Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to the Marvel Cinematic Universe at all.

Mission Three: The Hospital Fire

A fly had landed on Clint's thumb.

It was a very distracting fly, and it itched like crazy, but Clint stayed perfectly still and tried not to let it bother him.

The bow was taut. The arrow knocked. In just a split second, he'd let go. Just as soon as he saw a face.

This was the kind of thing he'd done half a million times. Okay. So it was like half a thousand. But that's not how the phrase went.

But it was different every time and yet somehow the same. Same bow. Same arrows. Same look on their faces in the split second before Clint split their skulls. But it was a different place in a different place with different wind and different vantages.

This one was easy, though. Clint had skyscrapers.

He normally didn't get skyscrapers. Assassination wasn't really a public sport. But he got them sometimes in other missions—when he was the sniper on the rooftops covering other agents, the "eyes in" gathering intel. He liked skyscrapers because they were pretty much the same everywhere. Flat. With birds.

The birds liked Clint. He stayed still and didn't threaten them. So after the initial scare of oh no someone else is here, they'd settle down and do their bird thing on the rooftops right alongside this totally-not-moving human being. It was actually pretty nice cover, because no one suspects a sniper where there are pigeons around.

Clint had been there for five hours. They didn't know when the attack was coming, only that it was planned for today, and so he'd arrived before the sun came up, positioned himself, and waited.

He could stay like this all day and into the next day if he really wanted. Poised and ready to attack. He kinda liked it up there anyway. Quieter.

He'd watched the people for a while, looking for any signs of strange behavior. He knew what the target looked like, and he'd recognize the guy in an instant, but the first indications were usually the environment. An open door, a backward glance.

He'd seen a drug deal go down and narrated the whole thing, in detail, to Coulson over the head set. Coulson probably wasn't amused, but Clint wasn't sure if the guy was even still listening. Had other things on his plate. Lots of chatter recently about some diplomat and threats against him, so Coulson was probably already working on that.

But just in case Coulson had tuned in to check up on his "stupidest assassin" (a title Clint relished), Clint liked to keep the radio chatter interesting.

Plus, he always liked getting the "reminder" about "proper use of communications equipment" and "the definition of radio silence." Like Clint would say anything if he didn't know for sure his line was secure. Like Clint would say anything at all if he thought anything but total silence would give him away. This was a cushy assignment, and for those, he liked to add a little flair to the monotony.

The fly crawled up Clint's thumb and onto his index finger. Tickled.

But he'd gone silent now, because the day had gone on and still there was no sign of his target, and he really should have seen something by now.

He did see a guy in a hoodie, and Clint watched that guy because he kept an eye on everybody who had passed underneath him that had their face in any way obscured. Could be nothing, but he wasn't trained to assume the best. Hats, hoodies, too-high jacket collars, too-big earmuffs—they were all possible disguises, and people in disguises were usually people on Clint's list.

A door opened. Guy came out with a hat on, but the sun was bright enough that it made him pause, made him raise his hand to shield his eyes and glare up into the light.

That two-second pause was enough identification for Clint. That and the glimpse of C4.

Three shots. Slug for both hands, stuff expanded and paralyzed the muscles on contact, so no button pushing even in death throes. Third was the head shot.

Guy went down cleanly, and Clint called it in. Wouldn't take the cleanup crew long to sweep the place of any evidence of SHIELD interference, and nobody would believe the civilians anyway.

Clint grinned. He sometimes liked to watch for any eyewitness reports after he'd been in a place. "And then some Robin Hood stopped the bad guy from going anywhere!" was his favorite.

Clint waited until he saw an agent he recognized before he moved from the rooftop, and then he slid back down and stalked into the nearest bar, where he had every intention of drowning himself in some good booze and lots of whatever food they had—preferably chicken wings.

But he didn't even get a table before Coulson's voice buzzed in his ear. "You still sober, or was that five minute pause too much?"

"You and I both know you have the most obnoxious timing possible, sir," Clint said, sighing, as he stalked back out of the bar. He knew he wasn't going to get anywhere now.

"So still sober. Good. I've got a new assignment for you, and this one's high priority—I can't have you sullying SHIELD's—"

"Sir, with the greatest possible respect, you and I both know that I don't do anything but sully this organization's name, and you clean up after me."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd do that less, Barton."

"That seems like a lot of work, sir, and I need to focus all my energy on shooting things dead," Clint said.

"Remind me why I thought recruiting you was a good idea."

"You were temporarily blinded by my good looks, charm, and talent, sir," Clint said without missing a beat.

"My case files say something very different."

"Well, you don't want to go admitting on record that you found a handsome devil like me—you want to keep all the ladies for yourself."

"Barton—"

"Sir, have you got a mission for me, or were you just making that up to keep me from having any fun? Because I still haven't got back to base, and there are plenty of dives around here with half-decent beer and . . . ." He trailed off and grinned at the long, patient sigh. He shouldn't enjoy messing with Coulson as much as he did, but when he met someone so supposedly "unflappable," he couldn't resist.

"How'd you like to keep someone alive for a change?"

"Seems like the opposite of my job description, sir," Clint said. "Sounds fun."

"Good, because I'm assigning you five agents and some extra ammunition just in case."

Clint let out a low whistle. "Sounds important, sir. You sure you want to trust me with getting it done?"

"Barton, if there was someone out there better qualified, that's where I'd be."

"Yes, sir." Clint got the feeling Coulson wasn't really in the mood for joking around. "Mind if I ask who I'll be babysitting?"

"I mind if you're asking me over the comms, yes."

"Right. See you in a sec."

…..

Clint really, really wished he'd just straight up asked Coulson who he'd been assigned to protect. But Coulson was good like that and tricked him into agreeing to this mission before he even got all the intel.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Because now he was sitting in a private jet with this smarmy guy who never stopped talking about all the countries he'd pissed off that day.

Sitting in a private jet going to a hospital, and Clint hated hospitals with a spite that he usually reserved for bad guys and SHIELD agents who thought he was a circus sideshow (which, to be fair, he kind of was, but that didn't mean he had to take it from punk junior agents). For some medical procedure Clint hadn't heard of and didn't care to understand because, whatever, he was just along for the ride to keep this guy alive. Turns out lots of people wanted him dead.

Possibly people who had been stuck on a plane with the guy.

Five other agents, all of them with almost definitely more years under their belt at SHIELD, under his command, and it had taken him maybe five minutes before he "quietly suggested" that they stay close to the cockpit and let Clint do the one-on-one sitting-with-the-asset thing.

Mostly because Clint didn't mind the one-on-one sitting as long as he had an arrowhead to play with so he could fantasize about putting it through the guy's eye. He alternated which eye in these fantasies. But Clint couldn't guarantee the same of these agents. They were trained, yeah, but Clint knew the basics of SHIELD psychology, and it was much harder to protect someone you already didn't like.

Easier if Clint was the only one annoyed to death by this guy. Kept the other agents at 100% on the protection detail.

That and Clint was pretty sure having five other agents around meant at least one of them would figure out why he was fingering the arrowhead and then he'd be the one stuck in the other end of the plane. But the whole protect-the-asset excuse played much better in his head.

Besides, he'd managed to tune out most of the drivel, and he'd been in enough Coulson Lectures to know when it was time for a noncommittal "mmhmm" or "really?" or "oh."

They landed, and Clint already had his agents on the ground, checking the perimeter, securing the building.

There was a car waiting for them, and although the agents had already checked it, Clint gave it a once-over himself, because hey, it was something to do, and he'd always liked cars, and besides, he really, really wanted an excuse to get away from Mr. Talks Too Much.

The car ride was only ten minutes; SHIELD had already cleared them a path, and the hospital wasn't that far away. It was a very long ten minutes, and Clint could see that Agent Hammond, at least, looked like she might also benefit from an arrowhead to hold and fantasize about putting through his eye socket.

She just played with her gun—basically the same thing. He met her gaze, and she flashed him the smallest of ah, so we understand each other smiles. Nice to know someone else was going crazy and it wasn't just him.

He assigned Hammond and another agent, Grant, to stay with the asset. Other three to sweep floor by floor. It'd already been swept by SHIELD beforehand, but Clint liked to be thorough. Besides, the sweep gave him time to get up high.

He was way too glad to get up high and alone and no longer stuck with the guy who could talk at one hundred miles an hour about nothing but himself.

He was so caught up in the euphoria of quiet that he almost missed it, the slight shadow of movement and the glimpse of red hair.

"McNab," he said into his comm, "check your six o'clock, fire escape on the north side."

"Checking," came the response.

Clint evened out his breathing and flattened himself on the rooftop. If he'd seen her, she might've seen him, too. He'd need a new rooftop.

Of course, there wasn't any guarantee that it was her. It could just as easily be someone else.

Yep. Someone else who was stealthy enough not to be noticed by trained SHIELD agents and Hawkeye himself. Someone else with red hair and the training that would get past all the other sweeps.

It was definitely her. He wasn't kidding himself.

Question was why she would be out on a simple hit like this one. He would've taken it personally if he hadn't even known he was going to be leading this op until an hour before he got on the plane. Otherwise, he would've thought she was doing this on purpose.

"McNab?" he said after all of thirty seconds.

"Nothing there, sir."

"There was. She's gone now?"

"Apparently. I can't see anything."

"Well, at least she didn't come in through that window." Clint chewed his bottom lip. "Right," he said. "We're going to need more backup."

"Because you thought you saw something?"

Clint almost smiled, because he didn't even get the chance to respond. Hammond did. "McNab, you haven't worked with Hawkeye before, have you?"

"Barton? No, can't say I have."

"That's obvious. He says he saw something, believe it." She paused, and he could almost hear her smiling in his general direction. "Where do you think he got the nickname from?"

"I thought it had to do with my addiction to sunflower seeds and gummy worms," Clint said blandly.

"You did that to yourself."

Clint reached up and switched radio frequencies, still grinning, keeping his eyes on the building. She didn't get in through the window. Not even she was that good.

"Coulson," he said.

"Barton?"

"I need backup here. Lots of backup."

It took Coulson a full three seconds to respond to that. Partly because Clint didn't usually need much backup—and five extra agents was actually a pretty big group for him—and partly because Clint usually led with something snarky unless things were really, really serious.

"How many?" Coulson asked.

"Give me anyone you've got in this area."

Coulson paused, and Clint could just see him making the commands with hardly a word the way he always did. Then, "That bad? What's the problem?"

"You remember when Hill sent me on that wild goose chase to track down stolen weapons tech?"

"And you blew the whole shipment up and nearly got yourself killed?"

"Yeah. You remember the third party I told you about?"

Clint could almost hear Coulson stiffen up, probably adjusting his tie, ready for action. "Here?"

"Yeah."

"Just her?"

"I don't see any other backup." Clint paused. "Coulson, you said you'd look into this mystery for me. Anything I should know going in?"

Coulson sighed. "All I've got is rumors, Clint," he said, and that's how Clint knew he was in trouble. First-naming. "Rumors and a lot of bodies."

"Great. I'll keep that in mind." Clint gritted his teeth.

"Barton?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll send backup. Don't get yourself killed in the meantime."

"Yeah, I'll try not to."

Clint kept low, so that the raised edge of the rooftop would conceal his movements, and army-crawled his way to the fire stairs on the back of the building. He fired a grappling arrow across the street, to the east—but he didn't use it. Instead, he leaped onto the next building's fire stairs, using a parked ambulance as cover. If she was still on the hospital's side of the street, there was no way she'd seen him. He cut the rope on the grappling hook and hoped that she'd focus her attention on that building and not on him.

Hard to tell with her, though. He'd only met her once and already he knew she wasn't to be trifled with. He'd really like to survive a second encounter.

"Hammond?"

"Yes, sir?"

Clint grinned. He didn't get "sirred" very often, and it was always fun. "Don't let him go inside 'til backup gets here."

"You mean I should stay in the car with him?" she asked. He could almost hear the "do I have to?" that came after that.

"Yeah. Sorry." Clint grinned. "Look, there's a woman. 'Bout your height, red hair, but other than that, I don't have much of a description."

"You've got prior?"

"Yeah. Don't let her sneak up on you." Clint paused and added, "She's Sitwell-levels of sneaky. Possibly sneakier."

Hammond let out a low whistle.

"Yeah. So just be careful, okay?"

"Same to you."

Clint nodded and then went back to radio silence. He didn't figure she'd come after the asset with so many agents around, but she might maybe try something during the surgery or during recovery. Maybe just before.

If it was him, he'd wait 'til after. After most of the civilians are gone and the nurses are on a visitation schedule that's easy to figure out. After the agents on guard duty start falling into a routine.

Clint made a mental note to call out changes in the routine every other shift rotation. Good precaution to take.

He caught another movement. If he'd been on the rooftop where he'd sent his grappling arrow, he would never have spotted it, but there it was. Just a shadow.

"Southeast corner," he whispered.

"Yes, sir."

He waited a full minute before he asked, "Well?"

"Nothing. There was nobody there."

"Nobody? You didn't see a single person?"

"One nurse. Older woman, maybe sixty. I've seen her around before."

Clint wasn't sure if that was comforting. He sighed. "When they actually start this procedure, I'm going to want two agents on every door and every window."

"Isn't that a little—"

"No." He sighed and resisted the urge the shoot something. It was a good thing the doctors they'd brought in were all SHIELD medics, because otherwise, he might have just called off the whole thing.

It was just one operative. One person who could fly under his radar. It shouldn't get under his skin like this, but it did. It bothered him that there was someone else out there better than him, and he'd worked hard to get this good.

That was the game, when your job was assassination. You had to be the best or you'd end up on the other end of someone's gun.

When this was over, he'd ask Coulson if he could be the one to take her out. Do his own research and everything—that would be the clincher. Clint never did his own research, and Coulson would just be over the moon if there was one less project on his plate.

Backup arrived. Three vans. Fifteen more agents. Clint called directions and had every floor swept clean before Hammond and the asset entered. (Hammond was probably cursing his name for making her wait with that guy for so long, but oh well.)

He didn't see any sign of Her. Wasn't sure that was a good thing.

But it was good enough to send in the SHIELD medics and at least start the procedure. He had all the agents check every single medic at every single entrance. Yeah, it took time, but Clint was nothing if not patient. Had to be, job like his.

He had Hammond personally check all the medics, too. Not just because Clint trusted her to be thorough—though that was part of it. Because the asset had spent plenty of time with her and knew that she could be trusted to be thorough as well.

Clint waited through the whole procedure and had every chink in every brick in every building memorized by the time they were done. Nine hours. And he didn't move one inch.

Because he knew what she didn't know. That he'd slipped past her. That he wasn't where she thought he was.

He was especially careful to watch anyplace that might have been a blind spot for the other perch, the one she thought he had.

The medics cleared out. The agents swapped out guard duty so a few of them could catch some shut eye. Clint made sure only two slept at a time, in three hours shifts. Wasn't much, and they told him so, but he put on his best Coulson voice and reminded them who exactly was in charge of this op.

He'd spotted her again.

"South side. Fifth floor. Second window from the east," he muttered into his comm as he strung the arrow.

She was invisible to everyone else. Cameras pointed the wrong way. Just outside the view of anyone looking out from the inside. Poised like a ballerina right on the edge.

He let the arrow fly.

She looked up.

And she jumped.

It was five floors, so he hadn't been expecting it, and in the momentum of the jump, he didn't make the head shot he'd intended to make.

It was still a decent shot, though. Right through her right side, and she was losing a lot of blood. But she'd tied a bungee cord or something to her ankle, and then she was right back up on that ledge, dangerously close to his asset. Still bleeding, though.

Clint fitted another arrow, and she looked up at him. Shot three times. Crashed through the nearest window.

"I got eyes," Hammond said.

"Nice job," Clint said as he stood up. "I'm going to try to get another angle; she's spotted me."

He stood up and was surprised to find that he was a little wobbly. Oh. Shoulder.

He let the grappling arrow carry him onto the next rooftop so he could avoid too much running and jostling, and he tore off most of the bottom of his shirt to stop the bleeding. She'd got him pretty good. Must have been the adrenaline kept him from noticing.

Still usable, though, and he knocked another arrow, waiting for the next time he could take a shot.

"I lost her," Hammond said, and Clint swore through his teeth.

"Get back to the asset," Clint said.

"Yessir."

That was the nice part about being in SHIELD. Things ran smooth. Clear chain of command, and when Clint was at the top of it, he appreciated the ease with which they could handle pretty much whatever. Impressive group of people—even he had to admit it.

But after a flurry of impressiveness and after someone actually came up and bandaged Clint and told him to maybe take a break even though most medics knew better than to say stupid stuff like that . . . nothing. Nothing happened.

He'd hit her. But they couldn't find her. Not even a bloody rag. Some bleach and other cleaning stuff to wipe out any trace of where she'd been, but that was the only clue.

She was good. She was very good.

"Hammond," Clint said when the medic was gone.

"Yeah?"

"I gotta get a new perch. Medics are good on the patching up thing and not so much on the stealth. You take point, let me know if you see anything you don't like. I want to know if the air conditioning is too cold."

"Yessir."

Clint grinned. He liked Hammond.

He flung himself over the side of the building and shimmied his way down a drainage pipe. He was about to hit the bottom when he heard the telltale singing sound.

He dropped without thinking, and the knife was right where his head should have been if he wasn't this good. He spun with the momentum and had his arrow knocked just as he heard the click of a gun.

"Smart," he said, to stall, because he couldn't see her. "Not many people can do that."

"Maybe you're not as good as you think."

He was honestly surprised. It was like listening to poison on the wind, that voice, like a viper or a kiss or maybe both. But he had time to be surprised and fire at the same time. Didn't matter that he couldn't see a target, because that wasn't the point of the arrow he'd chosen. This one was a flash bang, and it hurt because he couldn't hear and it was hard to see even though he'd closed his eyes, but he knew where the hospital was, and he ran in that direction. He had agents covering everywhere around this place, and he had to trust them to have his back, even if he didn't, not in this case.

He fitted another arrow as he ran, and when he saw a flicker of movement, he fired.

He was very good, and he never missed, and he saw the body hit the floor before the rest of his mind caught up and realized that, yes, she was down. And out.

He counted the seconds carefully in his head. One…two…three…. He didn't see anything else. He didn't see her move. Black-clad with long, red hair, and she was facedown in the pavement. He couldn't see her chest rise and fall, but no way was it this easy.

No way.

But then three other SHIELD agents were there and fussing over him and oh, okay, yes, that was blood, wasn't it. Warm and way too much of it and it seemed to be coming from his stomach.

…

"Hammond," was the first thing he said when he woke up. Not because he wanted her there but because she was there, and she wasn't paying attention to him; she was looking out the window.

Hammond turned and fixed him with a reassuring smile, the kind usually reserved for . . . .

Crap.

Clint could feel them in him now, the IVs and needles, and they made his skin crawl he wanted them out so he started pulling.

"What are you doing?" Hammond gasped, and she sounded horrified.

"Don't need 'em," Clint said thickly, but they'd pumped him full of something, and he didn't quite have his balance. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Her," Clint said, waving his hand. Like Hammond didn't know.

Hammond leaned back. "Nice, clean shot. Very Agent Barton," Hammond said. "She got you, too, but we pulled you back from the brink."

Clint grunted and folded his arms across his chest. "No need to look so smug about it," he muttered, then sat up a little straighter. "So, she's dead, right? Not like me dead, but for real dead?"

Hammond nodded. "You missed all the excitement. The asset wanted to, I don't know, give you a medal or something for saving his life and insisted we move you next door to him so he could talk to you while you were both recovering—"

"No."

Hammond smiled apologetically. "We did have a whole staff of SHIELD medics who had nothing better to do besides listen to him whine, so you're lucky they were around to put you back together at all."

"You're sure she's dead?"

"I attended the autopsy personally. It wasn't your best work—more a reflex shot than anything else, from what I can tell—but still, stopped her cold." Hammond smiled. "We're taking the asset out of here tomorrow morning, but with your mystery assassin dead . . . ." She shrugged. "It's been quiet the last few days."

Clint's eyes widened. "Days?"

"Well, yeah. Don't expect to bleed out on the pavement and have to be revived twice and not miss a few things," Hammond said, her eyes twinkling.

Clint sat back against the head of his hospital bed. He hated those beds. Crossed his arms. "You're still being careful." It wasn't a question, more of an order, really.

Hammond nodded. "Figured you'd stick an arrow in me if I wasn't."

"Perceptive." Clint narrowed his eyes. Then, "Tell me."

Hammond smiled. "As far as the public knows, we're moving him out right now. I've got most of our squad out there protecting a car with Agent Grant in it, and the ones that aren't have been in charge of moving our guest to a new room."

Clint noticed she hadn't said which room, so he quickly asked, "You're not going to—"

Crash. The door flew open, and in hobbled a hospital-gown wearing, agent-annoying moron with a huge, stupid grin on his face. "You're up! Wonderful! I was just going to insist that someone wake you and tell you the good news."

Clint gave Hammond his best Fury glare (which was about one hundred times less effective than the real thing, but Clint was improving), but Hammond seemed impervious. In fact, that looked like the corners of a sadistic smile pulling at her lips.

"Everything's set up for the big exit," Hammond said to Clint as if nothing was happening and they weren't wheeling The Idiot Asset Clint Almost Died Over into Clint's room to talk him to death. "We're even moving some of the patients back into the hospital, so everyone will think it's business as usual."

"I wouldn't," Clint said.

"What, you're expecting someone to get through our defenses after you killed Red?" Hammond laughed. "Besides, we're being careful, and the hospital wanted these patients back anyway. They couldn't wait much longer. This place has the best treatment available, you know, and some people still need it." Hammond shot Clint a meaningful look.

Clint sighed. He hated this plan. A lot.

…

"No."

"It's just one more day."

"Hammond. There are civilians now. They're bringing in more all the time. This was never supposed to take this long, and these people need those machines to survive. We can't ask them to wait."

"I know."

"I'm not going to put them in harm's way because—"

"Coulson got the tip."

Clint thudded his head against the back of his hospital bed. "Fine. If Coulson thinks our escape route's compromised, it is."

"Good luck."

"I hate all of you. I'm seriously thinking about going solo."

"Good luck getting someone to make more trick arrows for you."

"I hate all of you."

"I know you do."

Clint grinned. He liked Hammond.

He cut communications and sighed. One more day of Big Mouth. That wasn't so bad, right? He'd aced the torture courses at SHIELD. Couldn't be worse than that.

…

It was worse.

Clint had long ago stopped paying attention to what Moron was saying. He was practicing his breathing.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Release.

" . . . and I told the young prince that his choice in successor was foolish, but would he listen?"

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Release.

" . . . . Of course the whole thing was a shambles. Should have called me in sooner."

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Release.

" . . . . Nothing compared to your line of work, of course, though perhaps the attempts on my life are not nearly as successful as those on yours."

Clint narrowed his eyes. Broke his pattern. He should definitely not say, "That's because you'd have died twenty years ago if you'd faced half the stuff I have."

Clint didn't hear the next part, but then there was something like, ". . . lost most of my bodyguards. Of course, all part of the job. Shame to lose so many, but that's why men like us are rare, eh? Hard to kill. Survival of the fittest."

No. No talking. Don't even open your mouth.

" . . . bet I could pay three times whatever scraps they're giving you. What do you say?"

Clint blinked once. Twice. And he had to open his mouth now, because the guy was waiting for an answer, and Clint honestly had no idea what was about to come out of his mouth but it definitely wasn't going to be good, but here he went: "Coulson asked me to keep you alive."

That actually stopped the tide of words.

And Clint just kept talking. "Coulson. He's my handler. Most of the time. Sometimes Fury and Hill, but mostly Coulson. And he asked me to keep you alive, so I did. And I stopped the best assassin I've ever seen—which was kind of anticlimactic, I gotta say—and it wasn't to keep you alive. It was because Coulson asked me to, and if he asked me to kill you, I'd do it in a second."

Idiot was completely silent.

Clint had definitely screwed up now. Coulson was going to kill him or send him on training missions with whiny junior agents or something really awful or maybe he'd just sit Clint in a room with Fury when Fury was in the middle of something important and lock the door.

And Clint opened his mouth, to backpedal, to say pretty much anything he could think of to make it better, but then he said instead, "Do you smell smoke?"

Not good.

He grabbed Idiot, because that was his job, and went straight to the window. Didn't hesitate, just grabbed his bow and a quiver on the way down. He put them both through the window and only let go of Idiot for a second to fire the grappling arrow before he turned to catch Idiot.

His line broke.

He didn't break stride; they still had a way to fall. He fired the cushy landing goo arrow (he need a better name for it, really) and knew it'd catch them. He was more concerned with why his line had gone slack.

He felt his back hit the goo, but he kept looking straight up, until he saw it. Saw her.

"Knew it," he muttered under his breath.

"What's going on?" Idiot asked.

"Somebody's still trying to kill you," Clint said. "Hammond!"

No answer.

This was really, really bad.

He heard the shots, but he was already moving, already dragging Idiot behind him.

"Figured it was too easy," he said, because talking out loud helped him think, even if he wasn't paying attention to the actual what he's saying part. "Shoulda known. She figured we'd relax if we thought she was dead, and we did, and—"

The blast knocked him to his knees, and he could feel the heat of the flames even from that distance. He grabbed Idiot without thinking and kept his body between the flames and Idiot. As soon as he could stand again, he did, and carrying Idiot fireman-style was just going to have to cut it on the keeping-him-alive front, no matter how obnoxious he was, shouting about how he would not suffer this indignity or whatever.

The whole hospital was one big fire, and that was his fault, because he hadn't done the smart thing and taken the risk and got out of there before a single civilian crossed the threshold.

He probably would've been mad at Hammond, too, if she wasn't very probably already dead anyway.

Clint should've been dead, too. She'd been sloppy. Maybe she'd had to take the time to heal, too—he got her pretty good when he shot her last—and maybe she was feeling the crunch of the timeline.

Clint stopped in the middle of his sprint. She was standing in the shadows ahead of him. He still couldn't see her face, just red hair and a black silhouette, but he would have guessed she was smiling. She had them right where she wanted them.

So maybe she wasn't sloppy after all. Maybe she just didn't care about a hospital fire.

He drew his arrow back and flinched when he heard the shot. But if he was going to die, he'd take her down with him, and he let his last arrow fly.

He waited.

He wasn't dead.

That was good.

And then he felt a weight collapse on top of him. It was the idiot.

….

"She hacked my systems."

Coulson said it like a statement, but Clint heard the hurt.

"She's good, Coulson."

"She could've killed you, Clint," Coulson said, and Clint tried to pretend he didn't care that Coulson sounded more hurt about his systems being hacked than Clint nearly dying, but Coulson was first-naming, so he was obviously at least a little shaken up about it.

"Lucky I wasn't part of the mission. Just him," Clint said. He looked down at the ground.

"Lucky," Coulson agreed.

Clint let the silence hang between them for a long time, longer than he usually would, before he said, "Sorry."

"We'll talk about your handling of this mission later, and we'll talk about putting civilians in harm's way, and you get to tell Hammond's family along with the civilians'—I'm not doing that again," Coulson said. "But Clint? Don't be an idiot. You screwed up big time, and you're not off the hook, but your mystery assassin? She's the one with blood on her hands."

"Mine aren't clean either," Clint pointed out.

"I approved the mission," Coulson said.

Clint blinked. "What?"

"Your request to take her down. I'll even help with the research." A small smile played at the corners of Coulson's lips, and those were the scariest, because slight smiles meant Coulson felt secure in the knowledge he'd win. "I know you said you'd do it yourself, but let's be honest, Clint, I'm much faster than you are."

Clint felt just the beginnings of a smile. "When do we start?"

A/N: Canon? There is no canon. This is basically me playing wishful thinking MCU Hawkeye being explored more in the movies and having more backstory and basically I'm making this up as I go along but if there was a MCU Hawkeye/Black Widow movie this is kinda what I'd like to see happening.