Hello hello! First off, I wanted to say thanks for reading my fic. All your views, comments, and follows really mean a lot. Seriously, y'all are the best.

There are a couple things to go over before we get started. While this story definitely isn't canon, it will likely still contain spoilers for various Marvel movies, TV shows (especially Hawkeye), and more. Certain chapters may also reference or describe trigger worthy material such as murder, abuse, PTSD, flashbacks, etc. Most of these instances will happen in Alex chapters, though they may still show up in others.

For the most part, I'll be updating this story every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Enjoy!

It wasn't the noise so much as the lack of it that woke him. Clint Barton knew his silences well and nothing good came from this deep kind of heavy quiet. There were no birds, no frogs, no monkeys hooting in the trees. Even the constant hum of insects had stopped.

He'd been sent to a shack on a remote tip of Borneo after some clown in red spandex: a former CIA operative with delusions of grandeur and an affinity for robotics. The newly reforming S.H.I.E.L.D. had a hunch that this Crossfire guy might be one of the last loose ends left over from Hydra. Clint wasn't so sure. At the very least, he didn't think Cross was still here. He'd been up and down the island twice already and found no trace of his target. Not even an ugly mug shot in a security camera. The locals and tourist resorts were obsessed with the monkeys stealing their supplies, but that wasn't exactly an international threat.

None of that mattered now, because the shack he'd been assigned as a safe house wasn't as empty as it was when he'd gone to sleep.

He eased a hand under the jacket he'd bunched up for a pillow and gripped the handle of his gun. It would be faster than the bow that leaned against the wall in front of him. The air sharpened. Sweat prickled on his forehead as he willed his muscles to stay loose.

For a long moment, he heard nothing, no click of a safety switching off, no shuffling steps. Even the silence seemed to melt back into the normal sounds of the jungle. He was starting to wonder if he'd dreamt the whole thing up when one of the jars of food S.H.I.E.L.D. left for him bounced against the floor a few feet away.

Barton was up in an instant, gun drawn and pointed at whoever had dared to break in. He was barely on his feet when a hand chopped hard into his wrist and sent the gun flying. It thudded useless against one of the house's reed walls. He grunted and lashed out with his other hand, making contact with something solid.

The yelp he heard was distinctly feminine and he hesitated. Not Crossfire. Then who? Now that his eyes had adjusted he could see the shadowed form was small, thin. The last thing he wanted to do was beat some random woman to death if she'd just snuck in for food.

Clenched knuckles whacked into his right temple and he staggered back onto the mat he'd been using for a bed.

In that split second of distraction, the shadow bolted for the front door. He couldn't let her reach it. He needed to know who she worked for. No way some starving local or lost tourist would have this much of a chance against a trained assassin.

Clint darted his hand out and grabbed her wrist, using the sheer weight of his body to drag her to a stop at the door.

"Hey," he half growled.

A feral, panicked snarl tore through the black curtain of silence between them. There was a tiny beep and a red flash at her neck illuminated a thin face with rounded features. Hard, dark eyes glittered over him with a fierce edge of terror. She wasn't a local. American? It was hard to tell. Before he had a chance to get another word out, her fingers plucked out the blade he kept in his right sleeve. In what little light there was, he saw the flash of silver and reached out too late to stop her.

"Aaagh!"

His grip faltered.

He swung out with his free hand and heard the blade plop into his mat. There was a hiss of breath and a wetness at the tips of his fingers. The girl yanked away from him, barreling out the open door to freedom. There was a grunt as she hit the ground, followed by the crunch of running footsteps.

He glanced at the wound in the fading dark—not deep, he'd live—and charged after her.

A soft bloom of morning light was just enough for him to catch sight of tangled dark hair disappearing into the jungle. He put on a burst of speed, using his longer legs to their full advantage. But speed wasn't enough.

It was like she'd just disappeared.

He ran circles around the shack trying to find some trace of her, but the trail ran cold twenty feet out. There were some broken twigs, a couple shoeless footprints, and three drops of blood splattered across a leaf, but not much else.

Shit.

Clint slowed to a halt, breathing heavy. Sweat dripped down his forehead and slicked the back of his neck. He turned in a circle, half expecting to be shot on the spot. The jungle had gone quiet again and the girl was nowhere to be seen.

Something about this whole thing didn't sit right. Who was she? More importantly, who did she work for? HYDRA wasn't in the habit of sending its assassins to steal their targets' breakfast. They sent them to kill.

There was a part of this he was missing, and he was going to find out what.