Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

...

Phil found Barton post debriefing, cleaning his weapons. They were in one of the little used training rooms. It was where Barton would go when he wanted to be alone. An odd thing, given their milk run mission went perfectly.

He knocked lightly on the doorway as he asked, "Can I join you, Barton?"

Barton barely glanced up and shrugged. It was enough permission for Coulson to enter. He leaned against the wall as Barton finished reassembling his sidearm.

Then he began to breakdown and clean his rifle. The collar of Barton's undershirt had a small red stain on it. There were also some smears on the backs of his hands and fingers. Nosebleeds? Still?

"Want to talk about whatever is bothering you, Barton?" Phil offered.

"Not much to say," Clint answered as he looked up with a cautious expression.

They were back to this? Phil hoped they were past this. Barton trusted him enough to sleep on his couch in his office. That meant something. Didn't it?

Barton's gaze returned to his weapon. It was honestly worrying that he was so closed off again. Thing hadn't been this bad since Phil was assigned as Barton's handler.

"How about lunch?" Offered Phil catching Barton's gaze, "We grab something to eat and you tell me what's wrong?"

The offer of free food and being away from Headquarters usually worked. Barton liked to get out of HQ if given the opportunity. He seemed to crave freedom.

"Nah, not really hungry," Barton said dismissively.

Oh that wasn't good. He rarely refused the offer for free food. Phil felt a sense of dread and fear creep in. Something was definitely wrong.

"You don't have any pressing reports. Take an early lunch and meet me in my office. I'll make a reservation," he insisted.

Clint was staring at his rifle as he reassembled it. There was a slight tremble in his grip. A sure sign something was wrong.

"Fine, sir," was Barton's reluctant agreement.

"Good," he praised lightly, "Fifteen minutes. Don't be late, Barton."

Barton didn't bother replying. He didn't need to. His attention was fully focused on his weapons. Phil sighed, and headed towards his office.

...

Twelve minutes later, Barton walked through the door of Phil's office. He was wearing a SHIELD t-shirt and jeans. Barton's expression was still guarded.

Phil approached the younger agent and placed a hand on his shoulder. To his relief, Barton relaxed into the touch.

"Lunch, sir?" Asked Clint with a questioning tone.

"I've made a reservation," replied Phil.

He nudged Clint towards the door and caught Romanov's gaze. She raised a curious brow.

"I'll have Barton back in a couple of hours, Romanov," Phil assured her, "Nothing to worry about."

Romanov nodded, but she continued to watch as Phil lead Clint out the door. Barton stayed close to the wall the entire elevator ride. It was unnerving how quiet he was. Barton was rarely quiet like this.

Phil drove the two of them to their favorite sandwich shop. They settled into a booth. Their usual order was waiting on their table. Barton sipped at his soda, but he didn't touch his food.

"Clint," started Phil, "What's wrong?"

Clint fiddled with the straw of his drink. His gaze was trained on the condensation of the glass.

"It's not important, sir," said Clint, his tone was subdued.

"Clint, it's obviously affecting you," pointed out Phil, "That makes it important. Let me help you."

"I'm just tired sir," answered Barton.

And he did look exhausted. Dark bags were under his eyes. Clint struggled with insomnia and had been for awhile.

"Nightmares, again?" Asked Phil with concern.

"Something like that," Clint replied quietly, "Things will go back to normal eventually sir. You don't have to worry."'

Phil had a feeling the nightmare wasn't the issue. Clint would talk about the nightmares eventually. The way his eyes jumped around spoke of something more.

"Okay, let's start with something simple. What are your plans for the weekend, Barton?" Questioned Phil.

Clint visibly relaxed.

"Sleep, lots of sleeping," Clint said, a faint grin crossing his face, "What about you sir?"

"Sleep and laundry. Might do some housekeeping," replied Phil.

"You're not doing any paperwork while sleeping, are you?" Asked Clint.

There was a teasing tone to the question. A smirk pulled at the corners of Phil's lips.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Barton," chuckled Phil.

Clint rolled his eyes and took a bite of his sandwich. Some of Phil's worry eased. Maybe, Barton was getting back to his normal self.

"Do you need someone to check your work when you're done, sir?" Teased Clint.

"I can do my own paperwork, Barton," scoffed Phil, "Maybe, I'll check yours. Make sure the numbers are accurate."

Clint gave him a faux hurt look and asked, "Who me?"

Phil rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, you, Mr. 'My name isn't even a number'. You and Romanov both."

"Sir, we wouldn't ever try and mess up a mission report," claimed Clint.

"Of course, not, that's what happens when the paper work gets lost," Phil replied, "But you wouldn't have a part in that."

"I would never," Clint stated innocently, "But you wouldn't be too mad."

"Probably not," agreed Phil.

Phil wasn't going to mention how fondly annoyed he would be. If his paperwork disappeared. Especially if it was Barton and Romanov's doing.

They spent the rest of lunch making casual conversation.

...

A week after his lunch with Clint, Phil woke to his phone ringing. Groggily he checked the caller ID and time. It was two in the morning. The screen showed Nick's contact information.

"Yes," rasped Phil as he answered the call.

"Sorry, Cheese, there's been an incident," Fury's voice apologized, "Need you to come into HQ."

Phil rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. It was one of his agents. He just knew either Barton or Romanov were causing trouble. Again.

"Who's injured, sir?" Asked Phil, his brain was catching up.

"I'd prefer not to explain over the phone," replied Fury.

Phil was suddenly very awake and very alarmed. This wasn't the normal, 'someone blew up a building' or 'your assets are fighting each other and no one is backing down'. Those were normal occurrences.

"On my way, sir," stated Phil.

He hung up the phone. And got dressed. On the drive, Phil contemplated every possible scenario. Every reason Fury could've called him at 2 in the morning.

As he arrived at Headquarters, Romanov fell into step beside him. No Barton. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Where's Barton, Natasha?" Asked Phil.

"He disappeared," she stated.

"Explain," commanded Phil.

"When Fury was done with the debrief, I left and found his gear scattered in the locker room," said Natasha, "I'm going to search his apartment, sir."

"If he isn't there, leave a message. He might call you," instructed Phil, "Find him, Nat."

"Yes sir," replied Romanov who then fell back to follow his orders.

Where did you go Clint?

...

Clint counted to seven before he hurried across the street. Ten seconds before the cameras would go through the next sweep. Five, four, three, two, one.

His hood hid his face as he slipped down an alleyway. He was careful not to brush against any of the homeless, and kept his head low. In the distance, police sirens wailed.

Clint looked back towards where he had come from. A wash of guilt ate at him as his hand encircled his backup phone. He probably should have told Nat where he was going. Or at least that he would be back. Probably.

He couldn't stay in SHIELD until he was sure what was going on. Someone was snooping around the old Ronin contacts. It had nothing to do with Hawkeye. Nothing to do with his present. But still, it could lead back to him.

He wasn't stupid, he would check into the situation and be back before anyone realized he was missing.

A car horn blared, a flash of images ran across his eyes in less than a second. It was a car. A woman and child were hit. The visions were getting worse.

Clint had already turned and was running before he had finished thinking. Clint's shoulder collided with the woman and he grabbed the child. The shoulder knock pushed the woman out of the way as the van clipped Clint's leg.

It hurt. Oh it fucking hurt.

He tucked the boy under his body as he landed. Rolling until he had stopped.

"Mister!" Squeaked the boy in his arms.

"Shh," hushed Clint.

He could feel his blood begin to run down his leg. Luckily it was just a clip so he should be able to walk away. Clint slowly stood, wincing at the pain in his side and the sting of his cut up arm. Road rash. Great.

The kid was crying, tears were streaming down his face. He rolled them so that the kid could get up. The child scrambled away, towards a woman. Who was staring at him, a look of pure shock on her face.

"Are you alright?" Asked the woman, the boy was clutching at her shirt.

"Yes, ma'am," he managed, trying not to limp.

"I've already called the cops and an ambulance," informed the woman, "Why don't you sit down?"

Oh no. He couldn't stay. The moment his description appeared on a report Fury would know. Looking at the cameras he realized there was a fault in that though. If Fury didn't already know.

"Thanks, but I've gotta run," muttered Clint, and then added, "I have places to be."

He stumbled slightly, and his hands began to shake. Shit. Blood was dripping from his nose. This bullshit again? Really?

"Sir, are you sure?" Questioned the woman.

"Yep, positive," he said.

The kid was crying again and was watching him closely. The sound of sirens were growing louder. Clint searched his pockets and found one of his hawk stickers. He held it out to the kid.

"Here, little guy," whispered Clint, "This is for you."

The boy took the sticker. And then launched himself into his legs, hugging him tight. Clint bit back a hiss as his leg tried to buckle.

"Thank you, mister," cried the boy.

"No problem," he said as he returned the hug, "Go on and give the EMT's a hard time, okay."

"Okay," giggled the boy.

He patted the kid on the back and disappeared into the crowd. He couldn't risk a cab, a bus or a subway. Instead he ducked into a small bookstore and grabbed a hat. His phone chimed and his heart stopped. It was a text from a blocked number.

We know you are out of the cage, little bird. Time to go home.

A chill went up his spine. So he was right. Someone was looking for him. For the old him. Fuck.

Chapter Text

...

Phil arrived on the scene and wasn't surprised to find Barton gone. He sighed and turned his attention towards the woman and boy. They were giving a statement.

The kid had a hawk sticker clutched in one hand. That was one of Barton's stickers. He was definitely here then.

"Miss?" He asked gently, "I was wondering if you could tell me what happened?"

The woman smiled kindly at him and explained, "We were walking. When the boy wanted to cross the street, there was a car. Suddenly, a man crashed into me, moving us out of the way. Then the van caught his leg but and took the brunt of the hint from my son."

She motioned to the boy who was talking with one of the officers. He seemed fine. The kid was alive. Thanks to Clint.

"Would this be him?" Asked Phil as he held out his phone.

The picture was a few months old. Clint was petting one of the strays he "snuck" into Headquarters. The dog was leaning into him.

"Oh, yes, that's him," she confirmed, "He had a bloody nose, but it was just a smear. The car clipped his leg and he limped away."

Phil sighed, a slight smile crossing his lips. He knew Clint wouldn't want medical help, but his injury would slow him down. Hopefully, Nat would find him.

"Can you describe what he was wearing?" Requested Phil, pulling a notepad out of his pocket.

"Black cargo pants and a navy blue t-shirt," described the woman, "And he was carrying a brown backpack. And had a grey baseball cap, it had a yellow symbol, I think."

"Thank you for your cooperation, miss," Phil stated as he handed her his card, "Call if you remember anything else."

He turned to leave but the boy grabbed his pants leg. Phil knelt, his attention turning towards the boy.

"Is the man going to be okay, Mister?" Asked the kid, a concerned frown on his face.

"We will find him and make sure he is okay," promised Phil.

"Thank you, Mr. Agent Man," whispered the boy.

"Your welcome," Phil said and then stood, "Keep that sticker, and take care."

"I will, promise," replied the boy.

"Good," praised Phil.

With that, Phil made his way back towards the car. He pulled out his phone and sent a message with Clint's description to Romaov and Fury.

"What the hell is wrong with him, Coulson?" demanded Fury's voice.

He didn't know. For the most part, Coulson could understand Barton but none of this made sense. Why had Clint bolted like this? What caused him to disappear in the first place?

"Not sure, sir," replied Phil, "But Romanov is looking for him. We will find him."

"Hopefully before he hurts himself," muttered Fury.

Phil's grip tightened on his phone. Clint was hurting, his mind was racing. Trying to figure out what was going on, trying to keep himself calm.

"Hopefully," echoed Phil

"Bring him home safe, Coulson," commanded Fury.

"Of course, sir," promised Phil.

Clint what is going on?

...

Natasha wasn't an idiot, she was aware Clint was hiding something from her. From SHIELD. Something he thought was big enough to jeopardize everything. Barton didn't talk about his past. They had worked together occasionally as mercenaries. Even then, Clint didn't say much.

The closest he ever got to the subject the only time Clint drank in front of her after a mission. He had been drinking scotch and he stared into his glass and spoke.

"They're gone," had whispered Clint, his fingers tapping against the side of the glass.

"Who is?" Asked Natasha.

"Everyone. Family. Friends," he mumbled, "Dead and buried. And I'm all alone."

It was before he joined SHIELD. Back when they had worked as assassins. When Natasha hadn't trusted Clint, yet. She didn't press for more information.

That night she watched over Clint as he slept, her gun loaded. In case anyone came looking. Clint had helped her when he didn't need too. She would do the same for him.

In the end, no one came. The haunted look in his eyes never left her. As the years passed, it seemed to lessen. He was happier. Lighter.

Natasha knocked lightly on the door, Clint wasn't inside. There were no signs of struggle, everything was left perfectly normal. That was strange.

Barton didn't just bolt for no reason.

Natasha searched his room. Looking for any clues, and she found them. A paper in code was on the table. It was an old code used by mercenaries to warn other mercenaries. It wasn't for her, but for Clint.

She checked the loose floorboard looking for Clint's backup go bag. Gone. Clint wasn't planning on coming back. Not unless it was necessary.

Her phone buzzed. Coulson's name flashing across the screen. She answered the call and held the phone up to her ear.

"Any luck, Romanov?" Asked Coulson.

"His go bag is gone, and there is a coded warning," she answered, "Do we know why Barton ran, yet?"

"I'll look into the coded message," informed Coulson, "Fury will contact you. Be careful, Romanov."

"Same, Coulson," she said and then hung up the phone.

Natasha took the slip of paper and placed it in her pocket.

You had better have a good explanation, Clint.

...

Clint touched the falcon mark carved into the wall. The Chicago Tavern was still up and running. Not that surprising all things considering. The building was built during the roaring twenties and it survived through Prohibition. It was an illegal bar, and the perfect meeting place for his type.

As a child, Clint would spend a lot of time around these parts. It was one of the places his father didn't look for him. He scratched at the tattoo on his bicep. It was a reminder, the symbol of a life long dead.

He entered the bar, his posture relaxed and his hood pulled over his head. Clint scanned the room. Two exits. Five patrons. Seven tables, a bar and a pool table. Three security cameras. One in the corner, and one pointed at the exit. The last one was fake, not active.

Scratch that. One of the patrons was an employee. Probably an undercover officer or a private investigator. The man had a beard, his gaze was focused on the beer in his hands. But he wasn't a threat.

"Haven't seen ya in awhile, kid," a gruff voice greeted, "What can I get ya?"

"Vodka on the rocks, thanks, Jack," Clint answered as he slipped a tip into the jar, "It's been a long time. Is Heron still around?"

"He is," answered Jack easily, "Heard you was with the government now. Doing their dirty work."

"Only the fun jobs," joked Clint, accepting the drink, "I'm still doing some of the dirty work. Someone knows about Ronin."

Jack froze and the entire Tavern went silent. Eyes turned to look at him. Clint swallowed nervously, and took a sip of his vodka.

"How did they know?" Whispered Jack.

"Someone's snooping," said Clint, his gaze locked on the man sitting in the corner, "They are looking for a connection."

"Fuck," cursed the barman.

"It has nothing to do with Hawkeye or SHIELD," added Clint, his eyes narrowed, "This is between Ronin and the Taverns. I'm calling in every favor owed to Hawkeye and Ronin."

"I'll spread the word, kid," Jack stated, "You've done good for this community. We will protect you."

"Thanks, Jack," sighed Clint, his shoulders slumping, "If someone approaches the Taverns. Don't hesitate. Kill the bastards."

"Aye, we will," agreed Jack, his tone fierce, "We look after our own even if you don't work with us anymore. Should I expect a visit from SHIELD?"

"Probably," sighed Clint, "They don't know that Hawkeye and Ronin are the same person. Keep it that way, yeah?"

"You're secret is safe with us, kid," swore Jack.

Clint gave him a weak smile. A hand touched his shoulder and Clint turned. Heron, a lithe built man with grey brown hair and hazel eyes stood behind him. He wore a black leather jacket, grey tshirt, and jeans.

It had been years since they last saw each other. 12 years old Clint Barton had come into a Tavern looking for work. He was freshly released from thr circus and mostly deaf in his left ear and 50% of his hearing gone in his right.

He needed cash. And was willing to do the dangerous jobs. Heron was the only one willing to help him.

"I've missed you, kid," whispered Heron.

"It's been awhile," Clint murmured.

"Too long," agreed Heron, "Now let's talk business."

...

"Anything on Barton, Coulson?" asked Fury.

They were in his office with Hill, Hand, and Romanov. Phil had his arms crossed over his chest. They were all staring at the video of Barton saving the child and his mother.

"No," answered Phil, "We don't know why Barton ran."

"His go-bag was missing and his bow and quiver were still there. So it wasn't a runaway. If he planned to never come back he would have taken his bow with him."

Fury hummed quietly but didn't respond. He was examining the note that Romanov found. It was an old mercenary code but one that Phil wasn't familiar with.

"The note is a warning," Romanov said after a moment of silence, "I'm going to speak with my contacts within the Taverns."

"What is a tavern?" Questioned Hand.

Phil was the one who answered, "Taverns are the places where mercenaries are first found and recruited. Each Tavern is owned separately. Most of the people are former military or ex-law enforcement.

"Each Tavern has their own hierarchy. At the top is the owner or person in charge. Underneath the leader is the bouncers and the enforcers. Then the informants. They are the ones who bring in jobs, and pass on news. Mercenaries are split into groups based on skill. Clint wasn't part of any Tavern as far as I know."

Romanov shifted as she said, "That isn't quite accurate. Clint was part of the Tavern in Chicago. They took him in after he was left behind by the Circus."

"How did he join the Tavern?" questioned Hill, "Wasn't he young when that happened?"

"Very young," replied Phil, "He would've had to be 12 or younger."

"12 is young to be working as a mercenary," mused Fury.

"Yes, yes, it is," agreed Romanov, "From my understanding, Heron took pity on him. Gave him jobs, and looked out for him. Taught him how to survive the streets."

Heron was a fairly well known mercenary. Even to those within SHIELD. SHIELD occasionally used the information networks of the Taverns. Phil had a good relationship with the New York and Los Angeles Taverns.

"Is there anyway you could reach him?" Questioned Hill.

"There's no guarantee, but I'll try," answered Romanov, "Tavern Owners are protective of those under them. Even someone who left the life behind."

"Keep us updated, Agent," ordered Fury.

"Sir," replied Romanov.

Chapter Text

...

Clint leaned against the counter tiredly. It had been a very long day. Heron was standing next to him, an unopened bottle of whiskey in his hand. His leg was propped on the foot rest of his chair.

Heron opened the bottle and poured them both a significant amount. Clint sipped at it while Heron downed it completely. Then he poured another.

"Do you think it's a Tavern member?" Asked Clint, "The person knows I'm Ronin."

"Not many are willing to rat," Heron replied, his brow furrowed in thought, "The newbies don't know, and most of the veterans wouldn't sell you out."

"Who else would it be?" Mumbled Clint.

"Someone connected to Ronin," said Heron, "I can ask around."

Clint rubbed at his eyes tiredly. Heron knew his people. So if he said it wasn't his people there was a 99% chance that it wasn't one of his people.

"SHIELD doesn't know I'm Ronin," admitted Clint, "Nor do they know about my clairvoyance ability. And it's acting up."

"Acting up how exactly?" Questioned Heron concerned.

"Seeing the possible outcomes. My mind is racing, and my vision keeps fading in and out," answered Clint, his fingers tapping nervously.

"You're going to have a helluva migraine tomorrow," remarked Heron.

"Already do," complained Clint, rubbing his temples.

"When is the last time you had a good nights sleep?" asked Heron leaning forward and placing his drink down.

Clint did the same as he shrugged. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he slept peacefully. Nightmares. That's all they were. Nightmares and his fucked up brain.

"Take a breather, Clint," ordered Heron, "Your job is here when you come back."

"I don't want to return as a mercenary, Heron," he replied rubbing a hand down his face, "I want to work with SHIELD. I have friends there that care about me."

"I'm just offering, kid," assured Heron, "Now go and get some sleep. I'll let the other Taverns know what's happening."

"Okay," agreed Clint.

"Here take this," Heron handed him a slip of paper, "It's a motel that's cheap and doesn't ask too many questions. Shouldn't rat you out to your SHIELD friends. Anyone I should be watching out for?"

"Romanov and Coulson are looking for me," he answered, "I trust them, don't kill them."

"Noted," agreed Heron, "I won't harm them. Get some sleep, Clint. Take a break from running."

Clint smiled weakly and nodded. It was a tempting offer. Just to rest for awhile and catch his breath. Even if it wouldn't last.

...

Clint couldn't sleep. Again. He tossed and turned until finally giving up. It was nearly two in the morning. So much for resting. So he went to sit on the roof.

He climbed up the fire escape and sat on the ledge of the roof. Leaning his back against the raised wall, his legs dangled over the edge.

He could see the stars above. It was so clear, it reminded him of Iowa. A pang of homesickness washed over him. Already he missed being at SHIELD.

But it was for the best. Until he knew who was looking for him. It would put his family in danger.

"Why do you have a sticker?" Asked a soft young voice from below him.

He glanced down to find a kid staring up at him. The kid was still clutching the hawk plushie in one hand. A kid after his own heart.

"Hey there, little man," greeted Clint, "You okay? What are you doing out so late?"

"Couldn't sleep," the kid answered, "And mom is worried."

Poor kid. It reminded him of when he was younger and he couldn't sleep. Clint pulled out a new sticker. This one had a little red and gold hawk on it.

"Here," motioned Clint.

The boy walked up to the base of the ladder and then stopped. His gaze turned upwards and locked onto the sticker. Clint leaned down and held it out to the kid.

The boy carefully accepted the gift and smiled widely. The kid pressed the sticker to the plushie.

"Thank you, Mister," giggled the boy.

Clint chuckled as the boy sat down with his back to the ladder. They both watched the night sky.

"Are you a hero, mister?" Asked the boy.

"Depends on who you ask, little man," answered Clint, "I work with the good guys though."

The kid hugged his plushie close as he whispered, "Momma is sick. She tries to hide it but I see it."

"Oh, is she at the hospital?" Inquired Clint.

"She has to stay there," stated the kid sadly.

"You know what might help," started Clint, "A card. They made my mom happy."

"Really?" Asked the kid with a hopeful voice.

"Yes," said Clint, "And when she comes home. I bet she will be super happy to see a drawing from you."

"She would?" Questioned the kid.

"Yup," confirmed Clint, "She would."

"I can draw her flowers!" Announced the boy, "She loves flowers."

The kid ran off. Clint watched with a tired smile. But his headache was returning and it stole the smile.

He sighed and pulled himself back up to the roof.

Clint sat against the wall. He rubbed his hands against his face and winced. Blood had dripped from his nose again.

This is just wonderful.

Chapter Text

...

It was the next morning. Phil was on his third cup of coffee, and he hadn't slept in over 36 hours. Natasha was still looking for Barton, but she had returned.

"Sir," greeted Natasha.

"Did you find anything, Romanov?" Asked Coulson.

He watched her from over his laptop. There was no sign of Barton. She looked tired and he knew he looked the same. Phil hoped that she was successful in at least contacting someone within the Taverns.

"Good news Clint has made contact with the Taverns," she said after a moment, "Bad news, Heron has invoked Tavon protections to Clint. No one will speak with us."

Phil swore quietly, this wasn't good. Tavern Protections were rare and were only granted to those the leaders deemed worthy. Which didn't bode well for finding Barton. Phil tapped his fingers on the desk in thought.

"So they are going to protect him?" Inquired Coulson.

"As much as they are able," replied Romanov, "Clint isn't a current member but a retired mercenary in good standing. There is nothing we can do until he comes home."

Phil sighed heavily.

"You have something on your mind, Coulson," she observed.

"I do," admitted Phil, "There are very few reasons for Clint to call upon Tavon protection."

"You don't think someone found out about his abilities," guessed Romanov.

"Not his abilities," corrected Coulson, "About his past. Clint doesn't talk about the holes in his past. I think that the reason he ran is there."

"I will dig," promised Natasha.

Phil smiled slightly and nodded.

"We can't afford to let Barton become a ghost," reminded Phil, "If I can help?"

"I will inform you, Coulson," she agreed, "And keep him alive. If it means keeping him in medical."

"He is going to be furious," said Phil, his expression grim.

"I know," sighed Natasha, "We have no choice, sir. He can't handle his own medical treatment."

"No," he sighed, "No, he can't."

Clint just come home.

...

Clint woke to someone shaking him. He blinked open his eyes. It was still dark out, so not that long after he fell asleep. The person was small, and wearing a hoodie.

"Go back to bed, little man," mumbled Clint.

"Mister," whimpered the boy, "Momma won't wake up."

And it was official Clint was fully awake now. His body tensed, the fog in his mind clearing.

"What?" Whispered Clint.

"I drew her the flowers," sniffed the kid, "And she wouldn't wake up. She always wakes up. But she isn't waking up, mister."

Oh. Oh no. Clint sat bolt upright to look at the kid who obviously had been crying. His shoulders were trembling, his hands were clenched tight around his stuffed toy.

"Stay here," commanded Clint as he stood and headed down the ladder, "Don't move."

"I won't," whispered the kid.

"That's good, little man," praised Clint, "Be right back, okay."

Clint quickly rushed down the stairs and headed towards the room number the kid gave him. The door was unlocked and he found the mom in the back bedroom. On the nightstand there was a half empty bottle of pills.

He checked for any breathing or a pulse. She had neither and was cold to the touch. Clint knew what to do from here but his heart broke for the kid. As an orphan himself, he understood what the kid would be going through.

Clint closed her eyes and covered her with a blanket. Then he called 911 and explained what had happened. Then he called Heron and gave him the same information.

Heron arrived just before the ambulance and cops. The EMTs declared the mother dead right as the cops arrived. Clint gave his statement as Heron talked with the kid.

He was still shaken up, but Clint wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to take the kid away? Leave him to the system?

"The cops are taking the kid into custody, and are going to contact CPS," informed Heron.

Clint rubbed at his forehead and hissed quietly as his headache made itself known. Heron handed him an icepack which he accepted gratefully.

"How old was he?" Asked Clint as he pressed the pack to his temple.

"Nine," answered Heron, "Kid doesn't have anyone, apparently. Mother died of an overdose and no relatives are willing to take him."

Clint winced at the information. If things were different he'd offer to take the kid himself. But Clint had enemies that would love nothing more than to take him. And the kid could get hurt because of him.

"Will you ensure he is looked after, Heron?" Asked Clint softly.

"Of course kid," replied Heron, his gaze locked on the car as it drove away, "You can't take a kid in, Clint. Not with what you are facing. It would put him in danger."

"I know," sighed Clint, "Just wish things were different. The kid just lost his mother and I know what it's like. I just wish..."

"You are a bleeding heart, kid," chuckled Heron, "It'll get you killed."

Clint shrugged. Heron wrapped an arm around his shoulders. The older man sighed and shook his head.

"C'mon kid," Heron said, "Let's get you to bed. You're not doing anyone any good running on no sleep."

"I don't need much," argued Clint.

"Shut it, kid," grumbled Heron, "You are human and you need sleep. You can sleep on my couch."

Chapter Text

...

A day later, Clint was still at Heron's place. He hadn't planned on staying for so long. But Heron wasn't letting him go.

Heron kept pushing him towards his sofa and telling him to relax. To stop trying to leave and rest. He wasn't getting very far.

"I'm fine," insisted Clint.

"Your eye is twitching, and you are holding yourself like your body is falling apart," observed Heron, "Clint I know you better than almost anyone. You are not fine. Talk to me."

Clint groaned, rubbing his temples and sighed.

"My abilities are acting up," admitted Clint, "Ever since the van. Everything has been blurring and moving. My brain feels fuzzy and my chest hurts."

"Jesus kid," swore Heron, "You're still having issues controlling them? SHIELD hasn't taught you control?"

"I haven't told then anything about it," admitted Clint.

"What the hell, Barton," scolded Heron, "How are they supposed to help if you keep everything to yourself. Tell me, how often have you used your clairvoyant gifts on mission?"

"More times than I should," Clint defended hotly, "My team is important. If it's going to activate anyways why shouldn't I use them?"

"You are a fucking moron, Barton," growled Heron, his tone sharp and furious, "You are a self sacrificing, stubborn, idiotic child. God, no wonder you are the way you are. Jesus Christ, kid. Do you have a death wish?"

"Fuck you, Heron," snapped Clint, his anger rising at the words, "What was I supposed to do, huh? I couldn't have done anything to save my parents, or the Swordsman, or Barney. I won't lose the only family I've ever known."

Heron stared at him in understanding. Then his mouth turned down in disapproval. Clint glared at him and turned to grab his bag. He didn't want to be lectured by his former mentor. Especially, not when he didn't deserve it.

"Where are you going, Clint?" Asked Heron, his voice suddenly calm again.

"Out," snarled Clint, his hands were clenched at his sides, "Anywhere that isn't here."

"Clint," started Heron, reaching out to touch him, "Wait..."

Clint was able to dodge the touch. His expression was a mixture of anger and betrayal. He was panting, his chest tight. A migraine was forming behind his eyes and his nose was beginning to bleed. He swiped at his face, the sleeve stained red.

"I'm not a child, Heron," spat Clint, his vision blurred, and his world went sideways, "Fuck you."

Clint was gone before Heron could respond. His duffle was slung over his shoulder.

...

Phil wasn't far from the safehouse in Chicago when the alert went out that Barton had been spotted CCTV. He had gone to grab himself and Natasha food. Within moments his phone was ringing. Fury's name flashed across the screen. Phil swallowed nervously, his grip tightening on his coffee mug.

"Hello?" He answered cautiously.

"We've got a lead on where Barton might've gone, Coulson," stated Fury, his tone brisk, "I'm sending you the coordinates. Get there now."

"Sir," acknowledged Phil.

"Get him, Coulson," ordered Nick, "And bring him home."

And then the line went dead. Then he grabbed his usual gear when bringing Barton in. Guns with less than Lethal rounds specifically tranquilizers. A medical kit because there was no doubt Barton would fight him. And handcuffs to make sure the archer couldn't escape him.

"Barton, what are you hiding, that is worth this trouble?" he asked open air.

The CCTV video was fairly good indicator where his agent was. But the problem was, the area was a neighborhood that was full of families. Lots of places to hide, and Clint was good at blending in.

It was late in the evening, probably around midnight. Clint would most likely be in the park. It wasn't a busy area, no children, no cameras, and plenty of shadows to blend into. Perfect for the archer to disappear.

"Time to find my asset," muttered Phil, straightening his jacket, "Before he does something stupid. Again."

The first place Phil searched was the alleys looking up into the ledges. No sign of the archer. So the next step was the rooftops and fire escapes. Still no Barton. After nearly thirty minutes of searching, Phil finally found him in a tree of all places. He almost walked right past the tree if the bag hadn't been hanging off thr tree branch he would have.

Barton was in all black leaning against the tree trunk three branches up. His head was resting against the bark and his eyes were closed. There was no visible sign of him being injured, but his skin was pale. Far too pale, even from the distance between them, Phil could tell.

"Agent Barton," greeted Phil, "Come down from the tree, please. You can return to base."

Barton stiffened but that was the only indication that he heard. An eye opened and peered down at him. Clint's gaze was unfocused and glassy. Probably from a lack of sleep and possibly dehydration. It was a struggle to meet his eyes and not wince.

"Go away," rasped Barton, his voice hoarse and tired, "Sir."

Phil took a slow breath in and tried not to snap at his agent. Losing his temper wouldn't help either of them. There was a flashof silver and for a moment he thought Barton drew a knife. Instead it was a coin and he rolled it over the back of his knuckles. It was a motion he'd seen Barton do before.

"Can't do that, Agent," reminded Phil, his tone neutral, "Protocol and all."

"Fuck protocol, and fuck orders," snarked Barton, his hands twitched.

That wasn't normal. Even for Barton. The younger man's hands trembled and the hand holding the coin dropped it. His reflexes were slow and his movements sluggish. This wasn't exhaustion or just an injury. Something else was wrong and Clint didn't look well.

Phil caught the coin he was going to ask questions when Barton stiffened. His pupils blew wide a second before he dropped from the branch. On the way down he grabbed his bag and shoved Phil down.

"Stay down, sir," commanded Barton, his gaze was focused on something in the shadows, his whole posture tense and his fingers curled into fists.

There was movement in the dark, a flash of light. The hairs on the back of Phil's neck stood up. Someone was stalking them, and judging by the tension in Barton's frame, whoever was following his archer was dangerous.

Barton's lips moved as he silently counted to himself. At 7, Barton hauled them both up and moving. Shot were fired missing them by mere inches. They were close calls and had they stayed frozen the shots would've hit them.

Barton kept them moving and ducking. In the background he could hear the sound of a sniper rifle. He wasn't an idiot and the accuracy was a dead giveaway. Whoever was hunting them was good.

Suddenly Barton shoved them behind a car. The gunfire stopped as soon as they were behind cover. Phil looked to Barton and found him shaking his head as if to clear it. Blood poured from his nose. He was ghostly white, his hands trembling.

"Barton," whisper barked Phil, "Focus. Get us out of here."

"Right, yes," mumbled Barton, his expression was tight and his eyes were narrowed, "Sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to drag you into my trouble."

He made a pained sound and pressed a hand into his temple. Phil gripped the back of his shirt and tugged him backwards. For a brief second, he wondered if Barton was going to throw up. But then the archer straightened and pulled him to his feet.

"Keep your head down," ordered Barton, his face was grim and his expression determined, "Follow me."

Phil searched his agent's gaze. It was still dazed but he was coherent. That was enough to ease some of his worries. He could work with an injured and exhausted Clint. Hell, that was nothing new to him. But an incoherent, confused Clint wasn't someone he knew how to handle.

"Okay, lead the way, Barton," agreed Coulson, his gun was drawn.

Barton began counting again or possibly he hadn't stopped. Either way the archer had his attention locked on whatever was stalking them. He had no idea who was chasing them. Or why. The fact that Clint had an idea of what was going on was reassuring.

At seven, they were once more on the move. Bullets hit the ground where their feet had been. When the firing paused, the pair was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Text

...

Clint panted as they leaned against an alleyway wall. He was desperately trying to avoid being sick on his handler. Which was harder than it sounded considering the headache that had been building for hour.

"Are we safe?" Asked Coulson from beside him, the older man was also breathing heavily, and his gun was holstered at his side, "Barton! Focus."

Coulson was snapping his fingers in front of his face. He jerked back and rubbed at his temples. His head hurt so badly and the adrenaline wasn't helping. The pain in his chest was a dull ache, but the feeling of his lungs seizing was growing worse. He needed to rest and breathe. Slow, deep, steady, breaths.

Do not throw up on Coulson. Do not throw up on Coulson. Do not throw up on Coulson.

"We should be, boss," said Clint, his tone tired and his body ached, "We lost him a couple blocks ago."

Clint knees nearly gave out a moment later. Thank god the wall was behind him. Otherwise he'd have fallen to his ass. His legs were shaking, and his arms were heavy. Exhaustion and fatigue were hitting hard, and Clint was barely staying conscious.

"Let's get you to the safehouse, okay, Barton?" Questioned Coulson, his arm wrapping around his shoulders, "Get you cleaned and patched up. Sound good?"

Clint shook his head in response. Going to the safe house wasn't an option. Not with the person following him. He needed to know who figured out about his previous identities. He had tried to put Ronin behind him. He had worked damn hard to keep his past hidden and his present separate. Until recently, it had succeeded.

"Need to stay low," rasped Clint, his voice was hoarse, and his throat felt dry. Fuck, he was thirsty. When was the last time he had a drink? Or ate?

"Clint," sighed Coulson.

Coulson stepped into Clint's space. There were a few things he knew about his handler. What he would do in this situation was one such thing and he didn't need the images flashing before his eyes. They did allow him to chose the best option to get away.

"Sorry, boss," Clint said softly, his tone apologetic.

Before Phil could respond, Clint had already twisted and shoved the other man to the ground. The force wasn't gentle, but it was necessary. He had to get away and figure out things on his own.

"Wait!" Ordered the handler, his voice filled with anger and shock, "Stop!"

The instinct born of years of working for Coulson made him stumble slightly. His training told him to stop and wait for further instructions. To not run from his handler, his friend. But he couldn't. Not this time.

...

Phil watched in horror and frustration. Clint had pushed him down and was running. Again. This time though, it wasn't a simple, oh no, my asset is a fucking moron. No. Clint was swaying and stumbling, and his skin was grey. All signs that the younger man was on the verge of collapse. If not worse. Thankfully Phil was be to drop tracker in Clint pocket.

"Dammit, Clint," cursed Phil, his tone was cold and his expression flat, "What the hell are you thinking?"

Following Clint wasn't difficult in the younger man's current condition. He sent off a quick message to Romanov where they were. With her help they'd be able to corner Clint. And bring him in before the archer did something stupid. More stupid than usual.

Phil stayed back so not to spook Clint further. It was obvious that the archer was in no state to make decisions. The question was, how had he gotten like that.

"Boss, I'm going to kill him," growled Natasha's voice over the line, "I'm going to tie him to a chair and not let him move for a week."

Phil snorted. That was probably the best idea. Tying him down, would at least ensure he didn't escape from medical. Especially, since the younger man wasn't in any condition to fight anyone. Let alone, the Black Widow. She was a force to be reckoned with even on a bad day. But on a day she was pissed, she was terrifying.

"Maybe," agreed Phil, "But first we have to catch him."

Finally the tracker stopped. He and Natasha converged on the spot. To find a mostly empty alley and the tracker in a dumpster. Of course, the paranoid bastard would find and remove the tracker. Phil ran his hand through his hair. Now they had no way of tracking him or knowing where he went.

"I'm going to kick his ass," declared Nat, her gaze furious, "When we find him, I'm putting him on his ass."

"At least, we can narrow down the places to look," pointed out Phil, his expression was thoughtful, and his brow was furrowed, "He's not well enough to go far."

"Sir," reprimanded Natasha, "It's Clint. He'd run himself to the ground if he thought it would let him get away."

"True," allowed Phil, his lips quirked at that, "But we have more people than him. We will box him in and grab him. I'll knock him out with LTLs if it becomes necessary."

"Yes sir," she said with a sigh.

Chapter Text

...

Coulson had really pulled out the stops to bring him back. Clint leaned back against the wall watching as an agent he didn't know the name of went by. Honestly, it was a matter of waiting. Soon, an agent would walk past and he'd make his move.

His head was killing him. It was a constant throbbing that left him nauseous and disorientated. He felt her before the images started and Clint on instinct threw himself back.

She'd been aiming to grab him and nearly succeeded. Her hand grazed his shirt. Then she moved and there was a mixture of images. His nose started bleeding heavily again. He dropped to a knee dizziness making him unable to stand. He didn't have any strength to fight her.

"Come on, Barton," she coaxed, reaching out her hand, "Come home, Clint."

"Tasha," he whispered, his voice weak, "Can't. Can't let them near SHIELD."

"Who, Clint?" She asked not understanding, "What are you running from?"

"Please, Tasha," mumbled Clint, "I have to stop them before I can come home."

"Then tell me who, Clint," she demanded, her voice was calm and her hands were steady, "Tell me who and I'll help you. We'll protect each other like always."

Clint froze. They had always had a deal. A silent agreement. That when the chips were down, they would have each others backs. When all was said and done if they couldn't trust SHIELD they could trust each other.

They had been in a similar position before except it had been Clint offering a hand to Nat. Back when he was ordered to kill her but instead brought her into shield. And now the roles were reversed and she was the one offering a helping hand. She was the one willing to risk everything to keep him safe.

"I can't go back to SHIELD yet," he insisted.

"Then I'll go with you," she returned, "Clint as it is now. Whatever you're running from will kill you before you can it. You're my partner. I'll watch your back."

Clint blinked. Blood poured from his nose, and the world was blurry. Natasha's green eyes were the only thing in focus. And those eyes were concerned, and worried. For him. Fuck he couldn't ask her to do that.

"I do think you should talk to Coulson," she said after a moment, "He..."

Clint's vision blurred further and he couldn't hear what else she said. He could feel blood dripping from his nose. Couldn't see, and couldn't breathe. Everything was becoming too much and he was panicking. Trying to draw air in was impossible. His chest was tight and his lungs refused to expand. Then his sight faded to complete darkness and his consciousness faded.

...

Natasha caught Clint before he hit the ground. The archer was a deadweight in her arms, and for a terrifying second, she thought he was gone. Then she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest and relaxed minutely. He was still alive and that's what mattered.

She laid him back on the ground and pressed two fingers to his neck. Threads and too fast heartbeat. She was going to call for an extraction over comms when a hand grabbed hers. Heron.

"Let go, Heron," she snarled, her tone cold, "He needs medical attention. Let him go or I will break your arm. He's ill..."

"I'm aware," replied Heron, his face was grim and his grip tightened, "Tavern protections have been enacted. You can come with him but I'm not letting SHIELD take him. I know what's wrong with him. SHIELD doesn't."

"What is happening to him?" Questioned Natasha, her gaze focused on the mercenary.

"Not here," argued Heron, "It's not safe. Stay or go but you have to make a choice now."

Heron released her and carefully lifted the unconscious archer. Natasha could easily overpower the man and take Clint from him. Hell, she could contact SHIELD and have a team of agents arrest Heron.

That would mean breaking a decades old truce though. It could start a war between the governments and the Taverns. So, despite the desire to do just that, Natasha followed Heron silently. If things turned sideways, she could kill him.

...

First Barton went AWOL, now Romanov. Phil rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. He had no idea where either of his assets had disappeared to. Or why. Though, judging by the last CCTV footage of the pair, Barton was in bad shape.

Could they have gone back to the Tavern? Why would Romanov agree to it? Nothing was making sense.

And then there was the sniper that had shot at him and Barton. Phil wasn't the type to believe in coincidences. And a random attack seemed unlikely. No, it had to be connected to whatever Barton was hiding from. Nothing about any of this made sense.

Phil's phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, his brow furrowed in confusion. Speak of the devil. It was a text from Natasha. All that was in the message was an address and a simple explanation.

'With Barton. Will update later.'

Well. At least, the assassin had some common sense. This was better than nothing. He trusted her to keep him in the loop should anything else happen.

Now the question remained. What was at that location? And how did the unknown sniper and the situation fit together?

Chapter Text

...

Natasha sat next to the couch watching as Clint twitched. His eyes were moving rapidly behind their lids and his forehead was creased. They were back at the Tavern.

Heron had set up an iv and connected a saline bag to it. His breathing was still rapid and shallow. Almost as if he was struggling to draw breath. Which was possible considering the state he'd been found in. Honestly, she was surprised he hadn't collapsed sooner. But her idiotic friend had a way of defying the odds.

"Will he wake soon?" Asked Nat softly, her gaze locked on Clint's sleeping form.

"Unlikely," answered Heron, his own expression was troubled, "He pushed himself too far using that ability of his."

"Ability?" She asked.

"Clairvoyance," explained Heron, his gaze flickered from her to the window and back, "It's a rare ability. He doesn't have control over it and never has. It allows him to see a few seconds into the future at a time and all of the possibilities of those few seconds. This is what happens when it's overused."

A slow blink of surprise was her only show of surprise. She had no idea her friend had a power. It did make sense however. She'd seen two he acted on missions better than anyone. Sometimes he'd have them pause for no apparent reason. Only to have guards or bullets to go passed right as they would have.

"Why doesn't SHIELD know?" Questioned Nat, her head tilted in thought, "I've known him for years and even I had no idea. How long have you known?"

"He doesn't give up his secrets easily," stated Heron, his voice was soft and sad, "I've known him since he was a boy. He hides it well but I've known those with abilities before."

"How does he cope?" She questioned, her tone curious, and her brow was furrowed, "If he doesn't have control."

"That's something you'll have to ask him, Agent," replied Heron, "I had hoped that he would seek help from SHIELD in teaching control. Obviously he chose to hide it instead."

Natasha nodded. She understood the desire to keep things to herself. Even from those closest to her. There were some secrets that were better kept to oneself.

"He's a stubborn moron," she commented, her lips quirking in fondness.

"Yeah," agreed Heron, his smile was wry, and his shoulders shook, "Yeah, kid is. Always has been. Loyal go those he considers his though."

"Family," corrected Natasha, her tone firm, and her gaze hard, "Clint told me once. That blood doesn't make family. Family are the ones who have your back. Who would bleed and die for you."

Heron gave her an approving smile. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Then he held a second bottle to her. Nat took the drink and popped the top off.

"Cheers," said Heron, knocking the glass together, "To being able to give loyalty in return."

"May we always have someone to have our backs," added Natasha, taking a sip from the bottle.

...

When Clint woke next, his migraine had lessened. His vision was still a little fuzzy around the edges, and his body felt like a truck had hit him. What happened? More overuse of his ability? He couldn't remember anything except a rooftop and talking to someone. Who?

He tried to sit up and groaned. His chest ached from the effort and his limbs felt heavy. Like trying to move a bag of sand. Exhaustion was creeping at the edge of his awareness threatening to drag him under. Again.

"Easy," murmured a familiar voice, her hands gentle and cool against his skin, "You're safe, Clint. Relax."

"Nat," gasped Clint, his throat was dry and hurt to use, "Where...?"

"You're at the Tavern," she informed him, her tone calm and her touch gentle, "Heron brought us here after you collapsed. You've been out of it for nearly 12 hours."

12 hours? That likely was due to the overuse of his ability. He was lucky it happened with a friend nearby.

"Drink," commanded Natasha, her voice stern and her gaze sharp, "Slowly, or you'll choke on it."

"Yes, ma'am," joked Clint, his tone light, and his lips quirked.

She rolled her eyes. But the corner of her mouth tipped upwards in amusement. She gently guided the glass to his lips and helped him to sit up enough to swallow without choking on the water. After drinking half the glass, he waved her off.

"How long have you had the ability, Clint?" She inquired, her green eyes were curious, and her head was tilted, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Long as I can remember," admitted Clint, his brow was furrowed and his hand trembled, "I guess Heron told you then. Figured he would. As to not telling, it's not exactly a gift. More a curse, really. No control, and no way of knowing when it'll activate. I didn't want to worry people. And if the wrong person found out..."

"You'd be in danger," finished Natasha, her lips were pulled in a frown, and her expression was concerned, "Don't you trust us? Clint, Coulson and I would never let that happen."

"Habit," replied Clint, his voice was soft and his eyes were tired, "By the time I did trust. It was too late to tell you guys without uncomfortable questions."

"We could have worked through the answers, Clint," insisted Natasha, her brow was furrowed in confusion, "Coulson would have believed you. Given you, the chance to explain. He wouldn't have punished you."

She was right. He knew that she was right but the fear was still there. It was irrational but it had stayed his hand in telling Coulson. Maybe after all this was over. Maybe then, he could come clean to his handler. To his friend.

"I'm sorry, Nat," apologized Clint, his expression was sheepish, and his smile was weak, "I should have told you. Both of you."

"Apology accepted," acknowledged Natasha, her tone was serious, and her gaze was piercing, "Just don't lie to me again. Tell Coulson."

Clint opened his mouth to reply when the door opened. Heron entered with a tablet in one hand. His steps were swift, and his face was grim. A pit formed in the archer's stomach. Whatever news Heron had was bad.

"Heron, what's wrong," greeted Clint, his tone wary, and his expression tense, "What's going on?"

"Your enemy has resurfaced," answered the mercenary, and showed him the tablet, "Look familiar?"

Oh yes. That face was very familiar.

"Barney," he breathed.