A/N: Hello, hello readers! I'm back in action, and this time, I'm writing in a whole new ballpark for you lovelies! (Meaning I'm drifting away from Tolkein for a while to dabble in the Marvel Universe!)

I've been toying with the idea of this fic on and off again for a very long time now after seeing the Winter Soldier, and just about a month or two ago, I finally decided to quit arguing with myself and just sit down to write it.

And holy. DOOLEY.

This is my favorite fic to date, and I am so excited to share it with you guys. The good news? It's already complete! I think I'll be updating a chapter every Saturday/Sunday from here on out. I'll work that out within the next week or so.

Without further ado, I present to you my brainchild of the month!

Happy reading!

Time, they say, is money.

Well, if that was so, then someone owed one Clint Barton a hell and a half sum of cash.

As it was, it was all the man could do to keep his eyes from drifting away from the icy excuse of a drop point stretched below his perch for the fiftieth time that minute.

And no, it wasn't unprofessional to have to constantly snap them back into place. Rather, it was exactly the opposite. His training and instinct told him to scan the entire area around the charge he was covering. His orders told him otherwise.

He shifted his weight with an aggravated grunt as a rock dug uncomfortably in between his Kevlar and the waistband of his pants. The sudden movement disrupted his (not so) meticulous focus, and an involuntary shiver reached him even through the specialized, insulated coat he wore as his tightly wound nerves protested the sudden movement. Swirling grey streaks of storm clouds had begun to form overhead with a vigor within the last hour or so, and fat flakes of snow had already begun to fall throughout the frigid wasteland. Although they seemed few in number and drifted downwards at a distractingly slow pace, the ground had already become tinged with a frankly irritating pearlescent glow from the substance. A steady rainfall had fallen on their way in to the drop point, and the sheen of moisture that had managed to reach the ground before forming flakes was slowly beginning to glaze over with ice.

In short, Clint would have given both his thumbs and possibly his left foot to be anywhere but where he currently was stationed.

The earpiece that was serving as his radio crackled to life without warning just then, and a bored sounding "confirm status, over" echoed over the static. He fingered the comm unit begrudgingly with a thinly gloved hand for a second before puffing a sigh that visibly swirled in the freezing air.

When he had woken up earlier that morning, he certainly hadn't expected to be face down in rubble and snow waiting on a target ten excruciatingly long hours later.

To say he had been surprised when he had been called in to S.H.I.E.L.D by Fury himself was the understatement of the century. After the New York escapade, he had been considering himself lucky to even be keeping his job at the agency. He had been treading lightly, making it a point to avoid conversations when he could and throwing himself full force into the training rooms to work out his ever expanding list of anguished frustrations on the equipment. There wasn't a day that he could walk through the corridor without having venomous glares and nervous glances thrown his way from every which direction. Conversations halted abruptly when he passed by only to be replaced by hushed whispers.

Some were not so hushed.

Some made it blatantly obvious that he wasn't so welcome anymore. Not that he had been to begin with.

To be an assassin was one thing.

To be an assassin corrupted was an entire different story.

So when he got the gruff command to "get his ass down to base, pronto", he could do little more than obey. And obey, he did.

He had walked into Fury's office, straight backed and shoulders rigid, and shut the door on the mutters he had left in his wake in the hall. He had stood at attention by the entrance, eyes roving silently over the office of the director of S.H.I.E.L.D before settling on the man himself. The man in question looked exhausted and had yet to even glance up from the papers on his desk at the sound of the door. After a long moment of Clint wondering whether or not he should clear his throat (or nick an ashtray), Fury raised his head, his eye staring disapprovingly at the archer.

"Get out of the doorway, Barton. You look like you're waiting on a damn date or something."

At that, Clint relaxed slightly, the suggestion of a grin quirking the corners of his mouth as he stepped further into the room to stand before the massive desk. "Is that an invitation, sir?"

Fury snorted, the closest sound to a laugh that Clint had heard from the man in a significantly long time. "Always the comedian." The director had gestured at the stiff chair next to Clint and began talking before the archer had even sat down. "I'm sending you back out in the field."

Clint froze, halfway seated in his chair. He stared at Fury, eyes scanning his face for any sign of deception. Upon finding none, he slowly lowered himself the rest of the way to the chair.

"I thought you said I was the comedian, sir."

Fury rolled his eye at that, laying both his hands flat against his desk as he leaned forward with a burst of a sigh. Clint's eyes darted to the paperwork scattered across the desk involuntarily, picking up on the words 'winter' and 'Russians' repeatedly. His attention snapped back to Fury as the man started talking. "Look, I get it. Everyone gets it. You blame yourself for New York. A lot of New York, anyways. You were corrupted, and you killed a lot of good men. You don't want to trust yourself out there. You think you're useless to the agency. To me. To the Avengers."

The man paused, leaning back slightly and crossing his arms as Clint's jaw twitched on its own accord. He stared right back into Fury's calculating look, steeling himself for the lashing he figured would come about eventually.

"Well, I've got news for you, agent."

Here it came.

"You did jack. Shit. Nothing."

Clint blinked at that. Whatever he was preparing for to come next, that certainly wasn't it. It took a few seconds for his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth, and when it did, the best he could come up with was a befuddled "Sir?" Fury's eye might have softened from steel to stone, but he couldn't be sure as his director pressed on.

"I said it once, and I'll say it as many times as I need to get through that thick skull of yours. That wasn't you. That was a power-crazed lunatic of a god deciding to play keep away with the most dangerous weapon Earth has ever experienced. You just happened to get caught in the crossfire. You were used, Barton, and whether you like it or not, we've all done some damn deplorable things under someone else's orders. And now, I've honestly had just about enough of you moping around here. So wake up, agent, because today you're snapping out of this pity party and clipping your tie back on. You're reassigned to field work as of this moment. All bitching noted and ignored."

The only sound in the office was the steady drone of the helicarrier's engines for a few long moments. Neither man broke eye contact, and after a full minute ticked by on the clock on Fury's desk, Clint sat back with a puff, and ran a hand quickly through his buzzed hair. "What do you need me to do?"

Fury nodded brusquely, seemingly satisfied for the moment. Clint undoubtedly knew the didn't buy his easy acceptance for a moment, but it seemed to be enough to appease him for now. He only hoped there wouldn't be another conversation later.

Shuffling past the papers on his desk, Fury gripped a thin folder and tossed it across to the sniper. As Clint opened the dossier, the director began his debriefing.

"Doctor Curtis Holden, M.D. PhD in biological and genetic sciences out of the University of Oxford. Graduated top of the class back in the day and has anonymously donated his services and almost all of his research to just about every university across Europe."

Clint shot a glance up from his studying to eye his handler with a raised brow. "Anonymously."

Fury gave a halfhearted flap of his hand. "Any scientist of his caliber is flagged on our radar before they even buy their first pencil case. We've had eyes on him for a long time. And a good thing, too, because he's actually one of ours."

Clint quirked his eyebrow a little higher at that, looking up to regard Fury in full this time. "I've never even heard of him-" He was interrupted tersely.

"Of course you haven't. 'Anonymously' should have tipped you off, Barton. The man's not one for the limelight, and he's damned difficult to convince otherwise. Says it's for the best he stays unknown." There was a pause. "I have to agree with him in some aspects. It wasn't just your everyday basic biology he was studying. His focus was more on the… weaponization of biology. He kept that little tidbit to himself, gave all the anatomical research to the schools."

The silence fell on the room with all the speed and chill of a night in the desert. Clint could feel the gears in his head screeching to a halt before spinning back on track at breakneck speed. "You have a man specializing in biological warfare?"

Fury watched Clint's reaction carefully before he stood, moving almost thoughtlessly to look out the window, hands clasped stiffly behind his back. "He prefers to call it genetic warfare. And in case you haven't noticed, agent, we have men specializing in just about everything."

Clint ignored the purposeful press of his position and sat forward. "All due respect, sir, but what good is 'genetic warfare' against what we face every day? I mean, when was the last time our target was human? The biology would be completely different-"

"-which is exactly why we have Doctor Holden." Fury finished the sentence for him and turned back to face the desk again. "Holden has had breakthroughs in the last decade alone that most men fail to make in a century, and mad as he might be sometimes, he's a genius in his own right. The man can break down how something works and build it back from the ground up with an entirely new sequence in place that can make or break a man within an hour of contact."

Clint regarded Fury from beneath his lowered brow. "Exactly. A man. We're not exactly fighting human beings on a regular basis, director."

Fury gave him a look that was just unsettling enough to shut him up.

"I said he can take 'something', Barton. He's been experimenting for years-"

"On what? It's not like we have a ready supply of lab rats!"

There was another long silence.

It wasn't even noon and Clint had had just about enough of long silences.

Fury spoke quietly, and the effect it gave couldn't have ever been achieved if he had shouted. "Don't pretend to know what you don't, agent. You think we just dumped all those Chitauri into the landfills?"

Clint shut his mouth with a click before turning his gaze back down to the file in front of him, understanding washing over him with an unpleasant shiver. People, he could deal with. Aliens could be dealt with too, just with a bit less assurance. But the kind of things this apparent doctor of theirs had been dealing with for both humans and aliens alike just plain unsettled him.

In more of an effort to distract himself than to actually study, he flipped the page over in front of him. "So, Doc Holden. Mad bio-slash-xenobio scientist doctor interested in 'genetic' warfare who needs me for…?"

Fury reclaimed his seat and perched his elbows on the desk, interweaving his fingers together and regarding Clint from over them. "He's developed a… probationary sample that can evolve into something of great value for us."

Clint narrowed his eyes at that. "A weapon?"

Fury regarded him carefully, his face giving nothing away. "Something that will help our cause immensely if it is successful, Barton, and that's all you need to know. Now, our doctor can only do so much with it in our labs on his own, so we've scheduled a drop for him to pass off the sample to another group of our scientists to observe and experiment. He needs you-" Fury quirked an eyebrow in emphasis, "to give him cover at the drop site. The area is mapped out-" He flipped a page in Clint's folder, revealing a detailed map of a rocky looking outcrop. "-here. Few miles out of a nondescript city in a nondescript forest up in nondescript Canada; you'll be in the boonies for this one, I'm not lying."

Before Clint could so much as open his mouth, Fury cut back in. "Yes, Canada. Our people have a base set up further north, we're just meeting halfway. Your job is to cover from here-" he stabbed his finger at an overhanging point on the map that overlooked a small ravine, and Clint made a face. Ravines never were good places for drops. "-and make sure the handoff runs smoothly. You're going to want to watch your perimeter. Do us both a favor and don't. I don't want our good ol' doc to change his mind last minute and make a switch on us. You won't be alone, I'm sending you in with three other agents. They can watch your surroundings just as well as you can." He paused here with a grumbling sigh. "I might have mentioned that the man is paranoid."

Clint snorted. "If he's so paranoid, why is he willingly handing his work over?"

Fury huffed in thinly veiled frustration. "I never said he's doing it willingly. I'm sure you'll get an earful on the ride over." He glanced at the clock. "You deploy in five hours. It's cold as hell this time of year, so check in with agent Hill before you go and get suited up. Go get your things and… I don't know, scatter your nest or whatever it is you do when you leave."

The quip acted as both a tension reliever and a dismissal, and Clint gladly accepted both. He was saluting and out the door before Fury could even turn back to his mysterious papers.

At precisely 13:00:04, Clint got his first glimpse of his charge.

And that was just about all he ever needed from Doctor Holden.

Clint had pushed himself off of the shadowed wall of the hanger at the sight of the quartet making its way towards him from across the enormous facility. A solemn faced man about his own height and weight in pale cargos and a thick, woolen coat led the group at a plodding pace towards the jet they had been cleared to take to their rendezvous point. There were lines carved into the man's face that belayed his exhaustion from working in the field for so many years, and as Clint studied him further, he noted a few that were most certainly not from natural cause. A jagged scar ran down his cheek, starting below his left eye and tapering off just under his chin. It had cut deep, whatever it was, and it certainly made its mark effectively.

The scarred man looked like he had already had enough of his day, and as the group finally made it into earshot, Clint understood exactly why as a frenzied, deliberately polished Yorkshire accent exploded into distinction.

"- which is the only reason why you morons have been assigned! What, I've only been working for the organization for a solid decade of my life, why have trust in me at all? No, no, it doesn't make sense, doesn't it? Although I wouldn't expect you to understand, you being a grunt and all. But this is my work! My work! It doesn't need to go to these… these simpletons your such esteemed director calls scientists!"

As far as first impressions went, Doctor Curtis Holden didn't seem to give a damn.

The man speaking came into sight as he stumbled over a coil and pulled up alongside the scarred agent to continue his verbal abuse. The Brit was practically purple in the face as he spluttered ineffectively to his handlers, seemingly unaware of the lack of influence his words had on the men.

Barely reaching the shoulders of the agents beside him, Doctor Holden stood an unimpressive 5'9", his gait brisk and sure despite his stature. He held his neck thrust forwards, years of stooping over desks and microscopes already taking their toll. He ran an agitated hand over his head as his handler finally snapped something back in response to his complaints, cropped blond hair sticking from between his fingers and pointing in whichever direction it apparently so pleased. The doctor might have appeared to be his own age had the shocks of silver that gleamed under the hanger lights not been present in the sandy mess of his hair. While he had an average enough face, the purpling bruises under the man's pale eyes did little to help the image, and the scars and burns covering his wildly gesticulating hands and bits of forearms that peeked out from his own coat practically shattered any image of his true age completely.

Any other observation Clint wanted to do would have to wait, as the group pulled up alongside him beside the gleaming surface of the jet. Shouldering his bow case a little higher on his back, he shot a slightly amused look to the scarred agent as the doctor finished his tirade with an enormous gulp of air that did little to return the color to his pasty face. The agent took advantage of the pause and jumped right on the opportunity to get a word in edgewise.

"Agent Barton. Good to have you with us."

Clint simply inclined his head in acknowledgement. He knew the words didn't mean anything. They were more of a peace offering. No man in their right mind in the agency would consider a mission in the field with the Hawk as being a "good" opportunity right now. In lieu of a response, he shifted his bag again, sticking out his hand stiffly for the agent to grasp. The man did so with a gruff introduction.

"Neil Shelle. I'll be calling the shots of this little mess for a while. I don't believe you've met Doctor Holden. Although I'm sure you've already gotten just about all you need to know from him."

Neil winked slightly in good humor and proceeded to hammer his palm twice on the side of the quinjet as the doctor spluttered indignantly. At Neil's signal, a door hissed open, the gangplank lowering to rest on the floor with a dull clunk. Agent Shelle grabbed the edge and swept inside the plane, instantly barking out orders for room to be made for their equipment and the precious sample they were transporting. Clint found himself grinning ever so slightly as he offered his hand to the doctor in turn. "Well met I hope, doctor."

The doctor actually sniffed at him before gripping his hand with all the strength of a dead fish and flapping it once before letting go with the air of a man scalded. "We'll see, agent… Barton, was it? I'm told you're my eyes in the sky today. I only hope you're half as interesting as these hunks of granite here." He condescendingly adjusted his wire framed spectacles as he gestured sharply with his thumb over his shoulder to the other two agents of the group, who respectively rolled their eyes when Clint raised his brow to them. He recognized both from the training gym in the lower confines of the helicarrier. The short one on the left was Casey McBride, a weasel-faced, quietly dangerous son of a bitch who was written up once for taking his charge down with a toothbrush after he had insulted his heritage. The case had been dropped for unknown reasons. Clint never had much in common with the Irishman, but the two had struck a grudging respect for each other when they pulled a stalemate during one of the management's hand-to-hand combat sessions. They sparred frequently after that, and neither had yet to come out on top. Casey narrowed his eyes as Clint nodded to him in greeting.

Apparently the man was in the "never trust a corrupted assassin" boat.

What fun.

The swarthy agent clad in a worn leather bomber jacket on the right was Jefferson Miles. Jeff, in all of his 6'4" glory, was one of the more laid back agents of S.H.I.E.L.D that Clint had ever met. The man had a mind like a steel trap behind those mischievous eyes, and he was one of the few mid-range sharpshooters that was actually worth his salt within the agency. It had become a sort of routine of Clint's lately to snag the station next to his at the range to blow off some steam. It wasn't every day someone was so willing to banter and compete without staring in horror and waiting for his eyes to flash blue like so many thought they inevitably would. Now, the man just looked plain bored over the doctor's shoulder. He made a face at Clint as he caught his eye before grinning slightly with a halfhearted shrug. He obviously didn't want to be there as much as the others.

Neil came swinging back out the door to the quinjet, eyes roving over his ragtag group curiously. "We all acquainted? Good, then let's get moving, we're on a tight schedule here, folks." He disappeared back into the confines of the plane without another word.

Clint huffed a humorless laugh.

The next few hours would be very interesting indeed.

So here he found himself, stationed in the outskirts of the drop point, eyes on Holden as he impatiently tapped his feet in wait for his pickup crew. The case with the sample was held tightly in his fist, all black and silver and stamped 'hazardous' in a shade of yellow that quite frankly hurt to look at.

The radio was crackling, Jeff's call for status still hanging in the air.

The archer pinched his earpiece without taking his eyes off the scope, flipping on his frequency and responding shortly.

"Hawkeye. Status: bored as hell and in need of some serious snacks, gentlemen. Over."

A moment passed in silence before the radio came alive once more, this time with barely muffled laughter. "Hawkeye, I swear to God I'll buy you a pizza and a beer or five when this is all said and done. We're gonna need it."

A third voice joined in, this one significantly more annoyed than the last. "Radio silence, agents. Keep it quiet."

Another long second passed before Neil was back on the line.

"Thin crust with cheese and sausage. You're buying, Joker. Over."

Clint couldn't keep the grin off of his face as he imagined the other agent's spluttering from below his perch in the outer perimeter of the snow dusted outcrop they were stationed in.

"Excuse me, did the invitation sound like it included you, Ace? And who chose these codenames, man? They're despicable-"

A third, heavily accented voice joined in suddenly, overlapping Jeff's protests.

"Target in sight, confirm. Who's got eyes?" Casey was circling the perimeter around the southside, so Clint gladly turned his scope away from the doctor and scanned the southern horizon. Sure enough, a chopper was settling into a clearing not far from their own little ravine. "I've got eyes, Jack. Four friendlies, two en route. Let our joyous King know, if you please."

Clint could practically see Casey shaking his head in his mind as he contacted the doctor with the news of the incoming scientists. It wasn't long before the two appeared at the edge of the recess Holden was standing in with his sample clutched tightly to his chest. They made their way down to him slowly, picking their way over rocky divots and rough patches of slow forming ice alike before finally standing before him. The radio crackled once again as Neil's voice rolled through.

"Keep your visual, people. Let's get this over with and head home to part Joker from his cash."

Clint adjusted his scope slightly, pulling the trio below into better focus. Doctor Holden appeared to be arguing over something, his grip on the case tighter than even before. The two scientists appeared to be rightfully exasperated with the doctor and were speaking back much more calmly, hands gesturing and heads shaking. One was a balding man about Holden's size, dressed smartly in a shirt and blazer Clint knew must have been absolutely freezing, and the other was a woman with hair reminiscent of ravens and thin, gold framed spectacles. They glinted every now and then when she turned just so in the light, and the flash became almost mesmerizing as the negotiations stretched on.

After about twelve minutes, Clint was getting antsy.

"Ace, this is taking too long. We need to hurry this up."

"Hold position, Hawkeye, I'm on it."

Clint glanced in the general direction Neil had stationed himself in. The man was easily fifty feet across the gully from him, but with his stature he could clear the empty space in no time. He would handle this.

A sudden twist in Clint's stomach had him holding his breath for a painstaking moment. Had he heard something? What was his body reacting to? Heart suddenly hammering in his ears, the archer rapidly scanned the perimeter, ignoring Fury's voice in his head calling him a dumbass. As the snow had begun to drift even faster, all sounds had practically been eliminated. The silence was unnerving as Clint strained his ears and eyes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Maybe he was just fed up of waiting at this point. It had happened before…

As Neil arrived at the edge of the perimeter and radioed down to the scientists below, Jeff's voice crackled into existence over the frequency with a long exhale.

"How do seven beers sound? Seven sounds good to me. And a thing of whiskey to get some feeling back into my hands, Jesus. Anyone got an issue with that, because I ain't buying for any lightweights h-"

He never finished.

Clint rocked back in shock as a sound equivalent to a building collapsing assaulted his ears and a fireball of massive proportions billowed into the air from where the helicopter once stood, chunks of earth and small smatterings of snow flying every which direction. The smoke belched high into the air, catching in the breeze whipping over the area and blowing towards the ravine at an alarming speed. Clint fumbled for his dislodged earpiece before shouting into it, his ears ringing distractingly.

"What the hell just happened?! Who had eyes on the chopper?"

There was no direct answer for his question. Neil took over the line as Clint snapped his focus back to his charges. The team leader was ushering the scientists out of the open and towards the overhanging rocks on the other side of the clearing, heads turning wildly.

"Abort, people, abort! We're getting these guys outta here! Hawkeye, do we have a clear shot to the jet?" Clint swung his scope to the route, eyes scanning rapidly as an adrenaline fueled focus came over him. "You look clear, but I can't cover you from here, Ace. Permission to bug the hell out?"

"Permission granted!" Clint stood quickly, swinging his pack back onto his shoulders next to his quiver and taking off along the ridge with bow in hand, keeping low and darting glances down at the group keeping pace below him. Neil's shout into the radio was audible even without it. "Joker, Jack, I need information! Find me that bomber!"

A sharp, breathless "copy that" came through from Casey, but at the prolonged silence from Jeff, Clint felt his veins run frigid. He almost convinced himself it was from the cold when he snatched at his earpiece, grasping it just after Neil did the same. The harsh "Joker, report!" rang in his ears as he sprinted with rapidly growing dread.

Whoever said silence was golden was an asshole, Clint decided right then and there. The radio crackled, the static practically mocking them as they waited for the reply they knew wasn't coming through. Clint flipped the switch on the earpiece, steel in his voice. "Who had eyes on the chopper, Ace?"

A moment passed before the voice responded, the words practically spat in bitter anger. "Joker, Hawkeye. Joker had eyes."

Clint exhaled in a huff, shutting his own eyes tight for a moment before snapping them open and shoving all the sudden emotion swirling in his gut to the sidelines. They were still in the field. That could come later. He needed to focus on the here and now. He gripped his bow tighter, knuckles white as he took off sprinting ahead of the group below. "Not anymore. Your path is clear, get moving!"

If the others had any reaction to the sudden flatness in his tone, Clint wouldn't have known as he skidded to a stop and dropped to a crouch, whipping out an arrow and nocking it in one fluid movement. The smoke from the wreckage in the south was starting to billow over them and mix with the slowly accelerating downfall of snow, and he cursed in Russian (a habit he really could've done without from Natasha) as the already limited visibility dropped even further.

Wasn't today just a peach.

It was just meant to be a drop mission! Just an escort, cover, drop, and make a beeline away from the package once it was delivered. It might evolve into a recon, but he wouldn't need to worry about that, they had said on the plane. Just do what you do best and watch out for the goings on below like the good little sniper you are, they said.

Nothing has a chance to go wrong, they said.

Oh, how much he wanted to force feed those words back to them with a little side dose of an uppercut right about now.

His skidding crouch brought him under the cover of an enormous boulder that looked easily one tap away from dislodging itself from the ravine wall. God, why did they have to meet in a damn ravine? Assassins avoided ravines and alleyways like the plague. Fatal funnels, they called them. Anything narrow enough to have a 100% guarantee of you taking bullets or other projectiles by leaving you visible and vulnerable was a huge negative. Add a little unpredictability from the weather and you've got a recipe for one incredibly ticked off assassin.

Clint had some serious bones to pick with whoever had planned this mission right about now.

Clint whipped his head towards the just out of reach jet as a sudden sound made it to him over the muted rushing of the wind. The snow had muffled just about every noise in the surroundings, casting an eerie sense of desolation over the area. The inferno that was the chopper most definitely did not help the image whatsoever. But in the forced silence, even the slightest of sounds traveled impossibly far. And travel they did.

Clint had spent too long in the field to miss a sound as distinct as the shrill whine of a bomb's charge gearing up to blow.

"Duck and cover!"

Another ear shattering explosion nearly rocked him out of his kneeling position behind the only shielding he now had; the boulder that had only just provided the overhanging cover he needed to keep an eye on his charges was now protecting his very life. The irony was not lost on him. Fumbling for another arrow with a curse after letting the first fly wild, Clint twisted in place, feeling the rough scrape of the ice and rock even through the canvas covering his knee. Nocking his arrow and taking a disarmingly frigid (and ash filled, and man, wasn't that a strange feeling) breath, the archer made an effort to get past the shock the sudden attack had rendered over him as he coughed viciously. It took him a moment to realize his ears weren't ringing as much, and that it was Neil screaming in his ear, not the aftereffect of the jet exploding. He put a hand to his ear, hacking a deep cough before responding.

"I'm still here, I'm fine. Won't be for long though if we don't find this guy."

Satisfied, Neil barked for Casey in the line. A static reminiscent of the one from Jeff's line made Clint squint tightly past the ski goggles agent Hill had forced on him in frustration. What the hell was happening?

Before Neil could shout for Casey again however, the flurries of snow and smoke dissipated slightly, and Clint could clearly see two figures grappling in the dirt beside the wreckage of their plane. "Ace, I have visual! Jack is engaged with a hostile, probably our bomber-"

"Don't tell me, dammit, take the shot!"

Clint squinted into his scope, coughing as another wave of ash made it into his lungs. "There's too much smoke, I can't tell who's who. I might hit Jack. I need to get in there!"

Neil sounded righteously ticked off when he came back on the line with a horrible coughing fit of his own. "Stand down, Hawkeye, we need cover! We still have charges here and we don't know what we're dealing with!"

One of the figures in the distance stood suddenly, the other held tightly in a headlock. Even from the distance, Clint could see the sickening twist the man gave the other's neck. The figure fell to the ground and lay immobile as Clint took what he refused to admit was a shuddering breath. There was no recovering from a break like that.

The standing figure raised a hand to his head, and Clint narrowed his eyes as he waited for the crackling report from a breathless Casey.

It didn't come.

The figure took off in the opposite direction, but spun to a collapsing halt as Clint's arrow met its mark solidly in his left shoulder. The smoke overtook the downed form, and Clint stood from his perch quickly. "Hostile is down, Ace. Clear to move in."

A sudden rattling of gunfire had him thinking otherwise.

Diving back behind the boulder that had only just spared him his life, Clint hissed as a searing hot singe carved it's way across his arm. He spared the angry line of red from the bullet that had sliced through his jacket and grazed his bicep a glance before refocusing and nocking his arrow. He reached for his earpiece just as Neil's voice came over the line. And holy mary, if he was pissed before, he was bursting blood vessels at this point.

"I want these guys FOUND! Who the hell is shooting?!"

Clint ignored the enraged shout and sharply brought the man back into focus. "Are you in cover or am I about to regret my next move here?"

"What? Don't you be doing anything stupid, you hear me?" The scientists and the doctor were audibly panicking in the background, and Clint couldn't quite keep his eyes from rolling upwards as Neil had to stop and shout for silence. "We're all in one piece, Hawk, but I doubt for much longer. There isn't much space for cover down here." A sharp cough was heard before his voice rasped back over the link again. "Where is that shooter? How many are out there?"

Clint ignored the question as he shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, disregarding the searing smoke and freezing air. He exhaled slowly, opening his eyes and adjusting his sunglasses as he muttered to himself.

"Hoo, boy, someone's gonna owe me one hell of an explanation at the end of this one."

Before he could second guess his decision, he spun out from the cover of the rock and fired on the first moving silhouette he could see through the enormous cloud of choking dust that had overtaken the drop point. A tiny part of his mind was screaming at him to make sure he wasn't firing on a friendly, but his training forced him to do otherwise. Neutralize the threat, then assess the damage.

The arrow flew true to its mark, and as the first few spits sounded over Clint's shoulder as the bullets embedded themselves in the rock, the shooter fell without a sound, the arrow solidly planted between his eyes. Clint grimaced at the sound the body made when it connected with the solid rocks below before turning his attention back to the slowly dissipating smoke covering the drop point. The wind had picked up, and the smoke was lightening to a manageable point. Through narrowed eyes, he could see Neil stooping over something in the ravine below, the doctor pinned behind him with his case clutched to his heart like a lifeline. The female scientist stood beside the doctor, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth, hair disheveled and glasses glinting with the flames rising from the jet. The man was on the ground beside Neil, a blossom of deep red stemming from the left side of his torso and overtaking his previously pristine button down. The rapidly growing sheen of snow on the ground around him was practically saturated in crimson, and the man himself was as pale as death.

Clint had seen that wound before. He wouldn't survive.

Scanning the area once more, Clint made a quick decision and began to slowly slide down the incline towards the group below. He reached the bottom in a flurry of stones and ice and began to make his way towards his charges at a trot. As Neil looked up at him with fury in his eyes, he made to call out to them.

He was all of twenty feet away when it happened.

The smoke above the boulder Neil had taken cover under darkened considerably, and as Clint pulled up short to snatch an arrow from his quiver, the figure of a man leapt from the top of the ravine, snow spraying from beneath his feet and falling thickly into the chasm below just before him. The archer had an arrow nocked and almost loosed when he saw the grenade.

His shout of warning gave Neil just enough time to look up and lock eyes with the man who would have them all killed. Those same eyes flashed in aguish as recognition slammed over him like a solid kick to the stomach.

And then the ravine erupted in powder and slush and stone and fiery shrapnel and Clint knew no more.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is a writer's cocaine, and I am hopelessly addicted. Any and all comments are greatly appreciated!

With that said, see you next week for chapter two!