AN: Thank you to everybody who read and reviewed the last chapter (and all the previous ones) But a special thanks to those of you who sent your well wishes to me. They were very much appreciated and things are starting to look up. Small advice to everybody - If you are ever unfortunate enough to have to go to a funeral, make sure you go! Funerals are there for the living, you might not want to go at the time, but further down the line you will wish you had. It's a time to grieve and say goodbye to the ones we loved. But also to celebrate the life they had. However short it may have been.

Anyway on with the story...

.

-A-

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Clint gritted his teeth as he climbed the steps up to the front porch of the house they'd stopped at. His head was pounding, his chest was burning and if he was honest most of his left arm had gone numb thanks to the knife wound at both his shoulder and forearm. He wouldn't be surprised if he had more blood on the outside of him than he did on the inside right now.

In the past twenty-four hours he'd drove more than 1300 miles and crossed seven states, only stopping for bathroom breaks and gas. Jack had slept in the car and when he wasn't sleeping he'd stared silently out of the window. The kid hadn't said a word since Clint had picked him up from the bus stop. He didn't even defend himself when Clint had shouted at him for disobeying his instructions again and going back to get Clint's duffle bag from their first stolen car.

Clint though had not dared stop any longer to catch some sleep of his own, fearing that if he closed his eyes he may not open them again. He'd tried to drink plenty of water to try and replace his lost fluids and keep himself awake, but he knew it wasn't enough. He should have stopped sooner and attempted to patch himself up but staying at a motel wasn't safe and going to a hospital was too risky. Which meant driving half way across the country to visit a woman he hadn't seen in five years all because he had no one else to turn to.

Clint banged on the front door as he looked back at Jack, who for once had done as Clint had asked and stayed in the car. If this all went to hell, which Clint thought was quite likely he didn't want Jack getting shot because he was standing too close to Clint when the door was opened. Marcella Carson might be the only person in the country who Clint might trust but that didn't mean that she actually liked him. In fact the last time he'd seen Marcella she was pointing a shot gun at him and promised to shoot him if she ever saw him again. So why was he here?

Clint knew that Marcella wouldn't shoot Jack, hopefully that would mean that he'd have long enough to explain the situation.

.

The door opened and Clint was greeted with the barrel of a shotgun being pointed at him. Just as he predicted.

Tilting his head so that he was looking past the gun and into the face of the woman holding it. Marcella Carson with her big brown eyes and long dark dark hadn't changed much in the five years that they hadn't seen each other, even his view of her holding a shotgun was the same as the last time.

"Clint Barton? Ah hell, you look like shit."

"Hey Marcy," smiled Clint as Marcella lowered the gun. His relief that he wasn't going to get shot had his knees buckling. Marcella rushed forward grabbing Clint's upper body. He groaned in pain as Marcella guided him gently down on to the porch floor.

"You going to let us in or should I continue bleeding all over your porch?" gasped Clint as he tried to breathe past the pain radiating from his whole body.

"What the hell happened? And who's 'we'?" Marcella asked as she ran her eyes over Clint's body cataloging his injuries. The sound of a car door opening had Marcella looking up and towards the driveway to see a young boy running towards them.

"Marce, meet Jack," mumbled Clint as he struggled to keep his eyes open. God, he was suddenly so tired.

"Dammit Clint, please tell me you're not into kidnapping now?" asked Marcella in desperation.

"No... couldn't leave... him behind."

"Is he okay?" asked Jack coming to a halt on the front porch.

"'M fine," slurred Clint.

"You are not fine," spat Marcella. "Now what happened? And how in the hell did you find me?"

"Still got ... contacts in the ... circus," breathed Clint. "Knew you weren't there... even if it is...still your name..." Clint trailed off as his eyes closed and his body went limp.

"Clint? Dammit Clint!" Marcella shook Clint his eyes flickering open for a moment before they closed again.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Jack.

"You mean other than the fact that he's bleeding all over my porch?" snapped Marcella.

"But he said he was fine," said Jack.

"That's 'cause he's a Barton," huffed Marcella. "Right kid, you're going to have to help me get him inside as I do believe Clint's developed even more muscles since the last time we met. Why he thought there was a need for that, I have no idea."

"My name is Jack," grunted Jack not liking the fact that there was another person referring to him as kid.

"That's nice kid, you gonna help or not?" asked Marcella as she stood up looking down at the unconscious form of Clint. "Oh stuff it. He can stay there."

"What? You can't do that!" yelled Jack in surprise.

"Watch me buster," said Marcella before turning around and walking back through the front door and into the house.

Jack stared at the woman who Clint had brought them too. "He trusted you!" He yelled in frustration before looking down at Clint. Clint was covered in blood and his skin was really pale. He looked like an extra from a horror movie, lying practically dead on this strange ladies porch who he didn't even know the name of. What was he supposed to do now?

"Kid, if you're going to be hanging around Clint Barton then you need to chill out," said Marcella bluntly as she came back out on to the porch carrying a big box. "Now tell me what happened."

Jack stood staring at this woman as she knelt next to Clint and opened the box pulling out a pair of scissors she started cutting away Clint's jacket and shirt.

"Shit. Why is it always knives with you," Marcella mumbled as she started to assess the wound on Clint's shoulder. "Kid, you better start talking."

"I think he got stabbed," shrugged Jack awkwardly as he clutched his arm to his side as pain spiked up his arm.

"Bravo captain obvious," tsked Marcella. "What was he doing that he felt the need to get stabbed?" she asked while pulling out more medical supplies from the box.

"He didn't choose to get stabbed," huffed Jack coming to Clint's defense.

"Yeah, well you don't know Clint like I do," said Marcella as she opened a bottle of saline.

"How do you know Clint?"

"We grew up together," shrugged Marcella. "Kind of."

"Can you jump off buildings too?" Jack asked a bit to eagerly.

"No, I'm not that daft. Now stop avoiding the question, what did he do to get stabbed?"

Jack looked away from her across the open fields that surrounded the house. The image of his mom flashing through his mind. Niko lying in front of him and the gun. The gun that he-

"Jack! I need to know if anyone's coming after the two of you," said Marcella in all seriousness interrupting his chain of thought.

"Nobody is coming after us," whispered Jack looking back at her. "There's nobody left."

"Well, that's one piece of good news. Now come hold this gauze for me while I start sterilizing a needle."

Jack knelt down next to Clint and put his right hand over the white gaze on top of Clint's shoulder.

"What's wrong with your arm, kid? And no bullshit."

"I fell. I think it might be broke," muttered Jack as he focused on Clint, his eyes not moving from the piece of gauze underneath his fingers.

"Oh, I am going to slap you silly boy," muttered Marcella. "Oh, not you kid, I mean Clint," she corrected when she saw Jack's look of surprise. "He should have taken you to the ER, hell he should have taken himself. I'm good with a stitch or two but I don't exactly have X-ray vision."

"How do you know all this?" asked Jack moving his hand away to let Marcella have access to the wound. Fascinated by how quick Marcella pinched the skin together and threaded the needle though the folds of skin. Just like he'd seen his mom sew together a hole he once had in his t-shirt.

Marcella smiled slightly as she remembered her and Clint's past. "We grew up in a travelling carnival, didn't have access to regular health care, so we took care of our own."

"Really?" asked Jack.

"Really," smiled Marcella. "Hold this." Marcella pointed to the fresh gauze she placed over the freshly stitched wound while she got the tape out. "Now let's look at his arm. Same again Jack."

.

Twenty minutes later all of Clint's wounds were cleaned, stitched and bandaged. "Now we attempt to get him inside." Standing up Marcella walked behind Clint's head and put her arms under his shoulders, being extra careful of the shoulder wound she then started to drag him inside the house and into the front room. Laying him down in front of the fire she lit the burner as she took in a deep breath. Clint might not be the tallest of guys but he was still heavy.

"Jack, grab the throw and cushion from the couch," instructed Marcella as she walked out of the room. "Don't mind Rusty. Worse goddamn guard dog you can imagine."

Jack did as he was told pulling the blanket out from underneath the large German Sheppard, who merely jumped down to the floor where he then lay back down and closed his eyes. Paying no attention to the people in the room.

Marcella came back into the room holding a bag of saline and a cannula. Inserting the needle into the crook of Clint's right arm she started the drip. Pulling the tall lamp that stood in the corner of the room closer to Clint she pinned the bag to the top to act like a drip stand.

"Okay then, not much more we can do," huffed Marcella as she folded her arms and looked down at her childhood friend, smoothing back Clint's hair fondly just like she did when Clint was smaller than her.

"He's going to be okay, right?" asked Jack.

"Course he will," smiled Marcella. "He's a Barton."

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-A-

.

"Well it's about time you woke up," said Marcella as she looked up to see Clint standing in the doorway of her kitchen.

"How long was I out?" asked Clint brushing a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his ribs, which were now bound beneath the clean shirt that had been left out for him.

"Nearly thirteen hours," shrugged Marcella. "Now would you sit down before you fall down."

"Where's Jack?" Clint asked as he sat down at the kitchen table.

"Upstairs, asleep. You're an ass by the way. The kid had a broken arm, you should have taken him to an ER," said Marcella as she started rooting through the refrigerator. "What in the hell have you got yourself into this time? And a child too?"

"Hey, this mess as you call it was Jack's fault," protested Clint. "Besides I couldn't go to an ER, I-"

"I find that hard to believe," interrupted Marcella as she banged a pan on the stove. "Jack is fine by the way. Took him to the ER myself while you were sleeping. Told them he fell out of a tree like a normal eleven year old boy."

"Yeah, 'cause me covered in blood they would have believed that," scoffed Clint.

"Clint Barton you have been lying to authorities since you were half Jack's age, don't tell me you couldn't have thought of something," snapped Marcella as she broke a couple of eggs into the pan. "Now explain what happened, Jack has been incredibly closed lipped."

"It really was Jack's mess," sighed Clint. "Some guy nabbed his mom, he wanted her back. I ended up assisting."

"And?" asked Marcella as she mixed more ingredients into the pan.

Clint shrugged "The mother didn't make it. I shot half a dozen guys stabbed the bozo in charge then Jack shot the guy. Dead. He's eleven years old and he killed a guy."

"You were younger," shrugged Marcella as she dished up the omelette and placed the plate in front of Clint. "Eat up."

"Excellent, I've produced another me. Why isn't that comforting?" said Clint with his mouth full of food. He didn't realise how hungry he was until now. "Besides, I didn't plan on killing that guy, it was self-defense. Jack purposely killed Niko. I tried to stop him, I did. But-"

"But sometimes you have to let people make mistakes or they don't learn."

"Normal kids don't go around killing people," snapped Clint.

"What do you or I know about being normal?" laughed Marcella as she sat down opposite Clint.

"You seem to be doing alright," pointed out Clint to the very normal looking kitchen.

"Yeah, if you don't count the fact that I'm a silent partner in a travelling circus that caters to mutants, criminals and the odd runaway child. Oh and I run an underground network of information brokerage out of my spare room. Not to mention that I fixed up a bleeding man on my front porch this morning. But sure, I'm totally normal."

Clint smiled at that, "Sorry."

"Don't be," shrugged Marcella. "You're not the first person to turn up needing help. I doubt you will be the last. What I am wondering is how you knew I was here? I'm pretty sure I promised to shoot you if I ever saw you again. In fact, I'm pretty sure most people at the carnival told you that they'd shoot you if they ever saw you again."

"Yes but not everybody. Some people still talk, you just got to know where to find them," smiled Clint cryptically.

"And you couldn't go to them for help?"

Clint shrugged, "Your sewing skills are better."

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence before Marcella smiled over the rim of her coffee mug. "Jack tells me you blew up the house. You always were the one for theatrics. Want to tell me how you did that?"

Clint laughed as he finished his omelette, clutching at his ribs as they protested the sudden movement.

"Careful, I worked hard to stick you back together again," smirked Marcella.

"Wouldn't be the first time," sighed Clint as memories of his teenage years assaulted him.

"Hey, it wasn't all bad," said Marcella interrupting his train of thoughts.

"No, no it wasn't," said Clint forcing a smile out as he got himself back under control. "Well, except for when you pushed me into a pile of elephant dung."

"I still claim that was an accident," protested Marcella.

"Uh-huh."

"So how'd you blow up the house? And no civilian casualties either, now that's impressive."

"You just don't give up do you?" laughed Clint. "Alright, all it took was some cooking oil, some unspent ammo and then a gun in a microwave. How did you know there was no casualties?"

"You have your network I have mine," grinned Marcella. "Mine's better."

.

-A-

.

"What's your plan now?" asked Marcella coming to sit out on the porch steps next to Clint, handing him a beer. Not the best medical practice she knew but after watching both Clint and Jack mope around for the last day, not talking to each other and barely even looking at each other. It was the only thing she could think off to break the tension.

"Not sure," shrugged Clint.

"You could contact Barney."

Clint just glared at Marcella before turning to look out over the field in front of him to where Jack was throwing a tennis ball for Rusty to go fetch.

"I'm just saying, he could help you out, he's-"

"I'm not asking Barney for anything," growled Clint remembering the last time he had seen his older brother.

"He's changed, he's in-"

"I don't care," snapped Clint.

"Fine. You going to go back and work for Antonio Moretti? I'd suggest you leave out the part where you killed his nephew though."

Clint looked up in surprise.

"I told you Clint, I have my network. I've known you've been working for Moretti for the last four years and I know what you've been doing for him. Hell, I've even wiped out a few trails you left behind so a thank you would be nice 'cause quite frankly I'm disappointed in you." She took a swig of her own beer. "But I know why you did it. The real reason, not that BS story you let people believe."

"What else does your network tell you about Niko?" asked Clint ignoring the fact that Marcella knew where he was. If she knew, maybe other people did too. People who he'd rather not run into again.

"The official word is that its gang related. The Baltimore 86th Crew. No mention of you. According to the Moretti's they think you're in Columbia."

Clint couldn't help the smile that graced his lips at that. Agent Coulson's plan had actually worked.

"It's why I was very surprised to see you here. Did you organise your own kidnapping?"

"Something like that," laughed Clint. A little relieved that Marcella didn't know everything. It gave him hope, however small that after all this he really could just disappear.

"Fine, you can keep a few secrets to yourself. Now what about Jack?"

"What about him?"

"I don't know what you plan on doing after this, but considering you're on the FBI's most wanted list I know it's not going to be anything legal. That mistake that got you there by the way was stupid."

"I know," shrugged Clint remembering the job he pulled in Washington. "But it was necessary if I wanted to keep breathing."

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while, both sipping their beers and looking out over the fields. "You know people Marcy, find him a good home."

"He's not a puppy, Clint," chided Marcella.

"He might as well be," scoffed Clint. "I can't take him with me and he can't go back home. Not only that but he's killed someone. He looked into Niko's eyes and he pulled the trigger, repeatedly. You and I both know that that changes a person.

"He needs to be around people who are going to understand the consequences of that but not push him into becoming like me."

"You're a good person Clint," smiled Marcella.

"No I'm not," sighed Clint.

Marcella smacked Clint up-side the head. "You aren't half stupid."

"What the hell?" yelled Clint as he rubbed the back of his head.

"Clinton Barton you listen to me and you pay attention. You are a good man. You have always defended those weaker than yourself. You have your own set of rules and you stick to them. You've never broken a promise when you've made one and more importantly you saved Jack."

"I wasn't going to," shrugged Clint looking down at his feet. "I was going to walk away and I wouldn't have looked back."

"But you didn't."

"Only because I realised Niko had my bow."

Marcella smiled at that. "Come with me."

Clint stared after Marcella as she got up and started walking around the side of the house. He downed the last of his beer before easing himself up off the step and going after her.

He followed Marcella to the barn that was furthest away from the house and looked the most rundown. Clint didn't know what he was expecting but the entire place filled with boxes stacked neatly on shelves that covered every wall was not it.

"What is all this?" he asked looking around.

"This is history," smiled Marcella as she moved along the wall reading the small symbols on each box. Finding the one she wanted she pulled it down and placed it on the floor. "Open it."

Clint looked at Marcella in question before he hesitantly knelt down on the ground and lifted the lid. The first thing he saw was a lot of purple. He couldn't help his smile as he pulled out his old costume. His first to be exact.

"Some things have to be protected," she said pulling out a small Polaroid photograph that was torn in one corner and crumpled like it had be scrunched up and thrown away.

She handed it to Clint who immediately recognised his own younger face looking back at him from where he sat on top of Barney's shoulders. Marcella was the same age as Barney and only slightly shorter in the picture, she was giving another young boy named Ralph a piggyback. All four of them were laughing, none of them having known that the camera was there. It was one of the few happy memories Clint had of his childhood.

"Because of you Ralph is alive and well. He's living a normal life, and he's at school, a full ride at Stanford actually," said Marcella with a smile. "He's safe from dangerous people who might try to hurt him. So don't you dare tell me that you aren't a good man." She squeezed Clint's shoulder before walking out of the barn and leaving Clint alone and holding the picture.

.

-A-

.

Marcella came down the stairs the following morning to see an empty living room. She was about to go check the barn and see if Clint was still out there until she saw a post-it note stuck to the fridge door. No words were written just a phone number. The damn thing wasn't even signed, but she knew there was no reason to go looking for Clint now. He was long gone.

"You son of bitch," laughed Marcella. The Barton brothers were more alike than either one would ever admit. Both stubborn to the core and both hated goodbyes. The difference was that Clint had always been good at keeping promises where as Barney was only just learning. Clint leaving a phone number, which no doubt went directly to a secure voicemail box meant that he had plans to check in on the boy. Now she just had to find Jack a new home. Though keeping her promise to Clint and making sure that Jack didn't turn out remotely like him, it didn't leave her a lot of options.

"Morning Jack," smiled Marcella as the young boy walked into the kitchen, Rusty close at his heels. Or maybe Rusty had already decided on where Jack was staying, the dog had never followed her around like that and she was the one who had rescued him as a puppy. Maybe she now had two rescued puppies under one roof. Damn Clint as his twisted logic. "We need to have a small chat, about Clint."

"What about him? Is he alright? You said he would be okay."

"He's fine," reassured Marcella. "He had to go away for a while, but don't worry he'll be back."

"How'd you know?" asked Jack looking disappointed.

"Because I know Clint. "

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-A-

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AN: I must apologise to all you die-hard comic fans if I've offended you with me taking liberties when it comes to the character Marcella Carson. Don't hate me.