Hello there, followers!

There's a long story as to why I haven't written anything for the Avengers in years- but that will come at another time.

I wrote this around this time last year (2014) after seeing Winter Soldier- while I know they say (in movie dialogue) that Barton was in Afghanistan, I like to imagine what could have happened had Barton been in the US when HYDRA showed itself.

This is a standalone oneshot for pure headcanon/pretending purposes... think of it as a warmup for, hopefully, more Avengers writing to come. I miss writing about them!

- Margot / Hitorah

"Don't Trust Anyone"

Spoiler Warning : Shadows the events of Captain America : The Winter Soldier and Agents of SHIELD (season 1).

'Don't trust anyone.'

That cryptic message had reached Barton's ears through circumlocutory means, means even more abnormally roundabout than SHIELD's normal untraceable methods. There had been a phone call that had been in domestic word code, a call from a voice he hadn't heard since the incident in New York, which had forced him to create a false e-mail and ignore anything that came in to his (usually) reliable unlisted number, unless from a particular source. Ignoring the normal... That, alone, had him curious; he was Clearance Level 8, the water wasn't normally so murky when it came to what his orders were, who they were from, and what they meant, both on the surface and in between the lines. At first, he shrugged off the message; Don't trust anyone. That was something he was used to, wasn't it? He was an Agent. An assassin. Death was around every corner from enemies known and unknown, earthly and... unearthly, godly, even. (He didn't want to think about that godly part.) He was used to not trusting anyone but those, with who there were bonds formed from past experience or battle.

And even then, he was prepared to respond to any sort of betrayal. Just in case.

As the day went on, he considered that maybe, just maybe, he was over-thinking things. Don't trust anyone. He wasn't at any specific outpost; he had completed his last intel operation not long ago. While Natasha had been dispatched to get some vessel taken over by modern day pirates, he had been scheduled to do an interview at the Triskelion... finishing details, red tape bullshit, a talk with Director Fury to solidify what he had already written in reports. The dialogue was probably for security; to ensure continuity and edit out any errors or corrections.

That night, after he had talked to Natasha, who had returned from her assignment with only a small foulup, he had gone to sleep without paranoia. He woke the next morning the same way; blank mind save for the small, office job he had to do. He dared to plan out a training routine he would do afterward, a dinner routine, perhaps something different than normal. He went through a morning routine, he got into a rented car, and started the drive south from a hotel in Bethesda into the nation's capitol. As the buildings were beginning to shrink - for all buildings in DC, itself, had to be shorter than the spire on the Capitol Building - there was a call on his phone. Another unlisted, roundabout number; routine. Unnecessary routine. But it was the one number he could trust... With a quick roll of his eyes - hidden behind sunglasses due to the light of early day - Barton took the nearest exit and found a tourist parking lot to pause in. Surrounded by patrons buying food at chain restaurants under the shadows of overpass highways and advertisement signs taller than some local business buildings, Barton parked the car, left it in drive, and looked down at the smartphone while his foot feathered the brake. The phone had no carrier, no tracker, no listed number- just a shell of a machine that occasionally served a purpose. Yes, he had been told to ignore it- all but one number, that which had lit up right then. The number called a second time now that he was stopped. He answered after five vibrations; a small tick to show it was him, and he was not being forced.

When he answered, he did not speak.

He waited.

"Get the hell away from here."

It was Agent Hill. She sounded breathless in both senses; there was an emotional strain to her voice that seemed out of place for the powerful, room-stealing woman, yet at the same time she sounded physically exhausted, like she had run a great deal, or fought, though it was less obvious than the emotion.

...Agent Hill would occasionally call in place of Director Fury.

"Explain?" Barton already put the car in reverse and took a calm turn out of the tourist trap. Speeding away from the vacation place was a bad idea; when on the run, it was better to walk instead of run. At an almost sickeningly slow pace thanks to the adrenaline that now seeped into his alerted system, Barton reentered the highway, but going north instead of south. At the same time, his path angled west, away from the megalopolis that stretched from Florida to Maine but not far enough that he would lose sight of the skylines or access to the main roads.

"Blackout conditions," Hill breathed the words and Barton's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. "Assume everything and everyone is compromised."

The call ended.

As the miles passed and he went from Maryland in to Pennsylvania, Barton kept the useless cellphone in his hands, turning it over in his calloused fingers. Two, three, four hours later he drove, until the car was getting near a third of a tank of gas. Despite the instinct to continue driving for one hour more - five rings, five hours... - Barton pulled into the first gas station he saw. While the car - nothing special yet nothing old - filled up, he dialed. The first time, no response- he expected so. The second try yielded nothing.

Nothing on the third.

He didn't try for a fourth time.

Assume everything and everyone is compromised. The words echoed in the Hawk's mind as he paid for the gas - in cash - and left the lot at the local speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour. Angling his car so he was headed straight north after his northwest trek, Barton made the rest of the timed trip with the cell phone off and on the seat behind him.

Take care of yourself, Natasha.

Blackout conditions. No communication. No action. Sit and wait, run and avoid trouble if necessary. Barton kept on the move out of habit, just in case, and kept an eye out for any sort of sign or signal, positive or negative. He was, apparently, out of range and thus unable to help since Hill had told him to run, instead of feeding him a location to go to. That left him wondering just what had happened to Hill, to the Director- to the city. Now five hours away from the city on the Potomac, Barton stopped, found a rental condo home, and quickly borrowed a lease. (Money was no issue.)

Once inside, he put down his cargo - a suitcase which had a single compartment for medical supplies, two changes of clothing, and a main body to hold his bow - and turned on the television. Three channel switches later and he found the news. Every so often, civilian reports could lend some insight into a situation he wasn't a part of.

He didn't like what he saw.

Even several states away, the news was flooded with panicked reports from the streets of Washington DC. Car chases, car crashes, bodies and gunshots and even a damn plane crashed on one of the highway bridgers. The Roosevelt? Jefferson? The Triskelion's private entrance? No matter which it was, there were men in police and agent garb shot to pieces in amongst civilian casualties and a SHIELD quinjet crashed into the amber concrete, in plain sight. With no chance to pause the feed, Barton's eyes worked to examine each image as it came across the screen. At one point, he saw a familiar SUV, one riddled with holes, beaten worse than a Talladega wreck, and a hole burned into its body.

That was Director Fury's car.

Even though he knew it would most likely be a dead end, Barton tried to call hill. As he expected, a computer operator voice told him that the number was no longer in service. With a muttered curse, Barton feigned throwing the phone in a physical attempt to rid his over-alert body of some tension. It failed, and he was left with his fingers gripping his phone until his knuckles turned white. With slow, deep breaths, he forced his stormy gray eyes to look past his outstretched arm, away from the pale gray of the metal and skin-oil smeared screen, and out the wide, condo window on the opposite side of the room. He saw better at a distance; from his place in the middle of the carpeted room, he saw the reflections on the glass, the way the midmorning light collected in the raised edges of almost invisible scratches and both scattered and paled where previous tenants had failed to remove their skin residue- though they had tried pretty hard. Looking past the window, he saw the adjacent condo building before it faded into the decorative foliage. From there, the city came into view, the commercial hub, the businesses, the infrastructure and its mix of incandescent and LED red, yellow and green lights.

There was one more red light than normal; an incredibly small light that came from the glint of sunlight off of a small piece of glass.

Don't trust anyone.

Animal instinct overrode agent protocol. Barton dropped to his knees just as the glass shattered, the previously smudged glass becoming glittering shards of debris in amongst the flooring. His quick eyes spied a hole in the front door behind him, and the sound of confusion from outside. From the side of the window, people had yelled; from the door, there were more confused murmuring than anything.

Someone had shot at him, he realized.

Someone had sent a sniper.

How fucking rude.

Not only that, but how fucking foolish. He saw better at a distance. Keeping a fight to rooftops and balconies would be an advantage; whoever this sniper was - who took a second shot, which also missed as Barton rolled across the room to retrieve his suitcase, his bow - must have known very little about the target. Either that, or they were overconfident, and would soon learn danger that came with the name Hawkeye.

The bow came out of the case and expanded to its full size in a well practiced movement. The arm guard was grabbed and put on as Barton left the condo, as a third shot created a third hole in the condo door. Barton made a mental note to pay for a new door, window, and to compensate the owner. That could be done later, once he had the problem solved.

Outside, there were a few people, a couple groups, one family, a couple solitary folks, who must have heard the noise of the three bullets as they plowed into a palm tree. Better it than them. "FBI!" Barton improvised. "We have a situation on the opposite roof," He pointed in the direction of his shooter before he made an arm motion to usher the folks away; particularly, the group that had a couple of children. "Please, get to your cars, or walk through buildings, and get to a safe distance; six blocks should do, and police teams should be here accordingly."

Thankfully, the people listened, and those who had been behind the building soon emerged to the front and followed suit. Good, good. He didn't want to be hearing about citizen casualties like he did after New York... though, based on the chaos he had seen in DC and the fear that more would come, he probably would. But not to today. Though, as they walked, Barton heard a few quick, murmured words- isn't that the guy we saw in New York? A man murmured- Hawkeye, came the excited answer of a child. Ignoring them, but making a mental note to drop off the radar once he handled the problem a hand, Barton, sunglasses on, fixed his gaze in the direction he had seen that red glint. Nothing; the shooter had moved - the first intelligent move they made. Bow in hand, quivver on his back, he sprinted down the sidewalk, against the tide of people, keeping one side of his body close to the adjacent building to eliminate one direction of attack.

Or, so he thought.

A car came speeding out from the parking garage, then a second and third; police, but Barton didn't dare think the car was a friendly. He had seen the news footage; he had seen "metropolitan police" opening fire on the familiar black SUV. Barton skid to a stop as the first car put its wheel in the grass and came at him; surely, the second and third would try to flank him, trap him against the wall, like he had seen Fury trapped by the wreckage. At once, he fingered the tabs on his bow and reached for an arrow. He avoided a "defensive" gunshot from the cop car - Do you honestly think I'm going to waste one of these arrows where I won't get it back? - as the arrow shifted into place in the mechanized quivver. Before the additional cars could come to a stop and open their doors, Hawkeye leaned back, aimed, fired, and felt the grappling hook tip dig into the wall of the condominium. With his gun, he fired six shots, and took out four of the guards. The other two, drivers who hadn't yet exited the cars, were delayed by the steering wheel airbags. Barton took the chance, curled the cord around his arm, pressed his heels against the orange stone, and hauled himself up to the second floor balcony, the room directly above what had previously been his own. The tenants had already cleared out; good. Barton entered the condo, crossed it, then backtracked. Surely, the two who still lived would try to head him off in front, and call any additional units to cut him off in front.

Thus, Barton went out the way he came, but not before taking another arrow, entering another combination on the tabs, and waiting. Once he heard the rushed footsteps of combat boots, he fired, and ducked out the back door - which he closed for shockwave purposes - and smirked to himself as the explosive arrow brought forth the sound of damage to the ranks of the enemy.

His smirk didn't last long.

Subtlety may have had its day after everything in New York, but the absolute openness of the attack on him had Barton thinking. None of the conclusions he tentatively drew were good ones. Assume everything and everyone is compromised. Someone had known where he had run, or at least how far to track him and worked from there.

Just what the hell was going on at the Triskelion...?

There was no time to sit around and watch the news to find out. Barton made his leave from the complex, shedding his clothing and taking up that which he found in the additional condos he crossed through. He found a large, hiking pack, put the bow inside to avoid being recognized again, and finished by buying a motorcycle from a local dealer. He then left the cycle in a parking lot in the space of a bike he then took, and went on the road again. The bike he bought was newer than that which he took; hopefully it would be some form of compensation.

Briefly, he considered making the trip cross-country to The Hub; if something was happening in the Triskelion, they would know about it. At the same time, if everyone was compromised, then he had to assume that whatever was occurring at the Triskelion would leak over into The Hub. An inside job; a foe must have gotten inside the buildings, or someone within SHIELD must have turned. Either was possible; no organization was foolproof. Just who that enemy was... That was the problem.

So far as he knew, he had three potential allies;

Hill, who was the one who called him; Fury, who was under attack, himself; and Natasha. Natasha... because he had to believe so. If she had sold him out, she would have fought him, herself, not let someone else do the work.

He had allies.

He just had to find them before he indirectly caused another public scene.

He had left the phone in the condo, had dropped it when getting his bow out of its case. From then on, he traveled technology blind; three hours were spent on that bike he had bought then taken, on backroads to avoid traffic and traffic cameras. After he crossed two state lines and came close to the Atlantic once more, he took taxis and paid with cash he always kept on his person. He dared to move back toward DC, and kept constant vigilance. Around him, he saw more news stories, all within the past seven hours, of gruesome deaths of "car chases" and "rogue workers" from around the country; all of them, familiar faces.

Fellow agents.

Barton stood in the middle of the shopping center, his eyes on a row of televisions that he could see from the window of the store, their subtitles flickering across the bottom of their screens and describing the deaths of SHIELD agents, though the public wouldn't know that, and would only see the cover names, cover stories...

One of them was Director Fury, listed dead after the attack on his car earlier that day.

No.

That was his initial reaction. Barton shook his head slowly as a chill went down his spine and into his limbs. The Director... Possibly gone? A man of that caliber and competency? There was a rift in his mind as he both accepted what he saw on the television and denied it, as his mind reminded him that what he saw on television was a cover; maybe, just maybe, the story was false. Fake. A red herring meant for someone other than him. That had to be it. He had to remain grounded. Rational.

A heartbeat more, two, and Barton regained his composure. In place of the confusion came a steeled determination. Something was going on; Hill was right, everything, everyone was compromised, someway, somehow. Was it every agent for themselves, to be hunted down like animals until the killer was stopped- or won?

So be it.

Barton shook his head once more, to clear it, the motion to appear as if merely disgusted by the store's overpriced merchandise, and turned away. The hawk's mind raced; one on one, where could he go to get an advantage? Where could he go to vanish? If SHIELD was compromised, safe houses new and old were not an option; the enemy (whoever they were) had probably looked at those places before they stumbled across him in the condo. Old aliases were out. Barton occupied himself with observing stores and faces around him for rapid inspiration for a new identity, only to come to a halt. Across the store floor, through the groups of people ignorant to the internal turmoil, Barton found a familiar face, a sight for sore, tired eyes.

Natasha?

He immediately recognized the gait at which she walked; under the radar. Escaping.

Beside her walked another familiar face - Rogers? - and beyond them he spied a pattern in the crowd; a tactical team. Whoever had taken out those other agents, whoever had attacked him, had found Natasha and Steve and was now tailing them. Not on his watch. From a constant floor above, Barton followed Natasha with his eyes, as she wove through the people and avoided the tac team solitary and paired agents with her usual bag of tricks. Bless his soul, Rogers went along with the act, and the two managed to get back to the ground level. Good. Good.

Once on the ground floor, one of a tac team pair did a doubletake in Natasha's direction. Barton, seeing a coin on the floor by his foot, reacted by kicking the quarter from the second floor to the first. It fell in the agent's line of sight; she shook her head, stared at the coin, then looked back up, but Natasha and Rogers were gone, out the front door, the agent none the wiser. "Negative on ground floor," She mouthed into an earpiece.

Damn right.

Not thirty seconds later, Barton walked in front of the same tac team agent, past her and her partner, and followed Natasha's path toward the front door. Behind him, the tac team advanced toward whatever rendezvous point they had set up. In front of him, Natasha and Steve vanished into the parking garage. Before he could exit, Natasha had vanished from sight. By the time he was outside, there was no trace of her to be found; she must have had an escape vehicle on site... or had improvised.

He watched the traffic for a quiet moment, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

Natasha was still out there- and, so far as he knew, was still a friendly. Wherever she went, she could take care of herself- and Rogers, too.

There was still the issue of where he would then go. Once out of the shopping center, Barton made a quick exit and took another taxi trip just in case the tac team, or any other hostile in the area happened to recognize his face as one of the many SHIELD agents that were apparent targets. He could come up with an identity, a story while he was moving.

It was sunset by the time he made it to Richmond, Virginia. The city was abuzz with news of more deaths, more chaos... Planes flew overhead and security choppers scanned the skies as the local authorities began to react to the chaos in DC. Police lined streets, both busy and not, and kept frantic traffic under a semblance of control. Local military bases and armories had men and women active, near their vehicles, the APCs in particular ready for deployment, but against what threat, none were sure. Local residents accepted the visible force with little more than an acknowledging glance and worried murmurs; We live near DC, they said, if any of that stuff on the news is true, they'll need the planes. I just hope it doesn't come to that... Tourists looked fearful, and many spoke of making immediate plans to leave. This is terrifying. What's going on...?

Things were getting out of hand, and Barton had no idea what he role would be.

"Clint."

He didn't take kindly to being caught by surprise, and he mentally scolded himself for letting his guard down. Barton turned and drew his handgun in the same motion. His right arm arced behind him, a motion that came unconsciously thanks to his normal use of a bow. (He still had his bow with him, in a smaller pack slung over his right shoulder, but there was no time to draw it right then.) Finger on the trigger, Barton held the gun out for a slow breath before he forced his arm to lower; with all the chaos, he didn't need to have his gun seen by the guard and himself taken in. The escape process would waste valuable time.

Time he didn't have.

"Hill?" Barton murmured, incredulous, but he knew her face, the set of stone cold eyes of that he now looked into. In response, the woman nodded her head once, curtly, and made a subtle motion with her hand that said to follow her.

He didn't move.

Everything, everyone...

He had to be sure.

"Why walk up to me in public?"

"You're smart. You wouldn't have used a phone or computer since I warned you. I wouldn't be able to contact you any way but physically. We still have some cameras- we were lucky to see you."

Clint nodded, once, warily. "I ditched the phone in Ohio after I had a run-in with a crooked S.W.A.T. team." His fingers gripped the gun at his side and, despite himself, his finger danced around the trigger. Instinct gave him two different commands; first, to trust his superior, but, second, to be wary of someone of Hill's caliber, and the damage she could do. "...how do I know I can trust you? Who is the "we" you've mentioned?"

A meter away, Hill turned on her heels, the motion quick, purposeful, which revealed several scratches along her jawline that Barton hadn't noticed in her previous lighting- no doubt, the skin around those wounds would bruise violet. In her eyes was a mixture of exhaustion and apprehension, betrayal and determination, temporary relief that was replaced with remorse. "SHIELD's been compromised," She whispered in the dark with renewed resolve. "Even if you can't trust me, we're both here now, and you have nowhere to go."

Her logic was sound. Darkly so.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was following Romanoff and Rogers." Hill answered without pause, as if Barton hadn't potentially spoken out of turn and questioned his superior. "But I backtracked."

"Do you know where they are?"

Hill closed her eyes and let out a breath. "I did. They went up toward New Jersey. Before I could start to follow, we detected an air strike."

"Air strike?"

"SHIELD ordered. SHIELD, or whatever else is in there. Nothing we did, but it's clear, someone wants them gone. Us, too." She lifted a hand and ran it through her bangs. "We haven't found anything else on them since... but we're looking. It's all we can do."

Once again, Barton asked, "Who is we?"

"We. There are a few friendly faces left, and I'm glad to have now found you. We could use your eyes... and your bow. If you want to come with, we need to go north- fast. Daylight fast."

"Where exactly are we?" The sun was just coming above the horizon, a rich yellow light diffused by a thick layer of fog and the shadows from the treeline. Hill had taken them - herself and Barton - through thick treeline and up winding, mountainous hills. There were signs of decrepit construction along the way, old pickups, parts and machinery left in the ivy to rust as newer pieces were added along the way. Beyond those, service buildings and water maintenance apparatuses began to appear more tended to. The drive through the winding, dirt road lasted through the final two hours of night; by the time Barton spoke, the sun was rising from behind a dam that dominated the hidden landscape.

He hadn't slept a wink, though he had let his mind wander, and had missed the last few road signs.

"Half an hour from Harpers's Ferry."

His mental map took a brief moment to find the location. Barton nodded, once, once he had a general idea of where they were, and what was nearby. The surroundings were accurate to where Hill said they were; the treeline, the rising hills and distant sets of railroad tracks and bridges... Before Barton could concentrate on the landscape outside the vehicle, the dam was approaching rapidly. Hill pulled the car over not long after, within the shadow of the structure, and heaved a heavy sigh before she got out.

Barton eyed her warily as he followed suit.

The door opened with a code that Barton memorized, a code Hill possibly typed a fraction slower than she normally would just for that reason. Once inside, there was a long hall, barely lit with the effort of greatly spaced incandescent bulbs and concrete walls that were chipped and ate that little light they refused to reflect. The sound of sparks, gears, and running water filled the background noise of the tunnel, prominent enough to be noticed but not loud enough to drown out his and Hill's footsteps. The absolute solitude raised the hair on the back of his neck; just how long would they walk before they came to someone? Or, was Hill leading him to some underground trap where his mutilated body would never be found?

That last thought had his hand on his bow and three fingers ready to trigger an explosive arrow into his holster, ready to bury whatever potential threat underground like the Pharaohs of old. (...Barton felt like he had heard that line before, but didn't think too much of it; he was too preoccupied with falling a stride further behind Hill, to give himself appropriate distance and reaction time should things turn sour.)

From farther down the hall, someone opened a door; a man, average height, no determinate age other than middle age, with a credential like badge on his chest. A smaller woman with darker skin followed in his stride. Both went up to Hill, both spoke with her at once, and she replied to their questions and statements with familiarity that said she had either been to this place many times before, knew both people personally, or both. Barton had the explosive arrow queued up to use and his bow slightly lifted, ready to fire.

Before long, Hill turned away from the two newcomers.

"There's someone you should see. Down the hall, in a room next to a main service area."

She turned again, this time in the direction she stated. The other woman had long since jogged back the way she came while the man remained still, even after Hill walked past. The man looked at him, at Barton, almost expectantly.

"It is a pleasure to meet an agent of your caliber... who is still a friendly face," Said a voice that sounded like he had once been a long time smoker, or had perhaps suffered smoke inhalation during the many fires and escaped Barton had spied on news footage. "But come, come! The Director can answer... well, hopefully at least some of your questions."

The Director?

Now that had him interested. Either this was proof of the red herring that was the headline about Nick Fury's death was just that, a red fucking herring, or it was another step in a damn elaborate ruse to lure him further and further into some unknown headquarters with the intent to either kill him or brainwash him. Hopefully it wasn't the second. They could at least save him the dignity of going through another breakdown like he had after finding out just what he had done in New York while under Loki's control- if that was what he wanted to call it.

Barton narrowed his eyes as he started down the hall to follow Hill's path with the other man behind him.

Just kill me if you're going to do it.

Instead, his walk down the hall was uneventful. He found the one door left open without hassle, went through it and into a small connecting hallway, then emerged into an expansive area just as hill described; one with a high ceiling which managed to reflect a fraction more light than the hallway did. The dusty atmosphere helped in spreading some of that miniscule ambience, as did hanging plastic sheets that surrounded the sides, corners, and a couple blocked off areas. Truly intrigued, Barton followed the maze like walls set up by the plastic. If this was a ruse, it was a damn good one...

"Look what the cat drug in."

And he was caught off guard, again. Maybe it was because he had been up for more than two days straight. Not that he minded. Unlike Hill's sudden appearance in Richmond that had him suspicious, this voice was... welcomed. Soothing. Despite himself, Barton couldn't hold back the sly, crooked smile. Glancing in the direction of the voice, Barton began parting the plastic walls until... "You sorry son of a bitch!"

"Is that any way to speak to me, Agent Barton?" In a hospital bed, surrounded by equipment that made the surroundings appear even more decrepit, and with one jackass of a smirk on his face, Director Fury held up both hands as well as he could, as if he was back in his office after a particularly good day.

"Well, according to the news, you're a ghost," Barton slurred as he took a position next to one of the vitals monitors. "I don't think there's anything in regulation that says I can't curse at a ghost."

Fury laughed, a strained sound in his throat, before the it devolved into a series of weaker coughs that had the man from earlier scurrying to the bedside; apparently, the man was a medic. Barton took several steps back to put a respectful distance between himself, Fury, and the medical personnel he so clearly needed. Now that the reunion moment had passed, Barton got a better look at the man he worked for. Fury's face was bruised and cut, he was out of his casual trenchcoat and covered in a patient gown and bandages down his arms, chest, and possibly further. Blood drops stained rags and bandages on an adjacent table, possibly leftovers from recent cleanings. Barton's eyes could have scanned Fury a bit longer to add more observations to the growing list in his mind, but the medic beat him to it, and began to describe what had happened to Fury. The injuries were extensive, to say the least; Barton nodded slowly to show he was listening. During the medic's talk and tending to Fury, which involved handing the Director two pills he was scheduled to take, Barton saw that Hill had come to stand by the doorway. He nodded his head in her direction.

"I apologize for thinking you were luring me down here to kill me."

The SHIELD second in command tilted her head and smirked, the expression made with few facial muscles, subtle yet effective. "You had every right to. I should be glad you didn't fill me with lead- not my smartest move, walking up behind you, but the only choice I had."

Barton folded his bow and set the weapon on a chair off to the side. "What the hell is going on?" He murmured once the sound from his weapon settling faded into the depths of the dam's inner workings. "I had a sniper team break into my condo in Fredericksburg. I must have left sixty bodies between Ohio and here."

"Hydra."

He admittedly whirled his head to look at his Director with incredulous, questioning eyes. "...Excuse me?"

Fury could only nod.

"You mean that World War II Nazi branch-off?"

"Deep science division, but, yes." Hill responded that time. "They've decided to essentially turn the world inside out."

"Are we talking like some... Neo-Nazi radical movement?"

"If only it was that simple. This is worse."

"How come?"

"I interrupted their grand entrance." Fury managed to convey his usual smugness despite his condition. "I noticed something sour-" Barton suspected that 'something' would be elaborated later, when each word wasn't such a burden. "-and went diggin. Romanoff's... her getting the information off of the Lamurian Star made it clear that shit was messed up and not just my trust issues gettin' the best of me. You know of Project Insight, correct?"

"You showed me the helicarriers back in September, sir."

"Turns out Insight was going to be Hydra's main weapon in the start of their twisted new world," Hill mumbled under her breath, her words dripping with frustrated venom. "The targeting systems aren't going to take out genuine threats- instead, a lot of good people are going to die, anyone with the morals or power - or both - to stand up against them. What you see here- myself, Director Fury, the medics and a couple others, we're all that's left of SHIELD. Everyone else is Hydra..."

Barton straightened his posture. "Tell me everything I have to know, and what we have to do."

I don't have a planned continuation; do Barton and Romanoff meet in Fury's safehouse? Do they miss each other? I dunno. If anyone has any ideas or headcanons, feel free to share.
Thank you for your time! :)

continued. "...