"Agent Barton." He turned, haggard, at the sound of Assistant Director Hill's voice, a faint smile that he could no longer feel touching his lips. "You're requested in the Director's office." He nodded once, and turned back to stare blankly down the hallway as he walked. There were no agents to avoid; most, if not all of them, actively ignored his presence, and those who did not, found ways to make themselves scarce. So, the main hall was silent, with only his own footsteps to keep him company. Clint had grown used to this in the last few days, and if he were honest with himself, and them, even...he'd have been the first to agree. He was a monster, a puppet whose strings might not have been cut...and no one was willing to risk a chance. Not on him...especially not him.

For those precious three hours, though, just one week past...he hadn't been either of those things. His head came up a little, and a tiny spark lit his blue eyes, dark as they still were.

He, Clinton Francis Barton, had been a hero.

"...So, you see, Agent Barton, we're putting you on burn notice as of this moment. The Secretary of Defense wants your head on his platter, and if we're being honest, the welfare of the agency is far more important than that of a broken asset." Hill's voice was dry and calm; a sure sign she was still pissed at him for the potshots under the facility in New Mexico, and Clint kept himself from fidgeting by sheer force of will. Ah, fuck...fuckity fuck... She droned on for a good thirty more minutes, explaining in lovely detail his new tenure at Fort Leavenworth, maximum security, the works...when the Director leaned forward, and Clint felt a chill roll up his spine.

"Agent Barton." Clint gulped, and met that lone brown eye.

"Director. Sir." Fury watched him for a long, long moment, and dipped his head, a sign of respect that Clint was almost afraid to see.

"...I will be honest with you. I didn't want to see it end this way."

"...I didn't either, sir." He whispered, head falling a little now to hang heavy. No, he expected to die in the field, or of some wound, or...well...something. That would be his retirement, his farewell to the agency that had saved his life...and his heart. But his heart had been shattered by Loki, and his life...well...his life wasn't worth much without Phil Coulson in it.

"...You've got an hour before they take you into custody, Agent. I suggest you spend it wisely; please, do not attempt to escape. We've sealed off the vents, and blocked all escape routes." Clint only nodded, a handful of times, and slowly stood, body swaying a little with the slowly growing shock. He turned back for a moment, eyes shadowed.

"Will...will you tell...?"

"Agent Romanov will be notified and warned of any attempt to contact you." Hill's voice cut through his stammering, and he swallowed nervously, the seams of his mask gaping a little more as he met Fury's eye. The older man nodded, once.

"I will tell her. And assure her that in spite of what has happened, we shall fight to free you." And for the first time in his life, Clint Barton watched the man before him lie through his teeth, blatantly not caring one way or another that he believed it or not. He would never be free...chances were, he wouldn't live to see his fortieth birthday. And that light inside him, buried deep by the grief and the guilt, flared up for a moment.

Fuck that shit.

Really, Fury should have been smarter than to give him an hour's lead time. Clint eased through the underbelly of the building, dressed only in a simple, nondescript set of camo that he'd kept from his army days and one of Phil's old tee shirts. He'd left everything behind; his bow, his phone, anything that might have a tracker, relying on the small pistol he always kept as a back up and clothes that might have been a little too loose, but were comfortable and his. He shimmied into the rear service hallway that ran underneath the range and frowned a little, tugging at his shirt. When he'd worn it last, it'd been almost too tight...Goddamn Loki. I dropped, what, thirty pounds? And I'm still fucking tired from running around for a motherfucking week non-stop. Asshole. He didn't think about the man who'd grumbled at him for stealing it, didn't think about long nights on ops where all they had was an earpiece and imaginations...didn't think about the rare day off that they'd both spend in bed, getting up only to order Chinese and shower.

God, he missed Phil. Coulson, you idiot...you perfect, wonderful, jackass of a man. Only you'd take on Loki by yourself...He sighed and jogged down the dank halls, eyes focusing easily in the darkness. The passage would lead down and down again, and if he was right, he'd be able to escape through the water mains and out into the city proper; say what you will about SHIELD's competence, but even spies needed fresh water, and there weren't many private water sources available in New York these days. So, he made his quiet way down to the main lines, ever mindful of the alarms that might sound if anyone noticed he was gone. But his internal clock said he had fifteen minutes left, and he had a suspicion of who'd be coming for him...

And General Ross was always late.

"...and charges of terrorism, I think that would look absolutely appropriate, given his past actions, don't you think, Nick?" Fury's lips thinned, and he took a few steps ahead, one nerve twitching in his jaw.

"His past actions were cleared, due to his service." General Thaddeus Ross scoffed and set to work opening the door to Barton

"Perhaps, but not anymore. Barton! On your feet, you lousy excuse for an...Fury. Where is he." Nick rolled his eyes, and pushed the door open all the way, glancing inside.

"He's right...here. BARTON!"

Clint slid through the bars and hit water, gasping a little at the coldness. Fuck, it's cold...alright, Barton, let's get moving. He started to swim, long, broad strokes, taking shallow breaths as he went. For once, he was thankful for Natasha's brutal lessons in swimming. In Russia. In the winter. With that under his belt, this was a cakewalk; at least here, he could take breaks, and did so, propping himself up on a bit of exposed concrete to rest while the chilly waters went past. Natasha...He grinned, just a hair. Fury'd probably 'send him on a mission' for this, just to give the agency time to keep her off the scent of his escape. Of course, he could just go...to...the Tower...

"Ah, fuck." No, no, if he did that, he'd be opening the door to incarceration...and he'd drag the other Avengers into it. No...no, this was all on him. He would have to find a way to avoid the agency, and keep a low profile...He sighed, running a hand through his hair, a little grateful that the water still dripping from him hid the hotter blaze of tears. So, homeless again it is. Great. Back where I started out all those years ago...and I can't even shoot my bow for a little cash. I'll make something work...somehow. Somehow...