AN: This is a multi-chapter story set Pre-Avengers. Thank you to dysprositos, the beta who really ought to get an award. Thanks to veritas6.5 for moral support.

Recurve: The end of the bow limbs that curve away from the archer when the bow is held in the shooting position.

"They gave you an award?" Natasha said, pouring herself more water from the pitcher on the mess hall table. It was clear she was holding back on laughter.

"Hey, at least there wasn't a ceremony. It's just for my record and, if I want, for framing," Clint replied, smiling into his own glass. "Coulson's threatening to frame it for my bathroom."

"What did it say?"

"Clint Barton, Most Awesome Archer Ever."

"No, really, what did it say?"

"You don't think it said Most Awesome Archer Ever?"

"No."

"Okay, you're right, and it doesn't matter what it says, 'cause until it says that I'm not hanging it up anywhere." Clint finished his drink in a gulp and stood from the table. "Sorry, gotta go scare someone for a while. Coulson wants me to break in a rookie agent for a couple hours on all the ranges."

"Meet for sparring after?" Natasha asked, gathering her own things for the garbage.

"Sure. Seven?"

They agreed and went their separate directions, Natasha to a meeting and Clint to the range. He loved breaking in new agents. Coulson knew that but only sent a few his way. They tended to leave Clint's tutelage feeling a bit…overwhelmed.

This one was a challenge, though. Cocky, actually very good at everything except the bow, and not very receptive to Clint's natural chatter; he managed to give Clint a headache by the time they parted ways around six.

He let himself in to Coulson's locked office through an air duct to grab some ibuprofen before meeting Natasha, and he sat down on the leather couch with some water to take the pills. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Just for a few minutes, he told himself.

He jumped when Coulson's door opened sometime later.

Coulson looked startled, too. "Oh, Hey. Didn't know you were in here."

Clint leaned forward and rubbed his face. "Sorry. I needed something for the headache your junior gave me."

Coulson grinned and closed his office door, shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He sat down next to Clint on the couch and put his hand on Clint's neck and rubbed it gently. "Thought he might do that. Sorry I pawned him off on you, but I knew he was pretty good already and thought he could at least use a little comeuppance on the archery bits."

"Didn't faze him," Clint said, ducking his head so Phil could have a better angle on his neck, and sighing as Phil found a sensitive spot. "He's an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He'll be fine."

Phil nodded and kept digging at Clint's neck, leaning back after a few minutes and resting his hand on Clint's thigh. "Better?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah, thanks." Then he remembered his sparring appointment and sat up quickly. "Shit. I'm supposed to meet Nat to spar. What time is it?"

Coulson checked his watch. "It's six forty-five, but you're not meeting her."

"What? Why?"

"Because there are some people here from the FBI who want to talk to you at seven. I told them you were open. I was coming to call you when I came in."

Clint turned and squinted at Coulson. "FBI? To see me? What the hell for?"

Phil shrugged and stood up, going over to his desk and pulling a piece of fax paper into his hands and reading, "A team of FBI agents will be arriving at SHIELD this evening at seven o'clock to meet with Agent Barton unless he is otherwise officially occupied. They will meet with him as soon after that as possible tonight if he is working at that time. Tell Agent Barton he may be asked for assistance and is expected to offer full compliance, understanding his SHEILD duties will be suspended with pay while he assists them. Signed, Director Fury." Phil looked up from the paper and shrugged. "Not sure what they want, Clint, but you're theirs if they ask, apparently."

Clint stood and pulled the paper out of Phil's hands, rereading it. FBI, what the hell. He'd never had any interaction with them before, and if it wasn't an actual SHIELD assignment for them then what the hell was it? He didn't know anything about the FBI, hadn't ever worked for them or known anyone who. . . .

Suddenly, the breath left his lungs and he sat down heavily on the edge of Coulson's desk, actually feeling his knees weaken. His hand holding the paper started to shake and Phil was there in an instant, a worried look on his face.

"Clint?"

He looked up at Phil and back at the paper. "I think I know what this might be about." He felt his chest tighten, and it was hard to draw a breath, and Phil seemed to be standing very far away. He felt Phil pull him by the arm over to the couch, though, settling him down again, and Clint laid the paper down next to him and pulled his arms tight to his chest, his right hand flexing involuntarily. He took deep breaths to steady himself. "What time is it?" He said, turning to Phil.

"Six Fifty-three. Clint, what's going on? Are you all right?"

Clint closed his eyes for a moment, took a last deep breath and then stood, looking at the paper on the couch for a meeting room number. "I have to go."

Phil stood again and moved to the door, partially blocking it. "Are you going to be okay going in there by yourself?"

Clint nodded. There was Phil. Not fishing for an explanation, just offering support. No wonder Clint needed him all the damned time anymore. "I'll be okay. Sorry. It's just. . . the only person I ever knew to be involved in the FBI was my brother, Barney. And he hasn't actually spoken to me in twenty years."

And he left without another word, forcing his feet to carry him to the meeting room, hoping this wasn't as bad as he figured it must be for them to come fishing for help from an estranged brother who was probably the one person Barney Barton hated most in the world.

Clint let himself into the meeting room with confidence, knowing that acting like a scared little brother wouldn't get him anywhere with these folks. The three FBI agents stood when he came in, and were typical FBI agents, black suits and stern faces. He shook their hands and introduced himself, memorizing their names and looking at the table in front of him, where several files were stacked.

"Agent Barton, thanks for coming on such short notice," the suit named Ackerman, a young-looking blond man, said.

"Director Fury said jump," Clint replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

"This actually doesn't have anything to do with SHIELD, Agent Barton," said Agent Floyd, older and even sterner.

"It does if they're paying me while I help you, I figure," Clint said.

Ackerman nodded. "Yes, well. It might have to do with them if we don't get a handle on it. So let's get down to it, okay?"

Clint nodded.

"When is the last time you were in contact with your brother, Agent Barton?" said Agent Smith, who had been standing the whole time. He had a quiet but firm voice and Clint looked up immediately.

"I haven't spoken to him since I was seventeen."

The men looked at each other and the quiet man spoke again. "We asked when you last had contact with him, Agent. Not whether you spoke."

Clint sighed. "I haven't had contact with him since I was eighteen. He tried to get me to join the Army with him. Wrote me a letter." He felt his hands clenching under the table as the memory of Barney's letter was dredged up in a sterile boardroom amongst strangers.

"You didn't go with him," one of the agents said.

Clint was about to be sarcastic, but wisely thought better of it. "No. I wasn't interested."

"That was the last time?"

"Yes," Clint couldn't help the grimace on his own face. "He wasn't happy with me. Left me another message telling me he'd be gone forever if I didn't come." Clint paused. "At the time I thought it was best if he were gone forever."

The agent standing sighed. "So that was the end of it? Nothing else over the years?"

"No, nothing. You guys tracked me down for one of those phone interview background things when he was trying to join up, so I knew he was trying to be an FBI agent. He made it in?"

They nodded and the quiet man spoke again. "Yes, Agent Barton. He's been an FBI agent for ten years. A good one, too, I might add. But he's gone missing, and we don't think it was related to the last mission he was on. We don't know why he's missing, but we can't find evidence of foul play."

Another agent interrupted. "We can't find much evidence of anything, really. He just disappeared."

Clint couldn't help the mirthless laugh that escaped his lips at that point. "Yeah, he was good at that."

The agents looked at each other. "We thought you might know him well enough to help us find him, Agent. We don't really like to have our agents go off the grid abruptly. We're concerned about him."

"How can I help you? I don't even know him anymore, much less his habits and patterns." Clint needed this meeting to be over. He could feel his heart racing again, could feel his hands get sweaty and begin to shake.

"Agent Barton, we're hoping you'll go through these files tonight and see if you spot anything we've missed. We're at a bit of a dead-end and thought that if there's anything from your brother's past that is evident here and in play, maybe you could see it."

He just wanted out of the room, so he nodded and stood quickly. "Okay." He started to gather the files from the table, but one of the men put his hand out and stopped him.

"Agent, we need you to do this here. These are highly classified files."

Clint pulled his hand back. "Of course." He felt a little stupid, but he was falling apart here and really didn't want to do that in front of these men. "Can I go use the restroom and get a soda before I start reading, then?" They nodded and he stood again. "Thanks." And he left the room, making a beeline for the nearest bathroom.

He leaned over the sink taking deep breaths, and he heard the door open behind him. He tried to pull himself together and he turned, expecting to have to make small talk, but it was Phil, putting his hand on Clint's shoulder.

"Easy, Barton. It's just me." Clint closed his eyes and put his hands back down on the counter, flat, and lowered his head. "How's the headache?" Phil asked.

Clint shook his head. "Fuck, Phil." It was all he could think to say. He heard the water run in the sink next to his and heard Phil pulling paper towels from the dispenser. A moment later Phil pressed the damp towel into Clint's hand.

"Here. Wipe your face and it'll make you feel better. At least for a minute, okay?"

Clint took the towel and did what Phil said, turning and leaning back on the counter. After he wiped his face and heaved a few more deep breaths, he dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tugged out a couple dollars and held them out to Phil, ignoring the tremor in his fingers. "Can you do me a favor and go down and get me a huge soda? Whatever they have with the most caffeine. I'm gonna be up reading for a while."

Phil nodded and took the money. He was gone a few minutes, and Clint managed to get his breathing under control and his face washed enough that they might not notice he'd practically hyperventilated. Phil ducked back into the bathroom with a huge cup and some change. He pressed both into Clint's hand.

"Thanks," Clint said. He took a deep drink.

"You looking at files?" Phil asked.

"Yeah. They need help finding someone. Think I can help." He kept it vague. The word 'classified' had been spoken but he knew Phil knew who he was talking about anyway.

"Can you?"

Clint thought for a minute and took another drink before stepping around Phil and opening the door. "I hope to hell not," he said. "I'll call you later, or see you tomorrow morning."

Phil caught Clint's arm before he could get away. "Hey. Come to my place when you're finished. Okay? You don't have to talk about it, but come over. No matter what time it is."

Clint looked at Phil's eyes for a moment and then turned away and back toward the meeting room. "Okay," he said over his shoulder. "Thanks."