Newton's Cradle Chapter 22- To Clip an Archer's Wings, 2, an avengers fanfic

Disclaimer: I own nothing in the MCU or anything drawn from the comics. Unfortunately. Lol. All characters belong to the amazing people over at Marvel! I'm just playing with them for a little bit.

Summary: Homecoming AU. "I swear..." he gasped out between his sobs. "I... I didn't kill Mr. Stark." When the argument after the ferry incident goes horribly awry, Tony is missing and presumed dead, and Spider-Man is suspect number one. Peter believes his mentor is still alive out there, but he'll need help to find and save Tony from who truly wants him dead in time.

Author's Note: Hey, guys! Thank you for all of your reviews, favorites, and follows, they mean a lot! Sorry about the bit of a wait since this chapter and the next one's been done for a little while, but my mom broke her arm not too long ago, so between work, I've been caring for her a lot. So writing/putting everything together time's been a little fewer and farther between lately. So I apologize for that! But the next chapter is done, and I'm planning on posting that probably next week sometime. Another couple layers involving Fennhoff's relation to the Avengers are added here, as is a little father/son sort of moment for Tony involving Peter. Just like last time, an important note: while based on and drawn heavily from the comics, Clint's backstory has been changed and added to/detracted from in order to fit this Newton universe. There is also a different take on his rivalry with Barney, so nothing is exactly comic compliant. His meeting of another Avenger is also not canon compliant so it fits this Newton-verse. Also like last time, the subtitle of this chapter is taken from the lyrics of Red's "Already Over". Many many many thanks to CoffeeRanger for the long hours spent figuring out our favorite archer's backstory! All right, I won't keep you any longer, so with all that said, enjoy!

Chapter 22- To Clip an Archer's Wings, Part 2: Take All You Want From Me

"Look. I appreciate your concern, but I really don't need to see a therapist."

Nick Fury nodded slightly as he leaned forward on his desk. "I know it might be a hard possibility to think about. But it's been a very long time for you. It's going to take some time to adjust. Things are much different now than you're used to. You've lost a lot, more than a lot of people have or can't begin to imagine. There is nothing wrong with having a little support by someone who knows how to do that as you try to navigate it all. It's not weak."

Steve sighed as he leaned back in his seat. He couldn't argue that. The world had been a real shock to the system when he'd woken up. He'd almost been grateful, in a strange way, for the recent attack on New York. Fighting against an enemy army had been something familiar he could hold on to, something that hadn't changed since his time. A distraction from the overwhelming change and loss he was still trying to begin to process. Leading an army against a dangerous enemy was something he could do. Even if that enemy army had been aliens from outer space.

But now… everything was quiet again. Too quiet. Which meant his mind was back on overdrive. The dark corners of his brain were much too active with the pain of trying to adjust to a place, to a time, he didn't belong in, the pain of being the last survivor of everyone he'd ever known and loved- the Howling Commandos… Howard Stark… Bucky Barnes, who'd been declared MIA- in a time where he knew and had no one…

At least, almost no one. He still, somehow, had a little bit of Peggy to hold on to, if he could bring himself to reach out to her. But he knew that even she wasn't the same.

"I'll think about it," the Super Soldier finally muttered. He didn't want to commit. After all, what therapist could get through his problems? There weren't many who could even pretend to understand.

"Please do," Fury said gently, his brow furrowed. "Before it feels like this is all too much for you." He reached into the pocket of his black trenchcoat, pulling out a business card before sliding it across the desk toward him. "This man has come highly recommended through the S.H.I.E.L.D. system. His office isn't too far from the base in D.C."

Steve reached out and took it, flashing a glance at the bolded name at the top.

Edward Marlowe.

He'd keep it in mind. He slipped it in the pocket of his light-colored slacks, knowing the director would be happy with that, at least. "Is that all, Sir?" he asked.

Fury sighed quietly, his eye faltering as he nodded once. "That'd be all, Captain," he answered.

Without another word, Steve returned the action before he rose to his feet and made his way out of the office without looking back.

Edward Marlowe.

That had been a name he hadn't thought about for a while. He'd preferred it when he believed he wouldn't have to think about it ever again.

Steve let out a heavy breath as he wandered into the penthouse, leaning on the back of one of the couches as his gaze passed over the glowing map of the city Vision was working with. "Any luck narrowing down a location?" he wondered.

The AI gave him a sad smile. "It would be simpler, faster, and more effective if I had something to track Mr. Stark," he muttered. "But with the information that Natasha is able to provide me with through the city, we should be able to determine some more likely areas to search."

The Captain glanced over at where Natasha was sitting on another couch with Sam, both poring over their laptop. It didn't surprise him that Fennhoff would block all manners of trying to find Tony. It'd be a simple enough task for him. And isolation was his specialty. It was one of his most effective techniques. If he got his victim alone… completely alone…

A slight shudder ran through his body as he lowered his gaze away from the screen. He understood it would take a little more time to try to track down the billionaire, but the impatience to do so continued to gnaw away at him. Every minute that Tony remained in Fennhoff's clutches was another minute of damage that the doctor would cause, another part of their teammate they might not be able to get back. Time was off the essence.

Before he could say any of his racing thoughts aloud, he pulled his untraceable flip phone out of the pocket of his jeans when it vibrated with an incoming text message. A quick glance told him it was Peter. His brow furrowing, he opened it.

Can't reach Happy or Rhodey… Can I call you, Mr. Rogers? Captain Rogers? Mr. America?

Steve couldn't stop the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, shaking his head briefly at the names the teen had thrown at him. He knew the Colonel was meeting with some trusted people at the police station to try to get more help, and Happy and Pepper had taken their foster dog and gone to handle some important emergency meeting for Stark Industries, so that they couldn't be reached didn't concern him.

What did, however, was that someone needed to be reached when the teen was supposed to just be out with a couple of friends from school.

Instead of texting back- why Peter hadn't just called him to begin with, he wasn't sure- the Super Soldier dialed him back, and he wandered away from where the other three were gathered as he brought the phone to his ear. The web-slinger answered on the first ring.

"Oh, thank God. Sorry, Captain Rogers, I wouldn't call unless it was necessary…"

"It's just Steve, kid. Remember?" Steve said gently. "What's going on?"

"Right, yeah. Sorry about that," Peter mumbled. "But, uh, yeah… I could use your help with something."

Steve came to a stop, his eyes narrowing. He thought back to the conversation he'd just had with Bucky. Fennhoff wasn't already trying to get the teen as leverage against Tony… was he? "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you in trouble?"

"No? Well, I mean, not really, no. Not anymore…" Peter answered.

"What happened?" the Super Soldier pressed, his body tense. Why couldn't the kid just get to the point?

"Y'know, it's kind of a funny story," the web-slinger told him. "I think… well, I think I might have some sort of lead on Mr. Stark. Kind? And… there's a body…"

Steve's heart skipped a beat. A lead on Tony? He couldn't allow the kid anywhere near Fennhoff or anyone working for him, but… That was when the last sentence registered. "A body?" he repeated.

"No, no, no!" Peter groaned. "I didn't mean that, Steve… It's not a body, exactly, it… It's a long story, but it's, like, an android… It looks like a body, but I swear it isn't…"

The Captain tuned out the rest of the fifteen-year-old's ramblings. A lead to Tony. An android. It had Fennhoff written all over it. But how did that android find the kid? How did Fennhoff? Something like that couldn't have been random… The doctor never did random. "You're sure you're not in trouble, Peter?"

The web-slinger stopped abruptly. "No, I'm not," he said, his tone wavering a bit. "I know I should have talked to one of you before doing anything, but… well, this was really personal, and I didn't know if there was time to wait, and I tried to figure out what was going on… though I still really don't know…"

Steve sighed, running a hand down his bearded face. "It's all right, kid," he assured him. "Sounds like you did well. Where are you? I'll come get you, and we can figure it out."

It would also give him a chance to speak with the newest member of their team to inform him that he was going to have to take him off the search and rescue mission for Tony and instead have him do something else for the billionaire. He wasn't looking forward to it since he knew it was going to go about as well as someone telling him the same thing when he'd been younger. But he had no choice. For the kid's own safety, and for Tony's, he had to keep him as far out of Fennhoff's reach as possible. And it already sounded like he was too close for comfort.

But before Peter could say anything, Steve quickly turned back to his other three teammates when he heard Natasha swear quietly but heatedly. "Give me one quick second, kid," he said into the phone as he walked over to the couch. "What's wrong, Nat?"

The assassin glanced up at him, concern on her face. Beside her, Sam let out a frustrated sigh. "We have a problem, man," the latter said. "Redwing's feed has been jammed. We can't see anything of Clint and the others. And I don't even know where he is."

The Super Soldier tensed as he glanced at the laptop screen. There weren't many people who could accomplish that, Sam and Tony had made sure of that when they'd created the drone. "What about the warehouse feed?" he wondered.

Natasha shook her head. "It showed Clint, Wanda, and Lang arrive, but since then, it's been a loop of earlier footage," she told him heavily. "I was suspicious when the comms started acting up, but now… there's nothing. No audio, no video. Someone's hacked into that, too."

The hair on the back of Steve's neck stood on end. "Do you think it's Fennhoff?" he asked.

"Fennhoff?" Peter's question came from the other end of the phone, though the Captain barely heard him. He'd almost forgotten the teen was still on the line.

Natasha inclined her head. "Who else do you think it'd be?" she posed. Though her tone remained cool and even, there was a flicker of fear she couldn't hide from her face.

Steve's gaze moved back to the laptop screen. A wave of unease passed through him. He knew very well what had transpired between the mad doctor and their resident archer in the past. "How would he know Clint was going there?" he wondered quietly.

That, neither or Natasha had an answer for. The understanding that no matter what it could be wasn't good passed between them.

"Steve. Before the loop cut into the live feed, I saw someone in that warehouse," she continued. "And the comms haven't been working at all for a while now."

The Captain's eyes narrowed. Isolation. "It was an ambush," he whispered.

Suddenly, the laptop screen flickered and darkened. Steve, Natasha, and Sam all leaned toward it to get a closer look. "Okay… that's funky," Sam muttered. "Can you bring it back, Nat?"

She hit a few keys in rapid succession, shaking her head slightly in frustration. "Nothing…"

Then, the screen flashed back to life, though instead of the quiet feeds of the exterior and interior of the warehouse, there were three separate ones playing simultaneously. All inside. Sam, Natasha, and Steve all leaned closer again. One was of Scott, who was frantically crawling into what appeared to be a freezer. The second was of Wanda, screaming in what could only be agony as her power flared around her. The third was of Clint, attempting to keep himself upright against the wall with a broken arrow in his leg. In all three frames, there appeared to be some sort of fine mist permeating the rooms.

Fennhoff's hallucinogenic gas.

"Oh, my God…" Sam murmured.

Natasha's gaze wavered as she watched the suffering of their three teammates, her eyes lingering on the archer as he nearly fell.

The Stone in the center of Vision's forehead flickered. The AI turned away from the map he'd been putting together, the glow fading as he looked at them. "Wanda," he said urgently.

"Steve? Mr. Rogers? What's going on?"

Peter's worried tone brought the Super Soldier back to earth, and his hand tightened ever so slightly on the phone at his ear. "I'm sorry, kid," he said. "An emergency's come up that needs my immediate attention."

There was a slight pause. "Is… is everything okay?" the web-slinger asked.

No. But Steve couldn't bring himself to say it. "I'm going to try to get Happy or Rhodey to you," he replied instead. "I'm sorry I can't do it myself when I said I would, kid. But when I get back to the Tower tonight, and if you're still here, I promise we'll try to figure out what happened with the android."

"Oh… yeah, okay. Yeah. That's fine."

Guilt bloomed in the Captain's chest. It wasn't fine. Peter needed his help. He sighed. "Kid, look, I-!"

But he paused when a line of text popped up on the laptop screen over the security feeds of their teammates.

Sam's eyes widened as he shook his head. "Whoa… Holy shit…"

Natasha sucked in a quick breath, looking up at the Super Soldier behind her with concern. "Steve…"

Steve's gaze didn't move from the screen as his heart sank.

A message, just for him.

Your move, Captain.

Arsen and Bao stood across the room from him, talking and laughing quietly to themselves as they set up what appeared to be a larger than normal chessboard. Tony glanced away from the security feed of Clint struggling against something that only he could see- though the arrow in the archer's leg was what he was most concerned about since he could bleed out or cause more damage to himself if he wasn't careful- to where the two men were working, seeing they seemed to be labeling some pieces. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, working for a crazy doctor. Against him. Sounded about right.

No…

The billionaire grit his teeth as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake that thought from his mind. Bucky was who knew where… Arsen was only his lookalike… and Steve…

He let out a shuddering breath. After what had happened in Siberia, he was fairly certain he and the Captain were no longer friends. But they didn't hate each other… At least, even with the whole issue surrounding the death of his parents, he didn't hate Steve. He'd done what he'd thought was best at the time. And Steve had tried to send him an olive branch, even if he hadn't been able to fully accept it yet…

And while he didn't fully understand why the Super Soldier would, his captors had said they'd seen Steve looking for him. He still wasn't quite sure if he believed it, but… they'd said the same about Clint… and now the archer was trapped in his own living nightmare, being led straight to slaughter.

Because of him.

He didn't know why… He wasn't worth the risk his former team, the people he'd once considered friends, faced while searching for him. He wasn't worth this…

A quiet ding came from where the other two men were gathered, and Arsen pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Footage from that android, boss," he announced, glancing over at where Fennhoff was watching the security feed intently. "Looks like we lost another one. The kid must have destroyed it."

Despite that news, the doctor smiled. "Good. Send that along to me, I am certain there will be something of use there," he murmured. "Something that'll trap our little spiderling in a web of his own. And once that is complete, I will take the appropriate measures to make certain our adversaries cannot make good use of it."

Tony's blood ran cold. Spiderling… Peter?

He slowly looked over his shoulder at the old man. "What have you done?" he whispered.

Fennhoff met his gaze, and he inwardly shivered when there was a look on the doctor's face he couldn't quite place. "I do not believe that is any of your concern, Mr. Stark," he said, turning back to the television.

Not his concern?

Tony's hands started to shake. He thought back to the day that building by the harbor had exploded… how long ago had that been now?... to how Peter had been with him when Arsen had attacked. Had the kid's mask been on or off…? He couldn't remember now…

But he knew he'd made a misstep, a mistake. The throbbing in his side from the gunshot wound was a constant reminder of that. He'd risked his life for Peter. To protect him. Fennhoff and his cronies would know the web-slinger was important to him, too…

Was that why the kid was being blamed for his supposed death?

If he'd made Peter a target, too… if he'd put him in danger, too…

"What have you done?" Tony snapped. "I swear to God if you put one hand on that kid…"

"What would you do exactly, Mr. Stark?" Fennhoff wondered pleasantly, turning to face him completely. "It should be of no significance, to you."

No real significance…

A quiet voice in the back of his head told him to just stay quiet, to not show anything more that would give the doctor any more ammunition to use against him. But a larger, more stubborn part of him couldn't just sit still. Not when the kid was being threatened. Tony pushed himself to his feet, a little unsteady as he nearly stumbled when his equilibrium nearly gave way. Though a bit lightheaded, he still began to make his way toward the old man, who simply smiled at him in return.

But he didn't get far when a strong arm grabbed him from behind and turned him around. The billionaire saw a brief flash of dark hair and glint of metal before a hard fist connected with his cheek. It wasn't as hard of a hit as it could have been, he noted, but he didn't have time to dwell on it before Arsen's metallic hand landed solidly in his stomach. This hit was harder, and Tony collapsed back to his knees and wrapped his arms around his throbbing midsection, coughing forcefully as he tried to catch his breath while his left cheek and side of his jaw throbbed.

Fennhoff chuckled as he reached out, lightly patting his captive on the back in a consoling, comforting manner. "There, there. It is all right, Mr. Stark," he muttered, seemingly attempting to reassure him. "For now it is simple observation, that is all. Though since this boy clearly means something to you, I would strongly advise you keep your behavior in check if you do not wish it to be more."

Tony didn't have the breath to answer, instead gasping in response as he leaned forward to rest his hand on his arm on the floor. He could hardly think straight after the hit that rocked his skull. Though he didn't think the recovering gunshot wound had been hit by the punch, it had still been close enough where each gulp of air was agony. His body shook, his muscles were tight. His hand curled into a fist.

… Peter… I'm sorry… I'll do whatever I have to do to protect you… I promise…

Clint pushed off whatever he'd found for support- the wall of the warehouse, he reminded himself- and took a couple tentative steps. Though not the sturdiest, his leg held. But he hesitated. The gas was still entering the space, and he wasn't sure what he was going to see once he opened his eyes. No matter what it was, he had to remember it wasn't real...

Then, he grunted when the building trembled around him again, the force sending him sprawling to the floor. His bow and arrow skidded away from him. He hissed when his left leg connected with the hard ground, sending waves of agony up through his hip. He could only hope the arrow hadn't moved.

... Wanda...

Clint took a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before he slowly opened his eyes since he needed to find his weapon and continue onward to get them all out.

But instead of the warehouse floor, he found himself on the sweeping, darkened lawn of a massive double-story mansion. His wide gaze passes over the evenly-spaced Greek-inspired columns at the entrance up to the countless empty, dark windows. There was no life left in the place.

Then, his eyes landed on an area on the lawn not too far ahead of him. Two large spots of crimson, one a little bigger than the other, so dark they were almost black in the night.

His blood ran cold as guilt rose up within him and threatened to swallow him whole from the inside out.

... Why...?

It's just the gas... It's not real... It's just the gas...

After Barney and Simone had left Carson's Carnival, he had trained under Buck Chrisholm like his brother had to learn his way around a bow and arrow. He was able to hit a target at a great distance, sometimes over his shoulder, or while doing an acrobatic act. He could shoot multiple arrows at once or in rapid succession, so quick and fluid that he could fire many in seconds. And various other trick shots with special trick arrows his new mentor had taught him over a few year period. Over that time, he could see what Barney had respected in the older man. If there was any honor to be had among those thieves, it was Buck who had the most of it to give.

After the carnival had finally reached its inevitable collapse- a combination of low attendance, lawsuits, and investigations- he'd stayed with Trick Shot since he'd really had nowhere else to go, and the older man had been kind enough to let him stay with him. Though that had come on the one condition that he helped his former mentor with his operations.

Clint's gaze faltered. The few years he'd spent with Buck in his lavish home- one that had been much too expensive to afford with just his measly carnival earnings- had been a trying time for him. It'd been a period where he'd lost himself, lost sight of what was important, and where he really hadn't known who he was. The double life he'd been leading had made that difficult. Because really, he hadn't known much about the other man after all.

It turned out that when he hadn't been performing for the carnival, Buck had been a problem solver, no matter which way that had been taken. For some, a hired hitman. For others, a vigilante. It hadn't mattered to him which side of the law a client had been on; all that mattered is that the fee had been paid.

And they'd certainly been getting more jobs since he'd been taken on as Buck's partner.

The archer had done many things in that time. Many of the things, most of the things, he wasn't proud of. Things he wouldn't bring himself to even think about. Things he had promised himself he would never do again.

Things he'd been brought to do when Loki had taken over his mind.

Clint sucked in a breath. He couldn't afford to go back there, to allow himself to slip into those memories and emotions. It was too dangerous. Not when there were so many other things threatening to consume him. He had to focus. The consistent throbbing in his left leg helped to keep him grounded. It didn't belong in any of the memories being dragged to the forefront of his mind by the gas and therefore gave him an exit from them.

Wanda... Lang... He slowly pushed himself to his knees, biting back a cry of pain when his leg protested the movement. He reached out for where his bow had landed. However, instead of meeting the smooth surface of the weapon, his hand landed in one of the dried circles of crimson that stained the grass.

He knew this house. He knew what had happened here...

"How many guards?"

He glanced over at Buck next to him, both wearing matching black tanks and tight pants to allow quick movement and to effectively blend in with the shadows on the otherwise brightly lit lawn.

The mansion they'd been hired to infiltrate belonged to a notorious drug lord who distributed across the country. The leader of a rival, not so widely-spread drug and arms deal ring had paid them to take him out. They didn't pick sides, but a job was a job. And a job meant funds.

The mansion happened to be bustling that night, much to Buck's delight. Some sort of party for the drug lord's daughter. They could hear the loud laughter and music from where they were stationed at the edge of the border created by the lawn and surrounding woods. More noise, more bodies, made it easier to hide to blend in with the crowd of unknowns.

At least this target had it coming. At least this one had done something with his life that would justify what was coming for him. Unlike some of their other ones...

He closed his eyes, banishing the thought. Instead, he thought about that nurse... Laura... he'd seen a couple times since he'd started working with his mentor. Maybe he'd drive out to her place once this was all over with, just to forget about what his life had come to even for just a couple hours...

But he'd been asked a question.

"From my sweep of the perimeter, two at the door, three at the rear, four on the east front, three on the west."

Buck nodded thoughtfully. "We'll take the door together last," he muttered. "I'll take the east, you take the west, then join me at the rear. Be silent and quick before any more guards inside can be alerted. Understood?"

He nodded once, and the older man vanished into the shadows. Setting his jaw and steeling his resolve, he snuck closer to the mansion, keeping a sharp eye out for any of the motion sensors or light security snares they'd looked into before beginning this job. He made it to the shadowed side of the building, ducking into the bushes with his bow ready, just as two of the three guards stationed there came into view. He drew two arrows. Simple enough.

One. Two. In nearly a single fluid motion, both guards were down before they even noticed anything was amiss to reach for their firearms. Simple.

He gripped another arrow tightly, holding his breath. Where was the third one he'd noticed?

He didn't have time to finish doubting himself before quick footsteps fell on his ears, and he caught sight of the third dark-haired guard hurrying over to investigate. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he loosed the arrow, watching as it hit its mark in the center of the man's chest and dropped him.

He hadn't taken an extra half-second to notice that the guard's gun hadn't been drawn.

After waiting for a moment to ensure that he hadn't drawn the attention of any other security, he stood and hurried toward the back of the building. As he passed the third guard he'd shot, he happened to glance down to sneak a look at his face- something he usually avoided doing at all costs whenever he was on one of these jobs; he couldn't afford to make them personal- and came to a dead halt.

The guard was still alive. Barely. His shaking chest as he struggled for breath proved that. But that wasn't what had stopped him.

The man's longer dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing silver earrings. His face was deathly pale beneath the dark stubble and covered in sweat as distress and pain crossed his features. But underneath that was an often-mischievous smile he knew as well as his own, the laugh lines he knew by heart for he had helped to put many of them there...

Cold fear rushed through him as his breath caught in his chest, his heart nearly stopping as his eyes widened in horror.

... Barney...

No... that couldn't be possible...

Why would Barney be...

He dropped to the ground beside him, his bow lying forgotten behind him, as he checked on his brother. He set slightly shaking fingers on the side of his neck to check for a pulse. It was much too quick and weak as a fledgling's flutter as blood continued to pour from the wound in the older man's chest. The wound he had put there.

He looked up into Barney's rapidly paling features, trying to keep himself calm. Tried to focus his attention on helping and not on the fact that it was his arrow sticking out of his brother's chest, too close to Barney's heart for comfort. Tried to focus on what he should do and not on the fact that Barney's mouth hung wide open in an attempt to pull as much oxygen in around rapidly filling lungs. He couldn't help the older man by panicking.

"Come on, Barney... don't to this to me... Hang in there, man..."

Barney's eyelids fluttered, though they didn't open. His gasps for breath were harsher now, much more uneven.

For the first time, he cursed his sharp eye and near-perfect aim.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to look at the arrow wound itself. The weapon had gone deep, remaining still with each rattling breath Barney took. He didn't dare touch it or try to remove it. That would surely cause more damage to the tissues around it or more damage to Barney's lung, and he'd bleed out a lot faster than he already was. He couldn't risk it. But he could make sure it stayed stable and tackle the bleeding.

He tore a strip off the hem of his tank top and then another, applying pressure with them as well as he could around the arrow. Barney hissed with pain, his mouth briefly widening in a silent scream. His back arched off the ground as his body tensed before starting to tremble. His gulps for air became much more frantic, his fingers reaching out, scrambling against the gravel beneath them for something, anything, to hold onto. The grass and rocks around his torso were being tainted crimson, nearly black in the night, his very life seeping into the ground beneath him.

A thin line of tears formed in his eyes as he moved his knee forward for the older man to weakly grasp. Barney latched onto it, though his grip was as weak as a month-old puppy's bite.

"Come on... just stay with me, man..." he whispered, pressing harder around the wound. " Don't you dare die on me, Barney... don't you dare..."

Barney couldn't die. Not after everything they'd been through and survived. Not now that they'd found each other again. Not at his hands.

He just couldn't.

You promised you'd never let them separate us… you promised me…

His brother needed quick medical attention if there was a chance he'd survive. But that would mean alerting someone inside, or calling for help himself. And that meant blowing the mission. Buck would be furious.

Barney's breathing stuttered at that moment. He panicked, thinking that it was too late, that he was going to have to watch and feel his brother die in his arms.

"Please, Barney. Not now…" he whispered, heedless to the tears that were rapidly filling his eyes. "Please…"

Barney must have heard him, for he began breathing once more. It was even more strained than before, barely there and with a gurgling undercurrent. But the important thing was that it was there.

At that moment, Clint didn't care one whit about the mission. To hell with the mission. Making sure to keep one hand applying the pressure, he began to reach for his phone. He just had to keep Barney alive for a little longer until...

"Clint! What the hell are you doing, boy? Where the hell were you? Guards back there nearly alerted more!"

He quickly looked up to see Buck towering over them, his expression darker than he'd ever seen it as he burned a hole right through him. He shook his head slightly, his mouth suddenly dry. "I... I had to..." he murmured, stuttering, gazing down at Barney before looking back up at his mentor. "I-I had to help...I-I couldn't leave…"

Buck's gaze moved from him, his hands covered in his brother's blood, to Barney. There was a flash of recognition there, but no sympathy. His eyes remained hard, and if anything, became harder. "You little bastard..." he hissed, his lips curled in a snarl. "You little traitor..."

Hiss eyes widened as his breath caught in his chest, the words a slap to the face. Traitor? "What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded. "Traitor? What the hell do you want from me? I've done everything you've ever asked me to do and then some without question!"

"Except for being back there when I expected and needed you to be, boy," Buck replied, his voice eerily calm. "And instead, I find you here with one of the people protecting who we were hired to take out. Or did you forget why we're here?"

He lowered his gaze back to Barney, blinking his tears of fear and rage away. The older man's body was still shaking slightly, but his gasps for breath had stopped. He still breathed, though. His chest was still rising quick and uneven; his face ashen. His fingers hadn't released their light hold on his knee.

So many times growing up it had been Barney protecting him. When he was little, he and their mother had worked together to shield him from as much of their father's anger and frustration as possible. Even when he'd gotten older and had begun standing up to the tirades they all faced, Barney had done all he could to help and shield him.

The same had happened when they joined the carnival. He'd been so scared, his only comfort during that time being Barney. He'd looked to his brother for strength and for assurance that they would be all right, no matter what. Looking back, he now knew Barney had been just as scared as he was, but his brother had never shown it in a way that he would pick up on. Not only had Barney provided the stability he'd needed, but he'd also protected him from the others in the carnival. Not that many had gone out of their ways to be particularly cruel, but they had more important things to do than watch out for two homeless waifs. Everyone had work to do to keep the carnival running and not a lot of extra time. He and Barney had started lower than hired hands, earning their keep through hard work alone. As such, they had been expected to do the jobs no one else wanted to do. Barney had watched out for him in that way, taking the more disgusting and dangerous jobs on himself.

Now it was his turn to return the favor. To protect Barney and make up for the fact that it was because of him that his brother needed protecting in the first place.

"It's not just someone... it's Barney," he snapped. "One of the messed up boys you took in and raised and trained." He glared back up at his former mentor. "Or did you forg-!"

The pain didn't register until a few long seconds later. It was the force slamming into his left shoulder that caught him off guard, that shocked him, as he fell to the ground away from Barney. His breath quickened as the pressure spread down his arm and up his neck, nearly paralyzing him as his vision threatened to darken. Once it eased slightly, he looked down when he felt the hot trickle of blood on his arm to see the arrow in his shoulder.

He looked up again, shaking, with wide eyes in time to see Buck lowering his bow back to his side. He flinched, but couldn't move away through the pain, when the older man dropped to a knee beside him on the lawn, getting close to his ear.

"You can stay here to get caught or die along with your brother. It no longer concerns me," he whispered, causing him to clench his jaw tightly. "I expect loyalty, boy; when I tell you to do something, you do it, no matter what. You're on your own. If you do end up getting away from here, I'd best not see you again. Or the next shot will kill ya. I guarantee it. Am I understood?"

He didn't answer, instead closing his eyes as he tried to focus on keeping his breathing as calm as possible as his shoulder throbbed in agony. He heard as the older man grunted with disdain before getting to his feet. His footsteps faded away, and Trick Shot disappeared into the night.

A moment passed before he groaned, reaching out with trembling fingers until they found Barney's cold, still ones. They stayed that way as he finally allowed the darkness that was pulling at the edges of his vision to consume him.

Clint gasped loudly, quickly raising a hand to his left shoulder. But there was nothing. No arrow. No blood. He let out a shaking breath. The only arrow was in his thigh, the near numbness serving as a reminder.

He had to get out... where was he... where was out... Wanda... Lang... Fennhoff...

He still wasn't sure how long he had been passed out on the lawn of the drug lord's home, though he knew it had only been by some miracle he couldn't explain that he and Barney hadn't been discovered by the wrong people. So it couldn't have been long.

He still hadn't trusted himself to remove the arrow in his brother's chest. But the arrow in his own shoulder had to go. He knew how damaging such a thing could be, but he had no other choice. And so, after removing his archer's glove to use as a gag, he'd probed the wound, trying to determine where exactly the arrow had struck. He had almost passed out simply from that, but stubbornness kept him going. If he'd passed out, the likelihood of being found increased, and the less chance Barney had of surviving. Luckily, Trick Shot had been aiming to hurt him, not kill him. Therefore, the arrow was in a spot that made it easy enough to simply push through. Easy enough in theory at least. Not so easy in practice.

After his arrow had been removed, and he'd taken a few minutes simply to breathe through the pain, he'd managed to break into and hotwire one of the cars parked on the premises and carefully got Barney into the back. His body had been near to giving out on him after that. Barney had always been bigger than he was and, with one arm all but useless, it had required some interesting maneuvering to get his brother into the car. He'd driven straight through a security checkpoint, causing quite the disruption, but still managing to somehow get away before speeding to the nearest hospital. He'd pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance and flagged down a couple paramedics who'd happened to be leaving the building from inside the car to get help for his brother. He'd watched as they'd carefully rushed Barney inside the brightly lit building before driving away. He hadn't been able to stay, not when there'd been a high probability that the older man wouldn't make it due to what he'd done. The guilt, the sting of betrayal and abandonment, had been too much to handle.

Out... get out... now... it's the gas...

The archer had driven straight through the rest of the night and into the next morning as he headed for the state line. He'd finally had to pull over into a rest stop sometime that afternoon, the pain and blood loss from his own arrow wound finally catching up with him as the adrenaline had worn off. He'd changed the hasty bandage he had made while at the mansion with the last few remnants of his tank top, clumsily tying it off with his good hand and his teeth. After passing out until late evening, he'd called the hospital he'd dropped Barney off at the night before to ask for any information, but since they hadn't been able to verify the family relation, they'd given him nothing.

Another full day of driving later and Clint had arrived at a smaller hospital, both the car and himself running only on fumes, the place where the one person he trusted to help him would be. He'd made sure to call her, just to make sure. Otherwise, he'd have just gone to her place. Safe to say, Laura hadn't been amused when he'd stumbled into the emergency room and just about collapsed into her arms half-dead- again- but just as she had the first time, she had tended to him with gentle hands and no ulterior motives. And, to her credit, with no questions about what he'd been doing to get an arrow through his shoulder. Those would come later once his emotions were a bit more straightened out and the anesthesia and pain killers wore off after a couple days under her care.

Though with some of her pull to help validate his relation to the older man, Laura had been able to ask the right people and pull some strings to get him a medical update on Agent Barney Barton. Clint remembered the surprise, but also the pride, at finding out that his brother had become an FBI agent after an honorable discharge from the Army, surmising that he'd been undercover as a bodyguard for the drug lord in effort to infiltrate and bring him down. And he'd almost killed him. He'd been relieved to hear that he'd gotten Barney to the hospital in time, barely, and he'd been expected to make a full recovery. Which he had.

But the archer had never sought him out after that night. Barney had turned his life around. He'd been a good man. And he... well, not so much. He'd done plenty with Buck, and would do on his own, that would easily land him on the older man's radar. And while they'd been brothers who had, at one time, relied fully on the other for survival, he could never have expected Barney to turn a blind eye to all the horrible things he'd done and let him walk free. No, it had been best that they'd walked their own paths. Had lived their separate lives.

Until those paths would crash back together.

If they hadn't... maybe Barney would have...

Clint put his head in his hands. Fennhoff's gas... That's what he had to remind himself was causing all this. He had to remain focused, to get out... where was out... he couldn't get out... This is exactly what the mad doctor wanted... Focus... His heart was pounding much too fast... he was panicking... it was too late... He was lost in his own mind...

... Too late...

... Barney...

The next couple years had passed much like the one's before them had. His readiness to take on jobs like he had with Buck had still been readily known and his information had even started to be passed around more and more. Many people on both sides of the law had wanted his help in solving their problems. There'd been no shortage of them.

Each life taken had been a part of himself dying as well. He'd moved around from place to place, never staying anywhere for too long, since he hadn't had a place to stay anymore. He'd actively avoided Buck, always keeping track of where the man was and what missions he was taking. He could never forget the man's threat. However, he had not avoided his former mentor out of fear. When it had come down to it, he'd always been the faster draw. Eventually, people had seemed to cue into the fact that he and Buck had bad blood between the two of them and so would not ask for one if the other was going to be anywhere close to the job.

During that time, Clint had also spent more and more time around Laura. He hadn't been sure at first why he'd found himself going back to her. Everyone else in his life at that point had been transient, either disappointing him or abandoning him. But not her. She had seen him clearly, she had known what he did when he was away. But somehow, she had still loved him and saw something in him worth fighting to save while he'd been facing his own battle for his soul. He hadn't been certain what it had been about her, but every time he was with her, it'd felt as though those parts of himself he'd killed, that he'd forgotten, had slowly been rejuvenated. When they'd gotten a place together, he'd felt like he could finally stop moving. He hadn't- and still didn't- wanted to be anywhere else. It had taken him a long time to realize and understand that that feeling had, and still was, peace. Something he'd never felt before.

It was for her that he'd chosen a side. That he'd only started taking jobs from people that were at least somewhat on the right side of the law, and he hadn't killed unless he'd absolutely had to. It had been the first step in a series of many in an attempt to save himself. To redeem himself. To prove, at least somewhat, that he was worthy to protect her and keep her safe. He had been able to return home to her whenever his assignments had permitted... a foreign concept, though one he had acclimated to relatively quickly... instead of spending long nights away from her since he hadn't been able to bring himself to face her after things he'd done. He'd been able to stare down his reflection in the mirror, and for the first time in quite some time, had not been repulsed by what he'd seen. He'd looked at himself and Laura and, for the first time, had seen a glimmer of hope for the future.

However, his activities had drawn some unwanted attention. Clint had known for quite some time that he'd been being tracked. Followed. Kept on record. And he'd always made an effort to make sure Laura never got involved in it. After all, her only crime had been, and still was, loving him.

At the time, he'd assumed it was simply the FBI after him, that maybe when Barney had been well enough to leave the hospital, he'd launched an investigation into who had nearly killed him. After all, he'd had his arrow in his chest to go off of.

But it hadn't been the FBI. Or Barney, as he'd found out later.

With his own observing into who had been following him around while he'd been out on a job when they hadn't thought he'd been looking, the team was headed by an agent named Phil Coulson, a man who hadn't seemed to exist in any known database that he'd searched in for him. He'd been given what were deemed to be false addresses, false occupations, and Phil Coulsons that definitely hadn't been the same man when he'd tracked them down. It'd been as though he hadn't even existed.

While it had irritated him beyond reason, the archer had also been intrigued. What had a man who'd belonged to some sort of federal organization that was so secretive wanted with him? He'd decided to find out.

What had ensued was an extreme game of cat and mouse that had lasted for the better part of a year. Every time Clint had been on a job, and every time he'd known for sure that the agents had been on his tail, he'd left a little calling card for them to find- a little sketch of an arrow hitting a bullseye with the word "Hawkeye" on it. It'd been his stage name when he'd been performing with Trick Shot at the carnival, as well as his alias when he'd worked jobs with him, and it had just stuck as a way to hide his identity. He'd sometimes stuck around to see how frustrated the agents would get when they'd find it, having arrived too late to capture or kill him, and they'd never disappointed in amusing him. Coulson in particular.

He'd gotten more daring in this game as time went on, having let Coulson and his flabbergasted agents get closer each time. He'd let them think that they were right about to snag him before slipping away yet again. There had been one time that had gotten a little too close for comfort when his leg had been injured during one of his jobs, and he'd had to hurt a couple of the agents in order to get away. But still. The game had never gone Coulson's way, as he'd never been able to get close enough to get one over on him and trap his mouse, even though he'd made him think so on a number of occasions. He'd rarely passed up an opportunity to smile and wave or flip off the agent on his way out. Coulson had never seemed to share in his enjoyment in those moments.

But toward the end of that year, Clint had admittedly gotten bored by their game, as well as worn out by what he'd been doing with his life. The constant moving with jobs he'd been taking on, even though he'd finally had a place to rest with Laura... the constant avoiding of those mysterious agents... He'd been done with it all. No more moving. No more fighting. He'd just been done with everything. He'd known what that meant he'd had to do, and it'd torn him up from the inside out since it'd meant he'd have to give up the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd have to give up any plans for the life they'd wanted together that they'd had. He hadn't known if she'd ever forgive him since she'd stood by and fought for him for so long, and he'd decided to give up.

He'd been so tired. No more moving. No more fighting.

The archer's heart wavered. He'd accepted his final assignment- exposing a corrupt sheriff in some smaller town somewhere- and had said goodbye to Laura for what he'd feared would be the last time. He knew he'd never forget how she'd trembled while she'd hugged him tightly, begging him not to walk out the door unless he'd planned to come back. The desperation in her kiss as tears rolled down her cheeks when that was a promise he hadn't been able to make. The pain when she'd told him she loved him. And he'd walked out the door as she could only watch, knowing the action was as good as signing his own death warrant. He'd done terrible things, and he knew he was too dangerous to be taken alive.

Clint had found and detained the sheriff in the back parking lot of a tavern easily enough. The man hadn't put up much of a fight, almost as though he'd been expecting his arrival. Though it'd taken a while for the mysterious team that had been tracking him for so long to catch up that time. He'd sat with the sheriff, non-committedly listening to the older man tell stories of his wife, kids, and rather large family- no doubt in order to try to get himself off the hook- when Coulson and his agents had stormed the place, guns drawn and orders flying. He'd noticed they'd set a perimeter- one that normally he'd have no trouble getting out of and had many times- to prepare for anything.

The one thing they hadn't been prepared for was for him to set his bow on the asphalt, shoving it away from him, and drop to his knees with his hands raised and a grumbled, "About damn time".

He'd never forget Coulson's face as he'd approached him, as he'd stared down the barrel of his handgun aimed right at his forehead while the other men surrounded them. The head agent had so wanted to celebrate this moment, to relish this victory of finally catching his mouse. But he hadn't been able to manage the grin, or to boast. Not when his target had given in so willingly. Something, and to that day he still wasn't sure exactly what it'd been, had passed silently between them as both of their weary gazes had met.

"I've been given the order to put a bullet right between your eyes."

Coulson's words echoed in his mind as Clint saw the man's determined eyes and set jaw flicker before his vision. His knuckles had been white with how tightly he'd been gripping his gun. The words had been void of any emotion. He'd made no move to fight the agent, had made no attempt to prevent that fate. He'd expected as much after all he'd done. It'd have only been fitting.

So, it'd been a shock to him when Coulson made a different call- to bring him in and let a man named Nick Fury decide his fate instead.

The archer hadn't struggled as he was roughly put in handcuffs and unceremoniously dragged to an unmarked black car. From the rough handling he'd received, he wouldn't have been surprised to find out the agents responsible for him had been involved in his cat-and-mouse game for too long. He'd questioned if these agents had really been part of a legitimate federal organization, but it had been too late as he'd been shoved inside and as Coulson had gotten behind the wheel and driven away a minute later.

It had been on the way to... wherever they'd been going... that the head agent had explained who he was. He'd belonged to some organization called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division- a pain in the ass to say all the time, so they'd simply shortened it to S.H.I.E.L.D. He'd had no idea what the hell that even was, but with all the secrets, he'd figured it had to be important, especially when they'd blindfolded him so he hadn't been able to see the location of the nearest facility they'd been bringing him to.

Clint had had no idea how long that car ride had ended up being, having had no sense of time or distance. The next thing he'd seen, after being led through some sort of cold building bustling with activity, had been the infuriated director of the secretive organization.

He inwardly winced as he was shoved into a hard, unforgiving chair, making sure his breathing was as even as possible as the blindfold was ripped away. His arms cuffed behind his back protested to the treatment as he squinted around the large, white-walled room he now found himself in, empty save for his seat and the table in front of him. He could feel Coulson and another agent standing just behind him, though his gaze was focused on the bald, dark-skinned man before him.

He was standing straight with his shoulders back wearing a black trenchcoat and a black eyepatch over his left eye. His other was narrowed into a slit as it burned a hole right through him, the corners of his stern mouth turned downward.

It was obvious he was trying to intimidate him. And it may have worked on most people. Though unfortunately for this man, his ability to be intimidated had been lost along with his childhood.

"So. You're the man... this Hawkeye... who has been embarrassing and making my agents look like foolish amateurs."

He didn't say a word, didn't move. The director's piercing stare was as unforgiving as the chair that was making his arms go numb.

Nick Fury made a quiet sound to signify that he was unimpressed. Or, at least, that's what he wanted him to think. His posture, the ever so slight upturn of his lips, said otherwise. Begrudging respect. "You know, when we first got the reports of some deadly Robin Hood running around like a vigilante, I didn't believe it," he continued. "How could one guy running around with a bow and arrow do so much damage and slip into the shadows like he was some sort of phantom? But boy, did you ever prove me wrong. You've got quite the track record! More than enough for me to order a bullet through your skull."

He still gave him nothing, even though there was one detail in the director's statement that caught his attention. One guy. Him. Had they not known about him when he was with Buck? More importantly, had Buck stopped when he'd left him and Barney to die?

"Don't get me wrong. I still won't lose sleep over putting a bullet right there." Fury lightly poked his own forehead, right between his eyes. He then reached into his trenchcoat and pulled out a handgun before setting it on his side of the table. Neither of them broke eye contact. "You've certainly given my agents a big enough headache. I've gotta say, the call Coulson made surprised me. But that doesn't mean I won't make a different one. Though with all you've done, I just have one question you need to answer."

He remained silent. Anything he likely said would be a fine line between his life and death.

The director leaned forward on the table, his visible eye scrutinizing every inch of his face. "Just what side do you think you're on?"

A heavy silence lingered in the air between them for a tense moment. He wasn't sure how he could answer that. Everything he'd done had been to help Buck, not mattering if the person who'd hired them had wanted their talents for good or bad. Then he'd continued alone, initially following the same guidelines. Then Laura had changed that, though while he'd only used his skills for good, he hadn't necessarily used the most legal of methods.

There was no good or bad, no black or white, for him. Only gray. That's what his life had always been. His brow furrowed.

"Mine."

His quiet voice, while steady, broke the slightest bit on the one word, raspy from disuse. His eyes remained solely on Fury's, almost daring him to question him. Because it was true. Life had dealt him blow after blow. He'd never had his father. Both people he'd opened up to and trusted who had sort of filled that empty void had stabbed him in the back without a second thought when they'd had no more use for him. He and Barney were better off on their separate paths after what he'd done. Laura... he trusted her. She hadn't given him a reason not to. Much like his mother had been, she was someone he wanted to protect against the evils of the world; the evils of himself.

But other than her... There was no one. No one he could rely on. No one he could trust. The only one he'd been able to do that with- when it truly came down to it, when it really mattered most- was himself. It had always been that way, and it always would be.

Fury was silent for another moment, his face impossible to read. Though it didn't seem to take too long for him to reach some sort of conclusion. He raised his gaze to the agents blocking the door behind him and gave a slight nod. Coulson came forward and set a manila folder on the table between them.

"So. You're not picking sides. You're in it for you. Fair enough, Hawkeye. I can respect that." The director paused with a sigh. "Though what I don't appreciate is one of my agents being shot down."

Dread began to claw its way out of him at these words. He'd shot, and from the sound of it killed, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He wondered why Coulson had even brought him in if that was the case. It didn't matter if he hadn't known the organization existed. Fury was going to get his chance to put that bullet in his skull like he wanted to, anyway. He was screwed.

Coulson then opened the folder to reveal a photograph. He waited a beat before lowering his gaze to it, knowing what he was going to see and dreading it. Just as he'd expected, a blond man was lying on the carpeted floor of what appeared to be a messy office, an arrow sticking out of his chest. Through his heart, by all appearances. Hell of a shot. Poor man never stood a chance. A slip of paper with dark writing on it, a calling card, was on the floor next to his right shoulder.

His brow furrowed. He'd done many jobs over the years, granted. But he didn't recognize the office, nor the man's deathly pale face...

"Agent Ridley was one of our best," Fury told him. "Bright future. One he'll never get to have now."

It was also a name he didn't recognize. He supposed the man could have used an alias, but... he hadn't forgotten many he'd hunted. He shook his head slightly. "All due respect to him-!"

"It was one he wouldn't have gotten anyway, if I'd seen to it," Fury interrupted. He waited until his detainee looked back up at him with clear confusion before nodding at the photo and continuing. "He was a mole, working to steal our secrets for another not so nice organization called Hydra. So, in a way, this was a favor."

Hydra. That was familiar. Though he didn't realize they were still around. But still, something about this wasn't right. He took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and started the other man down. "Then with all due respect to you, but I didn't-!"

"I know it wasn't you, boy. I ain't stupid." The director nodded at Coulson again, the latter picking up the first picture to reveal another one underneath. It was a closeup of the calling card.

A hastily drawn bow and arrow symbol. The words Trick Shot underneath.

Buck.

"This happened right around the same time Coulson was picking you up," Fury explained. "This also tells me that you either have a copycat, a rival, or a partner. Wanna tell me which one's more likely?"

But he hardly heard the other man. His gaze had yet to move from the photo of the calling card, one detail bothering him. He leaned a little closer. It was certainly his former mentor's insignia- he'd seen it many times, both when he was working with the carnival and when they'd been on jobs. Though there was something about it that wasn't right...

Buck had always separated his alias into two words. Trick Shot. But this didn't have a space. Trickshot. It wasn't a mistake Buck would make...

Was someone else emulating the other archer? But why?

He flinched ever so slightly when Fury's hand slammed down on the table in front of him. "I'm gonna need that answer."

But he shook his head slightly as he looked back up at the other man. "I don't know..."

The director's eye narrowed dangerously. "If there's someone else running around out there doing what you did, I'm gonna need you to do better than I don't know."

"I... I used to work with someone," he muttered. "But I've been on my own for the past couple years. I don't think he's doing... this anymore. At least, I haven't heard he is. And I don't think this is him."

Another silence passed between them. Fury nodded to Coulson, who took the folder and photos away. He then leaned forward on the table. "Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna offer you a choice, Hawkeye," he murmured. "And I want you to think long and hard about this since I'm only going to make it once. Am I understood?"

He didn't say anything, but the director continued anyway.

"Agent Coulson is someone I respect. If he decided to disobey my direct order to kill you and bring you in instead, I trust he had a reason to do so. Even if I don't see why he saved your arrogant ass when you've been such a thorn in our side yet." He let out a long breath. "So here's what I'm proposing. I'm prepared to give you a shot. Just one. If you mess it up, that's it, you're done. But it's going to put you in a position to do something I don't think you've had to do yet, and that's to pick your side."

He found he couldn't bring himself to look Fury in the eye, his gaze instead lingering on the handgun across the table from him. There was no doubt in his mind what would happen if he did anything that the other man found to be a "mess up".

"Why?" he whispered.

It was a simple question, but one that had so many ramifications for him. No one had been willing to give him a shot, an opportunity to turn his life around, like this before. Not exactly.

The director's gaze faltered. "Because I think deep down, you wanna do the right thing," he said. "Even if you don't see it or have necessarily figured out what that means yet. I would much rather have your skills on my side rather than against us, and I think you'd make a decent agent. Maybe better, should you apply yourself to it." He chuckled quietly. "And if there is someone else out there running around like another damn Robin Hood, I'd like one on my team."

He couldn't argue that point. He had to admit he was curious, both about S.H.I.E.L.D. and this mystery archer. Though he also couldn't say anything in response. Just like the last time he'd had a slim chance to do something more with his life. When he'd been too late.

He couldn't afford to make that mistake again.

Fury nodded to Coulson once again, and the latter approached him and set a light hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from the touch, though it wasn't harmful, and he felt as the agent unlocked his handcuffs. As soon as his arms were free, he hissed and brought them to rest on his lap, cradling them close to his body as he rubbed his wrists to get the blood flowing.

"Consider that a truce." Fury picked up his gun and stuck it back in his trenchcoat before he walked around the table and made his way toward the door. "I'll give you a couple days to think on that offer. You'll be given a cozy... well, it depends on your definition of cozy... room here while you do. No tricks. No escape attempts. I'll consider that a mess up."

It hadn't taken him a couple days to decide on the director's offer. He'd only spent a couple hours in the containment room- which at least had a comfortable bed- before he'd asked the agents guarding him to ask to talk to Coulson or Fury. To tell them that he accepted. He'd been much too curious about this mystery archer, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. had the resources to track him or her down, he'd fully intended to use them. Buck had trained many people during his tenure as part of the carnival, so it wouldn't be the longest stretch that one of his students had been aware of what else he'd been involved with and had decided to take up the mantle if he had actually stopped taking jobs.

But it had been thoughts of Laura that had made his decision. He'd found the first truly good thing in his life through her, and it'd killed him to think he'd been throwing that away when he'd initially felt like turning himself in had been the right thing to do. That he'd been given the unexpected choice to live had only made him more desperate to get back home to her.

In his second meeting with Coulson and Fury, he'd made it clear to them that he would join them on the condition that his relationship with Laura and where they lived would be kept off of any sort of records. The same condition had applied to his children when they'd been born. While he'd chosen his side, and while S.H.I.E.L.D. served the side of good, he'd known by experience that there had still been people out for his head, including those who hadn't been pleased with him from his past. And he hadn't been able to let Laura risk getting involved in any of that.

To his surprise, the director had agreed to the condition. Compromise. A sign of trust. Of teamwork. Of acceptance. It had been something he hadn't been used to. It had taken him a long time to let his guard down around those he'd found himself working with, to accept that Coulson, Fury, and others had truly had his back and had cared about what happened to him. While he hadn't, and really still didn't show it, he'd had to admit it was a nice feeling.

Though as it'd turned out, joining S.H.I.E.L.D. had been the best call Clint could have made. His old bow from the carnival had been replaced by a higher tech version– one that could retract and could be easily carried or concealed. It could even be stretched out to become a close combat weapon if needed. While he'd had some trick arrows while he'd been a performer, he'd been given, and even had some input in, ones that put those to shame. There were ones that doubled as explosive devices, ones that emitted a sonic pulse or a high-pitched frequency or a foul odor, ones that released a smokescreen or a rope to trap. It had certainly been fun to play around with all of the different variations he now had at his disposal. It hadn't taken him a day to become as consistent and accurate with his new weaponry as he had been with his old.

For the better part of a couple years, Phil Coulson had always accompanied him on a mission. Oversaw him was actually a better way to put it. He'd often inwardly joked that the other agent had been his handler, although that was pretty much what he had been for all intents and purposes. It had taken S.H.I.E.L.D. about as long to trust him as it had for him to trust them. Though just because he'd understood didn't mean he hadn't found the supervision annoying. But over that time, he'd discovered that he hadn't really minded Coulson's company and had really come to value him as a friend. The evenings the two of them had gone out to a bar or gotten some dinner, sometimes with Fury tagging along, after a mission– or even just because– were some of his favorite memories from that time with S.H.I.E.L.D. Owning one or both of the other men at darts had been one of his best past times; Coulson had hated it and had spent way too much time trying to beat him, though he had never come close. Those evenings, those times out, had made him feel... normal. Like he'd been doing something that he was supposed to be doing, that was expected of him. Going out with friends for food, drinks, loud music, and games. What a concept.

When Coulson had died... a misplaced guilt, he knew, that he still carried it with him to that day... he'd certainly felt the loss. Hard. There was a void in him, one he'd never experienced before, but one that only the death of a valued friend and trusted confidant could bring. He'd grieved in private once Loki had been defeated and sent back to Asgard, only accepting comfort from Laura when he'd finally allowed himself to return home to her, Cooper, and Lila.

Though that had been the other thing from that time with S.H.I.E.L.D. that he'd loved. He could go home to Laura whenever he wasn't on a mission. He'd had a good job and a loving, healthy, welcoming home life. His life, for the first time since he'd been born, had been stable. He'd been able to focus on her; he'd been able to focus on raising their first, though unexpected, child; he'd been able to focus on prepping and planning their wedding and actually getting married; he'd been able to focus on being there for his growing young family when their daughter had been born; he'd been able to focus on making improvements to their fixer-upper house and farm they had all to themselves out in the country.

His life had been perfect.

Clint let out a shuddering breath, blindly reaching out for his bow again. His memories were pulling him down, he was getting lost... where was he supposed to go? What was he doing...? Where was he...?

Out... get out...

... Where...?

Not long before Coulson had stopped being his handler, the archer had gotten an unexpected call from Buck Chrisholm. For whatever reason he couldn't explain, he'd kept the old untraceable flip phone he and his former mentor had used to accept jobs, though it was a link to the past he should have let die long before. He hadn't been able to bring himself to answer it. The other archer's words from the last time he'd seen him, the threat against his life, were still all too clear in his mind. And then he hadn't had just himself to watch out for, but Laura and the kids as well. But he had listened to the message he'd left.

It'd been short. Buck had sounded exhausted. Weary. Not at all like the vibrant man he'd remembered. And all he'd said was he'd wanted to meet with him one last time. For old times' sake. A challenge of some sort had been offered.

Clint hadn't done it. He hadn't called him back. There'd been something in his former mentor's voice that hadn't sat well with him, and he'd been uncertain what he had had in mind for him if he'd taken him up on the meeting. On the challenge. Plus, he hadn't been able to risk the job he'd had with S.H.I.E.L.D., not when his life had finally been on the right track.

Though there'd also been something about Buck's message that had caused him to use the organization's resources to run a search on the other man. What had come up were medical records. A cancer diagnosis a couple years before. Remission. A resurgence. He'd been certain that was why Buck had wanted to meet with him for whatever he'd had in mind. And he'd been even more glad that he hadn't answered.

But there'd also been a very vocal part of him that hadn't been able to ignore what he'd found completely. Buck may have been a murderer, a thief, and an all-around awful person. But he'd given him a home when he and Barney had had none. He'd offered him a person he'd been able to count on, at least for a little while. He'd saved his life, once. And it'd only be right if he returned the favor.

So instead of agreeing to meet with him for whatever he'd wanted them to meet for, the archer had sent him enough of his own money to keep paying for treatments anonymously. So he could get well. And that had been it. With that one action, he'd eased his conscience and managed to free himself from Buck's debt for all he'd done for him over the years. It'd been done.

But that discovery had solidified for him that there was someone else who had been running around as a... tribute, almost, to Trick Shot, as a way to carry on the mantle. To pay homage to Buck Chrisholm. But what he hadn't known was who or why. There had been a few more cases with this new Trickshot that had popped up since he'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D., the victims always being high-ranked criminal offenders who had seemed to be untouchable by the law or public figures who had some dark and dangerous secrets they'd wanted to keep buried. A vigilante. Someone who'd seemingly been on their side, but there'd been no way to tell for certain. And still, they'd had no reliable leads to follow to get any closer to finding him or her.

A couple years after Coulson had finally let him off his leash and he'd been trusted to take and lead his own missions, the one that would end up changing his life had fallen into his lap. A KGB agent and assassin. Master spy. One of the most proficient and dangerous, if not the most so, graduate of what had been known as the Red Room in Russia. Trained by Hydra, also.

His orders– track her down and kill her before she could do the same to him. She'd had too much red in her ledger to take her in alive.

It hadn't been much different from his own situation a few years before. The irony of the situation hadn't escaped him. He'd had too much red in his ledger, too.

And much like had been done for him, he'd made a different call.

Clint still wasn't exactly sure what had made him make up his mind to go against orders. She'd certainly tried to take him out when she'd realized who he actually was after he'd gotten close enough to her while undercover. Maybe he'd just seen too much of himself in her – a person who'd been molded into something they hadn't necessarily wanted to be because they hadn't had any other place in the world. Maybe he'd just wanted to pay Coulson's act of mercy forward and offer someone else he'd been able to see potential in the same chance he'd had. Maybe he'd gained enough respect for her– as she'd had him– when they'd realized they'd reached a standstill against the other.

Or maybe... maybe because he'd been able to see she'd been afraid of something, and against his better judgment, he'd wanted to help her.

The archer hadn't found out what she'd been so afraid of until they'd been leaving to head back to S.H.I.E.L.D. with her in custody. They'd been ambushed shortly after reaching their transport... the rest of his team had been killed on the spot. They'd been tortured until they'd been able to escape by having to rely on each other. Hydra agents led by an older man named Viktor Ivchenko, some sort of doctor or psychiatrist, or so he'd been called. And it was then he'd understood exactly why she'd been so afraid.

Ivchenko had never harmed either of them physically, unlike his henchmen. No, he'd relied on tactics that had focused fully on their minds. Forced them to relive their worst moments and fears. Turned them against the other when their trust in the other had been barely existent at best. Made them question what had been real and what hadn't been. They'd learned a lot about the other in that confined, underground space. More than either of them would have been comfortable sharing in any other circumstance. And while the doctor had been attempting to drive them apart with his tactics– a gas that had caused them to hallucinate, another that had made them more violent, and a plain gold ring that would cause hypnosis– it had inevitably pushed them closer together since all their secrets, traumas, and fears had been made known to the other.

They'd discovered they had more in common than different. And it had helped them trust each other. Not fully – that came later, the inherent trust that the other would be there, watching their back, the flawless way they worked around each other, seeming to be able to read each other's minds. But it had been enough.

The only thing Clint had somehow managed to keep hidden was his family, his home. But it had been close. The walls he had constructed around that part of his life had been paper-thin, ready to crumble to nothing at any moment. He shuddered to think what could have come spilling out of him had they been in Ivchenko's custody any longer than they had been. He'd barely made it back to S.H.I.E.L.D. – safe in Coulson's office – before they'd collapsed entirely and the command to tell had caused him to tell all the information about Laura, the kids, and the farm to an understanding Coulson.

However, it had been clear to him that Ivchenko had wanted the target he'd been sent to kill – not him. He hadn't let the other Hydra agents harm her as much as he had him, which had worked in their favor since she was better able to fight the guards they had run into when they had escaped. And with her talent pool, it had gone much easier than if it had been him fighting. While S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him some proper lessons, most of his fighting style had been cultivated in the carnival and in more-than-slightly-illegal back alley fight rings when he'd needed information or just some petty cash while on a mission. The doctor had also spent more time alone with her, working with her mind, attempting to claim her. To steal her away from the KGB and gain her for Hydra. Clint had known how bad that would end up being for S.H.I.E.L.D. if the old man succeeded, and he'd been prepared to do whatever he'd have to to ensure it didn't.

It had been during one of her sessions with Ivchenko that he'd managed to escape from the rest of the Hydra agents, reclaim his bow, and take them out before he'd found her. The doctor had seemed rather confident in his conditioning of her– that smirk was something he'd never forget– and set her loose on him, assured of his success.

While it had been much like their first altercation, she had now been aiming to kill without curiosity or mercy. She'd even managed to inflict a deep stab wound in his back that he'd been sure would have caused him to bleed out eventually without any flicker of hesitance or recognition. She'd been the killing machine he'd been warned she was.

Clint shuddered. It had been a sharp blow to her head by him and frantic pleas for her to snap out of it– one of his arrows aimed directly between her eyes– that had broken the conditioning and brought her back. They'd then turned their attention to Ivchenko, but he'd fled once he'd realized his plan had gone south. And by that time, the blood loss had been starting to catch up with him. He'd only made it out of that facility with her help. Once outside, she'd applied a quick medical fix, enough to hold him over until he'd been able to get better attention, and waited with him after he'd called in Coulson for help. She'd had the chance to escape in case S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't agreed with the decision he'd made to spare her life, but she hadn't taken it. They'd been through too much together over the couple day stretch they'd spent in captivity. Fortunately, Fury had agreed since she'd saved his life, and she'd be a valuable asset on their side.

And that was how Natasha Romanoff had become one of his closest friends and one of the people he trusted most in the world.

The archer had looked into Viktor Ivchenko after he'd recovered enough physically and mentally, through there had been no record of the man. Natasha had offered that she hadn't believed that had been his real name, and with some help and Hydra files from Coulson, they'd found another name of someone who had been oddly similar to the man who'd captured them.

Johann Fennhoff.

A mystery, a ghost story, for S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Never caught. Never confirmed dead. Presumed birth date... 1882.

Clint remembered the unsettling feeling at this information. There was no way it should have been possible that Ivchenko... Fennhoff... had been up and around or even alive. There had to have been a mistake in the files somewhere, or they hadn't been the same person after all... But they were. He'd known, and still knew, that they were. Though it was still a mystery that hadn't quite been solved. Something else was at play, and he was still just as determined to figure it out, find Fennhoff, and bring him down.

He nearly fell over again, cursing under his breath when the arrow in his leg was jarred a bit by the action. He failed to notice the shadowed figure looming at the top of the stairs above him, balancing a crossbow on his arm as he watched the struggling archer intently.

"Come to me, little mouse."

Author's Note: All right, that's it for this one! More threads are being woven together with just how much Fennhoff's been involved in/ruined people's lives, Peter's getting drawn in more, and Tony's close to some more trouble. The next chapter, the last part of Clint's backstory, is done as well, so that'll be up soon! Thanks for reading, guys! As always, your reviews are much appreciated. See ya next time!