TW for (off-screen) sexual assault and murder.

November 2012, Brooklyn

Clint arrived on the roof just a little after six, but he felt he could be forgiven, considering that he had only just said goodbye to Natasha.

Simone met him at the stairwell. "I thought you'd forgotten."

"No, I had to see my girlfriend off at the airport," Clint said, handing her the cheesecake.

"She could have come," Simone said. "We've got more than enough food."

"She had to work," Clint said, regretting it immediately.

To his surprise, though, Simone just gave him a knowing smile, and he wondered if maybe it wasn't just Kate who had guessed what he did for a living.

Something close to it, anyway.

"Thank you for bringing cheesecake," she said instead. "I was hoping you'd bring something other than pumpkin pie."

"Well, I figured you'd have one already," Clint lied, as though he had pre-planned it.

"We have five," Simone said. "So I hope you like pumpkin pie."

Clint raised an eyebrow, following her. "I don't have to eat all five if I say yes, do I?"

Simone laughed, placing the cheesecake on the long trestle table that had been laid out. "No, don't worry."

Even though they were outside, the food smelled amazing. Three people had cooked turkeys; there were mounds of fluffy mashed potatoes; bowls of vegetables of all kinds; several different casseroles, some that he recognised, some that must have come from other countries.

This was why Clint loved his tenants.

As Simone disappeared into the crowd, Kate appeared behind him, looking far more comfortable in jeans and a sweatshirt.

"I haven't lost you to frostbite then," he said, half-jokingly.

"His business associate is an asshole," Kate grumbled.

That caught his attention. "What did he do?"

Kate looked mildly startled, as though she hadn't meant to say it out loud. "Oh, nothing … Just … Seemed like a creep, you know?"

Clint did know, but Kate was not normally one to mince her words, so he had a feeling she was hiding something.

He also knew that pushing her on that point would probably not work.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with that," he said.

Kate shrugged. "It's not your fault. You tried. Next time I'm staying with you and watching it on TV." She grinned at him, the smile almost reaching her eyes. "I particularly liked the mysterious archer."

Clint chuckled. "Is that what they're calling him?"

"Yeah, they haven't come up with another name yet," Kate said. "If I were him, I'd leak something before they make something up like … Arrow Man."

Clint shuddered. "I'm sure he's thinking about it."

Clint ended up with a refrigerator full of leftovers after the party; most of the women in the building seemed to have decided that he was the only one who needed them, being the only bachelor in the building.

Why he was less capable of looking after himself than Adrian and Michael, he didn't know, but he could only assume that it was a 'living alone' thing, rather than a 'being a man' thing.

He wasn't complaining about not having to cook for the foreseeable future.

Three days after Thanksgiving, he got back from a run to find Kate curled up on his couch with Lucky, white-faced and crying.

"What's happened?" He asked immediately.

"I don't want to go," Kate whispered.

Clint's heart sunk, but he knew that her parents hadn't handed in any kind of notice. "Go where?"

"The Christmas party," Kate answered.

That only served to worry him more.

Reluctance, he could understand, especially after Thanksgiving, but she looked terrified.

Clint perched on his coffee table, his knees bumping against hers. "What did he do? The associate, Katie," he clarified, when she looked confused. "What did he do?"

Kate sniffled. "He spent the whole time staring at my chest, and I kept trying to move away from him, but he just kept moving closer, and then there was a load of people all around us and he was pressed up against me and … and …"

"Kate, did he put his hands on you?" Clint asked, his anger simmering just under the surface.

Kate didn't meet his eyes, but nodded.

"Kate …" Clint touched her hand and she flinched. "Have you told your parents?"

"They don't believe me," Kate whispered. "He's a senior partner or something, and there's already YouTube, so …"

"YouTube?" Clint interrupted.

"It's a video-sharing site," Kate said.

Clint rolled his eyes. "I know what it is, Katie; what's it got to do with this?"

"Someone filmed the weird people in evening wear," Kate said. "So they saw him staring at me, and the comments underneath are pretty critical, and obviously that's my fault, so they're making me go to the Christmas party and apologise to him. I don't want to, Clint; I don't want to be anywhere near him."

Clint didn't want her anywhere near him either. "It's okay, Katie; I'll think of something. He won't ever touch you again, I promise."

Kate wiped at her eyes. "How are you going to do that?"

Clint had a few ideas but he wasn't going to tell her. "I'll think of something," he repeated. "In the meantime, what do you say we go to the range?"

That - at last - got him a proper smile.

Kate had school the next day, so Clint took the opportunity to go looking for the video she'd mentioned.

Sure enough, there was Kate, obviously shivering (sans) jacket, even with the distance of the camera. Beside her, a middle-aged man chatted with her parents, but his eyes were fixed on Kate's chest.

His blood boiled, and a quick glance at the comments below told him that he wasn't the only one.

MJ: Not sure who that poor girl is, but I'd be punching that guy if he was staring at me like that.

Kat: Who let her go out in that dress; she looks freezing?

Jamie: What happened to not slut-shaming?

Kat: I'm not slut-shaming; she can wear what she wants. Look at her face - that is not a girl who wants to be wearing that.

Robert: Does anyone know what company that is? Kid looks underage and like she's being pimped out.

No wonder the Bishops were freaking out over it.

Clint scrolled back up to the video and paused it so he could get a good look at the man's face, before pulling up the company website.

Luckily for Clint, they had a 'Meet Our Team' page, which allowed him to identify his target as Charles Porterhouse.

But Clint was a sniper first and foremost, and he knew better than to leap into action without proper intelligence.

So he called Natasha.

"Hey, do you have five minutes?"

"For you, I think I can spare ten," she said, her smile audible.

"You're so good to me," Clint said. "I need a background check."

"Clint, you're supposed to be on leave."

"I am," Clint said. "Kate's father's colleague assaulted her."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Name?"

"Charles Porterhouse," Clint said. "I've sent you a video link."

"Hang on."

Clint waited patiently, while she took a look. When she came back on, he could hear the suppressed anger in her voice.

"What is it with that kind of man and velvet suits?"

Clint snorted. "Yeah, he is pretty much stereotypical creep. Her parents are making her go to the holiday party to apologise to him for all the trouble this has caused."

"Oh, of course," Natasha said sarcastically. "After all, it's absolutely her fault that they made her wear a dress she didn't want to and that a fifty-odd year old man couldn't exercise common decency."

"She's terrified," Clint said. "I still don't know exactly what he did, but I have never seen her that scared."

"Give me an hour," Natasha said.

Clint sighed in relief. "Thanks, babe."

"Don't call me that," she said, with absolutely no heat in her voice, and hung up.

Clint went about his day, trying not to think about what Natasha might find, doing various bits of maintenance across the building.

One of the first things he had done after buying the building (other than fix the elevator) was put in security cameras in the corridors.

Initially, that had been because of the former landlord's mob ties in case of any unwanted visitors.

It also gave him the benefit of knowing exactly where the blind spots were, which was going to come in handy if he needed to go out that night.

When he got back to his apartment, there was an email from Natasha which opened with the line Ronin needs to go hunting.

His blood ran cold.

Strike Team Delta had a rule: wherever they were, whoever the target, whatever the mission, if they came across a child abuser, they died.

Media and military across the world had named the mysterious assassin Ronin, but thus far no one had figured out who he was.

Mainly because 'he' was actually 'they'.

Not just Clint and Natasha either. He knew of at least a few assassinations that fit the bill and that could not have been Clint or Natasha.

He opened the background check.

Porterhouse had form, apparently - a long list of sexual harassment and assault accusations that had never gone anywhere, because the company had always made them go away.

He had been reported to the police several times for a number of reasons - all of them sexual in nature, and included the always vague 'inappropriate behaviour with a minor'.

Each time, the charges had been dropped, which might suggest a lack of evidence but Natasha noted that this was always preceded by a rather large financial contribution to the precinct.

He was a predator in every sense of the word, and it was a matter of time before he struck again.

December 2012, Brooklyn

The mysterious death of a respected New York businessman hit the papers the next day, and Clint read the article over breakfast, slipping Lucky a bit of bacon.

People with money could be a strange bunch. The apartment building had been high-end, with eye-watering charges, and yet there were only two security cameras - one pointing at the front door, and one aimed at the stairwell door on the roof.

The latter was an older style, which could be easily disabled by jabbing a paperclip in a small hole in the back of the camera.

Anyone watching the footage today would see absolutely no one enter the building through either door.

And Clint hadn't taken any chances inside the building either, going in via the air vents and dropping down behind Porterhouse in his office.

Any hesitation he might have had evaporated as soon as he saw the picture on his computer screen, which was apparently acting as inspiration.

Apparently, Kate was actually too old for him.

That was the image of the night that made him feel sick, not the murder itself.

Ronin was a sniper generally, but Clint didn't have a sniper's rifle, and he wouldn't have been able to retrieve the arrow.

Clint could kill up-close if necessary but he didn't particularly like it. In this case, however, he did not feel the slightest twinge of guilt, would even admit to a certain satisfaction at the fear that had entered the man's eyes before his arrow sliced through his throat.

Natasha would probably tell him that he'd been too quick.

Over the next few days, Clint thought she might be right.

Someone at NYPD - probably a disgruntled officer fed up with precinct politics - had leaked the fact that his computer was packed to the brim with pornography - most of it featuring children - and the media was having a field day.

Everyone loves a fall from grace, Natasha had texted.

Oh, they did.

NYPD were being battered from all sides with questions about why previous charges had been dropped, why accusations hadn't been followed up on, and - hilariously - why they were even trying to find the killer.

Next door, the shouting had started, possibly more clear because he was lying on his back with his head under the sink, trying to fix the faucet (his was dripping now), and the sound was travelling through the pipes.

Kate's voice caught his attention - she didn't argue with her parents usually, tending to 'put up and shut up' as they would have said in the circus.

A second later, their door slammed, and his opened.

"Bad day?" He called.

Her feet came into the kitchen and stopped beside him. "Have you seen the papers?"

"Yeah," Clint said.

"The guy they found dead was the guy at my father's company," Kate said.

Clint paused for a second. "You okay?"

"Yeah, but … They're still going on about how he was such a nice man and no one would ever have known and …" she made a little frustrated noise that sounded like she wanted to scream.

Clint grimaced, knowing she couldn't see him. "Hey, can you pass me the wrench on the side?"

Kate handed it down. "What name would you give them?" She asked.

"What name would I give who?" Clint asked, tightening the connection.

The tap was still dripping for some reason, and he was starting to get concerned.

"The media," she said. "If you were to give them a name other than Arrow Man, what would you give them?"

Clint hesitated, wondering where the change of subject had come from. "Hawkeye, I guess. That's my code-name with SHIELD."

Kate was quiet for a few moments. "Who's Ronin?"

Clint started, his head colliding with the pipe. "Shit."

Kate snorted. "Super-spy."

"You're hilarious," Clint grumbled. "Ronin?"

"The papers say that's who killed him," Kate said. "Who is he?"

"Someone who assassinates human traffickers and pedophiles," Clint answered. "No one knows. Don't think anyone's really looking considering his targets."

"So you don't know," Kate said.

"Isn't that what I said?" Clint asked mildly. "Half of his hits, I was on the other side of the world."

Kate was quiet for a few moments, and he wondered if she had figured it out, or if she even really wanted to know. "If Ronin hadn't killed him," she said slowly, "would you?"

Clint slid himself out from under the sink so she could see his face. "Yes. In a heartbeat."

"Why?" Kate whispered.

"Because he hurt you," Clint said matter-of-factly. "I wasn't going to let him do it again."

Kate's face crumpled - for a second, he thought he might have said the wrong thing - and then suddenly she was hugging him, clinging to him like he might disappear any moment.

Clint wrapped his arms around her and let her hang on.

"Thank you," she said, her voice muffled, "for giving a crap."

Clint smiled sadly. "Always, Katie."

"I hate them," she continued.

"I know," Clint said softly.

"He was sick," Kate said, "and perverted, and he was looking at me, and he hurt me, and they don't even care. Not even now they know what he was like."

"I'm sure they care in their own way," Clint said, trying to sound like he believed it.

Kate pulled away, wiping her eyes. He had a feeling she didn't really want to let go - neither did he really - but he released her anyway, stroking the hair back from her face, seeing the scepticism in her eyes.

"I care," he said softly.

Kate smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "I know. What were you doing under the sink?"

"Faucet's dripping," Clint said. "I'm trying to fix it."

Kate raise an eyebrow. "No, it's not."

Clint turned around. Sure enough, even though he could still hear the water dripping, the faucet was perfectly clear. He sighed. "Damn hearing aids."

"They still screwing you around?" Kate asked.

"Yeah, SHIELD's brilliant tech isn't that brilliant," Clint said. "I am so close to asking Tony Stark for help."

"You fought aliens together," Kate said. "Doesn't that get you something?"

"Maybe," Clint said. "I might give him a call when they get back to New York. In the meantime, what do you say to ice cream and crappy TV?"

Kate smiled. "I'd like that."

"Go on then," Clint said, ushering her towards the couch. "I'll go and dig around in the freezer."

It took him a while, because he still had a good amount of Thanksgiving leftovers, but he finally found the ice cream.

Kate had found some mindless daytime drivel that he hated, but he also knew that it would take Kate's mind off of everything so he didn't complain.

"You know what I'm thinking," Kate said casually, taking the offered ice cream.

"What?" Clint asked, before he could think better of it.

"It's lucky they called you Hawkeye and not Hawkear."

Clint groaned.

I had to steal that last part. For the record, even though my Kate is younger than she is in the Hawkeye series on Disney+, I still see her as Hailee Steinfeld.