Chapter Text
...
When the plane landed Clint's backup phone started ringing. No one wqw supposed to have the number. With obvious reluctance he checked the number. Fuck. Coulson. He was a fucking dead man.
"What the hell Barton?!" Roared the handler, his tone pissed.
"Now is not the time, sir," he responded as he pulled his bag out.
"You disappeared," snarled the senior agent, "Without a word or a warning. What the hell are you thinking, Barton!?"
Clint ignored the older man and left the plane. People were rushing around and talking on cell phones. Others were dragging bags behind them or were standing around staring.
A person brushed against him and something is dropped into his pocket. Clint didn't pause or break stride. They were already walking away.
"Are you listening, Barton?" demanded Coulson.
"Of course," lied the younger man, "Listen sir. I don't have time for this. I will report in when I have free time."
"Like hell," cursed the senior agent.
Clint hung up the phone. His gut twisted and a sour taste settled on his tongue. He had never been disrespectful to Coulson before. They worked well together. Clint's mouth had often gotten him in trouble with Fury. But never once had he shown disrespect towards Coulson.
"Fuck," he cursed again.
"I take it you had a fun ride," asked a familiar female voice.
Clint whirled and saw a tall, thin, dark skinned woman dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a blue sweater. Her short black hair was cropped close to her skull and a grin split her lips.
A part of him relaxed as he greeted, "Tatalla, it's been a long time. I never thought I'd see you again."
"Neither did I, but we both know why you're here," she said her eyes sad, "You have always had a strong bond with Heron. How have you been, Trick?"
"Don't call me that," he pleaded, his expression pained, "I haven't used that name for a long time."
"But that is who you are. Just because you work for the government now doesn't mean the past goes away," she shot back.
Clint glared and then glanced down the hallway, "Let's continue this conversation outside."
He didn't want to be overheard. Knowing Fury, he'd have hacked the airport security cameras. He wouldn't risk being seen by his superior.
Tatalla shrugged, "Sure."
Then she spun and walked down the hallway. Clint followed. Once outside Tatalla pulled a cigarette and lighter from her bag. The smoke filled the air. She held out one to him. He took the offering and lit his.
"Thanks for coming," she said, "I know you've been with SHIELD. Heron would appreciate you coming."
Clint huffed as he replied, "Even after five years, I'll never forget him. Do we know who's taken him?"
"Not yet," sighed Tatalla, "Trident is contacting his network. Hopefully we can get the information quickly. You're room is waiting."
"Right," he said with a nod.
His mind was racing. He could not get distracted. Heron was counting on him.
"Trick?" asked Tatalla, her voice quiet and hesitant, "Are you okay? Really?"
Clint hesitated. Before now he would hage said he was fine. After all these years the pain was less, but he could still feel the sting of his brother's betrayal.
"I'm better," he admitted.
She smiled, "Good. That's good. I've missed having you around."
"Missed you too, T," he murmured, "as Heron's Tavern changed locations?"
"Yeah, we're further south now. I'm sure you can find it without me showing the way," she joked.
"That I can," he confirmed, "See you there."
He finished his cigarette and ground the bud under his heel. His nerves were settled and he could focus. First things first. Get his mercenary gear.
...
Phil stormed into Nick's office. The moment he opened the door, the other agent jumped. His gaze was startled.
Then Nick snarked, "No, Phil please come right on in."
"This is serious, sir," insisted Phil, "Barton has gone AWOL."
"Sit down, agent," ordered Fury, "and tell me what's going on."
"Barton has been acting off for a week or so now," Phil held up a hand to stop Nick from interrupting, "Off for even Barton. I'm sure you've heard about the argument this morning. And you're aware that he took a trip."
"I've been briefed, yes," agreed the director.
"He received a phone call. When I looked for his tracking devices. Two were found. One was inside a locker in the men's shower and the other was inside the bathroom stall. With some help I got help on a backup phone he has. His main phone was left here. He's already arrived at the Chicago airport."
"What else do you have?"
"That's all, sir," stated Phil, his hands clenching into fists.
Nick wouldn't look at him. Why was he not more concerned? This wasn't normal behavior, and Phil knew something was wrong.
"Did he have a bag with him?"
"What?" asked Phil, his brows drawn together.
"It's a simple question, did he have a bag with him or not?" repeated Fury.
"Yes, sir," Phil replied not understanding.
"What has Barton told you about his past?"%
Phil stiffened and narrowed his eyes. Why was Nick changing the subject?
"Nothing," snapped the handler, "He refuses to acknowledge it exists. Every time I ask he shuts me down. It's like talking to a damn wall."
"Hmm," Fury nodded, "A few years ago I found this."
He pulled up a picture on the screen behind him. On it was a group of people with one noticeable figure with his arm slung an middle aged man's shoulders. He looked happier than Phil had ever seen him.
"What is this?" Demanded Phil.
"This is Barton, about six months before he was picked up by you," supplied the director, "The one he has his arm around is the Chicago Tavern Owner, Heron."
Phil froze, the blood drained from his face. There was a sick feeling in his stomach and a roaring filled his ears. Taverns, the information and training network for mercenaries. Phil didn't even know that Clint had been a part of one.
"How is it you know this and not me, his handler?" growled the agent, "And how do you know it's him?"
Fury stared him down and stated, "We have been known about the Taverns for decades. Generally they aren't a problem and stay out of SHIELD'S way. We have never been able to confirm Barton's membership. Hawkeye, as a mercenary never participated in any Tavern event. Even the picture isn't confirmation given Heron is known to take in strays."
Phil stared at the picture. None of Barton's typical weapons or uniform was visible. His head was bent slightly as he talked to the older man.
"How does this answer the questions I have?"
"It doesn't," Fury admitted, "If you hadn't mentioned Barton leaving. I wouldn't have been concerned. However given the fact that he has. It's top much to be a coincidence. Heron, has been kidnapped and per mercenary protocol everyone affiliated with the Tavern, active or retired has been called in."
Phil's mouth fell open. The picture clicked into place. Barton's actions were starting to make sense.
"So, if you had told me," he muttered, "We wouldn't be here."
"Maybe, but not likely," corrected Fury, "You're his handler and his friend. Barton has kept his secrets for years. For him to run off to help a kidnap victim isn't too surprising."
"What is his next move?" asked the handler, his mind running through all the possibilities.
"He's going to gather his equipment and return to his Tavern. From there he will work with his old team."
"You're not concerned he will do something against SHIELD?"
"No," Fury denied, "Barton is many things but disloyal isn't one of them. He knows his duty to us and the oaths he swore. He also has a loyalty to Heron. Given his choice. If anyone tried to attack his mentor he would kill them without hesitation."
Phil felt numb. Everything Fury had just said. Phil hadn't realized was true. Clint was loyal to him, the director and to SHIELD. To think otherwise would be a disservice.
"Okay," Phil sighed and rubbed his forehead, "So what are we doing?"
"Go to Chicago," ordered Fury, "Find your stray. Don't interfere with the mercenaries, as a whole. Offer the aid of yourself and Romanoff. Make sure he comes home."
"Sir," acknowledged Phil.
"Dismissed, agent."
Phil left straight to find Natasha. He needed her help.
"I will get him back," vowed Phil, "You can count on that."
...
Clint arrived at the bus station with his key in one hand. The lockers were in the back, far away from the public. His was in the darkest corner, and the light was flickering.
The key turned with a soft click. The door opened and his old bow case was pushed forward. Carefully he grabbed it. His heart was beating a rapid rhythm and his lungs didn't seem to have enough air.
Inside were a variety of items. An extra quiver full of arrows. His bow needed a new string but the arrows looked fine. Next was a sword, his favorite weapon. Then two hand guns and his tactical knife. It was his Ronin and Hawkeye gear. While he could use his Ronin gear inside the Tavern, Hawkeye's was too different.
Clint strapped on his holster. Next was the knives. He would leave behind the bow and arrows. What he didn't find was his Trickster uniform. Only his Ronin and old Hawkeye uniform. Both of which would only cause trouble if he wore here.
Reluctantly Clint grabbed his Ronin gear. It was a loose fitted shirt, and black leather pants. Over his head went a black hooded jacket with gold on its sides. Then finally the mask. He hadn't worn his Ronin gear in three years. It felt heavy.
"Come on Barton," he muttered, "Move."
When he left the station, Clint hailed a taxi. The driver's eyes were wide when Clint gave the address.
"Uh, buddy are you sure about this?" asked the cabbie.
"Positive," affirmed the archer, "Problem?"
"Nope. Not at all."
Clint sat in the backseat. Who would have thought after so long he'd come back? Hang on Heron. Just hang on.