The whispers of the air-conditioning unit over his head were a familiar melody. The spiders, which had skittered away when he had first established himself in the rafters, crept back, assessing the damage he'd done to their webs and traps. Only a few remained evicted; they stopped when their sensitive feelers tasted the repellent that he'd slathered on his skin six hours ago. It made bugs think he was a bigger creepy-crawly, which would keep them away. The rats wouldn't come near until he disappeared and his scent had faded.

This was just another long, typical surveillance gig for Clint "Hawkeye" Barton, archer for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers.

Three men in black uniforms prowled the open area below him. A single guard dog walked obediently next to one, his or her nose working. It was their bad luck that Barton now smelled more like a hungry scorpion than a human. The objective was sitting in a cell in the middle of the room, a lean, hungry-looking man with a smile that could terrify or charm in turn.

A slight hum disturbed his veil of silence, originating from his thigh. It was a single second of vibration, muffled by cloth and mostly absorbed by his skin. Barton focused on the dog as the canine froze. The animal lifted his or her head as the long ears swiveled but didn't seem to pinpoint the noise. "C'mon, Gracie," her handler said in a bored voice, twitching the leash to get her in motion again.

Barton mentally chided the man for not giving Gracie enough credit as he crept his hand down to his pocket. In slow movements that didn't produce any noise, the archer pulled his phone out of his pants and slid it into the lapel of his jacket. With the phone's light blocked from the men below, he checked the text message.

It was two words. Barton read them three times. He checked the number: it was from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ. It was real.

Damn. He felt a gnawing sense of regret but mostly anticipation. I thought I had more time. He'd hoped to finish what he started with Natasha, to bring her in.

That was not to be.

A quick dance of his fingers on his bow signaled a change to different arrowheads. Hawkeye hooked his knees around the rafters and let his upper body drop until he hung like the world's most lethal bat. He sighted on all the targets, drew and began. His string snapped three times and hesitated on the fourth. It wasn't because he wasn't sure of his shot. It was because Gracie wasn't responsible for being here.

The dog yelped and bounced away from her handler as the man hit the ground, dead. The dog sniffed closely, whining. Her nose played over the shaft protruding from his back, confused by the scents on it. After a moment, Gracie pawed her human but he didn't move.

Clint watched her with sympathy. Hooking a line to the rafters, he slid down the thin rope to the floor. Gracie backed away nervously, stopping when she caught the familiar smell of man under the bug-scent. "It's okay, girl," he said softly before turning to the cage.

The man inside watched him with boredom. For a man in a cell, he seemed to have all the time in the world. Barton knelt next to one of the downed men and dug an access card out of his belt. The archer moved to the cell and opened the door. "Let's go," he said to the former prisoner.

"It's time, then?" the brunette man asked in a Scottish accent.

"Yep." Barton turned toward the front door. He glanced at Gracie to find her lying by her dead master, her head resting on his back. Was that sadness in her eyes? He worried about her for a second before realizing that someone would come along and find her. She'd be taken in and given a home. "Let's get out of here before someone comes."

"Hey, Hawkeye." The man's call drew Barton's attention back to him. "Hail H.Y.D.R.A."

Barton's lips curled in amusement. "Hail H.Y.D.R.A."

Natasha Romanov stood with arms folded stiffly, her body wound so tightly it seemed she might break. She stared over the computers, her green eyes impatiently scanning the workstations. She didn't seem to realize she was toying with the silver necklace at her throat, her fingers running over the tiny arrow over and over. She'd been like that for three days.

Steve put his hands on his hips, considering what to do to help her. The problem was that there was little he could do or say. It had been a week since he'd gotten out of the hospital and five days since Stark had arrived at the HUB with a fleet of moving trucks and an army of workmen. He'd also grabbed the remaining agents, hiring them on the spot and secreting them away to his tower, where he'd established a headquarters of sorts. No one had been around to protest Stark's confiscation of the equipment. Why bother? Natasha had already released all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets to the world.

"Cap." Tony Stark stopped next to him, gazing out over the computers of the HUB.

"Stark." Steve peered at the brilliant man. "You still haven't answered my question - what is your plan for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"You mean the secret organization formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.? I think at best, they're down to HD now." Tony smirked at his own wit. "As in Homeland Division. Nothing else applies anymore. Of course, the 'Logistics' never really applied-"

"Not now, Stark." Steve resisted the urge to be sharper with the man. Retorting to Stark's biting sarcasm usually only fed it. "Why did you grab S.H.I.E.L.D.'s devices?"

As before, Stark avoided answering. "How's Natasha holding up?" Stark's voice had softened a touch; when Steve glanced at him, he saw a bit of concern in his eyes - just a bit.

"Not well. She's waiting. Like we all are." Captain America shifted slightly, hating the reminder of his own helplessness in this situation. "She needs closure. A place to rescue him from. A body to bury."

Tony was quiet a long moment, his lips pressing together. "There's a third option."

Steve glanced at him again but this time, there was heat in his eyes. "It's not an option."

"Then why hasn't he called in?" Stark began to pace, roaming back and forth behind the Captain's wide shoulders. "Why don't we have a ransom demand?"

"He could be somewhere he can't reach us." Steve didn't think of himself as a pessimist at even the worst times. I can't conceive of the thought that Barton… His mind refused to finish the sentence as he grimly watched Natasha hold her terse vigil. "Held prisoner. It doesn't mean that…"

Tony Stark stopped next to him, facing Steve's profile. The first Avenger didn't look at him but as the silence drew on, he finally turned to meet his eyes. Tony gazed at him with pity. "You've already made up your mind, haven't you?" Steve spat the words at him. "You've already decided that Clint, our friend-"

"I haven't decided anything. I'm just willing to concede the possibility." Tony moved like he was reaching for Steve's shoulder, only to stop and push his sunglasses up on his head. "I don't like it."

"Clint's not H.Y.D.R.A." Natasha twisted to face them, her face equal parts angry and hurt. "I'd know." She turned her back on the two men. Now Tony watched her with pity and concern.

"Captain?" The agent's voice broke into the awkward silence and both men looked at the freckle-faced young man who stared with equal parts adoration and awe. "There's a guy with a big hammer asking to see you."