Chapter Text
...
Clint staggered into his room. It was well maintained and impersonal. Not much was personal to him anyway. There were a few books and some clothing, but everything could be packed up quickly and moved.
In the dresser Clint grabbed a few items and shoved them into his bag. Next he moved to his nightstand and pulled out the small wooden box. It was plain and unremarkable, perfect for the item he kept locked away.
A silver chain with a red fox pendant slipped into his hand. It was his most prized possession. He rarely wore it as there were very few occasions for him to.
Carefully he slipped the necklace on. The fox's head was pointed up, it's mouth open in a grin. It sat above his heart, the metal warm and comforting.
It was the sign of the trickster. Heron gave it to him on his 18th birthday. Ironic all things given. Clint bent down to press his hand into the false backing of the wall. Inside was a small stack of passports and fake id's. Clint chose two that weren't known to Natasha or SHIELD.
His next stop was the locker room. No one else was present so he didn't have to waste time talking to anyone. After changing into civilian clothes he placed his badge, gun, and cell in a locker. All three items had tracking devices or microphones.
Sorry Coulson. You can't help with this one.
From there he left the locker room. Instead of going back the way he came Clint entered a ventilation shaft. From there he traveled through the air ducts and dropped into a service tunnel. In the tunnels he changed his jacket, his shirt and added a hoodie. He switched his boots for a pair of black tennis shoes.
He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he pulled off his gloves and flexed his hands. Without the gloves they looked normal. There was the swirling fractal pattern on the underside of his right wrist. It was dark green with specks of white, gold, and purple. His soulmate whoever they were would have the same fractal pattern.
On the left wrist the symbol was a different story. It was the mark of his patron or the God who cursed him depending on one's views. For Clint it was a curse. He was chosen by the Gods of Mischief and Luck.
Clint rubbed his hands over his face. The idea of leaving his life was frightening.
"I can do this," he whispered, "This is the last time. For Heron. He would do the same for me."
Then Clint continued to move. If he wasn't fast he would miss his chance. He exited the service tunnel and moved towards the main lobby. It was busy with the usual traffic, agents entering and leaving. Some were dressed in business attire and some were wearing exercise clothes.
Clint didn't stop moving. He kept his gaze low and walked past the security checkpoint. The alarms didn't blare and no one tried to stop him. When his hand touched the cool metal handle he breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he opened the door and was outside.
...
Phil gave Clint time to calm down before he went to the other man's room. Barton's outburst had drawn attention, and the last thing Phil wanted was a group of curious agents.
When he arrived, the agent scanned his card and pushed the door open. Inside was quiet. The lights were on, but Barton was no where to be seen.
"Barton?" he called out.
Silence greeted him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood and a feeling of dread settled into his stomach. Phil walked further inside, his eyes scanning for the archer.
"Barton?"
Where was he? Why hadn't he answered him? Phil's instincts were telling him something was wrong. Given the events of the morning, Phil doubted he would have gone into the vents.
The bedroom was also empty, and the bathroom door was open. Something wasn't right. He looked by the dresser and found the false backing. Fake ids and passports. He knew Barton and Romanoff had them, but why were these ones in here.
"Shit," hissed Phil.
Clint had left the base. Where the hell would he go without letting anyone know? He couldn't have. Unless he thought Phil would stop him.
He dialed the other man's number. The line clicked and went straight to voicemail. Damn it!
Next he tried Romanoff's number. She picked up.
"Have you seen Barton?"
"Not since breakfast," she admitted, "Do you want me to start a search for him?"
"Yes. Get his trackers checked too. Make sure he isn't in the building," he ordered.
"On it," she promised.
"Thank you," murmured Phil.
He hung up the phone and began to pace. There had to be a reason why Clint had left.
"Come on Barton. Where are you?"
...
The first thing he did was catch a cab to an airport. He needed put as much distance between him and Coulson as possible. There was a chance he would figure out that Clint was gone before he returned.
There he bought a one way ticket to Chicago. He hated the place, but it would be the last place anyone would look for him.
Once inside the gate area, he took a seat in the corner. Clint's gaze searched the crowd for anything suspicious. Nothing stuck out.
"You're a long way from home," purred a soft male voice.
Clint's spine stiffened even as he greeted with a fake smile, "Trick, it's been a long time. I distinctly remember you saying if we ever crossed paths again you would shoot me."
Clint tilted his head back to look up at Trickshot, also known as Buck Chisholm. His brown hair was longer than Clint remembered but the coldness of his eyes was the same.
"I still might," he said his lips curved in a smirk, "How have you been Trickster? Still chasing some imaginary sense of justice?"
"I don't like repeating myself," stated Clint, "What do you want Trick? We're not friends. If you're looking to recruit me again. It's a no."
Trickshot laughed, "No. That ship sailed years ago. I'm just curious. What brings the Trickster out of retirement?"
"Heron's been taken," he snapped.
Trickshot froze. His entire posture was rigid like he was turned to stone. Clint waited, his own muscles coiled and ready to strike.
"You're shitting me," whispered the archer.
"Why would I lie about this?" demanded Clint, "Do you know who took him?"
"No but I'll find out," assured Trick, "What are you going to do? It's a suicide mission."
"I'm aware," he replied, "but it's Heron. I cannot standby and do nothing. This will likely be my last job. So no one can say I didn't try."
Trick stared at him, "You've really grown up. Fine. Meet us at the bar."
Clint nodded and Trick stepped away. Clint released the breath he had been holding. Trick, Trickshot, had been his mentor after joining the circus. He was the first to teach Clint the bow. Swordsman had taught him to use a sword during the same time. Though Swordsman was always closer to Barney.
Barney had been his brother and Clint's hero growing up. Barney however never felt the same. He blamed Clint just like their father did for their mother's death. Then Barney betrayed him and Clint was kicked out of the circus. Heron had saved his life and offered him a new path. Clint hadn't realized how much his mentor cared. He regretted not being more appreciative of his efforts.
The archer slumped and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Gods, this was turning out to be a bad day. First, Jackson had angered him enough that he lost control. Then the news of Heron and his forced return to his past.
"Get your act together Barton," he muttered, "Heron's life depends on it."
...
"Where are we on Barton's location?"
Coulson was pacing in his office, his hands behind his back and his jaw clenched. He had already spoken to the director. Fury had promised that every effort would be made to recover Barton. However they could only go so far. If Barton truly didn't want to be found they would not find him.
"I habe him in the airport waiting for a direct flight to Chicago," answered on the Level 2 agents, "Here is the ID he's using."
The agent showed Coulson a photo of a 26 year old man named Jack Williams. His hair was short and dirty blonde, and he had brown eyes. Colored contacts.
"How long has he been at the airport?" asked Coulson.
"Since 8:15 sir," said the agent, "he boarded the flight fifteen minutes ago."
"So Barton had planned to leave," muttered the agent, "but why? What is going on in Chicago?"
"Nothing sir," answered another agent, "There has been no reports from the field office."
"Sir, his badge was left in the locker room," informed the Level 2 agent, "His phone is here."
"Thank you, agent," he muttered offhandedly.
He turned on the phone. Barton's password was simple to guess. On the phone there was a single incoming call, an unknown number. The timing was a little bit too convenient.
"Track this number," he ordered the nearest agent, "Find out where it is.
"Yes sir!"
He was trying to stay calm and professional. It was difficult when he knew his agent and how he acted. This was completely different from what his usual behavior was.
"Agent Coulson, I've tracked the number."
"Report."
"It was a burner phone. Its now turned off. But the call came from Chicago. The exact address is unknown. The tower closest to the signal is the one at the airport."
Chicago. So there was something there.
"Call the Field office and have them keep an eye out for Agent Barton," instructed Coulson.
"Yes sir."
Barton what are you doing?