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Chapter Text

"… you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?"-Loki

Thunder crashed through the sky and the clouds openly wept upon the city beneath them. The desolate gray of the concrete buildings blended into the dreary grayness of the night. The asphalt floor of the industrial district rippled as the steady drops of rain splashed into the thin layer of water that had settled over it. It was late spring but the storm had settled a deep chill in the air.

Clint stared up at the angry rain clouds through squinted eyes. The raindrops splashing on his face and the few meager drops that made their way past his parched lips into his dry mouth were heavenly. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, not that it would have taken long for his clothes to soak through the way they had. Here he was, a top assassin for SHIELD, lying in a puddle in a deserted alleyway somewhere in a city of little significance, dying for a mission that was fucked before it even started. A laugh escaped his lips. Irony had been a governing principal of Barton's life and thus the particulars of this moment, alone in an alleyway so far from home waiting for the release of sweet death, was not lost upon him.

The pain in his side had seemed to quiet some or maybe he just didn't notice it so much after it being there for so long. He knew he needed to get up, to get moving. If he kept laying there his pursuers would catch up and finish what they started. Clint weighed the effort of having to crawl to his feet again versus being shot in the gutter like a dog. If he was going to be honest with himself in that moment, he was leaning more towards the latter. It wouldn't be undeserved, just late in coming; fourteen years late, but finally someone would be able to do what a misguided man in a suit failed to do.

There was the other side of the coin as well. Dead men can't make amends and he had so much to make up for. There was also the team to consider; sure they would get along fine without him but being there to watch their backs just made him feel better. Making sure the heroes could save the world without having to worry, knowing that someone had their backs. That was what Barton's function was now. He gladly did it every time the Avengers were called out.

The archer clenched his fists and braced himself for the agony that was about to erupt in his side. His face contorted in pain and a sharp hiss escaped his lips as he made his final push to contract his stomach muscles and sit up. The cold water ran through his hair, down his face and negated some of the heat that was radiating from his wound.

Clint managed to get his shaky feet underneath him and continued staggering on his way. He had to make it to the extraction point; that was his singular goal. The team would be there, they would take him home. The thought became his mantra as he stumbled through the darkness.

"Extraction point … team … home." Clint mumbled the words over and over again until they became nothing more than an indiscernible jumble of poorly formed sounds. He stumbled into the wall and slid down to his knees. Ragged breaths escaped him as he tried to breathe through the agony.

A traitorous tear slipped through his lashes and curled down Barton's cheek. It was so far, the enemy was closing in and he was so, so tired. He'd been going at it alone for two days now and he was done. Blood loss and fever probably amplified that feeling. He leaned his head against the building and let his eyes slowly close. He wasn't prone to giving up in the face of such obstacles but everyone had their breaking point and Clint believed that he just might have found his.

"You have to keep moving Barton."

Clint cracked one eye open and scanned the area. There was nothing and no one, just the empty darkness that had gripped the city. The archer shook his head to clear the rain and the voices. He could add hallucinations to his list of ailments, though he would much rather be hearing someone else's voice in his head than that one.

"Get up Barton. You're not going to make the extraction point sitting on your ass."

Clint's head lulled to the side as he tried to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. His eyes eventually landed on a fuzzy figure standing a few feet beside him. He rubbed the water from his eyes bring into focus a soaking wet designer suit. "Sir?" Barton croaked.

Coulson squatted down so he was at eye level with his agent. Barton looked awful and in desperate need of salvation but he certainly couldn't sit there and bleed to death. The man needed help and Phil was the one handler that could do it. "Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Barton."

It was the most reassuring sight Clint had ever seen. Phil was there and everything was going to be alright now. Coulson always knew what to do, how to make things work out. Clint had long since lost count of the number of scrapes the man had saved him from. Something akin to hope fluttered in his chest. Coulson saved him from this once before; maybe he could do it again.

"It's Jäger. I was sent to take out Jäger, but my cover was blown and he knew I was coming. Now he's coming for me and I can't … I don't think I can out run him. I can't beat him, sir. I've tried, but…" the words tumbled out of Clint's mouth with a sob. He had to explain to Phil; had to explain that he tried but he just couldn't pull this off.

Coulson placed a reassuring hand on Barton's shoulder. "Shhhh. It's going to be okay. We'll get you out of here and away from Jäger. I promised you it wasn't going to end in the gutter with a bullet in your head. We just have to get you to your feet."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I think I've kept my word so far, Barton."

"You're dead sir. You can't keep that promise anymore."

"After all I had to go through to bring you in the first time? You think I'd let a little thing like death stop me?" Phil offered him his hand and it was so real and reassuring.

Chapter Text

Fourteen years ago

Phil rubbed his hand across his forehead trying to forestall the headache that was looming. Fury really needed to start hiring more people. As much as Phil enjoyed the comfort and relaxation of paperwork, forms and order, there were only so many reports one person could look through in one day.

A soft knock at the door pulled Phil's attention from his pile. "Come."

Jennifer struggled with the door knob, but managed to enter without dropping a single file from the large pile balanced precariously in her arms. "Mr. Fury wanted you to take a look at these ones as well." The secretary had a somewhat apologetic look on her face, but dumped the pile on his desk nonetheless.

"Thank you, Jennifer." It looked like his long day was going to turn into a longer night. Jennifer smiled and left Coulson to his work. He reached over and pulled the first file from the top. He skimmed the first page. 'Justin Fletcher: age 35, suspected mastermind of twelve bank robberies. Recent intel suggests that he had been tapped to help a Hydra cell plan a break in at the SHIELD facility in Iowa.' Coulson made a note to assign Agents Filner and Jackson to track down Mr. Fletcher before he put any plans together.

Phil grabbed the next file from the pile. 'Clinton Barton: age 20.' Was it just Phil or were the bad guys getting younger and younger? 'Suspected to be involved in ten assassinations while working as a hit man for hire. Has proven useful with fire arms, as well as his weapon of choice: bow and arrows.' Coulson decided to add an armed and dangerous note to file and assign Agents Kowalski and Mortelous. Without a second thought, he dropped the file into his outbox and moved on to the next. He was keeping the world safe by ordering threats removed, one at a time.

Phil was distracted from his pile awhile later when Dan walked in and dropped into the chair opposite Phil. Placing his feet on the desk forced Coulson to stop and push them off. "What can I do for you, Dan?"

"All filing and no play makes Phil a very dull partner. Now I know you missed those little things called meal breaks, so what do you say you take a break from signing people's death warrants and come with me to grab some late dinner. Kelly's at a friend's having a sleep over and you know how I hate to eat alone," argued Dan.

The slight rumble of Coulson's stomach at the mention of dinner betrayed him and he had no choice but to capitulate with his partner's request. Dan just smiled as he got his way and dragged Phil out of the office for a bite to eat.

"Any word on Jäger yet?" asked Phil as he cut into his parmesan chicken. Things had been so hectic lately that Coulson and Pierce found themselves working by themselves more than together on missions.

"No, we lost him in Madrid. He's making his way here, I can feel it. A snake like that is never up to any good, and the sooner we axe him, the better I'll sleep at night," replied Dan around a mouthful of food..

The man known as 'the hunter' had launched three successful attacks against SHIELD in as many weeks and was the current focus of most of the agency. Jäger had been linked with Hydra, but all reports indicated he was still independent from them. He also had ties to local mid level criminals across the United States and mob affiliations in Eastern Europe. An operation in Romania had put Dan firmly on the man's hit list. Phil had a feeling it was going to be a very long and trying year. Jäger had proven himself a worthy adversary.

Six months later

Clint adjusted the sight on his scope. He had been waiting on the rooftop for over three hours for his target to show up. A rifle wasn't his first choice to get the job done, but what the customer paid for, they got and he desperately needed this pay check. The man across the street walked into his crosshairs and Barton pulled the trigger. The target crumpled to the ground dead before he knew what hit him. It was quick, clean and one hundred percent professional. Clint quickly dismantled his gun and cleared the rooftop before the onlookers on the street got it together enough to call 911.

Barton swung his bag over his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd; he had a paycheck to collect. Most people would feel bad about spraying someone's brains all over the sidewalk, and once upon a time, Clint had felt bad about it. Sleeping in back alleys and going without meals helped curve any feelings of remorse the young archer had. The reality that quickly became Barton's world was that scumbags usually paid to have other scumbags offed. Killing wasn't glamorous, and it certainly wasn't glorious, but it was a skill Clint seemed to excel at, and in some weird twisted way, every mob guy and drug dealer he was paid to kill kind of made the world a better place. It was the lie he told himself to sooth some of the guilt that slowly ate away at him.

It was hard being an assassin with principals, but it was even harder to have morals while starving to death. Clint didn't take any jobs that required him to kill innocent people, which meant that many nights he went hungry or without a roof over his head. All that was forgotten for today, because he had completed a job and wasn't going to have to scrounge for dinner out of a dumpster tonight.

He made his way to the Hornet's Nest Club to meet his employer. It was early afternoon, but the bar was crowded with the usual ruffians that didn't have anywhere else to be at one pm, except at the bottom of a bottle. Clint gripped the strap on his bag tighter as he slipped past Wilson's boys and made it to the back room.

"Get the job done?" demanded Wilson, who was more focused on the stripper in his lap than the young sniper that just entered his office.

"Yep."

A roll of hundreds was tossed across Wilson's desk. As far as the going rate for murder went, Barton was extremely under paid, but a young kid with morals about who he killed didn't exactly have a lot of room for negotiation, and when said kid was broke and starving, you took what you could get. Clint grabbed the money and pocketed it before anyone could change their mind.

"Stick around, would ya. I have another job coming down the pipes and I need you to do it. One of my boys will be in touch. Besides, I know how much you kids like Jäger's jobs; bigger paychecks and what not. Seems he has use for the whole Robin Hood shtick"

Barton nodded and pretended it was a friendly offer of work, and not the implied threat that it was. That was the other down side of working with the wrong side of society; there was no doubt in anyone's mind that you do what you're told or the next target to come up would probably be you.

Clint hated staying in one place too long, but the fall he took during his last job had produced a nice big medical bill that had cleaned out his meager savings. Doctors working under the table weren't cheap and neither were the medical supplies and pills Barton had needed. Normally he would have forgone the medication, but the pain had been so bad that he broke down and paid for the overpriced pills from the doctor with the menacing grin. It was a moment of weakness that Clint felt he would be paying for a long time coming. He'd have to perform a few more jobs before he had the capital to relocate and get away from Wilson.

Clint ducked into the corner store on his way back to the shit hole he had been crashing in for the last three months. He grabbed enough groceries to skim by for the week and pretended not to notice the way the clerk's eyes followed him throughout the store. Barton knew he looked scruffy, and if he hadn't gotten a job today, he would absolutely be pocketing the items the clerk was watching him with. But he had dispatched another soul today, and therefore could afford to pay for the simple items he was going to dine on.

After getting his groceries he made his way back to the rundown apartment complex. It was the kind of place that you paid by the week and didn't expect things like running water or heat in exchange for no questions and no one remembering your face.

Clint had just started up the stairs when his muscles tensed up and he felt compelled to pull his knife out. He turned around and stopped short.

"Hey Clint, you need help getting that stuff upstairs?" asked Aiden with a hopeful smile.

"Shouldn't you be in school or something, Aiden?" grumbled Barton as he slide the knife back into its sheath and started up the stairs.

Not deterred by the attitude, the young boy bounded up the stairs behind Barton. "No school today. It's a long weekend."

"Where's your mom?"

"She's out working and I can't go back home in case she brings one of the guys back. Just cause I ain't got school don't mean she ain't gotta work. Not all the guys like to spring for hotel rooms ya know."

Clint did know. The walls around the building were pretty thin. He couldn't judge Aiden's mom, not that he would have anyways; she had helped him out when he first took shelter here and wasn't able to walk very well due to his ankle. She was on her own raising a precocious twelve year old, and you had to do what you had to do to put food on the table.

Clint fumbled with his keys, but managed to get the door to his apartment open. Aiden followed him in undeterred by Clint's attempts to shut the door on him. "Go home Aiden!"

"Can't I just hang out here for a little bit? Please."

Barton put the bag of groceries on the counter and pulled his backpack off his shoulder; the weapon felt heavier with Aiden in the room. The words sounded horribly familiar to ones he used to beg Barney with when they were kids and with one look, Clint knew he couldn't turn the kid away. He remembered what it was like to so desperately want someone, anyone's attention for even just a second.

Clint took his gear to the corner of the apartment that had a mattress and dumped it out. Aiden went about putting the groceries away, but when he thought Clint wasn't paying attention he would pause and watch the man clean and store his weapons.

"You eat anything today?" asked Barton as he put his cleaning supplies back in the drawer.

Aiden paused to ponder the question and the most appropriate answer. "Found some crackers in the cupboard this morning," he confessed.

"Uh-huh." Barton began rummaging through the cupboard for some pots. He filled one with water and set it on the stove. "Grab me a can of tomato sauce out of the cabinet, would you?"

Aiden lit up at being tasked with helping. Clint set to work making spaghetti and sauce while Aiden watched intently between fetching items for Barton. When dinner was ready, Clint washed two plates that had been sitting in the sink and served up the food. He didn't have a TV, so they sat on the dilapidated couch and slurped noodles in companionable silence.

A gentle knock came at the end of dinner. Clint was cautious, but he figured that anyone out to get him wasn't going to knock first, so he didn't stop Aiden as he bounded over to answer the door.

"There you are! Do you know what time it is?" asked Sheila.

Clint glanced at the clock and realized it was later than he thought; he probably should have sent Aiden home over an hour ago. He sauntered to the door while Aiden regaled his mother with lessons in making spaghetti. "He had dinner, so he's good to go."

The relief on her face warmed Barton's heart slightly. Obviously, work didn't go well today if she was worrying about her ability to feed her son tonight. "I hope he wasn't any trouble. Thank Clint for dinner Aiden."

Aiden thanked him as he followed his mom out of the apartment. Clint just about had the door shut when Aiden came running back and wrapped himself around Clint's waist. "You're a good guy, you know that Clint?"

Barton stood there a moment after Aiden released him from his hug; there was something about those innocent words that made him feel dirty. He called after the young boy, "I'm really not!"

Phil watched behind his dark glasses as the agent handed over the folded flag to Kelly. For a thirteen year old girl who had just lost her father, she was holding up remarkably well. Coulson would even say she was doing better than him. He flinched slightly at the shots fired to honor their fallen agent and Phil cursed himself for not being able to save his partner. Jäger had just made the top of his list; he was going to crush anyone affiliated with Jäger along the way.

The crowd that had gathered soon dispersed throughout the cemetery, leaving only Coulson and Kelly. Phil moved to stand behind the girl and placed his hand on her shoulder. She reached up and placed her hand on top of his.

"Remember when you were younger and your dad told you his job was fighting bad guys so the world would be safe? I want you to know he died a hero, and I promise you I'm going to see that the bad men that did this are brought to justice," vowed Phil. Kelly just nodded, unable to speak without breaking down again.

Chapter Text

Present

Clint gritted his teeth and pulled himself back up to his feet, Coulson spurring him on every step of the way.

"You have to stop the bleeding Barton," instructed Phil in his usual unflustered manner.

Coulson wasn't wrong. If he could slow the bleeding, it would buy him more time. All of Clint's weapons and supplies had been lost somewhere along the way, and his shirt, the only thing shielding him from the elements, was soaked and soiled from his arduous journey so far. He looked down the street for any place that might be useful.

Some deity must have taken pity on him, because like a shining star guiding him home, there was a small vet office at the end of the block. Coulson followed his agent's gaze and smiled. "That's it."

Clint put one shaky foot in front of the other, one deep breath after another getting him through the pain. It was slow, but the building was getting closer.

"Move it Barton. You can do it."

Clint let out an exacerbated huff. "Slave driver."

"You have to keep moving Clint," encouraged Phil. Clint nodded, droplets of rainwater dripping from his hair as he did so. He wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap, but he had to keep going for Phil.

Barton threw a rock through the window, then carefully reached in and unlocked the door; the last thing he needed was to slit his wrist on the broken glass. He stumbled through the office part of the building until he reached the supply room where he began to rummage through the drawers for anything that could provide aid. It wasn't going to win any prizes, but he managed to clean and tape up the wound in his side. He could feel the heat radiating from it. There was no way he could get the bullet out on his own and the only thing that was going to stop the infection now was antibiotics. He did manage to stop the bleeding, which in the face of everything was a victory he was going to take.

He spent a few minutes searching for painkillers and extra bandages and stuffed them into a small backpack he found. His next task was to raid the fridge in the lounge. He slammed back one bottle of water and started on a second. Whoever Justine was, she made an excellent sandwich. Clint threw a couple bottles of water and granola bars he found in with his medical supplies before slipping out the back and into the night.

He made it another few blocks before he had to sit down again. The small amount of water and food he consumed had fueled his energy reserves but an all too familiar fatigue was washing over him. He just needed to rest; why couldn't the world go away and let him rest?

"What is it with you and dark dank alleys, Barton? You seem very determined to die in the gutter even though you're better than that," prodded Phil after he took in their bleak surroundings.

Leave it to Barton's feverish delusions to get Coulson's unwavering belief in him correct. "Yeah? And what would you know about it?"

Phil frowned and stood there assessing his agent. "I worked too hard for you to throw it away like this."

"Well, you'd think since you learned the hard way and all, you'd be a bit more thrilled by the prospect of me dying here," argued Clint.

"How so?" asked Coulson in his usual unflappable calm; concern flooded his face. His agent was dangerously close to giving up, and though the situation was dire, there was still a chance of making it through.

"I got you killed." There it was, because only the archer would hallucinate the one person that had given him everything and been rewarded by Barton's betrayal. Only he would want to seek comfort from the one person he had no right to ask for it from.

Phil's lip quirked up. "I spent all those years trying to get you to take credit for the good things you did, and that's what you choose to call your own? I'm disappointed."

"Can't be disappointed, you're dead remember? I'm just talking to myself."

Phil knelt down beside Clint and grabbed him by the chin to force the archer to look him in the eyes. "Then have some respect for the dead and listen well. Everything that doesn't work out in the universe is not your fault. You were never responsible for me, and even knowing how it ends, I would do it again. You didn't make me go up against Loki, I chose it for myself, because that's what we do. Just like you're going to choose to get your ass up right now!"

Clint frantically shook his head. He was done. He just didn't have it in him to take one more step; he was tired and in pain and still had so far to go before reaching the team. And even if he did get back to the team, what then? His mission was still a failure and Jäger was still going to be out there haunting him.

"I can't do it." It came out weaker and with more tears than he would have liked.

"Yes you can. Of that I have no doubt. You've made it this far, you're half way there. You've done more in worse shape." It was a sad and painful truth that they had been through worse situations than this and far more often than either could remember. "Please Clint, you have to get up."

That got his attention, because that wasn't right. Phil Coulson never begged anyone for anything, ever. Clint looked at Phil and saw the desperation in his eyes. Even though he knew it wasn't real, he still couldn't bear to see that look on his handler's face.

"Are you going to take me home, sir?"

"I wish I could Barton," apologized Phil, "you have to get yourself home this time."

"Start searching the buildings, he can't be that far ahead of us now," echoed down the street. Clint knew that voice and it sent a shiver down his spine. It was the voice that narrated so many of his nightmares: Jäger.

Phil squeezed his hand and gave a reassuring nod. Biting his lip, Clint got back on his feet. He had to keep ahead of them, but they were so close now. Barton pushed on.

"Extraction point …

… team …

… home …

… can't disappoint Phil."

Chapter Text

Fourteen Years Ago

Barton's head snapped back with the force of the punch. He could feel the warm blood running from his nose and lip. The rope tying him to the chair was digging into his wrists and the rest of his body was one gargantuan bruise.

"You think you get to say no?" demanded Wilson as he hit Clint again. This conversation had been going on for hours and was getting nowhere.

Clint spit out a glob of blood; this was not the way he planned to spend his afternoon. He had only needed one more job, then he could blow this city, but after getting the details of said job, he had refused to take it. A choice Wilson was trying to make him regret.

Jäger had come into town with a job from Wilson's higher ups, and naturally Wilson decided to call the assassin currently in his employment. Apparently, the idea of using arrows had intrigued Jäger. The tall German hadn't said a word, just stood in the back of the room like he was now, and let Wilson lay out the job for Clint.

The target was a thirteen year old girl whose only crime was her father was some sort of agent that had been after Jäger and his constitutes. Clint had adamantly refused, and even after Wilson suggested he take a minute to think about, Barton wouldn't agree. There was still some small piece of his soul he was trying to protect, and tainting that with the blood of an innocent child would kill him forever more.

It wasn't hard for Wilson and his men to overpower Barton. They had certainly enjoyed working him over in the hopes that he would reconsider, though the only thing that happened was a severely beaten archer and a lack of commitment to exterminate the target. There was a very real possibility that Clint was going to die there, and for a girl he had never met and it wasn't as terrifying a prospect as he had imagined it would be. The prospect of death had stopped being frightening after Barney's betrayal had left him alone.

"Enough," stated Jäger as he took a step closer toward the prisoner. "There are ways for us to get what we want. Take him to the car." That could be the only chance at escape that the archer was going to get. His was a mundane existence that often saw him engage in self-destructive pursuits, but he wasn't suicidal, so he would chose to continue on if the opportunity presented itself.

Two of Wilson's thugs cut through the ropes keeping Clint on the chair, mindless of how the knives scrapped across his hands, and dragged him towards the back door. Not wanting to stick around for whatever 'ways' Jäger was versed in, Barton summoned all of his resolve and took his chance.

The second they cleared the doors he dug his heels in and slammed his head back into one of the thugs. The thug cried out as his nose was crushed and released his grip on the archer. With his free arm, Clint twisted and slammed his palm into the other thug's chest while he stomped his foot down on top of the other man's foot. No longer having the support of his escort, Clint sunk to his knees momentarily before finding the strength to scramble to his feet and take off running down the alley. He managed to dodge the few shots that were discharged in his direction and got lost in the crowded street.

Clint pulled the hood on his sweatshirt up to try and minimize the amount of attention that would be drawn to him. People tended to notice black eyes, busted lips and blood soaked clothes, even in that neighborhood. He knew it was stupid, but he had to go back to his apartment. All of his weapons and what little cash he had were still there, and he need those things to survive.

Barton frantically tore through his apartment the second he arrived, cramming everything he possibly could into his backpack. He didn't know for sure that Wilson knew where he had been staying but he was already beat to hell and in no condition to fight them off again if they did catch up to him.

"Hey Clint, you wanna go to the park to…" started Aiden as he burst through the door only to come up short as he found himself on the business end of Barton's handgun. His eyes went wide and he stood there frozen, waiting for his heart to start beating again.

The pair stared at each other until the click of a safety broke the silence. "Go home Aiden before you get yourself into trouble," ordered Barton as he went back to gathering his stuff; his heart slowly starting to return to a normal rhythm.

The boy swallowed and took a deep breath. He knew Clint was just like everyone else in the neighborhood. He'd seen him with guns before, but that was the first time one had been pointed at him. Aiden took in Barton's appearance, covered in blood and moving with a slight limp. "What happened to you?" He had meant the words to come out more forceful, but they kind of died out in a whisper.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, now get out of here before I kick your ass."

"I … I can help. My brother taught me some stuff before he took off. I can help you Clint," offered the boy.

Frustration and anger warred to be the dominant emotion. He didn't need help, didn't want it and it sure as hell shouldn't be offered to Clint for the first time in his life by a hard luck twelve year old. He growled, "Get out of here Aiden. The deeds of evil men are not your concern." Seeing that Aiden still hadn't made a move to leave, Barton took a threatening step forward. "I said get the hell out of here!"

Clint knew it was for the best but he still felt guilty as he watched the kid shrink down and run away. With bigger issues to address he knelt down and pulled the coffee tin from under the sink. He popped the lid and pulled out the five hundred dollars. That's what he'd sold his soul for, five hundred dollars in savings. It wasn't much and he certainly wasn't going to get far but it would get him out of the city and a head start from Wilson and Jäger.

The archer heard a shuffle at the door. "Aiden, I told you to get lost!"

"Oh, I think he should stay with us, don't you think?" asked Jäger as he entered the apartment. Clint peered over the counter in time to see Wilson drag Aiden in with him. The boy put up a small protest, but couldn't do much with a blade pressed against his throat.

"He's got nothing to do with this," snapped Barton, getting to his feet. He wanted to take action and save the boy, but his backpack was too far away to reach for him to reach it before Wilson would have the opportunity to slit Aiden's throat.

"True," conceded Jäger, "but I think there is a valuable lesson to be taught here. Now I believe we were discussing a job before you rudely took off. I think we should take a serious look at that job now."

Clint had been holding back his cries of pain for the last twenty minutes but that one slipped through. He sucked in a deep breath and tried desperately to imagine himself somewhere else. Anywhere would be better than on a roof top with a psycho that had spent the previous two hours torturing him and beating Aiden in order to teach Barton to be grateful for the opportunity he was about to receive. It was hearing Aiden cry that finally force Clint to agree to the job. His plan had been to accept and get them to let Aiden go, then refuse until Jäger got frustrated and killed him. Aiden had been locked in the trunk leaving Clint with the ability to put up only a marginal protest now that he was lining up his shot.

Barton was on the roof where Jäger had forced him to his knees. He had his bowstring pulled back, but looking at the innocent young girl that had no idea she was about to die caused the archer to hesitate but a moment. That hesitation caused Jäger to slam his knife into Clint's calf.

"Shoot now or I'm going to slit your throat and finish off the kid in the trunk," Jäger hissed.

Clint fought back the tears and compensated for the slight tremble in his hands. He already didn't like what he saw when he looked in the mirror, after this he would never be able to look at himself. This was a line he had never wanted to cross, but he was weak. He couldn't take any more pain at the hands of his captor and he couldn't bear having to look into Sheila's eyes and explain what fate had befallen her son. Mostly, it was his inability to stand up for what was right; this was his natural state in life, just another soulless dog in the gutter. He lacked the strength to fight the futility of the situation; good men never back down, but he wasn't a good person, and so he folded.

With a silent sob, he let the string go and watched the arrow fly straight and true. There was no divine intervention to stop it; the arrow sailed on. The world's greatest marksmen made his shot and his title remained intact.

He watched helplessly as the arrow cleared the window and dropped the girl. Suddenly, Barton forgot how to breathe. Time slowed to a crawl, and Jäger's triumphant cries of satisfaction at a job well done seemed distorted and garbled. Clint dropped his head to the ground and silently cried for what he had done.

Chapter Text

Present

Clint's fingers curled around the next rung on the ladder as he pushed up with his foot. He had a death grip on the ladder, but the rain had made it slippery and it caused him to falter several times. Each slip reawakened the pain in his side, but he couldn't stop now. Jäger and his men were close, and getting to the roof would allow him to get a better lay of the land and eyes on his adversary, then there was the fact that Coulson was waiting for him on the roof, demanding he continue.

"You know what, Coulson," panted the archer as he finally reached the top and began to pull himself over the ledge, "for a dead guy, you sure are bossy. Don't think dead guys are allowed to be this bossy."

"If I didn't think you were going to give up on me, I wouldn't have to be this bossy."

"Huh." Clint took far too long to ponder that point than he should have. Things had gotten a lot fuzzier in the last hour and he couldn't bring himself to mention that to Phil. It was another complication that they just didn't need.

He managed to drag himself over to the other ledge and survey just how far he had to go. Being high up always allowed him to see the bigger picture, but this time it was terrifying. The extraction point was so far and Jäger was so close. The heroic task that stood before him sapped the last of Clint's reserves.

"I know it seems hard, but you can do this Barton." Phil tried to convey all the reassurance in the world, but even he had to admit he wasn't feeling like success was an option at that point.

Dawn was starting to fight its way across the sky, but the darkness that had enveloped the city for the last few days was refusing to go without a fight. Somewhere along the horizon was Barton's ticket home, but clambering through the maze of city streets just below was a pose of hired guns determined to prevent their prey from escaping.

Chatter from the street alerted Coulson to trouble's presence. He glanced over the edge of the roof to find two of Jäger's men poking around the ladder attached to the building. They had found Barton's blood on the side of the building meaning that at some point during the archer's struggles to climb to the roof he had reopened his wound.

Phil moved back over towards Clint, who was slumped against the roof ledge. He looked like hell; dark circles around his closed eyes, hair matted down, pale skin, shallow breaths and beads of sweet gathering on his forehead. "Barton, I need you to wake up. You're about to have company."

"Sssso ti-ired Phil," slurred Clint. He couldn't even convince himself to open his eyes at that point.

"I know. You're almost done Clint, and then you can rest. You just have to take these two guys out and get to the extraction point. The team will take care of everything from there."

"Oh. Is that all I have to do?"

"So you agree it's going to be easy."

That brought a smirk to Clint's lips. He cracked his eyes and started looking for a defensible position. "Extraction point … team … home … can't disappoint Phil." Disappointment, he had already done so much of that already.

Coulson watched as Clint tried to put together some kind of attack plan. "They have to come up the same way you did. Grab that pipe over there and get behind the skylight; you might be able to take them by surprise," offered Phil.

Barton nodded and staggered to his feet. It was a good a plan as anything his fever-ravaged mind was going to come up with. Phil's intel was never wrong and Clint waited until the first thug passed his position before he took a swing. The pipe cracked against the second man's head and he stumbled off to the side. The first goon turned around sharply and the archer brought his weapon down on his out stretched arm causing the thug's gun to go skidding across the roof.

Clint managed to get a few good blows in before Phil yelled, "Barton get down!"

Clint obediently dropped to the ground just as the second man fired. With the archer out of the way the bullets slammed into his partner. Before the goon could change targets, Barton pulled the knife sticking out of the downed man's boot and hurled it at the second thug. The blade imbedded itself deep in the man's neck; he was dead before he could even cry out.

Everything was silent except for Clint's shaky breaths. There was no doubt that all the wrong people would have heard the shots but he just needed a moment. Clint had to reconcile his relief of surviving with his disappointment. Living meant that he hadn't disappointed his handler, but it also meant that his torment wasn't over; the prospect of more of the same everyday was soul shattering. Barton's life had never been easy, but lately he seemed to have incurred the wrath of the universe like no other.

The Avengers were an unexpected find though. For the first time in a very long time, the archer had a group of people that seemed to care about his wellbeing. They weren't without their difficulties, but it was nice to know someone would care if he dropped off the planet tomorrow, even if it was all built on lies.

There was no doubt that if the team ever knew the truth, they would drop him in a hot second. He knew how far he still had to go; that Jäger probably had his position now and it all just seemed like too much effort for something that was doomed to fail. Coulson was dead and Natasha had left. When the team learned the truth about him, because let's face it, anytime Clint had something good going for himself, it inevitably fell apart, they would leave him too and that would be the death of him. It would really be a small mercy at this point just to accept his fate. How long could he fight the inevitable? There really was no way to make up for the things he had done.

"I'm sorry Coulson, but I just can't do it. I've tried; I've tried every day but…"

"What are you talking about?" Fingers of dread started to knead at Coulson's stomach.

"I killed her sir. I deserve to be on the wrong end of a bullet."

Phil paused in his planning to get Barton off that roof and back on track to the extraction point. "Just let me worry about what you deserve."

"Please. Just tell me why you never did it sir. I killed Agent Pierce's daughter, he was your partner."

"You weren't supposed to know that part." Phil paused. He had never spoken of Dan and Kelly in a context that would hint just how important Phil's friend had been, that Barton would have pieced together the connection; that the archer would learn that his biggest regret had such a profound repercussions on Phil's life. "I made a choice Barton, and I don't regret it for a second."

Coulson decided to change tactics. "Do you know how hard you made me work back then? A year and a half, Barton; you kept fighting all that time, so I know you're capable of seeing this through to the end. So if you're not going to do this for yourself, and you're not going to do it for me…" Phil held up a finger to stop Barton's protest. "Someone has to take Jäger out for me. He's the one thing I failed to do."

Clint frowned. Coulson never failed at anything, and if that twisted bastard Jäger walking around was Phil's failure then he could see that oversight rectified. Now he had a mission to complete, and it wasn't for SHIELD or some weird sense of revenge for something that was really Clint's fault. It was for the one man that had some misplaced faith in Barton, and saw fit to give a wretch a shot at trying to be something better.

Chapter Text

Fourteen years ago

Phil sat there staring at the board; all the information SHIELD had collected on Jäger was pinned there in neat rows, from their first encounter all the way to Dan's death. Somewhere in the jumble of facts was a way to get to the hunter. Hired help was always unreliable and someone connected to their enemy could be convinced to spill their guts. The many late nights searching for a breakthrough had all produced the same results: a headache and a lack of sleep.

Coulson quirked an eyebrow as Fury sat across from him and placed two shot glasses on Phil's desk. A bottle of whisky appeared out of nowhere and the newly minted Director poured out two shots. He slid one glass over to Phil and sat there silently.

Coulson could see the sadness and weariness set in Nick's shoulders and face. He silently braced himself for whatever soul-shattering news his friend was going to deliver.

Fury rested his chin on his hand and kept his eyes glued to the amber liquid in the glass before Coulson. "Seven hours ago, one of Jäger's people took a shot at Kelly. I've had a team at the scene and they reported the shooter uses arrows."

"Kelly's…" Phil couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. He had fallen short at saving Dan and now his failure was complete. He couldn't even protect the most important thing in Dan's life from that monster.

"Phil, I want you on this. Show the world what happens when you mess with SHIELD. I want everyone to know that you don't mess with my people, and you certainly don't mess with their families. Use whatever resources you need and do whatever you have to. Now tell me, can you get this done?"

"It won't be a problem sir." Phil slammed his shot back.

"Honey, this is Mr. Coulson, from the FBI. He was hoping to ask you some questions about what happened. Do you think you can do that?" asked Sheila as she rubbed small circles on the back of Aiden's hand, ever mindful of the IV line attached to it.

Aiden nodded and scooted up in his hospital bed. It was kind of exciting to get to talk to all the police officers and other official-looking people that had been coming and going from the hospital since Clint had dropped him off in the emergency room last week.

"Did you need me to stay here?" asked Sheila.

"If it's alright, I'd like to speak to Aiden privately. I'll keep it brief. I know he's had a trying experience." Phil gave her a warm reassuring smile. He might have lied to get into the hospital, but no matter the information the boy had, he was still a child and Coulson wasn't going to lose sight of that. He took the chair vacated by Sheila and waited to speak until she was out of the room.

"I know you're a good kid Aiden, so I guess I'm just wondering how someone like you got mixed up with a man like Clint Barton."

The boy paled slightly. Never once in any of the police reports had he mentioned Barton. Normally a beaten boy dropped off at the hospital would never make SHIELD's radar, but the description of Jäger by the child and a brief description of someone resembling Barton by the ER nurse had grabbed Phil's attention. He just couldn't figure out how a twelve year old fit into the equation.

"How do you know Clint was there?" The fear that radiated from Aiden made Coulson want to crush the archer even more.

"It's my job to know these things. What I don't know is why would he want to hurt you? Did you see something? Did he say something to you?"

Aiden fervently shook his head. "Clint didn't do this to me," he assured. "He saved me."

"What do you mean?"

"I was ditching school again when I saw Clint slip into the apartment. I was bored and I wanted to see if maybe he'd teach me to throw a ball. All the other kids at school can throw the ball to the first baseman, but when I do it, it just drops in front of me. It sucks being picked last for baseball all the time and I was hoping he'd help me. I've seen him throw things before and he's really good at it."

Phil nodded encouragingly.

"I should have knocked, but the door was open a crack anyways so I just walked in. He was busy putting his gu… stuff into his backpack. It was kinda like when my brother left. He was all beat up and in a rush; he was kinda scared. Clint yelled at me to leave, but I didn't want him to leave like Germaine did, so I told him I'd help him. He got mad and made me leave anyways."

Aiden took a moment to get his bottom lip to stop trembling. Phil passed him the juice box that had been sitting on the small side table.

"Those guys," continued Aiden, "the one the German was bossing around, grabbed me when I got outside Clint's door and dragged me back in. The one guy had a knife to my throat, and I didn't really hear what they were all yelling about. I thought I was going to die."

"You're safe now, and I promise you won't have to worry about those men ever again." Coulson gave the boy a reassuring pat on the knee. He made a mental note to put in an order for protective relocation for the family. He might not have been able to protect Kelly from all of this, but he could make sure this child had a shot.

"They beat on Clint until he finally agreed to do what they asked. The German guy would have killed me if Clint had said no. He saved my life. After that, they put me in the trunk and we drove some place really far. I don't know where we went, but we stopped for a long time. The next thing I know Clint's opening the trunk and those guys are all on the ground. He carried me to the hospital, but he wouldn't come in with me. He made me promise not to tell anyone that he was there." In a smaller voice, Aiden added, "You're not going to tell him I told, are you?"

"I won't tell him you told," assured Phil. "Get better soon, okay?"

Phil left the hospital more confused than when he entered. Things just weren't adding up in his head. Aiden had made it sound like Barton wasn't the child-murdering monster that he was, but then again, the boy didn't know what happened on that roof. Coulson didn't have the heart to tell him either. Sometimes it was better to cling to the false idea of heroes, even when the person wasn't worth the title.

Whatever happened, it seemed that Barton and Jäger disagreed. That meant that Barton would be on the run, and Jäger would be hot on his trail. It was one thing to try and track down the archer when he would ducking SHIELD, but now there was a whole list of people that would be gunning for him as well, and Phil wanted the first shot.

Clint collapsed into the booth at the back of Ray's Café. He kept his hood up and his head down.

"What the hell happened to you?" asked Jeff as he looked at his uninvited guest across the table.

Barton tried to keep the exhaustion and desperation out of his voice. It had been a week since he shot that girl, but his wounds were still as fresh as his guilt. "I need your help."

"I'll say," said Jeff around a mouthful of lasagna. "Word on the street is you screwed the pooch big time. Care to enlighten me?"

Clint took a moment to consider and eyed the other patrons for prying ears. "It was Jäger."

Jeff let out a loud chuckle. "Well, if you're going to do something, might as well go all out. Jäger huh? What the hell were you thinking?"

"Keep your voice down! Can you help me or not?" Clint didn't need the reminder of how screwed he really was. He wasn't opposed to what was coming his way, but he felt if anyone was going to take him out, it should be for the innocent blood he spilt and not Jäger's personal satisfaction.

"Alright, calm down. There's a job in Berlin you can take."

"Germany, like he doesn't have a thousand connections there."

"It puts a whole ocean between the two of you, and from there you can go anywhere and probably hide a lot better than you can here."

He knew he didn't have a lot of options and even a horrible one was better than none. "What's it pay?"

"Pay? It pays me ten thousand dollars and gets you a plane ticket out of the country."

"But…"

"Don't be ungrateful, Clint," chastised Jeff. "You're lucky I don't sell you out right now for the reward. That's the deal. You take the job for the plane ticket, and I take the money. Take it or leave it. You're not going to get a better offer from anyone else." Jeff didn't even bother to hide his smug look. He had Barton over a barrel and he knew it.

The sad part was it probably was the best deal anyone would or ever had offered him. Clint let out a deep breath. "Alright."

Jeff reached into his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He slid it across the table and Clint quickly pocketed it. "Your flight leaves in thirteen hours and the job needs to be completed in two days."

Clint nodded and slid out of the booth. Jeff called after him, "you better get the job done Clint, or else."

Jeff waited until Barton had left the restaurant before making his way to the payphone in the back. With a crumpled piece of paper in hand he dialed the number. After the third ring someone on the other end picked up. "I know where Clint Barton is going to be in three days, Jäger."

One year later

Coulson really wanted to have something positive to report back to Fury. After rounding up Wilson and his crew, retribution slowed to a crawl. Jäger had gone to ground after the debacle in Berlin last year, and information on him was few and far between. The man had become a ghost. The only lead they still had was Barton, who had managed to elude SHIELD for an entire year. Phil knew in his gut that the chase was quickly coming to an end.

The archer was good, and even on the run, he had been careful or as careful as the situation would allow. Phil had actually laid eyes on the kid in Berlin, but since then, Phil had been left with near sightings and a trail that was getting easier to follow. The closer they seemed to get, the sloppier Barton was becoming.

Phil sat down on the bed and tried to get inside Barton's head. He knew he had just missed his target. The food sitting on the counter of the small closet of a shake in Szeged was still warm, but untouched. At the start of their chase, Barton removed all traces of himself in every place that he stayed. Now Coulson was so close, the archer was lucky if he could even spend a night some place.

There were a few articles of clothing scattered around the room, a set of arrows on the floor and a handgun on the table. If Phil had to guess, Barton slipped out the window just as his team had entered the building. A white notepad caught his eye and Phil moved over to the small side table to pick it up. The top page had been ripped off but there were still indentations on the next page. Coulson began shading the page with the pencil that had been tossed on the floor.

"Bring the car around, I know where he's going to be," ordered Coulson. Agent Wyles nodded and set forth on his task. Phil started to follow him out when the bloody bandages in the trash caught his attention. It looked like they had managed to wound their bird during their last altercation; a wounded animal was a dangerous animal.

That encounter had throw Coulson for a loop. They had cornered Barton in an abandoned apartment building and while his ability to get away had held up to his reputation for a marksman, he was an incredibly poor shot. Out of the fifteen agents Coulson had brought, the target had managed to hit none of them. In fact, none of the agents that had been on Barton's trail had been seriously wounded. Phil couldn't even fault the weapons Barton was carrying, because he knew for a fact the kid still had his bow with him. It was just one more riddle in a book of riddles that involved the archer.

He steeled himself for the task before him. In less than five hours, his yearlong chase would be over. Phil could finally put the Barton file to rest, and hopefully Jäger would follow shortly.

Clint zipped up his raincoat to shield him from the storm. It had been too close a call back there; the suits were getting too close. His arm ached fiercely from where the bullet sliced through him, and he would give anything for just three hours of uninterrupted sleep and something to eat. He couldn't remember the last time he was able to hold up somewhere and stay long enough to grab more than a nap.

The archer surged on towards the train station. At the very least, maybe he could take a short nap after he caught his train. Hopefully tomorrow would put enough distance between himself and his pursuers that he could get a much needed break. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

Chapter Text

Present

"This is a bad plan and you know it Barton," informed Coulson.

"Is that your official opinion sir?"

"I could order you not to do this." Phil's voice held the edge of command and business, but somehow his concern still filtered through.

"Hmmm. You'll just have to bring me up on charges for insubordination if I make it back," replied Clint as he searched the two downed thugs for weapons.

"I will."

"Good!" The archer pocketed anything useful and made his way towards the roof ledge. The buildings were very close together, and it wasn't much of a jump to travel by rooftop. From what he could see, most of the way could be made using a system of board bridges that had been laid out across the various rooftops. That was good, because he wasn't looking forward to having to leap anytime soon.

Jäger and his men were closing fast and Clint was in no condition to make it back to the ground, dodge bad guys, run a maze of streets with just a basic idea of direction, and watch for any snipers Jäger had managed to place in the buildings between here and Barton's goal. He could probably make it a couple of blocks before anyone realized he was up on the roofs.

Clint took a deep breath and put one foot on the narrow board that ran between the two buildings. With his other foot on the board he made his way across. Wobbling like a new born calf he clinched his eyes against looking down at the four story drop. Normally balance wasn't a problem for the former circus performer, but the world had been tilting for awhile now.

He cleared the first crossing and moved as quickly as his failing body would allow to the next. There was a constant chatter from the men searching below and it wasn't nearly as long as Clint would have liked before someone started shouting that he was on the roof. Adrenaline surged through him and gave him the much needed push to start clearing buildings faster. Clint managed to get a few shots off while dodging bullets himself.

Coulson was rather impressed at the rate his specialist managed to dispatch the enemy while running precariously across narrow boards between rooftops. He was almost going to say that this foolhardy plan had a shot at working, but the ominous creak and groan from the board as Barton stepped on the next one stopped him.

Clint tried to move faster to get to the other side before the board broke, but it was all for not. The board snapped as he tried to grab a hold of the ledge, but his fingers just brushed the side of the building. He made a frantic grab at the fire escape railing, but as his hand closed around it, a horrific fire exploded in his side. His arm buckled and Clint found himself falling once again. He bounced off an awning before hitting the ground. The awning had managed to lessen some of the impact, but the wind was still knocked out of him. Clint laid there trying desperately to suck in oxygen.

He managed to pick himself up, but his pursuers were too close to run. Having no other options, he slipped into the nearest door. Barton found himself in an abandoned garage. It was large and sparse and there was nowhere to hide. Making it half a dozen steps before his knee gave out, he tumbled to the floor. Panting and in pain, he dragged himself to the nearest column and propped himself against it.

This was it. Jäger was practically on top of him now and he had nowhere to run. That odd calm feeling enveloped him as he came to terms with his fate. "I'm sorry sir."

"What are you sorry for Barton? You just have to get up and keep going. They're not here yet, you still have time." They both ignored the slight breaks in his voice.

"I failed you sir. I didn't take out Jäger," confessed Clint.

"It doesn't matter."

"It's all wrong sir. It shouldn't have been you that died on the helicarrier; it should have been me. You always clean up my messes and it cost you your life."

Phil grabbed the archer's chin and forced Clint to look at him. "I never regretted saving you for one minute Barton. You're a hero Clint! I knew it then and I know it now."

Clint grabbed a hold of Coulson's wrist. "I want you to know it's been an honor to serve with you sir."

Phil shook his head. "You don't get to say goodbye Clint. You're going to get up on your feet. Get on your goddamn feet NOW!" The tears started to flow down his cheeks and Phil did his best to ignore the sound of the door creaking open and the footsteps drawing near. "Move your ass now Barton! Your team is waiting for you!"

"I'm sorry," breathed Clint, but it was barely heard over the click of a safety disengaging.

"How pathetic is this?" chuckled Jäger as he brought his gun to bear on the fallen archer. "You've been avoiding me for years and this is what it comes down to? Then again, I always knew you were useless."

Jäger holstered his gun and strode over to Clint. He smiled as he grabbed Barton's shirt collar and tugged him to his feet. He searched his prey's eyes for any sign of fear and chuckled as he caught a brief spark.

Clint locked eyes with his tormentor and pulled the knife from his back pocket. Without hesitation, he jabbed it into the arm that was pinning him to the beam. Jäger let go of Barton and clutched his arm protectively as he pulled the blade out. The archer hobbled a few steps away before collapsing to the ground.

Jäger's laughter echoed off the walls. "We can't even say it was a valiant effort on your part." He tossed the blood coated blade to the side and it clanged off in the distance.

Clint painstakingly began to crawl towards the exit on the other side of the garage. He could hear Jäger behind him and the scuff of his boots as he moved closer to the archer.

"Crawling away like a worm. Be a man for once in your life Barton and face what's coming!" sneered the German.

Clint rolled over to his back revealing the gun he had liberated from one of the thugs earlier. Before Jäger could react with his own weapon, Barton emptied the whole clip into him. Clint was still tapping the trigger when Coulson put a hand over his.

"You got him Barton."

Clint dropped the gun and looked at Jäger's body lying there perfectly still in a growing pool of blood. An enormous weight had been lifted off of his shoulders and Clint had never felt so relieved in his life. He laid down on the concrete and took a moment to bask in his success.

Phil kneeled down beside his head. He was talking, but the words didn't seem to register for Clint. Coulson looked relieved and that was enough for him. As his eyes fluttered closed, Clint thought he heard something about the team being nearby and Phil staying with him until then.

The door to the garage flew open bathing everything in the light of dawn. Captain America stepped through searching the shadows for anyone. The Avengers had run into a small resistance, which they made short work of, but that meant that their archer had to be somewhere close by. Steve's gaze settled on the two prone figures in the middle and rushed over.

"What have you done to yourself this time, Clint?" he muttered as he took his deathly pale teammate. "Stark, I need you in here!"

Iron Man appeared at the frantic summons and didn't even wait for Rogers' direction before he scooped Clint up. They both jumped slightly as a door at the back of the warehouse slammed shut. Steve and Tony's eyes darted around the room looking for the intruder, but there was no one there.

Barton didn't open his eyes at the sudden jostling, just muttered, "Sorry Coulson."

Stark looked pointedly at Steve and mouthed "Coulson." Rogers shrugged his shoulders in response and ushered the pair on their way.

"Just hang in there, Barton," comforted Stark as he fired his repulsars, blasting the pair towards the nearest medical center.

Chapter Text

Thirteen years ago

Clint sat on the bench frantically tapping his foot willing the train to arrive faster and performing any action that would help him stay awake. At this point, he could sleep standing up and he'd do anything for three solid hours of sleep. He clinched his coat tighter to try and stall the coldness from ravaging him. He knew he should be paying better attention to the people around him, but he didn't have the energy to bring himself to focus.

The crowd that had gotten off the last train had thinned out and the loud chatter that had flooded the station died down. Clint gripped his backpack tighter. His peripheral vision caught a man in a dark suit standing beside the bench.

"Clint Barton."

That was never a good sign; the adrenaline started to pulsate through Clint. He sat there completely still preparing to spring into action.

"I want you to put your hands up slowly," demanded Coulson. He hadn't pulled his gun yet, though his hand was hovering above it. There were too many civilians around that they couldn't clear without tipping off the target. He wasn't worried though, Phil had five other agents nearby and he knew the kid wasn't at the top of his game right now.

Clint let out a shaky breath and nodded to himself. This was the end of the line; the station would be surrounded. Still, he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He had never made anything easy on himself, he sure as hell wasn't going to make it easy for someone else. If the guy wasn't even going to pull his gun, then he deserved to have to work for this.

Barton waited until a couple was walking past the bench when he threw his backpack at the agent and took off putting the couple between him and the most likely positions the agent's back up would be.

Phil grabbed the back pack as it flew towards his head and tossed it to Agent Todd who was moving in to assist. He pulled out his radio. "This is Coulson. Subject is on the move and heading to the south entrance." Phil ran after Barton.

Clint weaved in and around the people on the platform. He could see one of the agents getting closer and turned down one of the hallways. The agent that first confronted him followed and called out, "I will shoot you."

Barton slowed to make a turn at the next hallway and paused long enough to pull a young mother and her toddler to the ground as they came around the corner. The bullet slammed into the tile wall causing dust and plaster to rain down on them. Clint wiped the dust from his face and continued running.

Phil made his way over to the two civilians on the ground. "Are you alright?" He waited long enough to get a frantic nod from the mother before continuing his pursuit. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that Barton had knocked them down to keep them out of harm's way.

"Subject has left the building. Agent Feltner is unconscious but not seriously injured. Requesting back up to the southeast exit," came the call over the radio. Phil pushed himself to run faster.

Exiting the train station, Coulson looked around the plaza. It was pouring out, but there were still enough people around for Barton to lose himself in the crowd. A quick flash of a black raincoat caught his eye and he pulled his gun. Phil had a clear shot between him and Barton. He took it.

Clint was sprinting towards the alley when a sharp and all-encompassing pain slammed into his side and knocked him into the wall. He immediately clutched his side. He didn't have to look, but he did anyways. His hand was already drenched in blood but he couldn't stop now. Barton pushed away from the wall and continued on down the alley.

Clint was moving as fast as he could, but Coulson easily caught up to him. When he tripped over his own feet and went crashing to the muddy ground, Clint didn't bother to try and get up. Phil stood at the mouth to the alley and watched as Barton rolled over and painfully sat up, his hand clenched protectively around his side.

"Stand-down. I have the situation under control," radioed Phil before he moved closer to the downed target. Phil stood there for a while taking in the sight before him. The broken person before him didn't look like a world-class assassin. He looked like a beaten down kid that had constantly been on the wrong side of the stick. Maybe all those bits of information he had collected on the archer that never made sense at the time, the odd behavior that wasn't synonymous with a cold-blooded killer, did mean something.

Clint glared at his would-be killer. He got how this all went. He really didn't need it drawn out any longer. "What are you waiting for?" he called out. "Just do it already! Pull the trigger!"

Coulson stood there, two feet from the man he had been hunting for the last year. The person he had sworn he would end for what he had done to Kelly. But he just stood there, as calm as ever, pointing his gun at Barton, but not pulling the trigger.

"Please."

It was a broken whisper, but it carried to Coulson's ears. He bit the inside of his lip and holstered his gun. Phil moved next to Barton, the archer's eyes on him the whole time, and squatted next to him. He reached over and pulled open the man's jacket. It wasn't the best shot Phil had ever made, but it was deadly all the same. Clint didn't make a move, didn't stop the agent from opening his jacket. "It's bad," informed Phil, "and it's going to prove fatal in less than thirty minutes without proper medical attention. It's not a good way to go."

"What, this is more entertaining for you to watch than putting a bullet in my head?" snapped Clint. The agent looked him straight in the eyes. What he was looking for Clint didn't know, but he must have found it because he looked away and pulled Barton's coat back over the gushing bullet hole and stood back up.

"I'm going to do something for you that no one's ever done before," said Phil.

"What's that? Put me out of my misery cause I can tell you right now, leaving me to die wouldn't be a first."

Coulson had to give him credit. Even facing death, the archer maintained his attitude. It made the earlier 'please' all the more real. "I'm going to give you a chance," corrected Coulson.

Barton snorted. If he was going to be made to suffer in his final moments, he could do without the jokes. "Don't you mean a second chance? People usually offer second chances."

"You have to have a chance to start with before you can get a second one," Phil stated matter-of-factly.

Clint flinched slightly at the seriousness and sincerity the agent exuded. "You mean that, don't you?"

"Against my better judgment, yes."

Cautiously Clint asked, "What if I mess it up?" There was really no point in contemplating an offer of any kind if it just led back here.

"I caught you once. I think I can do it again. You're a complicated individual Mr. Barton, but more importantly, I think you might be capable of extraordinary things. You certainly are better than what you have done. I think people might benefit from your skills." Phil paused while Barton seemed to consider that. He wasn't above playing on someone's emotions. "You don't really have a lot of options here, so for once in your life, make the right decision."

"And how do I know you're the right decision?"

"Because if you choose to come with me, I'll see that you'll get the medical attention you require, followed by a roof over your head, training to make you the best you can be, and a job that allows you to help people using your god-given talent as a marksman. If you refuse, which is entirely within your right… I won't let you die alone in this alley."

"So you are going to shoot me."

"No. It's not going to end in an alley with a bullet in your head. I will, however, wait with you while you bleed out. You won't die alone."

"That's not a hell of a choice."

"No," agreed Coulson as he sat next to the archer. "Life isn't full of choices with equally enticing options. But I suspect this is one of the better offers you've received in your life. You have to make amends one way or another. I'm giving you the choice on how you're going to do that."

Four Hours Later

Phil stood outside Barton's recovery room watching the kid sleep. He didn't turn to acknowledge Fury when he joined Coulson at the observation window. The minutes tick away silently.

"When I told you to shoot him," started Fury, "I didn't think I had to be explicit and say dead."

Coulson never took his eyes off the man in the bed. "You once gave a young man with a chip on his shoulder an opportunity to do great things… world-benefiting things."

"And what? You want to pay forward that good deed to him? We're not running a home for wayward souls Coulson."

"I suppose not," conceded Phil.

"Definitely not," reaffirmed Nick.

Another silent moment passed. "You value people with skills Director."

"I do."

"He kept us running for over a year. I don't know many agents in your employ that can do that."

"I don't either."

"Might be worth looking into," offered Phil.

"Might be."

Coulson waited to hear Barton's fate. He knew it was a long shot bringing him in but something in those desperate grey eyes had stirred something in Phil and he couldn't bring himself to be the one to extinguish the miniscule flame of hope and goodness that had clearly never been nurtured within the kid.

"Bury the file."

"Sir?" asked Coulson, his confusion ringing through.

"If you want to give him a shot, then you're going to have to bury the file. The only way anyone is going to trust him, is if they never know his connection to Pierce. The only way he's going to make it is if you clear his slate," instructed Fury.

"So we're not going to tell him…"

"No. It will be the push he needs to do great things." Phil just nodded despite his reluctance to go along with that part of the plan. He could see the Director's point. "And Phil," Fury added before leaving, "don't make me regret giving you a chance."

Chapter Text

Present

"So what's the word?" asked Bruce as he took the cup of coffee Stark was offering. He had been seriously caffeine deprived waiting for Barton to get out of surgery.

Tony flopped down into the chair next to Banner. "Steve's just finished securing the scene with Agent Sitwell now. He said Sitwell's throwing around words like security clearance and things being above our pay grade."

"We almost lost him, you'd think they would give us a little more than that," sighed Bruce. He wasn't sure he wanted all the details. He had seen how uncomfortable Barton was when they ran into Jäger during the team's capture, and anything that set the archer ill at ease was probably something that was going to make him angry.

Tony rolled his eyes. He had done some digging after their last tangle with Hydra and found nothing good. His search had produced a file that SHIELD had worked very hard to bury. The basics were the same as Barton's service file, but this one went in depth with the first three years Clint had made SHIELD's radar and he couldn't fault the man for never bringing it up with the team. He knew the score, but figured if Barton wanted them to know he would share, though Tony didn't hold out much hope for that.

Clint had made it through surgery proving once again that he was a tough son of a bitch. The prognosis was promising, but Stark would feel better, along with the rest of the team, when they could take him home. A remote island in the middle of nowhere was sounding really good too at this point. Some place where only the team could hang out until everyone was at one hundred percent again.

Stark got up and stretched the kinks out of his back. "I'm going to go find something stronger than this. You want anything?"

"As a rule, I usually abstain from liquor at eleven in the morning, but thanks Tony."

"Your loss," Stark muttered as he wandered to the elevator.

Three months later

A gentle breeze blew across the top of Stark Tower carrying the sweet smells of spring. Clint sat on the ledge dangling his feet. Everything below looked so small and distant, kind of the way the archer felt. There were no words to describe the disappointment he felt when he woke up in that hospital to find out that Coulson was, in fact, still dead. He had secretly hoped that the man was alive; that he'd been there for Clint through his whole ordeal. There were moments that he had been so sure that Coulson was there with him, it made him realize just how much he needed the man.

The team had come for him just like Coulson… just like his imagination had promised. He took some comfort in that, but the sense of loss was enormous and as soon as he was able, the archer had taken to brooding silently on the roof. To the team's credit, they had offered him their support, but allowed him the space he seemed to want. His three months of medical leave had left him a lot of time to think.

"Is this a private pity party or can anyone join?" asked Stark as he peered over the edge. He wasn't willing to actually sit on the ledge like his friend. Just looking down made him nervous; a side effect of getting thrown out the window by a crazy god.

"What are you doing here, Stark?" It wasn't said with spite, more with defeat.

"My tower, I can be where I want. Do you ever get the urge to drop a water balloon from up here?"

"What do you want?"

"I mean we should wait for someone like Fury to be walking in the building when we do it. Or Sitwell, he's rub me all the wrong ways this week."

"Stark," huffed Barton.

"Steve would be good. That ass has it coming."

"Stark!"

Tony paused and looked at the archer for a moment. "Look, you've been moping around here for three months now, and short of staging some sort of intervention with Dr. Phil… someone had to…look I know alright?"

Clint paled slightly and turned to face Tony.

"Against my better judgment, I'm just going to put it out there that I know."

"So what, this is your preemptive strike to kick me off the team? Keep it nice and simple and get rid of me before breaking it to the others?" Clint showed no emotion as he waited for the billionaire's reply.

Tony for his part wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "Kick you off the team… why the hell would we do that? Seriously, Barton, sometimes I can't even follow your train of thought."

"You read the file," hissed Clint. "I killed her. I'm no better than any of the other bad guys we go up against."

The words were uttered with more conviction than Stark was entirely comfortable with. "You don't know… do you?" he guessed.

"Don't know what?"

"You need to come with me," insisted Tony as he started heading towards the door.

Barton maintained his perch. "I'm not in the mood for games."

"Just… come with me. You owe me that much."

Reluctantly, Clint swung his feet back over and followed his teammate.

New York University

The pair stood outside one of the buildings watching the students come and go to class. "What are we doing here Stark?" demanded Barton who could think of better things to do other than an impression of a creepy stalker at a local university.

"Just wait for it," answered Tony, who was busy doing something on his phone.

Clint let out a huff but waited as he was told; for what he didn't know and he certainly didn't have a clue how any of this involved him. Eventually the main doors of the building across the path opened and a flood of students poured out.

"There." Stark pointed to a young brunette that had just exited the building. She hefted her backpack higher on her shoulder and offered a smile that lit up the whole block to a group of girls that came over to meet her.

"Kelly Pierce. Alive and well and working on her Masters," informed Tony.

Clint stood there gaping for a few seconds; disbelief claiming every part of him. "That's impossible. I shot her, I saw her go down." He turned sharply towards Stark. "I never miss."

"Well you might have to relinquish your title. Technically you didn't miss, you did hit her, you just didn't kill her." Tony handed Barton his phone. He had brought up SHIELD's file on Kelly and the orders to fake her death in order to give her a new life, one in which she wouldn't have to worry about anyone who had a grudge against her father. "She's happy and healthy, and a certain Agent gave her away at her wedding two years ago."

"So Coulson knew she was alive this whole time?"

"Looks like."

"Where did you even get this? The security clearance on this is… you can't get a hold of something like this Tony."

"You know me, I love to take credit for things, but I can't take credit for this. Someone emailed it to me after we got you back, and despite my ingenious efforts I can't find the source. And believe me, I've tried. Whoever sent it, they're good."

"Huh."

Stark took a step back. "Huh? I give you the biggest revelation of your life and all you can say is huh?"

"I didn't kill her," chuckled Clint, though Tony wasn't sure if it was in fact a laugh or a carefully masked sob. A weight had definitely been lifted though there were many more to hold him down. Of all the mistakes in his life he could change, he wasn't sure this was one he would have. The action was regrettable, the guilt burning deep within him as a low simmer that would never entirely consume nor extinguish, and the action should have by all means been rectified, but the end result wasn't something he could argue with. Phil had been right, he could save a lot of people, even if he would never be able to save himself. In the end, no matter the horror he would have to remember, it was worth it.

"I just want you to know Clint that even if she wasn't alive, it doesn't change anything. You're a good person Clint, and I want… no… I need you to believe that."

"Why?"

"Because if you can't believe you're a good person, then what hope do the rest of us have? I mean look at us Barton. One of my nicknames was the merchant of death. I built weapons that killed countless people. Bruce broke Harlem. Romanoff, I'm not even going to touch with a ten foot pole, and Thor has alluded to some less than stellar choices. With the exception of Cap, who I will find a skeleton in his closet even if I have to kill it and put it there myself, we all have black marks on our records. I'm pretty sure it's a prerequisite to the whole superhero club thing. What I'm trying to say is you're stuck with us, so you can't walk away and you can't give up when things get rough."

Clint chewed on his bottom lip and he pondered Stark's words. "Okay."

"Okay." Tony clapped Clint on the shoulder and steered him back to the parking lot. "Now that I've done my awkward touch feely thing for the day, let's go back home and crack open this bottle of one hundred and fifty year old scotch I procured last week."

The end.