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

A/N

I want to thank all those who have followed and favourited this week. Also a big thanks to Armand, Hofherrp, Guest and Your Friend Tiger who reviewed the last chapter. I am glad that you are all enjoying it guys! There is plenty more to come, from the end of this chapter until the finale things move very fast.

I also thank my beta's, Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot, both of who helped to improve this chapter, and story, enormously. I honestly can't thank them enough for all their help. Any mistakes that remain are mine.

Also, from here on out I will only be posted one chapter per weekend. There are a few reason for that, the top one being that I am moving away to go University tomorrow and won't have a lot of time. The chapters are longer though so hopefully everyone will survive with one update per week.

Just a heads up that this chapter is somewhat dark when compared to the rest of the story. It is actually my favourite chapter of all of them and what gave this story its name. It contains pretty much all the elements that I could possibly cram into Clint's backstory, which is a lot. I have meshed comics, fanfiction ideas and canon in a way that works for what I have planned. Without giving too much away I want you to know that this chapter isn't all sunshine; but then I don't think any of them really have been.

I'll shut up now and let you enjoy chapter 6!

We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict. Jim Morrison

Chapter 6: Bleeding Souls

March, 1998

Vienna in March was breathtakingly beautiful. It was too early in the year for the throngs of tourists that the city experienced later in summer, so for the most part the only people present were those that actually lived there. Locals thronged the cobbled streets and alleys talking, laughing, trading, working and playing. The historic buildings located alongside the modern inventions of cars, trams, cell phones and powerlines spoke of a rich heritage and a desire to keep up with the modern world. Overall Vienna was beautiful, bright and welcoming to those who visited her, three things that Hawkeye didn't feel in the mood for at the moment.

Clint had come to Vienna to do yet another job. Normally that wouldn't have bothered him much, but this time his target was different. He was a loving family man, a father to 4 children, all of whom were under the age of ten. He was in his early thirties and was living happily with his wife and kids in a picturesque part of the city. Clint hadn't realised the man had kids when he'd taken the contract on him, if he'd known at the time he would probably have refused.

He'd done it a few times before and the rumours that had spread as a result said that he refused the jobs because they were too easy, they were beneath his abilities and didn't present enough of a challenge. The real reason was that they all involved children in some way, whether they or their parents were the target. He couldn't stomach the thought of killing children and due to been an orphan himself Clint knew what it was like first hand to not have parents, and didn't want to wish what he'd been through as a child on anyone, even his worst enemy.

The one and only time he'd accepted a contract on a child he hadn't been able to go through with it in the end, landing himself in boiling water as a result, almost literally. That hadn't been fun; Clint still hated North Korea with every fibre of his being and hadn't been back since. His experiences there had resulted in the scar that ran across his neck and chest but they weren't the worst reminder. He frequently had nightmares about his time spent in that torture chamb-...um prison interrogation room, often waking up in the dead of night in a cold sweat with a hammering heart and vivid memories of pain and screaming. He would then desperately try to convince himself it was just a nightmare and he was safe now. It didn't always work, it had been almost a year since then but an experience that traumatic stays with you forever.

It was after those events that he'd changed to survive in his new life, after Korea he'd made himself stop regretting anything he did to survive. When he'd killed the bastard who'd ordered the hit on the innocent girl in the first place, as he'd stared into the man's hate-filled eyes as he aimed the last arrow between them, Clint had felt something in him snap and darkness take its place. Without conscious though he'd released the arrow and as it hit its mark the bright hate-filled eyes faded into blank nothingness. It was at that precise moment the assassin Hawkeye reached full maturity and the persona of Clint Barton became a distant memory.

He'd walked away from the dead man practically hanging on the wall by the arrows and had never looked back, afraid if he did he would regret it. He had many regrets about his past actions but killing that man had never been one of them, no, he was afraid if he looked back he'd regret the killing of Clint Barton.

It was too late for regrets about taking this job now though.

He was in this and he had to see it through if he wanted to maintain his reputation. And he had to; if his reputation became tarnished he wouldn't live for long, one slip up and he was dead, and Clint wasn't ready to die. His stubbornness was perhaps the greatest blessing and the greatest curse in his life.

Clint only spent 5 days watching his target. He normally watched them for at least a week if he could (he hated timeframes and charged more for those, due to his fearsome reputation people normally obliged, you didn't hire Hawkeye unless you had plenty of money available to pay him) but in this case he couldn't watch any further. The sight of a happy loving family he was about to destroy almost broke him completely, and if he'd waited any longer he knew he wouldn't have been able to take that shot. He would have been compromised.

Clint was on a rooftop watching the man take the family dog for a run down to the shops and back just before dinner. He was on his fifth day of observations, and he suddenly couldn't handle this any longer. There were no kids around the man at the time, a rarity for such a close family, so Hawkeye took the opportunity and made the shot. As soon as the target was down Clint took off back to his apartment as if every law enforcement agent on the planet was on his tail.

He spent several minutes retching into the toilet in the small apartment before he was able to focus enough to wash his face and gather his thoughts together to work out a plan of action. He quickly shoved the few belongings he had with him into his bag and having made sure there was no physical evidence of him having been in the apartment he climbed out the window and headed towards the train station. He intended to catch the next train out of Vienna; he had to get away from here as fast as he could.

The growing darkness as night closed in and the guilt over what he'd just done culminated into making him lose his focus for just one second, but that was enough. He misjudged a step and slipped just as he was about to jump off the roof-access ladder onto the ground a block from the train station. He hit the concrete pavement head-first and saw stars for what seemed like an age before his head cleared enough for him to think, though he still felt very muzzy. He was vaguely aware of the throbbing in his right ankle but ignored it for the time being. As soon as his head allowed him to stand without making him sick he managed to make it the block to the station and brought a ticket on the next train heading out. The concussion he'd given himself continued to make the world very blurry; when the train arrived Clint slumped into a corner seat in an empty carriage and desperately tried not to black out. He wasn't sure he was entirely successful.

4 hours and 43 minutes later Clint disembarked in Prague. The station was almost deserted, only one or two other people got off the train with him. After he'd hobbled out of the station due to his aching ankle Clint found the streets were similarly empty. He started walking with no real destination in mind, his backpack on his back and his head down as he desperately trying not to let the guilt, concussion and pain from his ankle overwhelm him.

Clint wasn't aware of what he was doing, and wasn't paying any attention to where he was going. Several minutes, or it could have been hours as he lost track of time, later he somehow ended up at Charles Bridge. He climbed up onto the side of the structure before settling down in the shadow of one of the statues, staring broodingly out over the Vltava River to the city beyond without really seeing any of the brightly lit buildings. All he saw was blood. And it wasn't just the blood in his ledger.

You could say Clint's life story was written in blood. It was dripping red and gushing with it. The first memory he had of it was also the very first memory he possessed. He couldn't remember anything from before that, it was just blank.

He had been three and had fallen off his tricycle and grazed his left elbow and knee. He remembered watching in fascination as the blood run down the front of his leg, wet and sticky and red. His mom had cleaned and bandaged him up, and in a few days he had been as right as rain but for some reason that memory of the red had stayed with him.

The next time he saw red that he really remembered was when he witnessed both his parents being killed in a car accident when he was six. His dad had been drinking as per usual and had managed to run into the side of a truck when he was going 30 miles over the speed limit. Clint and his older brother Barney had been in the back of the car and though they were both hurt, none of their injuries had proved life threatening. Both their parents had been killed outright.

Clint remembered seeing his dad with his neck hanging limply at an impossible angle, blood dripping from a gash near his hairline, his eyes sightless. His mom's head had been bashed in, Clint could never bring himself to remember all the details, all he remembered was the sight of blood, the sharp metallic smell of it and how slippery it had made surfaces. There had been so much blood everywhere, all over him and Barney, all over the car, all over his parents. His memories of the rest of the accident were vague; all he really remembered was the bright red blood.

He'd seen plenty of blood during his time at the home for boys and all the orphanages that he and Barney had been sent to and from and bounced around in over the next five years. The older boys were always either fighting with each other or bullying the younger boys, and the adults often weren't much better. During this time Clint had lost count of the number of times he'd gotten injured, none of the adults had ever cared what the boys did; they were pretty much left to their own devices. Not even the doctors he'd met cared, which had instilled in him a deep distrust and hatred for medical personnel that continued to this day. Clint had always been small and skinny for his age, and so had been an easy target for the bullying, especially as Barney hadn't always been there to protect him. In hindsight after everything that had happened between them Clint couldn't help but wonder if his brother had ever really cared about him as anything more than a useful tool.

It was due to his time at the orphanages that he loved being up high, the boys had never been able to climb up to the same places that Clint could, his body behaved more like a monkey's than a human's at times. Being up high was the only way he was able to escape, to be safe. He liked to see and not be seen, and he'd always seen better from a distance anyway. Heights had been his safe haven and way to escape from a bad situation for as long as he could remember.

However, he couldn't escape from all the blood that was on his hands now; he was tainted too deeply in his soul. Clint looked out at the city, the innocent red lights turning to blood in his mind.

Once they'd left the last orphanage and joined the travelling carnival that was showing in the next town Clint had hoped life would change and he wouldn't always see so much of the red stuff. He'd hoped to find someone who loved him and wouldn't want to hurt him, someone who could fill the void in him that no matter what he'd done had remained a hollow ache for as long as he could remember. He just wanted a chance at a normal life.

Like all his dreams, it was not to be.

He'd seen plenty of blood during his six years in the circus; some his, some not his, some he had even caused. In fact his last clear memory from the circus was of lying in a pool of his own blood, watching his brother walk away from him without a second thought, leaving his baby brother dying all alone with his own knife sticking out of his chest and a broken heart after a job had gone south. The betrayal had hurt more than anything physical ever had, but Clint still remembered seeing the blood. Bright red blood staining his hands as he desperately tried to staunch the flow, blood he could see, blood they had washed off at the hospital later, unlike the blood that stained his hands now.

No matter how hard he tried, that blood couldn't be washed off. It was there all the time, and only he could see it. That didn't mean it wasn't real though. It was very real, and the fact he couldn't get rid of it just made it more real. It was a permanent reminder of all the red in his ledger and his life that he could do nothing about. All he could do was add to it.

His time in the army was also dominated by the blood he'd spilled, Clint had often not even known why he killed those he did, he simply followed orders but that fact still didn't make him innocent of the deaths he'd caused. And as for now, well, he was now an assassin who killed people for money.

He spilled blood because he got paid for it these days; his life was nothing but blood and darkness now. His life story was written in shades of red and black. There was nothing else in him, no hope, no feelings and no emotions. Assassins couldn't afford to have emotions, as he'd learnt the hard way more than once. His soul was bleeding with all the blood he'd spilled, all those innocent lives he'd taken for money, money he didn't even use, money he didn't even need. He was so weak, he was a failure, death was even too good an end for him. Clint was vaguely aware of the world turned from red to black, he tried to fight it but eventually the black won and he knew no more.

Clint woke up slowly with a throbbing headache and a bad taste in his mouth. He moaned and tried to roll over but something was stopping him. Confused, Clint opened his eyes and blearily blinked, disoriented. All he saw was red. Then as his vision cleared and his head stopped spinning so that he could actually focus he realised that it was hair, red hair, lots and lots of red hair. Then Clint saw the deep green eyes looking at him with concern shining in them. He tried to sit up but his head started pounding again and he dropped back onto the bed with a moan as his eyes closed of their own volition and he desperately tried not to be sick. He was given tablets of some kind and made to take them, washing them down with a bottle of water that was held to his lips. Just before he dropped back into unconsciousness he heard her whisper.

"Sleep now, I'm here and you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

The Black Widow sat on the edge of a chair and watched him sleep. Hawkeye was the last person she would have expected to see here. She also wouldn't have expected when she saw him he would be sitting in a daze right on the edge of a bridge, looking like he was about to fall off into the river below. He'd tried to fight when she'd pulled him back but he had been no match for the Black Widow in his delirious-like and almost unconscious state, unlike the last time they'd fought. She wasn't sure if he would have fallen, but she knew she couldn't take that chance. There were enough deaths on her conscience as it was.

She'd managed to subdue him just before he passed out. She'd then taken him and his bag back to the motel room she was staying in; she had her ways of doing things. He'd woken up not long ago in a dazed state due to the concussion, she had given him some pain killers and told him to go to sleep, that he was safe now. He'd proceeded to do just that, though whether it was voluntary or the result of the drugs she didn't know.

The Widow wondered just what had happened to make the infamous Hawkeye end up in this state. She also wondered why she was helping him. The only thing she knew for sure was that since their first meeting in Moscow two months ago she hadn't been able to shake him out of her head; there was something about him that she'd never seen in any of the other men she'd met. She hadn't been able to place what it was then and still couldn't now. She had half wondered if it was love but had almost instantly dismissed that notion. Love was for children she'd been told all her life and the Black Widow was no child. She'd never been a child.

Still, she kept her promise and watched over him while he slept.

Sunlight was filtering into the room and the faint sound of traffic could be heard coming through the open window when Clint woke. He was weak and he still had a headache, other than that he felt okay. Well, apart from needing a shower and something to eat. Clint tried to remember how he'd gotten here but there was nothing. The last thing he remembered was packing his stuff up in Vienna.

Vienna! Clint sat bolt upright as the memory came back to him, and he felt himself start to panic. He didn't know what would have happened next if she hadn't taken hold of his hand and spoken softly.

"It's okay; I'm here, breath, just breath. You're safe and everything's going to be okay. Just breathe."

It was the red-haired girl from that job in Moscow two months ago. She was looking at him, concern clearly written in her green eyes. Clint took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then took another. After about 5 minutes or so he felt calm enough to look at her properly, and ask her the question that had been bugging him.

"What the hell happened?"

She smiled sadly at him.

"I'm not sure," she replied, "what do you remember?"

"Not much. Why am I here and more to the point why are you here? Where is here by anyway? And just who are you?"

"My name is Natalia Romanova. As to where you are, you are in a motel in Prague, I brought you here. I don't know why you're in this city. And would you mind giving me your name? It's only fair seeing I gave you mine. Unless you want me to just call you Hawkeye."

Clint hesitated for a second before deciding her knowing just his first name didn't hurt. He hadn't had anyone call him Clint for a long time, probably no one had since his brother deserted him. It might be nice for at least one person to know him by a name other than Hawkeye.

"Clint. Natalia hey? That's unusual, mind if I call you Nat? It's much easier to remember. How long was I out?"

"You were unconscious for almost twenty-two hours. It would seem you somehow managed to sustain a concussion, along with a slightly sprained ankle. The concussion seems to be gone now but the ankle will take another day or two to heal properly, providing you give it plenty of rest."

Clint digested this information in silence before asking another question.

"What time is it?"

"It's almost 8 pm. It is also a Tuesday."

He had been out for a while as last he remembered it had been Sunday.

"Would it be possible to get something to eat Nat? I don't remember when the last time I had a proper meal was."

Natalia nodded and gracefully stood up from where she was sitting on the bed before going over to the phone which was sitting on the top of the cupboard in the corner. She dialled a number and after speaking to someone in Czech for a few minutes hung up. She came back and sat back down on her chair before talking to him in English.

"I've just ordered some pizza to be delivered. They told me it would be about half-an-hour so there's time for you to have a shower if you want it. Bathroom is through there." She pointed at a small door set into the wall on the other side of the sparsely furnished room. "And there's plenty of hot water despite appearances. Soap and shampoo are on the shelf. No offence meant but I'd say you could do with a good shower."

Clint grinned cheekily.

"So I'm not the only one who thinks that then?"

She glared at him, lips twitching slightly, and pointed towards the bathroom. Clint signed and made a big show of slowly getting out of bed. Mindful of his bandaged and very sore ankle Clint gathering some clean clothes out of his bag which was lying on the floor near the foot of the bed before limping slowly towards the door she'd indicated, ignoring the eye roll he received for his trouble. Natalia was right; he really did need a shower.

35 minutes later he exited the bathroom, feeling refreshed and more alert and comfortable in cleaner clothes, to see Natalia putting three pizza boxes down on the bare and very battered wooden table. An enticing smell was wafting around the room making his mouth water. He pulled the chair that was next to the bed up to the table and sat down while Natalia sat in the chair on the other side of the table. Neither of them said a word as they ate, but it was a comfortable silence.

That night Clint tried to insist that Natalia take the bed, he argued that he could sleep on the couch but given he was still recovering Nat wouldn't hear of it and in the end he'd been too tired to fight so had given in and let her slept on the couch that was in the apartment. Clint, recovering from the concussion and having taken pain medication on Nat's insistence, slept soundly all night, not waking until the sun was high in the sky the next day. When he did Natalia Romanova was gone. The only physical evidence to suggest the whole encounter hadn't been a dream was a note pinned to the couch which said simply,

Clint, take care till we meet again. I trust we will. Nat.

Phil sat looking at the images that flashed across his computer screen. He and Mandy had scanned the arrows and identified several sets of fingerprints on them, but only one set was common to them all. Most of these prints were located up near the fletching; Phil was willing to bet they belonged to the mystery assassin. He was currently running a computer check of every fingerprint record in existence, especially the ex-military ones which had been May's suggestion given the assassins skills, to see if he could find any that matched those prints, it was taking a long time but Phil was a patient man. It was a long shot, but Phil was willing to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this.

Fury was sitting in his office busy dealing with all the paperwork that was generated from running a covert secret organisation when the door was thrown open without a knock and someone came prancing into his office unannounced.

Fury looked up; he'd just opened his mouth to say something highly uncomplimentary and probably inform whoever it was that they no longer had a job when a military personnel file landed in front of him. Fury blinked and looked up at Phil who was grinning like the cat who'd swallowed the cream, and then eaten the canary for good measure. His mouth still open Fury asked a question instead of what he'd originally been going to say.

"What's this?"

"Open it and see, it's the real identity of this assassin Hawkeye."

Somewhat intrigued Fury opened the file, only to see 'deceased' stamped in red ink across the front of the ID photograph. He looked up at Phil in confusion, Phil just grinned back.

"Just read it."

"Phil, it says he's dead."

"Just because someone is believed to be dead doesn't mean they are. You of all people know how true that is sir. Just read."

So Fury gave in and read the file, which turned out to belong to one ex-army sniper called Clinton Francis Barton. He'd joined the military at 18, had excelled in his training and proved to be such an outstanding marksman that he'd become a sniper. He'd apparently never missed a shot, not once. However he'd had a problem with authority, a big problem judged from all the comments from his superiors that were in the file, and he wasn't much of a team player.

Fury took his time and read all the comments that had found their way into the file. He'd never seen such a differentiating of opinion, and Fury had seen a lot in his time. Some of the comments made about this sniper seem too good to be true, others painted him as reckless and arrogant, a full on pain in the ass. The truth was probably somewhere between the two but Fury read everything regardless.

Fury read right through before coming back to look at the service photo again. The kid looked so young. Barton had sandy coloured hair cut fairly short and eyes that weren't blue or green or grey, they were somewhere between these three colours and had specks of gold in them, in fact they were a colour that Fury had never seen before. He was staring at the camera with a rebellious look in his eyes, eyes that were very sharp and piercing and looked much older than eighteen. After contemplating the information in the file for a few moments Fury looked up at Phil.

"How did he die? All it says in this file is that there was an 'unfortunate incident'. That doesn't answer the question of how he could be both a dead soldier and an alive assassin if he is Hawkeye. So what's the story behind him been dead but apparently alive at the same time?"

Phil leaned forward in his chair, passing another file over to Fury. When opened this one turned out to be an incident report on a military jail over in Afghanistan which had been blown up almost 14 months ago. There had been something wrong with the wiring, the report said, and it had somehow managed to catch on fire before anyone realised what was happening. There had only been one prisoner in it at the time, no names were mentioned but he was officially reported as deceased based on the available evidence. The explosion had been so big that the guards standing outside had been severely injured, though they received the correct medical care and lived. After reading all that Fury looked at Phil.

"Let me guess, the person in the jail was this sniper Barton?"

"Spot on sir, yes, it was him. No body was ever recovered from the wreckage, however due to the heat the explosion generated it was thought that no one would have been able to survive. But then I found out the fingerprints on the arrows that belong to Hawkeye match the ones on Barton's file perfectly. No doubt they belong to the same person."

"So you think that he somehow survived that explosion then became a free-lance assassin?"

"I'm sure of it sir. These prints are the proof that Clinton Barton didn't die; he just changed identities and jobs. And at least now we have a picture of him, even if it is over two years old. Using an aging program that the FBI has developed and all the security cameras located around the world it's only a matter of time until we get a hit on his location now that we know who we are looking for. Once we have that what are your orders on the matter sir?"

"Enough with the sir business Phil. I don't think that we have a choice but to eliminate him. He's dangerous and deadly, and has a body count in the triple digits."

Fury then read something else that was written below the photograph that proceeded to visibly stun him.

"Good grief, if this information is true then this kid's barely out of his teens. Not even twenty-one years old and already one of the most feared and deadly contract assassins in the world. He has to be retired soon Phil, if someone can be that good when they're barely twenty they'll be unstoppable in another 5 or 10 years, providing he survives that long. We'll be doing everyone a favour by stopping this now before it goes any further."

Phil just nodded; he'd expected this would happen. He would hand pick some other agents to go with him and they'd eliminate Hawkeye for good, eliminating threats was what they did after all. He had more to tell Fury first however, Phil's research hadn't stopped there, oh no, he was way too curious for that. Some would call it nosy but it had always stood him in good stead so far.

"That's not all I found out about him director. That's barely half the story."

Nick looked up from the report with a frown as Phil handed him another two files. He seemed to be producing them out of thin air, how many more were there? Deciding to humour Phil for now Nick opened the first file which contained reports from the social services about possible child abuse, school reports, an accident report, old faded records pertaining to who-knows-what-Fury-didn't and not much else. Fury opened the second one and blinked at old, faded circus posters, a few photocopied newspaper articles in black-and-white and some police reports. He glared at Coulson who was grinned that idiotic grin of his again. He was too damn pleased with himself over all this.

"Explain soldier."

"It seems that Clinton Francis Barton was born in Waverley, Iowa. Even though I couldn't find his birth certificate it makes sense that is where he was born as he definitely spent his early life there and appears briefly on the school register. Both his parents were killed in a car accident resulting from his father's drunk driving when he was about six or seven, leaving him and his older brother Charles as orphans. The social services found evidence of possible child abuse having occurred in the Barton home before that but nothing was ever proven as the boys wouldn't talk to anyone about their parents and they were dead anyway. Having no other living relatives they were put into the foster system and spent the next five years bouncing around in it, never being adopted. At the end of those five years the Barton brother's ran away from the home they were in."

In spite of himself Fury leaned forward.

"And...?"

Phil smirked at Fury's interest.

"And Clinton doesn't appear on the radar again until he joins the army almost seven years later, his older brother completely disappears. From what I found out it is a possibility that they joined a travelling circus, Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders. I haven't been able to find much on them, they were an incredibly secretive group and not at all modest, even for a circus. They were suspected by the authorities of being involved in crimes ranging from petty theft and assault to assassinations, but nothing was ever proven. They never stayed in one place for more than a week or two and were too good at covering their tracks for any charges to stick for long. They played their innocent act very well."

"Sometime during their time spent there the younger Barton apparently learned archery; if these newspaper articles are to be trusted he even had his own act under the name 'The Amazing Hawkeye' the man who never misses. The last bit is what tipped me off to his true identity as Hawkeye is ironically the name he uses now..."

"As a contract assassin and he still never misses what he aims at." Fury finished, and frowned. "Just how the heck does all this relate to the current case Agent?"

"To be honest it doesn't, but once I started getting hits I couldn't stop. After being with the circus world for about five years or so Hawkeye just vanishes from the performance scene, he seemingly evaporates into thin air and isn't heard from again. The younger Barton joined the military not long after, what happened to the older one I don't know, his name doesn't appear in any records. Barton was with them for almost eighteen months and became a sniper, a remarkably good one, just look at his shooting scores. He served in Afghanistan for a while before been presumed dead after the explosion. It seems he's gone into the wind since then and somewhere along the lines became a gun for hire. He certainly seems to be a merciless killing machine for hire now."

Fury frowned.

"I know that he's a mercenary. Where did you find out all this?"

"It wasn't easy, but once I had a few dates and place names I found out more. I worked backwards from what we do know for sure and put all the pieces together in a way that makes sense. Most of this isn't set in stone it's just what makes the most sense given the evidence I've found. The early stuff was from government records in Iowa though I couldn't find a birth certificate for the younger Barton, only the older one, which is rather odd but I suppose that he could have slipped through the cracks or it could be in some other place..."

Fury gave Phil a bland look as he cut the other agent's ramblings short.

"This is fascinating, but I seem to remember asking for this assassin's name, not his entire life history and then some."

"I couldn't stop once I started sir, and besides it's a good idea to know all you can on your opponent, event their early life. We probably should do that more often as it could make finding them easier."

Fury kept his expression blank, but Phil did have a good point. He'd think more on that later; perhaps do some digging of his own. Right now he had to get an excited Phil Coulson back on track and out of his office so he could work in peace again.

"Whatever, just make sure that you let me know when you locate this assassin Phil. As soon as you do you have clearance to eliminate him, just let me know first. You are dismissed Agent, and make sure you take all these files back with you. I don't need your paperwork cluttering up my desk and getting in the way of more important work."

SHIELD's New York Headquarters: almost two months later

"Phil, are you absolutely sure about this?"

The two of them were in Fury's office; Nick currently had his gaze fixed on his best agent, who was sitting across the table from him visibly vibrating with excitement.

"Yes Nick, I am. We've taped into live security feeds from airports all over the world and the photo recognition we set up to scan faces saw Barton boarding a direct flight to Tokyo less than an hour ago. If we leave now we can be in Tokyo in less than 12 hours time. We can find him from there."

"You sure it was him?"

"The FBI's aging program we used on his military service photo gave us a fair idea of what he is likely to look like now, and the feeds from the airport reported a 93% facial match. It's him."

"That is high." Fury was actually impressed as he looked first at the still taken from the security feed, and then at the picture that had digitally aged Barton. They were certainly very similar, even though the still was very grainy and in black and white it was clearly the same person. "Okay, you have my permission soldier, go and neutralise this threat. Have you decided who you are taking with you?"

"Yes, Harrison and Boyd. I know that's not a lot of people for what could be a difficult job but from what I know about Barton I think it's best this way. I'm hoping we'll have the element of surprise on our side as I don't fancy facing him head on with the crazy skills he has. If he really is the assassin Hawkeye this could be quite a challenge."

"Just try not to die Phil; I don't think that I'll be able to handle the amount of paperwork that would generate."

"I'll do my best to come back alive and in one piece sir. Thank you for your concern."

"How often do I have to tell you to quite with the sir Coulson? Will it ever penetrate through your thick head?"

"I don't think so s-"

"Don't you dare call me sir again, or I just might decide to make you stay. I know how much you want to do this so you'd better get going before I change my mind and assign this kill order to someone else."

Phil nodded and left the room as Fury went back to his paperwork. He was confident that Phil would soon bring this assassin down; the man was the best agent he'd ever met, if anyone could eliminate Hawkeye it was Phil Coulson. Just a couple more days and then an 8 month old file could be laid to rest in the pile of successful closures.

End of chapter 6.

Phil has finally found Hawkeye! But wait, he wants to kill him? What could possibly be going to happen next? Tune in next week for our next chapter to find out;

Chapter 7: Tokyo

Who feels like giving Clint a hug due to his horrible past? Let me know how many of you feel this way by leaving a review!