Yes, well… I saw the movie and I desperately wanted to write about it. I'm something of a comic book fan, so I was absolutely psyched that they made this movie and that it was so damn good! Anyway, Avengers isn't exactly my largest cache of comic book information, but I hope you find this up to snuff!

I don't own Avengers!end/AN/

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The second hand went round on Clint's clock, and he stared at the ceiling. He should have been sleeping, he knew how important it was; but only fifteen minutes before, he'd escaped from a glowing, plasticly cheerful reality. He'd been suffocated in peace, unable to stop his hand from moving for an arrow to blithely kill another familiar face.

Clint liked to pretend he didn't remember any of what he had done at times; it was in moments like these he was bitterly reminded of what had gone down. He flipped over, his sweaty back instantly chilling in the cool air. This wasn't working.

So he sat up, wiping at his forehead and giving the clock an undeserved sullen stare. It looked like he was going to have to visit the firing range once again. Slipping into a jacket, he snapped up his practice bow, along with a quiver full of arrows. He preferred not to use his field equipment for things like this; he knew that the arrows didn't come cheaply.

No one met him in the hallways; it was the upside of ghosting through at 3 in the morning. Though there was always a detail on deck, there was a lot less roaming during the night. He silently entered the empty room, where several paper targets hung to be shot at.

First arrow went through roughly the left eye; its sister went through the paper man's heart. Clint wished this man weren't made of paper, and instead was one of his demons, dead and gone from his life. He sent another unnecessary arrow into roughly the liver area; not an immediate kill, but certainly a complication.

One more into the other eye, and the paper target was well ripped. If this was in the field, the target would be deader than a rock. Of course, if this was the field, the target probably wouldn't stay so politely still for so long either.

Clint gave a sigh, and relaxed his arms, bringing the bow to his side. His fingers were curled around the metal of the weapon, bringing back old stories of Clint's history. His first shot, which hit the outer rings of the target; his first human hit, which had been far from a kill. He didn't need this tonight.

"Can't sleep?"

He'd heard her come in, truthfully; in their business, one didn't have inner monologues that cut one off from reality. He shook his head, aiming another arrow at the target. "Too warm."

Natasha crossed her arms, and her eyes stared accusingly at his jacket. "I see." She knew better, he could tell. She always did.

He let the arrow fly, tearing through the neck of the target. He didn't know how he was supposed to explain something like this; He couldn't explain being haunted. "Yeah."

She walked over towards him, even as he prepared to take another shot. A hand settled on his shoulder, and she said, "You should take a break."

The hand was warm, and it made him sigh, letting the bowstring go less taut. He didn't want to stop; he wanted to stay in the realm of targets and easy answers. But he made a point of listening to Natasha, especially since the time she saved him from Loki's mind alteration. So he did now, lowering his arm and tucking the arrow back in his quiver.

Wordlessly, she led him out of the room, and spirited him through the hallways. They ended up in her living quarters, where she patted the bed next to her.

He complied, sitting down. He didn't know where she wanted to go with this. They'd always had a connection, but it hardly meant he could read her mind.

"You need to take a break." Natasha said, eyes staring at Clint with a steady determination. It was as though she thought she were a hypnotist, though there was no denying she could be incredibly persuasive.

"You already said that." Clint hoped none of the aftermath was getting to her. He knew she had been bred in tougher circumstances, but maybe it was the last straw or something of the sort. He wasn't a psychologist; he didn't know.

She gave him a look, one that clearly stated, you're not paying attention, are you? "Clint, you need a break from all of this. Not just a few minutes; a week or two."

He didn't. He couldn't leave and be trapped alone with his memories. Where would he even go besides the local archery range? No, it would be better to be here and working. "You're not taking a break. Why should I?"

"I'll take it with you." It seemed Natasha had realized what he would say, and she had apparently planned for it. Her eyes caught his, and he couldn't avoid looking at her.

It wouldn't be so bad if they took it together, would it? It wouldn't be uncomfortable feelings nonsense with Natasha. They could spend the time at the firing range. But there would be so much time left over… Like there was now. "What if we're needed?"

"Then we can return from our break. We won't go far." She turned her body towards him, and, eyebrows lowered almost threateningly, she stated, "Besides, if you don't, I'll have to shoot you and get you sick leave."

It was undeserved, Clint thought. But Natasha would always do what she believed the situation called for; he sighed, staring down at his knees. "A break wouldn't hurt."

Natasha nodded, not even the slightest flicker of a smile on her face. "Take some allergy meds and go to sleep."

He started, opening his mouth in protest. What was she thinking? He couldn't be groggy; what if something happened? What if someone came to take him away?

"You can sleep here." It was as though she had read his thoughts.

Clint couldn't protest, as she handed him the bottle. He took two pills dry, after a moment's hesitation. If there was anyone he trusted here, it was Natasha. He laid his head back, not bothering to cover himself with sheets. Maybe sleep wouldn't bring back the sugar-high haze from before, not this time.

Natasha threw a jacket on top of him, evidently knowing that he didn't want to be tangled in a blanket. Then she sat at the foot of the bed.

It took only minutes more for the tension to ease out of Clint's muscles, and his eyelids drooped shut.

Sleep was bland, and for that he was intensely grateful. Vacation would start tomorrow, and that would be hard enough.

Something that Clint liked about Natasha was that, like him, she travelled light. That was why there were only two duffel bags in the back of the car as she drove them further and further away from the base.

Not a word was uttered, but it was comfortable. Clint didn't feel the need to know what was going on in Natasha's mind at all times; she wasn't an enemy, and they weren't in a life-or-death scenario. It was a far cry from when they'd met, in any case.

Soon, he found they were pulling into a parking lot for a small apartment building. This must be the place Natasha snuck away to when she wasn't on base. He had his own 'nest', as Natasha called it, but Natasha had decided that she wanted to be in her own territory.

The bland sweater she wore was amusing, as were the glasses. She looked like an ordinary citizen, the bulk of her clothes helping to hide her shapely body. She glanced over at Clint, stating, "I'm known as Sarah McNeil around here; I am a human resources manager for a large company. You are my cousin."

"Cousin, how about Sean McNeil?" Clint replied, used to this game by now. He didn't often get as close to his targets as Natasha, but he still had to play at being someone else on several occasions. A Romanian immigrant, an inconspicuous janitor, several cases of being a lab assistant… it would be easy enough to pretend to be a cousin from out of town.

"Mhm." Natasha parked the car. She got out, utterly normal and with a slight slouch to her shoulders; she would never be recognized for the killer she was.

Clint got out as well, looking around the neighborhood. Neatly piled bricks made up the buildings, and there was a small playground behind the apartments. A family sort of place. He certainly wouldn't've picked it; he wondered why Natasha did.

He closed the door with finality. This was vacation; there would be no escape. "So, what's on our itinerary?"

Natasha shouldered a her duffel bag, tossing him his. "First, we need groceries. After that, we will visit the park. You can feed ducks if that's what you want."

Catching his bag, Clint looked at her like she had just suggested going to the opera in a lovely gown. "Sarah, isn't there a firing range around here?" He prayed to God there was. He didn't want to be stuck walking around and thinking about everything that had gone down.

A hint of a smile appeared on her lips, before her expression changed back to serious. "We'll get to that later. You need to relax, Sean."

Of course Natasha would claim something like that; Clint doubted she knew how to do it either. He shouldered his bag, and followed her into her little apartment. This would not be fun.

Natasha held the door open for him, and he promptly ran into another man, who apparently had places to be.

"Excuse me."

No… Clint dropped everything. That voice… But before he could get a look at the face, the man had moved on, the collar of his jacket pulled up to cover half his face.

Natasha's eyes were sharp, studying him and the man and prepared to put a hole in the man's head if Clint so much as hinted at it with his eyes.

But Clint was dumbfounded, and the man disappeared into a car.

He could feel a cold sweat on his hands, and he wiped them against his sweater. He picked up his bag, and he and Natasha ducked inside, swooping up the steps and to the safety of her small home away from home.

"What's wrong?" Natasha didn't dance around the subject, that was for sure.

"I know him," Clint said, not sure what to do. He pulled at a hangnail on his pinkie, trying to think and not be swamped by stupid emotions.

Natasha looked at him strangely, saying, "I know him as Mr. Francis Thibault; he seems to have the build of an agent or soldier. Where do you know him from?" This is critical, her voice said.

Clint picked at the callouses on his fingers. You'll pay for this, echoed in his head. "He's someone from my past. A bastard I would rather see rot in Hell." He shook his head, focusing on the important information. "He's a danger, a trained fighter, and Francis Thibault isn't his real name."

Natasha nodded, saying, "It looks like we won't be having that vacation, then. Who is he?"

It was a name he hadn't thought he'd hear again, much less say. "Jaqcues Duquesne. He was my mentor."

So much for a vacation.

/AN/ Well, I hope you like this. I intend to make longer. It's based off of Hawkeye's comic book origins. I'm excited to be dabbling in the Avengers fandom. Expect more from me.