyes as he looked over at him. It occurred to him then how bold addressing that question to him had been. The look in Banner's eyes wasn't one of fear, but complete lack of it. Here they were, a doctor who had vowed to help save lives and an assassin who took assignments to end them, sitting across from one another...and the doctor was the one without any fear.

He wasn't sure if it was because the doctor knew if he was in danger he could transform into that monster inside him, or if that fearlessness had always been there. He smirked as he wondered how many times the good doctor had stuck his foot in his mouth for voicing his questions with no thought as to the consequences.

The smirk faded as he returned his eyes to the fire and thought about his question. Being completely honest with himself, he knew the answer to that. He knew that deep down that he wasn't the man Barney had been. Barney had been demented and abusive, but he at least knew he was wrong. He knew he was a bad man and that guilt had ultimately ended his brother's life when one night he put all that guilt in a needle and then stuck it in his arm.

What kind-of man was he? He honestly didn't know. That was an answer he was still trying to figure out. Was he as bad as Barney or was he worse? Or was he better?

He never gave the doctor an answer because he didn't have one.

Banner shifted around until he was on his back, staring up at the sky. "Tell me about that farm."

He raised his head as he looked away from the fire over to the doctor. "Farm?"

"Yeah, the one in Iowa," he said as he kept his eyes moving over the sky.

"Oh, uh..." Rubbing his hand over his head, he told him, "It's one of those old Victorian style houses with shutters and shit, wrap around porch. There's a barn, uh, that's in the back of the property. Basketball hoop above the doors...and inside the barn is a nice '71 Ford F100; still running like a dream and looking as good as the day she came off the assembly line."

Banner was staring over at him when he looked over at him. There was an suspicion in his eyes that he never gave voice to before he said, "Sounds like a wonderful place to live. I bet you can't wait to get back there one day."

He went back to staring at the fire as he gave a nod while breathing out a deep breath while his insides shook. Clint would never let him know that it was all a lie. There was no farm waiting for him. It was all a fantasy that he wanted so desperately to be a reality in a world where he had no one and nothing.

Being from nothing made him think he was nothing; it made him feel like all he was doing was for nothing. And, oddly, he didn't want the doctor who'd had parents and been able to go to school and earn Ph.D's and have a home think that he was nothing.

The idea of the farm gave him something he could hold onto and he had to believe that one day he would have that farm to call home.

Glancing behind him, he noticed that the doctor kept looking over his shoulder. He looked further back and noticed what had caused the doctor such concern. On the street was a motorcyclist. They were dressed all in black, black helmet, and the bike was a Yamaha. What wasn't right was that the biker never once sped ahead; not even when the street was clear.

Dropping back to the doctor, he wrapped his arm around him the same moment he shoved him to the left and onto a tight tiny side street in-between two buildings. If the biker continued to follow then he'd know. He looked back and sure enough the biker was sitting at the entrance to the side street, watching them before speeding away. He, or she, was circling around.

"We've got to move, now," he told Banner as he spotted a door and not caring where it lead, opened it and pushed him inside.

"Stop touching," the doc told him as he dropped his shoulder, turned, and shoved him away. "I don't like being touched."

He raised his hands as he saw the flash of anger and the way he was clenching and unclenching his hands. "Hey, take it easy. I won't touch you again."

Banner seemed to realize what he was doing and immediately stopped and took a step away. He gave the man the much needed distance as he took in the all his options which were either the hallway or the stairs leading up. He chose the stairs. They hurried all the way up to the roof and as soon as they opened the door with the sunlight breaking through the dark staircase, he spotted a helicopter approaching in the distance.

"Run."

After that simple command, there was no stopping as they both scrambled over rooftops, jumping ledges and twisting around lines of clothes, air ducts, and across small gaps between the tightly close buildings. Thankfully he knew exactly where he was headed having scoped out this entire area, scaled the rooftops, before tracking Banner down.

He saw the edge of the building up ahead, and what appeared to be nothing but ground after it. Yelling back at the doctor, he told him, "Don't think about it, just jump!"

"What?!"

"Jump!" he said right before he leaped over the ledge and free-fell onto the next rooftop. He hit the roof and rolled, got up and turned to look back.

Banner hadn't jumped. He was standing at the edge of the building, staring down at him.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered at he stared up at the doctor. "Just jump! It's not as far as it looks!"

From this distance he couldn't see the doctor's eyes, but he saw the way his arms looked tighter in his clothes, the way he almost paced like a caged around the ledge as his hands fisted at his sides. Clint suddenly realized then that maybe he was about to meet the monster. He swallowed hard as he took a step back. His fingers twitched for his bow, to reach behind his back for an arrow. He was defenseless, aside from the gun he had, and that was a deeply troubling feeling.

He looked over his shoulder and saw the entrance to the building. On the top floor was the flat he'd rented. Less than a minute if he sprinted and he could be in there, bow in hand. Hearing a noise, he turned back and saw Banner dangling from the ledge, feet propped against the side wall, right before he pushed off and turned mid-air as he fell. He hit the roof in a crouching position and stayed for a moment, just resting there before standing up.

The green eyes that stared back at him had him frozen in place before the doc blinked and the green faded back to brown.

Staring at him in confusion, Banner asked, "Are we still running?"

Clint gave a nod, snapping himself out of staring, then turned as he told him, "We're here. My flat is on the top floor."

Within less than a minute they were in the small flat with the door locked. That wasn't going to stop S.H.I.E.L.D. agents from busting it down but it was something. Time was running out and he knew exactly what he had to do. Moving the bed across the floor, he picked up the case under it and sat it on top of the bed. After putting in the code, the case open and he took out his bow and quiver which was fully stocked with arrows. Banner was across the room, peaking out the window.

Settling the quiver on his back he pulled an arrow, notched it, and turned to face the doctor as he raised it and aimed.

"We need to hurry if-" Banner stopped talking as he turned and saw him. His eyes widen in surprise as they stared at one another. He stilled as he swallowed hard as his eyes went to the arrow then back to his eyes. "Clint?" There had been a hint of tense fear in his voice as he spoke his name.

He steadied his breathing, let his arm move with the in and out, up and down of his chest, as he cleared his mind. The moment he had the target in his sights, he said, "Move."

Banner blinked before his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Now, to the left."

As soon as the doctor jerked to the side he let the arrow fly. It missed Banner by mere inches as it shattered through the window and hit the agent clad in black in the upper chest, sending him falling on his repel line down to the ground.

He drew another arrow as he told Banner, "Go."

The doctor was still staring out the shattered window. His body was shaking and when he looked back at him, he saw the disbelief in his eyes. Banner had thought he was going to shoot him.

He was going to have to give the money back to Ross. Damn it.

Telling him again, he said, "Go."

Banner didn't speak it but he saw the hesitance in the way he took a step forward only to stop himself. Clint realized, as they stared at one another, that Banner was concerned...about him. It'd been a long time since anyone cared whether he was dead or alive that it took him a moment to be able to speak.

Clearing his throat, he told the doctor, "I'll be alright. I've got this."

The shock seemed to finally wear off as Banner backed away as he slung his bag off and tossed it to the floor. He gave a curt nod as he muttered a soft, "thanks," right before he turned and, amazingly, jumped through the half-broken window.

He heard a loud roar vibrate through the air as he stepped over to the window. A massive green blur suddenly jumped from the ground up to the roof of the building across the street before jumping clear out of sight as another roar echoed in the distance.

The door splintered open as he turned and let loose an array of arrows. His goal wasn't to kill but inhibit. Five came in and all went down. Grabbing arrows as he hurriedly left the flat, he took off running down that hallway as more agents were rounding the stairway coming up. He grabbed the banister and hoisted himself up and over. He dropped to the railing and balanced his feet on it before turning to drop down to the next floor and then the next, one railing at a time.

As soon as he dropped to the bottom floor he heard a noise behind him and turned as he notched the arrow and brought his arms up. It was the red-head from the hotel in Croatia. She was too close and blocked his shot as she grabbed his bow and shoved it into his chest. He pulled back on the strings then let it go, backing her away from him and giving him time to pulled the gun from his waistband. She twisted and flipped, kicking the gun, her gun, out of his hand before kicking him square in the chest, sending him into the wall.

The next thing he knew she threw a punch which he caught before he felt a blow to his ribs and then a shock. It stung his whole body. He felt his muscle tense-up tight like he'd been electrocuted right before his vision grayed as he sunk to his knees. Staring up at the red-head, he went to speak but was cut off by a kick to the head.

Blackness filled his head and vision as he went down.

Sometime later, he wasn't sure of the time or day, he awoken in a six-by-six room with a table in the middle with two chairs. It wasn't a cell, more like an interrogation room with a pad on the floor that he'd been unconscious on.

Not bothering to find a way out because he highly doubted there would be, he sat at the table and waited to be questioned. He wasn't disappointed when part of a wall opened and two people entered. One was the red-head who was all decked out in black with two guns, both in leg holsters. The other was a man, slightly balding, and in a suit. His face held a crooked smile, like he there was some secret joke that only he was privy too. The man didn't look like much, but he reeked of authority.

"I'm Agent Phil Coulson, and you've already met Agent Romanoff. Sorry to have stuck you in here but there was nowhere else to put you at the moment. Would you like a bottle of water before we get started?"

He shook his head once as he eyed both of them and kept his hands firmly flat on the table. They weren't going to get anything out of him, and he wasn't about to let them drug him by slipping something into the water.

"Okay then, I'll leave the two of you alone," Agent Coulson said as he turned to leave.

The wall opened again then closed, leaving only him and Agent Romanoff. He looked her over but didn't relax. Unlike Coulson, she looked deadly. She pulled the chair out and sat down then mirrored his posture while she also put both hands down flat on the table.

"Basic interrogation technique. To not give yourself away by crossing your arms or playing with your hands, or slouching or leaning to one side in the chair, you sit-up straight and either put your hands flat on the table or sit on them. Pick a spot the wall straight ahead and focus on it and control your breathing."

He stared straight ahead and let out a steady stream of breaths.

"I've heard of you, Hawkeye. Assassin for hire. Hundred percent success rate. It's impressive. So, my only question to you is why. Why'd you let him go?"

He wasn't expecting that question. Swallowing hard, he kept his eyes focused on the wall even though he started to feel the sweat coat his back and neck.

"I know."

"You know," he finally spoke as he turned his eyes to her. "What'd you know?" he nearly spat in disbelief and frustration.

She stared at him as she leaned back in the chair, unwavering and unintimidated. "I was just like you."

He did let out a huff of laughter then before turning his attention back to the wall.

"Your real name is Clint Barton. Orphaned at age of ten; former Army Rangers sniper and before that a circus performer who specialized in archery." She fell silent before telling him, "I was orphaned as a child as well, both parents died in a fire in Stalingrad. I was rescued by a man who put me in an academy. Aside from the basic curriculum, it also taught young girls to be sleeper agents. Assassins. I've been where you are now. You have so much red-"

"I do not regret my decisions," he flatly told her as he continued to stare at the wall. "It was my job. I do it without prejudice."

"You let Doctor Banner go. Was that part of your job?"

He sat still as he didn't say anything to that question. Instead, he asked on of his own. "You were an assassin?"

"Yes."

"What was your codename?"

"The Black Widow."

His eyes immediately shot to hers as he felt the shock and surprise hit his chest. They stared at each other as he thought that over. The Black Widow had disappeared over two years ago without a trace. Everyone who knew of her reputation thought she was dead. He didn't know how to feel or what to think to know that she was sitting in front of him, and as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D..

This had to be a joke, he thought as he said, "Of all the people S.H.I.E.L.D. could've sent to kill me, they send the Black Widow?"

"Don't be ridiculous. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted you dead I would've killed you in that hotel in Croatia." The way she said that, he knew she meant it.

"All right," he said as he kept staring at her. "What does S.H.I.E.L.D. want with me?"

"That's entirely up to you. Agent Coulson will be in shortly to further explain." She got up from the table. Staring down at him, she told him, "But remember this while you're considering your options: there's more good in you than you think. You know how I know?" When all he could do was give a shake of his head, she told him, "You let him go."

"I failed my mission," he uttered as she went to walk away.

"That's because it was the wrong mission," she shot back before leaving through the opening in the wall before it closed.

He sat at the table, staring at the door he couldn't see, as he let that sink in.

TBC...