Like the rest of you good people... I am Avengers obsessed. And this may be the longest story arc I've ever tackled, so enjoy.

Also, copyright stuff, not mine, disclaimer, etc.

Agent Clint Barton itched to be the one flying. But the pilot was competent, and Clint had a target to analyze, so he pushed the itch to the back of his mind, and pulled up the file on his handheld. He ignored the reports and analyses in favor of video footage. There was quite a bit of it, and Clint quickly began to pick out patterns. Her training screamed SHIELD agent- a traitor, then, or a mole. He memorized her tendency towards revealing dresses, flight above fight, and a wickedly fast combat style. Very little power, he noted, just speed. She had an uncanny survival instinct- she seemed to hear gunshots before they happened, become suspicious of enemies before they gave themselves away. He flicked through the footage, looking for any hint towards what would make a SHIELD agent into a mark. He paused for one brief moment on a clip of her fighting in a dark plaza, back-to-back with Agent Romanoff. There was nothing to be learned from it that he did not already know, though, so he flicked it off the screen with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Finally, he found a promising clip, gray and grainy. The target was on the phone, speaking quickly and glancing over her shoulders furtively. There was no sound, but he could tell that she was speaking an obscure dialect of Russian, associated with a region that housed an up-and-coming terrorist group that posed a real threat to SHIELD. She was a sell-out, then.

That was all Clint needed to know. She was a risk, to SHIELD and everyone they protected. She would be eliminated. He memorized her face quickly. Big dark eyes, light olive complexion, framed by dark hair just long enough to curl over her ears and fine cheekbones. He looked for other identifying marks, ones that would not be as easily changed: a scar over the knuckles of her left hand, the shape of the hollow of her neck, the exact length of her arms and legs. She was small and slight, but walked with the loose gait of a much taller woman, and she had no problem filling out the shapely dresses she favored. Finally, he reviewed the official SHIELD analyses. Agent Asalynn Liretto, began training at age 16, special ops gone rogue. Her field of focus was noncombat, deep infiltration. She could quite literally disappear, even from SHIELD, for months at a time, always returning with information on the enemy's technology. Her combat training was minimal, but her technological skills more than made up for it; nothing that ran on electricity was safe from her. They had noted many of the same traits he had: a fondness for attractive men, an almost cowardly tendency to flee, outstanding skills of misdirection. A slippery mark.

He would've preferred time to study her himself, pick his time and place. But SHIELD had just received intel that an exchange was taking place tonight, one that could destroy the entire agency. So the Hawk was going black tie.

"How long?" he asked the pilot.

The pilot shrugged. "Thirty minutes, tops."

Agent Barton nodded. It was plenty of time. Without another word, he picked up the bag next to him and threaded his way to the back of the quinjet. He fished a tux out of it and pulled the clothes on over his suit. He left the bowtie draped around his neck, but reluctantly changed out his combat boots for the specially engineered dress shoes. When he finished, he turned to the anonymous agent Fury had sent as backup.

"Put this on." He tossed the agent a vest. The agent obediently slid one arm through it.

"Under your shirt." The agent- still green enough to maybe pull this off, to not trigger the target's suspicions- flushed and unbuttoned his shirt.

"Your job is to flush out the target." Clint pulled up a blue print of the building, rotating the 3D image with his fingers. "She'll need to be out on this balcony, here." He pointed to a balcony that jutted out above a river that meandered through the city. "She likes pretty boys. Use it. Don't underestimate her or try to be clever. Just make yourself available; she'll come to you."

The agent, whom Clint had decided to think of simply as Agent, nodded. "Where will you be?"

Hawkeye debated briefly between a lesson on the meaning of "need-to-know" and a lesson on mission planning.

"I'll be here." He pointed to another wing of the mansion, officially closed off for tonight's gala, jutting out perpendicular to the balcony. "Four floors up. Make sure that you stay between the target and the door."

"Why?"

Clint kept his face carefully deadpan."So that when an arrows sprouts in your chest, she can't run back inside." Agent squeaked, and Clint had to frown to keep himself from grinning.

"You're going to shoot me?"

Not trusting himself to speak without laughing, Clint held out an arrow to Agent, who had just finished rebuttoning his shirt over the vest. He took it almost reverently, inspected it, then returned it with a shrug. Without a word, Clint flipped it in his hand and jammed it into his new partner's chest. He jumped backwards with a shout, then stilled as he realized he was neither dead nor dying. The arrow jutted out from his chest, quivering.

"The vest and the arrowhead are a set. It won't penetrate, but it'll hold onto it so that it looks like you've been shot. Questions?"

Agent shook his head.

"Got it."

"Good. Wait for my signal."

More to come. Especially if you leave me reviews! Then I am happy and write faster and have more inspirations.