"Clint, you're never going to believe this."

Natasha's opening words somehow balanced being both serious and casual at once. But at the moment, Clint found sarcasm more to his liking.

"You got married," he joked.

"I will kill you if you say that again."

"Duly noted. So what's so unbelievable that you woke me up at four a.m.?"

"Well, for one thing, you're being called in."

"Mm-hmm." He had started pulling on his uniform the instant his caller ID told him who was calling; now he was restocking his quiver and checking his weapons as he talked. "Go on."

"Well, I can't say it with Coulson breathing down my neck."

Clint rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Nat, where are you?"

Someone swore crisply on the other end of line. Clint thought he heard Fury barking Coulson's name in the background.

"Arctic Circle," Natasha replied coolly.

"You're what?" Clint stuffed an extra magazine in his belt. "Why on Earth— you know what, never mind. Just tell me where I'm going." He flicked a glance at his wife, who was still sleeping soundly, and grabbed his bag. "Laura's gonna kill me," he murmured, making for the door.

"You can blame me," Natasha offered.

"She'll suspect you anyway, but I'd rather not."

He moved into the hallway and shut the door behind him. Natasha's voice continued as if the whole exchange so far had been professional. "A helicopter's gonna pick you up at the research base in an hour. He'll brief you on the way and then drop you off here as Level-Seven security."

"So you're not gonna tell me the big secret?"

"Come on, Barton. After all these years, you can't handle a little suspense?"

"Every time you get sarcastic, I start worrying." He moved to the kitchen and grabbed a protein bar. "Look, Nat, I'll be there no matter what secrets you're keeping. Now why don't you go get some sleep? It sounds like you need it."

He hung up without waiting for a reply and slid his face into his hands. Sometimes he wished he could just make his life normal.

There was a soft stir by the stairs, and Clint looked up. His wife was standing in the doorway, hands at her sides, her bed hair so lively it almost flattered her. She considered him a moment and then spoke in the same measured calm that she always did. "Nat called?" she asked, as if she knew the answer.

"Wouldn't you know it," he replied wearily.

She gave him what was almost a smile and slid past him into the kitchen. "You've got to quit being such a hero," she teased. "If you weren't such an asset, they'd have no reason to call on you during your first vacation in a year." When he was silent, she frowned and then patted his arm. "Go on. You're itching to get back to work anyway, and you have been since about day three of your week off."

Had he? Clint had never stopped to ask himself the question. He supposed he did like his job, in a strange sort of way, and he either did not—or could not—sit still, but he reaffirmed in his head that he would still trade it all in an instant if he could be innocent again. Still, he had no time to debate it. He gathered his weapons and slid into his coat before slipping his backpack on and facing the door.

He turned to Laura once more. "Do you think I'm crazy?" he asked.

She gave him a look. "Why do you think I married you?"

He grinned a little. "Okay." Then he turned and tugged open the door, and he was gone.

It was daylight when he arrived in the Arctic Circle. The SHIELD pilot set the chopper down gently in the snow, and Clint collected his things and stepped out into the frigid blast of air that rose to meet him. The chopper glided away behind him, and then the sound of the rotors faded, replaced by the buzz of nearby voices. Clint followed his ears toward what his eyes told him was a crash site, and before he could even blink Agent Coulson was upon him, grinning ear to ear and drawing a lengthy breath in preparation for what Clint sensed would be a very long and over-dramatized monologue.

Clint raised a hand to stop him and was intensely relieved when Natasha walked up to them.

"Coulson," she said pleasurably.

Coulson's anticipatory breath deflated like a struggling balloon. Natasha turned serious. "Fury needs you at the outpost. I'll see to Barton."

Reluctantly, Coulson turned and trudged off the way he'd come, mumbling something to himself. Natasha watched him go for a moment and then shook her head and started walking toward the crash. Clint followed, bow in one hand, boots crunching softly in the snow.

"So," he began. "I've been sent to guard a World War II relic?"

"No, you're guarding a HYDRA aircraft, which contains a block of ice, which, in turn, contains a World War II relic—for now at least."

"I see the pilot didn't tell me everything."

"Most of it's classified. We're two of about six or seven people in the world who actually know what's going on here."

"So, start from the beginning. How did Captain America crash a plane into the Arctic?"

"Well, we knew he had crashed. But we had no idea where he landed until today—even Peggy Carter never knew. The U.S. Army declared Rogers killed in action when the War ended. He went out a hero." She glanced at him, faintly teasing. "Didn't you read your history books?"

"Of course I did! But what's all this fuss about a dead body? I mean, I get that he's Captain America, but classified Level Seven seems a little stiff."

"Because he's not dead."

Clint stopped in his tracks. "I'm sorry, what?"

She kept walking. "I told you you wouldn't believe it."

Clint jogged to catch up. "Yeah, I know..." His words faded. Weren't people who were dead supposed to stay dead? Wasn't that how the world worked?

His partner stepped up to the taped-off section of snow surrounding the ancient HYDRA crash site and presented her ID card. Clint followed suit, and she continued as they walked. "At the time, it was just a theory. We're still not sure, and we won't know positively until we start chipping the Relic out in a lab. But so far the readings are all matching up."

"So that's why Coulson looks like a giddy five-year-old," Clint surmised.

"Right."

Fury stepped up to them. "Barton," he nodded. He turned to Natasha. "Did you brief him?"

"All the details."

"Good." Fury started walking them toward the ship. "As you can guess, this is all new to us. Hopefully it won't happen again, because Agent Coulson is going to lose his mind. We've begun efforts to pull that ice block from the ship, but the crane is still getting in position. I want both of you supervising for security. Eyes up high"—he nodded to the roof of the aircraft—"and a hand below deck. Make sure they don't chip anything on the way out."

"You got it," Clint answered. He started toward the plane.

"And, Barton," Fury called.

Clint and Natasha stopped as one.

"Not a word to anyone. There are limits on who we can trust."

Clint nodded, then stepped up to the hull of the ship and gripped the first rung of a ladder. "Am I missing something?" he asked his partner. "Some secret you haven't told me?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. You read the Avengers Initiative files, right?"

"First day of vacation." He began climbing. "Should I assume Captain Rogers has been added to the list?"

"You know Fury. He's dead set on having that dream team assembled in case we ever get attacked by hostile alien life forms."

"Which we might. But they'd be crazy to come here, we're all nuts."

They reached the top, and Clint moved toward the open hatch, eyeing the crane that was sliding into position and then glancing quickly at the array of people surrounding the frozen super soldier inside. "Look at this. Seven hours ago this guy was supposed to be dead—now he's gonna be the headline of the year."

"You're just jealous," Natasha shot back. She swung to the next ladder leading down into the ship and paused at the top to eye him.

Clint snapped open his bow. "You know, if nobody ever knows who I am, that will be far better for everyone."

She began her descent. "Okay, Hawkeye. Just don't go complaining when nobody lines up to attend your funeral."

She dropped into the ship, and Clint took up his post, one arrow lined up for safekeeping. He shook his head. He supposed Laura was right; he had missed his job. But he would be missing home once the sun went down.

He caught a glimpse of the crane operator—a young agent, by his looks. Clint could swear the guy started a little when he saw him holding an armed bow. "Better hurry it up, Nat," he called into the ship. "Junior in the crane is looking a little nervous."

"What did you scare him for?"

"Well, you know, I just figured you needed a little practice—"

"—Think again, Barton." She hurled a practice knife in his direction. He caught it expertly, shifting his arrow into the hand holding his bow in just barely enough time to complete the move. Her eyes glistened with the barest touch of amusement. "You're getting rusty yourself," she teased.

He slipped the knife into his belt. "Yeah, I missed you, too," he threw back. Straightening, he motioned the crane to stop. "Let's do this, huh?"