Well, let's get this story rolling!

Thanks to PrimeReader for your review and suggestions, I'm always up for ideas and prompts and the like to add in if you've got any!

Thanks to Lisa for your encouragement for this story and for listening to me oogle over Bucky and tell you all the little things I discover about him xD

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Clint was up at the buttcrack of dawn, moving silently along the hallways till he reached the kitchen. Humming to himself, he pulled open the cabinets one by one on his hunt for those precious ground up beans that he would use to create the elixir of life. Bingo! The red plastic container was exactly what he'd been looking for...coffee was coffee, he wasn't too picky about the brand.

He dumped a healthy amount of the grounds into a filter and started the coffee maker, mostly just because he wanted a cup for himself, but the others would probably appreciate it too when they woke up; he knew Bucky wouldn't be too far behind him, the nightmares never allowed the poor guy much sleep.

Clint had always been an early riser, but today he was awake for a specific purpose: he was going to arm himself again, even if that meant he'd have to go back to the very basics. He and Natasha had had a long walk through the nearby woods the previous day and he'd scouted out several perfect types of trees for his project so he was eager to get back out there and get started!

Pouring a cup of coffee, he took it with him to the front porch to lean against the railing and watch the sun rise over the green hills, mist hovered over the lower spots of the terrain and he felt almost like he was back on his own farm for a moment...and immediately felt a wave of homesickness wash over him. He missed his wife and kids and wondered, not for the first time, when he would be allowed to see them again. When would this choice he made be forgiven? Maybe it never would be, maybe choosing what he believed to be right had permanently ended his life as a hero...at least the kind of hero people thought they needed. He believed the same things that Steve Rogers did, that the accords were fallible and would eventually be used to control them like weapons and maybe even used for agendas they disagreed with, that major organizations can become corrupt and it was best to keep themselves out of the hands of one, that James Buchanan Barnes was a victim and not a villain...after all, if anyone knew what it was like to not be in control of your actions and hurt people against your will, it was him.

He did not regret his decison. Not for one second.

Huffing a tense breath out of his nose, Clint pushed himself away from the porch railing and took his now empty cup inside and set it in the sink. He'd clean it later, for now he had other things to do, more important things.

A quick stop was made by the barn to grab his "bug out bag" from the quinjet and then he was off at a trot across the field towards the distant collection of trees. Everything he'd need for the day's work was in the pack on his back and he smiled to himself out of eagerness to get started, skilled eyes scanning the trees as he passed the first ones on the edges of the forest until they spotted the perfect one.

Clint skidded to a stop under the massive branches of a huge white oak tree and nodded approvingly at the branches he'd piled there the day before with Natasha, he moved a few of them aside as he inspected them closer until he chose one he considered to be perfect.

"Come here, you little beauty," he mumbled as he held the rather large branch up like it was a trophy, "Perfect."

Time to begin the long, yet very relaxing process of creating a recurve bow from his chosen piece of wood. He shrugged the backpack of bow making supplies off his shoulders and dug around in it for a moment until he produced a hatchet, with it he began chopping away at the bark and outer part of the wood to form it into a long, flat stave. Years of practice and perfection of this skill resulted in a nearly perfect piece to work with and Clint inspected it with a satisfied nod. Measuring the length of the stave with his eyes, he took a pen from the backpack and marked the areas for the grip, the nocks for the string and the curve of the limbs before leaning some of his weight on it to test the flexibility a second time. A few more hacks of the hatchet and the unrefined shape of the bow could be identified even by an amateur, and Clint Barton was no amateur.

It bent beautifully, but returned to it's straight shape immediately and he knew he'd chosen well. Now came the shaping of the bow it's self and he became momentarily stumped when he realized he didn't have a vice to hold the bow while he shaped it...but he was nothing if not resourceful and he soon found a tree with a split in the middle that held the fledgling bow in place quite nicely. Taking out his trusty draw knife, he began the repetative task of shaving off layers of wood to thin it out and forming the limbs of the bow, thins strips of wood fell at his feet as he worked, meticulously measuring both ends to be sure they were perfectly even. A few more passes on each end, a couple more measurements, a few glances with well-trained eyes and the bowmaster was satisfied. He unwedged his creation from the Y of the tree and held it up to double check. Perfect, as he knew it would be.

The draw knife was put away and a hunting knife was brought out, along with a flat file, and Clint sat on the grass with a relaxed sigh, one end of the bow in his lap. Slowly, painstakingly, he cut away at a section of the bow limb and filed gently until he had formed a perfect little groove for the loop of a bowstring, he flipped it over and did the same with the other end, comparing the two to be sure both grooves were equal and the same. Perfect, of course.

Now came the hard part. Pulling some paracord from the bag, he tied a string of it to both ends of the bow and stood up from the grass, moving his entire little operation back across the field to the fenceline. He hooked the bow around one of the fence posts and gave an experimental tug on the paracord, watching the bow bend as he checked for weak points. Any flaws noted were very carefully taken care of by removing tiny bits of the wood at a time, evening out the pressure and assuring the integrity of the limbs. Another pull, further this time, a tiny flaw, an easy fix. Another pull, another flaw, another fix. Rinse and repeat as many times as it took until no ominous creaks reached his ears.

A quick run over with the flat file and several smoothing strokes of sandpaper and the bow laid finished on the ground at Clint's feet. He was sporting a pleased and proud smile as he looked it over one last time for anything out of place. He found nothing wrong this time and he happily pulled an extra string from his bag, looping it first to one end then bending the bow behind his calf to attach the second end. He grinned like a fox as he held it up and pulled the string back experimentally, it felt sturdy and reliable in his hands, although it was nothing special like his old Tony-Starkarized bow/fighting staff...there was something comforting in the simple feel of the wood. A little varnish and a bad ass decorating job and this bow would be a very stylish and deadly weapon in the marksman's hands.

Delighted with his hard work, he grabbed up his bag and headed for the farmhouse at a dead run.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Everyone was excited about Clint's creation, and the entire group gathered on the porch and front lawn to watch as their resident sharpshooter practiced shooting tin cans off of haybales at a hundred yards.

Heidi was, of course, familiar with Hawkeye's legendary skill, but to see it in action was a whole new experience and she found herself entranced long after the rest of the household had abandoned their observation and went about their own business again. She watched with wide eyes, amazed at each ping of the soda cans as the arrows embedded in them. She was a good shot with a gun, sure, but even S.H.I.E.L.D agents missed their mark occassionally. 200 shots later and Clint Barton hadn't missed a single one...he was amazing.

She thought back to a conversation she'd heard once between a young boy and his mother as they examined the "Heroes of New York" action figures in a toy store window.

"Who's your favorite, honey?" the mother had asked.

The young boy immediately piped up that Thor was the greatest and the mother had nodded her agreement.

"Which is your least favorite?" Which, to Heidi, was like asking a crazy cat lady which kitten was the cutest...

"Hawkeye," the boy had replied without a thought, "He's nothing special, he just shoots arrows. That's not a superpower."

Watching the archer now, Heidi believed with all her heart that Clint Barton was a superhero with an extraordinary power...maybe even moreso than Thor, because it took a lot of courage for a normal human being to take a bow and arrow into a battle against gods.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

So, I may or may not absolutely adore Hawkeye...and I feel like he deserves so much more appreciation for his loyalty and bravery and steadfastness. Sorry for the lack of dialogue, but I'm focusing on giving each character a bit of appreciation and page time before delving into much action and such. Gonna focus on some emotions and Heidi's getting to know them all first so she can fit into the plot better later on.

By the way, this is legit how you make a bow in case you were wondering :)