Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.

A/N

Wow, this story is still being followed and favourited, thanks so much guys! Knowing that people are enjoying this is really motivating me to work hard to finish the sequel before Uni starts next week so I can start posting it directly after I finish with this story.

A big thanks also goes to Hofherrp and Armand for reviewing chapter 4!

As usual a huge shout out to my beta's Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot! Especially jaguarspot who proofread this chapter twice for me, the second time on very short notice after my muse went crazy earlier on in the week. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

The German is courtesy of Microsoft Word translator. If anyone wants to volunteer to translate please PM me!

There is some violence in this chapter guys, nothing to graphic but it is there.

Enjoy chapter 5, we finally have some action, yay!

Determination gives you the resolve to keep going in spite of the roadblocks that lay before you. Denis Waitley

Chapter 5: Paris

Paris, France: February, 1998

It was good to be home. Despite the fact he spent more time travelling than anything else Clint still saw the small flat he rented on a month-by-month basis in Paris as the closest thing he had to a home. It was located on the top floor of a small apartment building in a working class part of the city meaning it had a fire escape and at least two other ways to exit if he needed to without going through the rest of the building.

Partially because Paris was the first city he'd ended up in after fleeing Afghanistan just over a year ago and partially because French was the first foreign language he'd learned to speak back when he was a teenager he had formed an attachment to the city which he now tentatively called home. He'd come a long way from his first pitiful attempts at French, he could speak the language flawlessly with virtually no accent these days; no one ever gave him a second glance. Though any native speaker he spoke with for any length of time could usually pick out he wasn't French by birth; to the casual observer he could easily be a native.

He liked the city well enough, though he still couldn't think of America without feeling a pang of homesickness, even if his memories of his life there weren't nice. But there was no way he could go back, it simply wasn't safe. Besides what would he do there if he did go back?

The soldier Clint Barton was believed to be dead and had a court martial hanging over his head either way; Hawkeye was a wanted criminal in half the countries of the world and more than likely on several agencies and governments' hit lists. And let's not get started on the number of criminal organisations who wanted him dead.

Clint was well aware he wasn't popular. There was nowhere safe he could go if he retired from this job and so he just had to go on doing what he did best, being the man who never missed. That reputation, which was once his pride and joy, was now a curse. If only he was like other people he never would have gotten into all this mess in the first place. He would never have been noticed in the circus all those years ago and the betrayals, jealousy, lies, hatred and dishonesty that was his life story may never have happened.

"No, no, NOOO!"

Clint woke up with a start, the metallic smell of blood and the guard's evil laugh still fresh in his mind. He was breathing fast and covered in a layer of perspiration in spite of the chilly room, involuntarily his left hand had gone to the scar on his throat. Clint gulped as he sat bolt upright and desperately tried to calm himself down.

He hated nightmares. They were so frequent and seemed so real. His traitorous brain twisted his memories while he slept when he didn't have any control over them. That was what he hated most, the lack of control. He'd never admitted it to anyone and wouldn't ever admit it but not been in control scared him; all the times he'd been hurt in his life had happened when he wasn't in control. Control, he needed to be in control of what happened if he was to live.

The last nightmare was still fresh in his mind, blood, so much blood, and the pain, the white-hot blinding pain as they'd tortured him. Suddenly the roof felt like it was falling on top of Clint and the walls were too close; breathe, he had to breathe. Clint was having a difficult time doing that and realised he needed to get out in the fresh air for a while.

Clint swiftly dressed, pulling on dark jeans and a tight black long-sleeve t-shirt with a jacket over it as it was still winter in this part of the world after all. He laced up his boots and was about to head out the door when he paused. He didn't know what made him turn, pick up his bow and quiver of arrows with hands that still trembled slightly, or go down the fire escape on the outside of the building before jumping onto the roof belonging to the next house over, but something did, some feeling, and he'd learnt to trust his feelings a long time ago. Clint started away from the apartment, sticking to the shadows on the rooftops, not that there were many people around in this part of town at this time of night to see him. But these days being invisible was almost second nature to him and certainly didn't hurt given his profession.

As he parkoured through the famous city Clint felt himself slowly calming down as the dark memories the nightmare had dredged up left him. To most people swinging off and around things and jumping through things 5 or more stories above the ground wouldn't have been relaxing, but Clint wasn't like other people. Heights calmed and soothed him, he felt safe and in control when he was up high and could see without being seen. Even though the quiver made his movements a little more awkward then normal he was still almost as graceful as a cat in the way he moved. He wasn't sure why he'd brought his bow and arrows with him, he had his knives after all, but they were here and he didn't waste time and energy trying to think of the reason.

Sometime later he landed in an empty alley 10 blocks or so away from his apartment feeling slightly winded but much calmer than when he had started out. The last remnants of the nightmare were thankfully almost gone and Clint felt calm and focused again. He was heading out of the alley when some inner instinct told him to duck, which he did, and seconds later a bullet ripped through the air right where his head had been moments before.

So much for a quiet solitary walk, he just couldn't get a break from people trying to kill him could he?

Clint rolled behind a truck parked in the alley before grabbing his bow off the hook on his quiver, snapping the limbs into place and pulling out an arrow. Peering cautiously around the side he was able to easily make out a figure lying on the rooftop two blocks over. The way he was laying on the roof half hidden behind a beam meant there wasn't a clear line of sight for Clint to take a good shot at him.

The sniper rifle he'd just used to take a shot at Clint was in his line of sight however.

Thinking quickly Clint made his decision. Knowing that even the best marksman would take a few seconds to see him in the shifting shadows of the alley, even through a scope, Clint stepped out from behind the truck and had an arrow drawn, aimed and fired before the enemy realised he was out in the open again and had had time to pull the trigger. His first arrow shattered the scope of the rifle and the man's head jerked up in surprise just in time for him to take a second arrow straight through his right eye.

Clint watched in grim satisfaction as the figure suddenly jerked back as the arrow pierced his brain, instantly killing him before the body collapsing onto the roof next to the damaged rifle. Serves him right for trying to kill Hawkeye, you'd think people would have learnt that wasn't a good idea by now.

Hearing the sound of boots behind him made Clint spin around, an arrow already notched, and he'd taken down two of them before the others registered what he was doing. Not counting the two already down there was seven of them, and all seven were pulling out guns and knives. Not good news, time for something creative. Clint dived back behind the truck as they opened fire at him, earning himself a bullet graze to his leg in the process, which he ignored for now in favour of thinking quickly. Making split decisions on the fly was something he'd always been good at, it was just one of his little known skills. Clint looked around desperately for a way out of his current predicament and then his eyes landed on the ladder built into the side of the truck he was currently crouching behind.

Clint was on top of the truck in seconds, ignoring the pain from his injured leg. Just in time too as it turned out, the idiots went around the side of the truck he'd just been on, still firing. Then the firing abruptly stopped, they'd realised he wasn't there. Clint tensed, readying his bow in case one of them thought to climb up the ladder, but apparently the idea never crossed their minds. People never do think of looking up for things, Clint had experienced the truth of that statement more than once. Instead they began arguing in German; Clint kept his breathing low and listened.

"Wo ist er? Haben Sie eine Ahnung, wie viel Mühe wir in sein werde, wenn er entkommt?" (Where'd he go? Do you have any idea how much trouble we'll be in if he escapes?)

"Woher soll ich wissen, wohin er ging, Fritz, ich bin kein Zauberer. Es ist deine Schuld, die er nicht da ist." (How should I know where he went, Fritz, I'm not a magician. It's your fault that he's not here.)

"Wie genau ist es meine Schuld? Wessen war Plan dies überhaupt?" (How exactly is it my fault? Whose plan was this anyway?)

As Clint listened to the two of them bickering he heard another voice butt in.

"Shut up you two, he can't have gotten far away so start looking instead of arguing. I honestly don't know why you were allowed to come with us in the first place."

The third voice sounded very German though he was speaking good English, the other two were apparently German as well. Clint had heard enough however, he had no idea why these people wanted him dead but they obviously did. There was no way out of this alive unless he killed them first, which Clint really didn't want to have do but he realised there was really no other choice in the matter.

As a rule Clint preferred to run first, a habit born from always being small for his age and an easy target for bullying and abuse. Later on as he'd gotten older he'd learnt to fight and was now very good at hand-to-hand. Though running was till his preferred option in any circumstances he knew how to fight and could hold his own if he had to. And he'd better do this quickly before the police or some form of authority arrived as all those shots would likely have alerted them, this part of the neighbourhood wasn't totally deserted. Clint looked around him, his sharp eyes analysing everything quickly as he made his decision.

He placed the bow back on his quiver and silently stood up on the truck's roof, thankful that he'd left the skyscrapers and big buildings behind him and that the buildings in this part of the city had lower roofs; this one was single story which made his job much easier, he'd done harder manoeuvres in the circus then what he was about to do now, he just had to make sure he timed it right so he wouldn't hurt himself.

Clint lined up and took a short run before jumping towards the roof of the neighbouring building. He grabbed the lip of the roof with his fingers before kicking off the wall of the building and using the momentum to flip his body up and over the lip in a backward summersault like he'd being taught to do. Thanks to his circus training he landed lightly on the roof on his feet but still rolled over a couple of times to lessen the impact. His wounded leg screamed in protest to the jarring it received due to this action but he managed to ignore it, there would be plenty of time to deal with it later, once people had stopped trying to kill him.

The shouting below let him know he'd been seen and grabbing his bow off the quiver he began rapidly firing arrows at anyone he could see, dodging a few bullets that found their way onto the roof, for mercenaries these guys were really bad shots. He'd dropped four of them before the remaining three realised charging out into the open wasn't a great idea and would most likely get them killed. Clint snorted, seriously how dumb can these people be? For mercenaries this bunch officially sucked. Just then Clint heard a slight noise behind him and cursed under his breath as he realised he'd been concentrating so hard on taking down the people on the ground in front of him that he'd neglected to watch his back and as a result he was no longer alone on the roof.

Hans swore as he saw the other mercenaries that had been hired taken out so easily by the archer. He'd warned them Hawkeye was dangerous but they refused to listen, the fools. All they could think about was the amount of money they'd receive, and how famous they'd be for killing the notorious assassin Hawkeye, amateurs. It didn't occur to them that he would likely kill them first, the incompetent idiots. There the archer was on the roof now, calmly picking the others off one by one like flies while dodging the few stray bullets that miraculously found their way onto the roof. Hans was never accepting a job with amateurs again.

It was well know that this assassin Hawkeye was unbeatable long distance, the stories about that were legendary, but was he that good hand-to-hand, without his beloved bow? Nothing had ever been said about it in the underworlds shadows as the archer seemed to avoid physical confrontations, striking from a distance and disappearing before anyone even knew he was there most of the time, the only evidence to show he had been there was the single arrow that had killed its victim. Hans considered himself to be something of a master at hand-to-hand combat and besides, it was time to do something about this cocky archer. Hans was bigger and stronger and was sure using the element of surprise he'd be the one to finally take out Hawkeye. He wasn't the boss's prize hitter for nothing.

Clint spun around with an arrow at the ready only to have it knocked out of his hand and his bow kicked out of range, and even though it didn't fall off the roof it was now out of play. Clint managed to duck the first punch but wasn't quite quick enough for the second one, it landed painfully on his ribs and he felt one crack. He stumbled back and being distracted for a half second by the pain from his rib he didn't see the hand swing at his head and connect with it, sending him sprawling flat on his back onto the roof gasping and seeing stars. The man then proceeded to pick him up and hold him by the throat, looking at Clint with cold hard eyes that had a hint of smug triumph in them.

He was several feet taller than Clint was and the way he was holding him meant that Clint's toes just brushed against the ground. Not good, not good at all. Now the man was hissing at him in heavily accented English. Clint supposed whoever had sent him had told him Clint spoke English as the man's English wasn't very good. Little did they know that Clint actually spoke German fluently.

"Not tough now are we? I knew you were coward all along, how could you be anything else; only coward can't go close and personal when he makes kill, but must do so from distance without looking in victims eyes. Only weak snake like you strikes from distance."

Clint felt his blood boiling at the man's sneering words. He wasn't a coward; he knew that much and he also knew something about hand-to-hand fighting. He could also look in a person's eyes as he killed them, he simply saw better from a distance and it was much safer. The confidant way this man was holding Clint and had not even bothered to check him for weapons or kill him straight away, instead wanting to monologue, made Clint suspect he probably didn't have a lot of brains, he certainly seemed more like the brawn part of the equation. Clint had been pretty well motionless up to now and knew he could use that to his advantage. From the way he was being held right now Clint knew this man wouldn't be prepared to deal with Clint's near superhuman agility and skills. That gave him an advantage which Clint didn't waste time in using.

Clint ignored the pain of his broken rib, his sore head and his bleeding leg as he suddenly grabbed hold of the man's right arm and after pushing off the ground with the toe of his right foot he twisted his body up and around with the agility and grace that only an acrobat or highly trained ballerina could ever hope to achieve; even then they'd have to have incredible upper body strength and very strong arms to do it without pulling a muscle or breaking their arm. Clint's pulled the man's hand with him as he twisted around, further and further back until he heard the arm crack and go limp as the man's grip relaxed. The surprised gasp of pain from the man as he stumbled back was all Clint heard before he felt a knife glance off his side, great, that was just what he needed.

Spinning around and dodging a clumsy blow from the man's other hand Clint grabbed one of his own throwing knives from his belt and threw it, aiming for the thug's heart. Normally he would have hit it no problem, world's best marksman remember?; however, the concussion he'd developed combined with the poor light culminated to make his aim a little off. Instead of hitting the mercenary's heart like Clint had intended it to the knife ended up landed slightly to the left of it; however it certainly succeeded in stopping him.

The man gurgled, his eyes wide and terrified as his left hand feebly clutched at the knife as he crumbled slowly to the ground gasping for air. Blood started trickling out of his mouth as his eyes glazed over and Clint realised he'd hit a lung and the man was suffocating to death, unable to breath while his lung slowly filled with blood. Good riddance, but Clint didn't want to see him suffer, even though this thug had tried to kill him. Clint didn't enjoy causing suffering and pain, in spite of killing people for a living he always made sure the marks didn't suffer more than they had to; his kills were quick and clean. Without conscious thought Clint pulled his knife out of the man's chest and swiftly cut his throat with it, putting him out of his misery, before wiping it clean on the man's clothes and putting it back in its sheath on his own belt.

A quick search of the man's body revealed he had nothing useful on him and hearing the sound of sirens heading his way Clint decided it was high time to get out of here. 5 bodies lying on the ground below him with arrows sticking out of them and him having a quiver were likely to lead to a lot of difficult questions, or no questions at all depending on what mood the cops were in. Not to mention the body on the roof two blocks over and of course there was also the one on this roof. Clint silently cursed that he didn't have time to collect his arrows, it would be undeniable who had been here, but then you did have to make a statement sometimes. This way at least everyone would know who'd killed these people, and it would serve as a warning to whoever might think of coming after him themselves.

Clint grabbed his bow, which miraculously hadn't fallen off the roof, before beating a hasty retreat via the roofs. He didn't know where the three mercenaries he'd failed to kill were so he kept a sharp lookout and took several detours to throw anyone who was following off his trail on his way back to his apartment but he didn't see them again.

Back home he showered then sat on his bed as he cleaned and dressed the bullet wound on his leg and the knife wound in his side, neither of which were too serious, and wrapping up his broken rib, which was slightly more serious and significantly more painful but then anything to do with bones normally was. Clint realised with regret that tomorrow he'd have to find another apartment, he didn't know if his enemies were aware of this one but he couldn't take the risk. He knew it was stupid of him but he'd kind of gotten used to his place, it suited his needs. Clint knew better than to get really attached to any one place or thing anymore, he'd learnt the hard way that all you know and trust can be taken from you in the blink of an eye leaving you worse off then you were before it had come along in the first place.

Feeling bruised, battered and exhausted Clint took a couple of aspirin for the pain even though he hated drugs before he collapsed onto the single bed and buried his face in the pillow. Despite his exhaustion sleep was a long time in coming. Eventually he managed to doze off, but Clint spent most of that night restlessly tossing and turning (as much as his rib would allow him to anyway) as he listened for any intruders on his apartment. Needless to say, it was a long night.

Agent Phil Coulson of The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division was waiting. He was good at that.

It had been over three weeks since he'd asked Fury if he could get him an arrow, and so far there'd been nothing. Not even a whiff of Hawkeye or his arrows. Phil was a patient man, but the tension of just waiting for something to happen was starting to get on his nerves. He sipped his freshly made coffee and sighed before diving into the pile of paperwork lying on his desk. It wasn't going to fill itself out and he needed something to occupy his mind, it was paperwork or sparring with Agent May, and he didn't feel quite up to the bruises the latter would incur at this point in time.

Five hours and several cups of coffee later Phil had finally finished filling out forms and had filed everything neatly away in its current place. He sat slumped back in his chair, mentally exhausted but too wound up on caffeine to rest as present, when his phone rang. Irritably glancing at the caller ID he saw that it was Fury. Feeling suddenly very hopeful Phil flipped it open and answered with a sharp 'sir'.

"Phil, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" The director's voice sounded slightly annoyed as it came over the line. "For that I have a good mind not to tell you what we just found."

Phil suddenly felt even more hopeful.

"And just what is that Fury?"

"Why don't you come to my office and I'll show you in person. You're going to love this."

Phil was already halfway out of his chair.

"I'm on my way Director."

Phil raced towards the door as he struggled into his jacket, almost hitting his hand on the doorpost in the process but managing to emerge from his office unscathed. Maybe, just maybe, Fury had finally managed to find what Phil had been waiting for.

Fury passed the plastic bag containing four bloodstained arrows, one of which was snapped in half, over his desk.

"Here you go Phil. I managed to get you four, but they're not in the best condition."

The delight in Phil's eyes made Fury think of a kid let loose in a candy store. He obviously didn't mind the mess the arrows were in.

"Thank you Director, these are just what I wanted. At least now I know that this archer is real. Where did you find these?"

"Paris. I had to twist and pull a few strings and call in quite a few favours to get hold of them for you. It seems a few nights ago our mysterious assassin was attacked. Going by the 6 bodies, several of them known mercenaries, that local police found at the scene with arrows through them, and the one that had been stabbed in the chest before having his throat cut, along with the lack of bow and quiver lying around I'd say he won. So, what exactly are you planning to do with this little lot?"

"I'm not sure at this point. I just wanted something tangible to work with. I think I'll run some tests and see if I can pick up anything on them that could point us towards identifying this assassin; it may be hard to isolate any DNA though as who knows who has handled these. Still, I have to start somewhere."

Phil left the office and Fury settled down to work. Fury knew Phil had a daunting task ahead of him; those arrows would indeed be full of DNA from who knew how many different people. Still, if anyone could isolate something all of them had in common it was Phil, especially with the advanced SHIELD technology he had at his disposal. They weren't the best at what they did for nothing.

Three weeks later, same location, still undisclosed

Phil and a young lab worker called Amanda Taylor who had a PhD in genetics and DNA analyses had been working on the four arrows Fury had gotten hold of for three weeks. Well, Phil had been working at it whenever he could; Amanda had been at it heaps more as this kind of thing was in her job description. They had indeed found so much DNA on them that it had proved impossible to isolate any of it. Right now they were both in the lab discussing what they were going to do next.

"I honestly don't know what else we can find on these four arrows sir."

Amanda, or Mandy as she like to be called, was a cheerful girl with shoulder length blonde hair that spent most of its time tied back and laughing blue eyes. She was in her early twenties, having graduated from college with her PhD at a very young age. "We've tried finding a DNA that is common to them all and that failed. We've put them through all the tests and the programs we can think of, and now we're back to square one. Do you have any more ideas Agent Coulson?"

Phil really wished he did but right now his mind was completely blank.

"No, I don't at this time Dr. Taylor. I think I'll have to sleep on this. There has to be some way of getting some information we can use out of these arrows, we just haven't thought of it yet. I refuse to give up on this."

Mandy nodded in agreement, she was more frustrated over their failure so far then Coulson was. After all she'd done a college degree for this sort of thing and had excelled at it, resulting in SHIELD recruiting her the second she graduated. But what the older agent was saying now did make sense.

"So we leave it for a day or so, and see if we come up with anything new to try then?"

"Pretty much, let me know if you come up with anything."

"I will do sir."

They talked about general stuff as they placed the arrows back in their individual sealed plastic bags before locking them safely away for the night so no one could tamper with them. Then they bid each other good-night and went their separate ways.

Later that night Phil was up watching a late night movie. He had been unable to sleep and had needed something to take his mind off everything that was happening, or in the case of identifying who Hawkeye was, not happening. He was watching with mild interest as the cop chased the baddy across the parking lot in a way that would never work in real life while trying not to think about his current problem with the arrows. Phil was almost asleep from sheer boredom and was just about to turn off the TV when he heard something that made his hand freeze above the remote. He remained motionless as he stared at the TV screen.

"If you're so sure this is the right person then what proof do you have?" The Judge was asking the lawyer for the persecution at the trial. The lawyer looked extremely phony to Phil's experienced eye, but then it was a movie. However, it was the lawyers' answer that had caught his attention.

"Your honour, the fingerprints at the scene of the crime exactly matched those taken from the prisoner upon his arrest. It can't be a coincidence..."

But that was all that Phil heard.

Fingerprints, they hadn't thought to check the arrows for bloody fingerprints.

They'd been so caught up in trying to find things out the high tech way that they'd forgotten something as simple as that. All four arrows would have the archer's prints on them, most likely up near the fletching; unless he wore gloves all the time which was most unlikely, even for a world renowned master assassin.

Phil and Mandy had been handling the arrows wearing gloves from the beginning because that's what you did with these sorts of things so Phil knew their prints wouldn't be on them. This might not be much, but it was a fresh lead, and Phil felt some of his anxiety melt away and be replaced by excitement as he made his decision. He almost headed out right then and there to tell Mandy before realising it was almost midnight, and though he was currently wide awake he remembered that some people in SHIELD actually worked what could be called fairly regular office hours. Phil decided that he'd let Mandy sleep, they at least had something new to try now. The morning would be soon enough to run the tests.

End of chapter 5.

Phil may finally have made a breakthrough! It's funny how in today's high tech world we often forget what's tried and proven simply because it isn't fancy. I hope to see you all again next week for the next step of the journey as we see if Phil finds anything on the arrows;

Chapter 6: Bleeding Souls

Reviews are encouraging me to work on finishing the sequel!