Natasha's eyes snapped opened; her knife in hand and poised to attack as soon as she felt Clint's body leave the bed. "There's a breeze from the mountains this morning." He said calmly in response. Natasha slowly collapsed back onto the bed with a quiet groan upon recognizing the phrase Clint always used to tell her he was awake; no danger was in the room. He used to tell her in plain English but learned the hard way that Natasha's body was on auto-kill mode when she first woke up. They had eventually found the simple phrase to be enough to capture her attention and snap her out of it, and it had stuck ever since.

"Tell the breeze to sleep in a little next time, will you?" She mumbled from her pillow. After a full four hours of rest, the two were feeling much less on edge than the day before. Clint even managed to crack a smile, looking down at his partner. He was reminded that he was the only one who had ever seen her like this. The infamous Black Widow, eyes softly closed, hair pulled into a crimson messy bun, a small smile on her lips, relaxed. He took his time standing up to stretch and made his way toward the door.

"I'll be in the kitchen whenever you decide to drag your butt out of bed, sunshine." He said lightly.

Natasha groaned and rolled over in reply but sat up as soon as the door closed. There was no way she could physically keep sleeping with Clint gone and the sunlight in her face, so she got up and started to get ready for the day, whatever it would bring.

She met Clint in the kitchen, and he handed her a steaming cup of coffee as she sat at the table with him. He knew better than to expect a "thank you" from her before 0600. Outside the sun was barely starting to rise, but Natasha could tell he was already restless. She silently observed him absent-mindedly running his hand through his hair. It would be a long two days of waiting for whoever was coming, and there wasn't much they could do to prepare without alerting Shield and risk tipping off whoever was behind this.

It was unusual for her to be in this position. Usually he was the one coaxing her to be patient. Natasha knew it was engrained in him from the time he first picked up a bow and learned to wait for the perfect shot. Of course, he was shooting at targets then. Later in life, the army had him waiting even longer, sometimes in the same position for days while the practiced sniper waited for someone to call in the shot. But his biggest test of patience, by far, was the Black Widow. She remembered when he first brought her to Shield, she had refused to say a word for weeks. It had taken months before she was willing to trust him enough to even begin to open up to him. The whole time the Hawk had never lost his temper and never lost hope, waiting for her to come around. And he had kept that unwavering patience ever since.

So it unnerved her to see him so agitated. "Hey," she finally spoke gently, and he looked up from his coffee to meet her eyes, "it's been a while since we've trained together." She knew, though her words were true, what they implied was not. It would take years apart to undo the ease with which the two assassins fought together. Still, training took concentration, and while they were concentrated on training, there was little room to stress about the coming days.

Clint kept a straight face, his voice barely betraying his playful tone, "If you're volunteering to retrieve arrows after target practice, you know I'm always up for it."

"Whatever." Natasha replied smiling, as she finished off her coffee and walked over to the counter to pour another cup.

"Tasha," Clint asked, as he turned to look out the window.

"Hmm?" Natasha responded, now browsing the kitchen for breakfast.

"Something's been bothering me about the letter."

"Everything?" She asked, settling on some fresh fruit and a bagel.

"No, there's something else. I can't put my finger on it, but it feels like it's really from him." Clint paused, shaking his head as Natasha sat back down across from him, sliding him a plate with a bagel. "It sounds like his voice, like it's his writing." He picked up the bagel and broke off a piece. "I didn't even consider that it could be true but…" He trailed off as his eyes drifted back to the window and he reluctantly took a bite of his breakfast.

"Barton, you've got to stop. You're letting this get inside your head. You can't go down that path, I know how many times you watched the security footage of that day. Phil Coulson is dead."

Her words hung in the air for a dark moment before Clint replied carefully, "I would have said the same thing a few years ago, but after everything we've seen- Tasha, I saw Artificial Intelligence brought to life, countless people with magical powers, you can't seriously think anything is impossible anymore."

"Clint, listen to me," Nat said, an edge creeping into her voice as she forced his distant gaze to meet her eyes. She knew this hope he was trying to give himself was going to kill him when it fell through. It was far better to rip the band-aid off now. "Phil Coulson is dead, and we have to believe that's the truth, because otherwise he would have called. He would have contacted us. We would have heard something, literally anything, but we haven't because he's gone. It's a hard truth, but it's the only truth we can trust."

Clint leaned back in his chair, defeated. "I know." They both finished the meal in silence. Clint was lost in thought, remembering the man who had made him.

A much younger Clint Barton counted his breaths as he looked down the scope of his rifle. By the third, his body was completely relaxed and still. On the seventh, his finger reached for the trigger. At the tenth exhale, a gentle squeeze. On the twelfth he stood from his prone position on the rooftop to pack his things. The job was done and there was no reason to stay any longer than he needed to. Though Rio was a beautiful location, the sentiment was lost on Clint. It was hot and sticky, and with all his equipment, the humidity had been a pain. Just as he was about to leave a movement from the window he had just been aiming for caught his eye. He grabbed his binoculars, wiping the condensation from the lenses. He preferred not to witness the aftermath of a kill, but it was critical for this kill that he had not been seen and compromised. A small girl appeared in Clint's view next to the mark, who was now lifeless on the floor. She knelt down, her hair blowing in the wind that was coming in through the window shattered by the bullet. Clint should have left. He hadn't been seen. His mission wasn't compromised. But still he watched.

This wasn't the first time he had witnessed the effects of death, or even death that he had caused, but something was different here. The little girl stood and walked to the window, raising a hand to the shattered glass. She shouldn't have seen him from that distance, but as she looked through the window, he met her gaze and felt the fear in her eyes gripping his soul. He had made orphans out of children before, but he had been able to keep that at a distance. Dissociate, dissociate, dissociate, until his job was nothing more than breathing and pulling a trigger. He might know that a mark had children and no other family to speak of, but he made sure to keep those thoughts at a distance, never allow his mind to wander beyond a shot. But her fearful stare had his mind racing, imagining a life without parents, a life he knew too well. Imagining the little girl waking up from a nightmare in the middle of the night and having no father to come to the rescue. Imagining life in orphanages and foster homes, a life on the streets. Imagining a future of hatred and confusion that is sure to lead to violence.

Suddenly she pointed. Straight at Clint. Then turned, screaming to someone.

"No, no, no, no, no…" Clint stashed his binocular, moving fast, and dropped back to his stomach on the rooftop. He aimed his rifle at the window once again, catching the girl in his sight and taking a deep breath. His finger reached for the trigger. He took one breath. Then another. Then a third before taking the shot. The bullet collided with wall, missing the little girl by inches. The sniper stood and worked quickly to pack his things and leave before he was found.

At the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking behind him, Clint whipped around, grabbing and aiming his Glock with trained speed and precision. He came face to face with a man in a suit and sunglasses, aiming his pistol at Clint's head. "Marcia." He said calmly, expressionlessly.

Clint said nothing, but the man had his attention.

He elaborated. "Marcia is her name. The little girl down there. The one you just let live."

"Who are you?" Clint growled, feeling vulnerable at being caught so off guard.

"She's seven years old. About the age you were when you lost your father, right Clinton?" When Clint said nothing, he continued. "In the fire that burned your house down just days after your mother passed, right, and you and your brother -"

Clint lunged at the man, having heard enough. He forced the man's weapon aside and attempted to push him to the ground. Just as he made contact, however, he winced at a piercing pain in his neck and took a step back before lifting his weapon again. The other man dropped a syringe to the ground and made no attempt to fight back or defend himself.

"I know who you are, Barton. An archer for the circus, a sniper in the army with a dishonorable discharge, now you're what? A contract assassin? Do you even know why the Vermelho wanted you to kill this girl's father? This man had information on an arms deal between them and a terrorist organization that's killed thousands of children in Egypt in the past month. Do you care, or are you that desperate for purpose? I think you're better than this Clint. I believe that you are better than this. That's why you let her go." He paused, taking off his sunglasses, and tucking them away, not acknowledging the weapon aimed at him, nor the pained face of the man behind it.

Clint's head was spinning as he struggled to comprehend what the man had said- this man who shouldn't even know his name. It became more and more difficult as whatever he was injected with took hold and he felt himself losing consciousness. The other man stepped in to catch him when he stumbled forward, almost hitting the concrete. His gun dropped to the ground as he slumped uncontrollably into the stranger's arms. He vaguely heard an irritated female voice coming over the man's comm.

"Coulson! You had strict orders to eliminate this threat on site. Straight from the Director!"

Clint heard the man speak calmly, now fully supporting Clint's weight. "I know what Fury ordered, Hill." He gently lowered Clint to the ground, laying him on his back and leaving a hand on the archer's shoulder. Clint struggled to stay conscious as the man, Coulson, spoke again, locking eyes with Clint. "I made a different call."

Clint breathed deeply, unfazed by Natasha's handgun firing down the range beside him. He took another breath, knocking an arrow.

"You don't think this could be Fury right?" Clint asked, taking another breath before firing.

"Fury?" Natasha asked, pausing to reload her weapon. "No, he can be a pain with classified info, but this doesn't feel like his style."

"What about Julie Cameron?" Clint knocked another arrow.

"That stalker? Not the malicious type." She switched the gun to her other hand.

"Alexikoff?" He fired.

"Doesn't have the brains for this op." She fired.

"Oscar Nandirez?" He took a breath.

"The Chitauri weapons guy?" Natasha responded between shots.

"Yeah remember, uh, I think he used some kind of psychological torment his hostages." Clint fired again.

"Clint, he died last year in prison." She sighed before continuing to fire.

"Oh." The archer breathed out, shallow this time.

Clint fired three arrows down the range in quick succession.

The steady rhythm of shots beside him stopped as Natasha lowered her weapon and looked up at Clint, her eyebrows furrowed. All three shots had missed.

She spoke softly, but her voice betrayed a deeper concern. "Barton, you've been compromised."

He said nothing, distraughtly firing three more arrows down the range. Then, becoming more reckless, another three and another. None pierced the target.

"Clint, stop."

He fired another arrow, shouting in frustration.

"Clinton."

He frantically reached for another arrow, but Natasha grabbed his wrist tightly. The contact was enough for Natasha to get his full attention for a moment. "Clint, you need to stop."

"Nat, I can't- I- It's like Loki all over again I feel like someone's inside my head, I just need to know who, Nat, you know I can't- I don't think I can do this again."

Natasha let go of his wrist as he put down his bow and closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair.

"This is not like Loki all over again," Natasha calmly replied, "You're not alone this time, we're going to face this together." She reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

"And we're going to face it now…" She added, casting a wary look as she caught sight of an unfamiliar quinjet on the horizon, quickly approaching. The two armed themselves, on high alert. Any trace of distress faded from Clint's body as he focused all his concentration on the incoming jet.

The quinjet's bay door opened as Clint and Natasha cautiously approached, each taking aim at the figure appearing in the entrance. Natasha marked only one figure with hands raised in a gesture of surrender. It was still hard to make them out from the distance and the shadow of the bay door, but the figure's manner was eerily familiar to the two agents. It was familiar in a way that broke Barton and set Natasha on edge.

"Tasha-" Clint's voice trembled.

"No." Natasha breathed back to him.

The way that he moved, obviously masculine, the way he walked, deliberate in each step. As they got closer, his appearance, a clean suit, half-smile, sunglasses, the way he tilted his head. Down to the pattern of his breath, this man was undeniably Phil Coulson.

Natasha fired two shots. Coulson crumpled to the deck.