Into the Fire

by Naja Melanoleuca

When an attempt on Tony's life is tied to a series of escalating bombing throughout the Middle East, a mission is started that stretches the fragile bonds of trust and friendship that have been forged along with two men's sanity. Sequel to Oxycodone Days.

4. Watch it Burn

A/N 1: Because I had so much fun with Oxycodone Days, I decided to continue it. It isn't essential that you read it first, but some of the characterizations and motifs will make more sense if you do. This story was heavily influenced by the "Hurt Locker," because I really liked Jeremy Renner in it

A/N 2: There is a slight crossover in the next few chapters with G I JOE, but nothing that you would have to know its cannon to enjoy.

Chapter 3: Watch it Burn:

Friday April 29th, 11:09 am

Natasha watched her partner stomp towards the Humvee, expecting her to follow him. Since they had stepped off the plane, she knew she wouldn't see Barton again because now she was Lt. Natalie Tokarev from New York City and he was Captain Ben Pierce from Mechanicsburg, PA. It was another inside joke between him and Phil, since that had been Coulson's hometown. He had picked it for Pierce's fictional biography because Clint had been there enough to know his way around and if pressed, he could recount some part of Squawks's history. She actually thought it was cute because it sort of made him Coulson's little brother. At least he didn't go so far as to make Pierce's father an instructor at the Army War College like retired General Coulson. You wouldn't think that she could immediately pick out the difference between Pierce and Barton but to her it was obvious, from the way he walked straight ahead without scanning side to side, to the sir name insignia on the front of his uniform (like all Special Forces, Clint didn't display his last name on his uniform). Because of the lack of privacy at military bases and the differences of where they would be working, she didn't know the next time she would get to see her partner and that made her sort of sad.

Two soldiers stood awaiting them, and both perked up and saluted as Clint came near them. She couldn't miss the way the driver looked her up and down and she pretended to have difficulty keeping up with Barton's long, steady strides. After Clint's schooling, she immediately recognized him as a Private 1st Class. Frankly he barely looked old enough to drive. The other one was build like a brick shit house and she was pretty sure that his biceps were bigger than her thighs. He had close cropped auburn hair, brown eyes, and an Airborne Ranger tattoo on his forearm.

What was with Army men and their tattoos, even Clint had one. It was on the left side of his chest, over his heart and was a knife, with 2 crossed arrows and a scroll that said "De oppresso liber." She never mentioned it, assuming it had something to do with being an archer but then she had been lying in bed beside him and tracing it with her fingers and asked him what it meant. He had answered "Liberate from Oppression." She had pointed out that that was not what it said, that would be "De Oppressione Liberare." Afterwards he had gotten grumpy and told her to take up with the US Army. She finally looked it up and realized it was the Green Beret's motto, of which he was the best of the best, a Delta Force Operator. He had another one, but she had learnt not to bring that one up.

Though he didn't wear it as much on his sleeve as Rogers did, Clint was still very proud of the fact he was a soldier. Unlike Steve, though, it had nothing to do with patriotism or the need to defeat an evil regime. Nor did Barton care about the glory that followed Captain America around everywhere he went. No one would ever know the things he had done until he was dead or the time lapse for the Freedom of Information Act kicked in. She had asked him once, why he didn't just leave, why did he stay in the Army when he was so much better at being a spy than a grunt. He had looked at her and quoted Shakespeare's Henry V, "we few, we happy few, we band of brothers, whoever has shed blood with me shall be my brother," and told her until she could understand that, she wouldn't get it. It was one of the rare things about him that she just couldn't grasp. She didn't risk her life for people she didn't know or didn't care about. That was just stupid. In fact, she couldn't guarantee she would risk her lives for most of the other Avengers.

"At ease," he told the two enlisted men as he saluted back. He then held his hand out to the red head, who wore the stripes of a Staff Sergeant. "Sgt. Sneeden," he nodded.

"Captain Pierce, Lt. Tokarev," his accent was thick with Alabama, his voice growling. "Y'all ready to head to the base? Your gear should be on the way there already."

"I've got the only gear I care about," Clint smiled and patted his two riffles. One was a standard assault rifle; the other was his beloved sniper rifle. "So let's get out of here. After 14 hours of listening to Tony Stark whine about everything from his stewardesses not wearing short enough skirts to the private plane being too cold, I could use something to shoot at." Sneeden smiled at him but it did nothing to make him look more attractive or kinder. He reminded her of a bull mastiff in human form and he smelled about like one too.

On the way around the car, she heard the Private, Watson was his name, say, "man, I'd love to tap that ass?" Which caused Clint and Sneeded to whip around and glare at the man. She thought nothing of it, used to those types of comments, because come on, she did have a great ass.

"What did you say, Private?" Barton questioned him.

"Nothing, sir," he kid froze up, not realizing how loud he had been.

"Damn straight you said nothing, troop, because that ass belongs to the US Army and I don't allow my officers regardless of gender to be disrespected. Do I make myself clear?" Hawkeye barked at him.

"Sir, yes, sir!" the man nearly yelled.

Sneeden opened the door for her and she slid in the backseat beside Clint, with a quiet, "thank, sir," which caused him to give her a funny look.

Barton leaned over to her, once they were driving and whispered, "Don't call him sir, you're an officer and he is an NCO. He salutes first and calls you sir, not the other way around. Remember, stripes on their arm, they salute you, anything else, you salute them."

"I got it," she groused, annoyed she had forgotten. They rode the rest of the way in silence as she looked out over the Iraqi landscape. She wanted to take Clint's hand but she couldn't they weren't friends; they were only supposed to have met because they were flying over protecting Tony.

They drove for a time, and passed a man walking two very elegant horses and she saw a sweet, involuntary smile curve on her partner's lips. Few would ever guess it, but Clint Barton loved animals. He liked cats and dogs well enough, pitbulls for some reason being one of his favorites. In fact she still internally giggled at how happy he was with one of their jobs because they had to pretend to be a family, complete with a kid (she never asked where or how SHIELD had had found a little girl that looked so much like her and Clint because she wouldn't put it past them to cloning them in their sleep. Seriously the kid even had curly, red hair like her and blue eyes and freckles like his) and a dog. He had picked out a female pit bull named Apple, though she had wanted a Dalmatian (she thought the spots were cute) and Natasha had dressed her up in a pink, rhinestone harness just to be a bitch and ruin the tough guy look. Didn't matter though, Clint still proudly walked her around, cuddled with her on the couch, and taught her to do about 100 different tricks. Though, even she had to admit after a few weeks the brick-headed dog had grown on her. That had been 2 years ago and Clint still stopped by the SHIELD kennels as often as he could to see her, usually at least twice a week. Maybe she should ask Tony if they could bring her back to the tower. Hawkeye would love that.

His love for dogs that resembled brindle tanks aside, he had a natural affinity for horses. At first, she had found it quite odd and dismissed it as she herself had actually been a little afraid of the large, unpredictable creatures. But then they had a mission where they had had to ride to where they were going and he had opened up about having grown up in the country, on a farm. He had described it as so back water and white trash that until he was 9, he only wore shoes if he was going with his mama to town. Because he grew up so far removed from society, his brother and the farm animals were his only friends. She wasn't a shrink but she was pretty sure that had a lot to do with his personality. To this day, he still had a picture of his grey, spotted pony, Dapples; none of his family just his first horse. Then later, when he was at the Circus, he had had to bunk near the animals and eventually used a horse for trick riding and shooting. She still didn't love them the way he did, but now she could appreciate them and one day, when they were out of the game, she was going to get some land and buy him a couple horses just so she could see that soft smile more often. It was also why her most private nickname for him that she never used, when anyone could hear them, was Cossack. Cossacks being the go to horsemen a Russian would think of since she didn't go grow up with romanticized cowboys.

As they approached the base, it was about what she had expected. She had only ever been to a military base in Iraq once, and it had only been for about 2 hours before they had gotten her partner packaged up to send him to Germany after his stint as a POW in Afghanistan. It was wired, ugly, and everyone looked alike, except for one group of men that stood leaning casually in the shade of one of the buildings. They were more heavily armed than the others and all had longer hair, beards, or were missing parts of their uniforms. Most of them also had brightly colored keffiyeh around their necks, like Barton wore when he was tooling around the desert, but they were clearly of European descent. She also noticed that Clint ducked his head and turned away from them until they were past.

Once they had come to a halt, he grabbed her arm and whispered, "you get Hill on the horn and tell her nice fucking recon. The Delta boys are here and I have about 1 day before my cover's blown." She nodded and walked off towards where she was supposed to report and quickly lost sight of him. Well, shit, no wonder he was upset, his unit was here and there was no way they wouldn't recognize him. He still trained with them and deployed with them as a part of SHIELD. This whole thing was fucked.

[{Break}]

Clint grabbed his gear and quickly found his bunk and stowed it. He then followed Sgt. Sneeden, who went by the nickname Beachhead, to the HQ building to check in with his CO. All of this was so familiar and yet so disconcerting. He could already feel himself slipping into the easy rhythm of "sir, yes, sir" and "you better unass yourself ASAP, soldier!" This had been his life for so many years it was like coming home and going back to hell all at the same time.

They stopped in front of the General's door and Beachhead excused himself. Clint was happy with his choice of Sergeants. Sneeden was Ranger and Airborne, just like him. He could have seen himself ended up like Beachhead, if he hadn't accepted the job in Delta Force. That job had then turned into a reassignment with SHIELD, which had then turned into his entire freakin' life to the point that he didn't even know what he would do with himself if he ever got time off, which he almost never did. It had also turned him into Agent Coulson's personal pet project, who forced him to go back to school, go through OSC, and make all the way to Major. Not bad for guy that chose the Army over 10 years in jail. Regardless he liked Beachhead. He had selected him because he had a strong background, was known for being honest if not well liked, and his Area of Operation was South America. It was highly unlikely to have any involvement with the leak. In fact, he was unlikely to even know anyone here. If Sneeden thought it was odd that he was pulled out of his normal unit and forced into Iraq to serve a Captain he had never met before, then he didn't say anything. He was a perfect staff sergeant.

He knocked and waited for the "enter" call before proceeding into the room and face to face with Major General Thomas and Colonel Jenkins. These two men and these two men alone, were supposed to know his full purpose here, though unless they wanted to start from scratch he was going to have to make up a fast story to tell his unit mates. This mission was fucked already. He never should have agreed to it.

He stood in front of them, at attention until they gave him leave to relax. Thomas was bald and sweaty, used to European commands; while Jenkins was silver haired and sharp eyed. Jenkins no doubt knew everything that went on around this base and then some. He would be the one Clint would rely on, not the General.

"So you made it here safely," Thomas trailed off, waiting for Clint to provide his real name. He wouldn't.

"Pierce, sir, you can call me Pierce," he supplied. These men weren't authorized to know his real identity. Sometimes he wondered why he protected it so much. He didn't have any family to watch out for and his name had no special meaning. Now it was more force of habit than anything.

"I see, Capt. Pierce. So where is your support located?" The General recovered quickly. He was craftier than he looked, which wasn't hard. Because, he really sort of looked like the Pillsbury doughboy in uniform.

"As you have been informed, there will be an undercover agent here on base and they will do the majority of the communication with SHIELD."

"But where is SHIELD?" He insisted.

"That's need to know, sir, and with all due respect, you don't need to know," and this was the part he was dreading. These people were superior officers and he had to shut them down and not get tossed into Leavenworth.

The man squinted up his eyes and glared at him, "Son, you do realize what these stars mean, don't you? It means I ask you a question and you answer, we clear?"

"Chrystal, sir. It doesn't change the fact that my orders come from higher up the food chain."

"And where did these orders that you can't tell me what's going on under my own nose come from?" he snapped.

"Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff, sir. You were given minimal mission details and everything else is on a need to know basis," he explained, leaning forward slightly to press an ultra thin and transparent bug under the overhang of the desk. In this espionage task, he was far better than Natasha. He had fast hands and nimble fingers trained by years of entertaining crowds with parlor prestidigitation. He was so good at it, that Tony swore he was a mutant because he could never replicate the tricks, even after Clint showed him how. Stark's hand were too slow and his fingers too stiff to perform sleight of hand. He tended not to push the issue though, many people knew he had been a circus performer as an archer and an acrobat; but few other than Natasha and Coulson knew he had also been a magic performing clown and frankly he preferred it that way.

"And what makes you think we don't need to know who you are and where your backup is?" Jenkins finally chimed in, his eyes never leaving Barton's face. He was shrewd, cunning, and confident. He was the one in charge here, not Thomas.

"Because neither of you have been completely cleared of suspicion, sir. Once you are or I am compromised, you will be given more information. Until then, you are to share all of the intel you've gathered so far with me." If they wanted a pissing match, he'd give them one. Maybe it was a good thing they hadn't sent Gunnarson, he would have started blabbing by now.

"We don't have much to share," Jenkins finally relaxed, clearly either retreating to regroup or accepted Clint's assessment. "So far all we know is that across the boarder there have been multiple bombings that have involved IEDs that resemble Stark weapons. There haven't been any demands made and no one is claiming credit for them. It's almost like," he trailed off.

"Like they are testing to see if they will work?" Barton finished, exactly what he had been thinking.

"Yes, we've sent a few teams over and no one has uncovered anything. The last of them got back yesterday. They were led by Lt. Bodder, you can talk to him if you want."

"I will, sir, but I think I'll head over there tonight, see the situation first hand. If you can, hold the Delta boys back for a few days, let me get in and out." He offered.

"What makes you think The Unit's here?" Jenkins asked, his eyes again penetrating. Clint said nothing, just stared back. "Guess that explains why you don't have a name?" He again remained silent. "They don't answer to us, but I'll see what I can do. I can probably buy you 2 days."

"Thank you, sir," he rose, "I'll head out, when the sun goes down," he saluted and left.

He walked outside before he heard, "The bug is transmitting loud and clear, Hawkeye," Agent Hill seemed to shout at him through the mic implanted between two of his upper molars.

"Volume, Hill, turn down the volume," he said as he walked. He never had to remind Squawks of that, when he was wearing this type of extended wear com device. Especially since Coulson knew those two teeth were metal implants anyway. They had been knocked out in Afghanistan.

"Black Widow said you wanted to talk to me?" she questioned and he ignored her until he was in the shade of his barracks and assured he was alone.

"Yes, your recon is shit. You could have warned me my unit would be here. They are going to know something is up the second they recognize me." He complained.

"That is an acceptable risk," she answered back making him miss Coulson so much more. Hill wasn't a bad person, she was just a terrible Handler. Maybe he wasn't being fair though, maybe everyone would suck compared to Squawks. Phil had been his original handler since he had been assigned to SHIELD.

"An acceptable risk? It's acceptable that they may let slip what I am here to investigate and then we lose everything?"

"Give them a story they will believe. Most won't be bright enough to question you anyway." she haughtily replied and he was about to go off on her when he heard Tasha.

"We'll figure something out Hawkeye. When are you heading out?"

"I'm going to the mess right now, then I'll grab a chopper to get me within 15 miles of Damascus and hoof it the rest of the way. I'll be back in 2 or 3 days." He headed out into the sun to get some food. "And 'Tasha, don't forget to put on sunblock. You don't want to burn," he teased as they passed without meeting eyes. She was flushed and her pale skin already turning pink.

He entered the mess hall and grabbed a tray. The food would be bland but overly salted and mostly likely the texture of dog food but oh well. Food was food and he would need a good meal before he headed out. He sank down in the corner, alone and started eating as fast as possible, when he felt someone watching him. He looked around but couldn't find anyone that seemed over interested in him. What he did find was a table of D Unit boys talking amongst themselves and he knew that without a doubt someone had recognized him. He hadn't even gotten 24 hours. Fuck Hill and her "acceptable risks."

Friday April 29th, 7:02 pm

Clint sat in the Little Bird Chopper, one leg dangling out onto the skids and checking the straps holding his Makarov pistol to his thigh through the cargo pocket in his pants. It was far and away his favorite sidearm, not just because Natasha gave it to him but because she managed to find him a left-handed model. Even though he was functionally ambidextrous, he was still left hand dominant by nature and it had been such a thoughtful gift. He was dressed as a typical European press, complete with expensive camera and Doc Martins. His just happened to have knives in his. He ran through how he would check the bomb sites and track down anyone that might have seen anything when Beachhead's voice crackled over the headset.

"Sir, are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"No, don't worry about it, I work better on my own," he gave his sergeant a cheeky grin that made the other man glower. "Look, you know this unit was created to get a handle on the bombings in Syria, right? So I need to get the lay of the land before I feel comfortable risking American lives by interfering in another civil war," he explained. It was both true and false. He didn't want to needlessly risk lives but he also knew that if others were around, he couldn't ask the type of questions he needed to.

"Yes, sir," Beachhead answered, still obviously not convinced, but also not willing to piss off his new CO.

"Just keep an eye on the guys back at the base. Drill them until I don't have worry about anyone falling behind. Also see if you can find me a good K-9 unit," he finished as the Killer Egg dropped to 2 feet above the ground, throwing dust and sand around. He pulled off his headset and hopped out, pulling his favorite brightly colored shemagh over his mouth and nose to block out the sand kicking back from the rotors. All of this was done unconsciously, with the ease of long practice. Without additional fanfare, he took off at a comfortable lope towards the lights of Damascus. It would take him about 90 minutes to reach the edge of city at this pace, which would put him at well past sundown. Since it was Al-Gomaaa, most homes he would pass would be starting dinner or if he timed it right, he could show up during Maghrib and get an extra 15 minutes of quiet streets, if not, he could try and get lost in the shuffle.

Per his plan, he cruised into the outskirts as the men were heading for worship, he used them as cover to make his way further into the city proper. Once there he secured lodgings in a Westerner friendly hotel, and headed out to inspect the bomb sites. It was easy to avoid the plain clothes police, they weren't nearly as good as they thought they were. What was harder was avoiding the armed militants that seemed to be more numerous as he approached the most recent site.

He crouched down between a car and building and looked through his camera, which was retro fit with night vision and a telescopic lens. He could see a few mourners wandering aimlessly around the place and police trying to keep the area clear but there was a sense of hopelessness to their actions. This wasn't the first time a bomb had killed in their city and it wouldn't be the last time.

He photographed the debris pattern, the blast radius, and the angle of the ash signatures all of which could help tell him what type of IED had been used. He wished he could get closer but this place was too heavily guarded. He moved onto the next and the final recent bomb site, repeating the same types of photographs, including shots of the surrounding buildings. When one card filled up, he slipped it into a hidden pocket in his shirt and replaced it.

At the final site, he noticed some light wires sitting in the middle of what he assumed was the blast seat. They were buried in the debris and couldn't pass up examining them. He evaded the guards and managed to free what looked like part of a detonator, when a bright light was shined on him, immediately making him, sneeze and avert his eyes to the side. He quickly stood; weight evenly balanced on the balls of both feet, and pocketed the detonator. His hands then went up and his facing affected a frightened expression.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" the voice behind the light shouted at him in Arabic.

"Press, I'm a member of the press. A freelance photographer," he stuttered in German accented Arabic. He was actually very proud of the fact he could speak Arabic and Dari with both a French and German accent. It allowed him to play European, which won him more trust points than an American.

"This area is off limits," the policeman dropped his flashlight to accept Clint's forged, foreign press pass.

"I know, you can't blame a guy for trying though, can you?" he smiled nervously as he took back his card. He could see the tired cop wasn't going to do anything to him so he pushed his luck, "hey were you here when the bomb went off?"

"What type of story are you writing anyway?" he asked, as he finally dropped the light to point at their feet. In the better lighting, Clint could see there was very little structural damage, but massive scorch marks.

"I want to show people what's going on here. Everyone is so worried about which side is doing what, that people forget about the destruction of the landmarks and the human element. I figure if I'm going to get a Pulitzer, then the Middle East is the place to get it," he joked and could see the cop relax. Stupid fuck, he could kill him without even trying and no one would be the wiser.

"I was here, when it happened," he to walk away and Barton followed, snapping pictures of burn marks on the ground as he walked. Photographing in night vision would be a pain to interpret but it beat having a flash. "It was strange, we were standing here guarding the hotel as we always do and then there was a blast. It wasn't loud and the building didn't come down, but the people around it looked as if they had been caught on a fire. They were burning and screaming but throwing blankets on them did noting, neither did trying to wash it off with water. The entire place smelled like burning oil and gasoline," he looked off into the night. "I also heard that even those that didn't catch fire were taken to the hospital for headaches or disorientation."

Gasoline didn't make sense. This sounded like one of Stark's incendiary bombs that shot chemicals designed to dissolve organic matter but leave inorganic matter alone. They minimized the damage to buildings and lowered the cost of reconstruction. The bystanders showing neurological symptoms also matched Stark's bomb because the chemicals were designed to deoxygenate the air and flood it with Carbon Monoxide and Carbon Dioxide. But the chemicals in Stark's weapons smelled like acetone not gasoline. Gasoline meant petroleum and petroleum that was jellied and stuck to flesh meant a form of Napalm B. Fuck! He was going to have to sneak back here and see if he could get a sample.

"Wow, that's wild," he held his right hand out, not wanting to offend a member of the Southpaw hating culture. "Thanks for your help. We can only pray this gets better," he wondered off into the dark, waiting for his change to grab some scrapings. As he waited, he examined the portion of the detonator he found. It was rigged with triple wires, the same way the ones in Stark's towers were done.

It took him another 90 minutes before he could get his sample and make his way back to his hotel room. He immediately downloaded all his pictures and started to sift through them. Night vision photos would drive the techs nuts but didn't bother him. He was mostly color blind anyway. His "red wire, blue wire, yellow wire" trick with Tony had been a joke. He couldn't have told you the difference between red and green to save his life. Yellow and blue were only discernable by shade rather than hue. Natasha swore his colorblindness was why he always wore black, she wasn't completely wrong. He had been 15 before he found out Trickshot and his brother had dressed him up in a gay-ass purple costume for his shows.

It took some time, but one thing that did jump out to him, was that there was a high-end, Western style hotel very close by to all the bombings. So either they were trying to kill Westerners or they were putting on a show for them. He looked up all the 4 and 5 star locations in Damascus and was left with 3 possible targets.

By the time he had gone through all of possible scenarios he figured The Four Seasons Damascus was probably his best bet. It was also almost dawn and he was jet lagged and exhausted. He collapsed on the small bed, closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept working, trying to find ways to disprove his theory that hotels were involved. Clint knew he was a lot of things but smart had never been a word he would use to describe himself. Coulson and Romanov were the brains, he was just the hired gun.

After 30 minutes of trying to relax, every little noise making his eyes pop open and his hand creep towards his gun, he gave up and took a shower. He hoped at least the warm water would relax the knots in his shoulders but no such luck. He gave up all pretenses of trying to unwind and bolted down an MRE, Asian beef strips, which were pretty nasty but oh well; food was food. Clint has learned to eat pretty much anything over the years and this was nothing. The only thing he flatly refused to eat was lemon flavored SHIELD issued electrolyte replacement gel. They were so awful, even the smell of it made him gag but to be fair that was probably more a Conditioned Taste Aversion after Afghanistan, rather than them actually tasting that bad. No, he decided they really did just taste that bad.

He headed out as soon as the sun rose and the Adhan started to play across the city. For the next two days, he concentrated his time between watching the Four Seasons and trying to track down witnesses to the other bombings. Witnesses were tough to come by but he was pretty sure that of the five bombings he was interested in, one had nothing to do with Stark's weapons and may have been an accident. Of the remaining four, 3 were near Western hotels and the fourth was at the outskirts of the city, nearly in the desert. From the descriptions, he found the in addition to the chemical incendiary bomb, there was an electrified shrapnel bomb (one of Stark's finest), and the other two looked like failed shockwave bombs (designed to focus the concussive force laterally without wasting it upward). He was sadly, unable to find any pieces of the detonators, as the electric dirty bomb and the shockwave bomb would have immolated them.

On the third day, 8 hours before his rendezvous with Beachhead, he was sitting in a café across from the Four Seasons, watching people walk around him. Many were loose and casual but many were starting to take on the wary, shifting gaze of a war torn populous. Too many people had cell phones, brief cases, tablets, and small electronics that could be retrofit as remote detonators. Even with his back against a wall, drinking tea, he felt exposed and jumpy. He never liked being in these open air plazas, there were just too many places death could come from. At least he never liked being on the ground. In a bird's nest, these things were a sniper's playground. Because of that, he wasn't too proud to admit he was more than slightly agoraphobic, though he had never had a panic attack, thank you very much. His was more a fear of lack of cover than leaving his lodgings.

His eyes scanned the fountain area in front of him, catching a flashing colored light. Before conscious thought kicked in, he had already dove for the ground behind the half wall separating the café from the square, his hands over his ears and his body curled to protect his chest and stomach. Therefore, when the blast went off, shooting shrapnel across the area, he was protected from harm. Others were not so lucky. In the aftermath of the explosion, he heard screams and shouts. He looked out as the dust settled and saw a boy not more than 3, sitting beside what Clint guessed was his mother. He stared at her, tugging on her sleeve to get her attention, though the woman was clearly dead. The child touched the woman's bleeding head, part of her skull was missing, and left bloody, starfish, hand prints on the shoulder of the woman's white blouse.

More than anything, he wanted to run and pick up the little boy, because he was still in the middle of the kill box if there was another blast, and because no child should have to see their parents killed like that. Whether you loved them or hated them, seeing your parents die in front of you wasn't something you ever really got over, he could attest to that personally. But he did nothing, the mission trumped his desire to help one little boy. He was a photographer, not a soldier, so he had to act like a scared civilian, not a hero. He was memorized, though, watching the child's increasing hysterics as his mother remained still. Clint wondered if the boy understood what death meant or if he was too young. Would he even remember the woman's face or laugh later in life or would he forget this entire thing?

He shook his head and moved his eyes to the blast seat and began to take pictures. Bart of the bomb casing was still there, meaning the explosive force was low but the fragmentation was high. This was a Stark design. He wouldn't be able to get the shell but he could get pictures. So he ignored the kid and started to snap pictures of the casing, the shell, the edge of the electronics sticking out, and the surrounding building. He concentrated his pictures of the buildings on the hotels upper stories, just in case his hunch was right and these were demos for buyers. He didn't have much time though, he needed to get out of here before the police showed up. He couldn't be held or questioned given that he had been found snooping around at another bomb site.

He bugged out as soon as the cops started showing up, stopping to take one last look at the little boy. He wondered if he had a living father or if he was now an orphan? Would he be safe or would his life be a miserable string of Government run institutions? Would anyone hold him when he cried? Would he even still be able to cry after today? None of it mattered though, he pulled up his shemagh and ducked towards the outskirts of the city. He could hide out somewhere for a few hours before he met Beachhead.

Tuesday May 3rd 9:52 pm

Clint looked over the base, finally starting to relax slightly as he waited for Tasha to meet him. He had chosen the top of the command building roof as their communication point because it was a bitch to get to and very few people would be able to make the climb, plus it was in the blind spot of 6 of the 8 gun towers. He was early though, she wasn't supposed to meet him till 11 but he had decided to sit for a while and clear his head. It didn't stop him from hearing the sounds of another person breathing, letting him know he was no longer alone.

Before he whipped around, he heard a terribly, fake Australian accent start, "tonight on our nature program, the most dangerous ambush predator in the Middle East, the Hawk in his nest. He's been known to hide up high for days at a time waiting for the perfect moment to strike, frequently making kills from nearly 2000 meters away," the voice finally stopped and he immediately recognized First Sergeant Julian "Gator" Singer, one of the Squad leaders of the Delta Unit stationed here.

"We'll also be examining the white trash Gata'," he answered with a flawless Strine, more Melbourne than Queensland but who was counting, "known for consuming its own body weight in beer and gumbo weekly and snapping the head off of anyone that gets too near after consuming that much liquor. His mortal enemies are ties, culture, or anything where he can't take his gun," he finished.

"Born on the bayou and, proud of it, brother," he smiled, dimples showing in his tanned face as he switched back to his normal Southern Louisiana drawl. He clapped his unit mate on the back, ignoring rank and status. Foolish things like Major vs. Sergeant didn't matter to men like them. "So I've been waiting to see you disappear so I could come up here and talk to you," he looked out, his dark eyes scanning the same way Clint's had.

"And why did you think I would come up here?" Barton asked, nervous at the idea of lying to a man that helped train him when he first joined Delta force. They had fought together longer than he had even known any of the Avengers. He would call Gator a friend and say he trusted him in battle, even if he had never made it past Clint's emotional defenses.

Gator gave him a 'seriously?' look then answered him, "Brother, I have known you since you were barely old enough to drink. And one thing about you that never changes, is that you find the highest place you can, to hang out away from everyone. And since the highest places around here are gun towers, which would be occupied, negating the 'away from everybody' part, you had to find somewhere else, this being the next highest building with the added benefit of only being in line of site for 2 towers," he smirked. God damn it, he just knew Clint too well. "What I'm more interested in knowing is why exactly Hawkeye is here in Bagdad with another man's name tag? Did SHIELD get tired of their pet raptor?" He stared him in the eyes, as he asked.

"You know I can't tell you that," he answered, hating that he had to stonewall a man that had saved his miserable life more than once. Even when he hadn't wanted it to be saved. Oh he had returned the favor just as many times but still. It was hard. Gator was the closest thing he had to a friend before he met Coulson. The difference was that Singer had never managed to get Clint to confide in him. In Gator's defense though, it had taken massive amounts of emotional and psychological manipulation in addition to Squawks's stubbornness to get him to open up. Gator just hadn't had the logistics behind him to help him circumnavigate Barton's neurotically, phobic avoidance of attachment.

"Can't tell who what? Who are you talking to, Hawkeye?" Hill screeched at him, almost making him wince. He ignored her, though. Tasha could fill her in later.

"No, I don't suppose you can," he looked back out over the base. No doubt feeling the same why Clint did. The Government had made them both into soldiers and then killers but never told them how to turn it off, never told them how to go back to being normal. You stayed in until you died or they kicked you out. Gator was nearly 35 at which point he would be too old to be active duty Delta. There was a part of him that felt more at home among the guns, steel, and ranks than he ever had at Stark's tower. Even has he hated himself for thinking it. He could feel himself slipping back into that cool, numb state he had lived in for so long and it scared the shit out of him. Especially because there was no Phil to drag him back out.

There was a pause before Gator continued, "if I had to lay money on it, my bet would be that you were here because of what's happening in Syria. DOD doesn't want to get involved but SHIELD doesn't answer to DOD so they can send in their rent-a-soldier to see what's what." His guess wasn't far off the mark. The only wrong assumption was that he was concerned with Syria in general rather than just the bombings with pseudo Stark Weapons. Deep down it made sick that he was supposed to look the other way while a civil war killed thousands just get back some stolen intellectual property and save one man's life. But, he had his orders and he would fulfill his mission.

"I can neither confirm nor deny your assumptions, Gator," he answered, letting the other man think he was right. It was a good enough cover story. "What I can do, is ask that you keep my secret to yourself. Not even the COs know the whole of why I'm here."

"Don't worry, Hawkeye, I won't say a thing. I'll let Taps, Dawson, and Cruz know. They saw you too, but none of them were brave enough to come up here," he smiled and Clint couldn't help the edges of his mouth from curving up as well at the mention of some of the other Delta boys he knew. His arrangement with SHIELD was strange. He still technically worked for the US Army Special Forces but he spent most of his time under Fury. To confuse matters SHIELD would randomly be sent out with Delta Force for specific missions that overlapped with SHEILD. It made testing loyalties difficult but among the Unit D boys your trust never wavered. He never had an issue trusted people during a fight; it was trusting them with anything personal that sent him running for the hills.

"Thanks. My handler's recon fucking sucked balls for this mission. They never should have sent me if they knew you guys would be here." He felt zero guilt at insulting Hill. She was really starting to piss him off.

"No problem, so you still banging that hot redhead?" he asked out of nowhere.

"Excuse me?" Clint squeaked, not even remotely prepared for that question.

"You know, that Black Widow chick. Red hair, green eyes, awesome ass, and showed up with you dressed as Lt. Tokarev?" Gator continued.

"I know who you are talking about but what makes you think I'm sleeping with her, she's my partner?" great, now Tasha had been made too.

"Because either you're gay or you're having sex with her because I honestly don't believe you could have worked with her for so long unless one of those options was true."

"Those are not the only two options," he corrected.

"You're sleeping with her," his friend smiled, sure in his assessment that was sadly true. Clint slumped his shoulders in defeat, there was no point arguing. "Don't look so down, brother, she's hot, come on she has a great rack. Bet you stick your face between those tits and motorboat the shit out of them," he teased.

"You kiss your daughter with that mouth?" he asked, hoping to get the man to shut up. Thank GOD, Tasha couldn't hear him.

"I see you're still just as much of a prude as usual," Gator joked, making Clint grind his teeth.

"I'm not a prude. I just happen to think of women as people, not objects," he defended. It was an old argument. Too many years watching his mother be beaten or the female acrobats sell their bodies made him a bit sensitive about mistreatment of women.

"They can be both. If I didn't know better I would swear you had 8 sisters that used to beat the shit out of you as a kid," he started, and then stopped, trying to gage Barton's reaction. Clint had never told the man anything about his past or his family. Phil was the first person he ever opened up to about that. "But I don't know any better do I?"

"I told you, I ran away and joined the circus, when I was a kid," he smiled, knowing that Gator thought it was a joke. It was so outlandish, no one ever believed him, even if it was the truth.

"Yeah, yeah, speaking of my daughter, your god daughter, I might add," he pulled out his wallet and produced a picture of a smiling 9 year old. She had her father's dark hair and dimples. "You ever plan on coming to visit her any time soon?"

Clint handed the picture back, "wow she got big," he responded as he thought of Evelyn "Evie" Singer back in Slidell, LA with her mother. She had been borne when they had been in Iraq and Barton had saved Gator's life and Gator had asked him to be Evie's godfather. He hadn't wanted to agree but he could tell that it would cause hard feelings if he didn't. So he had and whether he wanted to admit it or not, the little tadpole had grown on him. He hadn't seen her in almost 2 years though. SHIELD had kept him far too busy. He did send her a card on her birthday every year.

"Yeah, she really has, hasn't she," the smile his friend had when he looked at his daughter was soft and loving. "She's my angel," he had finally finished when he looked up. "Anyway, brother, it's chow time so I'll leave you alone, which is how you always prefer to be anyway. If you need anything or your team mates can help, you let me know and it's yours," he held his fist out and Clint bumped his own into it.

"Thanks, man." He watched his former partner disappear over the edge just as he heard his current partner in his ear.

"Is he gone?"

"Yeah, you're clear." He saw her less than a minute later, as she swung over the ledge to stand beside him.

She looked him up and down for a second then flopped down with her feet hanging over the edge and started fanning herself. "How can you stand this heat?" she asked him, sounding equally dramatic and miserable. It wasn't even that hot anymore.

"You get used to it," he answered as he sank down beside her, finally relaxing for the first time in days.

"Maybe you get used it. I might melt and die," she huffed and fell backwards till she was laying down with her feet dangling over the edge. "Not to mention these pants are uncomfortable and I think they make my ass look big," she groused as she undid her hair.

He felt his lips curl up and let them, reaching over to move her hair off her sweaty face. "That's 'cause yours are new. You can take paint off of a car with new ACUs." She reached out to feel his, no doubt noticing that his were must softer from wear and washings. "And yeah, they do make your ass look big, which is awesome, I might add." She weakly swatted at him but he could see the sparkle in her eyes at his joke. She knew he liked his women curvy. Tony could keep his skinny models; Clint liked women than looked like women.

"Sit rep, you two," Hill nearly shouted and he barely suppressed another flinch.

"For the love of god, women, turn down the volume," Natasha snapped. He was glad to see he wasn't being over sensitive.

"Was that Gator, you were talking to?" she asked, staring at the sky. The one nice thing about the desert was the clear, clear sky.

"Yeah, he made me and you even faster than I thought he would," he collapsed backwards too, watching the stars twinkle. He shoved the SIM cards from his camera into her pocket along with a USB, which contained his comments and full report. She would get it to Hill.

"Is it going to be a problem," Natasha questioned, her hand working its way into his.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles, "no, he thinks I'm here to investigate moving into Syria. He has no idea about the Stark weapons."

"So what did you find?" she gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

He gave them a detailed run down of what he had found. About the bombing, the hotels, and the dead ends but that he was sure it was the same designer that created the bomb in the tower. The triple rigged switches were too unusual to be just anyone. And that it was based on a Stark Weapon He left out the part about the little boy. That he would tell Tasha about later, when no one else could hear.

"I see," it was Fury's voice over the frequency. Neither of them bothered to straighten up. It wasn't like he could see them. "Good work, Hawkeye. You'll be taking your troops into Syria on Friday. You'll rotate for 2 weeks in and 3 days out until we find these bastards," he instructed.

"Yes, sir," he responded without thinking. His mind was too busy spinning through all the things he would have to get done in the next 3 days. Hopefully he could get some sleep tonight.

"How are you guys holding up?" Asked the unexpected voice of Steve Rogers.

"Fine, Cap," he answered and Natasha answered, "sweaty."

"You two take care of yourselves. Tony and I will be heading back stateside on Wed so we won't be close by if you need anything," Steve was too damn nice for his own good and so ridiculously uninformed about how modern warfare worked. Once they crossed the border, by the time they sent a call for help, it would be too late. He liked Rogers but at the same time Steve made him feel awful about himself. Rogers had fought in WW II and yet was still the nicest, most human person you ever wanted to meet. Somehow he had never lost himself in the carnage and the killing the way Clint had. It made Barton wonder why Steve was so much stronger than him. Why he was so much better and why couldn't Clint stop the numb, icy feeling creeping around the corners; when it never seemed to even touch Rogers.

"We will, Cap, don't worry. This isn't my first trip to Rodeo. I know my way around Baghdad better than New York," he joked and was rewarded with Steve's quiet chuckle. There was no reason for anyone to know how worried he was, except Tasha and he didn't have to tell her. She just knew.

"Well make sure to take care of Romanov, because I don't think she does," he threw in and Tasha pulled a sour face.

"She can take care of herself," he said flatly, believing it with every fiber of his being.

The line was quiet for a bit and he and Natasha took comfort in each other's presence. "I have some possible patterns on the bombings worked out," she started after a bit, startling him from his stupor. Having her around made him feel safe enough to get groggy. "I'll leave them in your foot locker tomorrow while you're at breakfast."

"K," he grunted, wanting to close his eyes and sleep. He realized there was something vaguely wrong with being beside a woman as beautiful as Natasha Romanov and thinking about sleeping, but she had been his partner before his lover and he was really tired.

He felt rather than saw her tuck her arm behind her head, "are you ok with letting Gator and your squad mates believe a lie?" she asked him.

"I don't really have a choice," he let his eyes unfocus and watched the stars above him go double and blur.

"I guess you don't," she returned philosophically, "but I know you two were close, at least as close as you let anyone get to you."

"It's fine. He'll understand the need for mission security and I'll make it up to him once this is done," he finally gave in and let his eyes drift shut.

"He does know you pretty well, and he was right about one thing," she started and he concentrated on staying awake enough to hear her out. Sleeping on this roof seemed like a very good idea.

"Yeah, what's that?" he mumbled.

"You are prudish," she teased him, lightly kicking her foot into his.

He cracked his eyes open, "excuse me? Just because I'm not a complete whore or a sexual deviant does not mean I am a prude," he defended. She was trying to cheer him up and he would have kissed her for it if he had the energy to move.

"I still remember that time I took you to an S&M club for that one mission. You were red as a beat," she giggled.

"From trying not to laugh, not from blushing. I found it funny that every other time I had been trussed up like that I was being tortured, not receiving sexual gratification," he taunted right back.

"Yeah, I guess I shouldn't rag on you too much, compared to Rogers. He probably thinks missionary position is the height of kink."

"Isn't he like a 94 year old virgin or something?" he asked, feeling the tension between his shoulder blades finally releasing. She alone could have that effect on him.

"Yeah, he might blush so hard he passed out, if he ever saw some of the freaky gymnastics shit we do."

"You do know he can still hear us, right?" Clint figured he should ask, though he guessed she didn't care. She just shrugged at him and pulled his hand onto her stomach. Her shirt was damp with sweat. He let his eyes lids sag shut again and listened to her breathe.

Just as the sounds of the camp below them started to fade away into sleep, he heard her voice, "come on, soldier, we can't let you sleep up here," she tugged on his hand to get his attention. He wanted to whine like a child that didn't want to get up for school but he didn't. He sat up, slid down the opposite side of the building from her, and trudged back to his bunk. But by the time he got there, his mind was had starting spiraling through plans and his eyes scanning around the camp. Sleep didn't come that night, again.

[{Break}]

Masbah Plaza Hotel, Baghdad, Iraq

Tony swirled the ice cubes around his drink as he looked out of the penthouse window of his suite. The mirth over the two agents' digs at Steve had faded and he again felt the fear and maudlin mood resurface. He hadn't thought being here would be as hard as it was. Strangely, not having Barton dogging his steps and planning out the every twist and turn of his day from where he ate to which car he took was making him jumpy. Clint was nothing if not thorough.

"They sound OK," Rogers said from behind him. He nodded and took a drink. They sounded better than he felt. He had barely been able to eat or sleep since he had gotten here and it was starting to wear on him. Every window seemed like a sniper nest and every car seemed like it was going to explode. How the hell the troops lived like this every day was beyond him. Lack of other options was his only guess.

He swallowed a gulp of scotch hoping the buzz would hit soon. He wanted to go home and he wanted to take Natasha and Hawkeye with him. Tony's family life had been strange and cold but he knew what family was and he wasn't too proud to admit that the Avengers were becoming his new family. Steve was an annoying older brother that kept telling him what to do. Bruce was the younger brother that was pampered for obvious reasons. Natasha was the sister and Barton was her boyfriend. He felt his lips quirk up at that thought. Both of them would kick his ass for that comment. Actually she would threaten and he would roll his eyes and not say anything.

He had been trying to befriend the man for over a two months now and few things had changed. Clint was still distant but no longer unfriendly. He suspected that having to go on a long term mission to save Stark money wasn't going to help Tony's plight. He sagged in his chair because he had just reminded himself that this entire thing was his fault. Natasha wouldn't be hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable and Barton wouldn't be exhausted and about to go into combat if not for Tony's weapons. His ideas, his plans, his designs were killing and the thought made him nauseous. He wasn't like the SHIELD agents, he couldn't just shake off being responsible for death. He thought being an Avenger would help and it did in the day, when he was being praised by the world but at night, when he was alone or beside a sleeping Pepper, her remembered the death toll that was on him.

TBC